Andrew Kaplan - Scorpion Winter

“He says Gorobets will be on the platform, but we are not allowed,” Iryna translated.

“Ask him which entrance Cherkesov will be coming in,” Scorpion said.

Iryna translated. The Black Armband responded and pointed to an entrance to the field to the right of where they were.

“Spasiba,” Scorpion said and tugged Iryna away. They made their way around the ground level under the stands toward the tunnel entrance. As they walked, they heard an immense cheer from the crowd.

“Cherkesov! Cherkesov! Cherkesov!” the crowd shouted. They began to stamp their feet in unison, shaking the stands like a storm. The roar continued for at least five minutes.

Suddenly, a voice rang out over the loudspeaker: “Ukraintsi!”

The crowd exploded in cheers and applause. Scorpion and Iryna approached the tunnel entrance. In a small parking area outside the entrance, he spotted a number of Mercedes sedans and Mercedes GL SUVs.

“Why here?” Iryna asked. They could hear Cherkesov on the loudspeaker now.

“Pyatov will have to get reasonably close to Cherkesov,” Scorpion explained. “He’s not going to do it from the stands. He might miss and anyone around him could mess it up. The stage is too well guarded, and even if he succeeded, he’d never get away. His best bet is an entryway or exit, like with the Bobby Kennedy assassination.”

“So how does he get away?”

“He’ll be a Black Armband. He’s banking on the confusion. Everyone’ll be shooting.”

The gate was closed, and a dozen armed Black Armbands stood guard at the tunnel entrance. As they approached, they peered past the guards into the tunnel.

“Oh my God,” Iryna gasped. “I see him.”

Scorpion spotted Pyatov in the tunnel. He was wearing a hooded jacket with the hood up and a black armband. But it was Pyatov, all right.

“Get out of here. Wait by the car,” Scorpion said, pushing her away.

“I’m not going. If you make a scene, they’ll stop you,” meaning the Black Armbands.

“Last chance,” Scorpion said as they approached the tunnel gate.

“For you too,” she said, taking his arm.

“Give them the same story. Reuters, we’re guests of Gorobets,” Scorpion said.

As they approached the gate, one of the Black Armbands called out something.

“He says this entrance is not for the public,” Iryna whispered, putting on a broad smile and answering in Ukrainian. A Black Armband the size of an offensive lineman stepped forward to stop them.

“ Vy zhurnalist? ” he asked, peering at Scorpion.

“Da, s Reuters v Anglii,” Scorpion said in Russian, holding out his press ID.

“Khto vy?” a second Black Armband asked Iryna. Who are you? He peered at her oddly, and Scorpion got a queasy feeling. Clearly, he saw something familiar about her.

Iryna rattled off something quickly. Probably the same story, that she was his translator. The second Black Armband checked his laptop and said something to the others.

“You’re on the list,” she whispered to Scorpion as two of the Black Armbands opened the gate and let them enter the tunnel, where a dozen or so people, most with press credentials and cameras, waited.

Scorpion moved ahead of Iryna. He didn’t want Pyatov, who wasn’t looking at them, to see her. Like the others, he was staring out to the brightly lit stage in the middle of the field and the giant TV screen. The crowd was cheering something Cherkesov had just said. Pyatov was bigger and blonder than Scorpion had imagined, his hand in his jacket pocket. It looked like he was holding a gun.

Scorpion glanced around. The tunnel was no place for a conversation. He spotted a sign over a door that said: TUALETY. The WC. It would have to do, he thought. There wouldn’t be much time. Pyatov started to turn just as Scorpion followed by Iryna came up. At first Pyatov looked confused, then his eyes widened as he recognized Iryna. Before he could move, Scorpion grabbed his wrist in a one-handed ikkyo wristlock. With his other hand, he jammed the muzzle of the Glock hard into Pyatov’s ribs.

“Tell him we’re going to the tualet to talk.”

“Vali otsjuda!” Pyatov cursed, telling Scorpion to piss off.

“Tell him I’ll kill him right here. They’ll think I’m a hero,” Scorpion said.

Iryna told him.

“Payuhali!” Let’s go, Scorpion said in Russian, tightening his grip on Pyatov’s wrist and shoving him toward the toilet door. Pyatov started to make a move, and Scorpion said, “Ya strelyat!” I’ll shoot. “Stay outside. Don’t let anyone in,” he told Iryna, and shoved Pyatov inside.

The WC wasn’t much bigger than a stall, with a single lidless toilet. The walls were covered with dirty tiles that looked like they’d never been washed, and the smell was appalling. Scorpion shoved Pyatov forward and smashed his head against the wall, cracking the tiles. Pyatov bounced back from the wall, his head bleeding, and pulled his gun from his pocket. Scorpion grappled with him for the gun with one hand as he kicked at the inside of Pyatov’s knee. Pyatov tried to smash his face with his elbow as Scorpion blocked with his forearm, still holding the Glock that he now smashed into Pyatov’s nose, breaking it. Dropping the Glock, he used both hands to take the gun away from Pyatov, who put him into a bear hug. Pyatov was immensely strong. He tried to lift Scorpion up and smash him to the floor. Scorpion kneed him in the groin and jammed the gun into his bleeding mouth.

“Ya strelyat!” he shouted.

Pyatov stopped. Scorpion stepped back, picked up the Glock and put Pyatov’s Makarov pistol in his pocket.

“Who paid you?” Scorpion said in Russian, pressing the Glock against Pyatov’s face.

“Yob tvoiyu mat,” Pyatov said, blood spraying from his mouth as he snarled the usual obscenity about Scorpion’s mother.

“I pay you more than they do,” Scorpion said. “You do not have to die.”

“If I tell you, they’ll kill me anyway.”

“Why did you kill Alyona?”

“What are you talking about? Ya- ” Pyatov started.

The door smashed open. Two men in militsiyu uniforms filled the doorway firing AK-47s. Scorpion dived to the floor. They riddled Pyatov with dozens of bullets, killing him instantly, the bullets ripping apart the water tank and sending chips of tiles flying like shrapnel. Water poured down from the shattered tank, mingling with Pyatov’s blood on the floor. Scorpion fired the Glock twice, killing both militsiyu with shots to the head before they could turn their guns on him. Wet and dripping red-stained water, he jumped over their bodies and raced out the door, thinking what an idiot he’d been. It was a setup! He was the fall guy! And what had they done to Iryna?

Everyone had heard the shooting. People on the field and in the stands were screaming and rushing for the exits. The speeches had stopped. Men were running in the tunnel. Iryna was struggling with the two Black Armbands who had stopped them at the gate. For a fraction of a second Scorpion hesitated. To take Iryna with him would be like walking around with a big neon sign. It would make escape impossible. CIA protocol was to limit the damage by leaving her behind. The rule was that it was better to lose the Joe than have the operations officer fall into enemy hands. Especially in this case, where there was a good chance they were setting him up.

One of the Black Armbands had lifted Iryna off the ground, a meaty hand around her throat. The second Armband had grabbed her kicking legs and was spreading them apart. Her hat, wig, and glasses had fallen off in the struggle and it was glaringly obvious who she was. Her head was twisted as she fought to breathe. Four or five more Black Armbands were running toward them from the outside gate, automatic weapons ready to fire.