The Fall of Moscow Station (39 page)

“I'll say this for the Russians,” Barron whispered. “Intimidation is an art form over here.”

“First lesson, don't bluff,” Cooke said. “I don't know what he just told that boy, but I'm sure he meant every word.”

“He did,” Barron confirmed. “If this was the warm-up, it was worth blowing my cover to see what's coming when he finds Lavrov.”

•  •  •

“I do not think that General Lavrov will wait so long for me to call,” Sokolov said. “He will call others to come and see why—”

An insistent pounding on the door interrupted the interrogator's apology. Sokolov frowned, moved to the door, and opened it. A conscript stood in the hallway outside, looking nervous. He saluted the senior officer. “Colonel Sokolov! The director of the FSB is at the main entrance. He is demanding to see the American.”

Sokolov's eyes grew larger and he looked over his shoulder at Kyra.
“Neveroyatno!”
he muttered. “I am under orders from General Lavrov himself to expedite the . . . the interrogation.”

“I . . . I don't know what to tell you, sir,” the conscript stammered. “General Lavrov is our ranking officer . . . but the FSB!”

“I know,” Sokolov replied. “Very well. Bring Director Grigoriyev here.”

“Yes, sir!” The conscript saluted again, then fled down the hallway as fast as he could run.

Sokolov turned back to Kyra. “I think you have gotten your wish,” he told her. “I think I will not have to kill you after all. This makes me very happy.”

You and me both
, Kyra thought.

•  •  •

Grigoriyev and his entourage made the walk to the interrogation room in five minutes almost to the second. The FSB director stormed into the room without announcing his arrival, paying no attention to Sokolov. Kyra's clothing and restraints made it clear what role she was playing. She saw Kathy Cooke and Clark Barron stride into the room, surrounded by Russian officers, and she exhaled long and slow with relief.

“I am Anatoly Grigoriyev, director of the FSB,” the man said to her in English. “You are the American, Kyra Stryker?”

“I am, Director,” she replied.

Grigoriyev muttered a curse and turned his gaze on Sokolov. “Under what authority is this woman being detained by the GRU?” he demanded in Russian.

“I cannot answer that question,” Sokolov admitted. “She was detained and brought to me under direct orders from General Lavrov. I have been following his orders. One does not question orders.”

“I want to see any effects that were on her person when she was detained.”

Sokolov pointed at the nearby table. “Her equipment is there.”

Grigoriyev leaned over and examined the contents of Kyra's pack. “This is everything?”

“No, Director. There were two other items, a letter and a considerable quantity of euros.”

“And why are they not here?” Grigoriyev demanded.

“General Lavrov took the euros and burned the letter,” Sokolov said. “But our photographer documented everything. He can show you a digital picture of the original letter.”

“I want to see it. Bring it to me now.”

“Yes, Director.” Sokolov stepped out of the room.

Barron and Cooke stepped over to Kyra's side. “Good to see you,” Barron said. “You're in one piece?”

“More or less,” Kyra confirmed.

“Have you seen Jon?” Cooke asked.

“No,” Kyra replied. “They brought me straight here and I haven't been out of this room. The colonel there was under orders from Lavrov to execute me. He wasn't anxious to do it, but I don't think he was going to wait much longer.”

“Lavrov was here?” Barron asked.

“Yeah,” Kyra confirmed. “He pitched me to work for him again. I turned him down.”

“Good choice,” Barron said. “After Grigoriyev is finished tonight, I don't think Lavrov's people are going to have much job security.”

Sokolov reentered the room, a tablet computer in his hand. “This was the letter,” he announced in Russian.

Grigoriyev took the tablet, pulled reading glasses from his overcoat, and put them on using one hand, then stared at the screen. He said nothing for almost a minute. “And Lavrov burned this letter?”

“He did.”

“You handled it?”

“Da,”
Sokolov confirmed.

“In your opinion, was it genuine?” Grigoriyev asked.

Sokolov looked at Kyra, a look of concentration on his face.
If you want to switch sides, now's the time
, Kyra thought.
Back me up if you want to get out from under Lavrov.

