The Collaborator Read online

“Hello?”

  “Hello, Constantine?”

  A woman’s voice. Soft, melodic, pronouncing his name with the same tenderness as before. The voice he never thought he’d hear again. His college sweetheart who had broken up with him.

  “Nina? Nina! My God, how long has it been? Three, four years?”

  “Longer, maybe. I’m glad you still recognize my voice.”

  “You’re not easy to forget.” He smiled. “Nina … There’s so much we need to talk about, I don’t know where to start.”

  “Listen, what I’m about to say is very important.”

  She sounded very serious, like she always did when something bothered her.

  “I’m all ears,” he said.

  “I’ve learned the name of your great-grandfather.”

  “What? How did—”

  “You have a living relative, a second cousin in Paris. Her name is Michelle.”

  She caught him off-balance. He was too stunned to reply for a second. Nothing made sense.

  “Today’s bombing is just the beginning. They won’t stop unless…” She broke off in mid-sentence, as if wary of saying too much over the phone. “I need to show you something.”

  “Nina, what’s going on? Are you in trouble?”

  “I can only explain it to you in person. Can we meet today?”

  “Of course. Any time.”

  “An hour from now?”

  “Wherever you say.”

  Nina hesitated.

  “At our place? Our old favorite place?” she suggested.

  Despite the urgency, he heard notes of sad warmth in her voice, remembrance of their time together.

  “Yes. Definitely,” he said. “In an hour. I’ll be there.”

  Without another word, Nina ended the connection.

  Constantine’s heart raced as fast as his thoughts. He felt as though someone had suddenly thrown him into a raging river. Events swept him off his feet, giving him no chance to catch his breath and find his bearings. But the tension and confusion could not overshadow his happiness at hearing Nina’s voice.

  An hour seemed far too long until he could see his first love again.

  6

  CONSTANTINE COULD NOT BEAR to stay in the apartment a minute longer. He realized that his life was no longer futile. All these years he had tried to forget her, but it was her love that he had missed the most. Now he had a chance to be happy with Nina again, and he would not let her go. He was ready to do anything for her, just so that she would stay with him.

  He looked outside. The traffic in the streets showed no hint of easing. He decided to kill the hour by setting out to the unexpected date on foot. He grabbed his brown leather jacket, locked the apartment and stormed down the staircase. Crossing the small garden in front of the hotel, he walked down the embankment along the murky Moskva.

  The crisp, fresh air helped him to gather his thoughts.

  Somehow everything revolved around the mystery of his paternal great-grandfather. Constantine and Eugene were Cossacks ethnically—that much they knew about their ancestry, but nothing else. Not even their great-grandfather’s name. With the Bolsheviks conducting an official policy of decossackisation, millions of Cossacks had had to conceal their roots for fear of persecution and death. Papers had been lost, backgrounds and identities altered. For their part, the Bolsheviks had done their utmost to conceal the documents attesting to their crimes. From the turmoil of the Civil War and Stalin’s purges, Russia had emerged with her history washed away with blood.

  Scraps of information usually survived in family lore, passed through generations—but not in the Sokolov family. Their past had remained a dark secret. There wasn’t a single photo or memory left. As children, whenever Constantine or Eugene had asked their father about his grandparents, he had avoided giving answers.

  “Always remember,” their father had finally said to his two sons, “that you are Cossacks. Be proud and don’t believe any lies you will hear.”

  The words had put the topic to bed but couldn’t stifle Constantine’s interest. Yet in adulthood, having become a qualified historian, Constantine had hit dead ends in every archive, the traces of his roots non-existent. Now the fate of his great-grandfather had cropped up in the most incredible circumstances.

  How could it have anything to do with the terrorist attack against EMERCOM?

  And another question persisted all day, one that the media and officials shunned.

  Why EMERCOM?

  The Internet rumor mill was already churning out theories that the suicide bomber had hit EMERCOM by mistake, and put forward alternatives such as the Parliament building or the FSB, each within a stone’s throw, or even the Ministry of Transport, directly neighboring EMERCOM. But Constantine knew that the terrorists hadn’t erred in their plan, even if their objectives defied explanation. Nobody claimed responsibility or issued any demands.

