Covert One 6 - The Moscow Vector (2 page)

“I need your help, Jon,” the Russian said at last. He swallowed hard. “I have urgent information that must reach competent medical authorities in the West.”

Smith looked closely at him. “Information about what, Valentin?”

“The outbreak of a disease in Moscow. A new disease … something I’ve never seen before,” Petrekno said quietly. “Something I fear.”

Smith felt a small chill run down his spine. “Go on.”

“I saw the first case two months ago,” Petrenko told him. “A small child, a little boy who was just seven years old. He came in suffering aches and pains and a persistent high fever. In the beginning, his doctors thought it was only a common flu. But then, and quite suddenly, his condition worsened. His hair began falling out. Terrible, bleeding sores and painful rashes spread across most of his body. He became severely anemic. In the end, whole systems—his liver, kidneys, and ultimately, his heart—simply shut down.”

“Jesus!” Smith murmured, imagining the horrible pain the sick boy must have endured. He frowned. “Those symptoms sound an awful lot like high-level radiation poisoning, Valentin.”

Petrenko nodded. “Yes, that is what we first thought.” He shrugged. “But we could not find any evidence that the boy had ever been exposed to any ra-dioactive material. Not in his home. Not at his school. Not anywhere else.”

“Was the kid infectious?” Smith asked.

“No,” the Russian said, shaking his head emphatically. “No one else around him became ill. Not his parents or his friends or any of those who treated him.” He grimaced. “None of our tests turned up signs of a dangerous viral or bacterial infection and every toxicology exam came back negative. We could not detect any traces of poisons or harmful chemicals that might have done so much damage.”

Smith whistled softly. “Very nasty.”

“It was terrible,” Petrenko agreed. Still clutching his briefcase, the Russian scientist took off his glasses, polished them nervously, and then pushed them on again. “But then others began showing up at the hospital, suffering the same horrible symptoms. First, an old man, a former Communist Party appa-ratchik. Then a middle-aged woman. And finally a young man —a sturdy day laborer who had always been as healthy as a horse. All died in agony in a matter of days.”

“Just those four?”

Petrenko smiled humorlessly. “Those four that I know of,” he said softly.

“But there may well have been others. Officials from the Ministry of Health made it clear that my colleagues and I were not supposed to ask too many questions, lest we risk ‘provoking an unnecessary panic’ among the general population. Or stir up sensationalist reports in the news media.

“Naturally, we fought the decision to the highest levels. But in the end, all of our requests for an expanded inquiry were denied. We were forbidden even to discuss these cases with anyone beyond a very small circle of other scientists.” The sadness in his eyes intensified. “A Kremlin official actually told me

that four unexplained deaths were trivial, ‘mere statistical background noise.’

He suggested that we instead focus our efforts on AIDS and the other illnesses that are killing so many in Mother Russia. In the meantime, the facts surrounding these mysterious deaths have been classified as state secrets and buried in the bureaucracy.”

“Idiots,” Smith growled, feeling his jaw tighten. Silence and secrecy were the bane of good science. Trying to conceal the emergence of a new disease for political reasons was only more likely to lead to a catastrophic epidemic.

“Perhaps,” Petrenko said. He shrugged. “But I will not take part in a cover-up. That is win I have brought you this.” The Russian gently tapped the side of his black briefcase. “It contains all the medical information relevant to the four known victims, as well as samples of their blood and selected tissues. I only hope that you and others in the West can learn more about the mechanisms of this new illness before it is too late.”

“Just how much hot water are you going to be in if your government finds out that you’ve smuggled this data out?” Smith asked.

“I do not know,” the Russian admitted. “That is why I wanted to give you this information in secret.” I le sighed. “Conditions in my country arc deteriorating rapidly, Jon. I’m very much atraid that our leaders have decided that it is safer and easier to rule by force and fear than by persuasion and reason.”

Smith nodded his understanding. He had been following the news out of Russia with increasing concern. The nation’s president, Viktor Dudarev, had been a member of the old KCB, the Soviet Committee for State Security, stationed in East Germany. When the USSR crumbled, Dudarev had been quick to align himself with the forces of reform. He had risen fast in the new Russia, first taking charge of the KSB, the new Federal Security Service, then becoming prime minister, and finally winning election as president. All along the way many had wanted desperately to believe he was a man sincerely committed to democratic norms.

