State of the Union (6 page)

“Bath time’s over,” said Harvath as he yanked the man’s head from beneath the faucet and spun him around to face him. “I’ll ask you again. Who are you? FBI?”

“Fuck you,” he replied.

“Fuck me? Fine,” answered Harvath as slammed his fist into the man’s solar plexus. He waited several moments for him to catch his breath, then withdrew the Smith & Wesson, chambered a round and pointed it him. “I’m done playing around. I want to know who you are and what you’re doing here.”

The man appeared unsteady and wobbled as if he was going to pass out. Harvath tried to steady him as his head lolled backwards. Then right out of the blue, it came snapping forward and connected with Harvath’s, accompanied by a loud crack. Harvath should have seen it coming. And because he didn’t, he was once again seeing stars.

By the time he was able to shake it off, the man had already run out of the kitchen down the other hallway toward the back door. He chased after him, but came to a dead stop when he reached the hallway, as four heavily armed men were blocking his way. As the laser sights from their submachine guns lit up his chest like a Christmas tree, Harvath realized he was not only outmanned, but outgunned.

When the man who had attacked him had been untied, he walked back up to Harvath and hit him harder than he had ever been hit before in his life. The blow to his stomach made him double over in pain. The man retrieved his Smith & Wesson, placed it against Harvath’s chest as a bag was pulled over his head, and said, “All my life I’ve been waiting to kill one of you.”

M
ilesch Popov drove back into the town of Zvenigorod singing along to the Snoop Doggy Dog tune “Gin and Juice” that was pumping out of the stereo system of his new Jeep Grand Cherokee. The lyrics, “…with my mind on my money and my money on my mind,” were profoundly appropriate. Though Popov had no idea what he was doing, with a seventy-five-thousand-dollar advance, he knew he could figure it out pretty quick. And lest anyone should forget, the deal he had so artfully negotiated with Sergei Stavropol was for seventy-five thousand
plus
expenses, against an eventual five hundred thousand U.S. upon delivery of the package—General Anatoly Karganov’s body, or what was left of it.

Popov had all but convinced himself that the new Cherokee could rightly be categorized as an expense. He needed it and was sure that Stavropol would appreciate his rationale. Zvenigorod was no Russian backwater, at least not anymore. Because of its wooded hills and crystal clear rivers, it had often been called the Russian Switzerland, but now with the influx of rich New Russians building their weekend dachas along the river, it was truly beginning to feel like it. In fact, prices for everything had gotten so ridiculously out of control around Zvenigorod that the running joke among the locals was that the only difference between Zvenigorod and Switzerland was that Switzerland was cheaper.

With the right car and the right clothes—a Giorgio Armani suit, another legitimate business expense—Popov had no doubt he would be looked upon as just another rich Muscovite fleeing his harried city life for the peace and tranquility of the Russian countryside. Popov, though, hated the countryside. It reminded him of the orphanage in Nizhnevartovsk, in northeastern Russia on the western edge of Siberia, where he had lived until he ran away when he was ten. It had taken him nine weeks to travel the almost fifteen hundred miles to Moscow, stowing away in the occasional truck, but more often than not traveling by foot, and once he had finally arrived, he never looked back. Over the next twelve years, he suckled at the underbelly of Russia’s largest city, building a modest, albeit successful empire of his own, specializing in extortion, racketeering, and stolen automobiles. To those unfamiliar with him, Popov might have appeared to be out of his league on this job, but in truth, he was blessed with the gift of being a lot smarter than he looked.

The old hunting lodge was still surrounded by crime scene tape when he brought the Grand Cherokee to a stop in the driveway. There didn’t appear to be any cops around and he breathed a quiet sigh of relief. He didn’t welcome the thought of having to put his fake state inspector credentials to the test. But in all fairness, there wasn’t much he wasn’t prepared to do for a five-hundred-thousand-dollar windfall.

He grabbed the brown file folder off the passenger seat and climbed out of the car. “I fuckin’ hate winter,” he mumbled to himself as he turned the collar of his expensive overcoat up against the wind. Images of sunshine, scantily clad women and a nice vacation villa somewhere in the Greek Islands crowded his mind and he pushed them aside so he could get on with the job at hand. The sooner he got some answers, the sooner he would get paid.

