LUBYANKA SQUARE, MOSCOW
On the fourth floor of FSB Headquarters is a suite of rooms occupied by the organization’s smallest and most secretive unit. Known as the Department of Coordination, it handles only cases of extreme political sensitivity, usually at the behest of the Russian president himself. At that moment its longtime chief, Colonel Leonid Milchenko, was seated at his large Finnish-made desk, a telephone to his ear, his eyes on Lubyanka Square. Vadim Strelkin, his number two, was standing anxiously in the door. He could tell by the way Milchenko slammed down the phone it was going to be a long night.
“Who was it?” Strelkin asked.
Milchenko delivered his response to the window.
“Shit,” replied Strelkin.
“Not shit, Vadim. Oil.”
“What did he want?”
“He’d like a word in private.”
“Where?”
“His office.”
“When?”
“Five minutes ago.”
“What do you think it is?”
“It could be anything,” Milchenko said. “But if Volgatek is involved, it can’t be good.”
“I’ll get the car then.”
“Good idea, Vadim.”
It took longer to haul the car from the bowels of Lubyanka than it did to make the short drive over to Volgatek headquarters on Tverskaya Street. Dmitry Bershov, the firm’s second-ranking officer, was waiting tensely in the lobby as Milchenko and Strelkin entered—another bad sign. He said nothing as he led the two FSB men into an executive elevator and pressed a button that shot them directly into an office on the building’s top floor. The office was the biggest Milchenko had ever seen in Moscow. In fact, it took a few seconds for him to spot Gennady Lazarev seated at one end of a long executive couch. Milchenko chose to remain on his feet while the Volgatek CEO explained that Pavel Zhirov, his chief of security, had not been seen or heard from since eleven the previous evening. Milchenko knew the name; he and Zhirov had been contemporaries at the KGB. He dropped a leather-bound notebook on Lazarev’s glass coffee table and sat down.
“What was going on at eleven last night?”
“We were having a party at Café Pushkin to celebrate an important new hire at the firm. By the way,” Lazarev added, “the new hire is missing, too. So is the driver.”
“You might have mentioned that at the outset.”
“I was getting to it.”
“What’s the new hire’s name?”
Lazarev answered the question.
“Russian?” asked Milchenko.
“Not really.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means he’s of Russian ancestry but carries a British passport.”
“So he is, in fact, British.”
“He is.”
“Anything else I should know about him?”
“He’s currently employed by Viktor Orlov in London.”
Milchenko exchanged a long look with Strelkin before staring wordlessly at his notebook. He had yet to write anything in it, which was probably wise. A missing former KGB officer and a missing associate of the Kremlin’s most vocal opponent. Milchenko was beginning to think he should have called in sick that morning.
“I take it they left Café Pushkin together,” he said finally.
Lazarev nodded.
“Why?”
“Pavel wanted to ask him a few questions.”
“Why am I not surprised?”
Lazarev said nothing.
“What kind of questions?” Milchenko asked.
“Pavel had suspicions about him.”
“Meaning?”
“He thought he might be connected to a foreign intelligence service.”
“Any service in particular?”
“For obvious reasons,” Lazarev said carefully, “his suspicions centered on the British.”
“So he was planning to give him a good going-over.”
“He was going to ask him a few questions,” Lazarev said deliberately.
“And if he didn’t like the answers?”
“Then he was going to give him a good going-over.”
“I’m glad we cleared that up.”
The phone at Lazarev’s elbow emitted a soothing purr. He lifted the receiver to his ear, listened in silence, then said, “Right away,” before replacing the receiver.
“What is it?” asked Milchenko.
“The president would like a word.”
“You shouldn’t keep him waiting.”
“Actually,” said Lazarev, “you’re the one he wants to see.”
55
ST. PETERSBURG, RUSSIA