“If you were to have to handle the situation again, what would you do differently?”
Cherkshan shrugged. “Given the scenario you just outlined, I would kill the trafficker with his own weapon and change mine out with his. Or I would shoot him with Kudrin’s weapon and say that they’d shot each other.”
“There would still be problems with your story.” Nevsky’s dark hazel eyes glittered. “If someone checked, and I did check all weapons involved, the switch would have been discovered. Then, if someone investigated further, they would learn that the bullet had not been fired from where Kudrin had been standing.” He put his teacup back on the table. “As it was, you had no signs of an altercation on your body. The only thing found was the bullet hole in your leg. I examined the reports of your physician. I also checked with the coroner. Likewise, the trafficker — Hammond Brett — bore no signs of a physical altercation.”
Cherkshan waited. He concentrated on Nevsky’s unreadable face and wished he could do what no one else could.
“I know you are wondering where I am going with this and why I have waited fourteen years to tell you what I know. It’s because of this, General Cherkshan. You are a true Russian, as I have said. Truly the last of a dying breed. I want you to be the new head of the FSB.”
“I was not aware that the director had left his office.”
“He didn’t. Last night he died in his sleep at his home. The media is only now being informed of this tragedy.”
Cherkshan’s heart thudded to renewed life. For a few moments, he’d thought he was a dead man, or at the very least, an unemployed one. Now, to find that not only was he being given a pass on all those events long ago, he was also getting a political appointment, was staggering.
“Well?” Nevsky waited.
“I am overcome, Mr. President. This is a lot to take in all at once.”
“I know. But as we have just discussed, you are a man who thinks on his feet. I am asking you to do that now.”
“Of course I accept.”
“The first order of business will be handling the previous director’s murder investigation.”
Cherkshan was certain he hadn’t heard right. “Sir?”
“The director was murdered with an esoteric injection. Almost undetectable, I’m told. Something that makes the person appear to have died from a heart attack.”
Cherkshan wanted to ask how the president knew these things, but he remained silent.
“No crime, it seems, is completely perfect. No matter how hard one tries.” Nevsky leaned back in his chair. “Over the next few days, some of my detractors will come forward. They will talk about the arguments I have had for the past several weeks with the previous director. They will try to make something of this. They won’t be able to. The actual murderer is a prostitute who will turn out to be an Islamist Chechen Black Widow.”
The Shahidka, the Black Widows, were the young women left behind by Islamist soldiers who died fighting for their country’s freedom from Soviet rule. According to Chechen culture, the widows were forced to become weapons to be used against Russia, waiting only to die to escape the constant rapes and narcotics that comprised their “training” for their roles.
Cherkshan did not ask how Nevsky knew that either.
“I am sorry the man is dead.” Nevsky spoke somberly. “But I am looking forward to exploring the new relationship we are about to forge.”
“As am I.” Cherkshan’s mind raced. He loved Russia, and he would fight for his country to regain its rightful place in the world.
“To remake Russia into what she once was, things must be undone.” Nevsky spoke calmly. “Men…must be undone. You understand this?”
“Yes.”
“The mission we have before us will not be an easy one, Director General. We will face many enemies. We have no choice except to overcome them.”
“Of course.”
“But there are weapons that we may yet add to our arsenal. Ones that the rest of the world has forgotten about.” Nevsky paused.
It wasn’t hesitation. Cherkshan was certain of that. In all the times he had seen Nevsky talk on television or heard him on the radio, there had never been any doubt in him.
“Have you heard of Alexander the Great?”
“Yes.”
“Good. Because we will talk more of Alexander the Great in times to come. For the moment, I want you to use the resources of the FSB to find me the top five authorities on Alexander the Great and have their names on my desk at the end of the week.”
“I will.” Cherkshan was already thinking about whom he could assign the task to. Being a good leader wasn’t so much about leading as it was about knowing whom to choose as point man.
“There is one name that will turn up on that list almost immediately.” Nevsky straightened his tie. “Boris Glukov. That man is currently in Afghanistan. I thought he had some insight on Alexander the Great’s final resting place. As it turns out, he was incorrect, and I was wrong about him. I have already cut the funding on his project. He will be getting the news at the end of the week as well.”
“I see.”
“Find me these experts, General, and I will give you a Russia you can once more be proud of.”
10
SEVEN MONTHS LATER
“Are you out of your mind?”
Over the years of their association, Richard Wither, dean of the Department of Linguistics, had asked Lourds that question several times. Usually it was in response to a funding request for a research project or travel money for a conference.
Lately, though, with all the notoriety afforded from publication of The Bedroom Pursuits as well as the Atlantis book, Lourds hadn’t asked for money. He’d asked for time off to go do the projects and conferences he’d been invited to and fully funded for. Having his name attached to various things brought a cachet these days, and he was proud of that.
“No.” Lourds kept his voice even, but inside he was a maelstrom of emotions. He didn’t think he’d ever been so scared or so excited at the same time.
Dean Wither sat across the immaculate desk that was the antithesis of Lourds’s own — any desk, no matter where he was. A gaunt, gray man in a dark suit, he looked like an undertaker.
The office reflected care and a lifetime of achievements. Books neatly lined the shelves on one wall. Certificates, awards, and photographs of Wither shaking hands with important political figures — and a few movie stars — occupied another wall. A large, saltwater aquarium filled with vibrantly beautiful fish sat against the third wall. The tank was Wither’s pièce de résistance and held fragments of Grecian urns and pottery carefully placed around a shipwreck.
Lourds suspected Wither dreamed about doing the things that Lourds himself did on a regular basis. The dean was almost sixty, almost old enough to be Lourds’s father. Maybe he even wanted to be treated like a father figure to a degree, but Lourds wasn’t interested in a mentor.
Before Wither could react to Lourds’s response, Lourds changed his mind. “Maybe.”
Wither’s eyebrows knitted. “Maybe?”
“Maybe I am out of my mind. I honestly don’t know. Being in love is more complicated than I’d imagined.”