Sabotage (27 page)

Two crewmen stared out through their porthole. One was a chef, the other an actor who performed with the ship's theatrical troop. They were roommates.

They had raided their own closets for as many warm layers as they could find. Now there was nothing to do but sit and wait in the silent stateroom, trying not to shiver.

“Strange, isn't it?” said the chef.

“What?”

“Feeling like a passenger again. I mean, we're not really crew anymore.”

“What do you mean?”

“We're just people, floating on the same vessel, spread out over almost two thousand cabins … all asking the same question.”

 

TWENTY-FIVE

“Viking, I have news.”

“Yes?”

Entering a cobbled alleyway at dusk, Vasya pressed his cell against his ear. “Deeb has offered a counterbid. He wants to intimidate the Americans, and has raised them a hundred million higher than we expected.”

“Excellent work, Vasya.”

“It took little convincing on my part. When he saw the extensiveness of Baldr's functionality, he tendered the offer without reserve.”

“My next conversation with Chatham ought to be interesting.”

“He faces determined competition. Deeb might actually win.”

“Have you emailed the other players?”

“I will tomorrow.”

“What's the delay?”

Vasya lowered his voice. “A minor distraction. Remember when I told you I retrieved the passkey?”

“Of course.”

“I had found it with two Stanford students.”

“And?”

“Somehow they managed to follow me from Saint Petersburg to Bruges, despite my warnings. I believe one of them is Malcolm Clare's daughter.”

“Interesting.”

“I doubt they could jeopardize any plans on our part, but we do want to avoid a media upset, and this is Clare's daughter we're talking about. She may stop at nothing to find her father. She might act irrationally, and you know what they say about loose lips.” He added stonily, “We can prevent damage. I did warn them.”

“Yes, you did.”

*   *   *

Austin and Victoria had agreed to rest and use some alone time to think. She had gone to the steam room to decompress, but the heat had made her restless. After drying off she headed to an Internet café, dialing a Virginia number as she walked. If Fyodor was no longer there to help, maybe she could glean something closer to home.

“You've reached a private Glitnir line,” an operator answered. “We recognize this number and require authentication with a voice biometric. Please state your full name and birthdate.”

“Victoria Catherine Clare. September 1, 1984.”

She waited for her vocal patterns to be recognized.

“Thank you. Go ahead.”

“I need a personal file on someone.”

“Connecting. This may take a while—hectic day.”

She was on hold ten minutes.

“Counterintelligence,” a lady answered.

“Victoria Clare here. I need a record on a man called Vasily Anatolievich Kaslov.” She spelled the name, heard the keys being punched in.

“Most of that record is classified beyond your authorization level.”

“Please tell me what you can.”

She pinched the phone between her ear and shoulder, filling a notepad as she walked.

“Born in 1961 in Minsk, then the Soviet Socialist Republic of Belarus. His mother was a ‘Ruska Roma,' a Russian gypsy of Romanian decent, and a horse trader. His father remained a factory worker until his conscription to the Soviet Navy. Served in the submarine fleet. Vasily Kaslov moved to the USSR in 1979 to study history and politology at Perm State University, becoming a fluent English speaker. After graduating, he joined the KGB and trained at the 401
st
KGB school in Okhta, Leningrad.”

Victoria felt encouraged. They actually had a file on him! “What can you say about his career?” she asked.

“We know he spent half a year in counterintelligence at the Second Chief Directorate. In 1985 he transferred to Kiev to continue his studies in British English. Next year he was stationed in Ottawa under the alias Christian Lefevre. He substantiated his false identity by living it: Lefevre spent one year working at the Canadian National Department of Defence, and two more at a private international security consulting company specializing in risk management. In 1989 Lefevre immigrated to the United States and used his legend to acquire a job at a leading defense contractor. He worked as a finance analyst and spent his years stealing and photographing documents.”

She was surprised by how much information was in his file.

“So he was caught?”

“Yes.”

“How?”

