The Kremlin Phoenix (19 page)

Karmanov spoke to Moroshkin
through the car’s window. “We’re only going to get one shot at this.”

“I’ll be there when you need me,”
Moroshkin assured him.

Karmanov nodded, then led the
other two to the corner. He put his arm over Valentina’s shoulders and they
started laughing and talking like lovers. Kindansky strolled alongside
Karmanov, just a friend of the couple tagging along for an early morning walk. All
three wore long dark overcoats, heavy clothes for that time of year, but needed
to conceal their weapons. When they turned the corner, they were careful not to
look at the four men outside the house.

Valentina laughed and kissed
Karmanov’s cheek, “They’re watching us,” she whispered.

Karmanov chuckled, making a show
of enjoying the kiss. “Of course they are.”

As they approached the vehicles,
the front door of the house opened and two men walked out, followed by another pair
of agents holding Prime Minister Maxim Gundarovsky between them. Gundarovsky
had once been the Prosecutor-General of Russia, where he’d become famous as an
ardent adversary of corruption and organized crime. From there, he’d moved
quickly to high office on a tidal wave of public support. During the dangerous
years as Russia’s leading criminal prosecutor, he’d developed a close
friendship with Karmanov, his lead investigator, and had initiated the
investigation into the systematic theft of Russia’s wealth by the Soviet Era Communist
Party. Now in his mid fifties, balding and slightly overweight, he held his head
high with a dignity belying his situation.

“Eight of them!” Kindansky
whispered ominously.

“There’s still time,” Karmanov
said.

The Prime Minister walked down
the stairs to the sidewalk, glancing at the three people approaching. Karmanov
caught Gundarovsky’s eye for only a instant, long enough for understanding to
pass between them.

When Gundarovsky reached the
pavement he stopped, and yelled, “I demand to speak with the President!”

The guards’ attention was
immediately drawn to him. Gundarovsky twisted away from his captor’s grip,
making a show of refusing to be put into the van. He appeared to stumble, then
threw himself to the ground, screaming he wouldn’t go.

Karmanov, Valentina and Kindansky
opened their coats, produced sub-machine guns, and raked the guards with
automatic fire. There was no thought of offering them the chance of surrender. None
of the undercover operatives had time to even draw their weapons. In seconds,
all eight lay dead on the ground. At the end of the street, tires squealed as Moroshkin
came speeding around the corner toward them.

Karmanov dragged Gundarovsky to
his feet. “Are you hurt, sir?” he asked as he pulled the Prime Minister over bloody
corpses to the road.

“I’m fine Alexander. How did you
know?”

“I couldn’t get through to the
Kremlin or your house,” Karmanov said. “The only way they could succeed is if
you and the President were under arrest.”

Gundarovsky nodded. “They already
have the President.”

The car skidded to a stop and they
jumped in. Before the doors were closed, the wheels spun, sending the car racing
down the street. Soon, it had disappeared into the urban sprawl of suburban
Moscow.

* * * *

Craig became aware of voices and music
floating to him through a dark mist. Gradually, the sounds became sharper and
he was able to open his eyes. The room was dark, except for light spilling in
from the hallway. He tried moving his hands and feet, but discovered they were
still tied to the chair.

The row of syringes and bottles
still sat on a small table beside the chair. Each syringe was sealed in its own
sterile wrapper, with a yellow cap shielding its point. When his strength had
returned enough to move, he rocked the chair towards the table and picked up
one of the sterile wrappers with his lips. Holding the packet in his teeth, he doubled
over so his finger tips could tear open the seal. The syringe balanced on the
torn wrapper a moment and fell to the floor. Craig swore silently, then edged the
chair away until he judged the distance was right. He threw himself sideways, toppling
the chair onto its side. The carpet muted the sound of the fall, but even so he
waited, listening for any sign that the guards had been roused. When no one
came to investigate, he wriggled the chair towards the syringe and his fingers
caught the tip of the plunger.

