Scorpion Winter

Chapter Six

Bucharest

Romania

The two men sat in the back of a cafe in Lipscani, Bucharest’s Old Town district. It was late and the cafe was almost empty. Through the window, Scorpion could see the wind blowing the falling snow, the occasional pedestrian holding onto his hat as he headed for home.

“Akhnetzov. Who’s he fronting for?” Scorpion asked.

“You mean is he a shill for the SBU?” Shaefer said, referring to the Ukrainian secret intelligence service. A big lanky man, African-American, with a clipped mustache and a fullback’s shoulders, Shaefer was the CIA core collector in Bucharest, a backwater to which he had been posted for being too outspoken inside Langley. He was also Scorpion’s best friend. Sometimes, Scorpion thought, his only friend. They had been in the Joint Special Operations Command’s Delta Force together; the only two survivors of an ambush by the Taliban at Forward Operating Base Echo in the Chaprai Valley in North Waziristan-where, officially, American troops didn’t exist. FOBE had forged a bond between them; in Scorpion’s mind, a blood bond. It was Shaefer who had originally recruited him for the CIA.

“Or the SVR?” he asked, meaning the Russians.

“Or the SVR,” Shaefer agreed.

“Is he?”

Shaefer nodded. “He swims in pretty oily waters. He’s bound to get dirty.”

“He left messages for me at various marinas in Europe. Rabinowich was the only one who knew about that channel.”

“What you’re really asking is, are you blown?”

“Am I?” Scorpion said, his mouth suddenly too dry to swallow.

Shaefer shook his head. “Dave provided a list of marinas to Akhnetzov.”

Scorpion felt a flood of relief. “So I’m not blown?”

“Not even your hair mussed. No one even knows which marina you picked the note up from, including me,” wiping beer foam from his mustache. “You have a boat?”

“A sailing ketch. You get out at sea, it clears your mind.”

“Bullshit. In this business, if you think you understand something, you probably got it wrong,” Shaefer said, and they both laughed. He motioned Scorpion closer, holding the bottle in front of his mouth to cover what he was saying. “This thing with Akhnetzov-the Company can’t go near it, but Langley’s desperate to see you in Kiev.”

“Why? What’s going on?”

“Above my pay grade, but-” Shaefer hesitated. “It’s hot.”

“You wouldn’t be holding out on me, Top?”

Shaefer looked at him sharply. “I haven’t forgotten,” he said, and Scorpion knew he was talking about FOBE. His friend studied his long fingers, which Scorpion had seen him bend coins with without even trying. “All I know is that Dave Rabinowich wanted you on it because somebody way high up is scared shitless.” He looked up. “That good enough for you, bro?”

Scorpion took a deep breath. Now he understood why Rabinowich had pointed Akhnetzov toward the marinas-his emergency back channel-instead of just giving Akhnetzov one of the dummy Gmail addresses that were his normal contact points. Rabinowich had done it to get his attention. Something was up all right. But why? Ukraine seemed out of the way, a minor regional dispute. Why would someone high up be so anxious for him to go in?

“I could use a few things,” he said.

Shaefer nodded. Scorpion told him what he wanted, and Shaefer nodded again.

“One thing still bothers me. Why me?”

“You have to remember, they’re Eastern Europeans.”

“Meaning paranoid?”

“Wait till you have to live here like I do. If they were a whole lot more trusting, they’d be paranoid.”

“Sounds like they wanted someone independent,” Scorpion said. “Someone who could play both sides. Especially if the CIA is involved.” After a moment he added, “So are we?”

“What a dirty little mind you have.” Shaefer grinned.

“It’s a dirty little world.”

A young Romanian couple got up and walked past their table. For a moment the two men fell silent. They waited till the couple went out into the night.

“Akhnetzov says Russia will invade if anything happens to this politician, Cherkesov,” Scorpion said.

“Does he?” Shaefer said. “Who’s feeding him this stuff?”

“He says SVR.”

“Did he tell you who his contact is?”

“Somebody named Gabrilov, Oleg Gabrilov. Cultural attache at-”

“I know who he is.” Shaefer made a face. “Gabrilov is SVR, all right; Directorate S for Kiev.”

“Akhnetzov says it could mean war. Lot of saber rattling going on.”

“Rabinowich thinks so too.”

“Christ. You really see us going in?”

“Who the hell knows?” Shaefer shrugged. “Technically, Ukraine is a member of the NATO Membership Action Plan. They sent troops to support us in Afghanistan. If Russia were to invade, in theory we’d have to do something.” He hesitated, as if he knew what he was about to say wasn’t something he should ask as a friend. “When you get to Kiev, my bosses would appreciate anything you could toss our way.”

“I can’t go near Kiev Station. Besides, there’s ELINT all over the place,” meaning heavy Russian and Ukrainian surveillance on electronic communications, and that he wouldn’t go near any CIA operatives or locations in Ukraine.

“We’ll stay clear,” Shaefer agreed. “Have to. If anything goes south, they’ll blame the CIA bogeyman. Suppose you need to get hold of Rabinowich or me?”

“Give me a dead-drop.”

“Old school.” Shaefer nodded approvingly and gave him the details and how they would handle Scorpion’s cover.

Scorpion glanced at the cafe window. It was still snowing; the street was empty. He wasn’t anxious to get back out in it and to the airport. They were the last ones in the cafe, and the waiter had glanced over at them more than once.

“We should get going,” he said.

Shaefer touched Scorpion’s forearm. “About Ukraine. How much time have you got? Did Akhnetzov say?”

“The election’s in a week. Whatever is going on, it’s already running.”

Shaefer whistled silently to himself. “You’ll have to force the issue. You watch your ass, bub. The difference between the SVR, the SBU, and the Ukrainian mafia, that’s a pretty thin line. Those are some very badass Mike Foxtrots,” Army slang for motherfuckers. “Makes Waziristan look like apple pie and motherhood. You Romeo that?”

“Happy days,” Scorpion said, finishing his beer.