The Sins of the Father Page 2

  A son.

  I’m a father, he thought, unable to quite wrap his mind around the thought.

  3

  Sheremetyevo International Airport in Moscow had to be just about the worst airport in the world, Derek thought. And that was saying something, considering he’d traveled to Congo, Panama, and the Middle East, as well as Europe. It was crowded, the lines were slow, there were no places to sit, Russians indulged in cigarettes everywhere they went and the passport control people all seemed to be former KGB agents with hemorrhoids.

  Finally out of the terminal, all he wanted to do was catch a cab to the Golden Ring Hotel where his travel agent had made reservations. He needed some sleep in hopes of getting his body clock back in sync. He was surprised to see a thick, broad-shouldered man in a gray suit holding a sign that read: Dr. Derek Stillwater.

  Somebody from the hotel? Or somebody Mandalevo had sent his way?

  Derek walked over. “I’m Derek Stillwater.”

  The man, who had a thick tangle of black hair, looked him up and down. “Do you have a passport?” His voice was deep and slow and heavily accented.

  “Sure. Do you?”

  The Russian stared at him. So much for humor, Derek thought. He pulled out his passport. The man studied it and nodded. “Come with me. How was your flight?”

  “Long. Who are you?”

  “I am Ivan. Was told to pick you up.”

  “I want to go to my hotel.”

  “Fine. Come.”

  Derek followed. Ivan led him outside. With a dismayed sigh, Derek noted that he had left a beautiful eighty-degree day in Baltimore for thirty-some degrees of freezing rain and snow in Moscow. The sky looked like the underside of a mushroom and everything was covered with three inches of frozen slush. What snow that was on the ground was gray or black, impregnated with the soot of cars and pollution.

  He huddled deeper into his leather jacket, adjusted his Orioles baseball cap, and followed Ivan to a black Mercedes SUV. Ivan took Derek’s backpack and tossed it into the trunk of the Mercedes. He gestured to the back seat, where another man sat.

  Derek’s survival instincts prickled. This seemed odd. Before climbing in, he said, “Where did you say you were from again?”

  Ivan seemed bored. “Sent by embassy. Please. Get in. Is courtesy.”

  Derek hesitated before sliding in. Ivan slammed the door after him and climbed into the front seat behind the wheel.

  The man in the back was big, powerful, in a black wool coat. He had broad Slavik features, a black goatee and thick black hair he wore swept off his forehead to his shoulders. His English was pretty good, better than Ivan’s.

  “Derek Stillwater?”

  “Yes.”

  “Pleasure to meet you.”

  “I didn’t catch your name.”

  “Yassen.”

  “Hello, Yassen. I’m staying at the Golden Ring Hotel.”

  “Okay. Good.”

  Ivan kicked the Mercedes into drive and they rolled out of the parking lot. Within minutes Derek knew something was wrong. They were heading north into the country, not into the city.

  “Hey, wait. What’s—”

  Yassen pulled a gun. Derek recognized it as a Makarov.

  “Hands out front.”

  “Fuck you.”

  Yassen raised the gun. His expression suggested he wouldn’t hesitate to shoot. Derek placed his hands in front of him. Yassen slapped plasti-cuffs on his wrists.

  Derek focused. Jet-lagged, tired, surprised, but it was time to keep his wits about him. “Who are you?”

  “None of your business. Cooperate and we probably won’t kill you. Screw with us and you’re a dead man.”

  They drove for well over an hour, leaving the suburbs of Moscow behind, entering farms and woods. The weather changed, driving sleet cutting diagonally across the gray landscape. Whenever Derek asked questions, Yassen waved the gun at him and told him to shut up. “If you keep talking, I will pull a bag over your head and gag you. Shut up.”

  “You’re FSB.”

  Yassen looked disgusted. “You do not listen. Talk, talk. Maybe you would find out more if you just kept your mouth shut and listened.”

  “That hasn’t been my—”

  Yassen’s fist snapped out. Derek jerked his head back. The Russian’s fist grazed his cheekbone. Hands up, Derek caught Yassen’s wrist and twisted. The plasti-cuffs actually worked to tangle Yassen’s arm. With a growl, Yassen muscled away from Derek. The driver, Ivan, squealed the brakes, veering to the side of the road. Derek slammed against the seat in front of him. His hand was on the door latch when Yassen raised the gun. “Don’t, Doctor.”

