But now, Sokolov had survived the Renaissance assault without so much as a scratch, and yet felt crushed emotionally. Nothing took as heavy a toll on the psyche as war. He would get over the impact of the senseless killings, he knew. A single thought comforted him.
Homecoming. He would be back with his brother now.
The Ilyushin landed on the bizarre crisscrossing runway and took the assault team back to Chkalovsky before sunset. Throughout the duration of the flight, Sokolov remained silent, cradling Asiyah. She came to just once, and looked at him with her deep hazel eyes.
“Am I dead, Eugene?” she murmured in delirium. “I hurt so much…”
He administered a shot of analgesic and she slept until the plane touched down.
He had believed he could exorcise the demons of Beslan from his mind, but Renaissance filled him with the same futility.
It was some kind of a recurrent sick joke. He was bringing Asiyah to Moscow again, this time against her wishes. Again, there was no other choice for them both. He had saved Asiyah from death, but what did it mean for her life?
At Chkalovsky, Sokolov disembarked the plane as Grishin’s team unloaded their gear and the bodies of their comrades.
Two men had been waiting for the Ilyushin’s arrival. Constantine, who had come to see him. And Victor, who had come to get Asiyah.
The FSB security detail took Asiyah, placed her in their car and drove away.
Sokolov knew he would never see her again.
But he also knew he had to move on and return to normal life.
He had his brother back now. He had his job.
In the days that followed, as he and Constantine moved back to their apartment in Presnya, Sokolov encountered a strange impression of limbo. The FSB showed no interest in him. They didn’t call him up for a debriefing — or interrogation. They acted as if nothing had ever happened. Seemingly, Frolov disappeared from their lives as abruptly as he had invaded them.
When a call finally came a month later, it wasn’t from the Lubyanka.
Eugene and Constantine received summons to appear in the Kremlin.
2
The early morning light spilled over Frolov’s desk as the FSB Director was reading through a stack of documents. He had already finished with the reports from Colonel Grishin and Major Petrov, the transcripts of Asiyah Kasymova’s questioning and memos from a team of experts he was sending to Renaissance to inspect the bunker. The last folder was the most exciting: a progress report from the special operatives in Astana. They were preparing to stage a coup that would bring about the ascension of a loyal Kazakh general and allegedly force Timur Kasymov to flee the country. Frolov ascertained that the plan was advancing as scheduled. Now nothing could prevent the reunification referendum from going through. He locked away all the papers and tapped his fingers cheerfully on the empty desk.
Victor ushered a visitor.
Asiyah Kasymova entered Frolov’s office.
She was wearing an elegant business suit that combined well with her makeup. She had mended well, according to the doctors. Luckily, no bones had been broken, no organs seriously damaged.
“You look wonderful, mademoiselle. How do you feel?”
“Worse than I look, thank you, although much improved from five weeks ago. I don’t believe my incarceration in one of your fine medical institutions can benefit my health any further. So, Comrade Frolov, have you invited me here to announce my release or my death sentence?”
Frolov grinned. Not only did that woman have poise, she had enough daring to jibe him.
“You are fully aware that I can do neither, Asiyah. Killing you would be a waste, and releasing you would be sheer idiocy. You are too valuable and too dangerous. We have failed to retrieve any sort of data from Aralsk-7, let alone equipment. Starting our water-structure weapons technology from scratch will take years, provided the government can find financing, which is unlikely. We will need your knowledge and assistance then, if ever. But if you go to the Americans… Your expertise will give them a boost in a new arms race and we will never be able to close the gap. And back in Kazakhstan, you may well be killed because you know too much. An accident or a mugging, that kind of stuff. There’s only one decision to make. I can’t let you leave Russia. What I want to offer you is a choice.”
“A choice?” Asiyah raised her thin eyebrows. “A choice of prison?”
“Almost, but not quite. You can point your finger at any location on the map of Russia you want to choose as your place of residence. Any city, town or village that tickles your fancy. We will provide you with a new identity, money, housing, cars, anything you want. You will live in luxury. I only need your cooperation in the future.” Frolov held up his arms. “Well?”
“Sounds attractive, but I need time to think it over.”
“No. I must have your answer right now. You know you’re in no position to bargain.”
“Any town?”
“Yes.”
“In that case,” said Asiyah, “there is one place that I have very fond memories of.”
It was Frolov’s turn to be surprised.
“And what might that be, my dear?”
“Sochi.”
3
The St. George Hall was the largest in the Grand Kremlin Palace. Built under Nicholas I, it was meant to embody Russia’s glorious military history. The Hall’s white walls soared seventeen meters in height to form a curved ceiling, supported by eighteen massive pylons. Etched in gold on the marble plates of each pylon were the names all the Knights of the Order of St. George. Along its sixty-meter length, six crystal chandeliers illuminated the Hall, hundreds of lights reflecting in the polished floor woven from twenty species of wood. The walls were adorned with bas-relief sculptures and marble plaques bearing the names of Russian regiments.
At the window facing the Moskva River, encased in glass, was a silver composition depicting the Cossacks whose names were synonymous with the greatest Russian triumphs: Yermak, the discoverer of Siberia, and Matvei Platov, the vanquisher of Napoleon.
Being almost empty today, the St. George Hall gave the impression of being even more spacious than usual. Only twenty chairs were arranged in rows for the participants of the upcoming ceremony.
The ceremony itself was top secret. Neither the names of the attendees nor their accomplishments would ever be disclosed.
They were the members of the Alpha and Vympel teams who had assaulted Renaissance.
And alongside them, Eugene and Constantine Sokolov.
The brothers sat calmly in their silk-upholstered chairs, enjoying the St. George Hall’s splendor, aware of the occasion that necessitated their presence.
Each was about to receive the Gold Star Medal, the country’s highest decoration, and the accompanying honorary title, Hero of the Russian Federation.
Eugene had put on his midnight-blue EMERCOM full dress uniform. With a fresh shave and haircut, Constantine was sporting a black suit and tie.
Apart from being a secret, the ceremony was also a mystery.
Minutes before it commenced, the details of its protocol remained unknown.
Who was going to address them? Eugene wondered.
Would it be the Prime Minister? The Presidential Chief of Staff?