3
I’ve tracked General Prokofiev’s Mercedes to an apartment building in Kyiv’s Old Town, near the St. Sophia Cathedral. It’s not far from a main thoroughfare, vulitsya Volodymyrska, and many of the historic landmarks in this cold, old city. It would probably be a bit more pleasant if it wasn’t winter. Everything is gray and white and rather depressing. I’ve heard that spring and summer in Kyiv is really nice but I’ve never seen it then. It seems that the few times I’ve been here it’s always winter.
Although I don’t have much taste in the aesthetics of art and architecture, I do admit to being a history buff, and Kyiv has an abundance of antiquity. You could say it’s the mother city for all Eastern Slavic peoples. After all, the Russian Orthodox Church was founded here. Outside the Upper Town — what the locals call the Old Town — is a very modern and cosmopolitan metropolis. Its urban sprawl is unequaled in Ukraine and this fact is quite amazing when you think about it. Kyiv has survived Mongol invasions, devastating fires, the rule of Communism, and the terrible destruction of World War II, and yet it manages to progress onward into the twenty-first century.
After my swim in the Dnipro, I managed to crawl out downstream and hike back to where I’d left the Ford. It took me five hours to walk to Obukhiv and I felt like the abominable snowman when I arrived. I drove to Kyiv, all the while checking the progress of Prokofiev’s Mercedes on my OPSAT. The homing device was working beautifully. Prokofiev and his entourage checked in to the Hotel Dnipro, a high-end joint frequented by diplomats. I elected to stay three blocks away at the no-frills Hotel Saint Petersburg because I prefer budget places. I set my OPSAT’s alarm to go off if the Mercedes left the Hotel Dnipro and then caught some badly needed sleep. The OPSAT beeped me awake earlier this afternoon. I figure I got five hours, which is pretty damned good. I left the room wearing civvies, jumped in the Explorer, and followed the blinking dot on the OPSAT’s map to my current location.
The apartment building is old, as is everything else around here. There’s not much parking but I get lucky after a few minutes and find a spot across the street. I stop, settle in for a spell of surveillance, and use the opportunity to contact Washington.
“Hello? Anyone at home?” I ask, pressing the implant in my throat.
“Hi, Sam.” It’s Carly St. John, my favorite person at Third Echelon. She’s as smart as a whip and attractive as hell. I’ve often considered what it might be like to become romantically involved with her. I kid myself that she might be interested. The problem is that I’m not keen on becoming romantically involved with
“Sam?” Carly asks. “You there?”
“Yeah,” I say. “Sorry. I drifted off there for a second. Is the colonel around?”
“Not right now. I was about to contact you. There’s a big snowstorm heading your way. What are you doing?”
“I should be eating dinner but instead I’m keeping tabs on General Prokofiev. Have you made headway on those photos I sent you? Any IDs yet?”
“As a matter of fact, I just got them back. You were right. The guy with the beard is Oskar Herzog. I guess he’s trying hard to change his appearance. It’s not working too well, is it?”
“No, it’s not. What about the other guy? The rock star.”
Carly laughs. “Your ‘Rasputin’ description was pretty funny. Actually, he’s just as sinister as Rasputin. He’s been ID’d as Yvan Putnik, a Russian Mafiya hit man. The guy has a record in Russia but he must have some powerful friends in the government because he keeps getting out of prison.”
“Well, look who he’s hanging with.”
“Right. If you’re buddies with General Prokofiev then you’ve got nothing to fear from the big bad law- enforcement dudes.”
I rub my chin. “So what does that mean? What’s this Putnik guy doing with the Shop?”
“I suppose he’s working for them, wouldn’t you think?”
“Well, duh. What I meant was I wonder what kind of jobs he’s doing for them — wait a second.” General Prokofiev just came out of the building. He’s with a tall, striking blonde that must be twenty-five years younger than he is. Maybe more. I snap a couple of shots on the OPSAT. The bodyguard gets out of the passenger seat and opens the back door for the couple. After they’re inside, the Mercedes drives away.
“I gotta go,” I say. “I’m beaming you a couple more photos. I just saw the good general with a pretty blonde. See if you can find out who she is.”
“Is it his wife?”
“No. General Prokofiev’s wife is his age. This girl looks young enough to be his daughter.”
We sign off and I discreetly pull into the street to follow the Mercedes, which takes the busy Naberezhna shose south along the Dnipro until the driver makes a left onto the Metro Bridge. The car moves east on prospekt Brovansky and then pulls into the small parking lot beside an old wooden mill in Hidropark. I’m puzzled for a moment until I realize that the mill is really a restaurant called Mlyn. The Hidropark, a Kyiv landmark, is an outdoor amusement park that spreads along the riverbank and encompasses some islands. The restaurant apparently offers a spectacular panoramic view of the Dnipro and its beaches.
I pull into the lot, park away from the Mercedes, and turn to watch my prey. The bodyguard opens the back door and Prokofiev and the girl step out. I’m closer now and can see that she’s runway model material. Who
More photos. After the couple is inside, the Mercedes leaves. I get out of the SUV and enter the restaurant. The maitre d’ greets me and asks if I want a view of the river. I tell him I’m just having a drink at the bar and he frowns as if I’m committing a grievous sin. He indicates the bar with his nose and then focuses his attention elsewhere.
I position myself on a cushioned stool where I can see Prokofiev and his date sitting on the other side of the room next to the large window. A bartender asks me what I’ll have. I really don’t want alcohol while I’m working but I figure
“Okay, I’ll have that,” I say. I’m expecting the KGB cocktail that has Bailey’s Irish Cream and Kahlua in it, but instead he gives me something containing gin, apricot brandy, kummel, and lemon juice. It’s god-awful.
As I drink the wretched thing I watch the couple and discern that they’re definitely having a romance. The way the good general is holding her hand on top of the table doesn’t evoke a father-and-daughter relationship. She laughs at something he’s saying and then — bingo, she leans across the table and kisses his forehead.
I snap the image on my OPSAT.
For the next ten minutes I sit with my drink and take a few more surreptitious photos. I even catch the general with his hand up the girl’s skirt at one point. The best part comes when he presents her with a small wrapped box. She opens it excitedly and then squeals in delight when she sees the diamond necklace inside. Prokofiev stands, moves behind her, and fastens the trinket around her neck. He then leans down and she kisses him full on the mouth.
At that moment a text message comes in on the OPSAT. It reads: GIRL IN PHOTO IS NATALYA GROMINKO, FASHION MODEL, SINGLE, AGE 24, LIVES IN KYIV. NO CRIMINAL RECORD THAT WE KNOW OF. CARLY.
I force the rest of the cocktail down my throat and leave a few hryvnia notes on the bar. Just as I prepare to go outside, I see Rasputin — or rather, Yvan Putnik — enter the restaurant, scan the tables, locate the general, and rush over to him. I sit on the stool and watch them in the mirror behind the bar. Putnik whispers something to the general and a look of concern crosses the old man’s face. He wipes his mouth, stands, and takes the model’s hand.