  Derek, heart hammering in his chest, considered making a run for it. But it was open field. If Yassen were inclined, he’d put a bullet in his back before he made it ten yards from the SUV. He sat back.

  Reaching between his knees, the Russian picked a cloth bag off the floor and tossed it to Derek. “Over your head.”

  “It’s not necessary.”

  “It’s not a request. We were just going somewhere to talk some sense into you. You’ve made that more difficult. Now we will do things my way.”

  “I’m not—”

  From the front seat Ivan spun. In his hand was a steel rod. As he turned, the rod extended as if on a spring. The weighted steel came down on Derek’s wrist.

  Shouting, Derek pulled back his hands, glaring at Ivan. Ivan said, “Do it or it will be your head next.”

  Derek knew that a tactical baton from the front seat wasn’t a particularly good weapon. Even with his hands cuffed he could probably take it away from Ivan, but now was probably not the best time.

  He pulled the bag over his head. It was hot and dark. After a moment the Mercedes pulled away. Derek felt fear percolate through him, ratcheting up. His imagination was his worst enemy now. He forced the anxiety back down into its hole and focused on any background sounds. He thought they had left the airport on M-10, but gotten off fairly early to cut more north and east.

  He heard nothing, though.

  He tried to convince himself that if they wanted him dead, they would have done so already. Whoever they were.

  Time passed. They pulled off the main highway onto what he thought was a dirt road. After about ten bumpy minutes the Mercedes lurched to a halt and the motor cut out. Yassen said, “We’re getting out now. Stay where you are and I’ll get you out on your side.”

  A moment later the doors opened, slammed shut, then the door on his side opened. A hand gripped his shoulder and pulled him roughly from the rear seat. Beneath his feet he felt hard earth covered with snow and ice. The door slammed, then the trunk opened. It sounded like Ivan was pulling out his backpack. Then the rear hatch slammed shut.

  “We walk.”

  There were slippery spots, so Derek stepped carefully. Crows cawed from nearby. There was the faint smell of wood smoke. Yassen stopped him. “Four steps up.”

  Wood, he thought. Then a door creaked open and he was inside on what felt like hardwood floors. There was heat, probably from a wood fire. Cigarette smoke. The sound of a TV, male voices in Russian.

  A voice spoke in Russian. Yassen answered. Derek could say “one more beer, please” and “where’s the toilet?” in Russian and about fourteen other languages. He didn’t think either one was going to help him out a lot at the moment.

  A hand gripped him and took him down more steps. It felt like a basement. He was shoved into a chair. “Stay here.”

  The steps receded and a door slammed. Derek reached up and yanked the hood off. He was indeed in a basement with hard dirt floors and brick walls. The room smelled of mold and earth.

  Jumping to his feet he inspected the room. Steep wooden stairs led to a door. He climbed up and checked it, but it was locked from the other side. No windows.

  He considered his options, which came down to two: wait or pound on the door. He decided to wait.

  Derek checked his phone, which was actually a Secure
Mobile Environment Portable Electronic Device, or SME PED—basically a smartphone all tweaked out by the NSA so it could handle encrypted phone calls and emails and not be hacked. But there was no signal in the cellar. He was able to see the minutes slip by as he waited. Finally, after a twenty-minute wait, the door opened and three men stomped down the stairs. Two of them were Yassen and Ivan. The third was a balding man with broad shoulders and a dark beard. He wore an expensive navy blue suit with vest, light blue shirt and maroon and silver tie. Derek noted the physicality of the man. Even though he wasn’t a big man, he moved easily like an athlete.

  His English was excellent with a slight hint of a British accent beneath the Russian accent. Something about the diction and inflection.

  “So,” he said to Derek. “The Hero of the G8 Summit. Not hero enough to save President Vakhach, however.”

  “What do you want?”

  “I want you to go home, Dr. Stillwater. I want you to mind your own business.”

  Derek turned slightly so neither Yassen nor Ivan got behind him. He kept his back to the wall. “I’m just here to find out what happened to Irina Khournikova.” No mention of Lev.

