That one single act, the flexing of a finger in the night, would change the lives and fates of millions, redraw the borders of nations, and recast the entire political landscape of the world in decades to come. Was it born in Fedorov’s plaintive and desperate whisper at Mironov’s ear, and given life by his insatiable curiosity that led Mironov to discover what the stranger meant? Or did it spring from the hollow of Orlov’s darkened soul when he leapt from that helicopter and set Fedorov off on the long pursuit that followed? Where was first cause? Was it Karpov’s darkened soul that had set Orlov in motion? No man would ever know, but that did not matter now.
It was done.
Mironov could not help but flinch when he fired, and he could see the wound he had delivered to Stalin was surely fatal. Then, to his surprise, there came a great commotion echoing up the corridor behind him, and the sound of some growling beast. Hard footfalls slapped the stony hallway, but he knew he might face a moment like this when he first hatched his plan. Yet he had been very careful, very precise. He had well forged identity papers, written orders, a writ of execution and summary judgment that was so authentic that the men in the hallway would never doubt it
They would have to question him, of course, but he knew exactly what to say, and how to threaten them if they dared to interfere with him now. Mironov had every confidence that he would prevail, and soon be on his way. It was the same careful confidence that might have served him so well in the years ahead, when he, too, would take a new name like the man he had just killed. Yes, he had thought about it a good long while, and from this day forward, he would be known as Kirov…. Sergei Kirov.
The men came up the hall, and he turned slowly, seeing them leveling evil looking weapons at him. These were guards unlike any of the others, he thought. Did that Colonel Martynov send them? Then a voice spoke from the shadowy clutch of men clotting that corridor, and blocking any hope of flight.
“You are Sergei Mironovich Kostrikov?” came the question. “You were sent here to carry out a writ of execution for this prisoner?”
Kirov took a deep breath, and smiled. They must have already been informed, he thought, which meant the artfully crafted cover story he had labored to build, through one official after another, had held up.
“Yes,” he said quietly. “To both questions, and I have just carried out the sentence as ordered by St. Petersburg.”
“Good,” came the reply. Then Sergei Kirov heard the cold snap of fingers, the last sound he would hear in this life. The two guards opened fire with their automatic weapons, the bullets tearing through him like the Devil’s Teardrops. He fell, his body riddled and bleeding.
Then Ivan Volkov stepped forward, his face just now bathed in the wan overhead light, his heavy brows leaving the eyes wreathed in shadow.
“Open that cell door,” he said darkly to his men. “My wolves are hungry, and there is certainly plenty here to eat….”
Part XII
Sea Wolves
“We have doomed the wolf not for what it is, but for what we deliberately and mistakenly perceive it to be –the mythologized epitome of a savage ruthless killer – which is, in reality, no more than a reflected image of ourself.”
Chapter 34
They could feel it.
Everyone on the ship seemed uneasy that morning. The men at breakfast mess seemed listless, cheerless, and bothered. The Mishmanny, looked over the charts for work rotations, all while feeling some great thing was being overlooked. It was a general feeling of threat, something impending, like a great sword hanging over them, and the farther up the chain of command, the more those feelings registered.
Orlov’s dreams were dark that night, and the last image in his mind before he awoke was the face of the conniving security man—Ivan Volkov. He wasn’t trying to butter his bread this time, promising him things he could never deliver. No, this time is was just his face, staring, then laughing, and he heard the growl of some animal behind him, low, dangerous, threatening.
Doctor Zolkin was unable to sleep, restless in his quarters, and decided to open the infirmary early that morning. He had been cleaning up, and organizing things, when he came upon a memory key tucked away in an envelope, deep in his desk. What was this, he wondered? He took it out, eyes narrowing behind his thick dark-rimmed glasses. Then he went to his computer to see exactly what it was, but found the file was encrypted.
“That’s strange,” he said aloud. “Why would I…?” Frowning, he typed in a password, but it failed. Then he went to another old standby, a password he used only for very select files, and was gratified to see the file open. There, in a long column, were names of crewmen on the ship. Right at the top, three names jarred him at once: Markov, Volushin, Lenkov…. He sat there, staring at the screen, trying to remember what this list was all about.
Still sleeping in his cabin, Admiral Volsky was having that same old nightmare again. He was at sea, on the bridge of a great fighting ship, and hearing the roar of big guns firing. The sound of something big and dangerous in the sky possessed him, the whoosh of great metal rounds falling into the water off his port side. He saw the sea churned up in a great splash as one fell very near the long steep bow of the ship. Then the image faded, the dream fled, and in its place he saw the face of Pavel Kamenski, the old KGB man, and he was holding a book of some kind.
“It’s all gone, Admiral,” he said. “Everything has changed. Wake up now! Pay attention! You are on a ship with no name. You must see for yourself….”
The old man’s face faded away, and his eyelids fluttered open. For a moment, he blinked, confused, wondering where he was. Then the familiar sound and feel of Kirov registered on his waking mind, and he sat up. As soon as he did so, the sense of some grave and terrible error was upon him. What was it? What was wrong?
Two decks above, Fedorov woke with a start, eyes wide, knowing something had happened. Was it only a dream? The feeling he had was dreadful, as if some great wave was about to crest and break upon the ship, dragging Kirov down, down, deep beneath the sea. He looked about, as if trying to see if the room itself had changed, if the ship was stable, and still structurally sound, but all seemed normal and in place. Yet he could not shake the feeling that some great doom had befallen the world; that some news was vibrating on the airwaves, carrying the dreadful tale.
Nikolin, he thought. I must get to Nikolin.
Up on the bridge, Karpov opened the door from his ready room, seeing the night crew just getting ready to go off shift. The men saluted, and Kalinichev at radar for Rodenko announced him.
“Admiral on the bridge!”
“As you were,” said Karpov. “I heard no alarm, but I had the distinct feeling that something was amiss. Anything on radar, Comrade Kalinichev?”
“No sir, all clear.”