The quantum solution, p.3
The Quantum Solution, page 3
Morokovsky chuffed. “Circumstances don’t concern me, Major. Just the modus of death. Which in this case is four stag tines to the midsection, puncturing upper and lower colon, causing Levrov to bleed out.”
“But then there’s the gray wolf. A wolf, a red stag, here at the same time as Levrov. Odd. Why didn’t he shoot them both? Even odder.”
Morokovsky shrugged, but there was a bitter edge to his voice. “There’s no answer for you here. Obviously.”
Major Korokova’s laugh was like a razor blade slitting flesh. Morokovsky shuddered despite himself. Though this was the first time he’d been in the field with her, he’d had plenty of experience with her inside the cold room—the mortuary—where bodies found a kind of peace following the violence of their deaths. She never shied away from either sight or smell. He hated her for that strength, which diminished his superiority over the outsiders—even those who outranked him—that entered his domain.
“No,” Juliet Korokova was saying now, “something’s definitely off here—an element that doesn’t track.”
“And you don’t know what?”
At that moment she turned away from him, put her satnav phone to her ear. She listened for a full minute before speaking.
“Even so,” she said in unaccented Turkish so none of the Russians could understand her, “circle back. You need to make sure. I need proof. That’s right. Something tangible.” She thought back to the severed finger of Thoth Abramovich Novikov that Kata had given her. Novikov, whom Korokova had seduced in order to obtain intel. “A finger will do quite nicely,” she continued. “Her fingerprint will provide all the proof I require.” And, she thought, it will tickle the Sovereign’s fancy. Oh, what a reward I’ll receive from him.
Quitting the call, she turned back to the pathologist. “Isn’t it possible,” returning to Russian, “that something happened to Levrov before he was gored. Something that froze him.”
These were not questions, and the pathologist knew it. Nevertheless, he felt compelled to say, “He could have had a massive myocardial infarction.”
“A heart attack.”
“Yes. But I won’t know for sure until I perform an autopsy back at—”
“A complete autopsy.”
Now Morokovsky was truly offended. “Major Korokova, in twenty-three years of service to the GRU I have only ever performed complete autopsies. I pride myself in never once cutting even a single corner.”
Korokova gave him a steady gaze, as close to an apology as he was going to get. “If the wolf came out of nowhere…” She stalked around the clearing. “Yes, the wolf.” All eyes were on her, even Morokovsky’s. “Why was the wolf here?” she said to herself. “Assume it was tracking the stag. And…” She tapped her forefinger against her lower lip. “… the stag saw it, saw the hunter with his rifle. Two threats, one more immediate than the other. So it went straight for the hunter.”
“You’re ascribing a human level of intelligence to an animal.”
“Not at all,” Korokova replied. “I speak of instinct. And memory. This stag was very large. This encounter with the hunter was unlikely to have been its first. It had learned, as all animals do. Often faster than humans. Why? Because their lives depend on surviving in a hostile world.”
She whirled, looking at the pathologist. “A wholly unexpected move. Another explanation for Levrov’s inaction.”
“A wild one, surely.”
“I don’t think so.” She stalked toward him like a wolf. “You’ll send your autopsy findings directly to me. And only to me. No copies.”
He shook his head. “You know that’s not how it’s done.”
But she was right up in his face. “It is now.”
3
ISTANBUL, TURKEY
Steam, but of a different kind now. Fragrant with fresh mint and melted sugar.
“The two women who left the pool together.” Evan’s voice was low. Nevertheless, it penetrated the animated conversations coming from the tables around them. They were the only women in the café, par for the course in Istanbul; as much as modernism had come to the city, tradition still held—the streets belonged to men, especially as darkness fell.
Lyudmila nodded. “That would be my guess.”
From the rear of the café they could hear the click-clack of tiles, as two old men played dominoes. Four others, heads leaning in, spoke in hushed tones of politics and religion, which for Turks were inextricably combined. Beyond the shadows and light of the café the world buzzed and jumped as sellers hawked their wares, street vendors shouted through the fragrant smoke of their charcoal fires, boys, their pockets stuffed with stolen fruit, ran down the winding street. Beneath the café’s striped awning Evan sipped her sweet mint tea, feeling her knotted muscles start to relax. But it would take more, much more to relieve her twanging nerves.
