Andrew Kaplan - Scorpion Winter

“What is this about?”

“I need to talk to Cherkesov. It’s urgent.”

“It always is.” Gorobets allowed himself a thin smile. “Yuriy Dmytrovych is not available. You will have to talk to me or-” He hesitated.

“Or?”

“Nothing. You will have to talk to me.”

Scorpion glanced around. “Not in all this crowd,” he said.

Gorobets glanced at one of his aides, a tall man with thick sandy hair, who shouted something. Within seconds the room was cleared of everyone except two Black Armbands. One of them was a heavily muscled type over six-three, with long blond rocker hair. By the way he held himself, Scorpion would’ve bet that he was Spetsnaz-trained. Shelayev. The guy who crushed heads like eggshells.

More impressive than that was the way everyone had obeyed, without Gorobets having to say a word. It was unmistakable, Scorpion thought. Gorobets was feared.

“You have thirty seconds,” Gorobets said, looking at his watch. “After that, you can talk to Shelayev,” indicating the Spetsnaz type.

“May I?” Scorpion said. He reached into his pocket and pulled out Pyatov’s photo. “I’ve been tracking this story since I got to Ukraine. This man,” tapping the photo, “plans to kill Cherkesov.”

“So?” Gorobets shrugged.

“You’re not impressed? Suit yourself,” he said, starting to turn away.

“We get one or two of these threats a week, Mr. Kilbane. Why should I take this one more seriously than the others?”

“Because it is. This man,” indicating the photograph, “his name is Sirhiy Pyatov, may have already killed his girlfriend to cover it up. He worked for the Kozhanovskiy campaign.”

“So!” Gorobets’s eyebrows went up a notch. “That’s more interesting.”

“Not really. You’d blame anything on Kozhanovskiy. If something happens, you need me, a Reuters independent, to make it credible.”

“Perhaps.” Gorobets shrugged. “When is this ‘assassination’ supposed to take place?”

“Tonight.”

“At the rally?”

Scorpion nodded. “Have any of your people seen this man?”

“And you are helping us because… you have sympathy for our cause or some great love for the Ukrainian people?”

“You know perfectly well I don’t give a govno shit about your cause or the Ukrainian people. Whether Pyatov kills Cherkesov or you kill Pyatov, I just want the story,” Scorpion said.

“Or perhaps this is a plot to infiltrate us. Anyone can have an ID,” Gorobets said. “How do I know you are not working for Kozhanovskiy or one of the Western powers? CIA? MI-6? Why not let you discuss it with Mr. Shelayev,” indicating the big blond skull-crusher staring at him coldly, “and see if he can convince you to be more forthcoming?”

“Because it won’t solve your problem. I gave my Glock to Pan Oliynyk. Here’s the magazine,” he said, taking out the clip to show him. He sensed Shelayev tensing, ready to move. “If I were the danger, I wouldn’t have given it to him, I would’ve used it. You’d be dead now. Go on, check.”

Gorobets looked at Scorpion in a way that made him understand why people were so afraid of him. Gorobets tapped his cell phone and spoke into it briefly. Suddenly, he was all smiles, the friendly uncle. Now he’s really dangerous, Scorpion thought.

“I’m very grateful, Mr. Kilbane. You’ve done us a great service. I apologize for my suspicions,” he said, putting a friendly hand on Scorpion’s shoulder. “May I keep this photograph?” not handing it back. Fortunately, Iryna had made copies for him.

“Yes.”

“We will check to see if anyone from the campaign has seen this Pyatov. Of course, we’ll check you out too,” Gorobets said, handing the photograph to Shelayev. “If I learn anything, I’ll call you. Give me your cell number,” still smiling.

“Give me yours. I’ll call you.”

“Afraid we’ll track you? Not very trusting, are you?” Gorobets said, still smiling.

“Something we have in common,” Scorpion said. He turned to go.

“A moment,” Gorobets called after him. “Kilbane, that’s a British name?”

“Irish,” Scorpion said, turning back.

“Catholic?”

“Not in a long time.”

“But you believe in sin, original sin?” watching Scorpion closely.

“There’s plenty of it around. Everywhere you look,” staring directly back at Gorobets, who smiled again, looking at him the way a scientist might look at an interesting laboratory specimen.

“I’m sure we’ll see each other again, Mr. Kilbane. You’ll come to the rally? I’ll arrange a pass.”

“Wouldn’t miss it,” Scorpion said.

Kharkovskaya

Dnipropetrovsk, Ukraine

“Why are we meeting here?” Iryna asked. They were in a booth at the Paradise, a strip club on Kharkovskaya near the Dnieper River. By her tone, Scorpion could tell she was annoyed. On the street outside, it was growing dark, the wind whipping snow and grit from factory smokestacks into the faces of passersby. Inside the club, except for the spotlights on two completely nude women onstage, it was so dark it was almost impossible to see.

“No one would look for you here,” he said. “Besides, this is a Syndikat club. I had to be here to meet somebody.”

“Why?”

“Assume we’re right; Pyatov is the assassin. If you were him, how would you go about it? We agreed he’s not the suicide type, so no bomber vests or close-up shooting, where he gets gunned down by Black Armbands. There’s nothing in his background to suggest sniper expertise, and explosives are tricky and unreliable. Even if they work, you don’t always get the right person. But I had to make sure that wasn’t his plan. Earlier, I met someone here.”

“Odd place for a business meeting,” she said, checking out the dancers on the stage.

“Not for these types.”

“What types?”

“He’s called ‘Bohdan.’ ”

“Bohdan what?”

“Just ‘Bohdan.’ These types don’t have last names. He’s what the blatnoi call a makler- a fixer.”

“I’ve heard the term,” she said. “Why do you need him?”

“If anyone was going to be getting a high-powered rifle or explosives through the Syndikat here in Dnipropetrovsk, he would know.”

“And?”

“Nothing.” Scorpion shook his head.

“Do you believe him?”

“Hard to say, but I offered him enough money and came well-recommended enough, which means dangerous enough, that he had every reason to tell me.”

“Did he believe you?”

“He believed my money,” he replied, not telling her how it had actually gone down.

He had met Bohdan at the same table two hours earlier, and assumed the man was known here. Bohdan was short, with ferretlike features and dark little eyes that darted about constantly, never still. He had a nervous tic of rubbing his fingers together as if continually signaling money. Scorpion had used Mogilenko’s name, implying to Bohdan that he was an out-of-town hit man brought in by the Syndikat’s Mogilenko, and that Bohdan better tell him the truth or he would be the target instead of Pyatov.

“They say Mogilenko looks for a foreigner, a Frenchie,” Bohdan had told Scorpion, counting the money he’d given him faster than a bank machine. “He’s ochen serdit.” Really angry. “Says he will chop pieces from this Frenchie and feed it to his cat every day for a year. They look everywhere.”

“That so?”

“Foreigner like you,” Bohdan said, counting the money a second time.

“Good thing I’m not French,” Scorpion said, reaching for his pocketknife.

“For you, very good,” Bohdan agreed, his fingers making the sign for money again, Scorpion putting another thousand hryvnia on the table. When Bohdan reached for it, Scorpion pierced the back of his hand with his pocketknife, trapping it on the table.