Rules of Vengeance

77

It was late September and a chill wind swept down from the Arctic Circle, blanketing Moscow and sending temperatures plummeting into the thirties. Everywhere people donned heavy coats and wrapped their necks in woolen scarves. In Gorky Park, the ice rink froze and was opened two weeks ahead of schedule. Weather forecasters were quick to predict another long and bitter winter. But nowhere was it colder than in the basement of the Lubyanka, the century-old granite fortress that was home to the country’s most notorious political prisoners.

“You have left us in an embarrassing position, Sergei,” said the Russian president. “The evidence is compelling, and that is without taking into account your capture in Paris.”

Shvets sat at the bare wooden table, his head held high. “I expect it is,” he said. “After all, they planted it.”

“Ridiculous,” said Igor Ivanov. “Next you’ll be claiming that the Americans planned the operation. Tell me, was it Frank Connor who suggested you kill me?”

“That was my own idea,” said Shvets defiantly.

The three men sat in a small, dank room two floors belowground. There were no windows. Walls, ceiling, and floor were of the most rudimentary concrete and without adornment. A stuttering fluorescent bulb provided the sole light.

An immaculate leather dossier bearing MI5’s seal sat in the center of the table. With ceremony, the president untied it and examined the documents one by one. “A hospital bill for twenty-five thousand euros paid on behalf of one of your agents and traced back to an FSB shell company.

Five kilos of Semtex identical to that used in the London car bombing found in a Paris apartment loaned to the FSB by our Iranian allies. And the pièce de résistance, a laptop containing confidential files indicating ties to the same agent, as well as a step-by-step breakdown of the operation. It goes on and on.” The president replaced the documents and meticulously retied the dossier. Clasping his hands, he said, “You leave our government no choice but to admit to it all.”

Ivanov leveled his darkest glare at Shvets. “We’ll be kissing the Brits’ asses for a decade because of this.”

“You’re their man,” said Shvets, holding Ivanov’s eyes. “The whole thing was a plan to eliminate me. A setup. Ask her. She’ll tell you.”

“We have. Many times,” said the president. “I for one am convinced that Larissa Alexandrovna Antonova is telling the truth, and that she is a selfless, brave citizen. Viewing the circumstances of her recruitment, she had no choice but to show her loyalty to you. We have forgiven her and hope to make use of her many talents in the future.”

Shvets lowered his head. “My God,” he said. “They’ve done it.”

“That will be enough,” said the president. “Rise. We will accompany you back to your cell.”

Shvets stood, his knees strong, his posture that of the soldier he had once been. He left the table and opened the door to the corridor. As he walked, he kept his head held high.

He did not feel the barrel of the pistol touch the nape of his neck or the bullet crash into his skull. He saw a brief flash of light, and then there was nothing.

The president lowered the gun. “I told him that if I discovered that a Russian had tried to have you killed, I would personally execute him.”

Ivanov looked at the corpse. “Good riddance.”

The president suddenly cocked his head, eyeing Ivanov with suspicion. “You aren’t, are you?”

“What?” asked Ivanov.

“An American agent.”

Ivanov looked at the president. A smile broke on his lips and he began to laugh. A moment later the president joined him, and for a long time the laughter echoed off the cold stone walls.

“You know,” said the president, catching his breath, “it occurs to me that there is a sudden opening that requires filling. Would you have an interest in assuming the directorship of the FSB?”

Igor Ivanov swallowed. “It would be an honor.”