  But according to Nina, the unfolding madness only marked the beginning.

  His mind returned to her gorgeous image.

  Nina Lanskaya. Svelte, leggy, with wavy chestnut hair and bottomless emerald-green eyes. They had met in the halls of Moscow University, two undergrads at the Faculty of History: Constantine, already as cynical about his studies as he was effortlessly brilliant, and Nina, an open-minded, fun-loving girl who had transferred from another college during the semester. Surrounded by mediocrity, their mutual attraction had come naturally, friendship growing into a torrid affair.

  But after uni their romance had withered as she seemingly lost interest in him, concentrating on her career, and they each went their separate ways.

  He knew that he still loved her. He had never felt the same about any other woman. He regretted that he hadn’t done enough to save their relationship, musing on what could have been. But he could not remember telling her about his great-grandfather during their blissful time together. Perhaps he had, in passing. Did she still love him so much that she was determined to discover the truth for him, years later? Or was there some other reason for her to pursue a fleeting mention of a family secret?

  He was about to find out.

  After crossing the river via Borodinsky Bridge, he progressed past the towering edifice of the Foreign Ministry, another skyscraper built under Stalin, like the Ukraina.

  He looked at the faces of the passersby and saw dejection in many. Bombings affected everyone in Moscow, but people grew more used to them with each new attack. Life resumed as the shock wore off and the streets became crowded again.

  Off Smolenskaya Square, Constantine entered the Arbat, the most ancient street in the city, now closed off to traffic. He strolled amid flocks of tourists, Russian and foreign alike. On either side of the cobbled pavement, luxurious Art Nouveau houses hugged each other tightly. Guitar and violin chords echoed from street performers somewhere in the distance. Souvenir vendors were selling Russian matroyshka dolls and fur hats to assorted customers milling around their stalls, curt exchanges in English, German and Italian fired back and forth as they bargained.

  The Arbat retained Moscow’s spirit like no other place, leisurely yet bustling with activity. The lively main street and quiet back alleys complemented each other. It had blossomed, first populated by Russian nobles and bohemians, and then, in perverse continuity, by Soviet dignitaries and intelligentsia. The modern Arbat accommodated posh boutiques and restaurants. One of them, located at Arbat Street, 44, was the Hard Rock Café. Their old favorite place.

  Her favorite place. Nina enjoyed rock music, and the Café’s memorabilia enthralled her. Over drinks, she would tell him about different rock stars, their songs and albums. He didn’t care much about the history of rock, but he sat facing her, mesmerized by her beauty and her almost childish excitement about such things as Jimmy Hendrix’s guitar in the Café’s collection. After their split, he would sometimes come here to watch an Arsenal game on the large TV screen at the bar, but being there without her never felt the same. Only Nina made it special to him.

&nbs
p; The Hard Rock Café occupied a three-story building which had once belonged to the Tutchev family. Unchanged from the nineteenth century, its façade was painted pastel yellow and white, ornately corniced and stuccoed.

  Constantine’s phone rang. Reaching for it, he stopped in the middle of the Arbat.

  “Yes, Nina?”

  “I can see you!” she said.

  At a lean six feet, he was easy to spot. He scanned the street and then the Café’s windows, searching for her.

  “Where are you?”

  Before she replied, Nina stepped out onto the wrought-iron balcony above the Café’s entrance. She looked even more beautiful than he remembered her, if that was at all possible. Dressed in high-heeled boots, jeans and a loose white sweater, she took his breath away. The chestnut hair falling over her shoulders framed her face as she held her phone.

  “I booked the table we always liked,” Nina said.

  His eyes were on Nina as he cut through the path of the crowd, crossing the Arbat. Someone from a group of French-speaking tourists bumped into him, almost causing Constantine to drop the phone.

  “Mon Dieu!” muttered the elderly lady who had brushed against his shoulder.

  “Excusez-moi,” he apologized.