The file he was holding, just like the Cherokee and the Armani suit, was another justifiable business expense. He had gone very far out on a limb to get it, and he would charge Stavropol dearly for it, but it represented a huge savings in time for him. In his hands he held all that not only the local police knew about the case, but also information from Russia’s prestigious FSB. He had read it several times over and though it represented the efforts of some of the country’s top criminologists, Popov was not one to let others do his thinking for him. Besides, he had a piece of the puzzle that the cops didn’t; he knew that Stavropol was somehow involved with the murders.

Popov removed a stiletto knife from his pocket and cut the crime scene tape sealing the front door. After a few moments of working on the antiquated lock with his picks, he was inside. The great hall, with its enormous fireplace, was where the police believed the murders had taken place. As he walked around, Popov could see where blood had stained the floor and walls. He wondered what Stavropol’s beef had been with the three men. They had been respected military leaders, just like him—great warriors. He was about to ask himself how Stavropol could kill his comrades and then realized how stupid he was being. He saw it on the streets of Moscow every day. That was simply how the world worked. Anyway, it had nothing to do with him and what he was being paid so handsomely to figure out.

Out of the three missing generals, the police had retrieved only two bodies. One had been bludgeoned to death and the other shot. The third was anyone’s guess, though they did find traces of blood in the empty grave that matched Karganov’s blood type.

If the two men had been murdered in the great hall, the quickest way to dispose of the bodies would have been to drag them through the kitchen and out back. He followed the trail of blood through the kitchen and briefly referred to the file, which positively identified the blood trails as belonging to both Varensky and Primovich, but noted that there was no trace of blood there that could be attributed to Karganov.

Outside he found the three graves were still cordoned off, but had been steadily filling with snow. As he examined the crime scene photographs in his file, he positioned himself in the different places that the cameraperson must have stood to take the shots. He focused his attention on the pictures of the empty grave, which was believed to have held Karganov’s body and read the report again. When police found it, it appeared to have been disturbed, though by what, they couldn’t say. Besides the traces of blood in the grave, there was nothing specific to indicate that a body had been there.

Popov had done his homework. He knew that Zvenigorod was not known for its wolves and that if any animal had actually gotten to the body, it would most likely have been a wild boar. But boars and wolves would eat their catch on the spot; they wouldn’t have dragged it away. And when wolves and boars feed, they leave evidence behind, yet there was none. Finally, it seemed that Primovich and Varensky had bled more heavily than Karganov—a sure attractor for a carnivorous animal. All that blood, and yet their graves were untouched.

No, it wasn’t a wild animal at work here. Popov was sure of it. Karganov had somehow gotten out of that grave and had left under his own power, or someone had helped him.

Though he had ruled out one possibility, Popov appeared no closer to answering the big question—where the hell was General Anatoly Karganov? A chill wind and a blast of icy snow froze the back of his neck and the sharp jolt caused him to ponder for the first time what might be at stake if he didn’t succeed. Men like Sergei Stavropol might respect those who set limits and drove hard bargains, but there was one thing that they certainly didn’t respect and that was failure. He had heard about Stavropol and what had happened to men who had disappointed him—even his own soldiers.

Popov tucked the file under his arm and hurried back to the Cherokee, possessed suddenly by a motivation even greater than a mountain made of money—the desire to stay alive.

A
natoly Karganov awoke with a start. Being buried alive had a way of doing that to people. Once you thought you were over the horror, you began to let your guard down. You no longer consciously replayed the terrible events over and over again in your mind. You stopped thinking how lucky you were to be alive. Your energies then turned toward making sure it never happened again. But the terror still lurked behind the curtain of consciousness, lingering in your psyche, waiting until you were most vulnerable to pop out and force you to relive the horror all over again.

But as he awoke, the slender, yet firm hands of a woman were there once again to calm him. Where she had come from, he had no idea, but in his delirium, he was convinced that she must be some sort of angel who had snatched him from the jaws of death. He had heard his soldiers tell of extraordinary visions they had witnessed on the battlefield as they teetered on the threshold of death, and now he was certain that this was what was happening to him.

The woman placed a cool compress on his forehead in an attempt not only to calm him, but also to help assuage the fever that had racked his body for the last week. Bullet wounds were extremely prone to infection and try as she might, most of her efforts appeared to be in vain. Karganov was hanging on to life, but just barely. She changed the dressings, administered the antibiotics and kept him nourished. That was all she could do. The fight was Karganov’s at this point, not hers, at least not entirely.