“When the KGB dissolved, he continued channeling information to the new Russian Foreign Intelligence Service. He became part of a military technology procurement network that exported high-tech microelectronics—detonation triggers, radar and surveillance systems, weapons guidance systems—to the Russian military. In 1994 he learned of the founding of Glitnir Defense. Earned a job here as a low-level contracts manager.”

Victoria's voice conveyed shock.

“He worked at
Glitnir
?”

That explained it—though given her father's rigorous security measures, it seemed preposterous to think a mole had been allowed to burrow.

“Briefly, until his efforts to hack our computer systems were detected by Kathryn Dirgo. He was deported in ninety-six. We suspect he remained assigned to his directorate responsible for scientific and technical intelligence.”

“What more can you share?”

“None. Sorry.”

It was still a lot.

“Okay,” Victoria said. “Thanks for your help.”

The more she learned about Vasya, the more he frightened her. She didn't feel safe walking the streets of Bruges alone, but there was still more to be learned.

 

TWENTY-SIX

Austin used the privacy of the Hotel Navarra's indoor swimming pool to collect his thoughts and penetrate the meaning behind what he'd overheard at the tavern.

He pushed off the wall and dolphin-kicked to the opposite end, then shot himself backward in a streamline. He rebounded and began alternating between a breaststroke and a sidestroke, concentrating on form.

The water felt cool against his skin. He exhaled and allowed his travel-worn body to sink. Sitting cross-legged on the pool floor, he reveled in the stillness. After a few seconds he came to the surface and shook out his hair.

A wave of heat rolled through the room, followed by thick clouds of fog and wafting herbal scents. Someone had exited the steam bath, toweled off, and left the secluded spa area. A little sweating sounded attractive to Austin. He submerged himself again, coasting along the floor of the pool with smooth, broad strokes and a frog kick. He came up at the far end.

“I told you not to follow me,” came a voice.

Rubbing away the water, he distinguished a man's shape as the vapors receded. He couldn't see it, but he imagined there was a pistol.

“You're in Bruges, too?” Austin said, backstroking toward the ledge. “What a coincidence.”

Vasya stepped closer until the handgun came into view. “As if I wouldn't notice the reflection off your binoculars as you spied on me from your hotel room. Get out of the water. Let's not sully a clean pool.”

“So who is he?” Austin asked. He realized delay tactics could only get him so far.

“Who?”

“Your charming lunch companion, Farzad Deeb.”

“He's an industrialist, and a wealthy one.”

“So that's what you're after.”

“Get out of the pool.”

Austin took his time to obey. He contemplated remaining submerged as long as possible, hoping someone might come to the pool area and call the police. Water was practically bulletproof even at shallow depths. At most firing angles, high-caliber rifles could only penetrate a few feet and remain lethal. But if no one came, his fate would be sealed the moment he rose for air. He chose to talk. “What about the ‘Viking'? Who's that? Does he plunder villages and scourge the sea?”

“He is of no consequence to you.”

“I'd send my regards if I spoke Old Norse. Clever scheme of his, I admit, auctioning off a nuclear weapons satellite.”

“You must think you know a lot. Your meddling is your undoing.”

“Curiosity always gets the better of me.”

“Shut up and stand in the corner. Let's get this over with.” He motioned with his Mak. Austin noticed the screwed-in silencer, the same one he'd encountered before.

“What do you care if I live or die? I already gave you the flash drive.”

“It's complicated.”

Austin grabbed his towel and began drying off. He unclipped his watch, spotting a small exit door behind him. He began thinking of ways to distract Vasya. All he needed was a moment's diversion, but the man's eyes showed no sign of peeling away.

“Just give me a minute, old pal. Any civilized executioner would have the decency to send his victim into the afterlife with pants on. Tell me, how many have you killed since Avdeenko? And who's next after me?”

“You should know,” Vasya said. “You've been following.”

“Lunch was hours ago. For all I know, you've worked up a tally by now.”

