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  THE COLLABORATOR

  IAN KHARITONOV

  The Collaborator

  Copyright © 2013 by Ian Kharitonov. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the copyright holder.

  Cover design by Hristo Kovatliev.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  www.IanKharitonov.com

  Contents

  PART I

  PART II

  PART III

  PART IV

  PART V

  EPILOGUE

  PART I

  1

  HIS REAL RUSSIAN NAME was classified, but on that day his alias was Imran, and he was a warrior of jihad.

  A holy war for some; to him, merely a cover.

  Walking past the columned portico of the Bolshoi Theater, he ignored the spectacular architecture. He focused his attention only on potential threats.

  He entered Theater Square, a vast open space in front of the Bolshoi. A gust of wind swept yellowed leaves, fallen from the low trees surrounding it. The square was empty on a bitter October day like this, but no one would have given him a second glance anyway. His appearance was unremarkable, from his average height and build to the way he dressed. He wore an anthracite-black bomber jacket, jeans, and a baseball cap that shielded his stubbled face from CCTV cameras. The attire made him blend into the urban landscape: a nobody like the millions who came and went in the hopes of finding a better life in Moscow. Still, he was relieved to see that Theater Square was devoid of tourists snapping photos of the Bolshoi that could catch a glimpse of him. Nothing had changed since he’d last scouted the area.

  Imran occupied a bench near a fountain’s waterless bowl and fished his phone from the inside pocket of his jacket. His fingertips tickled with pleasant anticipation.

  Before him was an avenue named Theater Drive, a broad stretch of eight lanes. The traffic was moderate, he observed, the rows of vehicles moving without slowdown, made up mostly of luxury sedans or SUVs. A few pedestrians hurried along the sidewalks. On the other side of Theater Drive he saw the stone bust of the man he admired as the greatest proponent of international terrorism: Karl Marx. Inscribed on the statue's plinth was Marx's call to conquer the world through violence.

  Farther away, Imran could even make out the towers of the Kremlin, the sun flashing off the golden eagles that topped them. He glanced at the phone’s screen to check his surroundings with satellite mapping software. The GPS chip pinpointed his position.

  But there was also a second marker which was moving across the map.

  The continuous location updates were coming from another phone which was hidden in a sedan he had carjacked. He had also hired the man behind the wheel, who was unaware of the cargo he was delivering. Imran waited until the car appeared in view. It was a pathetic-looking ancient Lada. Lacking airbags or any other safety features, it was a tin coffin on wheels. All the more apt, Imran thought. The perfect terrorist tool. Just as expendable as the car was the driver. Imran left no evidence behind. He was a one-man cell. Planner, bomb-maker, executor. Impenetrable.

  The Lada cruised down Theater Drive, and Imran followed it with his eyes. Then he got up and retraced his route, walking towards the Bolshoi. Checking his phone, he saw that the Lada had stopped next to the house at 3, Theater Drive, in accordance with his instructions. He flicked to another screen and texted a message. One second after he sent it, the phone inside the Lada buzzed a notification. The handset’s vibration motor was wired to twenty kilograms of explosives and the alert had completed the circuit.

  Shielded by the massive structure of the Bolshoi, he nonetheless felt the reverberating force of the blast. He turned around and peered from behind the portico’s fifteen-meter-tall columns to witness plumes of smoke rising from Theater Drive. Then he could hear human screams pierce the air above the shrieking alarms of parked cars, triggered by the boom of the explosion.

  He picked up his stride to vanish amid the century-old buildings. Nobody would ever have a chance to appreciate it, yet he could not help but smile at the word he’d tapped out to detonate the bomb.

  Inshallah.

