Scorpion Winter by Andrew Kaplan Page B

Pyatov will be at Cherkesov’s rally in Dnipropetrovsk?” she asked.
    â€œIt was your idea,” Scorpion said. “Nighttime, a big stadium with a clear shot and multiple exits, crowds, chaos. Like you said, it’s perfect.”
    â€œI don’t like this,” Kozhanovskiy said to her.
    â€œWe can’t let Kilbane go off on his own. It’s too important,” she said.
    Scorpion started to get up. “You two will want to talk this over,” he said.
    â€œKilbane, stay. Please,” Kozhanovskiy said, holding his hand up. “I know this isn’t your country, but there are millions of lives at stake.” He turned to Iryna. “What about one of the others? Slavo? Misha?”
    â€œWe don’t know how far this goes. No one else must know,” she said.
    â€œForget it. I work alone,” Scorpion said.
    â€œYou think I’m not tough enough,” Iryna said, fishing in her handbag. She pulled out a small Beretta Storm 9mm pistol and showed it to them.
    Scorpion smiled. “You know how to use that?”
    â€œMy father took me hunting in the Carpathian Mountains from the time I was a little girl,” she said, putting the gun back. “I’m a pretty good shot.”
    â€œYes, but are you willing to use it?” he asked quietly.
    â€œYou really don’t understand, Mr. Kilbane.” She smiled oddly. “We members of the upper class like to kill things. It’s our way of proving we’re tough enough to deserve our privileges.”
    â€œWhat about the campaign?” Kozhanovskiy said. “You don’t have the time. We need you.” He looked at her. “I need you.”
    â€œWhat choice do we have? Besides,” she grimaced, “Slavo is dying to take my place. You won’t be sorry. He’s very good.”
    â€œNot like you,” Kozhanovskiy said.
    â€œPeople look at me, they see my father. To be the child of a great man is to be an afterthought.” She looked down at her plate.
    Kozhanovskiy glanced at his watch, then stood up. “I have an interview on Inter TV,” he said. “What about Pyatov? And him?” indicating Scorpion.
    Iryna got up as well. “I’ll handle it,” she said, air-kissing Kozhanovskiy once on each cheek.
    â€œAre you sure?”
    â€œNo. But I have to try,” she said, brushing off his suit jacket with her hand.
    â€œAll right,” he said, going to the closet. “From now on this is your only assignment. Slavo!” he called out as he pulled on his fur hat and overcoat, then said to Iryna, “Keep me posted,” and to Scorpion, whose hand he shook before he left the room, “ Buvay , Mr. Kilbane. You are quite a reporter. Only two days in Ukraina,” shaking his head. “I’ve never met one like you.”
    Scorpion watched him talking in rapid-fire Ukrainian to Slavo and two of his bodyguards who stood outside the apartment door. They all left together. When he looked back, Iryna was watching him.
    â€œJust so you know,” she said, holding her cell phone in her hand. “I don’t give a tinker’s damn what Reuters says. I don’t trust you even one centimeter. You don’t act like a journalist. You have no interest in politics or in interviewing me or Viktor Kozhanovskiy. A real reporter would’ve jumped at the chance. Who the bloody hell are you?”

Chapter Fifteen
    Centralny Vokzal
    Kyiv, Ukraine
    T hey spent the night in a first-class sleeper compartment on the overnight train to Dnipropetrovsk. Two beds narrow as coffins and facing benches so close, if they both sat at the same time, their knees were touching. The curtains were drawn over a window caked with ice as the train rocked across the countryside in the darkness.
    Iryna had changed into wool clothes, a synthetic down overcoat, and a woolen hat pulled down over a curly blond wig. When she met him on the freezing platform of the