Deeper Than Red (Red Returning Trilogy) (34 page)

“Then we need proof and we need it quickly,” Shelton said. “The State Department already knows he’s headlong into taking, perhaps even rigging, that election. He’ll be permanently enthroned in just over two months.”

The president nodded agreement. “But the bigger race is finding that second bomb.”

Moments after CIA Director Don Bragg arrived in the Oval Office and received his briefing from the president, Rona Arant buzzed her boss’s desk. “I have President Glinka for you, sir. Remember that it’s almost ten
PM
there.”

“Put him through.” Noland picked up the handset and tapped the “speaker” button. “Mr. President, thank you for taking my call so late at night.”

“I trust that it is most important.”

Noland expected the man’s usual discourteous tone no matter the time of day. There was no point in attempting formal cordialities. “I am advising you, President Glinka, that earlier today, we intercepted a cargo ship off our Atlantic coast which was carrying a chemical weapon of mass destruction. The bomb was en route to Washington, where we believe it would have been detonated sometime in the coming days.” With no sound from the other end, Noland proceeded. “We have confirmed intelligence reports that place the manufacture of the bomb inside Russia. The Ural Mountains, to be specific.”

Still nothing on the Moscow end. Then, with indignity, “Are you suggesting the Russian Federation just launched an attack on your capital?”

“No, Mr. President, I am not. We have proof that the bomb was ordered by, shipped to, and received by … Ivan Volynski.”

After a long pause, Glinka erupted in a quick burst of laughter. “I hope you did not call me at this hour to play a prank. You know that Volynski is dead. You even announced it on television. A sad thing to happen … to your brother.”

Noland ignored the provocation and waited, but nothing more was forthcoming. Shouldn’t Glinka be assuring the U.S. president that the Russian government had nothing whatsoever to do with the bomb? An innocent man would.

Now it was time for Noland to drop his own bomb and see how the pieces fell. “It is no prank. Before dawn this morning, I boarded Ivan Volynski’s boat off the Florida Keys and spoke with him myself. He told me many things.” It was true, though nothing about Arkady Glinka.

All Noland heard through the receiver was the sudden intake of breath, then nothing more. He watched the transfixed expressions on the faces opposite him. Shelton nodded his head in approval of the conversation so far.

Finally, Glinka cleared his throat and spoke, his voice tight. “So now you have your brother in an interrogation room somewhere pumping information from a desperate man who’ll say anything to save himself.”

Noland didn’t miss the obvious omission. “You surprise me, President Glinka. I would have thought your first, and natural, reaction would be shock at the news that Volynski was alive. Were you not surprised to hear that?”

“Do not test me! Save that for your deranged brother!”

“I can’t do that. Ivan killed himself. I watched him do it.”

Now Noland was afraid Glinka might really melt down and hang up before the most urgent matter was approached. “But there is something more critical to discuss right now. We have reports of a second bomb exiting that Urals factory, but we don’t know where, or to whom, it is headed. I expect your government to track that bomb before our countries are forced into an unfortunate confrontation. And I expect that factory to be located and destroyed. There will be no compromise on this, President Glinka.”

The line went dead.

A
rkady Glinka wasn’t going to wait for officers to come arrest him. He didn’t know what Ivan had confessed to, if anything, or who he’d implicated. Soon after Noland’s call, Glinka evaded his security guards and fled his Moscow apartment. It didn’t matter what appointments he would miss the following day or the ones afterward. He would hide out and wait to see if Noland was bluffing. Glinka’s staff would cover for him. They were practiced at it.

He couldn’t go to his dacha. It was known. So now, alone in his personal car, he was driving hard to the home of a former mistress in a small town southeast of Moscow. She would be glad to see him. She’d take him in and shelter him until his staff signaled an all clear. They were all Ivan’s people, recruited by him to help the new president of Russia prepare for revolution, and for Ivan’s arrival.

Even now, fleeing wild through a panic, Glinka welcomed the relief of Ivan’s death, if he was indeed dead. But as much as he disliked the American president, Glinka believed the man was incapable of such a preposterous lie. Ivan would have died soon enough, Glinka was sure. But the inconvenience of waiting for it had been removed by Ivan’s own hand.

So after all the years of planning and scheming, after all the dreams of glory, you killed yourself. How did you do it, Ivan?

If he hadn’t been in such a hurry, Glinka would have pulled over and channeled himself into the other plane, letting his visualization skills take him to his special place, beyond the hazards of being an earthbound mortal. But he would survive this, he knew. He would take the election and defy Noland to come at him with anything resembling proof. What could that possibly be?

He reached for his phone and called Maxum.

“Yes,” the man answered.

Glinka relayed everything about Noland’s call, then, “This doesn’t change anything, but you’d better be careful. I’m calling back the weapon. It’s not the time, now. They’re watching for it.”

“They must have discovered the first bomb through Ivan, but how did they find him?” Maxum asked. It sounded to Glinka like the man had been running. “And where is Vandoren?”

Just then, Glinka fit a major piece to the puzzle. Vandoren wasn’t answering his phone because he’d been apprehended. Ivan had been next. And Glinka? They still had no proof. Add the word of a suicidal madman to that of a spook, as the unenlightened called Vandoren, and you still have nothing to hang charges on, American or Russian. Besides, they would have to find him first.

“Another question,” Maxum said. “Why is Felix Shevcik trailing Liesl Bower?”

“How did you know?”

“Someone working for me was approached by him. He wanted her to work with him.”

“Her?”

“Yes.”

“Shevcik would enjoy that, I am sure. Ivan knew of his perversions with women, but brought him in anyway. The man’s there to kill the piano player. Leave him alone and let him do his job. He doesn’t need to know about Ivan. But tell your girl to watch herself.” Glinka laughed. Maxum didn’t.