  2

  FIVE MINUTES AFTER THE explosion, a Eurocopter EC145 lifted off the helipad of a children’s hospital across the Moskva River. The rotor blades whipped the air, its twin engines whining as the nimble helicopter soared into the sky. The Eurocopter’s white fuselage had the sleek shape of a shark’s head. A blue-and-orange stripe running along either side denoted the color scheme of the Russian EMERCOM. Conventionally known as the Ministry of Emergency Situations, EMERCOM had earned a reputation as the finest rescue agency in the world. From war-torn villages to tsunami-hit shores, EMERCOM specialists reacted wherever and whenever disaster struck.

  The crew comprised the pilot, co-pilot and two doctors, but this time an unexpected fifth passenger had boarded the Eurocopter: Major Eugene Sokolov, commander of EMERCOM’s Extra-Risk Team. Through the window, Sokolov examined the panorama below. At the heart of Moscow, the Kremlin spires, Red Square, the golden domes of the Christ the Savior Cathedral glistening in the sun, all looked like toy models along with other blocky buildings. He also saw black smoke spreading near the Bolshoi. Sokolov muttered a curse, but the thumping rotors absorbed any sound. One of the doctors, a wiry middle-aged man, maintained radio contact with the paramedics on site, while the pilots received an all-okay signal to land.

  Sokolov checked the Breitling chronometer on his wrist. The Eurocopter descended, the short, two-kilometer flight over in under a minute. Cordoned off by the police, Theater Drive offered an empty patch of asphalt amid the raging chaos. As soon as the skids touched down, Sokolov slid his passenger door open and hopped down from the cabin. Immediately, ambulance crews rushed two gurneys to the helicopter’s rear and loaded the victims through the clamshell doors. Sokolov caught a glimpse of their faces—injured, bleeding teenagers, a boy and a girl, hit by shrapnel. Air currents from the sweeping blades tugged at Sokolov’s orange-sleeved EMERCOM windbreaker and disheveled his sandy hair. The Eurocopter hovered above the ground again and headed back to the hospital where it was stationed.

  Tall and athletic, Sokolov strode across Theater Drive drawing the attention of gawkers crowded along the sidewalks. Some of them stared at the bombing site in stunned silence, others recorded the aftermath with their phone cameras. Only a few tried to help the paramedics who had just arrived. The mildly injured made their way to the ambulances, accompanied by medics, while those in critical condition were stretchered off. Several corpses lay unattended. Blood slicked the pavement in reddish brown splashes. Sokolov stepped over the glass shards, metal chunks and other debris strewn around. The surrounding buildings had all had their windows shattered by the blast wave. A smoldering, corrugated chassis, torn in half, was all that remained of the vehicle driven by the suicide bomber. Damaged cars had congested the street around the epicenter, either hit directly by the blast force or peppered with fragments. Cries filled Theater Drive, cutting through the black haze and the burning stench. Sirens blared a cacophony as ambulances drove victims off to hospitals and new fire engines arrived together with police cruisers.

  A woman lay prostrate on the ground, her right shoe missing, blood streaking down her leg. He raced to her, kneeling to hold her head. She was unconscious but he felt her pulse. He waved his arm, calling for a paramedic who quickly took over.

  Dread swelled inside him when Sokolov approached the six-story building which had taken the most damage. Fire engines line
d up, dousing the flames as the firemen evacuated people with ladder trucks. Part of the elaborate nineteenth-century façade had collapsed. At the entrance, a deep crater yawned in the ground. Sokolov struggled to grasp the reality. He had walked through these doors less than an hour ago, and now in their place he found only rubble.

  The terrorists had targeted the EMERCOM headquarters.

  3

  OVER THE YEARS AT the Extra-Risk Team, Sokolov had survived his share of terrorist attacks, starting from Beslan in 2004. Back then, his life had been spared by the millimeters measuring between his heart and a slug that had hit him clean through. He had also seen the effects of bombing in the Moscow Metro first-hand. And even a few months ago, he had taken part in a black ops mission deep inside Kazakhstan to wipe out a terrorist training camp. But he could never have imagined an act of terror against his own Ministry. Despite being a branch of the government, EMERCOM’s only policy was saving lives. The six-story Ministry building symbolized stability for every one of the 350,000 employees, including civil defense workers and firefighters like the men now doing their best to extinguish the flames.

