Without a word, Aslan Dashamirov scurried out of the office.
Placing the phone to his ear, Kirov waited for an answer. The number he had dialed connected him to a modern office complex hidden in the forest just north of Moscow, a suburb known as Yasenevo. The sleek gray buildings housed the offices of the FIS, or Foreign Intelligence Service, one of the successors to the KGB, or Committee for State Security. An officious voice answered. “Da?”
“Leonid, listen and do not say a word. Yuri Baranov and his men are outside my offices. He’s come with his OMON brutes and they’re making a show of gaining entry. Send over some of your people immediately, a dozen young men with a little fire in their blood.”
Ten years his elder, Major General Leonid Kirov was the ranking officer of FAPSI, the Federal Agency for Government Communication and Information, an offshoot of the former KGB’s Eighth Chief Directorate.
“Calm yourself, Konstantin Romanovich. Tell me again what is happening?”
Kirov bit back an epithet, detesting his brother’s propensity to give orders and his own to follow them. “It’s a business matter,” he explained. “The prosecutor general has exhibited more independence than I gave him credit for. All we need is for him to bring in a tank and try to blast his way in. That would make the evening news, don’t you think? Where would that leave us?”
The mention of television and its promise of mass and biased dissemination of information sparked in Leonid Kirov a combustible fury. “I imagine that would leave us in the shithouse. Back to Lefortovo for you, retirement on a government pension for me. I don’t know which is worse. OMON troops, you say? How many?”
“Twenty, twenty-five. All dolled up in riot gear. If you’d be so kind, Leonid, I would appreciate your doing as I asked. Need I remind you we are five days from immortality? Once the offering is completed, they’ll be modeling a bust of you to put in Red Square. Right next to your old boss Andropov and Iron Feliks himself.”
Kirov pictured Leonid seated in his brightly lit office, desk immaculate, books and papers aligned at right angles to each other, the large color portrait of the new president hanging in pride of place opposite the door. Leonid would be wearing the navy suit he ironed himself each night, his white dress shirt spotless, silver necktie held in place by the tie clasp Chairman Andropov had awarded him on his twenty-fifth anniversary in the service. His white hair would be brushed and parted just so, his proud chin kept at permanent attention. A single cigarette would be burning in the ashtray, a filthy Belamor Kanal, the brand Stalin had enjoyed, and every minute or two he would allow himself a long, generous puff, then replace it fastidiously.
“Older brother, a response would be welcome.”
“Hold the fort,” ordered Leonid. “I’ll send some men over right away. Whatever you do, keep the press away. It might get messy.”
Kirov hung up the phone, only to hear it ring again almost immediately. “Yes.”
“Baranov is in the building.” It was Boris, and he sounded shaken. “I am sorry, sir. He managed to crawl in under the barricade. What shall I do? He is demanding we raise the barricade and let his deputies enter.”
Baranov. Of course he crawled in. The man was a worm. “Do as he asks. Open the door. Give me two minutes, then escort him upstairs.”
Flinging down the phone, Kirov fled his office. A minute later he reached the data center. “How long until the files are erased?”
An unshaven tech in a red Adidas T-shirt barked his reply. “Ten minutes, sir.”
Ten minutes. An eternity. He imagined the documents Baranov would find if he got into the data center before then. The government would see everything. “And we downloaded a backup last night?”
“Yes sir. At 1900 to our data recovery center in Geneva.”
“Very good. Go back to your work. Pay the siren no heed.”
Continuing down the hall to finance and administration, he found a dozen secretaries and accountants at their desks, diligently stuffing page after page of bank statements, revenue records, and payroll stubs into their shredders with a military efficiency. On the wall a red strobe light flashed in two-second bursts.
“Hurry up,” he said. “There, there, you’re almost done.” Watching them, pride warred with disbelief that one of them might be Baranov’s spy.
“Kirov! Where are you?” echoed a familiar voice outside in the hallway. “I have a warrant. I demand you open the doors at once.”
“Calm down, Yuri Ivanovich. We have nothing to hide.” Closing the door behind him, Konstantin Kirov came face-to-face with the prosecutor general. Behind him stood two of his deputies, breathing hard, pink-cheeked, and Boris. Discreetly, Kirov glanced at his watch. Eight minutes remained until the files were erased. He noticed his jacket jitter ever so slightly with the beating of his heart. “You don’t mind if I have a look at the warrant.”
“Afterward,” said Baranov heatedly. “Move aside. I wish to enter this room.”
“No need really. It’s only a—”
Brusquely, Baranov and his deputies pushed past Kirov and entered the accounting office. Seeing the men and women shredding documents, Baranov shouted, “Stop. You know who I am. Stop at once. Anyone who does not obey will be placed under arrest.”
Several clerks stopped shredding, but most continued. Baranov’s cheeks flamed red. “Anyone who does not stop immediately will spend the night in the Lubyanka. With your families. Your children, too.”
The shredding ceased at once. Baranov passed from desk to desk, picking up random papers, studying them. He dashed off instructions to one of his deputies, who immediately began gathering all the papers together.
Baranov had found a receipt that interested him. “And what business do you have with the Banque Prive de Geneve et Lausanne?” he asked, holding the paper in his hand with a victorious smile.
“A private matter. Nothing to concern so august an office as your own.”
“We shall see.”
Baranov spent another minute or two examining the shredders, digging his hands into the basket and coming up with wads of slivered paper. “We will take this, too. I know some people who can reconstruct these documents.”
“All yours,” said Kirov munificently. He was beginning to sweat. He could only pray that the most secret of his documents had already been shredded. Reconstructing them would take a year’s time. A year! Anything could happen by then.
“Now, I wish to go to your IT center,” said Baranov.
“Do you mind if I ask what it is exactly you want?”
“You know damned well what I want. Now let’s go. I believe it’s on this floor, just down the corridor.”
“If you know your way around so well, I’ll allow you to find it yourself.” Kirov had no intention of helping Baranov do his job. He had opened the barricade when requested. He had greeted the man cordially. No charges could be brought for obstructing justice. The rest the prosecutor could do on his own. Fuck him!
Baranov left one of his deputies behind in the accounting office and hurried into the long, airy corridor. Kirov followed. A few offices were open, windows raised to let in the warm afternoon breeze. From outside came the sound of car doors slamming, voices shouting, and footsteps entering the building.
Finally!
Kirov hastened to a window. A delegation of ten young spies from the FIS had confronted the OMON troops outside. Their leader was a handsome blond man in business attire. His deputies were similarly dressed, but were less handsome and had exchanged neckties in favor of Kalashnikov assault rifles. Shoving broke out between the two groups. One FIS man fell to the ground, pistol-whipped. Then it was the OMON’s turn, losing a storm trooper to more conventional means: a well-aimed kick to the balls. Voices rose, then fell.