Andrew Kaplan - Scorpion Winter

“Let’s get the hell out of here,” Scorpion said.

Desnianskyi

Kyiv, Ukraine

That afternoon, they watched television and made love. The apartment was on the tenth floor. It was small, with only a few pieces of furniture, and had a view of the street below. Their next door neighbor, Pani Pugach, a short, round woman in a housedress, came over to introduce herself. She chatted with Iryna about the building, gossiping about the other tenants as Scorpion sat at the kitchen table with his laptop computer. He let Iryna do the talking, saying only, “Dobry den,” Good day, when Pani Pugach came in and “Buvay,” So long, when she left.

“She told me where the local Furshet supermarket is,” Iryna told him. “I can go shop, and when I come back, I’ll make us borscht.”

The male announcer on TV started talking very loudly. The screen showed Russian troops marching, followed by a man in a suit speaking at a press conference. Scorpion recognized him immediately. Brabov, the Russian president.

“What’s he saying?” he asked Iryna.

“He’s demanding an end to the crisis. He says Russian lives are being threatened. He says that Russia will take over as much of Ukraine as necessary in order to ensure the safety of ethnic Russians.” She looked at Scorpion. “It’s what we feared.”

“Wait,” he said, indicating the TV. It had switched to a conference going on in Brussels. Scorpion couldn’t understand the commentary and could only catch a word or two of the news ticker on the bottom of the screen: NATO V STANI KRYZY. KOZHANOVSKIY: “ VIYNA YDE. ” “What’s it say?” he asked.

“NATO in crisis,” she read. “It quotes Kozhanovskiy: ‘War is imminent.’ I’ve got to talk to Viktor.”

“Wait till I get you a new identity,” Scorpion said.

“I can’t. Things are moving too fast.”

“Listen, they’re not kidding around. The ones who set us up are safer if you’re dead. Then the only one putting out a story is them.”

“I know,” she said, “pulling on her coat, wig, and Ushanka fur hat. “I’ll call Viktor from the Furshet store. I’ll be back.”

“Be careful,” he said when she headed out.

While she was gone, he tried to think it through. The only way for him and Iryna was to find who killed Cherkesov and why. The key was that so far everything had come from or through the SVR agent, Gabrilov. Even though Scorpion didn’t think Gabrilov knew about his taps, somehow Gabrilov had set up Pyatov as a red herring and he and Iryna as the fall guys. The whole thing had SVR fingerprints all over it, he thought grimly.

Assumption: the Russians wanted to invade and were using Cherkesov’s assassination as an excuse. But why? What were they after? Somehow the answer involved the Chinese. The Lianhuay China Trading Company could be a front for the Guoanbu Second Bureau, the Chinese CIA. But what the hell did they have to do with this? What did China want in Ukraine?

He shaved, trimming his stubble to form a mustache-another little something to change the image-and got dressed. He was getting antsy. What was taking Iryna so long?

He took out the Glock, took it apart, cleaned and loaded it and did the same with the SR-1 Gyurza. He was just finishing up when Iryna came back from shopping. She looked frightened.

“I think I was followed,” she said.

Scorpion went to the door, Glock in hand.

“Who was it?”

“A man. He wore a black parka and a wool cap. I had a sense someone was following me when I left the building, but I didn’t see anyone. But when I left the supermarket, he was behind me. I went up a side street and came back on the other side just to make sure. He stayed with me. This stupid wig isn’t working!” she said, pulling off her blond curls and throwing it on the table.

“It’s not the wig,” Scorpion said. “Did he follow you into the building?” he asked, pressing his ear against the apartment door.

“I don’t think so. He was across the street when I came in.”

Scorpion stood beside the window.

“Come here,” he said. “Peek out just for a second, then duck back. Tell me if you see him or anybody in the street watching the building.”

She came over beside him, peeked out and ducked back.

“No. No one,” she said. He could feel her body trembling against his. He wished he could tell her it was going to be all right, but it wasn’t.

He got his minibinoculars. Checking the angle of the light coming from outside to make sure they wouldn’t reflect, he peeked out from behind the curtain. The sky was leaden gray. There were no reflections and he didn’t see anything in the street or in the windows of buildings. Then he spotted it. A break in the roofline of the building across the street. The silhouette of something, someone.

“Shit,” he said, pulling back and closing the curtain. “They know we’re here. We’ve got to get out now. Pull your things together.”

“It’s my fault,” she said, getting her carry-on. “I’m no good at this.”

“It’s not the wig and it’s not your fault,” Scorpion said, throwing his things into a backpack. “Until a few hours ago even we didn’t know we were going to be in this building in this raion. They were already on to us.”

“How could they be?”

“Only two ways. You used your cell phone to call Viktor. It was the first time you used it, so they weren’t tracking you, but ten-to-one they were tapping his phone. Once you called, they could’ve GPS-tracked your cell. That’s not Syndikat blatnoi. Those are pros. The second explanation is even simpler.”

She stopped for a moment.

“The building manager,” she said, talking about the fat man with a wheeze who couldn’t take his eyes off her chest when they rented the apartment. “He seemed shifty to me. I don’t think he believed our story.”

“Not for a minute,” Scorpion said, grabbing his pack and jacket. “My screwup. Between your chest and the money, I thought it would hold him. Either that or everybody’s favorite busybody, dear old Pani Pugach. Too bad I don’t have time to deal with either of them.”

Iryna packed her carry-on and zipped it up. She put on her outerwear, wig, and Ushanka hat.

“Give me the cell phone you used to call Kozhanovskiy,” he said, holding out his hand.

She gave it to him, and making sure it was on, he put it in a kitchen drawer.

“Now what?” she asked, watching him go to the door, the Gyurza with its silencer in his hand.

“We leave. How do you say ‘Come here’ in Ukrainian?”

“Idy syudy.”

“I’ll go first. You stay back but follow close enough to hear me. If I shout, ‘Nadia,’ come fast. If I shout, ‘Idy syudy!’ do the exact opposite. Run back to the apartment, lock yourself in, call Kozhanovskiy to come with his bodyguards and get you.”

“You’re scaring me,” she said.

“Good. It’s about time you understood what game you’re in. Ready?”

She took a breath.

“What about the TV?” The TV was still on. It was a soap opera about an upper-middle-class Kyiv family. The wife had been kidnapped by her evil identical twin sister.

“Leave it on.” He put his finger to his lips, cracked the door open and stepped into the hallway, looking both ways, ready to fire. The hallway was empty. He listened at the door to Pani Pugach’s apartment and moved on. He checked the stairway in both directions, up and down. It looked clear.

He went back to the elevator, pushed the button, took Iryna’s hand and led her to the staircase. He told her to wait on the landing till he called her with one of the signals, then walked down slowly, pivoting at each landing, Gyurza ready to fire.