Zinovy's Journey

By Ginny Jaques

Zinovy Kozlov has spent 23 years climbing the ladder of Russian military success one rung at a time. FSB vet, and now a cosmonaut on the Global Regime's International Space Station, he should be at the peak of his career. But Zinovy has enemies whose political power extends into space, and they are determined to kill him.

Then the earth is destroyed in a nuclear holocaust and everything changes.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ginny Jaques
• Release date: Mar 12, 2012
• ISBN: 9780987752017

Ginny Jaques

GINNY JAQUES looks at the world through God-colored glasses. In love with people, and fascinated by the amazing book called The Bible, she is consumed with a desire to bring the two together in a way that inspires hope and joy in this world where cynicism and despair abound. Her writing expresses her belief that people are of inestimable worth, and that they can choose their own destinies, even if they can't control them. She has survived seven years of university studies, a twenty-year career as a high school substitute English teacher, forty-two happy years of marriage, and seven very happy years as a grandmother.

Book preview

PART ONE

The End

Nothing can justify tears in children's eyes.

Fyodor Dostoevsky

CHAPTER ONE

Zinovy Efimovich Kozlov ducked his head as an icy wind, howling off the canal, whipped the scarf from his face and poured its bitter mid-winter chill down his neck. He pulled his collar tighter and quickened his steps, moving around the building, cursing the iron fence that forced him past several closer doors, and ran up the steps into the front entrance of the FSB headquarters.

He avoided eye contact with the ancient plaque above the door. After twelve years of walking under it, he knew the words by heart: The Church of Our Savior on the Spilled Blood. The spilled blood part was appropriate, considering the current use of the building. In its forty years of existence, the FSB had shed more blood than the KGB had in twice that time. Zinovy grimaced, remembering the first words on the plaque. All religious relics should be gone by now, but remnants still remained.

A wave of warm air, heavy with the smell of coffee, met him in the entranceway. He pushed past the espresso machine, resisting the urge, and walked down the hall to the small office he shared with two other FSB agents. He opened the door and stepped through, nodded to them both, and walked to his cubicle, unzipping his jacket as he went.

Your fly’s open, Zinovy, Vladimir said, rocking back in his chair and hiking his feet up on the desk in front of him.

Zinovy picked up the stack of pink message slips from his desk. Your mouth’s open, Vladimir. He flipped through the notes, glancing over them before dropping each into the shredder.

Why can’t I ever surprise you, Zinovy? You never so much as lift an eyebrow when I tell you something. I’d give a year’s pensionable earnings to see your jaw drop just once.

It’s because he doesn’t care, Markov said. Zinovy doesn’t care about anything. He looked at his watch. That’s why he turns up two hours late for work on Monday morning.

Zinovy waved a pink slip in the air. What’s this message from Anton? How did it get here?

Special messenger from head office. He said the boss was mad. Seems you’ve been ignoring his phone calls. Not too smart, considering.

Zinovy headed across the room, stopping to thump Vladimir’s forehead with his finger. You should zip up your mouth, comrade. If there were anything in that skull, it might fall out. He turned at the door, giving them both the universal sign of dismissal, and walked out.

Halfway down the hall he spotted her, and his pulse backfired. It always did. Her raven-dark hair fell straight to her shoulders, framing a classic face—a Roman nose he used to kiss, and smooth, high cheekbones he’d loved to run his fingers over.

She looked up and saw him, her eyes sending a brief message of recognition before she passed into her office.

He sighed and moved on, turning three more corners in the maze of passageways before he came to his supervisor’s office. General Anton Vasiliev, Director, Special Security Services, Federalnaya Sluzhba Bezopasnosti, St. Petersburg Division. Another plaque he’d rather avoid. He grunted, opened the door and walked in.

The receptionist looked up and arched an eyebrow. You better wait, she said, as he headed for the inner office behind her. She punched a button. He’s here. She listened a split second, then nodded to Zinovy, but his hand was already on the doorknob.

Zinovy opened the door and reconned the area as he entered. Anton sat at the steel gray desk in the middle of the room, flanked by two tall windows in the wall behind him. Two other men were in the room. Sergei Voronin leaned against a metal file cabinet to Zinovy’s right. Yuri Pronichev stood by the window to the left, his hands in his pockets, looking out into the garden. The video screen on the wall was turned off, the only artificial light in the room coming from the dim fixture overhead in the high ceiling.

Zinovy scowled at Anton, who returned the hard gaze without blinking. You come, Kozlov, finally. Your delay is inexcusable. When I send word, you are to come immediately.

I’m sorry, Zinovy said. It’s hard to remember you are no longer the rug on the floor beneath the feet of this department.

Yuri straightened, removed his hands from his pockets and turned from the window. The pock marks on Anton’s round cheeks paled against the red creeping up his neck. He looked down and shuffled some papers on the upper right hand corner of his desk. You are being given an assignment, he said. Urgency is required. You have used up two days of your deadline with your delay in reporting. The job must be done by Friday, this week.

Who’s the target, and what’s the reason?

