Rasputin's Shadow

63

It was a really, really weird feeling.

Huddled there behind the Dumpster, looking down the alley toward the warehouse. Keeping a nervous eye on the SWAT agents who were scattered in various positions all around me. Not knowing if something was going to zap us and turn us all into trigger-happy, bloodthirsty zombies.

Waiting there and wondering if my mind was going to be taken over was truly disconcerting. It didn’t help that I had all the time in the world to brood on it. My mind was having a field day imagining how it would play out. I wanted to believe I would be above it, that somehow I possessed such strength of character that I would be able to resist it and valiantly rise out of my foxhole and put a bullet right between Koschey’s shocked eyes. I found it really hard to accept the idea that, in truth, I would succumb to it as quickly as the next guy, and the notion that something could take hold of me and make me do stuff over which I had zero control was more than unnerving. It was actually terrifying. I knew, there and then, that getting Koschey and making sure no one ever got to use Sokolov’s invention again was the most important thing I was ever going to do in this life.

Even worse, another disturbing thought weaseled its way into the quagmire my mind was caught up in. I found myself thinking about Alex, and about how I desperately didn’t want him to grow up without a dad. He’d lost his mom already. I had to make sure I was there for him. I’d lost my own dad, in circumstances that weren’t any less traumatic than what Alex went through when Michelle died. I was only ten when it happened. I came home from school and walked into my dad’s study to find him at his desk, sprawled back in his big chair, and lifeless. Not from some heart attack. He’d stuffed his Smith & Wesson.38 in his mouth and pulled the trigger. In my shocked state, I hadn’t turned away. I’d walked up to him in a curious, numbed daze. I’d seen the back of his head missing, the wall behind him splattered with gore, images that would haunt me forever. Alex already had his share of those. I wanted him to have as normal and, well, happy a life from here on as I could possibly provide for him. And part of that included keeping myself in the picture.

I kept Alex’s face in mind as time slowed to a crawl and I sat there and waited, wondering if Koschey was going to show up or if I would even be aware of what could be my last moments of life.

KOSCHEY’S FINGER CARESSED THE Command key on the open laptop.

Time was running out. He needed to make a decision.

They were there, in his grasp. At his mercy.

One tap.

He hesitated-then, quietly seething with anger, he decided against it.

He wasn’t even sure Sokolov was still there. That was the clincher. And even if he were, Koschey couldn’t be sure that the SWAT-team members’ protective gear-their helmets and their earpieces-wouldn’t dampen the device’s effect enough to pose him a threat. If they did, then he’d be putting himself in danger.

He couldn’t risk it. He had bigger fish to fry.

Koschey drum-tapped the body of the laptop and settled on his decision. It was a major setback, no doubt, but their having Sokolov wouldn’t affect his immediate plans. Nothing Sokolov could tell them would matter. They wouldn’t be able to stop him this time. He certainly didn’t like the idea of the Americans having Sokolov. They’d know the technology’s secrets and its weaknesses. They could get Sokolov to build them a device. But that would take time.

Then he saw something that confirmed he’d made the right call. One of the vans and the unmarked sedan drove off, in tandem. They turned out of the estate down the road from him and set off toward the city.

Sokolov could be riding in one of the vehicles. Well protected. On his way to a serious debrief.

Koschey considered driving after them. Maybe using the device to attack them at a traffic light. Again, he decided against it. Too many unknowns. Too risky.

Getting Sokolov back-or killing him-would have to wait.

Bigger fish to fry, he reminded himself. Time to move on.

With rage pulsating silently through him, he put his car into gear and drove away.

HALF AN HOUR OR so later, two more SWAT vans arrived. I think I must have dropped a couple of pounds in sweat by then.

They’d brought extra earpieces and helmets with them. And while they deployed and set up a containment perimeter around the warehouse, I left Infantino in charge and got one of the agents to drive me back to Federal Plaza.

I was disappointed that Koschey hadn’t shown up, but glad to get the hell out of there. And right then, I was really hoping Sokolov would be able to tell us something useful. And hoping I wouldn’t experience those sweats again.

Within twenty minutes, I was in an interview room at Federal Plaza with Aparo, Larisa, and Sokolov.

“No luck with Koschey’s SUV,” Aparo told me as I sat down, then motioned at Sokolov. “He says he had its plates covered the whole time they were working on it.”

I asked, “Why would Koschey do that?”

Larisa said, “Plan for the unexpected, especially when it’s that easy to do.”

Clearly, the instructors at the SVR knew their stuff.

I shared Aparo’s frustration. It was too vague to put out an APB on it, though it was still worth relaying to the SWAT team at the warehouse.

I called Infantino. Then we got down to Sokolov’s past and to what “it” was.

“IT ALL STARTED WITH my grandfather’s memoirs,” Sokolov told us.

He talked about his youth, about finding the old journals in the cellar of the cottage he’d grown up in. He was an efficient storyteller and hadn’t dwelled too long on detail, which was good. I could feel a ticking clock bearing down on us all, given that Koschey was still out there, with the device. Sokolov then hit some visible reticence and went silent. We offered him food and drink, which he declined. Then after an uncomfortable moment, he seemed to reach some kind of internal resignation, and he told us what was in the diaries.