The quantum solution, p.2
The Quantum Solution, page 2
The two women kissed in the European fashion, briefly stared into each other’s eyes, touched foreheads in private celebration of their reunion.
“How is your first year with Marsden Tribe?” Lyudmila asked as Evan settled beside her.
“You know how it went.”
“Ah, yes. But underneath. Where even angels like me are blind.”
Evan waited a moment, the steam from the water a thin, twining mist between them. “He likes me.”
“Ah.”
“Nothing has happened.”
“Yet.” She swung her head, her damp hair slapping her shoulders, left, right. “Watch out for him.”
To this Evan said nothing. So. Time to move on.
“I’ve made a dangerous move,” Lyudmila said so softly Evan had to take a moment to process the sound into words. “Someone in a very secret section of the service—” She meant the Russian intelligence services, FSB or GRU, maybe. “—he did a very stupid thing. He called out his superior for a mistake—a serious mistake—that would set the program back at least a year. His opinion. Marius Ionescu.”
“A Romanian.”
“Extraction. Russian born and bred. But I believed him when he reached out to one of my contacts. I believe him even more now.”
“So now this Marius Ionescu is my problem?”
“No. Not at all. Oh, well, peripherally maybe. But, no, I’m taking care of Ionescu. But…”
“But what?”
Her hand covered Evan’s, squeezing it with some urgency. And Evan thought, She’s vulnerable. For the first time since she disappeared from Moscow she’s vulnerable. A quicksilver shiver of fear lanced through her.
“We’re friends,” Lyudmila whispered, leaning close. “More than friends.” Wreathed in mist and sweat. “Sisters. Under the skin.”
“Of course we are.” Evan would not refute her. Anyway, she was too busy wondering what this was all about.
Lyudmila relaxed visibly but her eyes turned inward. Always full of surprises. “In the days of Abdul Hamid he had of course a harem. The last sultan so the last harem in Istanbul, in all of the Empire. Before Turkey was Turkey. Not all the women in the harem saw Abdul Hamid let alone were led to his bedchamber at night. No. But these women longed to be gözde—in the eye—noticed by the sultan. Once to be desired. Now to be feared.”
Lyudmila turned a little, the heated water stirring, eddying languorously out from her.
“After being ‘dead’ for so long,” she continued, “I am now gözde. In the eye of the Sovereign.”
Evan was shaken. This was bad. Very bad. “But why would you take such a chance?”
“As I said, I took him,” Lyudmila said. “I have Ionescu. And I will keep him.”
Evan spread her hands, droplets of water running down her wrists. “That is the foolish thing. Offering him sanctuary.”
“In a way I had no choice.”
“Becoming gözde. For him. Is he that important?”
Lyudmila’s eyes clouded for a moment, once again turning inward. Then her direct gaze returned, spotlit on Evan. “Marius Ionescu is a particle physicist of the first rank. He was second-in-command of Directorate KV. Embedded in the GRU.”
“So military.”
Lyudmila nodded. “Yes. But.”
Evan shook her head. “I’ve never heard of Directorate KV.”
“You see?” Lyudmila took a breath. “Directorate KV. Shorthand for kvant.” Her eyes slid away for a moment. Uncharacteristic. At last she came to the point. “Kvant, a very singular particle of energy. Quantum.”
Evan stared at her. “Full circle. We’re now back to Marsden Tribe.”
“Perhaps,” Lyudmila said, her voice softened like butter in sunlight. “Peripherally. I don’t know. Yet.” She moved closer so their foreheads touched. Lowered her voice even further. “I was forced to take a calculated risk. Ionescu is that important. But in spiriting him away I exposed myself. Now the Sovereign knows I’m alive and well.” Her eyes searched Evan’s. “They’ve put a black flag out on me.”
Black flag. A death warrant. What did she want? Help? Sympathy? Something else altogether, hidden from Evan. That was Lyudmila’s way, despite their deep and abiding friendship.
“They?” Evan said.
“The GRU. But of course with the Sovereign’s blessing.”
“You slipped through his fingers. He hates you.”