“Agents sent by the major?” That was how the two of them spoke of Juliet Korokova, a demeaning device that pleased them both.
“That would be my guess.” Lyudmila’s gaze darted here and there like a dragonfly, searching, always searching.
The server, a long, lean, dark-skinned Turk, arrived to refill their cups, which meant he’d been keeping an eye on them. Was he simply doing his job or did his job encompass more than waiting on tables?
When they were again alone, Evan said, “The question then becomes how did the major know where to find you?” When Lyudmila made no reply, Evan went on. “You have successfully evaded them for three years. What has changed?”
Lyudmila made a guttural sound in the back of her throat, an animal that has encountered a foreign scent. “You have a one-track mind.”
“I only met von Kleist once a year ago, as you know. I hardly know him.” Evan tilted her head. “But I have to wonder how well you know him.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Because you need him. His money. His connections.” Evan sipped her tea without taking her eyes off her friend. “Need makes dangerous bedfellows. Need makes people careless.”
Lyudmila’s eyes sparked. “You know I’m not careless.”
“And that’s what worries me,” Evan set her cup down. “There’s a mole in your organization. A very smart, very clever mole.”
Lyudmila’s gaze darted away again. When it returned to Evan, she said, “So we’ll tackle this from both ends. Clearly I must leave Istanbul as soon as possible. But you’re already here. Can you stay?”
Evan nodded.
“I’d like you to find those two women.” She cocked her head. “The steam. Did you get a good look at them?”
“Good enough. Sisters. Twins, maybe.”
Lyudmila nodded. “Good for us; bad for them.” She ruminated for a moment or two while in the rear of the café the two men, old and sun-blackened like bricks of charcoal, began another game of dominoes, their arthritic fingers moving with surprising dexterity. “This city’s lousy with Russians, has been since the forties.”
“You think the twins are Russian?”
“Not born, maybe, but perhaps Russian Turks.” She waved a hand. “They had to buy ether. Not so easy to obtain these days. And if they aren’t Turkish born then they’re marked coming through immigration, here or Ankara.”
Drawing out a small notepad, she scribbled down an address. Ripping off the top sheet, she handed it to Evan, who memorized the address, then put a match to it, turning it to ash.
“This man, Hamit—he’s a goldsmith. His work is excellent. Because of the wide range of his powerful clientele so is his intel.” She put a hand over Evan’s. “He knows me as Rakel. You will be Fiona, sister to Rakel.”
Evan laughed. “He won’t believe me.”
“Why, could we not be sisters?” Lyudmila squeezed Evan’s hand, left in the center of her palm a small token. “He will believe this,” she said.
As one, they rose, kissed in the European manner. All at once, Lyudmila drew her close, whispered fiercely in her ear, “The endgame has begun. Don’t forget.”
Evan began to ask her what she meant, but, suddenly in a rush, Lyudmila pushed away and strode out into the narrow street.
Evan watched Lyudmila quickly vanish into the seething crowd. The endgame. The stakes for Lyudmila—and by proxy Evan herself—were ratcheted up. Don’t forget. Don’t forget what? She didn’t know, and now she wondered if she would ever find out. Whether she would ever see her friend again.
* * *
In Karaköy, Lyudmila went down to the water. A sleek, polished wood speedboat waited for her, rocking gently in the swell. She climbed in without assistance, took a seat aft. The engines engaged fully, the nose of the speedboat rose, and they made a shallow arc, rushing beneath the gateway under the two-decker Galata Bridge, past the ferry terminal, the shops and restaurants, the neon signs, already gaudy as the sun hung low and swollen, sinking behind the minarets. The speedboat slowed only when they came in sight of a seaplane, resting on its pontoons. The pilot cut the engines and they drifted alongside the starboard pontoon. The door was open and a woman emerged, handed Lyudmila up into the plane. She settled into a seat, staring out across the Golden Horn to the European side of the city that had caused her so much joy and pain in equal measure. Well, she thought, that was life in a nutshell, wasn’t it?
