Andrew Kaplan - Scorpion Winter

“More bad luck?”

“You could say so. Hryhoriy’s father was a partisan in the war, but he was captured by Germans. They took him to Syrets, the concentration camp they make at Babi Yar, where they killed the Jews. When he got out, he weighed thirty-six kilos. But he was only free for not even a year before he was arrested and executed by KGB.”

“Why?”

“Who knows?” She shrugged again. “In those days they didn’t need a reason. So then comes my husband, my Hryhoriy. All his life he tried to avoid trouble, but it did no good. He was killed in the riots against President Kuchma. He wasn’t on any side. They mistook him for someone else. Like I said,” she drained her glass, “a hard luck family. You look tired,” she said.

Scorpion nodded. The horilka was beginning to effect him. Before he knew it, he was back in the house behind the trailer. He fell asleep sprawled on the bed in the dead man’s clothes.

In the morning, he drove to Kyiv, where he bought a new set of clothes, overcoat, and fur hat at the Metrograd mall. He thought about calling Iryna. But first he needed to deal with the video of Shelayev. They were almost out of time. The Russian ultimatum expired at midnight.

At the Internet cafe on Chokolovsky Avenue he loaded the murky video from the button camera to his laptop. He used Wax, a shareware software video editor, to brighten it so Shelayev was clearly visible. He transferred the video from the laptop to the Internet cafe’s PC and uploaded it to YouTube with a fake new account, putting in Ukraine and Cherkesov as keywords. It was his fail-safe in case something happened to him or if what he was planning didn’t work. He made a DVD of the video and deleted it and all evidence that he had ever been on the cafe’s PC. When he was done, he made the call that would decide everything.

T he Mercedes limousine was parked up on the sidewalk in front of the Benetton store on Khreshchatyk Street. Two workers were taping the store’s windows. All along Khreshchatyk, crowds rushed past merchants boarding up their windows. In the twenty-four hours Scorpion had been away, Kyiv had been transformed into a city at war. Military checkpoints had been set up at major intersections and at roads leading into and out of the city, and air raid sirens were sounding; practicing for the real thing.

Ukrainian Army bivouacs and tents had sprung up in parks, churning the snow to dark frozen slush. SAM antiaircraft missile launchers were parked in front of government buildings, many of them surrounded by walls of sandbags. Everywhere, there were soldiers and a general feeling of fear. People were leaving town or stocking up on food and other essentials as if expecting the missiles to hit any second. It was surreal, Scorpion thought, like a World War Two movie.

A shaven-headed man stood beside the Mercedes limousine, an obvious bulge under his leather overcoat. Scorpion recognized him from Villefranche and the yacht. There was a flicker of acknowledgment in the man’s eyes as well. He held the limousine door open for Scorpion, then climbed into the front.

Akhnetzov was alone in the backseat. Seated on the side toward the front of the limousine was the other shaven-headed man, his hand inside his coat, and Evgeniya, the blond woman from the yacht. As soon as Scorpion was seated, Akhnetzov indicated to the driver to start driving. The limousine swung off the sidewalk and into heavy traffic on Khreshchatyk Street, much of it militsiyu and military, the driver honking his horn to try to get them to move out of his way.

“Where are we going?” Scorpion asked.

“There is a helipad near the Verkhovna Rada,” Akhnetzov said. “The road to the airport is completely jammed. Everyone is trying to get out. I have my plane, a Gulfstream, waiting at Boryspil. Thanks to you,” he growled, “I have to go to Moskva to see what we can salvage.”

Scorpion didn’t say anything. He looked at the blond woman, who avoided looking back.

“I do not see the point of this meeting. You failed,” Akhnetzov said.

“I was set up,” Scorpion said.

“People who fail always have excuses. Our business is done, you and me. Finished,” and Akhnetzov made a sideways cutting gesture with his hand.

“We can stop this.”

“Don’t talk stupidity.” He looked at Scorpion in a way that made the shaven-headed man take out his gun.

“I can stop it, damn it.”

Akhnetzov regarded him curiously.

“How?”

“With this,” Scorpion said, tapping his pocket where he had the flash drive from the button camera.

“Too late. The Russian deadline is midnight. Look at them,” gesturing at the people on Khreshchatyk, many carrying plastic bags, rushing from store to store. “They know what is coming.”

“I have proof,” Scorpion said.

“What proof?” Akhnetzov said. “You have something on Li Qiang?”

“The Chinese were a red herring, what we in the trade call ‘black info,’ ” Scorpion said.

“Still, you made a govno mess. I heard somebody found Li Qiang’s bodyguard, Yang Hao, in a car with three bullets in him.”

“Kyiv’s a dangerous city.”

“So long as you’re around. Why did you want to see me?”

“I know who killed Cherkesov and I can prove it.”

“I’m not sure it matters anymore,” Akhnetzov said. “Things are moving too fast.”

“The Russians have no pretext for war. It rips away their fig leaf.”

“Maybe they don’t care.”

“They’re not a monolith. This whole thing is pure SVR. Who are you going to talk to in Moscow?”

“Trust me, they are plenty important. Why?”

“You can bet there are people outside the SVR, people in the FSB and the president’s office, who might love an excuse to get out of this mess if they can show they got something for it.”

“And tell them what?”

“Cherkesov was killed by a man named Dimitri Shelayev. He was head of security for Gorobets.”

Akhnetzov looked sharply at Scorpion.

“The man behind Davydenko?”

“The man who tells Davydenko what to do. Gorobets runs things. The Chorni Povyazky are his private army.”

“It may be too late,” Akhnetzov said thoughtfully. “What makes you think this will stop the Russians?”

“Because I’m going to put it on TV,” Scorpion said. “When we met on the yacht, you told me you own a TV station.”

Akhnetzov nodded. “We own Inter. The biggest in Ukraina.”

“I want you to put Iryna Shevchenko on in primetime. It’ll be a sensation.”

“To do what? To say she’s not guilty. So what?”

“I have a video of Shelayev confessing he killed Cherkesov on Gorobets’s orders. He was in charge of security that night at the stadium. It made it easy for him to plant the bomb. The whole thing was a power struggle inside Svoboda.”

For the first time, Akhnetzov looked genuinely interested. “He actually says it? He accuses Gorobets?”

“Better than that. After he admits it, he commits suicide,” Scorpion said.

Akhnetzov tapped his finger on his lips. Scorpion watched him work it out. He was reminded again how intelligent Akhnetzov was. He had created a business empire, almost an entire industry, from nothing, from an idea.

“You’ve got the whole thing, the confession, the suicide, everything on the video?” Akhnetzov asked.

Scorpion nodded. “If we prove this all happened within Svoboda, the Russians have no excuse to intervene.”

“No,” Akhnetzov said. “It’s better than that. It’s good television. We’ll put it on Liniya Konfliktu. It’s the top-rated show, primetime.” He spoke rapidly to Evgeniya in Ukrainian. She got on her cell phone and made a call. Akhnetzov turned to Scorpion. “I’ll have Evgeniya send you a text to let you know when to be at the studio.”