  In the next instant, the balcony of the Hard Rock Café, together with Nina, disappeared in erupting flames. A thunderous explosion tore through the second-floor façade. The blast knocked Constantine down to the ground, deafening him.

  Through the painful ringing in his ears, he heard muffled screams. The crowd scattered in all directions, shocked. The old Frenchwoman sprawled nearby, rivulets of blood trickling down her face and neck. Some people staggered to their feet and fled, others remained prone on the ground. Acrid smoke made Constantine gag.

  Dazed, he propped himself on one elbow, staring in horror at the devastation in front of him.

  An ugly hole gaped where the balcony had been, as though a mortar shell had hit the Hard Rock Café through the middle.

  Nina’s broken body lay on the cobblestones under chunks of debris.

  Denial gave way to panic as he knew that she was dead. He wanted to do something—rush to her, call for an ambulance … But even as he tried to pick himself up, a powerful blow to the back of his head rendered Constantine unconscious.

  7

  THE SECURITY COUNCIL OF the Russian Federation convened at the presidential residence in Gorki outside Moscow. It was an enormous, highly-guarded complex encompassing eighty hectares of wooded land. Located centrally was the main building with a floor area of two thousand square meters. Of all the retreats available to Russian Presidents, more than ten across the country in total, Gorki ranked as a favorite. It made the Aspen Lodge at Camp David look like a dingy shack. The massive Gorki mansion had a simple yet formidable outward design and a luxurious interior worthy of czars.

  The Acting President entered the Meeting Room, and the Security Council members in attendance rose from their seats around the long table. With a nod, he occupied the chair at the top. The Russian flag and presidential ensign stood behind him, on either side of the country’s seal, a double eagle, emblazoned in gold on a wall panel. He enjoyed the personal power that the room projected, as well as the wooden finish that made it feel cozy. Like the other rooms of the residence, the Meeting Room had exquisite furniture. Ornate parquet lined the floor, patterned with light-colored ash and oak and tropical wenge wood, near-black so that it matched with the dark timber covering the walls and ceiling.

  Down the table, the members of the Security Council waited for his words. On the right sat the Council’s Secretary, the Foreign Minister, and, farthest of all, FSB Director Saveliy Frolov. To the Acting President’s left were his Chief of Staff and the EMERCOM Minister, Daniil Klimov. A number of chairs remained vacant; the Security Council had gathered urgently for a crisis meeting. No journalists from the Kremlin’s media pool were present, no TV cameras recorded the session.

  With less than two months until the elections, the Acting President was getting edgy. Although in his own view he fully deserved the position he was filling, the polls showed that a win was far from secured. His predecessor, Nikolai Alexandrov had recently retired citing poor health. Some crazy gossip suggested that Alexandrov had deceased. In that case, even a corpse currently enjoyed bigger public support than him. The Acting President wasn’t so much concerned about the popular vote as he was by the backing from Kremlin predators. As a stand-in, he felt vulnerable, more so with the Chief of Staff reportedly searching for a better candidate within the ranks of the Ruling Party. While he considered the blasts as unfortunate in general, they provided the Acting President with a chance to stamp his authority. Compared to the ex-military general preceding him, he paled in the machismo department. Overweight and bald, with a pouchy face, he also had a twitch in his right eye which forced him to wear spectacles in lieu of contact lenses.

  “Dear colleagues,” the Acting President began. He liked that form of address for the way it sounded. “Today we have been subjected to a horrifying terrorist attack. Less than an hour ago, another bomb exploded on the Arbat. And of course, the EMERCOM headquarters suffered a cynical blow earlier in the morning. Our condolences go out to every victim and all EMERCOM personnel.” He turned to Klimov. “Daniil Petrovich, how bad is the damage?”

  After his hellish day, the EMERCOM Minister appeared deflated.

  “The Ministry continues to function as normal,” Klimov replied. “The work at the Crisis Management Center on the second floor has never been disrupted. The offices are intact, all documents safe. The structural damage can be repaired, but not the loss of life. Two police guards at the entrance were killed, a few of the ministry staff injured; three are in a critical condition.”

