The DCI was impressed. In the CIA alone, the new computer system had rooted out three sleepers left over from the Cold War, six spies who had penetrated CIA headquarters at Langley, and thirty-eight double agents out in the system. “What else has Cassandra uncovered?”
“She’s discovered that the missile used in the attack was a Russian-built Strela-3. It came through Poland.”
The DCI was incredulous. “The Poles are involved in this?”
Durant shook his head. “Apparently not. But we’re still looking at them.”
“Vashin,” Mazie half whispered.
“Perhaps,” Durant replied. “Turn to the back pages of your handout. Each of you has an action list to start working on.” He looked around the room, his eyes deadly calm. “We’re going to shake the tree until someone falls out.”
EIGHTEEN
Vashin stared out the big picture window of his new penthouse, deliberately ratcheting up the tension as a fresh storm moved in. “That was not what I wanted. You stirred a hornet’s nest.” At the emphatic you, Yaponets felt a warmth in his crotch. Vashin spun around and Yaponets almost lost it. “I wanted Lezno sewn up, not the Turner bitch!”
Yaponets rubbed his close-cropped gray hair and willed his bowels to be still. Sweat streaked the forehead of the burly, sixty-four-year-old. His carefully crafted image as a Russian samurai was dissolving in front of the Council of Brothers and he fought for control of his bodily functions. “A misunderstanding,” Yaponets pleaded. “We had talked about the Turner woman. I thought you meant her.” His eyes darted back and forth, first to Vashin, and then to Oleg Gora, the torpedo who had earned his place on the Circle of Brothers at Boris Bakatina’s funeral. “There is no one who can stop you. So after the money was stolen…”
Vashin snorted, interrupting him. “It was stolen in Poland. There is only one head in Poland who matters — Adam Lezno.” He spun around and glared at Yaponets. “The Americans will not rest until they find out who was behind this.”
Yaponets tried to look confident. It didn’t work. “They will never trace it to us.”
Vashin didn’t answer. He turned slightly and nodded at Gora. Yaponets lost control of his bowels. Vashin snorted as he rushed from the room. Gora started to follow him. “Let him be,” Vashin ordered. He turned to the window and Gora sat down, disappointed that he would not be able to demonstrate his skill. Outside, Geraldine Blake guided Yaponets to the room set aside for people to clean up after soiling themselves after meeting with Vashin.
In the penthouse, it was time to cast judgment on Yaponets. “If you’re going to kill the emperor,” a godfather said, “you must not fail.”
“Americans hate emperors and love martyrs,” the senior godfather said.
“The Americans are fools,” another godfather said, placing mitigating circumstances in evidence. “They will only find who we want them to find.”
Vashin agreed. “Perhaps you’re right.”
“Yaponets has served you well,” the same godfather continued, making a plea for Yaponets’s life.
Geraldine’s advice about mercy and making grand gestures was still fresh in Vashin’s thinking. “Indeed he has.” The trial was over and the men talked quietly about the state of the vor and routine matters until Yaponets returned. He smelled strongly of cologne. Vashin waved him to a seat. “No more misunderstandings, my old friend,” Vashin said, pacing in front of the window, his hands clasped behind his back. “The Poles are garbage and garbage does not steal my money and live to talk about it. We are going to teach them an object lesson. Sew up Lezno. But I want the arms and legs as well.”
“The SPS carried it out,” a godfather said.
“Eliminate them.”
“The Americans are supplying the Poles with intelligence,” another godfather said. “The new ambassador is behind it.”
“That is not good for his health,” Vashin said. The men laughed, appreciating his humor.
Yaponets wanted to be sure there was no misunderstanding this time. “Is he one of the arms to be amputated?”
Vashin mulled it over. Did he want an American ambassador killed so soon after a failed attempt on Madeline Turner? Would that focus the CIA on the vor? He didn’t know. What if that assassination failed? “No. We can neutralize the Americans in other ways. If this ambassador becomes a problem we will reconsider our options. For now, I want Lezno to experience an unfortunate coincidence. The Poles will get the message.”
“There are no coincidences,” another godfather intoned. The men all nodded in agreement, their paranoia in harmony. Vashin turned to the window and stared into the falling snow. The meeting was over and they left silently. Outside, Geraldine called for their limousines and bodyguards. Yaponets was the last to leave and she helped him with his coat. “I do hope everything is going well with Mr. Vashin.”
Normally, a woman was beneath Yaponets and he would have ignored her. But his instincts warned him she enjoyed a special status with Vashin and was not an ordinary woman. The cunning savagery that had served him so well as he rose through the ranks of the vor gave way to a new urge: survival. The words his father had taught him to say as a child when referring to Stalin came back. “I’m a mere mortal in the presence of greatness,” he repeated automatically. She walked him to the elevator and waited for the car to arrive. The image of his headless body falling down the dark shaft flashed in his mind. “Is it still the same?”
She didn’t answer and smiled a good-bye when he stepped into the elevator. She returned to her desk and waited for the inevitable call. It came six minutes later. “I want to see Gabrowski,” Vashin ordered.
“The Pole with the amber cuff links,” she said, confirming the identity of the man. Automatically, she considered the problem. What had the Council of Brothers been discussing that spiked such fear in Yaponets? Gabrowski must know something about the money shipment or might even be involved. But to what depth, she didn’t know. If he was, he would be a fool to come to Russia. And he struck her as anything but a fool. Then she considered the other side of it. Would he need to sleep with her again so they could be alone? “How soon do you want to see him?”
“Tomorrow, Monday at the latest.”
“You know the Poles. He might not want to come, considering Christmas is Wednesday.”
“Tell him he’ll be home the same day.”
“Yes, sir. I’ll get right on it.”
The plane from Warsaw landed before noon on Sunday. Geraldine and one of Vashin’s silver Bentleys was waiting for the lone passenger. He walked down the stairs bundled against the frigid wind and stepped into the car. “Welcome to Moscow, Mr. Gabrowski.”
Jerzy Fedor took off his hat and gloves and looked at her, his lean and ravaged face red from the cold. “Why the urgent summons?”
“Mr. Vashin wants to know where his money is,” Geraldine told him.
Fedor sighed. It was against all his principles to give anything back once he had it. “I wish I knew.”
She knew the conversation was being recorded. “That’s most unfortunate.”
The residence was alive with laughter as Maddy Turner’s family and friends gathered around her for a Christmas Eve celebration. Downstairs, the chief usher hovered at the entrance of the South Portico, waiting for one car to arrive. When it rolled up, he rushed forward, anxious to greet Pontowski and his son. “Good evening, General Pontowski. It is good to see you again. May I wish you an early Merry Christmas?”