Zubov shrugged. “Those who are still alive are suffering from fever, vomiting and haemorrhaging. Not her. When they searched for poisoned swimmers, they found her on the beach, passed out. She was wet and had blood on her face, probably after a nose bleed. So the doctors picked her up and put her in the ward together with the other victims. Soon they discovered that even though she had also been exposed to the water, she didn’t have any of the symptoms that the rest did. I thought it would be better if we found out why. Either she’s been terribly lucky, or maybe — just maybe, she’s immune. Whatever struck these waters, it happened yesterday, and it’s gone already, but she was right in the middle of it.”
“You did the right thing,” Sokolov said. “No one knows who she is or where she came from. But we do. That beach can be accessed by sanatorium guests only, so the only way she could have approached it unnoticed would be if she had come from the sea.”
“And there was only one boat at sea that was within sight of that spot. The Olympia,” Zubov said.
All the way through the return leg to Moscow, Sokolov’s mind was occupied with something else entirely. As he studied the girl, he knew his mind was playing a trick on him, but the likeness was no less frightening.
The jet-black hair… The big eyes, the youthful face…
It was as if he had been visited by a ghost from the past. Sokolov imagined a six-year-old girl, wondering what her face would look like now if he had saved her life in Beslan.
13
Unnoticed, the oil tanker crept through the Black Sea towards Turkey, holding a ballast of harmless seawater.
Aboard the Isebek, the captain’s quarters were spartan. Nothing resembled the grandeur seen on the Olympia, save for a bottle of twenty-year-old French alcohol placed atop a stained aluminum table. The bottle was all that remained of the Olympia above the sea surface, a souvenir Kasymov could not resist.
Sitting on the rock-hard cot, Timur Kasymov took a mouthful of the cognac from the bottle. By his standards, the celebration was unsavory, but he had every reason to celebrate. First the Americans, and now the Russians were out of his way.
Oleg Radchuk banged on the door, disrupting Kasymov’s appreciation of the drink.
“What is it, Oleg?”
The Ukrainian entered, visibly tense.
“I’ve just received a radio intercept of the EMERCOM aircraft calling Moscow.”
“Ah,” Kasymov said, waving his hand as if he were brushing away a mosquito. “Their involvement is inconsequential. Our plan was a complete success. High damage and no trace of the substance. Nothing for them to find.”
“Quite on the contrary,” Radchuk said. “They didn’t leave empty-handed.”
Kasymov raised an eyebrow. “What did they get? Pebbles from the beach? Seashells, maybe?”
“Not what but rather who. They picked someone up. A survivor.”
Fire seized Kasymov’s stomach. “Impossible.”
“An unconscious woman in her mid-twenties. Sporty. Black hair. Asian features.”
Screaming, Kasymov hurled the cognac bottle against the floor and it shattered into fragments.
“Why — didn’t — she—die!”
14
Following a sleepless night at the Zhukovsky base that he spent warding off barrages of phone calls from fellow ministers, Klimov was down on the runway to greet the returning Beriev. Together with him, a group of medics waited to rush the survivor to the hospital inside the modern, sturdy structure of concrete and glass. Klimov knew exactly who she was the moment he caught glimpse of her face as she was carried off on a stretcher. It was Asiyah Kasymova, the daughter of the Kazakh leader.
The setting within the six-storied Zhukovsky quarters was special, even home-like, designed to reduce stress. Here, the Rapid Response teams kept stand-by duty for alerts, rotating in seventy-two-hour shifts.
Sokolov’s team assembled in the large recreational area. As Klimov looked at his men during the debriefing, he saw their haggardness. Mischenko slumped in a sofa. Netto buried his face in his hands, stifling yawns. Standing by the window, his posture solid, Sokolov showed few signs of fatigue, and did most of the talking as he recounted their findings, Zubov adding the details of his trip ashore.
“I’m certain that this girl,” Klimov concluded after they had finished, “is the daughter of Timur Kasymov. Last night she was aboard the Olympia together with her father.”
Klimov voiced his concern for their own well-being. After all, they had been potentially exposed to hazardous substances. Their shift was over, so he ordered them to undergo a medical check and take a few days’ leave.
The quiet across the hallway was shattered by footsteps — a procession of feet, marching with determination. Klimov rose to face a group of men set towards him, the EMERCOM base commander at their side, protesting their actions. Seeing the Minister, he began an explanation.
“Daniil Petrovich, these people—”
“Don’t worry, I can handle them myself.” Klimov stood in their way, towering over the pack of officials. “Want do you want, gentlemen?”
Their leader stepped forward while the rest struggled to formulate a response between them. Klimov would have ignored him altogether had he not faced the EMERCOM Minister directly. He was profoundly unremarkable, average in every way — a shadow.
“Mr. Minister, I am here on behalf of the Federal Security Service,” he said, holding out his ID. “And my colleagues here serve the public as prosecutors and bailiffs.”
“I guess you missed my question. What do you want?”
“Dear Daniil Petrovich, we have come to conduct a search. Here is the warrant. We are looking for a woman named Asiyah Timurqyzy Kasymova, citizen of the Republic of Kazakhstan.”
Klimov felt an urge to twist the man’s neck.
“I have absolutely no idea why you would be looking for this lady within the walls of an EMERCOM base.”
“So you claim that you have no knowledge of her whereabouts?”
“Until a moment ago, I had no knowledge of her existence.”
The FSB man nodded slowly, and then said, “Dear Minister, that is a lie.”
Klimov exploded in outrage.
“Do you know who you’re talking to? I’ll make sure you regret ever coming here.”
“I hope it’s not a threat against the life of an officer on duty,” he smiled without humor. “Daniil Petrovich, I believe you will not contest the authority of a search warrant issued by court? We have the right to examine every forsaken corner of this fine establishment.”
Klimov gave him a cold stare. “You will have no cooperation from my staff. I’ll make your job very difficult.”
“Asiyah Kasymova is to be placed in custody of the witness protection program. She is vital to a case we’re investigating. But if she is unavailable at present, perhaps we could detain other important witnesses?” The FSB officer produced another document. “Summons for Messrs. Zubov, Sokolov, Mischenko and Netto to appear at the Prosecutor General’s office.”
Out of the corner of his eye, Klimov noticed Mischenko stiffen in his sofa. Netto blanched.
“I won’t let you have my men.”
“Let’s be reasonable. My men carry firearms. Things can get quite ugly. Of course, this procedure may be put on hold, indefinitely, should we find Ms. Kasymova.”
Effectively, it was blackmail. Klimov could hardly conceal his disgust.