The man had cost her precious time. He had information she needed, but he was in no condition to give it. It was extremely difficult to play nursemaid to one of the men responsible for her father’s greatest embarrassment and eventual downfall, but she had been lucky to find him alive at all. The bullet wound had been serious, but not fatal, though the subsequent infection could prove to be the man’s ultimate undoing. When they had rolled him into his grave, he landed on his side, with his arm above his head. It had been just enough to create a small pocket of air. With the grazing wound the bullet had caused to his head, it was a wonder he had regained consciousness at all, but he had. The man’s primal instinct for survival and self-preservation had eventually kicked in and he had managed to claw his way out of the grave and collapse beside it.

The woman who now tended him had been watching the meeting from the woods. The distance had been less than optimal for the operation of her parabolic microphone. All she had been able to pick up were scattered words and phrases. There had been names—maybe first names, maybe last, as well as a few names of American cities. She also had made out the words
airspace
and
guidance systems
. They were pieces of a maddening puzzle that without the overall picture from one of the players, were near impossible to comprehend, much less begin to put together.

She knew only what her father had known. In his last days, as the cancer ate away at what was left his body, he chose to die at home. Though the doctors told him they could make him more comfortable if he remained in the hospital, he chose to return to the things which had provided so much comfort during the darkest days of his life—his books and his only daughter. After all, he was Russian, and thereby no stranger to discomfort.

His daughter followed the doctors’ orders to the letter, administering the morphine in the appropriate doses at the appropriate times. When he shared with her the secret of his undoing, the reason why their previously comfortable life had been reduced to one of shame and hardship, she thought that it was the medication speaking and not her father. It was too fantastic to be believed. There were so many things that didn’t make sense. She just smiled at him and pretended to listen as her mind wandered. It had been incredibly painful to watch her father die such an ignoble death.

When the time came, she paid for his funeral out of her own pocket. That was expected, as was the fact that no one from her father’s professional career and years of service to his country had attended his memorial. The state had all but turned its back on her father many years ago, though it could never prove any of the allegations against him. In Russia, allegations were enough to break a man, and indeed they had. She comforted herself with the fact that at least her father had not died alone. Broken, yes, but not alone.

And so had been the measure of her defiance. She had stood by as her father’s most formidable defender right until the end. This was one of the greatest reasons his ranting had hurt her so deeply. After years of her defending him, he died admitting that the state had been right all along. He drew a large measure of satisfaction from the fact that though they had known what he was up to, they could never prove it. He had outsmarted them. He had outplayed them at their own game.

The daughter had followed in his footsteps, choosing the same career, and by all accounts had exceeded her father. She had been one of the best Russia had ever seen, and the state never bore her any overt ill will for her father’s failings. They did, however, whisper and talk behind her back, but this made her want to succeed all the more. She wasn’t only doing it for herself and the advancement of her career, she was also doing it for him. And through it all, her father had reminded her never to confuse the state with the country. Governments, as well as political ideologies, would come and go like the tides. What mattered most was her country and the people who dwelled within it and relied upon it. “Never forget that you are a Russian first,” he always told her. And she never did.

It took her several emotional days to sort through her father’s belongings and close up his small house. She saved the photos, some of his favorite books and classical records, and the few mementos he had retained of her mother. The items she didn’t want, but which she thought might be useful to the old woman next door who had been so kind to her father over the years, especially as his illness progressed, she placed in a box and left in the center of the room.

The last thing she had to do, she almost relegated to a phone call, but her emotions got the better of her. She drove her aging Lada hatchback the three miles to the small garden plot her father rented. Here he proudly grew crops of beets, onions, radishes, potatoes, cabbage, and watermelon and even nourished a prodigious apple tree.

She unlocked the tool shed and opened its double doors, the musty, earthen smell reminding her of the long days in summer she used to spend here with her father, toiling in his beloved garden. After losing her mother at such a young age, she had made her father the center of her universe, the sun around which everything else revolved. As she selected the few clay pots that the windowsills of her tiny apartment would accommodate, she suddenly felt very much alone in the world.