Dudarev had fooled them all. Since taking office, the ex-KCB officer had dropped the mask, revealing himself as a man more interested in satisfying his own ambitions than in establishing a genuine democracy. He was busy drawing more and more of the reins of power into his own hands and those of his toadies. Newly independent media companies were muzzled and then brought back under government control. Corporations whose owners opposed the Kremlin were broken up by official decree or had their assets confiscated in trumped-up tax cases. Rival politicians were coerced into silence or smeared into oblivion by the state-run press.

Satirists had dubbed Dudarev “Czar Viktor.” But the joke had long ago worn thin and now seemed well on the way to becoming a harsh reality.

“I’ll do what I can to keep your name out of it,” Smith promised. “But somebody in your government is bound to trace this information back to you once the news leaks. And it will leak at some point.” He glanced down at the other man. “Maybe you should come out with the data. It might be safer.”

Petrenko raised an eyebrow. “Seek political asylum, you mean?”

Smith nodded.

The scientist shook his head. “No, I do not think so.” He shrugged. “For all my faults, I am a Russian first and forever. I will not abandon the motherland out of fear.” He smiled sadly. “Besides, what is it the philosophers say? For evil

to triumph, all that is necessary is for good men to do nothing? I believe that to be true. So I will stay in Moscow, doing what I can to fend off the darkness in my own small way.”

“Prosim, muzete mi pomoci?” The words came floating toward them out of the mist.

Startled, Smith and Petrenko turned around.

A somewhat younger man, hard-faced and unsmiling, stood just a few feet away with his left palm held out as though begging for money. Beneath a tangled mane of long, greasy brown hair, a tiny silver skull dangled from his right earlobe. His right hand was hidden inside a long black overcoat. Two other men, similarly dressed and equally grimy, stood close behind him. They too wore small skull-shaped earrings.

Reacting on instinct, Smith stepped in front of the smaller Russian scientist. “Promilite. Sorry,” he said. “Nerozumim. I don’t understand. Mlmn’te an-glicky? Do you speak English?”

The long-haired man slowly lowered his left hand. “You are American, yes?”

Something about the way he said it raised Smith’s hackles. “That’s right.”

“Good,” the man said flatly. “All Americans are rich. And I am poor.” His dark eyes flickered toward Petrenko and then came back to Smith. He bared his teeth in a quick, predatory grin. “So you will give me your friend’s briefcase. As a gift, yes?”

“Jon,” the Russian muttered urgently from behind him. “These men are not Czech.”

The long-haired man heard him. He shrugged blithely. “Dr. Petrenko is correct. I congratulate him on his acuity.” The folding knife he’d been concealing inside his coat came out in one, smooth motion. He flicked it open.

Its blade looked razor-sharp. “But I still want that briefcase. Now.”

Damn, Smith thought, coldly watching the three men starting to fan out around them. He backed up slightly —and found himself penned against the waist-high parapet overlooking the Vltava River. This is not good, he told himself grimly. Caught unarmed and outnumbered on a bridge in the fog. Really not good.

Anv hopes he might have had about being able to just hand over the briefcase and walk away unharmed had vanished when he heard the other man use Petrenko’s name so casually and confidently. This was not a run-of-the-mill mugging. Unless he missed his guess, these guvs were professionals and professionals were trained not to leave witnesses behind.

He forced himself to smile weakly. “Well, sure … I mean, if you put it like that. There’s no need for anyone to get hurt here, is there?”

“No need at all, friend,” the knife-wielder assured him, still grinning cruelly. “Now. tell the good doctor to hand over that case.”

Smith drew in a single, deep breath, feeling his pulse accelerate. The world around him seemed to slow down as adrenaline flooded into his system, speeding his reflexes. He crouched. Now! “Policii! Police!” he roared. And then again, shattering the fog-laden silence. “Policii!”

“Fool!” the long-haired man snarled. He lunged at the American, stabbing upward with his knife.

Reacting instantly, Smith leaned aside. The blade flickered past his face.

