Andrew Kaplan - Scorpion Winter

By the time he walked back through the snow to Khreshchatyk, it was two in the morning. The boulevard was empty and it was too late for a taxi. He saw a lone car coming and flagged it down. The driver was a young bureaucrat on his way home. He said something in Ukrainian to Scorpion, who just handed him a hundred hryven bill and told him the address of his apartment. That was the thing about Ukraine. You could buy anything; they all needed money.

Scorpion closed his eyes and let the young man talk and drive. He was exhausted and jet-lagged, and everything that had happened that day finally hit him. Gabrilov would lead him to where information on the assassination was coming from, without ever knowing that he was doing it… in the morning.

Povitroflotskyi Prospekt

Kyiv, Ukraine

The Russian embassy was a concrete structure on Povitroflotskyi Prospekt, an area of government buildings and wide boulevards covered with snow. By morning it had stopped snowing. Scorpion crunched through the snow into the embassy and went up to a man at a desk in the marble lobby, done in a style Bob Harris had once facetiously called “dictatorship moderne. ” Framed pictures of the Russian president and prime minister were on the wall behind the man and a bored-looking Russian soldier sat in a nearby chair beside a metal detector.

“I would like-” Scorpion began.

“No visas here. Go to Consular Division on vulytsya Kutuzova, Pecherska Metro,” the man said in English.

“I’m here to see Oleg Gabrilov.”

“You have appointment?”

“Tell Gospodin Gabrilov I’m about to publish a story that names him, but prefer to give him a chance to talk to me first,” Scorpion said, handing the man his Reuters business card.

The man looked at the card.

“You wait,” he said, and picked up the phone. He dialed an extension and spoke in rapid Russian. It sounded like he was arguing with someone. That didn’t surprise Scorpion. Unlike the CIA, senior SVR officials often held low-level positions in Russian embassies. “With the Russkies, don’t look at the guy being chauffeured around, look at the driver,” Rabinowich used to say.

The Mercedes killings had been on TV and were the second lead on the front page of the Kyiv Post that morning, the top story being accusations of corruption and bribery alleged against presidential candidate Viktor Kozhanovskiy by a newspaper associated with the Cherkesov campaign. Scorpion had read the story over breakfast at a local Dva Gusya fast-food restaurant.

The politsiy believed the Kutuzova Street killings, named for the street where he had left the Mercedes, were a mafia hit. They were questioning Syndikat informants but so far had no leads. The Syndikat boss, the notorious Genadiy Viktorovych Mogilenko, was “unavailable” for comment.

The man at the lobby desk hung up the phone and motioned to Scorpion.

“Gabrilov upstairs. You go through,” he said, motioning him to the metal detector. “He take you,” indicating the soldier.

Scorpion went through the metal detector and followed the soldier to a second floor office. The soldier knocked and gestured for him to go inside.

Gabrilov was a medium-sized man in a sagging gray suit. His face sagged too, like a basset hound, and his office reeked of the same pipe tobacco Scorpion had smelled in his apartment just a few hours earlier.

“Govorite li vy Rossiyu?” Gabrilov asked him if he spoke Russian.

“Ochen malo,” very little, Scorpion said.

“What wants Reuters agency with me?” Gabrilov said in an odd English-Russian hybrid, a hodge-podge Harris, referring to someone else, had once called “Bering Strait English.”

“I’m an investigative reporter on a story about a possible assassination attempt on one of the Ukrainian candidates,” Scorpion said. “Your name came up.”

“Which candidate?”

“Cherkesov.”

“This sumashedshy! You understand, crazy!” tapping his head with his fingers. “Cherkesov is good droog friend of Russiya. Who tells you this?”

“ Izvinitye.” Sorry. “I don’t name my sources.”

“You sure? They say my name?”

“My sources say the assassination story comes from you.”

“Is mistake. I know nothing of this! You must not spread such lies!” wagging his finger at Scorpion.

“Of course, it could be disinformation. Just to throw suspicion on Kozhanovskiy to hurt him in the election. There’s been a suggestion you might be SVR. They’ve been known to do such things.” Scorpion smiled.

“This is big lie! I am kulturnye officer. Vydi von! ” he shouted. “Get out!” gesturing for him to leave.

“That’s too bad,” Scorpion said, starting to rise out of his chair. “We could have cleared this up and no one would know. I could keep you as an unnamed source. Now, you’ll be famous. Probably not what the SVR had in mind.”

“Wait! Pazhalusta! ” Please! Gabrilov held up his hand. He looked shrewdly at Scorpion. “Who are you? CIA?”

“I’m not even American,” Scorpion said.

“Nichivo.” Never mind. Gabrilov shrugged. “What your nationality?”

“Canadian; working out of London. Who’s your source on the assassination plot?”

“I know nothing.”

“Yeah, I know. You’re just a kulturnye officer. Da svidaniya, miy drooh,” Scorpion said, getting up. He had almost reached the door when Gabrilov called after him.

“Wait! Was someone from Kozhanovskiy campaign. Secret. I cannot say name.”

“You have someone embedded in the Kozhanovskiy campaign?”

“This election important to Russiya. We have informants in both sides. No doubt your CIA is doing same.”

“I told you, I’m not American. It’s not my anything.”

“Of course not! You Canada-man, not Amerikanyets. I am kulturnye officer, not SVR. We understand each other perfect,” Gabrilov said, and lit his pipe, wreathing himself in a cloud of smoke.

“You’re saying someone in the Kozhanovskiy campaign is planning to assassinate Cherkesov?”

“This is bad thing, understand? This not good for Russiya, not good Ukraina. Will be very bad. Someone must to do something, da?”

“Da,” Scorpion said. “Someone must to do something.”

Lypky

Kyiv, Ukraine

She blew into the room telling him he had three minutes. Her armament included a gray Prada suit, pearls, and a Ferragamo purse. Her hair was black and pageboy straight, and her eyes were like no one else’s, a disturbing lapis lazuli blue. Iryna Shevchenko was stunningly beautiful and knew it. Even more, Scorpion thought later, there was something about her. A presence. Even in a room full of people, you wouldn’t be able to take your eyes off her.

She waved away a male aide who had followed her in and sat on a desk.

They were on the top floor of a building on Instytutska in the Lypky district that served as a campaign office. Through the window behind her Scorpion could see buildings, and beyond them the snowy expanse of Pecherska Park and the Dnieper River glazed with ice.

“Mr. Kilbane,” she said, peering at his Reuters badge after they said hello. “They said you were an investigative reporter, Reuters, London. You don’t sound British.”

“Canadian. Where’d you learn your English?” Scorpion asked.

“Benenden and Oxford. Plus some time in Washington,” she said, lighting a cigarette. “What’s this about?”

“There’s a story going around that someone in your campaign is planning to bump off your opponent, Cherkesov. Care to comment?”

“Good God! Where’d you get such a story?” she said, color draining from her face. Her fist clenched and unclenched in her lap.