Scorpion Winter s-2 Read online

  That done, he checked the door for alarms, but couldn’t see any. He didn’t expect Gabrilov to be home. He had called the Russian embassy earlier in the day to confirm that there was a reception that evening to promote a new Russian film. There would be bigwigs and the Russian stars of the movie, and as a cultural attache, Gabrilov would have to be there as well. Just to make sure, Scorpion knocked, waited, then put his ear to the door. There was no sound, only a midnight silence. It only took a few seconds with the Peterson key to open it.

  The living room was sparsely finished. Just a sofa, a table with a half-empty bottle of horilka, and a TV. The apartment smelled of pipe tobacco. He tiptoed to the bedroom door and opened it. The bed was unmade and empty. Using the flashlight, he checked the tiny kitchen and bathroom and a second bedroom. There was nothing of interest except for a laptop computer and a telephone on a table against the wall.

  Scorpion turned the computer on, went back to the living room, took off the wall outlet cover and put in an electronic bug. Then he went back to the laptop and, using a flash drive, installed untraceable NSA software that would forward everything on Gabrilov’s computer to NSA receivers in Fort Meade, Maryland, and from there to a server he could access with his laptop. He heard a dog bark and froze. The sound came from somewhere outside. Another building, he thought. He turned the computer off and, using the knife screwdriver, unscrewed the base of the phone and put in another bug.

  Just then he heard voices and the sound of a key in the lock. He had only seconds. A man was talking to a woman, and as the door opened, he just managed to duck behind the door in the tiny bathroom. He waited there in the darkness, smelling the bad plumbing, the Glock in his hand. He was hoping neither of them came into the bathroom, but if one of them did, he’d have no choice but to confront Gabrilov right then. They were talking. The woman said something about horilka and money. He’s got a whore, Scorpion thought, listening to the clink of glass and a bottle and Gabrilov toasting, “Budmo!”

  Through a crack between the door and the jamb, he saw the woman in the dim light on her knees in front of Gabrilov, his pants around his ankles. She was a buxom blonde, and after a minute she stood up and they went into the bedroom. Scorpion waited till he heard the bed creaking and the sound of heavy breathing.

  Gabrilov had left his pants on the living room floor. He fished in the pockets and found the man’s cell phone. He input the number into his own cell phone, then replaced Gabrilov’s SIM card with a NSA-modified SIM. Waiting for a moment when he could hear the blonde moaning like it was worth extra, he opened the door carefully and left the apartment. In the hallway, he reconnected the security camera, and in less than a minute was down the stairs and outside the building.

  By the time he walked back through the snow to Khreshchatyk, it was two in the morning. The boulevard was empty and it was too late for a taxi. He saw a lone car coming and flagged it down. The driver was a young bureaucrat on his way home. He said something in Ukrainian to Scorpion, who just handed him a hundred hryven bill and told him the address of his apartment. That was the thing about Ukraine. You could buy anything; they all needed money.

  Scorpion closed his eyes and let the young man talk and drive. He was exhausted and jet-lagged, and everything that had happened that day finally hit him. Gabrilov would lead him to where information on the assassination was coming from, without ever knowing that he was doing it… in the morning.

  Chapter Eleven

  Povitroflotskyi Prospekt

  Kyiv, Ukraine

  The Russian embassy was a concrete structure on Povitroflotskyi Prospekt, an area of government buildings and wide boulevards covered with snow. By morning it had stopped snowing. Scorpion crunched through the snow into the embassy and went up to a man at a desk in the marble lobby, done in a style Bob Harris had once facetiously called “dictatorship moderne. ” Framed pictures of the Russian president and prime minister were on the wall behind the man and a bored-looking Russian soldier sat in a nearby chair beside a metal detector.

  “I would like-” Scorpion began.

  “No visas here. Go to Consular Division on vulytsya Kutuzova, Pecherska Metro,” the man said in English.

  “I’m here to see Oleg Gabrilov.”

  “You have appointment?”

  “Tell Gospodin Gabrilov I’m about to publish a story that names him, but prefer to give him a chance to talk to me first,” Scorpion said, handing the man his Reuters business card.