Craig breathed a sigh of relief,
flicked the yellow plastic cap off the point with his thumb and began picking
at the rope tying his hand to the chair.

* * * *

The sentry at the barracks gate leaned
toward the window of Karmanov’s car. “Can I help you, sir?”

“Yes, we’re here to see General
Zharkev?” Valentina said, flashing her SK investigator’s ID at him.

The sentry, a fresh faced private
barely twenty years old, looked at their identity cards uncertainly. “Is the
General expecting you?”

“No,” Karmanov said sharply, “But
he’ll see us. It’s a very confidential matter which we can only discuss with
the General.”

The sentry looked uncomfortable. The
dealings of Generals were far beyond his understanding, but even a simple
private knew Sledkom’s growing reputation for pursuing corruption, even among
those formerly immune to prosecution due to their high office or personal
wealth. Zharkev was widely regarded as a committed and honest officer, but now
the private wondered whether the General was facing disgrace. The mere thought
of being embroiled in such a scandal unnerved the young infantryman.

“I can’t admit you without
permission,” he said helplessly.

“Ring the General and get
permission,” Karmanov said in a tone that indicated he was not about to be
deflected.

“Yes, sir.” The young soldier
stepped back into his sentry box and picked up the telephone.

“I hope this works,” Karmanov
whispered.

The sentry returned to the car. “The
General’s adjutant will see you. Building 34B.” He handed Karmanov an entry
pass.

They drove through into the
Parachute Division’s base, past rows of white barracks, to Divisional Headquarters.
Inside, the adjutant greeted them with guarded irritation.

“What is your business with the
General?”

“It’s regarding a confidential
investigation,” Karmanov replied.

“Investigations concerning
military personal, are conducted by the Advocate General. You have no–”

“Not all investigations,”
Valentina corrected. “This is not a matter the General would want us to discuss
with anyone but him.”

Karmanov showed his identity
card. “I am the Chief Criminal Investigator of the Central Investigation
Department.” He leaned forward with a touch of menace. “I suggest you call the
General immediately, before we have to resort to more serious measures.”

The adjutant straightened,
uncertain what he was dealing with. “Wait here,” he snapped, then walked
stiffly to the General’s door, and entered. A minute later, he appeared. “General
Zharkev will see you.”

“Thank you,” Valentina said,
while Karmanov barely acknowledged the adjutant, playing his role to the end.

When they entered, General
Zharkev looked up from his desk. “Yes?” he asked without preamble, clearly not
in the least threatened or intimidated.

Karmanov closed the door,
ensuring no prying ears could hear what they were about to discuss. “My
apologies for the ruse, General. We’re here at the request of the Prime
Minister.”

General Zharkev put his pen down
and sat back in his chair. “Really? Gundarovsky sent you? Why?”

“The Prime Minister knows you’re
a honest man, and that you’re a personal friend of the President,” Valentina said.
“He wishes you to know the President has not suffered a heart attack, as the
media are reporting, but has been illegally arrested. You see, General, there
is a coup d’état underway.”

Zharkev scowled. “Nonsense! I
would have heard if such a thing were happening.”

“Sir,” Karmanov said, “The Prime
Minister narrowly escaped arrest this morning. We killed eight internal
security officers to free him.”

Zharkev’s scowl vanished. “I see.
Where is the Prime Minister now?”

“He’s . . . in hiding,” Valentina
said, not prepared to reveal Gundarovsky’s location until she knew Zharkev was
on their side.

Zharkev noted her caution. “Who’s
behind this putsch?”

“Hard liners in the Kremlin,”
Karmanov said. “Defense Minister Tarkovskoi is certainly one of them.”

“And several members of the Army’s
General Staff,” Valentina added.

Zharkev’s eyes narrowed. His
Paratroop Division had received an order from Tarkovskoi’s office to prepare to
deploy troops without artillery at three hours notice, although where or why
they were to be deployed had not been explained.

