Dumb luck, he chided her. That soldier draws his gun a little faster and you’re dead. You miss with that Taser and you’re dead. One of that guy’s teammates has a little better aim with a pistol at a hundred yards and you’re dead. You didn’t plan for any contingencies. You didn’t even scout the area before you went in. You shouldn’t be sitting here.
I had to try to reach Puchkov. She was my best chance to find an asset who could help me find you, Kyra protested to the voice in her head. But I didn’t. I couldn’t. How am I supposed to figure out where you are, or if you’re even still alive, if I can’t get to any of our assets inside the GRU before the Russians?
You’re not thinking, Jon’s voice replied.
What do you mean? she asked.
Why do you always run straight in? he asked.
Kyra’s mind focused in a single moment. Run straight in? It was true. She’d done it every time, in Caracas when she’d gotten shot… in Beijing, when she’d been asked to save the Agency’s most valuable asset… at the CAVIM chemical plant near Morón when the president had wanted to know what the Iranians had smuggled into Venezuela. She’d gone in each time, always finding a way to go through the enemy’s security, and always being discovered before she could get back out. Training, Jon, and more dumb luck than she deserved had gotten her home, but she’d had to fight her way out every time. Now she’d finally come up against an enemy that was too skilled to fight. Kyra could go straight at the Russians, but she would never be able to get in.
I’m no coward, she reminded Jon.
Bravery and intelligence are not the same thing, he countered. And neither one matters without a plan.
So how do I do this? she asked. How do I find out what happened to you? How do I stop Lavrov?
She could almost see her partner smile, that arrogant look he couldn’t suppress when he’d figured out the answer before everyone else. That soldier you took down with the Taser. Did you notice anything about him?
Kyra sat back and stared at the ceiling, hands behind her head. Military haircut, hard as steel… he carried a Makarov sidearm.
And who uses Makarov pistols? Jon’s voice asked her.
The pistol was the same as the ones the men at Vogelsang had carried. Spetsnaz, Kyra realized. The GRU control the Spetsnaz. Those were Lavrov’s men at the market.
Don’t you think it’s interesting that the GRU is arresting traitors on Russian soil? Isn’t that the FSB’s job? he seemed to say.
Kyra cocked her head. That was interesting. Grigoriyev, the FSB director, hated Lavrov, the GRU chairman. Why would he let Lavrov run the operations to capture all of the CIA’s assets? she wondered.
What makes you think Grigoriyev even knows what Lavrov is doing? Or that he’s cooperating? Jon asked. What did I teach you about analyzing the enemy?
Never assume the enemy is monolithic, she replied, answering her absent partner’s question. Never assume that he knows everything that his own people are doing.
Kyra stared into the mirror, not seeing anything as she tried to focus her mind. She needed to think, but the stress of the past days had cost her all of the energy she had. The fog of sleep deprivation and jet lag was closing in on her. She needed to think. Rest was the only good answer for that, but for now she would have to rely on the false energy of caffeine and adrenaline. She didn’t know how long she would sleep if she closed her eyes and she didn’t want to give free time away to Lavrov.
Kyra stumbled over to the kitchen and fired up the coffeemaker on the counter. The Russian brands in the cabinet were black and bitter, and Kyra drained three cups to the dregs once the machine started to produce. She poured a fourth mug, set it down on the kitchen table, and looked at her list. There was only one name left on it.
Her hands were shaking hard, her eyes fighting her attempts to focus on the page, and her mind jumping from idea to idea every few seconds. When the caffeine finally passed through her system, Kyra knew that she had reached her limits. The dark living room was close and the couch looked soft, but she refused to surrender so completely. She stumbled up the stairs to the second level, wandered into the first bedroom on the right, fell on the bed, and let the oblivion take her without a fight.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Lavrov had never seen one of his Spetsnaz look so battered outside of a training accident. The man’s comrades had brought him to the hospital themselves rather than trusting him to an ambulance crew, and the Botkin was one of the better hospitals in Moscow. It was the facility to which most foreigners in the country came for treatment and was well equipped by Russian standards.
The soldier was lying in a reclining bed, an IV in his arm, dripping saline and morphine both at a slow rate. Both of the man’s eyes were badly bruised, deep blue, black-and-green circles surrounding them and stretching into his forehead and cheeks. The surgeon had stanched the bleeding, set his nose, and stitched up the torn flesh on the back of his neck. He’d assured Lavrov that the soldier would suffer no permanent damage from the Taser, something about high voltage but low amperage. But the man’s face would take weeks to heal up. He’d tried to refuse the painkiller, but the soldier’s team leader had finally told him that there would be no shame in taking it. The morphine had hit his system and the wounded commando had slumped into a deep sleep almost immediately.
Lavrov regretted having to wake him, but the soldier would understand, even if the doctor did not. The surgeon had not wanted to lower the man’s morphine drip, but Lavrov gave the order. It was too hard to think and focus one’s swollen eyes while riding a morphine high.
“This one?” Lavrov asked, holding up a photograph, the tenth in the stack.
“Nyet,” the soldier replied, his voice strained.
Another photo. “This one?” Lavrov asked again.
“Nyet.”
Lavrov pursed his lips in frustration. Hundreds of women had entered Moscow from Berlin through the international airport in the last two days. The general decided to skip to the one woman he was interested in most. If the soldier didn’t identify her, an aide could handle the rest of the stack.
He rifled through the pictures until he found the only one he wanted. He held it up. “This one?”
The soldier stared, trying to focus on the picture. He forced his head to move forward, bring the image an inch closer. “Da.”
“You are sure?”
“I only saw her for a few seconds, and that while running. She had blond hair, not red, and pulled back away from her face, which was thinner. But it could be the same woman.” The soldier let his head fall back on the pillow.
“Very good,” Lavrov said. “We are most proud of you. You have done your duty.” He was surprised the younger man had recognized the American woman through his haze. It had taken the GRU chairman almost six hours going through the photographs to find the one he imagined could have been the same woman he had met on the embassy roof. He would have preferred to let a subordinate take care of sorting through the photographs, but everyone else who had seen the woman was back in Berlin, except Maines. Lavrov didn’t trust Maines to pick her out without the threat of pain, and Lavrov had to reserve that tool for another request he might have to give the traitor if his next inquiry turned up empty.