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“An RA-115,” Osin said, “is engineered to last for years, so long as it’s wired to a power source. In case of a loss of power, a battery backup is provided. If the battery runs low, the weapon has a transmitter that sends a coded message by satellite to a Russian embassy or consulate.”
“Has any such signal ever been received?”
He nodded. “Seventy-nine. None was ever followed up on.”
“Which means they’re out of juice and harmless.”
He nodded. “That’s right. Then there are the other five. No signal has ever been received from those weapons.”
“Is it possible they still have power?” She paused. “After twenty-plus years.”
“Zorin apparently thinks so.”
“Go get them.”
“We don’t know where to look. Any records relevant to them are gone. We think Vadim Belchenko purged them.”
“Insurance for a long life?”
Osin smiled. “Probably. Unfortunately, Zorin may have discovered what Belchenko knows.”
Which explained the urgency in finding the old man.
Her phone vibrated.
Normally, she would ignore it, but since only the White House was still in her communications loop she decided to check the display.
LUKE DANIELS.
Which raised more alarms.
“This call could be relevant to what we’re discussing.”
“Please answer it.”
She did, and listened as Luke explained what had happened in Virginia ending with, “I assume you know what I’m doing, so I decided to call you instead of him. I don’t want to hear how I blew it. But I know I will. That woman’s long gone.”
“Where are you?”
“I called a tow truck and they hauled my Mustang to a lot just off I-66.”
He told her where.
“That house,” he said, “bears another look. I don’t want it to sit there wide open for long.”
Neither did she, so she said, “Hold on.”
She faced Osin. He’d been straight with her, and since she was short on resources and did not want Bruce Litchfield to know her business, she had little choice. “I need your help. We have to go to Virginia. It bears on Anya Petrova.”
“Tell me where and I’ll have the driver take us.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
Malone never had any intention of meeting Zorin at some observatory. That would be the precise definition of stupidity. So he’d avoided the unusual-looking facility on a rocky hilltop and driven another fifteen miles north to the dacha. The two-laned highway framed by snow paralleled the lakeshore, and he’d passed no cars coming from the opposite direction, which made him wonder even more about Zorin. More than likely, the only thing waiting for him at that observatory was trouble. So he decided to just plunge straight into the lion’s den.
His sense of direction was excellent, thanks in large part to his eidetic memory, a blessing bestowed upon him in the womb. He often wondered where the genetic trait came from and was finally told by his mother that her father had likewise been blessed. He’d actually grown accustomed to never forgetting a detail. He could remember word-for-word essays he’d written in grammar school, and exactly what happened at every Christmas. It had certainly come in handy as a lawyer, then when he worked for the Magellan Billet. Now it helped him keep inventory on the rare books at his shop in Copenhagen. But it also prevented the memories of Cassiopeia Vitt from fading. He recalled every detail of their time together, and that was not necessarily a good thing.
He found the winding lane he recalled seeing from the air that led up to the perch where the dacha waited. He eased the truck off the highway and into the trees, stopping atop a snowy patch of ground. He parked and trekked up toward the house, scrambling from one tree trunk to another through the drifts, his boots crunching atop dry snow. Evergreen boughs and the spiny tentacles of leafless trees reached for the ever-darkening sky. His eyes smarted from the wind and cold. A daily regimen of squats and sit-ups had definitely kept his muscles toned, but the frigid climb taxed him.
He found the top, glancing back and noticing how the snow betrayed his presence with a trail of footsteps. A rusted, waist-high wire fence blocked the way ahead. A draft of icy air off the nearby lake stung his throat. He settled behind a thick pine and gazed at the dacha. Smoke continued to waft skyward from three chimneys. One of the two vehicles that had been there earlier was gone. Strains of folk music floated through the frosty air. He located the source. An outbuilding, this one round, all of wood, no windows and a single door, a thin spire of vapor steadily escaping from the top of its conical roof.
His mission was to search for Vadim Belchenko. He’d been shown a picture taken a few years back. The man was some kind of former KGB archivist. If found, he was to retreat and report the location. The first part would be relatively easy, the second not so much as his cell phone had been destroyed. But he had the truck and could find a phone somewhere.
He stepped over the fence and scampered across a blacktopped area that spread out from the end of the drive to the house, the smoking round building leaking music situated to one side. He negotiated the pavement with care since he could not afford a fall on black ice. He came to the round building’s doorway and quickly entered, assaulted by a welcomed wave of warm, dry air. Another doorway led farther inside, blocked by a fur blanket that hung from its jamb. He peeled back a small section of the blanket—enough for him to see that the building was some sort of sauna. A fire burned in the center beneath a bed of hot stones. An old man sat on the lower level of a series of pine benches that rose against the far wall. He was naked, laid out with his legs extended straight, gnarled hands intertwined behind his head. The features matched the picture he’d been shown.
Vadim Belchenko.
Music swelled from a small CD player that lay on the bench. He slipped inside and approached the old man. The f
ace looked like a bland mask, broad and flat with skin the color of dirty snow. The closed eyes were set back into wrinkled cups of folded flesh. Wet, blondish hair covered the scalp, and the only indications of advanced age came from the sunken chest and cheeks. The older man calmly smoked on a potent-smelling cigar.
He reached down and shut off the music.
Belchenko opened his eyes and sat up. Both pupils were clouded with cataracts.
“My name is Cotton Malone,” he said in English.
Belchenko stared at him. “And what are you doing here?”
“I’ve come to see if you’re okay.”
“Why would I not be?”
“You disappeared and people were wondering.”
“You mean Russian state security was wondering. And why would they send an American to see about me?”
The voice was low and throaty, with no inflection, emotion, or concern.
“That’s a question I’ve been wondering, too.”
Belchenko exhaled a cloud of blue smoke that drifted upward. “Are you a spy?”
“Not anymore.”
The hot air was drying his nostrils, so he kept his breathing shallow and through his mouth. Sweat began to trickle down his spine, leaving a chilly path.
“Let’s just say I’m a part-time spy.”
“We had a few of those in my day. I never cared for them.”
“Where is Zorin?”
“He went to meet with you.”
He hadn’t come to chitchat. In fact, his mission was done. He’d found Belchenko and now he had to report in. But old habits were hard to break, so he had to ask one more question. “Why does the Russian government give a damn what you do?”
“Because I know things, Mr. Malone. And they want to know those things, too, before I die.”
Now he understood. “And you promised to tell them.”
“It seemed a small price to pay in order to stay alive. Once they know, I will have no value. You really do not understand what you have been thrust into, do you?”
