science attaché, and my jurisdiction is limited to finding loose nuclear material, not investigating a murder.”
“Then, you do think they were murdered. Right?”
Alex said nothing.
“You said Frank was a friend not just a colleague,” Scott said.
Alex pursed her lips.
“Well, he was my friend, too, and we owe him.”
She started to say something, but he pointed. The Marriott Grand had appeared on the right. She pulled in under the arched portico. Scott got out with his things but, before closing the door, leaned back into the SUV and said, “Tomorrow, Lubyanskaya Ploshchad. Know it?”
“Of course,” Alex said.
“Good. Pick me up here zero eight hundred sharp.”
“Jake, I told you—”
“Do it for Frank.”
4
FSB Headquarters, Moscow
O utside, a pair of guards in a glassed-in booth checked IDs. Inside, helmeted officers in battle dress armed with Heckler & Koch MP5 submachine guns strolled the remodeled former KGB headquarters lobby. The city and its entire security apparatus were on alert after the Chechen massacre at the concert hall. Everyone was suspect.
Scott and Alex waited at the elevator banks. Alex wore a tailored black suit and white silk roll-neck top.
A medley of gold bracelets glittered on her wrists. Light from the recessed ceiling fixtures illuminated her even features and flawless makeup. Her eyes sparkled, and she obviously enjoyed the attention her transformation had elicited from Scott.
A ping, and a pair of elevator doors hissed open. Their escort, a young FSB officer, motioned them inside. The doors closed, the car rose, and Scott was struck by the irony that in another era he and Alex would have been riding this elevator to an interrogation cell in the basement from which few people had ever emerged alive. All he heard was the hushed sound of the car’s ascent, not the screams of prisoners undergoing torture. As if guessing what was on his mind, Alex gave him an almost imperceptible nod.
They got off on the tenth floor, in one of the oldest parts of the three high-rises that made up the FSB
headquarters. The hallways were floored in worn linoleum and illuminated by buzzing fluorescent lamps. Office doors had old-fashioned pebbled glass inserts, behind one of which was the blurred silhouette of a man gesturing expansively while haranguing someone unseen.
“Please.” The escort led them through an open door labeled Investigations Directorate, into a tiny, over heated office.
Yuri Abakov had on a ushanka hat, its ear flaps tied securely together on top. His pasty-looking face was expressionless behind a drooping black mustache. He looked up at his visitors from behind a worn wooden desk and, as if shooing a pesky fly, flicked a hand at the escort who departed without a word.
“Inspector Abakov?” Scott said in Russian.
He gave Scott a once-over, noting his leather bomber jacket. “Colonel Abakov,” he replied. Before Scott had a chance to correct himself, Abakov shifted his gaze. “Who is this?” he asked, as if Alex were incapable of speaking for herself.
“Doctor Alexandra Thorne, Ph.D.,” she said. “I’m the second science attaché, United States Embassy, Moscow.”
“I wasn’t told she’d be present for this meeting,” Abakov said to Scott. “Who authorized it?”
“I did,” Scott said. “You have a problem with that?” Without waiting to be asked, he pushed a chair toward Alex and took one for himself.
Abakov removed the ushanka from a head that was bald except for a fringe of short, dark hair, the tight skin reflecting light like a mirror. His expression had changed from boredom to one of outright annoyance.
“You’re not in the States, Commander.”
“Captain,” said Scott.
“You have no authority here, so don’t think that just because you’re an American who speaks Russian, you can come into my office and start throwing your weight around like Bloody Harry.”
“It’s Dirty Harry.” Scott put his orders on the desk, in
“Then, you do think they were murdered. Right?”
Alex said nothing.
“You said Frank was a friend not just a colleague,” Scott said.
Alex pursed her lips.
“Well, he was my friend, too, and we owe him.”
She started to say something, but he pointed. The Marriott Grand had appeared on the right. She pulled in under the arched portico. Scott got out with his things but, before closing the door, leaned back into the SUV and said, “Tomorrow, Lubyanskaya Ploshchad. Know it?”
“Of course,” Alex said.
“Good. Pick me up here zero eight hundred sharp.”
“Jake, I told you—”
“Do it for Frank.”
4
FSB Headquarters, Moscow
O utside, a pair of guards in a glassed-in booth checked IDs. Inside, helmeted officers in battle dress armed with Heckler & Koch MP5 submachine guns strolled the remodeled former KGB headquarters lobby. The city and its entire security apparatus were on alert after the Chechen massacre at the concert hall. Everyone was suspect.
Scott and Alex waited at the elevator banks. Alex wore a tailored black suit and white silk roll-neck top.
A medley of gold bracelets glittered on her wrists. Light from the recessed ceiling fixtures illuminated her even features and flawless makeup. Her eyes sparkled, and she obviously enjoyed the attention her transformation had elicited from Scott.
A ping, and a pair of elevator doors hissed open. Their escort, a young FSB officer, motioned them inside. The doors closed, the car rose, and Scott was struck by the irony that in another era he and Alex would have been riding this elevator to an interrogation cell in the basement from which few people had ever emerged alive. All he heard was the hushed sound of the car’s ascent, not the screams of prisoners undergoing torture. As if guessing what was on his mind, Alex gave him an almost imperceptible nod.
They got off on the tenth floor, in one of the oldest parts of the three high-rises that made up the FSB
headquarters. The hallways were floored in worn linoleum and illuminated by buzzing fluorescent lamps. Office doors had old-fashioned pebbled glass inserts, behind one of which was the blurred silhouette of a man gesturing expansively while haranguing someone unseen.
“Please.” The escort led them through an open door labeled Investigations Directorate, into a tiny, over heated office.
Yuri Abakov had on a ushanka hat, its ear flaps tied securely together on top. His pasty-looking face was expressionless behind a drooping black mustache. He looked up at his visitors from behind a worn wooden desk and, as if shooing a pesky fly, flicked a hand at the escort who departed without a word.
“Inspector Abakov?” Scott said in Russian.
He gave Scott a once-over, noting his leather bomber jacket. “Colonel Abakov,” he replied. Before Scott had a chance to correct himself, Abakov shifted his gaze. “Who is this?” he asked, as if Alex were incapable of speaking for herself.
“Doctor Alexandra Thorne, Ph.D.,” she said. “I’m the second science attaché, United States Embassy, Moscow.”
“I wasn’t told she’d be present for this meeting,” Abakov said to Scott. “Who authorized it?”
“I did,” Scott said. “You have a problem with that?” Without waiting to be asked, he pushed a chair toward Alex and took one for himself.
Abakov removed the ushanka from a head that was bald except for a fringe of short, dark hair, the tight skin reflecting light like a mirror. His expression had changed from boredom to one of outright annoyance.
“You’re not in the States, Commander.”
“Captain,” said Scott.
“You have no authority here, so don’t think that just because you’re an American who speaks Russian, you can come into my office and start throwing your weight around like Bloody Harry.”
“It’s Dirty Harry.” Scott put his orders on the desk, in
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