  The man looked at the card.

  “You wait,” he said, and picked up the phone. He dialed an extension and spoke in rapid Russian. It sounded like he was arguing with someone. That didn’t surprise Scorpion. Unlike the CIA, senior SVR officials often held low-level positions in Russian embassies. “With the Russkies, don’t look at the guy being chauffeured around, look at the driver,” Rabinowich used to say.

  The Mercedes killings had been on TV and were the second lead on the front page of the Kyiv Post that morning, the top story being accusations of corruption and bribery alleged against presidential candidate Viktor Kozhanovskiy by a newspaper associated with the Cherkesov campaign. Scorpion had read the story over breakfast at a local Dva Gusya fast-food restaurant.

  The politsiy believed the Kutuzova Street killings, named for the street where he had left the Mercedes, were a mafia hit. They were questioning Syndikat informants but so far had no leads. The Syndikat boss, the notorious Genadiy Viktorovych Mogilenko, was “unavailable” for comment.

  The man at the lobby desk hung up the phone and motioned to Scorpion.

  “Gabrilov upstairs. You go through,” he said, motioning him to the metal detector. “He take you,” indicating the soldier.

  Scorpion went through the metal detector and followed the soldier to a second floor office. The soldier knocked and gestured for him to go inside.

  Gabrilov was a medium-sized man in a sagging gray suit. His face sagged too, like a basset hound, and his office reeked of the same pipe tobacco Scorpion had smelled in his apartment just a few hours earlier.

  “Govorite li vy Rossiyu?” Gabrilov asked him if he spoke Russian.

  “Ochen malo,” very little, Scorpion said.

  “What wants Reuters agency with me?” Gabrilov said in an odd English-Russian hybrid, a hodge-podge Harris, referring to someone else, had once called “Bering Strait English.”

  “I’m an investigative reporter on a story about a possible assassination attempt on one of the Ukrainian candidates,” Scorpion said. “Your name came up.”

  “Which candidate?”

  “Cherkesov.”

  “This sumashedshy! You understand, crazy!” tapping his head with his fingers. “Cherkesov is good droog friend of Russiya. Who tells you this?”

  “ Izvinitye.” Sorry. “I don’t name my sources.”

  “You sure? They say my name?”

  “My sources say the assassination story comes from you.”

  “Is mistake. I know nothing of this! You must not spread such lies!” wagging his finger at Scorpion.

  “Of course, it could be disinformation. Just to throw suspicion on Kozhanovskiy to hurt him in the election. There’s been a suggestion you might be SVR. They’ve been known to do such things.” Scorpion smiled.

  “This is big lie! I am kulturnye officer. Vydi von! ” he shouted. “Get out!” gesturing for him to leave.

  “That’s too bad,” Scorpion said, starting to rise out of his chair. “We could have cleared this up and no one would know. I could keep you as an unnamed source. Now, you’ll be famous. Probably not what the SVR had in mind.”

  “Wait! Pazhalusta! ” Please! Gabrilov held up his hand. He looked shrewdly at Scorpion. “Who are you? CIA?”

  “I’m not even American,” Scorpion said.

  “Nichivo.” Never mind. Gabrilov shrugged. “What your nationality?”

  “Canadian; working out of London. Who’s your source on the assassination plot?”

  “I know nothing.”


  “Yeah, I know. You’re just a kulturnye officer. Da svidaniya, miy drooh,” Scorpion said, getting up. He had almost reached the door when Gabrilov called after him.

  “Wait! Was someone from Kozhanovskiy campaign. Secret. I cannot say name.”

  “You have someone embedded in the Kozhanovskiy campaign?”

  “This election important to Russiya. We have informants in both sides. No doubt your CIA is doing same.”

  “I told you, I’m not American. It’s not my anything.”

  “Of course not! You Canada-man, not Amerikanyets. I am kulturnye officer, not SVR. We understand each other perfect,” Gabrilov said, and lit his pipe, wreathing himself in a cloud of smoke.

  “You’re saying someone in the Kozhanovskiy campaign is planning to assassinate Cherkesov?”

