“Petyr works very hard at his fighting. You should not begrudge—”
“Are you certain you sent him these?” Kaija groaned. “Yellow and blue?”
“Yes,” Volodin said. “Although that is odd. I used to label them red and white. I wonder why I changed the coloring…”
“How much?” Kaija said, fuming.
“Why does it matter?”
“Because, Papa.” Her chest heaved and spittle flew from her lips as she screamed at him. “This is Novo Archangelsk. It is the reason we are here in this forsaken place. These two canisters alone would release a cloud of enough deadly gas to kill us and anyone who passed by on the river for days — anyone who came in this cabin for the next ten years.”
“Oh…” Volodin buried his face in his hands. The uncontrollable twitch returned to his left eye. “Novo Archangelsk,” he whispered. “Do you think Petyr even knows what he has?”
“I doubt Petyr knows what day it is at any given time,” Kaija scoffed.
“I am awful human being.” Volodin rocked back and forth, head still in his hands. “But why… why would I bring such a thing as this with me? I thought I destroyed the remainder of the stockpile.”
“You did not bring it, Papa.” Kaija stood in front of him, vapor blossoming around her head in the candlelight with each exasperated breath. “I did.”
“Why?” Volodin said. “Oh, my dear, what do you plan to do?”
“Go to bed, Papa,” Kaija said, panting as her rage began to ebb.
“Are you angry with me, Maria?” An inexplicable melancholy gripped Volodin’s heart. He’d done something to make her mad. “I am sorry I didn’t bring us any food.”
“Kaija,” the girl said, her voice soft now. “I am Kaija, Papa.”
“Right,” Volodin smiled. “Do you think there might be some food in that case?”
Kaija shook her head. “No,” she said, snapping the latches on the black plastic case and carrying it to bed with her. “There is nothing but clothing in here. I’ve already looked. Go to bed, Papa. We have a long way to go in the morning.” She lay down in her tattered blankets, replaced the earphones, and turned to face the wall with her body between him and the plastic case. Her slender chest still heaved from something he’d said or done. He was such a fool to keep calling her by her mother’s name.
Without taking his eyes off his daughter, Volodin took the fountain pen from the pocket of his shirt and wrote “Kaija” on the inside of his wrist. Perhaps that would help him remember she wasn’t his Maria.
He settled his weary bones onto his own rude bed and drew the tattered blankets up around his chin. Kaija was still angry with him. The heaviness of it filled the dark cabin. He certainly deserved it. His mind was slipping, he knew that, but he couldn’t help but feel he should have been angry with her as well.
Chapter 31
Ruslan Rostov slammed the phone back in its cradle, an angry, drowning man. Lodygin sat across the office, pale fingers to his lips as if to physically stop himself from saying something he might regret. It was his desk and his phone. Rostov picked up the phone so he could slam it down once more, glaring at the greasy captain, daring him to protest. He was a senior colonel in the GRU. He had every right to take over a subordinate’s office and set his phone on fire if he wanted to.
Lodygin sat in the corner, a visitor in his own office. The man had a habit of crossing his legs, knee to knee, in a feminine way that Rostov despised. It looked affected for a man in uniform and made Rostov want to beat him to death with the phone. In fact, the whole office was too girlish for Rostov’s way of thinking. They were leaders of men. A competent leader’s office should reflect the odor of leather, the color of flags, and the instruments of bloody war. It should be sparse and clean and slightly uncomfortable, demonstrating a clear preference for the field of battle over an easy life in a garrison.
Lodygin’s office was highly decorated with nesting dolls, ornate copies of Fabergé eggs, and even woodblock prints of two Orthodox saints on either side of the requisite photograph of Putin. A scented candle did little to mask the stench of his moral decay.
“I assume it was bad news,” Lodygin said, both hands on his knee, drawing small circles in the air with the toe of his polished boot.
Rostov put both hands flat on the desk in an effort to compose himself. “General Zhestakova is not a patient man,” he said. “I will be summoned to the Kremlin at any moment.”
“Today?” Lodygin said.
“No,” Rostov said, wondering if he would ever see his wife and daughter again. “Not today, but soon.” He glared at the captain. “I should take you with me.”
“Perhaps you will be able to reason with the general,” Lodygin said. “The events in America… they are not exactly contrary to the hopes and dreams of the Kremlin. Are they?”
Rostov’s head snapped up. He’d only heard half of what the idiotic captain was saying. “What?”
“The directive to develop New Archangel came from the Kremlin, did it not?” Lodygin gave a flip of his hand. “You and I are both aware of the strategic plans — keep the Americans busy fighting a war on their own soil so the Motherland has time and room to become the world power we deserve to be.” He shrugged. “Is that not exactly what is happening now?”
“Apparently, General Zhestakova does not take the same optimistic view,” Rostov said. “Perhaps he has taken the time to think through the Americans’ reaction when they discover this gas is tied to Russia and not some cretin jihadist from the Middle East.”
A vaporous smile spread over Lodygin’s face as if he’d won an argument. “One man’s cretin jihadist is another man’s operative.”
“Shut up,” Rostov said.
The captain did have a point. Someone had smuggled the New Archangel out of Russia. It was not beyond the realm of possibilities that this same someone was an agent of the Kremlin. Lodygin had remained much too calm throughout the unfolding of these events, even for the sociopath that he was. Rostov glared at him, trying to see through the smarmy façade. Lodygin was odd without being awkward, terrifying without a shred of bravery, and dangerous with no physical strength. He was intelligent enough to pull it off, but who in the Kremlin — or anywhere else — would trust such a vile man?
“Still no word from your best soldier?” Rostov asked. The last dripped with open disdain.
“None as of yet, Colonel,” Lodygin sighed. “But he will contact us as soon as he is able.” The captain pursed his lips. “I do have news that will certainly interest you.”
“Very well,” Rostov said.
“I was fortunate to spend a delightful three hours in the company of one Rosalina Lobov, a school friend of Kaija Merculief…” He stopped, eyes glazing for a moment as if he was remembering and savoring some sordid detail.
“And?” Rostov prodded. “Spit it out.”
“Kaija,” Lodygin said, “I mean to say the young woman with Volodin is not his child mistress after all. She is his daughter by a woman named Maria Merculief.”
“His daughter?” Rostov mused. “That makes sense.”
“There is more,” Lodygin said. Rostov thought he detected a slight wag in the man’s head, as if he was on the verge of gloating. “According to Rosalina Lobov, Miss Merculief is not fifteen as we had previously believed but in reality is twenty years old.”
“She attended secondary school?”
“She did,” Lodygin said.
“And no one at the school thought to verify her age?”
Lodygin bounced his knee. “I’m sure they did, Colonel,” he said. “But I doubt that they were very thorough. Who would lie about their age in order to attend school all over again?”