again.
To Smith, the task of calling on the relatives of the dead was a task that pained him like no other. Like all wives and mothers, Katrina had known why he was here from the minute she opened the door and laid eyes on him. But she had iron in her spine. She had refused to surrender to tears, asking Smith how Yuri Danko had died and whether he had suffered. Smith told her as much of the truth as he could, then said that arrangements had already been made to fly Danko's remains to Moscow as soon as the Venetian authorities released them.
“He talked a great deal about you, Mr. Smith,” Katrina had told him. “He said that you were a good man. I see that is true.”
“I wish I could tell you more,” Smith said sincerely.
“What good would that do?” Katrina asked. “I knew the kind of work Yuri was involved in--- the secrecy, the silences. But he did it because he loved his country. He was proud of his service. All I ask is that his death not be in vain.”
“I can promise you it won't be.”
Smith walked back to his hotel and spent the next hour lost in thought. Seeing Danko's family added a personal sense of urgency to his mission. Of course he would make sure that Katrina and her daughter were well provided for. But that wasn't enough. Now more than ever he needed to know who had killed Danko, and why. He wanted to be able to look his widow in the eye and say, no, the man you loved did not die in vain.
As night descended, Smith made his way to the lobby bar. Randi, wearing a navy blue power suit, was already waiting for him.
“You look pale, Jon,” she said quickly. “Are you all right?”
“I'll be fine. Thanks for meeting me.”
They ordered pepper-flavored vodka and a plate of zakuski--- pickled mushrooms, herring, and other snacks. After the waitress withdrew, Randi raised her glass.
“To absent friends.”
Smith echoed her toast.
“I spoke with Kirov,” Randi said, and gave him the details on the upcoming meeting. She glanced at her watch. “You'll have to get going. Is there anything else I can do?”
Smith counted out some rubles and left them on the table. “Let's see how things go with Kirov tonight.”
Randi came close and slipped a business card in his hand. “My address and phone number--- just in case. You have secure communications, right?”
Smith patted his pocket. “The latest in digitally encrypted cell phones.” He gave her the number.
“Jon, if you find out anything I should know...” She let the rest of her thought hang.
Smith squeezed her hand. “I understand.”
__________
Jon Smith had been to Moscow a number of times, but he had never had occasion to visit Dzerzhinsky Square. Now, standing in the cavernous lobby of the Zamat 3 building, all the stories he'd heard from Cold War warriors came back to him. There was a soulless indifference about the place that no amount of fresh paint could hide. The echoes off the varnished floorboards sounded like the footsteps of the condemned--- men and women who, since the birth of communism, had been dragged through there on their way to the interrogation chambers in the cellars. Smith wondered how those who worked there now dealt with the ghosts. Were they aware of them? Or was the past hurriedly dismissed for fear that, like a golem, it might come back to life?
Smith followed his junior-officer escort into the elevator. As the car rose, he mentally reviewed the details Randi had provided on Major-General Oleg Kirov's career, and that of his deputy, Lara Telegin.
Kirov seemed to be the kind of soldier who straddled the past and the future. Raised under the communist regime, he had distinguished himself in combat during Afghanistan, Russia's Vietnam. Afterward, he had thrown his lot in with the reformers. When a fragile democracy took hold, Kirov's patrons rewarded him with a post in the newly formed Federal Security Service. The
To Smith, the task of calling on the relatives of the dead was a task that pained him like no other. Like all wives and mothers, Katrina had known why he was here from the minute she opened the door and laid eyes on him. But she had iron in her spine. She had refused to surrender to tears, asking Smith how Yuri Danko had died and whether he had suffered. Smith told her as much of the truth as he could, then said that arrangements had already been made to fly Danko's remains to Moscow as soon as the Venetian authorities released them.
“He talked a great deal about you, Mr. Smith,” Katrina had told him. “He said that you were a good man. I see that is true.”
“I wish I could tell you more,” Smith said sincerely.
“What good would that do?” Katrina asked. “I knew the kind of work Yuri was involved in--- the secrecy, the silences. But he did it because he loved his country. He was proud of his service. All I ask is that his death not be in vain.”
“I can promise you it won't be.”
Smith walked back to his hotel and spent the next hour lost in thought. Seeing Danko's family added a personal sense of urgency to his mission. Of course he would make sure that Katrina and her daughter were well provided for. But that wasn't enough. Now more than ever he needed to know who had killed Danko, and why. He wanted to be able to look his widow in the eye and say, no, the man you loved did not die in vain.
As night descended, Smith made his way to the lobby bar. Randi, wearing a navy blue power suit, was already waiting for him.
“You look pale, Jon,” she said quickly. “Are you all right?”
“I'll be fine. Thanks for meeting me.”
They ordered pepper-flavored vodka and a plate of zakuski--- pickled mushrooms, herring, and other snacks. After the waitress withdrew, Randi raised her glass.
“To absent friends.”
Smith echoed her toast.
“I spoke with Kirov,” Randi said, and gave him the details on the upcoming meeting. She glanced at her watch. “You'll have to get going. Is there anything else I can do?”
Smith counted out some rubles and left them on the table. “Let's see how things go with Kirov tonight.”
Randi came close and slipped a business card in his hand. “My address and phone number--- just in case. You have secure communications, right?”
Smith patted his pocket. “The latest in digitally encrypted cell phones.” He gave her the number.
“Jon, if you find out anything I should know...” She let the rest of her thought hang.
Smith squeezed her hand. “I understand.”
__________
Jon Smith had been to Moscow a number of times, but he had never had occasion to visit Dzerzhinsky Square. Now, standing in the cavernous lobby of the Zamat 3 building, all the stories he'd heard from Cold War warriors came back to him. There was a soulless indifference about the place that no amount of fresh paint could hide. The echoes off the varnished floorboards sounded like the footsteps of the condemned--- men and women who, since the birth of communism, had been dragged through there on their way to the interrogation chambers in the cellars. Smith wondered how those who worked there now dealt with the ghosts. Were they aware of them? Or was the past hurriedly dismissed for fear that, like a golem, it might come back to life?
Smith followed his junior-officer escort into the elevator. As the car rose, he mentally reviewed the details Randi had provided on Major-General Oleg Kirov's career, and that of his deputy, Lara Telegin.
Kirov seemed to be the kind of soldier who straddled the past and the future. Raised under the communist regime, he had distinguished himself in combat during Afghanistan, Russia's Vietnam. Afterward, he had thrown his lot in with the reformers. When a fragile democracy took hold, Kirov's patrons rewarded him with a post in the newly formed Federal Security Service. The
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