  “Agent Khournikova died tragically in an ambush with a team of FSB agents in Novosibirsk. What more do you wish to know?”

  “Have the people who killed her been caught?”

  “No.”

  “Do you know who they are?”

  “If we did, they would have been caught, tried, and punished.”

  “What was Irina and her team investigating?”

  “They were investigating potential terrorists.”

  “Chechen?”

  The man smiled, though it was bloodless and without humor. “No need to go to Chechnya to find terrorists in Russia, Doctor.”

  “Novosibirsk is the location of your country’s biological and chemical weapons research. Was this related?”

  The man seemed to tense for a moment. Something flickered in his eyes and he waved a finger at Ivan. Ivan took two steps closer to Derek, his hand in his pocket, no doubt gripping the handle of his tactical baton.

  Derek hurriedly said, “Who are you?”

  The man waved his hand. “I don’t think you need to know. But perhaps I can answer other questions and satisfy your curiosity.”

  “How did you know I was coming to Russia?”

  The man shook his head. “I think you know enough, Dr. Stillwater.” He took a menacing step toward Derek. “Here is my suggestion. Visit your embassy. Talk to your CIA, if you must. Visit Irina’s family and express your condolences, if that is what you feel obligated to do. Then get on the first flight out of Russia and return home and leave this matter to Russia. Do you understand?”

  “I understand what you’re saying.”

  The man studied him a moment, then abruptly shook his head. “I do not believe you will listen. Ivan—”

  Ivan leapt toward Derek, the tactical baton extending in his hand. Derek was already on the move, crouching in under the baton, cuffed hands coming up in a double fist, striking Ivan in the throat, followed by a knee to the crotch. Spinning, he caught Ivan’s wrists, twisted, and threw the Russian over his shoulder onto the hard floor, snatching the baton out of his grip.

  Derek was turning toward Yassen when something slammed into the back of his head. The universe exploded and everything went black.

  Derek woke up enough to realize he was being carried. Rough Russian voices spoke to each other, but he didn’t understand a word. He was tossed into the back of the SUV like a cheap suitcase, his backpack thrown in next to him. Yassen said something. Derek felt the bite of a hypodermic needle. He was gone.

  The next time he woke he was cold. And wet. Opening his eyes, he found himself crumpled in an alley, sprawled in a pile of slush, shivering. His head pounded and he stank of vodka. Trying to climb to his feet, he leaned over and vomited into the snow. The stench rising up at him made him vomit again. He crawled away from his mess, wondering where he was and exactly how he got here.

  He vaguely remembered Yassen giving him a shot of something. He hoped to hell it was a drug that made him unconscious. Like most in the U.S. intelligence business, he knew about Alexander Litvinenko, who had been poisoned with radioactive polonium-210. Just the thought of it made him want to flee the country.

  Two figures hunched against the cold and sleet walked past the entrance to the alley and turned to look at him.

  They wore uniforms. Derek thought they were local police. Shit.

  They approached him. One was blond and young, the other older and dark. The dark-haired one spoke to him in Russian, but Derek didn’t understand a word. He thought he heard, p’yan v stel-ku, or something like that. He held up his hands. “American,” he said. “Do you speak English?”

  In halting English the blond said, “You are drunk. You stink. We’re taking you in to sleep it off.”

  “No. Please. I … I got mugged. But…” He reached for his wallet, relieved to find it still there. His passport was in his jacket pocket. It was a special U.S. intelligence agency passport and it tended to move things along in many—though not all—countries. Damned considerate thugs, all things considered.

  Derek pulled out his wallet and riffled through the money

  there. “Taxi?”

  The two cops eyed the money.

  The dark one said something in Russian. The blond who spoke English said, “Passport and Visa, please.”

  With shaking hands, Derek handed over his documents, keeping his wallet out as a hint. Take the money and go, guys. Be good little Russian cops and take a bribe like you guys always used to do.

  They looked through his documents, finally turning back to him. “Can you walk?”

  Derek by that time had made it to his feet, but was leaning against the wall. He nodded and took a step, staggering. The dark-haired cop caught him by the arm, swearing in Russian. Sucking in air, Derek said, “I’ll be fine. Give me a minute to catch my breath.”