In the corner of the shed was the bright yellow bucket and gardening tools she had used as a little girl. She had often asked her father why he never threw them away and he always responded that they reminded him of a simpler time—a time before she had begun to question his every decision. But such, he would sigh, was the natural progression of life.

She placed the yellow bucket and its tools along with the clay pots in the back of her Lada. The remaining gardening equipment would go to the renters of the neighboring plots who in the summertime had relaxed with her father after a long day’s work in their gardens and drank kvass, the beerlike beverage made from fermented black bread. She smiled as she remembered how her father would constantly tease her for turning her nose up at it. Thankfully, there were always wives present at these gatherings of the men, which meant delicious cups of cold Russian tea. She never lost her appreciation of the time she had spent in that garden. Even after she grew up and moved into the city, she still came back on weekends just to be there with her father. Often they went for long stretches not saying a thing, just working in the soil, the simple act of being close to one another saying all that needed to be said.

It being winter, and the middle of the week, none of the neighboring plot renters were anywhere to be seen. From the bag on the front seat of her car, she removed a tattered rag doll. It had been a gift from her father when she was four years old. The doll was dressed in the typical clothes of a peasant farm girl. It had been her constant companion for years and she had always brought it on their trips to the garden plot. She looked down at the doll and smiled. It had been many things for her throughout its life—a playmate, confidant, even the embodiment of her departed mother, and for it now to aid her in deceit was something she never would have imagined. Such, though, was the nature of her training. A believable falsehood must always be in place before conducting a clandestine operation.

The ground was frozen, so she chose the pointed shovel from the shed and walked to the rear of the plot. She felt somewhat embarrassed, like a naïve child searching for pirate treasure as she counted off the prescribed paces from the apple tree. She remembered her father telling her how he had planted it the year she was born. He loved to say that it had grown tall and beautiful, just like his daughter.

She set the doll down and began to dig. Had anyone come along and asked what she was doing, she could present the doll and explain that she was laying it to rest at the base of her father’s favorite tree. If any of the neighboring plot renters had happened by, they would not only have known the significance the tree held for her father, but they would also recognize the little peasant doll. It would have made sense for her to close a chapter of her life by burying part of her past.

The work was slow going and the raw winter wind bit at her cheeks. She was beginning again to consider her father’s words as nothing more than the ravings of a sick and dying man when the shovel hit something that gave forth a resounding
thud
. She brought the point of the shovel down again and felt something splinter beneath it. Quickly, she shoveled more dirt from the hole until she could trace around the edges of a small wooden crate about two feet square.

She dusted the earth from the top of the box and saw that the wood had begun to rot. Using the point of the shovel, she pried the top loose. Sealed in a clear plastic bag inside was her father’s old battered leather briefcase—the same one she had watched him leave for work with every day and return home again with at night. It had looked like any briefcase any ordinary father would carry to his office. Staring at it now and realizing that her father and his job had been anything but ordinary, the briefcase now seemed ominous. The fact that he had chosen to bury it in the relative anonymity of his garden plot perhaps meant that his almost unbelievable story might have been more than the mere ranting of a drugged man on his deathbed.

As she held the old leather case in her hands, she began to think that maybe the reason the story had seemed so unbelievable was because it was so frightening. She hoped that the contents of the case could tell her more, but she couldn’t examine it, not there. For a brief moment, she held the doll close against her cheek and stroked its hair. With a final kiss goodbye, she laid it within the rotting wooden box, replaced the lid, refilled the hole, and then returned with a heavy heart to her tiny Moscow apartment.

What she read that night filled her with swells of emotion. There was awe at the extreme ambition her father had uncovered and fear of what that ambition might still unleash. She also felt pride as she realized why her father had done what he had done. There was no shame in his failure. His motives were above all else those of a true patriot. He had put Russia first, and in its future he had seen his daughter and a chance still to unmask a terrible evil before it had the opportunity to strike.

It was the dossier her father had compiled that had put her on the generals’ trail. The contents of that briefcase had led her to be in the woods beyond the hunting lodge in Zvenigorod, risking not only her career, but also her life. What her father had started, she would see finished, but she needed her patient to break through the haze of his fever and give her some sort of clue as to how to proceed.

As she wrung out another damp cloth, the man moaned yet again and she reached for his arm to check his pulse. It had weakened significantly. Karganov was getting worse, and Alexandra Ivanova had hit the absolute bottom of her limited well of medical knowledge.