  Within half an hour, the fire had been contained. At ground level, a black coat of soot soiled the Ministry’s walls, highlighting the structural damage. Built in 1893, the first four brownstone stories exemplified the era’s neoclassical style that had all but vanished from Moscow. Now this architectural gem stood helpless and assaulted. The attack seemed a desecration more than anything. The real destruction had spread in the street, mutilating the pedestrians and motorists on Theater Drive.

  Sokolov felt a bitterness that had little to do with the fumes filling the air. It was raw anger. Too much ruin in his life had to do with terrorists and burning buildings, like the school in Beslan.

  In the reigning confusion, Sokolov directed the efforts of rescuers and psychologists, making sure that all of the victims received due care. He consoled the evacuees, many of whom he knew personally. He became his efficient self, setting aside his own emotions as he helped others.

  More paramedics arrived, and so did policemen and investigators. Downtown traffic, insufferable on a good day, had come to a standstill but the media vultures managed to arrive at Theater Drive. Undeterred by their failure to breach police lines and crawl all over the scene, the reporters stayed among the gawkers, cameras trained on the Ministry.

  All at once a commotion broke out among them as an executive Mercedes with government plates pulled up from the direction of the Bolshoi and a black-suited man stormed down Theater Drive. The reporters fired questions at him, but he proceeded past the police barrier without a word, his eyes focused on the Ministry. He almost matched Sokolov in height, though his six-three frame was less muscular. He was light on his feet despite the weight of responsibility on his shoulders, a minimalist grace in every motion. In fact, Daniil Klimov would have become a top ballet dancer at the Bolshoi had he listened to his mother. Instead, he had risen through the ranks to become head of EMERCOM, Minister and General. Absorbing the scene, Klimov let out a heavy sigh. He had started his EMERCOM career as a bomb expert.

  Klimov loosened his tie and approached Sokolov. At forty-two, the General was a man of action, and he found his bureaucratic attire stifling. Yet he fought as hard representing EMERCOM in a suit during cabinet struggles as he had done wearing a battle uniform. For the public, he was EMERCOM. Since taking over from his predecessor, Klimov had transformed a bloated, rigid bureaucracy back into the world-leading service it had once been. Although Klimov avoided membership in the Ruling Party, the Kremlin found the General indispensable.

  “Sorry I’m late, Gene. I was halfway to the Premier’s residence.” Klimov did not need to explain that he had canceled the meeting instantly.

  “It’s not your fault.”

  They shared a silence that marked a special bond forged between the two men. A decade’s gap in age did nothing to weaken their friendship. Klimov ran his fingers through his black hair flecked with touches of gray. He would never show any outward signs, but in his eyes Sokolov could read that Klimov was devastated.

  They both heard noise rising from the packs of journalists behind them, which could only mean a spontaneous interview. The mayor had shown up to steal the limelight.

  Klimov shifted his gaze from his unscathed sixth-floor office to the debris and blood stains covering Theater Drive.

  “Whoever did this… I want them to answer for everything.”

  4

  RUNNING FROM THE BOLSHOI, Theater Drive opened into Lubyanskaya Square. While it no longer carried the fearsome name of Dzerzhinsky, the place still generated apprehension. Dominating the square was a sprawling edifice that had belonged to an insurance company until 1919 when it was ousted by a far more violent organization. Now it operated under a different acronym, but in the hearts and minds of many, it would forever remain as the KGB.

  Only a city block separated the epicenter of the blast on Theater Drive from the office of Saveliy Ignatievich Frolov, the current FSB Director. Frolov found it amusing that the old Lubyanka building embodied immense power, even though the entire KGB leadership had relocated to an adjacent building in 1982, and the intelligence service had been run from there ever since. Cold and gray, the new structure which faced Kuznetsky Most seemed like it had been carved from the side of a volcano. A colossal fortress. Frolov preferred its featureless straight lines to the vague neo-baroque overtones remaining in the old building despite heavy reconstruction. What he appreciated most was the sense of security he felt in his office, knowing that his administrative building stayed in the shadows, much like himself.