“Because I am still alive, he hates me. Because I gathered to myself so much power in so little time, he fears me.”
“It seems to me,” Evan said, “that hate and fear are the same thing. Especially in this circumstance.” She frowned. “But why the GRU? What he’s ordering is an SVR remit.”
Lyudmila’s pale eyes glittered. “The Sovereign assigned a certain GRU officer, once captain, now major, to track me down and kill me. As to why, it’s a story old as time.”
“She’s the Sovereign’s mistress?”
“One of,” Lyudmila said. “Her name is Juliet Danilovna Korokova. But in any case it won’t be easy. She’s a very nasty piece of work.”
“You know her?”
“By proxy only. But I know a great deal about her. Enough anyway to beg you not to underestimate her. Whatever it seems she can do—be assured it’s ten times worse. And now of course she has the Sovereign’s imprimatur. Everything is open to her. Virtually all resources.”
Evan considered for a moment. “So. Another thing I must know. How tightly is Korokova bound to the Sovereign?”
“She is kadife,” Lyudmila replied. “Velvet, directly translated. But not its meaning. In the parlance of the Ottomans she is his favorite.” This unsettled Lyudmila more than Evan could ever know. Some things were too vital—secrets cut too close to Lyudmila’s bones.
The steam rose more thickly now, making it difficult to see the other side of the pool, let alone the series of blue translucent windows rimming the inverted bowl of the space.
“Have you any more intel on this Major Korokova?”
“I’ll send what little Alyosha Ivanovna has been able to scrape together to the sandbox on your mobile.”
A line of sweat ran down the side of Evan’s face. “Does she have any leads as to your whereabouts?”
Lyudmila’s head swiveled. “You’re asking if there’s a leak in my cadre.”
Evan nodded. “That would be my initial concern.” Droplets plopped into the water, one by one. “Especially since you’ve incorporated von Kleist into your scheme.”
“He’s the leak, you mean.”
“Or one of his people.”
“He has no people within my cadre. Apart from his daughter, and during your time in Nuremberg last year you got to know Ghislane better than I do.”
“She’s not the leak,” Evan said firmly.
“Neither is von Kleist.” Lyudmila spread her hands. “He’s currently in Zurich, working his own patch. I’ve never let him near the heart of my organization. He’s peripheral.”
Evan waited, but when it became evident there would be nothing more forthcoming, she sighed. So there’s another explanation, she thought. She closed her eyes. Bones jellied, the heat relaxing all her muscles, the steam warming her insides as her breathing slowed. Drowsiness descended.
Lyudmila drifted, and into her loosened mind came an image of Bobbi Ryder. Bobbi Ryder, now known as Kata Hemakova, had defected five years ago. The FSB had worked their magic so that everyone—even most within the FSB—believed Bobbi to be dead. That included her sister, Evan. Kata was a stone-cold psychopath. Someone who loved the kill—lived for it if Lyudmila was any judge. But Kata had been invaluable; she was Lyudmila’s mole inside the FSB. And what a successful mole she had turned out to be, working her way up the hierarchy—no small thing for a female, especially one who did not use sex to advance her career. She had cleverly and systematically exterminated everyone in her path until now she reported directly to Minister Darko Kusnetsov, head of FSB.
One of the women on the other side of the pool slowly morphed into Kata. Lyudmila imagined the catastrophic encounter—Kata staring at them, gimlet-eyed, hatred stirring her until the moment Evan locked eyes on her, recognized her as Bobbi, the sister she thought dead and buried. Kata, reacting to the recognition in Evan’s eyes, launched herself through the water, clawed hands at the ready. The idea of Evan becoming aware of Bobbi’s continued existence working for the Russians, the possibility of Kata meeting Evan were unthinkable; the two sisters would destroy each other, there could be no other outcome. Lyudmila would move heaven and earth to prevent that from occurring.
Across the pool, two of the women, sisters possibly, removed their washcloths, climbed out of the water. Wrapped in oversized towels, they disappeared through the arched stone doorway.
