As if on cue, the lock clicked and two men entered the cabin before the door sealed again. Sokolov assessed them, his back pressing against the cold glass of the window. The first man was Frolov. Ramrod-straight yet light on his feet, Frolov passed through the room and sat on the edge of the bed, crossing his legs. It was the first time Sokolov had seen him up close. A short, stocky man, his thin grey hair combed over his skull. Sokolov noticed the capillaries on his bulbous nose. The flabby skin on his neck hung like a turkey’s snood. Over the decades, coffee and cigarettes had colored his teeth almost orange. Frolov enjoyed the triumph, a sneer slackening his jaw. His puffy eyes were going over Sokolov with careful interest, as if deciding whether a long-awaited trophy lived up to the hype.
Staying behind Frolov, acting as his guard was the man he knew as Hermann Weinstock.
“Are you afraid of me so much that you can’t face me alone? You brought your leashed dog to protect you?”
Weinstock’s neck flushed red but not a single muscle twitched. Frolov remained silent for a moment. He had expected to intimidate Sokolov with his presence, but Sokolov’s unexpected response but him on the back foot. Sokolov did not scream, sulk, protest or plead for mercy — he behaved like he was the one in complete control.
Frolov spoke calmly, but his voice had a hard edge to it.
“Not at all. My assistant — his name is Victor — is here to keep you from doing anything foolish, for your own sake. So I’m not afraid of you, Eugene.”
“I see no other reason for it, Frolov.”
“You are the only reason. Everything would have been a lot simpler if you had just agreed to follow my people from your house in Bykovo. Other factors came into play, of course, and you disappeared. From then on I had to draw you out — all the while keeping you from those who tried to kill you. I knew you had to make your move, eventually, because of your brother. My men kept watch at a number of locations that you were likely to appear at: your old apartment, the Novodevichy Convent, the Lavra… Fortunately, you chose the most direct route, and found Ilia at the Lavra. That old deluded fool did what he had to without even knowing it.”
Sokolov felt sick with the realization. The magnitude of Frolov’s deception seemed limitless. He was caught in a labyrinth of lies without a waypoint. How far-reaching was Frolov’s control? All the way to the attack against Constantine. The manipulation of Ilia. But to what detail had the lies been planned? As far as placing a fake news report in the national media, intended for just one man in the multi-million audience? As deep as having the President worry about a phony political force to give credence to the mirage? Lies seemed planted everywhere Sokolov looked — from allegations of Ilia’s murder to the staged bedlam of the OMON raid.
“You led me?”
“No. I did not bring you here. You came here through your own will. And you had to overcome a lot of obstacles on your way. You went to the Lavra to find answers. You followed the trail to the Rainbow Country Club. I did not make you enter the hotel. I did not force you to open the door to the conference hall. Chasing Weinstock was your own decision. Each choice was a mark of your bravery and determination. A test of your character as you went deeper into the rabbit hole. I have to say you justified my trust in you. Losing you would have been stupid because it also meant losing Asiyah. But you have come here, giving her to me.”
Frolov was just messing with his head, Sokolov told himself. Frolov was trying to make him feel guilty for failing Asiyah.
“Asiyah won’t be any good to you. She was at the wrong place at the wrong time. Let her go.”
“Do you really think she is innocent? Far from it. She deceived you in ways you could never imagine. She used you, and she doesn’t care about your fate anymore. I would even say she is quite comfortable right now.”
Could it be that Frolov knew that it was Asiyah who killed the President? Nothing seemed impossible any longer. Or was he talking about something else? It didn’t matter. Sokolov was tired of the mind games. In his mind, Asiyah was innocent.
“I don’t believe a word you’re saying,” he said.
“Without lies, there is no value to truth.”
“So what is your truth? How did any three of us cross your path? What do you want from us?”
“Your help.”
“What sort of help are you talking about?” Sokolov demanded.
“I think you will be more inclined to hear out the details together with your brother.”
“Where is he?”
“Constantine is aboard the New Star. He is in the master cabin next door.”
Frolov picked up the remote and powered on the widescreen panel.
Backing Frolov’s words, a still view of the other cabin filled the large screen.
Video cameras. That explained Frolov’s apt arrival after Sokolov had regained his senses. Could it also mean that the Olympia had been wired as well, and the FSB had obtained recordings?
The picture showed Constantine. He had his back turned to the ceiling-mounted camera, standing frozen before a similar television screen. There was no audio. Eugene was grateful to see Constantine, alive and well.
Frolov produced a plastic card from his pocket and held it up. “This is the keycard for his door. You can liberate him,” he said with a cruel smile. “Or maybe not. Don’t you think you’ve suffered enough because of him? Perhaps you shouldn’t be so eager to see him, after all. You will find nothing but more pain — for yourself, and for Asiyah.”
Eugene Sokolov snatched the keycard from the FSB Director’s fingers and stormed out, brushing Victor aside on his way.
12
The deck was empty. There were no guards in sight, but none were required. The New Star was a different kind of prison, restricting farther than the deck’s boundaries.
Running away was never an option for Sokolov in any case. He was focused only on the door to Constantine’s cabin. Sokolov held the small piece of plastic so tightly that his fingers turned white, fearing that the most precious item he’d ever had might suddenly disappear from his hand.
He slipped the keycard into the slit of the lock, but his fingers quivering, it did not open. Sokolov cursed, anxiety rising at the thought that the key was fake.
Then he heard movement behind the door.
“Constantine! I’m here to get you out!”
Nothing. No response from the other side.
Sokolov thrust the keycard sharply in and out of the slit again, and this time he heard the click of the lock mechanism. Grunting, he tore at the handle and rushed inside.
Right in front of the door, Constantine was facing him.
Overcome with emotion, Constantine gazed at him as if Eugene were an apparition, but his face lit up, seeing his brother after so long. Eugene placed his hands on his brother’s shoulders, and Constantine embraced him so tightly that Eugene’s breath was cut short. It felt like Constantine was never going to let him go, and Eugene did not want him to, holding his brother just as hard in return, feeling his warmth and his heartbeat.
“I’m so sorry, Gene… I’m sorry I pulled you into all this…”