The Chairman of the Glavnoye razvedyvatel’noye upravleniye or GRU, Russia’s Main Intelligence Directorate, Zhestakova wielded immense power. He had the direct ear of the President and, more important, the collective backing of those generals who provided the presidential muscle. Nicknamed Koschei the Deathless, after the fairytale king who rode naked on horseback through the countryside stealing peasant girls, Zhestakova was also a difficult man to kill.
As a junior officer with the elite Special Forces Alpha Group, Zhestakova had at first been allied with hardliners during the Avgustovsky Putch to oust Mikhail Gorbachev. At the last moment, his boss had switched to the winning side, refusing along with other Alpha and Vympel commanders to move against the Soviet White House as had been planned. The coup failed, and Zhestokova won promotion over prison.
He had enjoyed a noteworthy and even prosperous career since that time, always seeming to be on the winning side, if not necessarily the right one. He made it very clear that his fortunes would not be the only ones to change should the situation with Novo Archangelsk not resolve immediately.
“Do you not see the magnitude here?” Zhestakova asked. It was his first actual question in five minutes, and Rostov paused to make certain it was not rhetorical.
Judging Zhestakova’s pause long enough to warrant a reply, Rostov decided to reply, but carefully. “I do understand, General,” he said. “The American’s are touchy. If they were to link the Novo Archangelsk attacks to Russia—”
“And therein lies my point,” Zhestakova said, his voice breathless as if he were running in place while he talked. “The President is about to give the preparatory command for Full Combat Readiness.”
Rostov held his breath. Full Combat Readiness was equivalent to what the American’s called DefCon 2—with forces from all branches prepared to mobilize at a moment’s notice. The president did it periodically. A trigger-happy Turkish government, an overly independent Ukraine — there had been many reasons for the elevation in operational tempo. But, such escalation came with a price, invariably rattling neighbors who wondered about hidden intentions.
“The Americans will ask questions,” he said, regretting his words immediately.
“Are you suggesting that we not protect ourselves?” Zhestakova said. Then, calming some, “We will blame our escalation on preparation for similar terror attacks.”
“Which is plausible,” Rostov said, showing that he was in full agreement. “U.S. sources say the perpetrator in Texas was an Islamist. Russia is also a target—”
“Which brings to mind several other questions the President would like you to answer.” Zhestakova cut him off.
“A question for me personally?”
“Indeed.” Zhestakova gave a quiet chuckle, as if were watching an old enemy roast on a spit. “The questions are for you personally, Colonel Rostov.”
The fact that the President would speak of him directly made Rostov’s head throb. At times of crisis, anonymity was far better than heroism.
“For instance, how did Novo Archangelsk end up in the hands of Islamists?” Zhestakova said. The sound of shuffling papers came across the line, then the tap of a computer keyboard. “And who do you have in command in Providenya?”
“Captain Evgeni Lodygin, sir.”
“That little shit,” Zhestakova said. “Was he not sent to Providenya because of some unpleasantness with a subordinate’s teenage daughter?”
“That is true,” Rostov said. “I have found him odd enough, but extremely competent and trustworthy.”
“Yes, quite,” Zhestakova said. Rostov could almost hear the saliva dripping off Zhestakova’s teeth as he dragged out the word. “Until one of our top scientists defected and a secret nerve agent turned up in the hands of terrorists under his watch.”
Rostov knew any indictment of Lodygin was an indictment against him as the commanding officer of the entire Novo Archangelsk project. “I assure you, sir,” he said, “trusted operatives are even now about to return Dr. Volodin. I, myself, leave within the hour for Providenya to oversee a thorough investigation of everyone with access to the laboratory.”
“Including Evgeni Lodygin?” Zhestakova said. “An investigation takes time…” He was breathless again, sounding like Rostov had imagined Koschei the Deathless when he was a small boy. “It might interest you to know that the President and I often find the simplest solution is often a bullet to the back of the head.”
“Of course, General,” Rostov said, dropping his pencil.
“Do you know how they did it, Ruslan, back in the Soviet days?” The general had never before addressed Rostov by his given name and to hear it spoken in that breathless hiss made it difficult for Rostov to swallow. Of course he knew how they did it. He’d done it himself.
Zhestakova told him anyway. The words brought a flood of memories that Rostov had worked very hard to suppress, particularly after the birth of his daughter.
“It begins with a surprise visit from a superior,” the general said. “A quiet walk down a dead-end hallway — and an unexpected bullet. Many progressives view the practice as barbaric, but I have always thought it kind — a tender mercy — quick and without the unseemly snot and fear on the part of the condemned. But then, I have always tried to be kind in my dealings with subordinates. Have I not, Colonel?”
“Yes, General,” Rostov managed to reply. He wondered if the reference to the bullet in the head was a suggestion on how he should proceed or a thinly veiled threat. In the end, he knew it was both.
Chapter 6
Special Agent Joel Johnson was fifteen yards out when Allen Lamar dropped to his knees, still clutching the cardboard tube the FBI agents had mistakenly thought was a can of potato chips. The boy pointed the canister toward the crowd like a mortar tube. Even from that distance, Special Agent Johnson had a clear view of Lamar’s face. His eyes had gone glassy, looking past the crowd in an unfocused, thousand-yard stare.
Agent Johnson’s breath caught like a stone in his throat as he watched the foam pour over the lip of the container in a seemingly endless flow. For the first time, he realized Allen Lamar was wearing latex gloves.
Gillette moved left toward the bleachers, vaulting a short fence to get a shot at Lamar without the stadium behind him. This new angle gave him a better target but put him downwind from the foam. He fell before he could raise his sidearm, knees slamming against the concrete walk, before pitching face-first into the fence he’d just jumped. His contorted face pressed against the chain links.
“Stay back!” Johnson shouted to the rest of his team as he himself rushed forward. His heart told him to rush toward his friend and save him, but his instinct told him he had to stop the threat.
Four seconds after Allen Lamar activated the cardboard tube an elderly man in the first row of bleachers began to laugh uncontrollably. A child of five or six seated next to him dropped a bag of popcorn and stared transfixed before throwing up and toppling sideways. Spectators all around the laughing man tried to get to their feet and put some distance between themselves and the vomit. Other bodily fluids were spreading among the crowd like a fast burning fire. Unable to control their muscles, those affected fell like ragdolls on the people below them. Some became hysterically angry, tearing at their clothing and screaming nonsensical threats into the night air. Eyes grew bloodshot in an instant. Mucous streamed from noses.