A ripple lapped against Evan’s chest, and she opened her eyes to slits. The cloth over the eyes of the remaining woman had fallen into the water. Evan could make out smaller ripples arcing away from the spot when it had hit the surface. How such little things could affect you when you were in still water. The slightest movement …
That was when the woman across the pool canted over, slipped face-first into the water. It took a moment for Evan to react, as if the heat had made her sluggish. She pushed off, using more effort than usual, not that that occurred to her in the moment, though it should have. Halfway across, she faltered. An acrid odor scraped the back of her throat. Her nostrils dilated. In the back of her mind a warning alarm sounded, but it was dampened by the mist coming off the water. She awoke sputtering and coughing water out of her mouth, pulled her head up from the water. How had that happened? She could have drowned.
Struggling forward was like dragging herself through quicksand, but at last she reached the woman, hauled her back out of the water. But two fingers to her carotid confirmed she was already dead. Overcome by vertigo, Evan sank down again under the water. Her limbs seemed to be all but useless. With a jerk of terrified consciousness she whipped her head and upper torso out of the water. Sucked in the thick air in convulsive breaths. But that only increased the burning in her throat. And then her brain registered the noxious smell, and, with a soft cry, she turned, made her way back the way she had come.
Lyudmila’s eyes were closed when Evan reached her, her breathing dangerously slow. She was about to slip under the water. Evan caught her in her armpits, drew her back up so that the back of her head rested against the lip of the pool.
“Lyudmila.” Used one hand to slap her hard across the face. “Lyudmila! For Christ’s sake, wake up!” And again, even harder this time, leaving a white imprint that soon turned pink as blood rushed in under her skin.
But the physical actions somehow caused Evan to lose whatever focus she’d had. She hung onto Lyudmila, her forehead resting against the hollow of her friend’s shoulder. Her thoughts were clouded. She tried to string one to another but she seemed to be lost inside her own mind. A darkness, sticky as tar, curled around the periphery of her vision. She tried to lick her lips but her tongue refused to move. The inside of her mouth had dried up.
In desperation she pinched the inside of her arm, rolled the skin around, then dug a nail in. Drawing her own blood had a startling effect on her. Her eyes opened wide and she resisted the urge to suck in more air. Instead she held her breath. Then, bending into the water, fingers interlaced, she took a grip on Lyudmila’s bottom, shoved her as far out of the water as she could manage. A soft pulsing had started up behind her eyes, and she realized she was feeling the pumping of her blood.
She rested her head against Lyudmila’s belly until she could catch her breath. But she started, knowing she couldn’t take a breath—not one more. She had to pretend that she was under water. No oxygen until she could surface.
Pushing and shoving, she finally got Lyudmila all the way out of the pool. But then her strength failed her. Even her iron determination seemed paralyzed. Her head nodded; the water was rising. Or she was falling toward it.
Just as her nose pierced the skin of the pool she felt a lurch upward, a fierce tugging as Lyudmila hauled her out. Together, staggering, lurching, once going down on their knees, the two women made their way to the circumference of the room. Evan’s fingers, feeling like sausages about to burst their skin, fumbled with the old-fashioned lock, swung the metal clasp free. Together, they lifted the window, shot their heads and shoulders into the cold clean air, took gasping breaths deep inside them, working the oxygen in and the gas that had filled the pool room out.
“What … what?” Lyudmila finally gasped. Her voice had deepened an octave.
“Ether.” Evan’s voice, too, was deeper, ragged, almost a rasp. Her throat felt scoured, as if she had been forced to swallow a mouthful of iron filings. She coughed. “Crude but effective.”
“Very Russian,” Lyudmila said a bit breathlessly.
Evan leaned further over the thick stone sill and heaved while Lyudmila held her hair back from her face. “Just like high school,” Evan said thickly. Her face was pale, washed out.
“Yours maybe,” Lyudmila said. “Not mine.”
Evan took several minutes to breathe in prana, oxygenating her lungs and bloodstream, expelling the last of the ghastly ether. At length, she turned her head and looked at Lyudmila. “This the major’s doing?”
