So far, his tactics had been holding up well. Even though no news reports of the Liechtenstein killings had appeared yet, it didn’t mean that the police authorities weren’t keeping a lid on the story while they were closing a dragnet around him. But the odds were on his side. Taking the car had given him several advantages over trains and airplanes. He had avoided the potential traps of departure schedules, security checks, on-board registration and linear movement. And he was less than two hundred kilometers away from the border of Belarus, where he would pass through on his Russian passport.
Frenchman Jean-Pierre Youdine would disappear forever, and Constantine Ivanovich Sokolov, citizen of the Russian Federation, would be on his way to Moscow.
15
Sunrays beat down on Lubyanskaya Square with abandon. The radiance spilled into every window like it was breaking over the edges of an overflowing vessel, illuminating the office on the top floor of the square’s main building.
The workspace testified that its owner was a stickler to order. It was devoid of any personal effects. Standard-issue curtains and a drab green carpet over faded parquet boards. A huge oak desk with a high-backed leather chair; a laptop computer; a stack of files; an old-fashioned, corded telephone set.
Perhaps the only item on the desk that showed any hint of character was a small glass prism that contained two squashed metal slugs. Two tokens of history, dating from the 1930’s.
The slugs had been extracted from the skulls of Kamenev and Zinoviev, Stalin’s executed rivals. Then-NKVD chief Yagoda, a man fond of sick souvenirs, had kept the bits of metal as trophies. His successor Ezhov, having disposed of Yagoda, inherited the slugs.
Stalin’s fiendish irony had it that Ezhov himself was sentenced to death soon afterwards, so the next man took up the slugs, and the post.
The post that now belonged to Saveliy Ignatievich Frolov.
Thus the crystal prism was a perpetual reminder to Frolov of his own fallibility. Reminders—that’s what everyone needed, Director Frolov kept saying. Reminders spurred self-discipline and motivation.
The door to his office opened, and a tall man in his late thirties entered. He had the privilege of immediate access to Frolov’s office at any time. His alias inside the FSB was Victor, the identities he assumed in his field work required a separate list in his file, accessed only by the Director. His real name was a state secret, as was his status within the FSB. Victor’s attire — a brown leather jacket and blue jeans — was appropriate for the streets, where he belonged. His body was muscular and agile, his instincts predatory, honed through countless missions, hunting or being hunted.
Frolov raised his eyes from an open file to greet his man.
“Comrade Director.”
The Soviet form of address was still official in Russian enforcement agencies.
“Any developments?”
“We have found Malinin and Constantine. They’d made contact.”
“Details.”
“Malinin showed up as a corpse in a house in Liechtenstein. He was found by the police along with the landlady, and four other bodies that had guns on them.”
“Hitmen.”
“Professionals,” Victor confirmed. “The local authorities think that the shoot-out was the result of a bust-up inside the Russian Mafia, which is a good thing. We can certainly help them stick to this story.”
“That’s secondary,” Frolov reminded.
“The house is covered with Constantine’s prints. Malinin had probably taken Constantine to his stash. Someone from Malinin’s inner circle was working for our adversaries. As soon as they became aware of the documents’ location, they sent a team to take out Malinin and Constantine, and destroy the documents once and for all.”
“Where is Constantine now?”
“His Russian passport has been flagged at the Brest station of the Belarus border.”
Frolov nodded, as if agreeing with his own prior assumption.
“So he’s heading to Moscow.”
“It appears so. I believe he also has the documents with him,” Victor suggested.
“Yes. Otherwise there would be no reason for him to be coming back,” Frolov said. “He’s a blind cub seeking protection. Next, he will try to get in touch with Ilia. Keep a close eye on the Metropolitan. We must intercept Constantine, and get the documents. And one more thing. If it was Constantine who killed the enemy hit team, then he is even more resourceful than we have assumed. To the point of being dangerous. Don’t underestimate him.”
“Don’t underestimate me, Comrade Director.”
“Yes, Victor, I trust you to lead our mission to a successful finale.”
Trust. It had been the key from the very beginning.
PART II
1
She was a gift from the gods. The passionate lines of her white body stirred obsession. With the gentle swells caressing her, wrapping her in foam, the Olympia glided over the sea like a reborn Aphrodite.
The luxurious 187-foot-long megayacht had been crafted by Dutch naval architects. A marvel of design and performance, powered by twin 1,500-horsepower diesel engines.
Like any desired woman, she wore a provocative veil of mystery. In the case of the Olympia, her secret was the identity of her owners. Various sightings spawned a myriad of rumors as to who they were and where they kept her.
Around the Mediterranean, be it Monaco, Sardinia or Majorca, she never lingered in one spot for more than a few days. Her port of registry was Georgetown, as evidenced by the flying Cayman ensign. Her crew was reported to be English. She was sighted in the Caribbean several times a year, and there was a photo of her appearing in the vicinity of the Maldives. Still, nothing suggested her possible hideout.
A check of the Lloyd’s catalogue would provide no clues. Officially, the Olympia was owned by a company based in Jersey, Channel Islands, and managed by a Cypriot outfit with an office on Paparigopoulou Street in Limassol.
Only a handful of people in the world knew that both these private companies had their stock in the possession of Sovcomflot, the FSB’s maritime cover.
Her home was the Black Sea resort of Sochi. Her nickname was The Cruising Kremlin.
She belonged to the President of Russia.
2
At 147 kilometers measuring between its farthermost tips, Sochi was one of the longest cities in the world, stretching out on a narrow ribbon of land between the Black Sea and the Caucasus mountains. Even though it had a population of 500,000, a term as vulgar as city would be the last to come to mind when describing it. No, Sochi was a park, an earthly glimpse of Eden.
Because of its unique climate, Sochi provided sanctuary to a most varied plant life collected from across the world, creating a natural botanical garden so vast that it boggled the unaccustomed mind. Here, all that was otherwise exotic was so commonplace as to be considered trivial. Throughout the cityscape, the assortment of flora intermingled in wanton combinations and perfect geometry. One could find alleys of platanus that gave way to palm trees. Scores of cypresses outlined their towering shapes against the crystal sky. Yuccas grew with the petulance of weeds. Along the walkways, neatly trimmed boxwoods stretched as far as the eye could see, overlapped by roses. Seaside, wandering past the colonnades of the embankments, it was easy to get drunk with the aroma of magnolias and camellias in bloom. There is no recipe to emulate the air of Sochi — lazy zephyrs coming from the sea, crispness descending from the mountains, fragrances gifted by the flowers, are all touched by one another, twirling.