Anton picked up a file on the desk in front of him. The reason does not concern you. She is an agent who is no longer useful to us. She has become a security threat and must be disposed of.

Zinovy stiffened. She? I don’t do women.

Anton rose and glared at Zinovy. You will kill who you are ordered to kill. As always. The gender is irrelevant. He dropped the file on the desk and pushed it toward Zinovy. You are to dispatch the target by whatever means you choose. He sneered. Do it your way if you like, no blood. Then dispose of the body and bring us photographic evidence that the mission has been accomplished. He paused. Zinovy stood, unmoving. Anton said, You will do it immediately, without further questions or delay.

Zinovy put his hands on his hips and considered his options. His first choice, preferred but not practicable, would be to put Anton’s broken body at the bottom of the canal.

He picked up the file and flipped it open. The name at the top of the document hit him like a stun gun to the chest. It took a full five seconds for the realization to settle into his brain, another two for the anger to erupt.

You are insane, he bellowed. You are absolutely insane. This woman is no security threat. She’s a competent agent who does her job with integrity. She’s the last person to be a security risk. He slammed the file down, sending its contents skittering across the desk and onto the floor at Anton’s feet.

Anton frowned. Help us to understand this, Agent Kozlov. Are you refusing the order?

Zinovy leaned down, put his hands on the desk in front of the chief and spoke in his face, enunciating each word. I will not kill Nadya.

Then he turned on his heel and stormed out of the room, slamming the door behind him.

* * *

The windows quit rattling and silence filled the room. Yuri walked over to the door and picked up the framed document certifying Anton’s successful completion of the FSB Anti-terrorism Training Program. He checked to see the glass was intact, and hung it back up on the wall. Then he turned, shot a quick glance at Sergei, and waited.

Anton scooped the papers up off the floor, tossed them back into the file and sat down. He gestured to the two straight-backed chairs lined up against the wall between the windows. Please.

The men sat down.

Anton swiveled in his chair to face them. You both want to rise in this department. What do you think? Zinovy has crossed the line. Tell me what is the next logical step? He leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms.

The agents looked at each other, hesitating. Finally Sergei spoke. It seems strange you would give him that assignment. You should know he would resist, under the circumstances.

Of course I knew.

Then why—

Zinovy needs to learn that he is not in control. The last administration was lax. He has had his way for too long. This is a matter of personal and professional discipline. If Zinovy cannot obey an order from his superior—any order—he does not belong in this service. His refusal is tantamount to treason. He will be lucky if he gets away from this incident with his life.

Yuri hesitated. I don’t know. Zinovy’s our top agent. I don’t see—

Not any more, he isn’t, Anton said. As of this moment, Zinovy is nothing. He paused, allowing the statement to register. It’s his own fault. He broke the cardinal rule when he mixed his balls with his business. That mistake has destroyed him.

Yuri frowned. I don’t think Zinovy will go down that easily.

Oh yes? You watch how this will happen. While I’m in charge, discipline will be enforced in this agency. Anton looked from one to the other, then he leaned forward.

Here are your orders. Sergei, I want a tracker put on Zinovy immediately. I want to know every time he hiccups, do you understand?

How should—

Put it on his Kawasaki. Get the agent in their apartment building to do it. What’s his name? Goldov? Have him fix it in the garage as soon as Zinovy goes home today.

He turned to Yuri. I want you to follow up on the woman. He flipped the file open again and tapped her picture. Goldov is supposed to be on her already, but you double check. I want to know when she leaves the apartment and where she goes. We don’t want that little chicken to fly the coop.

He paused, waiting for their response, getting none. Did you hear me? he said. Go, now.

* * *

Zinovy opened the door of his third floor apartment, scanned the passageway outside, then headed down the hall and into the dingy stairwell. The stench of old urine filled his nostrils. Two flights up he left the stairs and walked down the hall to number 59. The muted sound of music drifted from the room. Tchaikovsky, The Pathetique.

He ran his tracer around the doorframe and got no signal. Nothing planted there yet. He scraped his Air Force ring across the door. He still had a key, but using it would surprise her into a response, and he wanted her quiet.

The door opened a crack. He shoved it all the way, clapped his hand over her mouth and pushed inside, kicking the door closed behind him. Then he put a finger to his lips. When her eyes lost their terror, he released her and walked across the room to turn the radio up.

What are you doing? She spoke with a mixture of amazement and anger.

He gazed at her loveliness, unaffected by the shapeless sweatsuit she’d changed into after her workday, and frowned. Anton sent me to kill you.

She stared at him. He sent you?

Zinovy nodded.

She straightened and the muscles in her jaw tightened. Is that why you’re here?

He moved to the side of the window and glanced out, checking for unusual shadows or movement. Then he drew the shade and turned to her. Of course not. You should know better.

How could I know better? You’re a dedicated agent. Her gaze was penetrating, and his eyes fell. She took a breath. Then why are you here?

To warn you.

I don’t need a warning, Zinovy. I knew when I told him I was quitting he would try to kill me.

Then we must plan.

I’ve made plans.

But I must help. It’s different now.

She shook her head. No, it’s not. Zinovy started to speak, but she stopped him with a decided shake of her head. We’ve been there. There’s no going back.