  “This is bad thing, understand? This not good for Russiya, not good Ukraina. Will be very bad. Someone must to do something, da?”

  “Da,” Scorpion said. “Someone must to do something.”

  Chapter Twelve

  Lypky

  Kyiv, Ukraine

  She blew into the room telling him he had three minutes. Her armament included a gray Prada suit, pearls, and a Ferragamo purse. Her hair was black and pageboy straight, and her eyes were like no one else’s, a disturbing lapis lazuli blue. Iryna Shevchenko was stunningly beautiful and knew it. Even more, Scorpion thought later, there was something about her. A presence. Even in a room full of people, you wouldn’t be able to take your eyes off her.

  She waved away a male aide who had followed her in and sat on a desk.

  They were on the top floor of a building on Instytutska in the Lypky district that served as a campaign office. Through the window behind her Scorpion could see buildings, and beyond them the snowy expanse of Pecherska Park and the Dnieper River glazed with ice.

  “Mr. Kilbane,” she said, peering at his Reuters badge after they said hello. “They said you were an investigative reporter, Reuters, London. You don’t sound British.”

  “Canadian. Where’d you learn your English?” Scorpion asked.

  “Benenden and Oxford. Plus some time in Washington,” she said, lighting a cigarette. “What’s this about?”

  “There’s a story going around that someone in your campaign is planning to bump off your opponent, Cherkesov. Care to comment?”

  “Good God! Where’d you get such a story?” she said, color draining from her face. Her fist clenched and unclenched in her lap.

  “Let’s just say a source.”

  “What source?”

  “Sorry.” He shook his head. “Do you have any comment?”

  “It’s a lie. You can’t print that. Barely a week before the election. It would destroy us.”

  “It would help,” he said, “if you told me what you knew.”

  “Is this coming from the Cherkesov campaign? It’s a plant. Surely you can see that?”

  “It’s not coming from your opponents. Is it true?”

  She got up from the desk.

  “Who’s saying this? Tell me.”

  It’s you, he thought. Because eight minutes after he had left the Russian embassy, Gabrilov had made a call on his cell phone that, thanks to the SIM he had replaced in Gabrilov’s cell phone and the software on his laptop, had enabled the NSA to track it to a cell phone registered in her name.

  “Suppose I said it was another country that was the source?”

  “Who, the Russians? It’s the SVR, isn’t it? Only a fool would believe anything from them,” she said, exhaling a stream of cigarette smoke. “The Russians want Cherkesov to win. They’ll say or do anything.”

  “Normally I would agree. Except, one,” he held up a finger, “it’s my job to check it out, and two,” holding up a second finger, “turns out they got it from you.”

  “From me? What are you talking about?”

  “From a cell phone that belongs to you.”

  “That’s impossible! Besides, there are at least a hundred cell phones registered in my name. I bought them for the campaign.”

  “What about this one?” Scorpion said, holding up his cell with the number Gabrilov had called displayed on the screen.

  Iryna peered intently at it.

  “It can’t be,” she said, brushing her hair away from her face. “It’s Alyona, one of my aides.” She looked at him curiously. “How did you get this?”

  “How I got it is my business. Is it true?”

  “You can’t print this. It’ll kill us,” she said, coming closer. He could smell her perfume. Hermes 24 Faubourg, he thought; hints of orange and jasmine, vanilla and sex.

  “It’s my job; providing I can confirm it,” he said.

  “You don’t get it, do you?” She shook her head. “If Cherkesov takes power, you think it’ll be like Democrats and Republicans in America? We’ll just call each other nasty names and try to screw each other? If Cherkesov wins, you think he’ll leave us around to oppose him?”

  “Sounds like a pretty good motive for murder to me,” Scorpion said, watching her closely.

  She stubbed her cigarette out in an ashtray on the desk and looked out the window. “All right, how much?” she said.

  “Don’t,” he said sharply, getting up. “I’m not a whore. Don’t play me like one.”

  “I’m sorry,” looking straight at him. “Neither am I-despite being a politician,” she said with a wry smile. “What can I do?”

