epidemiologist assigned to the World Health Organization.”
“And my name is Berit Lindkvist,” Fiona said with an impish grin. “Dr.
Strand’s personal assistant.”
Kirov arched an eyebrow. “With the emphasis on personal?”
She wagged a stern finger at him. “Not all Swedes are sex-crazed, Mr.
Kirov. My relationship with Dr. Strand is strictly business.”
“I stand corrected, Ms. Lindkvist,” the Russian replied with an answering smile. He sat quietly a while longer, studying their changed appearance.
Then he nodded. “A good job. It should suffice.”
“Let’s hope so,” Smith said. He resisted the urge to rub at his eyebrows. A blond wig covered his dark hair, but he’d had to bleach his eyebrows to match and now they were itching like crazy. A pair of cheek inserts broadened his face, and padding around his waist added fifteen or twenty pounds to his apparent weight. And a pair of heavy black-frame eyeglasses with clear lenses should draw attention away from his blue eyes. None of it was very comfortable, but, taken together, the various changes altered his looks enough to give him a decent shot at passing through any militia checkpoint without being spotted.
Fiona Devin had undergone a similar transformation. She had cut her shoulder-length hair shorter and dyed it a dark red. Heels added an inch to her height while new undergarments changed her figure subtly, but enough so that she seemed a very different woman.
Jon fell silent while the waitress cleared away the old vodka glasses and replaced them with new ones. Then he asked, “Did your friend in the FSB give you any information worth sharing?”
“He did,” Kirov said heavily. His eyes were troubled. “First, he confirmed that the manhunt for you was set in motion by orders from the very highest levels of the Kremlin. The militia and Ministry of the Interior units involved have instructions to report directly to Alexei Ivanov.”
“Ivanov?” Fiona repeated with a frown. “That’s not good.”
Smith leaned forward. “Who exactly is this Ivanov character?”
“He’s the head of the FSB’s Thirteenth Directorate,” Kirov told him. “He takes his orders from President Dudarev and no one else. For all practical purposes, his section operates independently of the regular FSB command structure. It is said that his men violate the law and our constitution with total im-punity. And I believe those rumors.”
Fiona nodded. “The man is ruthless and completely amoral. But he’s also extremely competent.” Her face darkened. “Which leaves me wondering how we managed to escape that first ambush at all. Why murder Vedenskaya on the street and then try to kidnap us using a fake ambulance crew? Win not just call out the militia and have them snap us up?”
“Because that was not Ivanov’s show,” Kirov said quietly. “At least not completely. My former colleague managed to get a look at the first militia reports of the incident?before the Kremlin ordered a halt to any further investigation.”
“And?” Smith asked.
“The militia managed to identify two of the dead men,” Kirov said. ‘Both were former KGB, men who were used chiefly for ‘wet work’ against dissidents and suspected traitors.”
Smith nodded grimly. “Wet work” was a euphemism for State-sanctioned murder. “You said ‘former’ KGB?”
“Correct,” Kirov said. “For the past several years, they have been employed by the Brandt Group.” He shrugged. “The same people who tried to eliminate you in Prague.”
“But Brandt and his thugs work for the highest bidder, not on their own whim,” Fiona pointed out. “So who was paying the bills to have us kidnapped? The Kremlin, through Ivanov? Or someone else?”
“That is still unclear,” Kirov admitted. “But my colleague did learn that the ambulance was registered to the Saint Cyril Medical Center.”
Fiona saw Smith’s questioning look and explained. “The center is a sort of joint Western/Russian teaching hospital set up to improve the standard of health care in this country.” She turned to Kirov. “Was the ambulance stolen?”
“If so,” the Russian said flatly, “the theft does not seem to have been reported to the authorities.”
“How very curious,” Smith said drily. “And who funds this medical clinic?”
“It’s a public-private consortium,” Fiona told him. “Roughly a third of its budget comes from the Ministry of Health. But the rest of its money comes from a network of foreign charities and foundations ? ” She stopped abruptly, apparently deep in thought. Then her jaw tightened. She looked up at them in dismay. “Including a very substantial percentage from a foundation controlled by Konstantin Malkovic.”
“Curiouser and curiouser,” Smith said, contemplating the chain of events over the past two days from a new perspective. An ugly possibility now reared its head, one they could not afford to ignore. He gestured toward Fiona. “Consider this: You tell Malkovic about this disease outbreak and the official cover-up. He says that he’s horrified and promises that he’ll do whatever he can to help you learn the truth. But hey, presto, within just a couple of hours, you’re under close surveillance by a professional tag team. Are you with me so far?”
She nodded.
“Okay,” Smith continued. “You manage to shake the tail, but probably not until after they spot us together at the Patriarch’s Pond. Right then all sorts of alarm bells must have started going off in various places. Later that same night, the Brandt Group swoops in to nail us both. And now it turns out that the ambulance they used just happens to belong to a hospital that gets a ton of money from good old Konstantin Malkovic.”
“You believe that he may be involved in this conspiracy, together with Dudarev?” Kirov asked, frowning.
“Beyond a shadow of a doubt?” Smith said. He shook his head. “No. All of this stuff could be just pure coincidence. But there sure seems to be a hell of a lot of smoke drifting around Mr. Malkovic, doesn’t there?”
“So there does,” Fiona agreed bitterly. “Enough to imagine there may well be some very bright flames dancing about beneath the smoke.” Her face was flushed with anger as she recalled the details of her interview with Malkovic and put a new spin on what he had said to her. She gritted her teeth in frustration. “Not that we stand much chance of pinning anything on him right now.”
“That is so,” Kirov said, equally grimly. “If this billionaire is in league with the Kremlin, he will take every conceivable precaution so long as you and Colonel Smith are still alive. No one unknown to him will be allowed anywhere near his person, let alone near any incriminating evidence. Pursuing Malkovic directly would only mean putting our own heads in a noose.”
Smith nodded. “You’re right. It still makes more sense to contact the families of the victims while we can. Obtaining solid data on this new disease is our first priority. But we should brief Fred Klein on what we suspect before we make our next move.”
“There is one more thing I think Mr. Klein should know,” Kirov said slowly. “According to my colleague in the security service, there are signs of an even greater danger stirring in this country, a danger that may well be connected in some way to this mysterious illness, but eclipsing it in size and scope.”
As he talked, Smith and Fiona sat silently, listening with growing concern while Kirov recounted the rumors of intensive military preparation that were beginning to circulate through the upper levels of the FSB headquarters at Lubyanka Square. There were whispers of secret troop movements and military exercises, the movement of vast stockpiles of ammunition, food, and fuel to camouflaged supply dumps on Russia’s borders, and ever-tighter security around the Kremlin and the Ministry of Defense. And they all seemed to point toward the unthinkable ?a campaign of conquest aimed at the former Soviet republics.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
“Mr. Klein, sir,” Estelle Pike said tartly, ushering the pale, long-nosed man into the Oval Office. “He insists on seeing you.”
With a wry, welcoming smile, President Sam Castilla looked up from the pile of briefing folders crowding his pine table desk. There were shadows under his eyes, showing the effects of several long days and as many