He stared at her, unable to accept her words.

She stood looking at him for a moment, then she walked to the kitchenette and continued the task he’d obviously interrupted. When she’d folded the rest of the laundry, she looked up. Why you?

He shrugged. It’s no secret. He hates me. He’s got some power now. He’s using it to screw me.

Does he know you’re not going to do it?

He leaned against the wall and nodded. I informed him.

So now, what about you?

I don’t know. I haven’t thought that far. He watched her deft movements as she slipped a stack of dish towels into the drawer. Then he tried once more. Are you sure you—

Yes, Zinovy, I told you.

He folded his arms across his chest and sighed. Finally he asked,Is it a boy or a girl?

It’s a boy.

A pause.

Did the picture show what he looks like?

The lines around her mouth relaxed and she almost smiled. No, Zinovy. His features are still forming. She studied his face for a moment, then she did smile. When he’s grown he will look like a Cossack warrior, with a mop of curly dark hair, a stern mouth and a firm chin that some woman will one day describe as stubborn.

He frowned. Yes. He will certainly have the firm chin. He has no chance to avoid it. She gave him a warning look and moved across the room to her bed, smoothing out the wrinkles and tucking the spread under the edge of the mattress.

When will you go?

Soon.

Where?

It’s best you don’t know.

Will you contact me?

She shook her head. I cannot. You know that. I have to disappear completely. She carried the small laundry basket to the front door. If you want to help, give me a head start. Let them think you decided to follow the orders. Tell them I’m dead.

That was it. He should kiss her one last time, but the wall between them was thick, impenetrable, so he nodded instead and reached for the door handle. She turned away as he stepped through. His last sight of her was in profile, head bent, dark hair curled around one ear. Her right hand, the one that could have worn his ring, curved protectively around the small mound in her belly that was a part of himself.

He closed the door behind him, looked up and down the hall, and slid a motion detector above her doorframe. Then he went back to his apartment, checked for recently installed devices above his own door, and went in to wait.

The alarm sounded thirty minutes later. He slipped a switchblade into his pocket and left the apartment, moving through the hallway to the stairwell and running three flights down to the exit he knew she would take. Stepping outside, he slid around the corner of the building, pulled his collar up against the chill wind of the early evening, and waited. A minute later she came out, dressed in a dark faux-fur coat and carrying nothing but a large handbag.

It had started to snow. Several inches already covered the ground, silencing her steps but marking her trail. She would be counting on the heavy flakes to cover it quickly.

She walked halfway down the street, checking behind her twice, before a dark figure stepped out of the doorway and started after her. Zinovy waited until the man had settled into a steady pace, slipping along the hedge bordering the narrow sidewalk, then he followed. Zinovy looked back, checking for a second shadowy tail behind him. Nothing. The man ahead plodded on without a backward glance. A good sign.

The woman turned left at the corner, walked twenty paces, then crossed the street and continued down the other side. The tail faded into the hedge until she’d finished her reconnaissance, then he resumed his tracking, paralleling her movements from across the street.

She was headed for the metro. Once she reached the more populated area Zinovy would need to be closer. The tail was in the way. Time to deal with that.

Zinovy quickened his pace. He took the man from behind, wrapping an arm around his face and thrusting the knife through the jacket, feeling the resistance of the cartilage between the ribs before the blade slid home. He flipped the body behind a hedge and withdrew the knife, opening the wound, releasing the blood. Then he turned and wiped his blade clean against the new fallen snow, fighting hard against the waves of nausea rolling up through his gut. He wasn’t about to leave a DNA trail.

He turned back to the body, ignoring the crimson fluid spreading across the ground, and fished through the pockets. The wallet contained a small wad of paper Euros. He pocketed the cash and tossed the wallet on the ground, scattering the cards. With luck, they’d think it was a mugging, and the blood would throw them off his trail.

He checked to see that the street was empty, then sped across, following the woman’s rapidly disappearing trail to the station. She was climbing the stairs when he arrived, moving between a group of night shift workers and a starushka in a bright red coat. She wouldn’t stay beside the red coat long. He cursed her training and picked up his pace, shortening the distance between them before she melted into the metro crowd completely.

She boarded the airport shuttle. He stepped into the train car behind hers, moving to a spot where he could see her leave in case she bolted. She stayed on all the way.

At the airport, he watched her buy a ticket, hoping to God she was using untraceable plastic. He breathed again when she headed, unmolested, to the security line up. Then he went to the window and bought his own ticket for a return trip to and from Moscow.

He skipped the security line-up, pleased to discover his FSB ID had not yet been rescinded, and headed through the terminal, checking the waiting rooms as he went. She was sitting at Gate 17. No suspicious persons nearby. When her flight was called, she’d head off to the correct boarding area at the last minute. Then she’d be safely away to wherever she was going.

Satisfied, he headed to his own gate at the other end of the terminal, reaching it just as the last call for boarding reverberated over the intercom.

