I’m finally inside. I shut the door and the first thing I see is an awesome collection of antique pistols and rifles mounted on the wall. I recognize one as an Austrian Matchlock caliver from the 1600s. There’s a single-shot muzzle-loading pistol from the early 1800s, probably Russian, that looks brand-new. There’s even a Winchester Model 1873 lever-action repeater rifle. Amazing. They must be worth a small fortune.
I move to the desk, which is impressively neat and tidy, and boot up the computer to take a look at the contents of the general’s hard drive. Since I don’t want to spend too much time in here, I simply plug the OPSAT into one of the computer’s serial ports and upload everything onto it. I then beam all of it to Washington; I’ll let them sort through the files.
Next I open the desk drawers and filing cabinet but find nothing of interest. I then spot a small wall safe next to the desk and get down on my knees to examine it. Normally I would use one of my disposable picks — lock picks with explosive charges in them — to open a safe. They’re quick and dirty, but unnecessarily noisy. When I have to keep quiet, the device I call the Safecracker is the next best thing. It’s the size of a cigarette pack and is equipped with suction cups and a transmitter that sends signals to my OPSAT. It records the minute sounds the lock mechanism makes within the safe and then creates a fairly accurate estimate of the combination needed to open it. It doesn’t always work. If it’s a really complex mechanism, I don’t have a prayer.
I attach the device to the safe and set it to work. Four minutes go by before the first number appears on my OPSAT. Damn, it’s taking too much time. I’m not comfortable with this. Harry forgot to tell me how long those tranquilizers last. I sure don’t want Fido coming in here after me.
Another three minutes and the second number pops up. Just one more and I can see if the Safecracker did its job correctly. But as I’m counting the seconds I could swear I hear something outside the office. I hold my breath, freeze, and listen carefully.
Come on, make another sound. Confirm what I heard the first time.
But there’s nothing. I exhale just as the third number appears on the OPSAT. I quickly turn the knob, trying the combination the Safecracker has provided to me.
The safe opens, revealing a few file folders.
I’m able to read some of the Cyrillic and make out that one file is devoted to Russia’s nuclear inventory. And China’s too!
“My God,” Lambert says. He can also see the papers through my trident goggles. “That document lists the location of every nuclear device in Russia and China.” I don’t risk answering him vocally but I continue to study the file. It dates back to the eighties, when the Soviet Union was a bit friendlier with its Asian neighbors, so it could be terribly out of date. The pages go on and on… uh-oh. There’s a page listing missing nuclear devices. Twenty-two of them. Holy shit. The general has scribbled coded notations beside these entries. There is a date on this page and it’s recent.
“Snap some shots of that, Sam,” Carly says. “I’ll work on making sense out of those notes.” I quickly do so with the OPSAT.
Another file seems to concern a Chinese general in the People’s Liberation Army by the name of Tun. I’ve heard of him. He’s a controversial figure in China, a real hawk. Tun likes to rile up the government with emotional speeches, inciting them to take action against Taiwan. I’m not sure what kind of power or influence the guy has these days but through most of the nineties he was considered a bit of a crackpot. Prokofiev’s file on the man is pretty extensive. Photos, biographical info, and… damn, lists of arms that Tun appears to have purchased from Russia. No, wait. Not from Russia. From the Shop! It has to be. These are purchase orders for arms, worth millions of dollars, that Prokofiev has signed off on.
I quickly snap more photos and then carefully place them back in the safe. I close it, spin the combination knob, and stand.
“Good work, Sam. Now get the hell out of there,” Lambert says.
That’s when the office door opens. A woman, dressed in a nightgown and resembling Boris Yeltsin in drag, sees me and screams like a banshee.
6
I jump toward Mrs. Prokofiev, grab her by her massive shoulders, pull the woman toward me, step to the side, and place my hand firmly over her mouth. This muffles her scream to an extent.
In Russian, I say, “Please be quiet. I won’t hurt you!” I mean it, too.
But the woman is huge and strong. She wrestles out of my grip and swings an elbow into my stomach. The suit protects me but this woman means business.
She starts to run from the office and I tackle her. Her bulky frame falls to the carpet with a heavy thud as she screams again. I move over her and put my hand across her mouth again.
“Listen to me!” I shout in Russian. “I work for the government! I’m here to help you.”
But it’s like holding a 280-pound wild boar. Because I’m pulling punches and don’t want to hurt her, she throws me off of her and manages to get to her feet. I hang on to one leg — it’s like hugging a tree trunk — and she pulls me along the carpet back into the office. Damn, she’s going for the guns.
“Wait!” I shout, but she pulls the Winchester off the wall, cocks it, and aims it at my head.
I raise my hands. “Mrs. Prokofiev,” I say, “please calm down and just listen to me.”
“Who are you? What do you want?” she demands. Her voice is deep and hoarse.
“I’m a private detective,” I blurt out. “I work for the Russian government. I’m gathering information about your husband’s extramarital activities!”
This gets her attention. “What did you say?”
“Please, may I stand?”
She keeps the rifle trained on my forehead. I don’t doubt she would pull the trigger if provoked. Only now do I notice that there are curlers in her gray hair and she’s got cold cream on her face. Hideous.
“All right, stand up, pig!” she shouts. I do so but I keep my hands high. I’m sure I could disarm her and send her to Dreamland if I wanted to, but I have a better idea.
“My name is Vladimir Stravinsky and I work for the Russian government,” I say. “Your husband is in some trouble. I’m here to see what I can find. I honestly thought you weren’t at home.”
“What did you do to Ivan the Terrible?” she snarls.
“I beg your pardon?”
“Ivan! My dog!”
“Oh. He’s just asleep. It was a tranquilizer. He’s not harmed, I promise.”
She squints at me and frowns. “What’s this about Stefan?”
Stefan? Oh, her husband. “Mrs. Prokofiev, are you aware of your husband’s extramarital activities?”
“His what?”
“May I lower my hands?” I ask as politely as possible. “I can show you some, um, pictures.”
She glares at me, unsure whether or not to trust me. Finally, she nods her head but keeps the barrel in my face. “What are you talking about?” she whispers.
“Your husband has a mistress in Ukraine. In Kyiv, to be exact. A fashion model.” I decide to rub it in. “She’s in her twenties.”
The woman’s eyes flare. I swear they turn red for a moment. “I don’t believe it!” she says.
“It’s true. I’m afraid this affair he’s having is causing some concern in the Kremlin. The general has been neglecting some of his, er, duties.”
“You lie, pig!” She lifts the rifle to her eye, taking a bead on my nose.
“I can show you pictures!” I say.
Mrs. Prokofiev slowly lowers the gun again and jerks her head. “All right. Show me.”