As the seaplane took off she was alerted to a one-word text on a separate cell phone. She pressed a speed-dial number. Kata answered at once.
“Our issue still has yet to be resolved successfully.”
That was Kata, always “issue,” never “problem.” For Kata problems did not exist, only solutions, often at the business end of a weapon. “Tell me.”
“After a year of trying every which way I know to grow close to him I still haven’t been able to make any headway with Minister Kusnetsov.”
Lyudmila closed her eyes against the brassy flash and dazzle of sunlight off the waters of the Golden Horn. She wasn’t surprised, given the latest intel she had been given about the Sovereign. “That’s extremely unfortunate.” She was not about to tell Kata that Major Korokova’s people had just tried to kill her. Kata’s ultimate remit was to use Kusnetsov to get to the Sovereign, but now that wasn’t going to happen. In the years since Lyudmila’s self-imposed exile, the Sovereign had cleverly and systematically consolidated his power so resolutely, so unequivocally there was no one who dared stand against him, even Kusnetsov. In the years since her exile something had happened to the Sovereign. Possibly the latent insanity that now guided the increasingly intemperate moves he had made during the last three years was always there. Such a diagnosis would scarcely surprise Lyudmila, having come to the same conclusion months ago. The only person who might know for sure and whom they could actually ask was Evan and Kata’s birth father, Dr. Konstantin Reveshvili, but events had gone far beyond any assistance Konstantin could provide her. No one inside the Kremlin, no one inside all of the Russian Federation was capable of stopping the Sovereign, no matter what they might believe of his mental state. He had quelled all the pockets of resistance, jailed all the ringleaders, would-be ringleaders, supposed ringleaders. He had taken down more than a dozen oligarchs, who now resided behind bars in disgrace. These measures were enough to ensure that the rest of the oligarchs who had amassed their fortunes through his brutal kleptocracy fell in line behind him, not one of them daring to wield their immense fortunes against him. Russian sports figures, opera stars were also closemouthed when asked about him. His reach had always been long, but now it was virtually complete.
A month ago the moment had overtaken her. She knew it was now or never, the goal toward which she had been working for five years. How dangerous not only for her, but there was now no help for it. She thought of Evan then. How many times had the opportunity arisen for her to tell Evan the truth. Earlier today had been the last of an uncounted number during the last five years. But however much part of her wanted to, another part—the stronger part—forced her to bite back the words, adhering to the strict protocol she herself had created.
“Are you still there?”
Lyudmila snapped out of her rumination. “Of course.”
“Because there’s more.” And Kata told Lyudmila about the call she had received from Major Korokova, the mysterious death of Ivan Levrov. “He’s—”
“I know who Levrov is.” Lyudmila’s attention had sharpened a couple of notches. She had a keen interest in the progress of Directorate KV. Kata knew only that she needed to keep a sharp eye out for intel going in and out of the directorate.
“I’m about to helo out to join Korokova at the death scene.”
Lyudmila’s brain snapped into overdrive. “No,” she said.
“What?”
“Not you. Given what I know about her and the frosty aftermath of your first and only meeting with her I very much doubt that the good major would appreciate you stomping all over her territory.”
“We can’t just let it go.”
“Of course not. You’ll send someone from your cadre.”
“Do you have anyone in mind?”
“Naturally.” It was a curious thing, Lyudmila thought. She had been expecting the familiar razor edge to Kata’s voice but there was no hint of it. She put it down to Kata’s yearlong intimate entanglement with Alyosha Ivanovna. Even as she worked in Kata’s Directorate O, a small cadre created by Minister Kusnetsov, head of the FSB, Alyosha spent a majority of her working hours at her old job at FSB SIGINT, where she gathered intel for Kata and, by proxy, Lyudmila. Alyosha served as a grounding agent for Kata without, thankfully, blunting the killer instinct that made Kata so valuable to Lyudmila. “Send Rodion Stepanov Molchalin.”