* * *

The Aeroflot flight on the ancient IL-96 took one hour but it felt like five. Zinovy resisted the urge to take over in the cockpit. He texted his contact: mst c u. urgent. txt rdvx time & loc. Then he busied himself with his handheld, reading the news and checking his messages.

He cursed the lateness of the hour. Kostya would be home, either in bed with company or deep into the Vodka, in any case not reading his mail until morning. Tomorrow he’d be at work. They could meet there if necessary, but Zinovy much preferred a more neutral rendezvous location. A Russian agent roaming around the New World International Regime headquarters would be conspicuous.

The plane landed at last and sat on the runway for another hour before releasing its passengers. Zinovy moved down the exit ramp behind a large woman with two small children and entered the terminal, looking around for inconspicuous lurkers in the waiting room before checking his handheld again. Still no reply.

Resigned to an overnight stay, he hailed a taxi, directed the driver to the Baltschug, and made plans for a pre-dawn trip to the NWIR headquarters to intercept Kostya on his way to work the next day.

He did not sleep well. It was the dreams—not nightmares, just vague images and undefined activity, confused and plotless, leaving him restless when he woke each time. The first was about the fetus. Her fetus. He was flying it somewhere, in an ice chest, like a transplant organ. He woke before he finished the mission, realizing as they entered a fog bank he had no idea where he was supposed to be going.

In the second dream, he was searching for her, slogging through a forest, mired in mud up to his shins, climbing over roots and branches, aware he was getting farther away with each step. He woke with a start, sweating and shivering. He pulled his legs from the tangled bedcovers and squinted at the clock. O-Five hundred. Too early to get up but too late to go back to sleep. He showered and dressed and slipped out the door, checking the hallway for unusual activity before he headed down the elevator and out the door onto the street.

The bridge was nearly deserted. One man trudged along on the other side of the road, hunched down in his collar, the bulge of a sidearm distorting the line of his coat—a security guard, heading to work at the Kremlin, its lights dim and hazy in the early morning fog up ahead. It was nearly six o'clock and still dark as midnight.

Zinovy hated the city in winter. He didn't know what he hated most—the long, dark nights, the unrelenting snow, or the winds that howled through the steel and concrete canyons, always in his face, never at his back. He needed to be someplace warm and bright.

Inside the Kremlin walls was a kiosk, just opening for the day. He ducked inside and ordered coffee, strong and black, and sat down on a stool in front of the window facing the street. He waited until 07:00 before calling Kostya’s landline. He cursed under his breath when the message machine came on, and sat for another two hours before getting a short, garbled text message, saying Kostya was heading to work.

The clock over the entrance to the Kremlin read 09:35 when his comrade finally came plodding from the parking area. Zinovy headed over to intercept him. Kostya saw him coming and raised a hand. Can’t talk now. Got to put in some work time before I can leave the office. We can meet at noon.

Zinovy caught a whiff of his friend’s unwashed breath as he passed by. So it had been a Vodka night. He spoke to the retreating back. We need to talk. Soon. Are you sure you can’t—

No. I can’t. He put his hand up again. Don’t shout, Zinovy. My head is pounding.

All right. Noon sharp then. I’ll meet you here. Kostya waved without looking back. Zinovy watched until he’d disappeared through the double wooden doors that led to his office building inside the Kremlin wall, then he turned away, swearing. Two and a half hours to kill and his toes were already frozen.

Zinovy spent two hours circling the Kremlin wall and the next forty minutes waiting impatiently in the Square, pacing back and forth in front of the Spasskaya clock. Kostya’s office was in a building just inside the entrance. A two-minute stroll to the gate. Zinovy checked his watch again and sat down on a rock wall, his eyes fixed on the door.

At last Kostya emerged from the entranceway, shrugging more deeply into his coat as the wind outside the wall hit him in the face. Zinovy waited until he’d cleared the shadow of the tower, then fell into step beside him.

Let’s go someplace warm, Kostya said. My Harley’s over here.

They crossed the parking lot to the corner section reserved for two-wheeled machines. Kostya unlocked the bike and climbed on, fastening his helmet over the fur cap that came down over his ears. Zinovy got on behind him, hunching down into his comrade’s broad back and pulling his jacket up over his head as they eased out of the parking area and picked up speed through the square.

Zinovy cringed as Kostya bullied his way through the traffic jam at the intersection and zipped down Znamenka, banking left and right around cars and buses and scattering at least three groups of tourists who didn’t know that crossing the street in Moscow was a proven method of committing suicide.

A red light finally stopped them at Arbatskaya. Four impatient, roaring revs of the engine, a green light, a leaning left, a right, and another left, then a short sprint down the street before Kostya slowed down and squeezed his bike into a six-foot space between two American-made cars parked in front of the Hard Rock Café. Zinovy climbed off the bike and wiped his brow with his sleeve.

Inside, they found a table next to the wall and shrugged out of their coats. Zinovy breathed deeply, warming his lungs with the smell of burned coffee grounds and hot grease. Busy chatter, a mixture of English and Russian, drowned out the background music, a jukebox jumble of American songs from the 1960’s. Kostya ordered a hamburger with strong black coffee, and Zinovy ordered fish and chips.