  “What are the total casualties?” the Acting President asked the FSB Director.

  “As you understand, reports from the Arbat are very incomplete, but we are monitoring the situation closely. So far, the two bombings have claimed a combined toll of fourteen dead and thirty-six injured.”

  “Keep the numbers released to the press less alarming, for the time being. Do the attacks share similarities?”

  “Preliminary findings indicate that RDX may have been used during both attacks. In the Arbat bombing, we assume that the charge was placed under a table on the second floor of that Café and detonated remotely. It also contained metal bolts for extra damage, exactly as on Theater Drive.”

  The Acting President spoke dramatically.

  “We are facing unknown extremists who are ready to strike. Today’s tragedies have forced me to raise the Terrorism Threat Level to Red.”

  Russia had adopted a color-coded system with threat levels ranging between blue, yellow and red. Red signified extreme readiness before a confirmed attack or in its immediate aftermath.

  “I hereby announce the start of a counter-terrorism operation. Saveliy Ignatievich Frolov is appointed in charge for its entire duration. The FSB is given the authority to find and destroy the bastards by whatever means necessary, and with complete cooperation from all other agencies. General Klimov, I expect EMERCOM to provide full access to the FSB investigators. Also, as a security measure, FSB operatives will be assigned to every EMERCOM office. The Ministry’s activities must be coordinated with the Security Council. Is that clear?”

  Klimov’s expression did not change, but his eyes burned with intensity.

  “I believe we must do everything to prevent new attacks, but I’m surprised that EMERCOM is suddenly being treated more like the culprit.”

  The arrogance made the Acting President’s blood boil. Klimov had always been far too independent. The fact that he always claimed to have no political ambitions made him ever more dangerous. It was time to put a check on Klimov and EMERCOM. The terrorist attacks provided a convenient pretense to do so. The lines had been drawn, and everyone in the room knew it.

  “A strong, treacherous enemy has challenged us,” said the Acting President. “The terror
must be stopped. The FSB should have the government’s unanimous support. We will run a full audit of EMERCOM or any other agency if necessary, so that we can get to the bottom of these attacks. Those who disagree will soon find their position untenable.”

  8

  DARKNESS SUCKED HIM IN and pushed him out. When Constantine opened his eyes, gloom surrounded him, broken only by the faint glow of streetlights percolating through grimy glass. He was lying on the back seat of a car, alone, motionless, the silence around him making him feel as if he were in a crypt. He set his feet down off the seat and shifted upright. Pain pierced his head. His hair was sticky with dried blood.

  Chilling images from the Arbat flashed in his mind. The explosion, the screams, and Nina’s lifeless body on the cobblestones. The memory hit him harder than any physical strike and he groaned. His soul wept.

  How long had he been here? Night fell early now in Moscow. He could not tell the hour—his wristwatch was gone, he discovered, as indeed was his wallet. He had dropped his phone back on the Arbat. Looking at his bare wrist, he noticed a small bruise left by a syringe needle. Someone had knocked him out cold, drugged him, and brought him here, trying to make it appear like a mugging. In the havoc raging after the blast, dragging him through the Arbat back alleys to the car would have presented no difficulty.

  The car was a Ford Focus, he saw. There key was missing from the ignition. Constantine had no intention of driving the Ford in any case. For all he knew, the car could be rigged with explosives. At the moment he felt lost in both time and space.

  As he exited the Ford, a wave of nausea swept over him. His temples throbbed. A concussion, he suspected, coupled with the drugs. He rested his weight against the open car door, inhaling deeply. His breath came out in clouds of vapor. Even wearing his jacket, he shivered in the cold air.

  Constantine hurried to leave the dimly-lit backyard where the Ford was parked and walked out to an almost deserted street. The address sign on the nearest residential building gave him no clue. He lumbered along until he realized that he was in the South-West of Moscow. Then he spotted a bright Metro sign in the distance. A few people passing him on the sidewalk shot him wary glances. He must have looked like a wino or bum, his head bloodied, his step unsteady.