  Hearing ambulance sirens, Frolov walked up to the bulletproof window, full of vigor for a man his age. Past seventy, he kept his body in fine health, and his mind stayed as sharp as ever.

  Lubyanskaya Square appeared wrong without the statue of Felix Dzerzhinsky which had stood in the middle and collapsed together with Communism. Soon, Frolov thought, he would have the liberty to bring the statue back. The explosion at the EMERCOM headquarters was the first step to restoring former glory.

  5

  CONSTANTINE SOKOLOV HAD NEVER felt such gnawing futility. News of the EMERCOM explosion rattled him. Losing his younger brother, Eugene, would have been a blow impossible to recover from. He still wanted to believe that he had put the horrors of the previous months behind him, but somehow death stayed in close proximity. The bombing laid bare the emptiness around Constantine which only his brother filled. He loved him too much, and he had no other family, nothing permanent in his life. A historian with a dark past but no future. He could feel the Sword of Damocles suspended over his head. Ever since settling back in Moscow, he had been snubbed by the academic community, hitting an invisible wall no matter what scientific position he applied for in which institution. Inexplicably, he had become a pariah, as if on orders from the powers that be.

  He did not even own the luxurious apartment he lived in, and the lease would expire sooner or later when he ran out of money.

  Neither could he return to Europe. Not as long as he could face charges of multiple murder. Which, in self-defense, he had truly committed.

  Thankfully, Eugene had texted him earlier, saying that he was unscathed. The first media reports stirred panic, and the cell networks crashed under the load of calls.

  Within hours, details emerged from every outlet. The casualties had risen to five dead and seventeen injured, and the count was growing. Some blogs already blamed the Chechens. EMERCOM was trending on Twitter. Blurry videos from eyewitnesses appeared on YouTube.

  Constantine paced the spacious two-room flat located in Hotel Ukraina, one of Stalin’s high-rise Seven Sisters. With its tasteless furniture and bleak surfaces that he had no power to change, lacking the personal touches which turned a dwelling into a home, the rented apartment more than ever conveyed a sense of entrapment. In the background, the TV emitted chatter. He hardly ever had it on, but now the silence in his apartment unnerved him
more than the gloom spreading from the news channel. Two pundits were discussing possible retaliation.

  In the living room, he stopped at the wall cabinet, pulled open a small drawer and took out a flat, rectangular box similar to a jewelry case. Flipping open the burgundy cover revealed the interior padding. It contained two indentations molded to the shape of the objects resting within.

  A Gold Star Medal and a leather-bound booklet that bore the double-headed eagle imprinted on it together with the words Hero of the Russian Federation, a citation identifying Constantine Sokolov as the medal’s recipient.

  He held it in his fingers, the hard metallic edges of the star’s rays still feeling strange to the touch. The tri-colored suspension bar was fashioned after the Russian flag. The country’s highest decorations bestowed upon them in the Kremlin were something else the brothers had in common. Eugene had earned it in battle. Constantine could not decide whether his Gold Star filled him with pride or shame. He considered it undeserved as an honor, and too strenuous as a burden. He believed that FSB Director Frolov had manipulated him in a conspiracy which had cost too many lives. His involvement was classified, and the medal acted as a reminder that he should never disclose the details. Officially, he had never received the small burgundy case and this Gold Star didn’t exist. But it was there, always with him like a stain on his soul that he could not wash off, left over from his unwitting collaboration with those he loathed. A reminder that they might still be lurking, watching, allowing him no way back or forward.

  A loud ringtone sounded from his phone. He grabbed the handset, hoping it was Eugene.