A steely look appeared on the General’s
face as his anger began to rise. “Go on.”

“The President is under house
arrest in his private residence east of Moscow,” Valentina explained. “The
Border Guards protecting the Presidential compound are under Tarkovskoi’s
personal command. They have cut the President’s communications.”

The curious letter General
Zharkev had received from the Defense Minister several weeks ago, instructing
him to take leave in August, now made sense. Tarkovskoi knew Zharkev was a
democrat and would oppose any coup attempt, which explained why he’d heard
nothing of the impending putsch. The fact that the paratroop commander had
delayed his leave two days due to work commitments was not known to Tarkovskoi.
In another twenty four hours, Zharkev would have been vacationing on the Black
Sea, out of touch with his command.

“Who else, other than Tarkovskoi,
is involved?” The General asked.

“Hard liners in the Duma, mostly
communists and militarists,” Karmanov replied. “We’re not sure exactly who yet.”

“I’m sorry to say this, General,”
Valentina said, “But the army is behind the putsch. Apparently Defense Minister
Tarkovskoi made a number of senior appointments in the last six months,
elevating officers personally loyal to him, officers who will support the coup.”

“I see.” The General was well
aware that a number of Siberian born officers of lesser ability had risen to
senior positions they scarcely seemed qualified for, due to the support of Siberian
born Tarkovskoi. If it was a coup, it showed a level of planning going back
months or even years.

“We don’t know where the air
force or the navy stand at this stage,” Karmanov continued. “The Foreign
Minister is in Berlin for EU talks. If he were a part of it, he wouldn’t be out
of the country.”

“Where is the Prime Minister now?”

“He’s safe,” Karmanov said
guardedly, “but he needs protection, more than we can offer. That’s why we’re
here. Will you protect him?”

The General pondered the
situation a moment, then pressed the intercom. “Lieutenant Contovsky. Call my
wife. Tell her I’m cancelling our vacation and won’t be home for dinner. Also
summon the Brigade Commanders – I want them in my office in fifteen minutes –and
get me Air Marshal Vochenko in Leningrad on a secure line – and General Usilov.”

“Yes sir,” the adjutant replied
crisply.

“Vochenko? Usilov?” Valentina
asked uncertainly.

General Zharkev switched off the
intercom. “I trust them. So, what exactly does the Prime Minister want me to
do?”

* * * *

November 5, 2280

“Oh shit!” Station Commander Zikky
declared surprised as his console suddenly beeped at him. He sat up so fast he
spilled recycled caffeine supplement on his shirt and sent his yeast extracted
donut rolling across the white metal floor plates.

Zikky had been lounging back in
his chair in
Lagrange-2 Station’s
control room, daydreaming. He’d been
searching for a clue as to Craig Balard’s fate for four years, running endless
brute force programs to crack security on the six still functioning data exchanges
on Earth, other than Montreal. Once he’d broken into the data centers, he’d uploaded
every data-cell into the station’s massive memory core and set the station’s
super computers to translating the ocean of data into English.

Most of the fifty-four personnel
on the enormous space station now worked short shifts, just enough to keep L-2S
running in perfect condition. The rest of the time, they spent exercising,
conducting scientific research and trying not to go insane. Pregnancy was
strictly forbidden by universal agreement, both because the station’s life
support system could not sustain a growing population, and because there was no
point bringing children into a civilization facing extinction.

L-2S could sustain them for half
a century without resupply, longer if they were careful to keep the recyclers
and protein synthesizers working efficiently, but with nowhere to go and no
hope of relief, boredom was chronic and despair was endemic. Some had wanted to
undock the
Solar Explorer III
, and make the flight to Pluto, but the
station’s executive council had vetoed it. The
SEIII
’s life support and
hydroponics systems gave the big station a safety margin they couldn’t risk
losing, and the
SEIII
’s tachyon array provided back-up communications
with the past – even though almost no one thought the plan had any chance of success.