  The dark-haired cop sniffed and spat something harsh-sounding to his partner, who nodded. The blond picked up Derek’s backpack and opened it, pawing through it. The cop pulled out Derek’s tablet computer, opened his shaving kit, stuffed everything back in and said, “Come with us.”

  “Look, let’s just—”

  The dark-haired cop caught Derek’s arm in a hard grip that ground bone against bone and walked him out onto the street. The blond followed with his backpack. They led him to a nearby police car and stuffed him in the back.

  4

  A cell was a cell was a cell, thought Derek. He’d been in more than his fair share of cells in several countries under varying circumstances. The Moscow drunk tank was better than some, but the Hyatt Regency’s reputation was safe. It wasn’t a great place to spend the night, which is what it was starting to look like he was going to have to do.

  He staked out a spot on the bench against the wall, glared at two of the larger drunks to convince them to leave him alone, and settled in to wait.

  Leaning forward, shivering in his wet clothes, he tried to remember what the symptoms of polonium-210 poisoning were. He knew it was more toxic than cyanide.

  Would you quit it, he told himself. If they wanted you dead they could have killed you in the dacha and buried you out in a field somewhere.

  His nose was running and his throat was scratchy. Coming down with a frickin’ cold, he thought. That’s what lying around in the slush will do after fourteen hours on a goddamned airplane.

  He stood up and went to the bars and shouted down the hallway. “Hey! Hey, anyone out there!”

  One of his fellow prisoners shouted at him in Russian. “Zavali yebalo!”

  Another one muttered, “Zarasa.”

  Derek didn’t think they were terms of endearment. He kept shouting, wondering how long it would be before someone arrived to shut him up. A few seconds later a Russian cop appeared. “What do you want?” he said in heavily accented English.

  “I’m
freezing and wet. Some of the clothes in my backpack are still dry. Can I get a change of clothes? Please.”

  The cop was a big guy, burly, barrel-chested. He looked tired. A broad face marred with acne scars, a slightly Slavic slant to the eyes, swarthy skin, a seen-it-all expression. He said, “American, da?”

  “Da. I don’t really speak Russian.”

  The other drunk said, “Zavali yebalo” again.

  The guard said, “Perestan’ bit dabayobom.”

  “Svoloch’,” the prisoner responded, but didn’t say anything else.

  The guard turned his attention back to Derek. He rubbed his fingers together in what Derek recognized as the universal symbol of a bribe. “Da,” Derek said. “Please.”

  “Come with me.”

  He was led down a hallway and pointed into an empty room. Derek was locked inside. A moment later the guard returned with his backpack. He held it in his hands expectantly. Derek was surprised to find his wallet still in his backpack and money still in it. Probably the security passport had them playing nice. He pulled out a sheaf of ruble notes, doing the math in his head. About 30 rubles to one U.S. dollar, give or take. He handed the guard three green 1000 ruble notes, or about $100 U.S. It seemed to satisfy the guard, who handed him the backpack and closed the door behind him.

  There was a dry pair of jeans and a sweatshirt, socks and underwear, although half his clothes were soaking wet. He changed into the dry clothes and wondered what to do next. The door was locked. He knocked on it and the guard showed up a moment later.

  “Sober?” the guard said.

  “Yes. Your English is good.”

  “Spasiba.”

  Derek remembered that meant thank you. “You’re welcome.”

  “You don’t act drunk.”

  “I’m not. I got mugged.”

  The guard cocked his head. “They did not take your money?”

  “I fought them off. Maybe I scared them off. Can I leave now?”

  The guard hesitated.

  “Is there a fee for the inconvenience?” Derek asked, the ruble notes already in his hands.

  Five thousand rubles lighter, Derek was back out on the street. It was night and although bitterly cold, it had stopped sleeting. It hadn’t registered on him before, but he was a few blocks from Red Square and the fabulous onion domes of St. Basil’s Cathedral and the Kremlin. There wasn’t a taxi in sight. He thought he might be able find one near Red Square, so he started walking in that direction. Finally a yellow taxi passed him and he waved it down. The driver looked Mongolian with dark skin and slanting eyes. The cab was cloudy with cigarette smoke, but at least it was warm.