Kyra tightened her fists, channeling all of her adrenaline and excited energy into her hands.
“And he talked to your prisoner?”
“Da,” Sokolov confirmed.
“You heard the conversation?”
“I did not. The general ordered me out of the room.”
“I want to see the security tapes,” Grigoriyev ordered.
“There are none,” Sokolov said.
“Why not?”
“Because General Lavrov ordered me to have them switched off,” Sokolov lied. “He said that an operation that required detaining the Americans was too sensitive to record any related interrogation on the tapes.”
“So, the general came in, ordered you out of the room and the cameras turned off, then had a private conversation with an American spy, burned a letter that appears to incriminate him as a CIA asset, and walked out with a large amount of euros that this woman had on her person and which the letter said were for his services. Is that accurate?”
“It is,” Sokolov said, trying to look embarrassed. He was finding his footing now.
“Colonel, you are a fool. You will release this woman into my custody immediately,” Grigoriyev ordered. “And you will do the same with any other Americans you are holding in this facility.”
“I think General Lavrov will dispute your request—” Sokolov protested, not very hard.
“General Lavrov will be very fortunate if he does not end his night in Lubyanka!” Grigoriyev snapped. “The question of this moment is whether you will share a seat next to him. The answer to that question will depend on the amount of cooperation you offer me in the next few seconds.”
Sokolov pulled back, apparently intimidated. “There are two others,” he said. “Two men. They are in the infirmary under guard.”
Grigoriyev pointed at Cooke and Barron. “You will release her and take us to them. You will also tell me where General Lavrov is.”
“He is at the Khodynka Airfield,” Sokolov said. “He left here a half hour ago. If he is not there now, I do not know where he might be.”
Grigoriyev made a curt nod toward Kyra, and Sokolov unfastened her restraints. “I am pleased that you will leave this place,” he told her, almost a whisper. “I did not want you to die tonight.” He stood up and helped Kyra to her feet. “If you follow, I take you to the infirmary.”
Kyra followed Sokolov down the stairwell, afraid to say anything to the man. She saw security cameras at every turn, but wasn’t sure whether the Aquarium hallways and stairwells weren’t filled with audio taps and bugs in every corner. She didn’t want to say anything that would incriminate the man. The colonel had just set up his commanding officer as a traitor to his country and she didn’t want Lavrov to find some way to lay the same crime at Sokolov’s feet.
The infirmary was in the new GRU headquarters and the crossover between the old and new buildings was unmistakable. The Aquarium had smelled of old must, its architecture a testament to Soviet design. The new building was clean and modern, brightly lit with new carpet and light-colored walls. Kyra could have mistaken it for a U.S. government facility had the lettering on the signs not been in Cyrillic.
Sokolov turned a corner and slowed. He pointed at the door ahead. “They are inside,” he said. “The man who came with Lavrov from Berlin, the traitor, he was injured before he came here. They break his hand with hammers. The other, they shoot him in his leg. I know the men they left with him. They are efficient and lose any pity for others long time ago.”
“Thank you,” Kyra said.
Barron pushed open the door to the infirmary.
It looked like any doctor’s office, with a nurses’ station, a waiting room, and a hallway leading back into private offices and other rooms. A faint antiseptic smell pervaded the air and Kyra’s stomach churned a bit.
Grigoriyev filed in behind her, approached the nurse on duty, and had a short conversation with her. She hesitated, saw the armed men behind the FSB director, and decided that compliance was the wiser course. She pointed down the hall.
Grigoriyev marched ahead, Kyra and the other Americans behind. The Russian made a few turns, then stopped. A pair of guards, hard young men, flanked the last door on the left. Kyra’s instincts told her they were Spetsnaz.
“You know me?” Grigoriyev asked in Russian, approaching the soldiers.
“Yes, sir,” one of the guards confirmed.
“Good. Open the door.”
“Nyet, Director. We have orders from general—”
“General Lavrov’s orders do not apply to me. I am in charge of counterintelligence and internal security in the Rodina. The men in that room are American civilians, and therefore the GRU has no jurisdiction here. Open the door.”
“Nyet, Director. We cannot without orders from the general.”
Grigoriyev’s patience snapped. He barked an order in Russian that Kyra didn’t catch. Grigoriyev’s men drew their sidearms and leveled them at the Spetsnaz guards, who drew their own weapons on instinct and pointed them at the FSB director, both sides yelling at each other, frenzied orders demanding each side surrender their pistols.
The guns hadn’t cleared the holsters before Kyra felt Barron’s hands grab her from behind, and the man almost threw her and Cooke into a doorway, then positioned himself between them and the guards.
Grigoriyev raised his hand and his men fell quiet. His eyes tore into the GRU officers. “You are outnumbered and there is nowhere in this hallway to take cover. If you shoot me, it will be a race to see whether my body or yours reaches the carpet first.” The guards stared at the half-dozen guns pointed at their heads. “The Americans are coming with me. Lower your guns and I will report to your superiors that you did your duty. No charges will be brought against you.”
The Spetsnaz took another five seconds to consider the offer and work out the math. They lowered their Makarovs, replacing them in their holsters.
“A good decision. Now step aside.”
The room was small, barely larger than an average patient’s room in any American hospital, the equipment similar except for the strange lettering on every console. The lighting was dim and it took several seconds for Kyra’s eyes to adjust, her night vision coming to bear.
Alden Maines lay in the first bed, unconscious, a large clear bag of morphine running into his forearm through an IV drip. He was handcuffed to the bed rail, which saved Kyra the trouble of asking Grigoriyev to take care of that piece of business.
A curtain hanging from a sliding rail separated the American criminal from the patient in the far bed. Kyra stepped forward, her heart trying to beat its way out of her chest. She took the white cloth in her hand and pulled it aside.
Jonathan Burke was lying in the bed, dressed in hospital scrubs, an IV drip of his own attached to his arm. Kyra rushed forward, kneeling down by his bed. He turned his head to the side, saw Kyra, and he smiled a bit. “Heard the yelling. Figured it was you. Didn’t think anyone else could make Russians want to shoot each other,” he said, his words slurring together. Whatever drug they were feeding into him was industrial grade and she thought it was amazing that he was awake. A few minutes more and she might see him fade back into sleep.
She grabbed his hand and squeezed. “You idiot.”
“Good to see you too—” His eyes shifted and looked behind her. Kyra heard a gasp, then felt Kathy Cooke push in next to her. Kyra stood and moved to the side. “Hi, Kathy—” Jon started.
“Shut up, Jon,” Cooke said. She leaned over, her eyes playing over his face, and then she kissed him.