“If you say so, Andrei. You were always much wiser in these matters than me.”
“Cheer up, Anton. Go have some Russian vodka for breakfast. But only after you send word to Oskar and get Ming’s shipment ready.”
“Have a good day, Andrei.”
Zdrok hung up the phone and continued to check his e-mail. There was one from General Prokofiev. The Russian general had remained in his home country because of his position with the army. Of all the Shop directors, Prokofiev was the most protected. His cover was unshakable.
Zdrok opened the e-mail and read:
AZ—
Obukhov facility closed. General managers retired. All went smoothly except presence of Western competition. Still attempting confirmation of competition’s going-out-of-business sale.
— SP
Zdrok rubbed his eyes. Good news and bad news. The good news was that the last remnants of the Shop’s stealth plane activities had been destroyed. So far, the Russian government and military forces had not traced the theft of the aircraft to Prokofiev. The bad news was that an American intelligence operative witnessed the destruction of the Obukhov hangar. Prokofiev’s last sentence indicated that he thought the man was dead but a body had not yet been recovered.
Damn, Zdrok thought. It sounded as if the operative may have been one of the men on the classified list of agents’ names and descriptions that Zdrok had obtained last year. Was this man one of Third Echelon’s Splinter Cells? Could he have been the nemesis that brought the Shop all of its troubles?
Could he have been the man known as Sam Fisher?
Zdrok slammed his fist on the desk and swore that the Shop would have its revenge on the man. Zdrok picked up the phone and made another call.
It would be easy to find out whether or not the Splinter Cell was still alive.
3
I’ve tracked General Prokofiev’s Mercedes to an apartment building in Kyiv’s Old Town, near the St. Sophia Cathedral. It’s not far from a main thoroughfare, vulitsya Volodymyrska, and many of the historic landmarks in this cold, old city. It would probably be a bit more pleasant if it wasn’t winter. Everything is gray and white and rather depressing. I’ve heard that spring and summer in Kyiv is really nice but I’ve never seen it then. It seems that the few times I’ve been here it’s always winter.
Although I don’t have much taste in the aesthetics of art and architecture, I do admit to being a history buff, and Kyiv has an abundance of antiquity. You could say it’s the mother city for all Eastern Slavic peoples. After all, the Russian Orthodox Church was founded here. Outside the Upper Town — what the locals call the Old Town — is a very modern and cosmopolitan metropolis. Its urban sprawl is unequaled in Ukraine and this fact is quite amazing when you think about it. Kyiv has survived Mongol invasions, devastating fires, the rule of Communism, and the terrible destruction of World War II, and yet it manages to progress onward into the twenty-first century.
After my swim in the Dnipro, I managed to crawl out downstream and hike back to where I’d left the Ford. It took me five hours to walk to Obukhiv and I felt like the abominable snowman when I arrived. I drove to Kyiv, all the while checking the progress of Prokofiev’s Mercedes on my OPSAT. The homing device was working beautifully. Prokofiev and his entourage checked in to the Hotel Dnipro, a high-end joint frequented by diplomats. I elected to stay three blocks away at the no-frills Hotel Saint Petersburg because I prefer budget places. I set my OPSAT’s alarm to go off if the Mercedes left the Hotel Dnipro and then caught some badly needed sleep. The OPSAT beeped me awake earlier this afternoon. I figure I got five hours, which is pretty damned good. I left the room wearing civvies, jumped in the Explorer, and followed the blinking dot on the OPSAT’s map to my current location.
The apartment building is old, as is everything else around here. There’s not much parking but I get lucky after a few minutes and find a spot across the street. I stop, settle in for a spell of surveillance, and use the opportunity to contact Washington.
“Hello? Anyone at home?” I ask, pressing the implant in my throat.
“Hi, Sam.” It’s Carly St. John, my favorite person at Third Echelon. She’s as smart as a whip and attractive as hell. I’ve often considered what it might be like to become romantically involved with her. I kid myself that she might be interested. The problem is that I’m not keen on becoming romantically involved with anyone. At least that’s what I keep telling my reflection in the mirror. I made a resolution after Regan died to put women out of my mind. And I’ve been pretty good at staying celibate… until recently. Ever since I returned from the Mediterranean last year, I’ve been feeling, I don’t know, an itch. I found myself eyeing some of the women in my Krav Maga class in Towson, Maryland, where I live. And then there’s Katia, the class instructor. She’s absolutely gorgeous. Katia Loenstern’s an Israeli woman who has made more than one pass at me and I’ve been a jerk and resisted each of them. Lately I’ve been thinking I need to change that attitude, but then the ugly realization of what I do for a living messes up everything. A Splinter Cell in a committed relationship becomes a vulnerable Splinter Cell. It also puts the partner in jeopardy. It’s just too damned risky.
“Sam?” Carly asks. “You there?”
“Yeah,” I say. “Sorry. I drifted off there for a second. Is the colonel around?”
“Not right now. I was about to contact you. There’s a big snowstorm heading your way. What are you doing?”
“I should be eating dinner but instead I’m keeping tabs on General Prokofiev. Have you made headway on those photos I sent you? Any IDs yet?”
“As a matter of fact, I just got them back. You were right. The guy with the beard is Oskar Herzog. I guess he’s trying hard to change his appearance. It’s not working too well, is it?”
“No, it’s not. What about the other guy? The rock star.”
Carly laughs. “Your ‘Rasputin’ description was pretty funny. Actually, he’s just as sinister as Rasputin. He’s been ID’d as Yvan Putnik, a Russian Mafiya hit man. The guy has a record in Russia but he must have some powerful friends in the government because he keeps getting out of prison.”
“Well, look who he’s hanging with.”
“Right. If you’re buddies with General Prokofiev then you’ve got nothing to fear from the big bad law-enforcement dudes.”
I rub my chin. “So what does that mean? What’s this Putnik guy doing with the Shop?”
“I suppose he’s working for them, wouldn’t you think?”
“Well, duh. What I meant was I wonder what kind of jobs he’s doing for them — wait a second.” General Prokofiev just came out of the building. He’s with a tall, striking blonde that must be twenty-five years younger than he is. Maybe more. I snap a couple of shots on the OPSAT. The bodyguard gets out of the passenger seat and opens the back door for the couple. After they’re inside, the Mercedes drives away.
“I gotta go,” I say. “I’m beaming you a couple more photos. I just saw the good general with a pretty blonde. See if you can find out who she is.”
“Is it his wife?”
“No. General Prokofiev’s wife is his age. This girl looks young enough to be his daughter.”
We sign off and I discreetly pull into the street to follow the Mercedes, which takes the busy Naberezhna shose south along the Dnipro until the driver makes a left onto the Metro Bridge. The car moves east on prospekt Brovansky and then pulls into the small parking lot beside an old wooden mill in Hidropark. I’m puzzled for a moment until I realize that the mill is really a restaurant called Mlyn. The Hidropark, a Kyiv landmark, is an outdoor amusement park that spreads along the riverbank and encompasses some islands. The restaurant apparently offers a spectacular panoramic view of the Dnipro and its beaches.