Peter Kirsanow - Second Strike

So Garin sprinted down the stairs, rolled onto the basement floor, and came up on one knee, scanning about a small rec room. No associates. He emitted another growl, having struck the burnt forearm during the fall. He took several deep breaths while he tried to mentally suppress the pain.

Other than Garin and the corpses he’d left, the house was empty. He looked about the basement for anything related to Bor, then went back upstairs and did the same, beginning with the bedrooms, followed by the bathroom, living room, dining room, and kitchen. The house was clear. No evidence, no clues about what Bor was up to. Except…

Garin rifled through the pockets of the dead man in the dining room. No wallet, no identification, not a shred of pocket litter.

The pockets of the dead man in the kitchen also contained no wallet, no identification, nor any other items. Except his right front pocket held one five-by-seven-inch piece of paper with ten lines of handwritten letters and numbers.

Garin studied the paper for several seconds before putting it in his pocket. He couldn’t discern the meaning or import of the lines, but he planned to have Dwyer’s people analyze them.

Assuming it wasn’t too late.

MOSCOW,

AUGUST 17, 7:27 P.M. MSK

Egorshin answered the knock on the door of Tatiana Palinieva’s apartment immediately. It was Sergei Morosov.

“Come in.”

Egorshin led Morosov to the living room, where they sat in opposing chairs.

“Tatiana is at a production meeting. She will be gone for some time,” Egorshin said, rubbing his hands nervously. “Stetchkin is going to kill me. I can feel it. His behavior toward me is incomprehensible. He hates me for no reason.”

“I have spoken to Vasiliev, Piotr.”

“You have? Thank you. Has he spoken to Mikhailov?”

“Yes.” Morosov crossed his legs. “Piotr, what do you know of Tatiana’s past relationships?”

Egorshin looked befuddled. “Why do you ask?”

“I should be more direct. I suspect you have absolutely no idea that a few years ago Tatiana spurned the advances of one Aleksandr Stetchkin?”

Egorshin sat straight with his hands on his knees, a look of surprise on his face. “What? How did you get this information?”

“I am SVR.”

“What do you mean she spurned him?”

“From what I gather, Stetchkin became enamored…” Morosov paused. “No, enthralled with Tatiana when she was still in the fashion industry. He arranged to meet her. I am told—I do not know how my sources know this, but it is eminently believable—that he assisted her transition to television, that he is the reason she got the opportunity to host her program. She gladly took advantage of the opportunity. The story I was told is that she manipulated Stetchkin’s affections quite adroitly until she was secure in her position and then ignored him. She did not take his calls. She refused to see him.”

“Tatiana is the reason Stetchkin hates me?”

“It appears so.”

“She never told me anything about this. She knows I have been experiencing difficulties with Stetchkin, but she never uttered a word.”

“Perhaps she’s not proud of her actions, but it is not as if her conduct was unique in history. And Stetchkin certainly hoped that Tatiana would accept his offer of assistance. Whether she reciprocated as he hoped was a gamble, not a contract.”

“So Stetchkin wants me out of the way so he may pursue Tatiana.”

“So to speak.”

The look on Egorshin’s face was that of near panic. Morosov leaned forward and patted his nephew’s knee.

“Calm yourself, Piotr. Mikhailov is just as ruthless as Stetchkin, but smarter. More important, Mikhailov is president. He will not permit Stetchkin to harm you.”

“Are you certain? I may only be of use to Mikhailov until…”

Egorshin fell silent.

“I know you are involved in something of importance to Mikhailov, Piotr. I am informed that Mikhailov considers you valuable even after the important thing is concluded, whatever it may be.”

“That would give me comfort if I thought Stetchkin were rational. A rational person would not do anything to incur Mikhailov’s displeasure, let alone his wrath. I remain concerned that Stetchkin will let his impulses overcome his intelligence.”

“Vasiliev informs me that Mikhailov made clear to Stetchkin that he was to leave you alone. Stetchkin has been around too long to make the mistake of letting his interest in women negatively affect his fortunes—even a woman as attractive as Tatiana.”

Egorshin shook his head. “All of this for Tatiana? Do not misunderstand. Of course she is attractive. Spectacular. But it is crazy for a man as powerful as Stetchkin to jeopardize his position for her. And I believe he is crazy. Anyone who saw what he did to Uganov would concur.”

Morosov smiled. “So, I suspect, since you are my sister’s son and since my sister is insufferably prepared for any and every eventuality, that you have made plans to further protect yourself.”

“I have not.”

Morosov arched his eyebrows. “That is not like Svetlana.”

“I have made preparations, but not to protect myself. Such preparations are futile. If Stetchkin is determined enough to try to kill me in defiance of Mikhailov, then I am a dead man. Nothing can save me. So I have made other preparations.”

“To what end?”

“Revenge.”

“Revenge? How does a dead man exact revenge?”

“Through his uncle, the magician.”

“You are asking me to kill Stetchkin? Do you want our entire family killed?”

“I do not want you to kill Stetchkin. Mikhailov will do it.”

“Then what would you have me do?”

Egorshin reached into his pocket, pulled out a small object, and pressed it into his uncle’s palm. Morosov examined it with a quizzical expression. “And what is this?”

“Revenge.”

MOSCOW,

AUGUST 17, 7:43 P.M. MSK

“Bor reports that all assets are in place and they are ready to execute.”

Mikhailov leaned back in his chair and steepled his fingers in front of his chest. “Is he satisfied that the impediment has been removed?”

“He made no mention of the impediment. I gather, therefore, that in his estimation he is no longer an issue,” Vasiliev replied.

“No matter. The impediment was Bor’s concern, not ours. The event would take place regardless. Summon General Maximov, Stetchkin, and Egorshin. Tell them to meet me for a final briefing before implementation.”

Stetchkin sat alone in his office examining time-lapse aerial photographs of Russian troop movements in the Caucasus on his desktop computer. There were dozens of photographs spanning the last three days. The last series of six photographs showed no movements whatsoever. The troops had reached their penultimate destination. Now they were merely staging, coordinating, and preparing.

Stetchkin tapped his keyboard and a completely unrelated image appeared. It was a single document: the final assessment report from Egorshin’s unit, prepared by Egorshin himself. All simulations had been concluded. The unit’s preparations were complete.

Stetchkin manipulated the mouse and the screen displayed another image pertaining to Egorshin’s unit. It was a long list of categories and names. Next to each was a small box. Every single box contained a checkmark. In the upper-right-hand corner of the screen was a small digital clock, the numbers of which were declining. It was a countdown. Very little time remained before all of the digits reached zero.