The colonel turned back to the FSB director, still thinking. Then he straightened his spine and looked Grigoriyev in the eyes. “
Da
, Director Grigoriyev. I believe it was.”

Kyra tightened her fists, channeling all of her adrenaline and excited energy into her hands.

“And he talked to your prisoner?”

“Da,”
Sokolov confirmed.

“You heard the conversation?”

“I did not. The general ordered me out of the room.”

“I want to see the security tapes,” Grigoriyev ordered.

“There are none,” Sokolov said.

“Why not?”

“Because General Lavrov ordered me to have them switched off,” Sokolov lied. “He said that an operation that required detaining the Americans was too sensitive to record any related interrogation on the tapes.”

“So, the general came in, ordered you out of the room and the cameras turned off, then had a private conversation with an American spy, burned a letter that appears to incriminate him as a CIA asset, and walked out with a large amount of euros that this woman had on her person and which the letter said were for his services. Is that accurate?”

“It is,” Sokolov said, trying to look embarrassed. He was finding his footing now.

“Colonel, you are a fool. You will release this woman into my custody immediately,” Grigoriyev ordered. “And you will do the same with any other Americans you are holding in this facility.”

“I think General Lavrov will dispute your request—” Sokolov protested, not very hard.

“General Lavrov will be very fortunate if he does not end his night in Lubyanka!” Grigoriyev snapped. “The question of this moment is whether you will share a seat next to him. The answer to that question will depend on the amount of cooperation you offer me in the next few seconds.”

Sokolov pulled back, apparently intimidated. “There are two others,” he said. “Two men. They are in the infirmary under guard.”

Grigoriyev pointed at Cooke and Barron. “You will release her and take us to them. You will also tell me where General Lavrov is.”

“He is at the Khodynka Airfield,” Sokolov said. “He left here a half hour ago. If he is not there now, I do not know where he might be.”

Grigoriyev made a curt nod toward Kyra, and Sokolov unfastened her restraints. “I am pleased that you will leave this place,” he told her, almost a whisper. “I did not want you to die tonight.” He stood up and helped Kyra to her feet. “If you follow, I take you to the infirmary.”

•  •  •

Kyra followed Sokolov down the stairwell, afraid to say anything to the man. She saw security cameras at every turn, but wasn't sure whether the Aquarium hallways and stairwells weren't filled with audio taps and bugs in every corner. She didn't want to say anything that would incriminate the man. The colonel had just set up his commanding officer as a traitor to his country and she didn't want Lavrov to find some way to lay the same crime at Sokolov's feet.

The infirmary was in the new GRU headquarters and the crossover between the old and new buildings was unmistakable. The Aquarium had smelled of old must, its architecture a testament to Soviet design. The new building was clean and modern, brightly lit with new carpet and light-colored walls. Kyra could have mistaken it for a U.S. government facility had the lettering on the signs not been in Cyrillic.

Sokolov turned a corner and slowed. He pointed at the door ahead. “They are inside,” he said. “The man who came with Lavrov from Berlin, the traitor, he was injured before he came here. They break his hand with hammers. The other, they shoot him in his leg. I know the men they left with him. They are efficient and lose any pity for others long time ago.”

“Thank you,” Kyra said.

Barron pushed open the door to the infirmary.

•  •  •

It looked like any doctor's office, with a nurses' station, a waiting room, and a hallway leading back into private offices and other rooms. A faint antiseptic smell pervaded the air and Kyra's stomach churned a bit.

Grigoriyev filed in behind her, approached the nurse on duty, and had a short conversation with her. She hesitated, saw the armed men behind the FSB director, and decided that compliance was the wiser course. She pointed down the hall.

Grigoriyev marched ahead, Kyra and the other Americans behind. The Russian made a few turns, then stopped. A pair of guards, hard young men, flanked the last door on the left. Kyra's instincts told her they were Spetsnaz.

“You know me?” Grigoriyev asked in Russian, approaching the soldiers.

“Yes, sir,” one of the guards confirmed.

“Good. Open the door.”