When the waitress left, Zinovy leaned forward and filled Kostya in on the events of the previous day. As he spoke, he studied his friend’s face, watching for any gleam of enlightenment to dawn in the bleary grey eyes, but he finished his story without detecting the slightest sign of intelligent life.

Kostya looked at him and frowned. Let me get this straight. Anton ordered you to kill Nadya, and you refused.

What else could I do? I couldn’t kill Nadya.

And you didn’t just say a simple ‘No.’ You told him he was insane. No, wait. You yelled at him and told him he was insane.

He is insane. How he ever got into that position I’ll never understand.

That is not the point. The point is that you told him so in a very loud voice.

Zinovy said nothing.

Just what were you planning as your next move?

Zinovy shrugged. I wasn’t planning a next move. It came up too quickly.

Kostya studied his face for a moment. Then he said, Zinovy Efimovich, you are an idiot.

Zinovy frowned. That is neither here nor there. What we have to do now is fix things. Nadya is the most important consideration. We have to make sure he can’t get at her. What can you do about that?

The waitress came to splash refills into their cups and left again. Kostya took a swallow of coffee, grimaced, and rubbed his forehead. I can put out a regime protection edict on her. That should cover it.

How long will that take? It needs to happen right away.

I can do it when I get back to the office. Don’t worry. That’s the easy part. It’s you I don’t know what to do with. We need to get you away for a while. Give things in your office a cooling off period.

Zinovy leaned back, stretched his legs out from under the table, and waited, relieved to see a glint of shrewdness flash beneath his protector’s droopy eyelids at last. The coffee was working.

Kostya stared at the ceiling for a moment, moving his eyes around the edge of the fragmented mirror above them and finally settling his attention on the golden globes dangling from its center. Then he sat up and snapped his fingers. That’s it, he said. I’ve got it. He leaned toward Zinovy and lowered his voice. We need a cosmonaut on the space station for the next few weeks. Gregor was supposed to go up, but he fell on the ice Sunday and broke his wrist. I just got the order yesterday to find a replacement.

The space station?

Kostya nodded. You still have your certification, don’t you?

Yes. It’s good for another six months.

That’ll do. You’ll only be up for a month or so.

What’s going on?

The Regime is abandoning the station. They have to bring all the equipment back down, and our government wants their own man up there to make sure everything that belongs to us gets back okay.

You’re joking. Why would the Supreme Commander abandon the station? I thought he just bought a new shuttle. The space program is his pet project.

Was his pet project. Things are different now. I think he might be hurting financially.

That’s impossible. He’s got all the money in the—

He’s got control of the money, yes, but it’s all on paper. The whole system is screwed now that it’s all under one, very controlling individual. I’m suspecting he’s got a real cash flow problem.

Zinovy raised his eyebrows. Be careful what you say, my friend. You work for the guy, and he’s got ears everywhere.

Kostya looked around, frowning at the table full of rowdy tourists beside them, and spoke in a low growl. Something’s happening with the Regime, Zinovy. Fifty packets stamped Top Secret have passed over my desk in the last two weeks. That’s five times the normal traffic. There’s something fishy going on in Babylon right now—something big and bad. I don’t know what it is, but it smells all the way to Moscow.

They downed the cold dregs of their coffee and stood to leave. Zinovy pulled the dead operative’s Euros out of his pocket and tossed them on top of the tab the waitress had left on their table. On second thought, he reached down and retrieved a couple of the bills. Waitresses tended to remember big tippers.

On the way out the door, Zinovy thought quickly. When would I leave?

You need to be ready by this weekend. Kostya pulled the Harley keys out of his pocket. But that works well for you. The sooner you get out of Anton’s reach, the better. He looked up and shook his head. You’re a lucky man, Zinovy. You must have a guardian angel up there somewhere. Six or seven, maybe. It would take that many to keep you from destroying yourself by your reckless stupidity. What have you done with your brain?

Zinovy put an arm around Kostya’s shoulders and squeezed. "You’re my guardian angel, comrade. Once again you have saved my shkooru."

Kostya shoved away from the bear hug and pulled his earflaps down. You better smarten up, my friend. One of these days you’ll use up all your guardian angels. Then where will you be?

They parted beside the Harley. Kostya took off up the street toward the Kremlin, and Zinovy trotted to the metro station at the end of the block. Downstairs, he took the airline ticket from his inside pocket and threw it in the trash. Then he caught the metro to the light rail station and bought a ticket on the afternoon train to St. Petersburg. He was back in his apartment by 19:00. He pulled off his jacket and put the knife in the drawer of his table, checking first to make sure it was clean, and headed upstairs. In Nadya’s apartment, he made a sandwich out of leftover chicken from the fridge and wandered over to look out her window as he ate it.

The lids were down on the dumpsters, their contents no longer bulging over the tops. He finished the sandwich, wiped his hands on his slacks, and sat down to e-mail Anton.

Assignment completed. No photographic evidence. You will find the body in the third dumpster to the north behind the apartment building, unless the trucks came by last night. It would take them two days to verify the location of the garbage in the landfill site, and another three to sift through it for the body. By that time, he should be gone.