“Korokova.” Lyudmila nodded grimly. “Juliet Danilovna Korokova.”
2
ROSTOV REGION, RUSSIAN FEDERATION
Major Juliet Danilovna Korokova stood ankle-deep in snow, amid towering pines. Blood spattered the otherwise immaculate white clearing, glaring in the spotlights ranged around the body of Ivan Levrov, sprawled facedown. On Major Korokova’s orders, no one had touched the corpse. Even the forensic technicians were held back. They watched her with a combination of lust and fear. She was big, blond, and busty: wide of hip, narrow of waist, with the muscled legs of a runner. The GRU pathologist, Morokovsky, had been directed to come out here, a two-hour flight from Moscow, with a GRU cadre under her command, with no imminent hope of getting back there anytime soon. It was on Korokova’s orders that they had set about erecting a tented village. Supplies and all his medical equipment were on their way. Now, standing beside her, he revealed his impatience by rather showily shifting his weight from one foot to the other.
“Prekrati!” Korokova snapped. Stop it! And he did. Immediately. No one on the team would risk getting on the major’s shit list. It was easy to get on; almost impossible to get off. This was known, and feared, even before she became one of the Sovereign’s favorites. Her temper was as legendary as her prowess at winkling out rotten apples no matter how deeply they were buried inside the GRU. Had she been another person with a different temperament she would have been admired. No matter. She’d rather be feared than admired. Fear was the best motivator. This she had learned from her father, towering over her like some god out of the writings of Nietzsche. She aspired to be like her father in all ways, at all times.
As for Morokovsky, the GRU’s chief pathologist, no one knew his first name or his patronymic; no one bothered to look them up. He was simply Morokovsky, had always been Morokovsky. To say that he and Korokova did not get along was an understatement. They despised one another. Why, no one seemed to know, only that the animosity was deep-rooted. Morokovsky was at the top of her shit list, never to be dethroned—although within GRU there was a thriving business in wagering on that eventuality.
Korokova, surveying the scene as if with a stethoscope, searching for a pulse hidden from every other observer, still had not moved. Forbidden to rock back and forth, Morokovsky began to grind his molars with such force the resultant squeal was like the braking of steel wheels against railroad tracks.
Korokova circled the clearing and then at a certain spot crouched down. “All right,” she said, “turn him over.”
“About fucking time.”
“What did you say?” Her eyes staring at a fixed spot in the thin layer of freshly fallen snow.
Morokovsky flinched as if he had been slapped. “Just because you run your own directorate inside—”
Her head swiveled on her swan’s neck. Her Medusa stare stopped him cold.
With an effort that terrified him, Morokovsky jerked his eyes away. He barked an expletive-laden order to two of the forensic team, who stepped forward and with a minimum of effort turned the corpse onto its back, revealing a large pool of blood, black as oil in the spotlights. Then, “Well, that’s interesting.”
Korokova, still in her crouch, said nothing.
“I think you’ll want to see this, Major.” The pathologist could not keep the smugness out of his voice.
Korokova kept her focus on the crust of newly fallen snow.
Miffed, Morokovsky went on. “Ivan Levrov was gored to death by a very large stag.”
“Perhaps.” Korokova appeared unperturbed.
“No ‘perhaps’ about it.” He pointed to the ragged wounds. “It’s fact.”
She rose and, snapping on rubber gloves, passed around to the far side of the corpse. Bending down, she picked up Levrov’s hunting rifle, all but fully hidden beneath the snow. She checked all aspects of the rifle before she said, “Look here. His Sako A1 .220 is a first-rate hunter’s weapon. It’s been fired recently.” At last, she looked at the corpse, picking her way carefully over to it. “Levrov was a first-rate hunter of red deer. He shot it but didn’t kill it. Two of your men ran it down and finished it off. They brought it to Cook. It’s so large it must have excited Levrov to no end; it did Cook.” She shook her head. “The gray wolf with the broken back was the largest my men had ever seen. Very possibly that’s why Levrov’s shot was wide of the mark, how, distracted, he allowed the stag to run into him.”