“I must go,” Maxum said.

“Where are you?”

“Nuremberg.”

E
vgeny had arrived in Nuremberg just ahead of Liesl. He’d taken a room near the Nazi Party Rally Grounds and watched as she had strolled there with Cade and the others. He didn’t mind hovering in the shadows. He’d spent his whole life there. That he felt the need to remain there even after Volynski’s death troubled him.

Ava had delivered the news immediately after Travis Noland had left Volynski’s ship. Evgeny wished he could have witnessed that confrontation, wished to be there when Volynski breathed his last in the testifying presence of others. Evgeny still struggled with how he missed seeing Volynski slip away from the lift-off of that helicopter on the East River. He’d seen the driver clearly as he sped from the horrific scene, but Evgeny had been so certain the man was alone in the car, he hadn’t focused hard on the back seat where Ivan hid.

The search for Volynski was over. And the threat? Ava hadn’t been overly convincing in suggesting there was no more need for his watch over Liesl. He’d considered suspending it, but a tiny burr had lodged against him and he couldn’t shake it loose. It was an insignificant little incident, but one that made no sense. And if it didn’t make sense to Evgeny, he was inherently helpless to discard it. Why had Erica Bachman slipped away from him the day before? He’d seen through her flippant accusation that he’d not met her where he was supposed to. But he was certain that Max had not miscommunicated with either one of them. It had been a guise. She’d been told to meet him in front, yet she’d left through the back entrance. Why?

This afternoon at the rally grounds, he’d watched her distance herself from the others, a phone to her ear for an extended time. She’d shown no interest in the historic place, read no signage. The professional photographer had taken no pictures, as the amateurs around her had.

They’d left the grounds as they’d arrived, with police escorts. Ava had told him that would continue throughout their international travel. It was customary, she’d insisted. Liesl was still a celebrity and a guest of Germany.

But Evgeny had phoned Viktor in Moscow. “See what you can find on Erica Bachman,” Evgeny had told him. “She is Max Morozov’s new girlfriend. A photographer, late twenties, blond at the moment, attractive.”

“Who do you
think
she is?” Viktor asked.

“A person of great interest to me right now.”

“I need more than that.”

“But I do not have it. Check aliases and whatever you have on free agents. There may be nothing there at all. I hope not.”

“I will do what I can. Meanwhile, Evgeny, watch yourself.”

The sun was barely up the next morning when Viktor’s call reached Evgeny. He was walking to the rally grounds where Liesl, Max, and the orchestra would arrive for rehearsals in a couple of hours. If anyone was scouting for the best gunnery position overlooking the concert stage, Evgeny wanted to know it.

“Yes,” he answered expectantly.

“First, I have nothing on Erica Bachman, but I will keep searching. You should know this, though—Arkady Glinka left Moscow in the middle of the night, skipping out on a full schedule of meetings today. The official advisory from his staff is ‘an urgent family matter and he will return shortly.’ Word has it, though, that he left immediately after a phone call from Travis Noland. Do you know anything about that?”

Evgeny knew then that Ava Mullins hadn’t told him everything. “No, but I will find out. Keep after the Bachman girl.”

He entered the grounds and stopped to take in the Zeppelinfeld, the vast square field where Ferdinand Graf von Zeppelin landed one of his bizarre airships in 1909. Evgeny looked up at the imposing grandstand, now in ruin. He remembered the clips of American soldiers blowing the giant swastika off the top in 1945. In his mind’s eye, he could see Hitler railing from the speaker’s platform. The concert stage had been erected directly below and slightly to one side of Hitler’s rostrum. Evgeny wondered at the notion of Jewish musicians commanding a Nazi parade ground.

The wind swept in from the field, turning his attention to the thirty-four cement towers built at regular intervals into the spectator stands lining three sides of the grounds. They were bathroom facilities, now closed, encased in choking vines and weeds.

Before rehearsal began that morning, he would survey the entire grounds, then find the best vantage point for observing any suspicious visitors to the field. Who that could be was unclear. So, too, was his mission beyond this day. Volynski’s death had sounded a knell for his own life. When the need to protect Liesl extinguished itself, what then? What good would he be?

Watching the man walking toward him, Felix Shevcik was glad he’d risen early and settled into position. He scolded himself for not anticipating that Evgeny Kozlov would remain vigilante over Liesl Bower, and would also rise early for work. But here he was, just steps away. He would look over the squat, cement tower and see no difference from all the others. He wouldn’t see the hacked lock on the door beneath the wild vines, nor the weaponry assembled before the high, narrow window overlooking the concert stage. Felix was certain of this. What he wasn’t sure of at this moment was the prospect of escaping the night’s hit with the likes of Kozlov patrolling the grounds. Hadn’t the man taught Felix every trick of surveillance and pursuit? And surely, if Kozlov had risked capture to be here, others must also be on watch.

Felix wondered if it wouldn’t be wiser to take Liesl Bower early. Ivan would be disappointed. His preference was to pop her during the concert. He wanted the world to watch. Felix should prepare his boss for a possible change of plans. He would place that call after Kozlov was a safe distance away. The hole Felix had cut in the old window and the echo inside the empty concrete chamber demanded his silence for now.

When Kozlov was almost halfway around the field, Felix punched in Ivan’s encrypted code and put the phone to his ear. There was no answer, only a series of faint beeps Felix had not heard before on Ivan’s phone. But the man was half a world away, cruising under the Florida sun and anticipating news of tonight’s success. Cell transmission might, understandably, be fraught with interference. Felix pocketed the phone. He would try again after a while. A van had just pulled inside the grounds and the first of the orchestra stage crew emerged, dragging coils of cables behind them. His watch had begun. He awaited the Bower woman and a bead on Evgeny’s location. Perhaps he could take them both down seconds apart. Now or later.