“In that case someone is going to all ends to hide his death. But why?”
“Fear, Danya. Someone is very afraid. Constantine couldn’t have murdered the Metropolitan. Perhaps he was there when it happened. It’s not his death that they want to hide — I’m sure it will be announced soon enough — but the very fact of murder. Whoever staged all this will attempt anything to make sure Constantine’s name isn’t dredged up if the media learn he’s the prime suspect.”
“You mean someone from higher up put a hand to this televised announcement? Like the FSB?”
“They are the only ones capable of this deception, and the ones interested in it. They’re chasing Constantine, and they know that someone wants to kill him. But it’s only a small piece of the jigsaw. What Constantine got himself into is bigger than this — and it stretches far back. A year ago. At the time when he vanished. So the FSB doesn’t want the connection between the Metropolitan and Constantine to be known to anyone. They don’t want those who are after him to know where to look. Perhaps even where they should have looked.”
“All of it is merely speculation at this stage, of course,” Klimov said.
“I’m ready to grasp at any sort of speculation when my brother’s life is at stake. And not only his life. I don’t have any other starting point, I’m afraid.”
“Yes, you’re right, Gene. Damned right. If I learn anything about the Metropolitan or your brother, you’ll know it.” Klimov drew a long breath. “Looks like we’re hitting dead ends on every front.”
“What do you mean?”
“We ran a chemical analysis of the hair sample you brought. It did not show a high concentration of any known poisonous substance. Same in Sochi after autopsies on the recovered bodies. Something killed them all before they drowned, without leaving a trace. And that makes it even more frightening.”
“No explanation to the symptoms?”
“None whatsoever.”
“Did the FSB experts have their say?”
“They’re clueless, apart from at least one cause of death that is certain. But it is an exception that is of little help to us in solving the rest.”
“And what sort of exception is that?”
“The President. Someone broke his neck.”
24
Sokolov sat alone on the bed, facing the glowing television, watching the recurring footage of the Metropolitan every time it appeared. In his mind he held the three pictures of the assassins’ targets — the photographs of himself, Constantine and Asiyah. Now he had to add a fourth print alongside those — the image of Ilia that he saw before him. Four lives thrown in a battle for survival by someone’s pathological whim. Ilia was most probably dead. The rest of them were pursued by the world’s most fearsome security agency on charges of murder. Not only this bedroom at the EMERCOM base, but everything in Sokolov’s life would be temporary as long as he was on the run. Until he settled all accounts. More so if Constantine was also dead, he thought as dread squeezed him.
“Eugene.”
She called his name in a tender voice.
He had not heard her approach him, so quiet was her step — or so unfocused was his mind that he did not register the intrusion despite his extraordinary hearing.
He stoop up sharply and turned in her direction.
Asiyah stood in the middle of the room. The door behind her was ajar. She was dressed in a white sleeveless shirt of the standard EMERCOM ladies’ variety and blue baggy pants. Her black hair glittered with freshness, still a touch wavy. Her skin was lustrous. Her eyes were full of satisfaction at him seeing her like this — not the miserable rain-soaked girl but a gorgeous woman.
“Eugene,” she said decisively now, “we must find your brother.”
“Please sit down,” he offered, and she settled on the bed next to him. “Why are you saying this, Asiyah?”
“Timur Kasymov, my father, is alive, and he needs to be stopped. He is a monster. The men who tried to kill us were sent by him. He blew up the Olympia and he is planning to go down in history as a mass murderer. If he wants to kill your brother, it means that somehow he crossed my father’s path, and he will not rest until your brother is dead. We must not allow it to happen.”
She looked him in the eye, letting him understand that no matter how crazy she sounded, it was not the aftershock taking over her. Her delivery was rational, her voice firm, calculated to make sure they both knew she was right. The enormity of her words was something that Sokolov now accepted as normal in the context of the last few days.
“I know, Asiyah. I’m going to find him. I’m setting off tomorrow.”
“You don’t understand. We must do it together. I want to go with you,” she said without hesitation.
“It’s better that you don’t put your life at risk,” he said in refusal.
She glared at him.
“As if my life isn’t at risk already!”
“I can’t allow it.”
“What makes you think you have this right?”
He was the one stung by the words now, and the truth behind them.
“I will not burden you,” Asiyah said. “I need to do something to escape this madness! I cannot just sit in a different prison cell, waiting for someone to kill me! I’d be safer near you, saner, too. If you left me, wouldn’t you be thinking all the time whether I’m still alive or not? Wouldn’t it distract you?”
“It would,” he admitted. “All the time.”
“Then let me stay near you. Your friends can’t stand watch at that door forever and risk their lives.”
Inwardly, Sokolov had to concede that she was right when she said that her safety would last only until the FSB produced another search warrant. And he couldn’t protect her if he was far away from her.
What truly amazed him was her energy, only a few hours after their escape.
“You don’t know what my father is like. You weren’t aboard the Olympia when she capsized in flames. You may come across a clue only I can interpret. You need me, Eugene… and I need you,” she let out in a whisper.
If he had any doubt, she dispelled it.
He could not be a hypocrite, telling her that she would be better off locked up. And he could not deny her logic. They were in this together.
Sokolov nodded and placed a hand on her shoulder.
“Get some rest, Asiyah. We’re leaving early.”
25
Comrade Director, we have a breakthrough.”
The encrypted line was reserved for matters of extreme urgency.
“We have deciphered Constantine’s disk,” Victor said. “The information it contains is staggering.”
Frolov gripped the handset, feeling sweat moisten his palm. For several years, that disk had been the holy grail of his work.
“The amount of data Malinin collected on his former employers equates to thousands of pages. I am preparing a full report, and it will take some time to process all the data we have obtained… but there are facts that I felt obliged to bring to your attention at once.”
“Yes? Go on.”
“The truth is, all this time we have been chasing phantoms. The Fourth International is a ruse. An elaborate ploy set in motion at the start of the Cold War. It does not exist… at least not in any tangible form.”
The words meant that a giant hand swept all the pieces from the virtual chess board that Frolov had meticulously set up. It would be a different game now, with a new player — and new rules. Which side held the advantage remained to be seen.