Second Strike

CHAPTER 69

^MOSCOW,

^{AUGUST 18, 8:33 A.M. MSK}

Morosov passed through the scanner and retrieved his Makarov PMM, phone, and watch from one of the dour-faced, heavily armed security guards at the other end. Before placing the pistol in his holster, he released the magazine as if to inspect it and then reseated it. Just beyond the guards, the twin blast-proof doors slid open, revealing a seemingly endless brightly lit tunnel with mirrored walls. He stepped into a small electric cart that sat upon two rails and it automatically conveyed him approximately half a kilometer to a bank of glass elevators, scores of unseen cameras monitoring him the entire way.

The cart slowed to a stop. Its soft whine was replaced by a barely perceptible hum from massive arrays of supercomputers somewhere below. Morosov stepped off, held a proximity card next to a pad at the center of the elevator bank, and waited.

Only eight hours ago, Tatiana had informed him of his nephew’s death. Immediately upon disconnecting he’d picked up his pistol and released the magazine. Then, as Piotr had instructed, he’d placed the device in the empty magazine and seated it, enabling him to clear the facility’s multiple security scans.

The doors of the elevator to Morosov’s left opened. He entered and was automatically conveyed to the twelfth floor, where the doors opened to an enormous workspace that seemed incongruously quiet despite the presence of scores of personnel. He was met seconds later by Leonid Gramov, a short, severe-looking man in his mid-thirties who was one of Egorshin’s closest aides. He looked stunned. News of Egorshin’s death had traveled rapidly throughout the unit.

“Leonid Gramov, Mr. Morosov. We met some time ago at a party thrown by Tatiana. We heard the news just a short time ago. I do not know what to say. Piotr was the heart of this unit. He was our leader. He had abilities none of us can match. Every member of the unit respected him and was fond of him. This is his unit and we were proud to serve under him. I am so very sorry.”

“Thank you, Leonid. My nephew spoke highly of you. He was equally fond of the members of this unit. I understand he handpicked many of you.”

“It was an honor to have been chosen by someone so gifted,” Gramov said, his voice cracking. “We are at a loss. How could this have happened? Are you here to investigate?”

Morosov shook his head. “I’m here as a family member only, Leonid. Someone else will investigate. I came to gather any personal belongings. I assume his workstation has been inspected?”

Gramov nodded. “The rest of us found out when security impounded everything at his desk. They came in a swarm. They did not speak to us but, of course, we were alarmed. We are not permitted outside communication from this area, but you cannot keep such things quiet. It appears someone left to make a call, and soon, everyone knew.”

Morosov looked about the room. At least half a dozen uniformed security personnel were stationed about the perimeter. He suspected there were others who had been embedded in the unit since its inception. In fact, as he surveyed the surroundings the old SVR agent was able to spot them without much difficulty. A few were observing him with furtive sidelong glances while ostensibly working on their desktop computers.

A tall, striking woman with short flame-red hair and a crestfallen expression walked briskly toward Morosov and extended her hand. “Elena Kolovskya. I apologize for being so forward. We met when Colonel Egorshin was in university. He and I were classmates. Honestly, no one was in his class. We were all simply admirers. Major Volkov was his second, officially. But I had the privilege of being Piotr’s principal technical assistant. We worked closely. My condolences.”

“Thank you, that means much to me,” Morosov said genuinely. “I have no children, and as you may know, Piotr’s father died when Piotr was young, so he was like a son to me.”

Gramov and Kolovskya nodded sympathetically. Gramov said to Kolovskya, “Mr. Morosov’s here to collect any personal effects.”

“Security protocols were implemented as soon as the news became known,” Kolovskya said. “They inspected Piotr’s entire workspace and I presume they took everything of note with them. But you are welcome to look over his workspace and take whatever remains. Security, of course, will want to inspect whatever you take with you before you leave.”

“Please show me the way,” Morosov said.

Kolovskya led Morosov to a ten-by-ten glass-enclosed workspace at the front of the room facing the giant screen. The room contained only a plexiglass desk, a simple desktop computer, a phone, and a chair. The arrangement appeared no more complex or impressive than that of an average telemarketer. But it was the command and control for the entire operation, an almost incomprehensible amount of computing power. The computer screen displayed a whimsical screensaver. No doubt security had checked it.

Kolovskya and Gramov left Morosov alone. He scanned the area for any personal effects. A photo of Tatiana in a small wooden frame next to the computer screen was all that remained on Piotr’s desk. She was smiling, the Eiffel Tower in the background.

Morosov leaned forward to inspect the photo. As he did so he placed his right hand flat on the desk on one side of the computer and his left hand on the other. He picked up the photo to gaze at it for a moment, then returned it to the desk, placing it on the left side of the computer. While continuing to gaze at the photo, he tapped his right index finger on the desk. The subtlest of misdirections. With a practically imperceptible movement of his left hand he inserted Piotr’s device into a port in the side of the computer, obscured by the photo frame. The magician.

Morosov straightened, looked about, and left the space. Gramov and Kolovskya met him immediately.

“I suspect security took everything?” Kolovskya asked.

“Almost. They left a photo of Tatiana. Nothing else.”

“Once security sifts through everything, they will release anything that does not relate to work. I can contact you if anything remains,” Kolovskya offered.

“That is kind of you. Thank you,” Morosov said as he conducted a mental countdown. “I suppose I will be on my way and leave you to your work.”

Morosov shook their hands and walked to the exit. Halfway there he paused, looked at his watch a moment, then turned and walked back. Gramov and Kolovskya met him just outside Piotr’s workspace.

“On reflection,” Morosov said, “I suppose I should take the photo. Tatiana would want it, I believe. Do you mind?”

Gramov and Kolovskya moved aside deferentially. “Of course not,” Kolovskya said, waving him in. “Please.”

Morosov entered the workspace and once again leaned against the desktop, briefly assuming the same pose he’d held before. Another magic trick and Piotr’s device was in his left palm. Morosov removed the photograph from the desk, nodded thanks toward Gramov and Kolovskya, and proceeded toward the elevators.

Several minutes later Piotr Egorshin’s favorite uncle, his only uncle, was walking toward his car. His stride was long, almost triumphant, not that of a man on the verge of retirement.

Upon reaching his car he turned to look at the building where his nephew had worked. That building, and the cavernous spaces beneath, held more destructive power than had been unleashed by the entire Red Army during World War II. Although it was the tyrant Stetchkin’s domain, it was Piotr, the gentlest of souls, who had made its power possible.

And Piotr, through his uncle Sergei the magician, would have his revenge.