“
Nyet
, Director. We have orders from general—”

“General Lavrov's orders do not apply to me. I am in charge of counterintelligence and internal security in the
Rodina
. The men in that room are American civilians, and therefore the GRU has no jurisdiction here. Open the door.”

“
Nyet
, Director. We cannot without orders from the general.”

Grigoriyev's patience snapped. He barked an order in Russian that Kyra didn't catch. Grigoriyev's men drew their sidearms and leveled them at the Spetsnaz guards, who drew their own weapons on instinct and pointed them at the FSB director, both sides yelling at each other, frenzied orders demanding each side surrender their pistols.

The guns hadn't cleared the holsters before Kyra felt Barron's hands grab her from behind, and the man almost threw her and Cooke into a doorway, then positioned himself between them and the guards.

Grigoriyev raised his hand and his men fell quiet. His eyes tore into the GRU officers. “You are outnumbered and there is nowhere in this hallway to take cover. If you shoot me, it will be a race to see whether my body or yours reaches the carpet first.” The guards stared at the half-dozen guns pointed at their heads. “The Americans are coming with me. Lower your guns and I will report to your superiors that you did your duty. No charges will be brought against you.”

The Spetsnaz took another five seconds to consider the offer and work out the math. They lowered their Makarovs, replacing them in their holsters.

“A good decision. Now step aside.”

•  •  •

The room was small, barely larger than an average patient's room in any American hospital, the equipment similar except for the strange lettering on every console. The lighting was dim and it took several seconds for Kyra's eyes to adjust, her night vision coming to bear.

Alden Maines lay in the first bed, unconscious, a large clear bag of morphine running into his forearm through an IV drip. He was handcuffed to the bed rail, which saved Kyra the trouble of asking Grigoriyev to take care of that piece of business.

A curtain hanging from a sliding rail separated the American criminal from the patient in the far bed. Kyra stepped forward, her heart trying to beat its way out of her chest. She took the white cloth in her hand and pulled it aside.

Jonathan Burke was lying in the bed, dressed in hospital scrubs, an IV drip of his own attached to his arm. Kyra rushed forward, kneeling down by his bed. He turned his head to the side, saw Kyra, and he smiled a bit. “Heard the yelling. Figured it was you. Didn't think anyone else could make Russians want to shoot each other,” he said, his words slurring together. Whatever drug they were feeding into him was industrial grade and she thought it was amazing that he was awake. A few minutes more and she might see him fade back into sleep.

She grabbed his hand and squeezed. “You idiot.”

“Good to see you too—” His eyes shifted and looked behind her. Kyra heard a gasp, then felt Kathy Cooke push in next to her. Kyra stood and moved to the side. “Hi, Kathy—” Jon started.

“Shut up, Jon,” Cooke said. She leaned over, her eyes playing over his face, and then she kissed him.

•  •  •

Grigoriyev pushed his way over to the end of Jon's bed and lifted the clipboard hanging off the end. He scanned the page, then handed it to Barron. “What's it say?” Kyra asked.

“Gunshot wound to the leg,” Barron said. “Looks like whoever shot him treated him on site with some coagulant, the Russian equivalent of QuikClot. Surgeons here sewed that up. But . . .” He paused. “They tortured him.”

“Hurt too,” Jon muttered.

“What did they do to him?” Cooke asked. Her voice was cold, venom in her tone like Barron had never heard.

“He's been treated for dehydration and pinpoint burns, probably from electric shocks,” he said, reading off the paper. “Kathy . . . they crushed his knee.”

Kyra looked down at the sheet. Jon's right leg formed a strange angle under the white cloth. “Didn't work,” he muttered. “Asperger's gives me a low pain threshold. I kept passing out. So they gave me painkillers to keep me awake, but I couldn't feel anything so I didn't care what they did. Drove 'em crazy.” He laughed quietly.

“I don't know what they're giving him, but whatever it is, I want some,” Barron said. “That must be some quality stuff, and judging by the drip rate, he's getting plenty.”

Cooke did not smile at the joke. “Director Grigoriyev,” she said, “I expect you to help us evacuate this man to the United States immediately, where he can receive proper medical attention under the supervision of our own doctors.” Her voice left no doubt that she was not asking a question.