  “Tell the truth. Help me get to the bottom of this. For instance, this Alyona. Did you know she was in contact with the SVR?”

  Iryna shook her head. “I’ve known her since she was a girl in senior school. She came to work for me as an intern. What you say she’s doing; it’s not possible.”

  “You’d be surprised what people will do,” Scorpion said. “I’ve seen them betray their country, husbands, wives, everything they believe in. They do it for love, money, sex, revenge, sometimes out of sheer boredom.”

  “Not Alyona,” Iryna said, getting her cell phone out of her handbag. “She’s a serious girl, an artist. She believes in what we’re doing.”

  Scorpion grimaced. “So you say. Look, I need to talk to her. Where is she?”

  Iryna dialed her cell phone and after a moment said something rapidly in Ukrainian. She listened, then clicked off and looked at Scorpion.

  “That’s odd. She was supposed to be in our Saksaganskogo office today. No one seems to know where she is. I should call her fiance. She’s engaged,” she said, a flicker of a smile lighting her face.

  Her male aide walked in then and they spoke in Ukrainian. He handed her a sheaf of papers, pointing at something. She looked at Scorpion.

  “We have new numbers,” she explained. “Thirty-four percent for Kozhanovskiy in Kharkov.”

  “Doesn’t sound so good.”

  “It’s not bad,” she said. “Kharkov is a Cherkesov stronghold. Another minute, Slavo,” she told the aide in English. He glanced curiously at Scorpion as he left.

  “Alyona. I need to talk to her. Now,” Scorpion said.

  Iryna looked at him as though trying to decide something.

  “So how do we do this?” she asked.

  “For the moment, I’ll hold off. There’s no story till I find out what’s going on. I’ll keep you as background. An unnamed source. But from now on we stay in touch,” he said, pulling on his jacket.

  The male aide, Slavo, had come back. He stood in the door and pointed to his watch. “Iryna, bud’laska, ” he said, in accented English. “Viktor Ivanovych is waiting. We must go.” Scorpion assumed he was referring to Kozhanovskiy. She nodded and waited. After a moment, he left.

  “All right,” she said. “Meet me tonight. Call me,” writing her cell number on a slip of paper and giving it to him. She started to go, leaving behind a lingering scent of Hermes, then stopped at the door. She had an odd look on her face. “Cherkesov has a big rally in Dnipropetrovsk tomorrow night,” she said. “It would be the perfect place.”

  “Y
ou mean for the assassination?”

  “Yes,” she said, and was gone.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Andriyivsky Uzviz

  Kyiv, Ukraine

  A sign with the silhouette of a black cat hung above the door of the Chorna Kishka Theatre Cafe on Andriyivsky Uzviz, a cobblestone pedestrian street winding steeply up the hill from Kontraktova Square. A poster in the cafe window advertised a play with a cubistlike drawing of a clown’s face dripping blood, as if it had been drawn by an untalented Picasso. There were few people out. It was very cold; the wind blowing traces of snow across the cobblestones, the sky steel-gray and promising more snow. Scorpion hunched inside his overcoat and went inside.

  The cafe was nearly empty. Half the space was taken up by rows of folding chairs fronting a small stage. There were photos with the names of the actors in the play on the wall next to the bar. On one side of the stage hung an odd-looking puppet. It looked like a fairy-tale woodsman holding an ax. A young man sat at the bar, reading a paperback and nursing a beer, ignoring the nearly silent TV on the wall. A waitress in jeans came over. She was young, thin, her short reddish hair streaked with blue, metal studs in her nose and upper lip. Her photo was one of those hung by the bar.

  “Yestli u vas menyu?” Scorpion said, asking in Russian for a menu.

  “We got borscht,” she said in a thickly accented English.

  “What else?”

  “Borscht is good,” she said.

  “I’ll have the borscht and an Obolon,” Scorpion said.

  A few minutes later she brought him a steaming bowl of soup with a dollop of sour cream, some garlicky pampushkamy rolls, and a bottle of Obolon beer.

  “Kak vas zavut?” he asked her in Russian as he started to eat. What’s your name?