High Alert

CHAPTER 4

Winter in the Ukraine was no kinder than it was in Russia, which meant it was hell on earth. Old people who remembered World War II were already saying this year was like the winter of '42-'43. That was the winter German troops froze to death by the tens of thousands, sacrificed by Hitler to bad planning and the pointless strategy of no retreat.

In the ongoing war between the rebel separatists and the Ukrainian Army, things were on hold because of the snow and cold. In the rebel held enclave of Donetsk, people struggled to stay warm and find enough food to get through the day. In Kiev, food and warmth was not a problem for the pro-Western government, installed after the Russian-backed president had been forced from power.

The real power in Ukraine lay not with the puppet president and his cabinet but with a man most people in the West had never heard of. Bhodan Sirko was Director of the SBU, the Sluzhba Bezpeky Ukrayiny, Ukraine's security and counterintelligence service. During the Soviet era, the SBU had been an extension of the KGB, priding itself in the ruthless suppression of dissent. When the KGB ceased to exist, the attitudes and techniques of the SBU didn't change. Neither did the tendency toward corruption and abuse of power.

Sirko had taken over after the 2014 revolution and proceeded with a brutal purge of agents who were pro-Russian. Hundreds fled to Russia before they could be arrested. In the Kremlin, Sirko's name was spoken with contempt. For Vladimir Orlov, Sirko was a thorn in the paw of the Russian bear.

Alexei Vysotsky had gone to Orlov with information that Sirko was closing in on one of Russia's best hidden assets, a man in the cabinet of the Kiev government. Orlov decided he'd had enough.

"I am tired of dealing with Sirko," Orlov said. "You understand?"

"Yes, Mister President."

"Good. Take care of it."

Vysotsky had no problem with the order. Bhodan Sirko was a despicable man, not only an enemy of the Federation but a truly awful specimen of humanity. His cruelty was legendary. In the few short years since he'd taken over the Ukrainian Secret Service, Sirko had set new standards of torture that even the old KGB would have found distasteful.

Orlov's order and Vysotsky's willing cooperation was why Valentina Antipov was now observing herself in the mirror of a ladies room in the Ukrainian House in downtown Kiev, making sure that her waitress uniform was perfect.

During the Soviet era, Ukrainian House had been a museum housing artifacts about Lenin. It had been remodeled and packaged as the premier conference facility of the Ukraine. Today, the President of Ukraine was hosting a conference on the global environment. Bhodan Sirko would be in attendance, forced to pay lip service to the President's authority.

Valentina's job was to kill him.

She was dressed for the occasion in traditional Ukrainian garb, a colorful touch ordered for the serving staff at the conference. Valentina wore a white, long sleeved blouse embroidered down the front with blue and red flowers. A fringed, red skirt reached to her knees. A circlet of flowers rested on her hair, dyed jet black for this occasion and coifed in traditional style on top of her head. Brown contact lenses hid intense green eyes inherited from her Russian mother. Pads in her cheeks changed the contours of her face, giving her more of a peasant look.

The changes were subtle but it would be difficult for someone to identify her for who she was, a serving officer in the Russian Foreign Intelligence Service. No one looking at her would think she was anything but a Ukrainian woman in the prime of her life.

She'd thought about targeting Sirko outside the conference center but gave up on the idea once she'd studied the location. The center was huge with many entrances, including special access for important people. This was a big event. Government officials were attending from many countries, including the United States and Europe. Security was more than tight. The SBU was as good as its KGB predecessor when it came to security and Valentina knew how good that could be. She'd been trained by its best practitioners.

Sirko wouldn't be exposed outside the building. Even if he were, all the possible places where an assassin might wait would be covered by the security services. He'd have to be taken on the inside.

Sometimes it was easy to get to someone at an event. A sports arena, a party, a conference, all presented opportunities when the intended target would be surrounded by people and security could be distracted. But Sirko was no ordinary target. He was paranoid and suspicious, with good reason. There had already been two failed attempts to take him out of the picture. He would be surrounded by bodyguards.

Valentina was the daughter of two spies. Deception was bred into her genes. Her father had worked for the American CIA, her mother the KGB. She was Selena Connor's half sister, by way of a Cold War liaison in Berlin between Selena's father and Valentina's mother.

Valentina had been raised almost entirely by the State. Learning that she had a sister had been the bizarre fulfillment of a long-held wish for family, even if family turned out to be the enemy. She wasn't sure what the revelation had meant to Selena.

She took a last look in the mirror and touched the PSS silent pistol tucked into the small of her back. The pistol used a special 7.62 mm cartridge that was self-contained. When the gun was fired, the casing was hermetically sealed by a piston that cut off smoke and sound. The effective range was about seventy-five feet, more than enough for close wet work. The pistol had been a favorite assassination weapon of the old KGB. It had found new use with SVR and the FSB.

She stepped out of the ladies room.