He took one last look around the apartment, checking to make sure she hadn’t left anything incriminating. She would have cleaned it thoroughly, but a second run over the area wouldn’t hurt. He walked to the kitchen counter and picked up the notepad. No indentations in the clean page on the top, and nothing beneath it. A handbag she’d been carrying sat on the end of the couch. He picked it up and found the tracking device she’d obviously discovered in the lining. He carried the bag to her closet and stowed it on the top shelf beside a pair of sandals.

He moved to the bookcase against the wall and ran his eyes over the titles. Two English books—a copy of Plato’s Republic and something by Kafka. He pulled them out and readjusted the bookends. Neither would be acceptable to the Regime—Plato too Western and Kafka too Jewish. She should have disposed of them long ago. He grunted, remembering the arguments they’d had about Kafka. She was sure the man was a brilliant philosopher, in spite of the irrationality of his writings.

Zinovy moved to the window and pulled the drapes together. Then he turned out the lights and left with the books under his arm, locking the door behind him.

The next morning he found a tracker on his KLR. He left it there, riding dutifully to and from work for the next two days, parking in the garage at night under the watchful eye of whatever agent they had assigned to replace the mole he’d disposed of.

At work, he avoided Anton and treated everyone else with disdain, playing the part of the disgruntled government employee. It was not difficult.

On Friday morning, he got orders to report to Canaveral.

By Saturday night, he was in Orlando, where he bought three pairs of underwear and got his hair cut.

On Sunday, he received a scalding text message from Anton, which he deleted, and on Monday he boarded the Regime’s expensive new shuttle and took off for the Space Station.

CHAPTER TWO

"Chyort!" Zinovy leaned on the rail of his bunk and pounded his fist into the mattress. Then he picked up his Personal Comm Unit and read the message again.

BEGIN MEMO

To: Zinovy Efimovich Kozlov

From: Special Security Services

Re: Termination Notice

This is to inform you that your position with Federalnaya Sluzhba Bezopasnosti, Special Security Services, has hereby been terminated. Your refusal to accept the assignment given you on 4th December of this year constitutes a level of insubordination that cannot be tolerated. The discharge is in effect immediately.

This dismissal will nullify any pension benefits you might have accrued during your time with the military, including your service in the Air Force, as well as your twelve years with the FSB. Due to the sensitive nature of your work, any awards or commendations you may have received in the past will also be cancelled.

Be advised that the discharge does not constitute a release from your duty to the Regime. You will receive orders regarding future deployment in due time. Meanwhile, for security reasons, all record of your service with this government department will be erased.

Signed: General Anton Vasiliev

Special Security Services

Federalnaya Sluzhba Bezopasnosti

END MEMO

So Anton had pulled it off. Clever of the dirty gneeda. Right out of the old administrator’s handbook: give the field agent you want to get rid of an assignment you know he won’t do.

Checkmate.

He studied the small screen, thinking fast. Kostya was supposed to have prevented this. He hit the forward button, typed in wtf?? and sent the message on to him. Then he turned back to his mailbox.

A file was attached to Anton’s message. Absently, he opened it, and his gut twisted as the image of a slaughtered woman burned itself into his mind—the splayed limbs, the long gash slashing through the swollen belly, the infant’s tiny head and one arm bursting out of the womb, covered in blood still spurting from the woman’s severed jugular. And Nadya’s beautiful, blood-stained face, a faint look of surprise still registering in her half-open eyes.

He slammed the unit shut, raced to the toilet, and shoved his head in the urinal. He kept it there, visions of the blood mingling with the vomit, until there was nothing left to lose. Then he reeled out of the compartment, wiping his mouth on his sleeve, and bumped into Eric Glaston.

The Aussie clapped a hand on his shoulder. Whoa there, Kimosabe. Watch your step. You’re not the only one on this floating tub of nanotubes. The young engineer stepped around him and moved down the corridor, whistling.

Waves of raw emotion rolled over Zinovy as the bloody image continued to vibrate behind his eyes. Anton had done this deliberately, ordering the assassins to kill her this way and document the results, in full color, for his benefit. He stumbled down the passageway to his berth and picked up the comm unit. Where on earth was Kostya?

As if in answer to his question, an automatic reply to the forwarded message bounced onto his screen: Address unknown. User no longer available. He groaned, then he reopened the attachment and forced himself to look at the image of Nadya again, soaking up the bright crimson redness, letting it seep into his soul and feed the anger. A firm resolve flowed into his heart and hardened, like molten steel hissing in a water bath.

Anton had signed his own death warrant.

Zinovy stumbled back to his quarters and rested his forehead on the edge of the bunk, breathing deeply, ordering his heart to stop pounding. He must go carefully. First he had to survive. The message said he’d receive orders in due time. Vague. Very vague. Zinovy knew why. Anton wouldn’t wait until he came home to do it. Someone would be dispatched into space to kill him.

Maybe it had already been arranged. He frowned again, trying to remember. A serviceman had been up last week installing that Rassvat camera. He could have planted a mechanism anywhere, in any form. A time-release pellet in the food rations. A poison dart in his kit bag. A robotic insect in his bedding.

