“It’s a done deal. Reznikov is dead, and this isn’t our business anymore,” Greshnev said.
“I can live with that,” he said, reaching for the door handle. He turned around again. “If the leak turns out to be one of mine. I’ll take care of it personally.”
“I would expect nothing less from the legendary Arkady Baranov.”
When the door closed, Greshnev stood up and stared out of the window at Lubyanka Square. He could never understand why foreign tourists went out of their way to see the square, which had to be the most uninteresting piece of real estate in all of Moscow. Paved over years ago, and barely resembling anything more than a glorified parking lot, visitors were treated to a shitty patch of grass and flowers surrounded by traffic. He supposed they could visit the Solovetsky Stone in the equally uninspiring park next to the square. The stone was placed there as part of the Gulag memorial, adding to the collective misery of Lubyanka Square, which housed its own share of tragedy.
He watched a gaggle of Westerners mill across the concrete expanse, staring up at the iconic building, which represented past horrors of the Soviet regime. Unknown to most, the repressive terror hadn’t truly ended. The government had simply relocated that apparatus to a less public location, south of the city. He really shouldn’t cast stones at the Foreign Intelligence Service. His own service had its share of problems, and as a chief director for the Terrorism and Political Extremism Control Directorate, he often dipped his hands into affairs that had more to do with politics than protecting the Russian Federation.
Even worse, he was often told to stay out of business that clearly fell under his purview, like Monchegorsk. He didn’t want to think about that city. If digging around the Reznikov story carried health risks, asking questions about Monchegorsk was like swimming through radioactive sludge. Prior to Kaparov bringing certain reports to his attention about a month ago, his office hadn’t paid much attention to the Kola Peninsula. Its geographic isolation on the Barents Sea and shared border with Finland had kept the peninsula quiet. Upon forwarding a report suggesting the possible use of bioweapons against Monchegorsk, the entire peninsula was shut down.
A day later, he learned from one of Putin’s key Federation Council lackeys that the entire city had revolted against Moscow in a labor-related dispute. Of course, the military would handle the operation to regain control of the city. Little else was said, and nothing else needed to be said. The story was so preposterous that Greshnev immediately decided he would never mention it again. Kaparov’s stubborn insistence on pressing the issue had unnerved him to the point of needing anti-anxiety medication. At least Kaparov had the sense not to bring up Reznikov and Monchegorsk in the same breath. The old-timer might be thick-headed, but he hadn’t lost his ability to read between the lines. He needed more agents like Kaparov and Baranov. Effective, reliable and trustworthy.
He sat back down in his thick black leather executive chair and took a deep breath. He had to initiate the investigation into Baranov’s people immediately. Fortunately, the investigation would be confined to this building. The leak could only have come from the Operations Room on the third floor, which served as a temporary location to monitor the joint operation in Stockholm. The Center of Special Operations headquarters was located outside of the Moscow ring in Balashikha, and encompassed a vast complex with training facilities for FSB Spetsnaz. Keeping the investigation out of CSN headquarters would be one of his priorities. He reached for the phone and steeled himself for a series of painful conversations.
Chapter 10
Konrad Hubner sipped the remains of his lukewarm cappuccino and glanced around at the lively tables in Café Centrum’s outdoor terrace. This was one of his favorite cafés, mainly for the local female scenery, which proliferated as summer approached. Not that the café ever suffered from a lack of pleasant background. He loved May in Bavaria. The weather was mild and constantly improving, dragging Bavarians outside in droves to the biergartens, cafés and parks.
Located west of the English Garden on the southern border of the Schwabing district, the café on Leopold Strasse took in a constant flow of university students and wealthy patrons who could afford to live in the upscale neighborhood. As he set down his cup on the table, a mixed group of well-dressed students carrying book bags walked onto the patio from Leopold Strasse, searching for an empty table. He didn’t want to make them wait any longer than necessary and had no intention of pulling the creepy move of inviting them to sit at his table. He picked up his cup and saucer, nodding to a tall, male student, who led the group to the table, thanking him as they passed. He walked inside and settled the bill directly before walking onto Leopold Strasse and turning south.
He wasn’t sure what he’d do with the rest of the day. A few analytical projects awaited completion, but none of them involved pressing deadlines. His client base consisted of a few handpicked, undemanding European Union financial houses that passed on collaborative, long-term economic forecasting projects. He had attended Munich Business School in 2001 at the suggestion of General Sanderson, who had assured him that their unit would recommence operations by the time he had finished. The degree would open doors in Europe and serve to enhance his cover, allowing him to take on professional work and justify his far-from-modest lifestyle.
Hubner strolled along the wide, treelined sidewalk, scanning his surroundings. Despite the appearance of a relaxed lifestyle in Munich, he remained ever vigilant for threats. Turning onto Georgen Strasse, headed for his apartment two buildings away, his eyes were drawn to the red umbrellas of a comfortable biergarten nestled away behind the trees near the street corner. The gated patio served light food and excellent beer in generous one-liter, frosted glass mugs. He felt the pull of a crisp Augustiner Edelstoff and started to angle toward the gate. A sharp pain in his left thigh snapped him out of his reverie.
He turned his head left and noticed a student continuing up the street toward Leopold Strasse. The man’s face was hidden, but the backpack, dark corduroy pants and untucked shirttails gave him the distinct impression that he was a student. White headphone wires trailed down his neck, appearing from the bottom of his bushy, brown hair. The pain in his thigh had disappeared by the time he reached down to caress and examine the spot. He didn’t see a rip in his dark blue, designer jeans, and started to wonder if he had experienced a cramp or some kind of transient nerve impingement. The kid turned right and crossed Georgen Strasse, headed south on Leopold Strasse, toward the university. He disappeared behind a thick stand of trees next to the tall apartment building on the corner. Hubner shrugged and continued on his walk, distracted from his thoughts of cold beer.
He made it halfway to his apartment building before the first wave of sluggishness struck, signaling that he was in serious trouble. He felt like he was pushing his legs and arms through a viscous pool of petroleum. He started to turn his head to stare back at the corner of the Leopold Strasse, in what he knew was a futile attempt to spot the cleverly disguised fucker that injected him with some kind of toxin.
There wasn’t much he could do at this point. He would either be dead or incapacitated within a short period of time, and death might be his better option. Defying his body’s newly defined gravitational attraction to the earth’s core, he struggled to reach his jacket’s inside pocket, straining as his vision started to narrow. He found the phone just as his body toppled to the stonework walkway, trapping his arm under his torso. There was no way he could pull his phone out at this point. He could barely move his fingers. The last thing he registered as his vision closed was the sound of footsteps approaching.