“What’s going on?” Fisher asked.
“Just a few minutes ago his headquarters in Moscow abruptly shut down and his employees scattered. His offices around the world have been left hanging. No one knows where he is, but we just received some good HUMINT. Our agents in the Kremlin suspect that he wasn’t taken prisoner by the government because a localized virus just infected security systems all over the city, bringing down surveillance cameras. They also report that the Federal Security Service has dispatched agents to all the transportation routes.”
“I’m checking on all that now,” Charlie said, drumming hard on his keyboard.
Fisher nodded. “Sounds like Kasperov is on the run.”
“That’s a pretty loud exit,” said Grim. “If he wanted to bail, why didn’t he sneak away?”
“Yeah, and why shut down the company — unless he was worried about reprisal or something? Did he want to save his employees? From what, though?” Fisher asked. “What’s he running from?”
The SMI now glowed with a map of flashing blips marking the locations of Kasperov Labs offices around the globe. Grim tapped on Moscow and zoomed in on the Kasperov HQ.
Caldwell went on: “Between the robbery at Mayak and now Kasperov on the run, we’ve got something very dangerous going on in the Russian Federation, and maybe he knows what it is. Maybe he knows why the Russians are, as we speak, pulling their sovereign wealth funds out of American markets.”
“You want us to find him?” Fisher asked. “We’ve still got a hundred pounds of weapons-grade uranium floating around out there—”
“Which I’m well aware of,” she snapped. “It’s time for a little multitasking. I want you to find Kasperov and extend my offer for protection and political asylum. While you’re doing that, the Special Activities Division will back up your investigation to find the uranium. I need you to find that material and Kasperov.”
“Madame President, sorry to interrupt,” said Briggs from behind Fisher. “But if you want the CIA to back us, then let me suggest a few good operators.”
“Excellent. You send me those recommendations.”
“I will.”
“But we’re still off the books here,” Fisher reminded the president.
“Of course. I don’t think the CIA would have a problem with that, do you?”
Fisher cocked a brow at Briggs, who vigorously shook his head.
“Madame President, you think there’s a link between the missing uranium and Kasperov?” asked Grim.
“That’s what I need to know. As usual all our intel assets will be available to you.”
“We’re on it,” said Fisher. “We’ll get to Turkey and refuel there. Hopefully by the time we land we’ll have a lead on Kasperov’s location.”
“Stay in touch. I’m counting on you.”
The president’s seal reappeared, then the screens went blank.
“Charlie, full profile on Kasperov,” Grim ordered. “Right down to the brand of vodka he likes. Briggs, see what you can dig up on his employees, people from his past. We’ll have the SMI analyze possible escape routes.”
“Got something good already,” said Charlie, who’d already been diving into his databases while the president was speaking. “He was married for thirteen years, but his wife died of ovarian cancer. They have a daughter, Nadia, now twenty. We’ll locate her. Right now he’s got an American girlfriend, Jessica North, super hottie. We can follow up with her entire family. Also, he was a Soviet intel officer. I’ll search for old buddies. Says he attended the Institute of Cryptography. Could find an old teacher or somebody providing a safe house.”
“Go for it,” said Fisher.
Briggs chimed in: “Kasperov’s right hand was a young guy named Patrik Ruggov, aka Kannonball. Big Russian bear. I’ll see if I can find him. In the meantime, the NSA’s telling us they’ve already flagged Kasperov’s family members’ and known intimates’ landlines and cell phones for intercept. They’ve been logging in every incoming and outgoing phone call for the last couple of years.”
“I’ll get the SMI on that, too,” said Grim.
Fisher was working through a sidebar on the SMI, sifting through magazine articles on Kasperov. “Jesus, this guy’s been everywhere. He sponsors an F1 race team: Kasperov-McClaren. Maybe he’s got contacts in one of the race cities. And look at this, he’s hung out with rock stars all over the UK, going on pub crawls and taking his people on lavish company retreats in Costa del Sol, Monte Carlo, and Cancún. Says here he threw a New Year’s Eve party with over a thousand guests. His company operates in more than one hundred countries. Gonna be tough to narrow down this search.”
“No kidding,” said Grim. “And that localized virus? It’s affecting ATC over Moscow right now. Look at these reports.”
Fisher scanned the airport map and the transcripts from intercepted radio transmissions. Domodedovo, Sheremetyevo, Vnukovo, Myachkovo, Ostafyevo, Bykovo, and Ramenskoye Airports were all reporting radar service disruptions, distortion, false blips on radar, and other unexplained interference.
“Like I said,” Charlie began, “he’s a genius. He won’t do anything stupid like use a credit card or allow his face to be photographed. He knows where the security cameras are, and he knows all about facial recognition software. Hell, he wrote some of it. If he wanted to run, then he planned it well, used his expertise with computers and viruses to cover his ass. Maybe he’s had an escape plan in place for years. The airport disruption suggests he flew out. We’ll pull up every flight plan we can.”
Fisher turned to the image of Kasperov glowing now on one of the big screens. “So, comrade, where are you going? Are you going to pull a Bin Laden and hide in the open? Or maybe something completely different.”
“You’ve gone underground before,” said Grim. “Where would you go if you were him?”
Fisher thought for a long moment but didn’t answer.
4
Major Viktoria Kolosov — code-named Snegurochka, the Snow Maiden — had tied her long, black hair into a neat bun. This was not because she preferred it that way, but because most times when she knifed a man he tended to flail about, reaching violently for anything he could grasp — and she liked her hair, thought it was one of her best features, didn’t want any dying bastard to mess it up.
Unsurprisingly, Boris reached out as she punched the folding blade into his neck, ripped it free, then stabbed him in the heart, which was her original target before he’d turned and spoiled her whole attack.
As he fell to the asphalt with a gurgling “Why?” she raised the stolen PSS silent pistol at Oleg.
She cut loose with a pair of 7.62mm rounds that traveled at two hundred meters per second to impact squarely with his forehead, a textbook double tap that kicked him back into the old subway’s crumbling wall.
The knife attack on Boris was quieter than the gun and gave her enough time to shoot Oleg before he realized what was happening. Besides, she liked variety when it came to killing. Blade, pistol, weak arm, strong arm. Also, a combination knife/gun attack was riskier than just shooting both of them in the back of the head. There was no sport in that.
She leaned over, wiping the bloody blade on Oleg’s chest and thankful she had remembered her gloves, always a good idea when you planned to murder your partners. Was she insane? Of course not. This was an important operation with career advancement at stake, too important to share credit, so now the extra baggage was gone. Never mind the investigation into their deaths. There would be none. She would ensure that, too.
The Glavnoye Razvedyvatel’noye Upravleniye, or GRU, the motherland’s foreign military intelligence agency, was headed by Sergei Izotov, who’d called upon any SVR operatives in the immediate area. They were to capture Igor Kasperov’s twenty-year-old daughter, Nadia, after the girl had made the fatal mistake of posting a status update to her VK page, saying good-bye to Moscow. She was, the SVR had assumed, rushing to the airport to link up with her father.