He ran his fingers over the blanket covering his empty bunk, lifted each corner of the mattress. Nothing. But insects on the station would stand out like pigs at a bar mitzvah. It would be something less obvious, some new device. There were many to choose from.

But then it could be something more primitive. Zinovy looked at his hands, flexing the fingers. Hands had always been the most reliable method. Anton wouldn’t have access to an assassin’s hands on the shuttle. Unless.

The others. Could one of them . . . ? He ran through the list, checking them off.

Charles Carter. The fat American. They’d met once before, when Zinovy had been assigned the duty of escorting him around Moscow during a scientific exchange program. Carter hated his guts, but he wasn’t smart enough to be an undercover agent. Carter couldn’t cover his belly, let alone a secret mission to kill an FSB-trained operative who was a head taller and in top condition.

What about Eric Glaston, the engineer? No. It wouldn’t be him. The boy was too emotional, too volatile. Everything he felt erupted from his mouth, and he was too young to have been trained as thoroughly as he’d need to be for this job anyway.

Archie Berry, the mission commander? He was old enough—frown wrinkles deep in his forehead, slightly balding, hair gray at the temples. Not as transparent as Carter. Rational. Seemingly dedicated to the mission he led. No hint of a hidden agenda, though Zinovy had little knowledge of his life apart from the last twenty-one days. Uncertain.

The two women, Grace Chang and Ellen Rudzinski? No. Both harmless. Chang spoke often of her family back home, and Rudzinski spoke constantly, always about herself. No agent would be so carelessly verbal, and the worlds of both were too small to include espionage.

That left the shuttle pilot, Dan Redmond. No indication of any secrets, but that was what made an agent good. Zinovy frowned, thinking back over the pilot’s actions since they’d come up together three weeks ago. His focus was his ship. He spent all his time polishing, tooling, rearranging everything that wasn’t fastened down. Not the profile of a killer.

If it were not hands, it would have to be a device—something planted and left behind. Something devious. Anton knew the skill of his enemy, and the caution that had kept him alive for thirty-eight years. The device would be well hidden. It would probably also inflict pain.

Zinovy grimaced. He didn’t fear death, but he’d be damned if it came before he finished Anton off. He drew in three deep breaths. It would not happen. Not on his watch. And not on Anton’s either.

He turned and walked down the hallway. Grace Chang and Ellen Rudzinski came out of the command center as he was going in, their arms full of clothing. He stepped aside so they could pass. They nodded and smiled. Chang, petite and delicate, slipped easily by him, her dark hair dipping over her eyes with her nod; Rudzinski squeezed by with an apologetic smile, her big-boned, Slavic body awkward in the small space. That one had hands that could be dangerous, but the apology in her smile was genuine. Definitely not the hit man type.

The women’s conversation floated over the sound of their soft shoes padding through the module as they went into the docking module. They were talking about the trip home.

It occurred to him that Anton could fix his problem by simply arranging for cancellation of the return trip. He obviously had connections in the Regime. He’d done away with Kostya. No telling how far his slimy tentacles reached up the Regime chain of command.

Zinovy checked his watch. They were scheduled to abandon the station in less than twelve hours. Due time, Anton had said. Due time had come and gone. Perhaps a message rescinding their return orders already sat in Archie Berry’s mailbox.

Zinovy walked into the command center and leaned against the wall by the door. Eric Glaston and Dan Redmond looked up. Glaston saluted, then went back to work sending reports to the authorities below, and Redmond turned back to the manual he’d been reading. A minute later Berry walked into the room, sat down beside Glaston and hit a button on the keyboard. Zinovy folded his arms and waited for Berry’s reaction. It wasn’t long in coming. The commander clicked one more key, sat unmoving for ten seconds, then slammed his fist on the console and whirled around. All right, people, he announced. We’ve got another spacewalk to do.

Zinovy straightened. A spacewalk?

We can’t do a spacewalk, Glaston said. We’re twelve hours away from separation.

Berry ran his hand through his hair. I know, but the order just came in. He swore. I wish these guys would get their act together. Why couldn’t they have told us sooner?

What do they want? Redmond asked.

We have to retrieve that camera they installed last week, the one monitoring Rassvet.

That’s crazy, Glaston said. A camera’s not that valuable. What’s up?

Berry shrugged. Something about a design flaw they want to investigate. He turned to Zinovy. You’re going to have to do this. They want it to be a Russian operation.

Zinovy froze. Who ordered this retrieval?

Regime Command sent the order.

I know that, but what department placed the order? Was it the FSB?

Berry scratched his head. I think so. Why?

No reason. He’d wondered why the Russians had installed a new camera on a station about to be abandoned. Mystery solved. It would be a bomb, probably. Not an obvious plant. There would be an unexplained explosion. Something gone wrong with the equipment on the arm housing the camera. His mistake. An unfortunate accident.

His mind raced, searching for a way to avoid the exercise, but he could think of none. Berry knew nothing of Anton’s vendetta, and telling him would lead to complicated explanations Zinovy wasn’t ready to give. Explanations wouldn’t convince him anyway. The commander might grumble about the timing, but he was a company man and would insist the order be followed.

