Prerovsky remained silent while he thought about their options. A few seconds later, Kaparov had made a decision. It might be a long shot, but the Americans, specifically Karl Berg, owed him a favor. A big favor. He’d call Berg on the walk home, if he wasn’t already being followed by SVR agents.
“All right. I have an idea,” Kaparov said.
“Please tell me that this doesn’t involve getting rid of Lucya. I don’t think I could do that,” Prerovsky said.
Kaparov regarded him for a moment, surprised by his suggestion that they might have to kill her. The thought had crossed Kaparov’s mind, and it still lingered.
“Unfortunately, Lucya has to go…but not to the bottom of the Moscow. She knew the risks involved here. We all did. I need to make a phone call.”
“Where will she go?” Prerovsky said.
“Anywhere but here. Her life as a Russian citizen is done. She either accepts that, or…let’s just hope she accepts her new reality. Don’t say a word to her about anything. If she comes to you again, explain to her that turning us in will not save her life. You need to buy me some time to put my plan into motion.”
“I can do that. Keep me posted. I don’t like being kept in the dark, Alexei,” Prerovsky said.
“That’s the first time you’ve ever called me Alexei,” Kaparov said.
“Deputy Director didn’t sound like an appropriate title for a conversation between two traitors,” Prerovsky said.
“Get that out of your head immediately. The real traitors tried to snuff out Reznikov in Stockholm, and they’re still hard at work trying to conceal the fact that Mother Russia is still producing bioweapons. Their handiwork killed thousands of Russian’s up north. I don’t feel a twinge of guilt about what we accomplished,” Kaparov said.
“Neither do I, but I’d rather not spend the rest of my life in prison,” Prerovsky said.
“Don’t worry. If they catch us, we’ll never see the inside of a prison. Hurry up and grab a bottle of your fancy wine. We should leave separately,” Kaparov said.
Prerovsky shook his head and departed, grabbing the nearest bottle of wine on the way down the aisle. After Kaparov heard the familiar jingle of the bells mounted to the door to alert the cashier, he took his two bottles to the register and paid a mere one hundred and fifty rubles for a complete liter of forty-proof alcohol. Not a bad deal. He shook a dented cigarette out of a crumpled pack fished from his jacket and deftly maneuvered the brown bag to light the cigarette with his silver butane lighter. After inhaling deeply, he turned north and walked along the wide, treelined sidewalk.
Pedestrian traffic was light at that time of the night. That part of Brateyevo mostly held large apartment buildings built during the Soviet era. Beyond a few grocery stores and liquor shops, the district remained devoid of commercial business, which Kaparov preferred. The wide streets and open spaces were difficult to find this close to Moscow, even if the district didn’t cater to the wealthy.
Brateyevo had remained a middle class to lower middle class enclave close to the heart of Moscow, though more and more younger affluent Russian couples had started to migrate into the community, driving up the apartment prices for new contracts. Most of the districts denizens took advantage of rent control provisions, which hadn’t been eliminated like in other districts. One of these days, the government would level this place to make room for mansions and expensive condominium complexes. The face of corruption in Moscow was often disguised as “progress,” according to city politicians. Until then, Kaparov would continue to enjoy peaceful nighttime walks along the district’s well-lit streets.
Halfway down Alma-Atinskaya Boulevard, mostly convinced that he was not being followed, he turned onto an unfamiliar walkway and pulled out one of his prepaid cell phones. Another two thousand rubles to be thrown in the Moscow River. In this case, the phone call would be worth far more than the price he had paid for the phone. He checked his watch and calculated the time difference. Karl Berg should be finished with lunch, or whatever he did with his noon hour. He heard that many of the CIA employees exercised or took yoga classes instead of eating lunch. Right inside the facility. He couldn’t imagine the day that they installed a full gym at Lubyanka Square, or had people standing on their heads contemplating their inner self in the same rooms that still echoed with the screams of the purged.
It took longer than usual for Berg to answer, which made Kaparov nervous. He kept walking toward the towering apartment building ahead of him, occasionally checking to see if anyone else had followed. He wasn’t surprised to see the walkway clear. Lucya was the only link to his deception, and she was still in the surveillance phase. Once they decided to pick her up, it was over for him.
Damn it, where are you, Karl!
“What in hell is holding this up?” he said, unaware that the line had been answered.
“And good afternoon to you, comrade. Everything all right over there?” the voice asked in Russian.
“Far from it. No names. We have a big problem here,” Kaparov said, stopping near a tree.
“I was about to call you with some interesting news about our mutual friend. It seems that your people have been playing with the Iranians and—”
“I don’t give a fuck who is playing with who right now. Forget all of that and listen closely. Whatever recently happened in Scandinavia has caused a reaction here in Moscow. A bad reaction. The source responsible for saving America’s ass is under surveillance. Overt surveillance, and they’re not from my organization. Do you understand what this means?”
The line remained silent for a few seconds longer than Kaparov expected, leaving him with the distinct impression that it might go silent forever, leaving him to fend for himself.
“This source is the nexus. Correct?”
“Correct,” Kaparov said.
“Electronically, everyone is clear. Correct?” Berg said.
“So I am told.”
“Then there is only one solution,” Berg said.
“I was afraid you might say that,” Kaparov said.
“You didn’t need me for that, comrade. I assume you have another reason for calling? My offer of a cushy retirement still stands.”
“I’d like to avoid that if possible, which is why I need your help. I’d like to remove the source in question. Permanent relocation,” Kaparov said.
“I assume that’s not a euphemism for termination,” Berg said.
“Correct. She’d be a valuable source for your organization. One way or the other, she can’t stay. I’m asking for this as your return favor.”
“It’s an awfully big favor,” Berg said.
“Ha! Always the negotiator. I sense that you still want something from me. Take care of our problem, and I’ll be able to better concentrate on what you have to say,” Kaparov said, throwing his cigarette to the ground in a flurry of sparking ashes.
“Let me make a quick call. I might be able to do this without using in-house assets. What is our timeline?” Berg said.
“Forty-eight hours maximum. More like twenty-four. Once they consistently notice that the subject is visibly shaken, they’ll move in for the grab. This one isn’t faring well, so I predict it will happen sooner than later. How close are these assets?”