Conspiracy in Kiev

and sleek. Chinese.

Fear shot through her. Her hand froze.

“Your security people need to do a better job,” he continued. “Both the Americans and the French. I showed the French police a fraudulent physician’s ID badge,” he said, motioning to the one he wore. “And I walked right past them. And your American guards are down at the nurse’s station, flirting with the pretty French girls, trying to get home phone numbers. What kind of security is that?”

“So you’re here to kill me?” she asked.

“It’s not that simple,” he said.

“No? Then why is your hand still on your gun?”

“Because it’s not that simple.”

He went back to the door and locked it. Then he walked slowly to the window and peered out, downward to the courtyard, as if he were looking for someone or trying to determine if he had been followed.

“Your two bodyguards are dead,” she said. “Anatoli and Kaspar. I’m sure you know that.”

“At the time of their deaths,” Federov said, “they no longer worked for me. They betrayed me.”

“Could have fooled me,” she said.

He scoffed, turning back to her. “I wouldn’t have given the order to kill you, hey? You should know that,” he said. “My competitors in the underworld purchased the loyalty of those around me,” he said. “Anatoli and Kaspar were hired away by those who wanted me out of a position of influence. I was not upset with their deaths.”

“Americans?”

“Maybe. Who knows?”

He turned back from the window.

“Who attacked me in Venezuela?” she asked.

“My competitors,” he said. “To keep the heat on me. So that your government would continue to hunt me, as they do to this day. They don’t know where I am. They don’t know what I do. They are endlessly stupid. It will take them five years to figure out I’ve withdrawn from my businesses.”

“No, they already know that,” she said.

“They tell you that,” Federov said, “but they think otherwise.”

She pondered it. “Why should I believe you?”

“I don’t know. Why should you? Maybe because I’m here. Maybe because I saved your life at least once.”

“What about the attack in Kiev?” she asked. “The attack on the president.”

“I told you at the time. Not my people. Filorusski, but not my people.”

“But you knew?”

“Everyone knew. Even your president knew. But your leader was a camera-whore who persisted with the visit.” He paused. “Don’t you realize that you were part of a conspiracy to get me killed?” he asked. He coughed. “That’s where the conspiracy began. You were to be next to me. If they knew where you were, they had a sniper ready to get me. So I moved. Can you blame me? They wouldn’t have cared much if they had killed you too!”

“Prove it,” she said.

“Why should I? You already know I’m telling you the truth.”

“You sure you’re not crazy?”

“I’m not crazy like that! I’m Russian. Now I’ll prove both. Insanity, plus a flair for the grand dramatic gesture.”

He raised the gun with startling speed and spun it in his right hand. He removed the loaded clip, checked it, and slammed it back into the magazine again.

“Don’t be afraid,” he said.

He reversed his grip on the pistol and held it by the barrel. Then he handed it to her.

“Take it,” he said. “With guards like yours, you’ll need it.”

“What?”

“Take it! This is your opportunity,” he said. She reached out and took the pistol from him. She aimed it at the midpoint of his chest.

“Very good,” he said, stepping back half a pace to not crowd her. “If you feel you need to kill me,” he said, “do it now. If you feel I’m responsible for your fiance’s death, avenge yourself. I’m in here illegally. Your story would be that I threatened you. No one would question further. This is my gift to you, a chance to set everything even.”

For what seemed like a long, long while, she held the gun on him.

“But if you do not pull the trigger, I will be out of France by nightfall. I am going somewhere to keep my money warm.”

“Switzerland?”

“Somewhere,” he said. “Hey.” On a piece of notepaper, he wrote down the names of a hotel and a restaurant in Geneva. He handed it to her. “If I can ever do you a favor,” he said, “come visit. Go to the restaurant and ask for me. But come alone.”

She held the weapon steady. She set the notepaper aside.

“I should be going,” he said.

“You should be going,” she agreed.

Yuri Federov, onetime kingpin of crime in Ukraine, turned and walked to the door. At that moment, as if on cue, someone tried the door from the other side and, finding it locked, rapped sharply. A male voice from the other side called out in English.

“Alex? You in there? You okay in there?”

A beat and she answered.

“I’m okay, Ben,” she said.

She pushed the weapon under her top sheet.

“Go,” she said to Federov. “Now.”

Federov unlocked the door. The door opened. Ben stepped in. Federov gave him a nod. Ben gave him a nod in return.

“Sorry,” Ben said with a shrug. He labored in an alien tongue. “Je ne parle pas francais.

” I don’t speak French.

“And I don’t speak English,” Federov lied quickly in English. He turned back to Alex. He smiled. “Dasvidania,” he said. Good-bye.

“Uvidimsia, ” she answered. See you.

He gave her a final grin and a nod. “Da. Uvidimsia,” he agreed. See you.

Federov clasped Ben on the shoulder for a moment and gave him a nod. Then Federov left the chamber.

Ben came in and sat down. He looked at the door, then back to Alex.

“So?” he finally asked. “Who was that?”

A moment passed.

Then, “A friend,” she finally said. “An unlikely friend, but a friend.”

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

In addition to conversations with selected personal sources, the author is grateful to many sources for background and research on Kiev, the Orange Revolution, and the political histories of North, Central, and South America. Among them, The New York Times, The Washington Post, The United States Department of Justice, Wikipedia, The Columbia Encyclopedia, and The Encyclopedia Britannica.

The author welcomes comments and correspondence from readers either through the Zondervan website or at [email protected].