Glaston put his cup down and stepped forward. I’ll go with you.

No, you won’t. I don’t need help.

You’ll take him, Zinovy. No one does a space crawl outside this station without a buddy. You know my rules about that. The commander turned away, dictating over his shoulder. Get your suits on. Make it quick. I want you both back here in two hours.

* * *

It took them forty-five minutes to suit up and acclimate to the environment. This is ridiculous, Glaston said as he strapped the SAFER propulsion system onto his life-support backpack. Those dipsticks down below have no idea how this business works. They sit on their fat behinds and give us impossible orders. They’re probably sipping their lattes right now and wondering what’s taking us so long to report back.

Berry came into the module to check on their preparations. You’re using the EMU’s aren’t you? No sense in dragging an umbilical around for such a short trip.

Zinovy nodded, saying nothing.

Just make sure your tethers are attached, the commander added. Then he stepped back into the station and closed the hatch.

The click of the lock sliding into place reverberated like a death knell in Zinovy’s ears. Tethering was the least of his worries. He collected his tools and looked around. If he could find something that might serve as a shield . . . . Ah. He reached up and disengaged the titanium cover from a control box on the wall.

What on earth are you taking that for? Glaston asked.

It might prove useful, Zinovy said. The real question is, what am I taking you for?

Man, you’re a cranky dude. You take life way too serious.

"That’s why I’m still alive, beermat."

They clamped their helmets on, opened the hatch, and stepped out into the dark void. If he hadn’t been distracted by the danger that lay before him, Zinovy would have enjoyed this last spacewalk. Space was a comrade—vast, to be sure, but predictable—a macrocosm of his own reality. Everything in it could be explained rationally.

Glaston’s voice jolted Zinovy from his reverie. What’s the holdup?

No holdup, Zinovy thought. Only the probability that they were heading toward instant death. He grunted and moved forward.

They inched along the outside of the ship toward the end of the limb and Glaston continued his diatribe. You’ve got to get over this go-it-alone thing, Zinovy. Life doesn’t work that way. You’re not the Lone Ranger, you know.

Eighty feet from the end of the limb, Zinovy stopped. You stay here. They say I have to do this, remember?

Okay. Holler if you need me.

Zinovy pushed on, sliding his tether along the rail, looking back after five handholds to make sure Glaston stayed put. No sense in two of them going down if the disable didn’t work. It had to be a bomb. Probably triggered by movement.

Fifteen feet from his destination, he stopped to position the titanium panel in front of his body. The makeshift shield wouldn’t protect him completely, but it might help if the blast were not extensive.

Five more handholds and he was there. He stopped, slid his tether into place, and peered at the mounting mechanism. No obvious trigger device or trip wires. Not surprising. Visible detonators were dinosaurs. These would be electronic. He squinted up under the hood, looking for flashes of light that might indicate a sensor of some kind. Nothing. He ran his hands over the outside, avoiding the bolts that held the casing in place. Nothing unusual. Obviously not a motion sensor or the bomb would have gone off by now.

Maybe he was wrong. Maybe the camera wasn’t hot. Maybe they would do it another way. But, no. He knew Anton. The squat, pimply-faced commander would be sitting in front of his plasma screen this minute, watching, his beady eyes gleaming. Zinovy leaned over and stared into the lens, resisting the urge to raise his middle finger. Then he reached around to the switch at the back and turned the camera off. He smiled, picturing the scene back home. Anton would be fuming, yelling at his lackeys, trying to get the reception back.

He consciously slowed his heartbeat and turned back to the device. The detonator must be in the coupling mechanism. He slid his hand under the hood and groped for the first of the four pins. He took a deep breath and loosened it, cringing at the first turn. Nothing happened. He moved on to the second pin. It came loose with no resistance. The third pin was closer. He tucked the titanium shield up under his arms and reached in with both hands, still searching, instinctively, for something out of the ordinary.

Too late, he found it, feeling the resistance of the magnetic field an instant before his world exploded.

* * *

Zinovy’s scrambled brain struggled to make sense of the sounds rattling around inside his helmet. A voice. A loud voice, yelling something.

He opened his eyes and squinted at the blurry scene before him. The space station. Ah, yes. He’d been working on the outside. But something was wrong. He could see the whole Kirlian arm, sticking out like a giant tentacle from the core module, and it was too far away.

Again he heard the sounds, now translated into words: Zinovy! Activate your rocket pack! Zinovy, are you there? Wake up! Get hold of your propulsion system.

His head swam, but the meaning of the words finally penetrated. He reached for the MMU controller arms and turned the system on. Immediately he felt the forward thrust against his outward movement. The station receded more slowly now, but it was still growing smaller.

He readjusted the controls to release the maximum amount of propellant. Again he slowed, but he didn’t stop. The propulsion units were designed to allow for independent movement in space, not counter the force of a bomb blast.

Now he remembered. A bomb had gone off. Thank God for the tether.

Zinovy reached down and tugged on the twenty-meter line. Still slack. That didn’t make sense.