"There you are! They're calling for appetizers and drinks, get out there."

The voice belonged to the head waiter.

"Yes, at once," she said. "I just wanted to make sure I looked nice for the President."

Before he could say anything more, Valentina brushed past him into the kitchen and picked up a tray of appetizers. She headed out into the central event hall, where hundreds of conference goers were milling about. The sound of their voices was a babble of languages and laughter. The crowd was happy. Why shouldn't they be? The food was good, the drinks flowing, and they were getting an all expenses paid trip away from the dreary offices most of them occupied.

Pigs at the trough, Valentina thought.

She moved about the room offering her tray and looking for her target. It wasn't until the next time around with a new tray that she spotted him, standing in a corner talking to a short man in a bad suit who looked as though he might be Serbian. She noted four bodyguards nearby.

Sirko was nibbling on a blini. Valentina's tray was filled with them. She'd tried one, they were almost irresistible.

Concealed under the sash wrapped around her waist was a small, plastic cylinder with a button. Nobody was paying attention to her, another waitress circulating through the crowd. One of the things she'd learned in Russia's schools for spies was sleight-of-hand. It was easy for Valentina to withdraw the cylinder from the sash and palm it in her hand without being seen. She depressed the button and passed the cylinder over the tray of food in a casual gesture. A fine, almost invisible mist drifted down over the blinis.

As she neared the little group surrounding Sirko, one of the guards stopped her.

"That's far enough."

"I just wanted to make sure you and your friends had enough to eat," Valentina said. "Try one, they're delicious."

The guard took one and bit into it.

"You're right, they're good. Give me that."

"But…"

"Give me the tray. I'll take it to them."

Valentina shrugged and handed him the tray. As she turned away, the guard pinched her on the ass. In another time and place, he would've been on the floor within seconds in great pain. Valentina simply gave him an indignant look. He grinned at her, wiping a trace of sugar from his lips. He took another blini from the tray.

Last thing you'll ever eat, asshole.

Heading to the kitchen, she looked back at the group. Sirko had picked up a blini from the tray and was biting into it. She had almost reached the kitchen door when a large man gripped her left arm.

"What did you do?" he said. "I saw you do something to your tray. Who are you?"

A second man dressed in a bad blue suit came up to them.

"Is there a problem, Andriy?"

"I think this bitch did something to the food she brought to the director."

If they search me, it's over.

Valentina didn't wait to see what they would do next. She reached behind her, drew her pistol and shot Andriy. The pistol made a dull thump. She fired again and Andriy let go of her arm and fell to the floor. The second man was reaching under his coat when Valentina shot him.

Thump. Thump.

Two holes appeared in his jacket and he staggered back into a couple standing nearby. People were beginning to turn as they noticed that something was happening. Across the room, the bodyguard who had pinched her fell to the floor, writhing in agony. Then Sirko doubled over and vomited blood. Two of his bodyguards began choking and coughing. Valentina pushed through the swinging doors of the kitchen, holding the gun down at her side.

She started down an aisle where chefs were working.

"You. Stop."

The voice came from the doors she'd just gone through.

Valentina broke into a run. She knocked down a man dressed in white kitchen garb who was chopping vegetables, sending the food flying. Shots sounded behind her. They struck a row of hanging pots by her head with a ringing, metallic sound. A fat man dressed in white stepped into the aisle in front of her. He had a large bread knife in his hand.

"You…" he said.

Valentina didn't wait to hear the rest of what he wanted to say. She raised her pistol and pulled the trigger. Nothing happened.

Misfire!

She threw the pistol at him. As he ducked, she grabbed a pan of vegetables frying in fat from a stove. The handle was hot and burned her hand. She ignored the pain and hurled the boiling fat into his face. He screamed and stumbled back. She dropped the pan, dodged around him and reached a door at the back of the room. Shots peppered the wall as she went through the door and slammed it shut.

She was in a service hall that led to one of the back entrances of the building. A heavy cart loaded with produce stood nearby. She pushed it up against the door, sending bolts of pain through her hand. It wouldn't hold them long.

She ran to an exit door at the end of the hall, opened it, and stepped out into the winter cold. Traffic was moderate, cars passing on the street. She ran down a short flight of steps to the curb, stepped out into the roadway and flagged down a dark sedan.

As soon as the vehicle stopped, she pulled open the passenger door, slipped in and slammed it shut. From her carefully styled hair she pulled out a thin blade and pressed the point against the driver's neck. He was about forty years old, dressed in a dark sweater.

"Get out," she said.

"But…"

"OUT!"

He looked at her and scrambled from the car. Valentina slid over, put the car in gear and her foot on the gas. She reached over and slammed the door shut as the car accelerated away. In minutes, she'd disappeared into downtown Kiev.

Her hand screamed at her as she gripped the wheel. There were blisters on her palm. She thought about Vysotsky.

You owe me for this one, she thought.