“Shut up!” cried Kestrel.
“Briggs, on the count of three, you’re going to shoot Kestrel in the head.”
“Roger that. I’m on target.”
“Okay, Briggs, one, two—”
“Wait!” cried Kestrel, eyes widening back on the wall where that first round had penetrated. “All right. Let the fool talk.”
“Hold fire, Briggs.”
“Roger that.”
“Snegurochka,” Yenin repeated.
“What the hell is he saying?” Fisher asked.
Kestrel made a face. “That word means Snow Maiden.”
“Does that mean something to you?”
Kestrel’s eyes grew wider. “Oh, yes, it does. Snow Maiden is the code name for Major Viktoria Kolosov of the GRU.”
“Grim, you get that?”
“Got it. Running it now.”
“Yenin, what about this woman? You tell me, and I’ll get you down. It’ll be over.”
Yenin’s face was beginning to twist in improbable angles as the pain really set in. His eyes barely focused on Fisher now, but then, after a few gasps, he said in broken English, “Big shoot-out in old metro tunnel. Nadia’s bodyguards and two GRU agents killed. Girl captured. Snow Maiden ordered to hold her.”
“Hold her where?” Fisher asked.
“Take me down, and I tell you,” said Yenin.
Fisher glanced ironically at Kestrel. “I guess he learned his negotiation techniques from you.” Fisher holstered his weapon, much to Kestrel’s shock. “Okay, he doesn’t want to talk, so he’s all yours. Leave him here for the wolves, I don’t care. We’ll find the girl.”
Fisher started for the door.
“Wait!” Yenin croaked. “They’re holding girl in Sochi. She’s in Sochi. They’ve got safe house there. Now take me down! Please!”
“Sam, Charlie here. Got the four-one-one on Sochi. Black Sea resort city. Lots of tourists…”
Fisher widened his gaze on Yenin. “Where in Sochi?” Fisher lifted his voice to a roar. “WHERE?”
Yenin closed his eyes, as though he had to think about it. “Hotel Olesska on Lenina Street. We use as safe house sometimes.”
“I got it, Sam,” said Charlie. “I’ll start hacking into every cam within a ten-K radius.”
“If you’re lying…” Fisher warned the agent.
“I’m not,” Yenin said.
“Do you know anything about Mayak?”
“No, nothing. Only rumors. No way could terrorists steal material. Must be inside job.”
“No shit,” Fisher said. He turned to Kestrel. “You’d better start answering my calls. Have a good night. Briggs? We don’t need any more loose ends here.”
“Roger that.”
“Sam, what’re you doing?” Grim asked.
“Mopping up.”
As Fisher stepped out of the meat locker, a gunshot thumped into the room, and he didn’t bother looking back. He knew Yenin had been taken out with a perfect headshot.
“Fisher!” Kestrel screamed.
“Don’t come after me,” Fisher cried. “I told you. He never misses.”
15
The girl was asleep again. Her left eye had swollen shut, and the Snow Maiden was contemplating whether to get her some ice or just let her suffer. The little princess had never known such pain. Stress for her was deciding between five-star restaurants and which charity balls to attend with her father. Physical pain involved nicking her legs while shaving. She’d never been interrogated and beaten down to the floor like a dog. She’d never been waterboarded or electrocuted, had her nails and teeth forcibly extracted, her toes removed one at a time. There was a whole new world of torture waiting for her, and she didn’t even know it. All she’d known for the past few hours were the contours of the Snow Maiden’s knuckles. And all she could do was weep and deny that she knew anything about her father’s whereabouts.
It was all perfunctory at best, with both of them dancing around each other until they really got down to business. Of course, it was important for the Snow Maiden to keep the girl alive, and she would; however, that didn’t mean she couldn’t work out a few issues and relieve some of her own stress.
The Snow Maiden glided across the plush red carpet to the window and pushed open the curtains. She stared out at the shimmering lights from the Black Sea coastline. The hotel was only a ten-minute walk from the water, and in addition to the incredible views, it offered a Finnish sauna and traditional Russian banya where she planned to relax later this evening.
Her trance was broken as the two men outside the hotel and the two next door began to check in, the Bluetooth receiver in her ear buzzing with their voices. She sighed and answered them.
Her superiors had foisted upon her four agents who deeply resented that she was in charge. The GRU had wanted her to turn over the girl to FSB agents because the investigation fell within their purview. This was an internal matter that did not belong in the hands of a foreign intelligence agent. But the Snow Maiden had implored her bosses, told them that she wanted to finish this job. Given her “excellent work” in the metro, they’d stood up for her and had convinced the FSB that they didn’t need to waste a seasoned agent to oversee a babysitting job. Those administrators had finally given in and had allowed her to take Nadia to Sochi — but not without the FSB baggage coming along. No, the Snow Maiden wouldn’t murder these men, although the thought had crossed her mind — four times to be precise. She’d already won the adulation she needed from her superiors, most notably Izotov himself, who’d bragged to his counterpart at the FSB that “no one but the Snow Maiden could have survived that gun battle, and she did!” That was glowing praise and would certainly contribute to her promotion; however, if she could get Nadia to talk, then that would be something. Really something. In her mind, this was not a babysitting job. This was an opportunity to single-handedly locate Igor Kasperov and bring him in.
She traced a finger along the glass. It was hard not to appreciate the irony unfurling before her eyes. Here she was, involved in the darker side of human nature, while outside the city of Sochi lay in all its grand and burgeoning splendor. Electricity was in the air as this place, known by many as the “Russian Riviera,” prepared to host the 2014 Winter Olympic Games. Heavy construction was going on everywhere, even in the lot adjoining Hotel Olesska, where yet another hotel was being erected, one that would be crowded with media personnel once the games began. A ceaseless train of earth-moving dump trucks lumbered daily across Lenina Street, much to the chagrin of some guests — but not them. Their soundproofed room lay on the opposite side of the hotel, in its most private section, where intelligence agents often held political prisoners and others, keeping them far away from Moscow and from soiling the president’s hands.
The FSB and GRU had developed a healthy relationship with the hotel’s staff, and the facility itself, being only four stories and surrounded by large pine trees, made it easy to establish a defensive perimeter. Additionally, the hotel was only a five-minute drive from the train station and just ten minutes from Adler Airport. When agents like the Snow Maiden weren’t attaching battery cables to the genitalia of prisoners, they could visit the nearby water park, sports and entertainment complexes, the Sochi Dolphinarium dolphin park, and the Discovery World Aquarium — not to mention the soaring skyline of the new Olympic park.
The Snow Maiden grinned darkly as she turned away from the window at the sound of Nadia stirring. “Are you hungry?”
Nadia lay across the bed, looking more like a corpse than a pampered rich man’s daughter. They’d given her a change of clothes: a pair of jeans and a sweatshirt that made her appear a few years younger. She lifted her head, and finally, after a deep-throated cough, was able to sit up.