“Captain Molchalin?” Kata was incredulous. “He’s the newest member of my group.”
“Yes, but I think he’s most likely to make a favorable impression on Major Korokova.”
“The Ice Queen?” Kata laughed. “I don’t think so. I’m not even sure she has a functioning sex organ.”
Now it was Lyudmila’s turn to laugh. “Send him in, Kata. At the very least he won’t rub her the wrong way.”
“Like I would.” Kata knew it and acquiesced. “Of course, who among us can know human mysteries?”
* * *
Putting away her phone, Lyudmila stared out the Perspex window, her thoughts turning to Bernhard-Otto von Kleist. He was handsome in the strict Prussian aristocratic sense—gray eyes, patrician nose, wide mouth, the close-cropped hair in the brush style of his long-deceased illustrious grandfather, General Robert von Kleist. He revered the general above all others, save perhaps his daughter Ghislane and, of course, Lyudmila herself.
He was an expert fixer. Every prominent pol in the EU came to him when they needed help of the sort only he could provide. As such he shunned the spotlight, not unlike Marsden Tribe, though their motivations were vastly different. Getting close to von Kleist was the relatively easy part; convincing him of their closeness and mutual trust far more difficult. She knew she had needed to be patient, to inculcate him over time. She had liked him and at times she convinced herself they were close. But then everything changed. Using him had been a calculated risk—one she had little choice but to take.
When she had gone rogue she had promised herself that she would never take on a partner. Partners were nothing but trouble. Not in the beginning, of course, when the romance was in full bloom—but as soon as they’d got their claws into the mechanism you yourself had created they were hell-bent on changing it under the rubric of “making it better,” when what they were really doing was refashioning the mechanism in their own image. Because of course they knew best; why else would you have hired them.
This line of reasoning was unfortunately what motivated von Kleist. She had met him in Malta eighteen months ago, when she used him to suborn Konrad Mischler, a Swiss German, director of a prominent Zurich bank with clandestine ties to the FSB, subsequently using him to feed disinformation to the Russians, particularly those who had turned against her. Von Kleist had had such a good time at it he’d refused her payment of his Everest-high fees. Over drinks they got to know each other, over dinner they became fast friends, in bed they forged a partnership over and over again.
Stupid, stupid, stupid, Lyudmila berated herself now. But she was in dire need of what he could provide; no one else could do what he did, not with his level of expertise, contacts, and favors extracted from grateful former clients. Now she had successfully maneuvered him to the sidelines. It hadn’t been difficult: he was in love with his own image as a top-of-the-line fixer, and in this regard he had more than enough business to keep him happily occupied.
She had lied to von Kleist, just as she had lied to Evan and Kata; lying was endemic with her, a way of life that might have been initially forced on her but for which she discovered she had an extraordinary talent. Plus, lying was addictive as cocaine or heroin.
Two years ago, she had convinced Kata that her birth parents were dead—even going so far as to take her to the graves of a couple she had passed off as Kata’s parents. She had done this even while Evan was meeting their birth parents, Konstantin and Rebecca Reveshvili, who ran a psychiatric clinic in the countryside northeast of Köln, Germany.
Lyudmila didn’t want Kata anywhere near her birth parents. Kata’s two children were there, safe and sound, along with Ben Butler’s daughter. They must be protected at all costs. I don’t like Kata. In fact, I despise her, but then that’s not so surprising: I created her. I did the initial intake when she arrived in Moscow. I saw something in her, something despicable, something horrendous. After only an hour with her I realized I was sitting across the table from a psychopath. A homicidal maniac. But perhaps I misjudged just how much she loves to kill. During the act of murdering someone is when she feels truly alive.
She was the polar opposite of her sister. It was Evan who had saved her niece and nephew. It was Evan whom Lyudmila loved above all others. I want to save her. I want her to live, I do, she told herself. And yet I keep sending her off to do my bidding where she will be anything but safe. As quickly as tears rolled down her cheeks she flicked them away with a contemptuous gesture. The trouble with me, she thought, is I like too much to play God.