Too close! He chopped frantically at the inside of the other man’s exposed wrist, hacking at the nerve endings there.

His attacker grunted in pain. The knife flew out of his suddenly paralyzed fingers and skittered away across the paving. Still moving fast, Smith spun back around, slamming his elbow into the long-haired man’s narrow face with tremendous force. Bones crunched and blood spattered through the air.

Groaning, the man reeled back and fell to one knee, fumbling at the red ruin of his shattered nose.

Grim-faced, the second man pushed past his fallen leader, thrusting with his own blade. Smith ducked under the attack and punched him hard, angling up to come in right under his ribs. The man doubled up in sudden agony, stumbling forward. Before he could recover, Smith grabbed him by the hack of his coat and hurled him headlong into the stone parapet of the bridge.

Stunned or badly injured, he went down on his face without a sound and lav still.

“Jon! Watch out!”

Smith turned fast, hearing Petrenko’s shout. He was just in time to see the shorter Russian scientist drive the third man backward with desperate, uncontrolled swipes of his briefcase. But then the wild glee in Petrenko’s eyes faded,

replaced by horror as he looked down and saw the knife buried up to the hilt in his own stomach.

Suddenly, a single shot rang out, echoing across the bridge.

And a small, red-rimmed hole opened in the middle of Petrenko’s forehead. Pieces of shattered bone and brain matter flew out the back of his skull, driven by a 9x18mm round fired at pointblank range. His eyes rolled up.

Then, still clutching his briefcase, the dying Russian staggered and fell backward over the parapet, toppling into the river below.

Out of the corner of his eye, Smith saw the first attacker scrambling back to his feet. Blood ran red across the man’s face, dripping off his unshaven chin.

I lis dark eyes were hill of hatred and he held a pistol, an old Soviet-model Makarov. One spent cartridge rolled slowh across the uneven pavement.

The American tensed, knowing already that it was too late. The other man was too far away—well out of his reach. Smith whirled around and threw himself off the bridge, diving headfirst into the fog. Behind him, more shots crashed out. A bullet tore right past his head and another ripped through his jacket, sending a wave of white-hot pain searing across his shoulder.

He struck the surface of the Vltava in a white burst of spray and foam, plunging deep into its icy, ink-black waters. Down and down he slid into a freezing void of absolute silence and utter darkness. And then the river’s swift current caught him in its grip, tugging at his torn jacket and his arms and legs,

sending him tumbling and rolling as it dragged him north, away from the bridge’s massive stone piers.

His lungs were on fire, screaming for air. Grimly, Smith kicked out, clawing his way up through the frigid, turbulent water. At last, his head rose above the rippling surface and he hung there tor a long moment, gasping and panting, straining to draw in the oxygen his body craved.

Still caught in the current, he swung around. The Charles Bridge was invisible in the sw filing fog, but he could hear shouts and panicked voices re-verberating across the river. The sounds of gunfire seemed to have roused Prague’s citizens from their late afternoon torpor. Smith spat out a mouthful of water and turned away.

He struck out toward the eastern bank, angling across the current sweeping him downstream. He had to get out of the river soon—before the hitter cold sapped his strength completely. His teeth began chattering as the chill penetrated his waterlogged clothes and bit deeply into his bodv.

For a long, despairing moment, the mist-shrouded shore seemed to hang just beyond his rapidly tiring reach. Aware that his time was running out fast.

Smith made one last desperate effort. He kicked out again and this time felt his flailing hands touch a bank of mud and small pebbles at the water’s edge.

Straining, he hauled himself out of the Vltava and onto a narrow strip of withered grass and neatly trimmed trees, apparently part of a small riverside park.

Shivering and wracked by pain in every muscle, he rolled over onto his back and lay staring up at the featureless gray sky. Minutes slid past. He drifted

with them, too exhausted to go any further.

Smith heard a startled gasp. Wincing, he turned his head to the side and saw a small, elderly woman bundled up in a fur coat staring down at him in mingled fear and amazement. A tiny dog peered out from behind her legs, sniffing curiously. The air around them seemed to be growing darker with every passing second.

“Policii,” he said, forcing the words out past his chattering teeth.