“I took no pleasure in my evening's work.”

Austin paused, his face growing hot. He left his trousers on the floor. “What?”

“I appreciate beauty just as you do.” Vasya inched closer yet, his outline fully visible and his shoes squeaking against the wet tile. “The girl you were with. You should have protected her. To maim the daughter of a legendary intellect … and furthermore an exquisite creature … I took no pleasure in it.”

Austin was left in a whiteout. The steam seemed to thicken, the gray puffs hardening around him, blinding him like a blizzard and leaving him without reference points. He felt a surge of heat, like the opening of a kiln.

“What did you do?” he said, slamming the wall.
“What did you do?”
His fingers trembled with the urge to throttle, the handgun centered on his chest scarcely deterring him from lunging.

“Did you think I would come after you first? You're a no-name. She's much more important.”

Austin forced himself to blink. His eyes felt like they were searing, his throat constricting. “You twisted bastard!”

“She didn't suffer long. I shut her up quickly. She kept calling your name. She didn't understand why you weren't there to protect her.” Vasya stepped closer still, the details of his visage breaking through the steam and revealing a grimace. His tone remained at a simmer, soft and mocking. “If only she had known you were playing in the pool.”

Vasya's finger flickered over the trigger. Staring into the barrel, Austin stood stock-still.

“The three of you will pay for the murder of the Clare family,” he said. “You, Farzad Deeb, and the Viking—whoever he is—will all suffer.”

“We'll see.”

The muscles of his face relaxed, and Austin continued to stare down the shaft of the silencer. He still wore the look of pain, but it was now mixed with an emerging tranquility justified by the certainty he would deliver on his promise.

“Next time you see either of your colleagues, why don't you tell them they're running quickly out of this…”

In one swift motion Austin slid his gold watch over his wrist and tossed it at Vasya, who stole a glance at the timepiece as it arced toward him. Vasya reached outward and caught the watch with his free hand, throwing off his aim slightly. Austin dove for the exit. From Vasya's angle in the steam it appeared his victim had jumped straight at the wall. It was all the time Austin needed to push through the emergency door.

A bullet whizzed behind him but struck only wood, splintering the portal.

Vasya sprinted.

The door opened to a staircase. Panting, Austin flew up the stairs and landed in a patch of bushes. He plowed through the greenery and turned onto the main street. It was almost midnight. The market, once teeming with people, had been vacated. Vendors had long since left their stalls and locked down their shops. A few pedestrians strolled the avenues, wrapped in scarves; otherwise, the streets were empty.

Austin's bare feet pounded against the cobblestone. He winced as every step left tiny cuts and scrapes on his skin. His mental compass was spinning. The moonlight and lanterns would guide him through the maze that was Bruges, but they were not enough to orient him.

After a two-minute dash, he paused to look back. Had he lost his tail? The zing of a projectile striking a lamppost gave him his answer. The bullet ricocheted off the post and clanged against a bronze pot. If he didn't move, more rounds would follow. Austin darted into a side street connecting two major boulevards, searching for an alcove where he could hide; he doubted he could outrun Vasya without shoes. Nothing seemed suitable. He looked for gates or recesses. Nothing. Beads of sweat rolled down his neck and his spine.

He grated his teeth to cope with the smarting in his feet. Landing on a rugged, irregular surface was only half the challenge; tiny pebbles had begun to embed themselves in his flesh. He veered right at the intersection with a major lane. A wooden stepladder leaned against the wall, tempting him to see where it might lead—perhaps he could climb it and find a way onto a roof—but the sound of Vasya closing in forced him to scrap the idea. Instead, he grabbed the ladder and hastened into another street. As he expected, the unwieldy frame took a toll on his speed. He could only hope the measure would pay off.

A stone wall blocked his path ahead. He set the ladder against the partition and scaled the steps. At the top, he lifted the ladder and tossed it out of reach in time to see the assassin come into view. Before Vasya could take aim, Austin jumped from the edge.