I pull into the lot, park away from the Mercedes, and turn to watch my prey. The bodyguard opens the back door and Prokofiev and the girl step out. I’m closer now and can see that she’s runway model material. Who is she?
More photos. After the couple is inside, the Mercedes leaves. I get out of the SUV and enter the restaurant. The maître d’ greets me and asks if I want a view of the river. I tell him I’m just having a drink at the bar and he frowns as if I’m committing a grievous sin. He indicates the bar with his nose and then focuses his attention elsewhere.
I position myself on a cushioned stool where I can see Prokofiev and his date sitting on the other side of the room next to the large window. A bartender asks me what I’ll have. I really don’t want alcohol while I’m working but I figure when in Rome… I ask him for a recommendation and he tells me that the house special is a “KGB.”
“Okay, I’ll have that,” I say. I’m expecting the KGB cocktail that has Bailey’s Irish Cream and Kahlua in it, but instead he gives me something containing gin, apricot brandy, kümmel, and lemon juice. It’s god-awful.
As I drink the wretched thing I watch the couple and discern that they’re definitely having a romance. The way the good general is holding her hand on top of the table doesn’t evoke a father-and-daughter relationship. She laughs at something he’s saying and then — bingo, she leans across the table and kisses his forehead.
I snap the image on my OPSAT.
For the next ten minutes I sit with my drink and take a few more surreptitious photos. I even catch the general with his hand up the girl’s skirt at one point. The best part comes when he presents her with a small wrapped box. She opens it excitedly and then squeals in delight when she sees the diamond necklace inside. Prokofiev stands, moves behind her, and fastens the trinket around her neck. He then leans down and she kisses him full on the mouth.
At that moment a text message comes in on the OPSAT. It reads: GIRL IN PHOTO IS NATALYA GROMINKO, FASHION MODEL, SINGLE, AGE 24, LIVES IN KYIV. NO CRIMINAL RECORD THAT WE KNOW OF. CARLY.
I force the rest of the cocktail down my throat and leave a few hryvnia notes on the bar. Just as I prepare to go outside, I see Rasputin — or rather, Yvan Putnik — enter the restaurant, scan the tables, locate the general, and rush over to him. I sit on the stool and watch them in the mirror behind the bar. Putnik whispers something to the general and a look of concern crosses the old man’s face. He wipes his mouth, stands, and takes the model’s hand. He says something to her — apparently he must leave immediately — and she wrinkles her brow and pouts. The general kisses her on the cheek and then leaves the restaurant with Putnik. Miss Grominko remains at the table, sulking. I wait a couple of minutes and then follow the men outside.
Great. It’s snowing. In fact, it’s a major blizzard.
The Mercedes is already out of the lot when I run to get in the SUV. I switch the OPSAT to tracking mode and see that the car is heading east toward Oryal. It’s also the road to Moscow. They’re already close to two miles ahead of me so I pull onto prospekt Brovansky and proceed to catch up. I’d never lose them while the homing device is working but I like to keep a visual on the target when I’m tailing someone. Unfortunately, the snowstorm is a hindrance and the roads are slick with ice. I’m forced to slow down when I see a policeman directing traffic through an intersection where two cars have collided. By the time I’m clear, the Mercedes has a five-mile lead on me. They’re definitely traveling out of town.
Suddenly the blinking dot stops moving. The car has stopped somewhere up ahead. I’m in the outskirts of Kyiv and can’t imagine what the general is up to. Surely he doesn’t have another mistress living out in the burbs.
I reduce my speed when I’m within a mile of the location indicated by the blinking dot. Then, without warning, the homing signal quits on me. The blinking light disappears.
What the hell…? I think. What happened? Those homing devices have a life of at least seventy-two hours. Did they find it and disable it?
I pull over and study the map on the OPSAT, trying to remember exactly where the dot had been before it vanished. I pinpoint an intersection that seems to be the best possibility and then drive in that direction. I’m about a quarter of a mile away when I see, through the blinding snow, a black cloud of smoke billowing toward the night sky. I hear approaching sirens as I slowly guide the SUV down the street to a vacant lot next to a condemned building, the point where the Mercedes last sat.
In its place is a burning wreck. The car appears to have been deliberately set on fire.
I stop the SUV and watch the scene as two fire trucks and a police car appear with lights flashing. The firefighters immediately set about putting out the blaze. Once they do, I can see that the burning hulk is indeed the Mercedes.
Shit! They must be on to me!
The bastards dumped the car, destroyed it, and went on their way in a different vehicle.
4
Professor Gregory Jeinsen wiped the sweat off his brow as he debarked and made his way toward the Arrivals area. Hong Kong International Airport was abuzz with activity, as was usually the case, so Jeinsen felt relatively safe from being recognized. After all, who could possibly identify him? He had changed his appearance considerably since he left Washington. He had dyed his gray hair black and combed it differently, he had shaved his mustache, and he now wore glasses with fake lenses. These simple alterations made him look twenty years younger than his true age of sixty-four. If the Pentagon was searching for him, an agent would have to do a couple of double takes in order to see any resemblance to the scientist who mysteriously went missing two days earlier. His liaison in Hong Kong had paved the way for a new identity and taken care of the necessary paperwork, so Jeinsen now held a German passport and entry visa with the name Heinrich Lang. This wasn’t too much of a stretch. Jeinsen had a cousin named Heinrich and his favorite film director was Fritz Lang. The new name suited him.
The exodus had been planned for years. Jeinsen had come to the United States by way of an even earlier defection. Born and raised in Germany, Jeinsen unfortunately found himself growing up on the eastern side of the Berlin Wall at the end of World War II. As an adult he worked as a weapons development scientist for the GDR until the fateful day in 1971 when he was smuggled through Checkpoint Charlie in a laundry truck. A job with the U.S. government had already been arranged; hence for over thirty years Jeinsen lived in Washington, D.C., helping to design and develop weapons technology for the Pentagon.
After flying smoothly through Immigration and Customs with no problems, Jeinsen picked up his one piece of luggage from the baggage claim and made his way outside to catch a taxi. His instructions were clear: go directly to the hotel, check in under the new name, and await further orders.
It had been an anxious two weeks preparing to leave. He had to make sure he left nothing behind that might implicate him as a government traitor. All traces of communication with Mr. Wong in Hong Kong were to be erased. It was best if Jeinsen seemed to have simply disappeared. The D.C. police would chalk it up to a missing persons case. Because of Jeinsen’s status within the Pentagon, FBI involvement in the search was of course inevitable. But if he had done everything correctly, the authorities would find no trail to follow. Jeinsen had done it once before in East Germany. He was fairly certain he had accomplished the task successfully in D.C.