The quantum solution, p.8
The Quantum Solution, page 8
“Down in one,” she said, and, tipping her head back, drained her glass.
Rodion had no choice but to do the same. His eyes watered as the liquor turned from ice in his throat to fire in his stomach. At least he stopped himself from coughing. But, to his shame, a single tear overflowed his right eye, crawling down his cheek like the mark of Cain.
For her part, the major was busying herself with refilling their glasses and gave no sign that she had seen the mark of his shame. Even so, he held himself back from swiping it off his skin, convinced the gesture would compound his weakness. So there it sat at the end of its arc, trembling until it subsided.
His second glass of vodka went down much more easily. Possibly because his esophagus by now had been anesthetized. The tear had dried on his cheek and he forgot about it.
“Good breakfast,” the major said, capping the bottle. Folding her arms, she put her elbows on the table. “Now tell me why you’re really here. What is Colonel Hemakova’s interest in Ivan Levrov?”
When he made no attempt to answer, her eyes narrowed. “It can’t be personal, surely.”
“I would like for you to call me by my name,” Rodion said, knees shaking under the table.
The major cocked her head. “I gave you a name, Mulchy.”
In for a ruble, in for a pound, Rodion thought. “I reject it.”
Now she sat back, palms down on the table, fingers spread. They were long, narrow, and tapered near their ends. “Who are you to tell me what I can and can’t call you.”
He waited a beat before replying. “You understand what we’re discussing.”
With a withering look, she rose and without a word strode into the rear. The marine layer had for some reason lifted. He could hear her ordering Cook around, and several moments later she returned carrying two plates and silverware.
All the comforts of home, he thought, right at her fingertips. She must be some kind of magician, and I’m in her presence.
She sat down, pushed one plate across to him, began to eat off the other. “Venison,” she said, around mouthfuls. “Rendered from the buck that killed Levrov.” Her forked stabbed out again, spearing a cube of roasted meat. “Ironic, isn’t it?”
That’s one word for it, he thought. The vodka had turned him ravenous, which was, he saw now, her aim. All to bring him to this. A second test, worse for him than the first. Under her scrutiny he picked up his utensils, cut himself a piece of meat off the venison strip. It did smell good, damn it, he thought. Tasted even better. He began to eat.
“Finally,” the major said, setting down her fork, “getting into the swing of things.”
“About your questions—”
“What’s your quid pro quo, Mulchy? What do I have to give up to get the answers I want?”
“Call me by my name,” he said.
She appeared to consider this for a moment, but he wondered where her mind really was. “Rodion Stepanov,” she said at length.
So she was listening, he thought. “Rodion is also fine.”
“How very un-Russian of you, Rodion Stepanov.” But there was little of the earlier sharpness that had turned each word into a tiny knife thrust. She nodded. “Done.” She pushed her plate to one side and interlaced her fingers, making of them a steeple, or a temple, he thought. “Your turn.”
He sighed. “Kata knows Levrov works—worked—at Directorate KV. Furthermore, she knows why the directorate was formed and what it does.”
The major cocked her head. “Which is?”
“Kvant,” he said without hesitation. “Quantum computing.”
Silence then, punctuated once by a string of invective uttered by Cook directed at the pot that had burned his hand. He began to thrash it with a wooden spoon.
“Major?”
Her attention snapped to. “I was wondering how it is that your ‘Kata’ knows all about Directorate KV?”
He watched her with care, wondering whether she was telling the truth or this was yet another of her enigmatic tests. “I’m new to her directorate,” he began.
“No one knows anything about her directorate. Like KV it doesn’t exist so far as the rank and file inside GRU is concerned.”
“The same is true for the FSB.” He paused. “As I was about to say, even though I’m the new kid in Directorate O’s bailiwick I would bet six months’ pay that ‘my Kata,’ as you call her, knows everything about everything.”
Something passed behind the major’s eyes, the briefest flicker of amusement if Rodion was any judge.
“Except me,” she said. “Well, now I know why you’re really here.”
“That isn’t true,” he protested.
“Ah, well, another bit of intel. She didn’t tell you, then.” She nodded. “Clever of her, I must say. Need-to-know. And you, Rodion Stepanov, did not need to know.” Her head tilted again. “You understand.”
“Sure. Low man on the pole and all that. But that’s all surmise on your part. Paranoia, maybe.”
“I cherish my paranoia, Rodion Stepanov.” She offered what in anyone else might be a smile. “Learn to embrace yours.”
He’d had enough of her trying to make a fool of him. “Listen, Major, I’m here for one reason and one reason only: to find out what happened to a valued member of Directorate KV.”
“But why? I want to know why.”
“Pass.”
“Really?” She pursed her lips. “You disappoint me.”
“No, I don’t.” He had been on hyperalert ever since they had sat down. With each parry and thrust he was filling in the blanks in the façade she presented to him. “If I did you wouldn’t be sitting here talking to me.”
She took out a cigarette, fired the end with a gunmetal lighter, took a long slow inhale, held the smoke deep in her lungs before releasing it. A small cloud like a word bubble hung in front of her face before dissipating. Not once during these little actions did she take her eyes from him, but he knew her mind was on some other plane, formulating the best response. He was getting the measure of her now, at least the level right below her armor.
“I wonder,” she said now, breaking the silence, “how you feel about loyalty.”
He shook his head. She’d wrong-footed him again.
“I mean you’ve just divulged some of your Kata’s secrets.”
“When we met you called me Kata’s creature. You’re right. I’m loyal and true. Dogged, as well.”
“I see.”
“I wonder if you do.”
A flash across her eyes, like a tiger sighted in long grass. “What the hell does that mean?”
“I’ve told you what she authorized me to tell you.” A line had been crossed, another useful piece of the puzzle. He’d remember that. He altered his tone, dropping it, slowing his speech. “What I mean is we’ve just met, Major. We don’t know shit about each other, do we?”
“That’s by design, isn’t it?”
“Mm. But here we are in the wilderness, hours from Moscow, in the grip of extraordinary circumstances, so I’m wondering—”
But what he was wondering would have to wait. At that moment Morokovsky, the pugnacious pathologist, rushed in, his fierce gaze riveted on the major as if she were the only person in the tent.
“I can’t do this anymore,” he shouted.
“Good morning, Morokovsky,” the major said equably. “How’s your morning progressing.”
“I just told you.” He was fairly shaking with rage.
“What exactly can’t you do?”
“A proper autopsy, damn it. These conditions are intolerable. You summon me out here, blind me in one eye, tie one hand behind my back, and expect me to give you a full report on the cause of Ivan Levrov’s death.”
In Rodion’s mind there were only two likely reasons why she had insisted on having the autopsy done in situ, not at Moscow Central. One, she already knew or had a good idea what had caused Levrov’s death; or, two, she didn’t trust the people back in Moscow. Even her own people. Either possibility intrigued Rodion, and he realized this was why Kata had sent him here. There was a mystery attached to Levrov’s death and now he was sure it led back to Directorate KV.
“I assumed we knew the cause of his death,” the major was saying now.
“Come with me.” Morokovsky turned on his heel and stalked out of the tent, the major and Rodion a step behind him. They crossed the clearing, entered a much smaller tent. Even though the cold had slowed the process somewhat, they were immediately struck by the stench of the decaying corpse. Morokovsky had begun the autopsy; Levrov’s front was slit open from chest to pubis. He lay on a table atop a thick sheet of plastic. Behind him was an impressive array of machinery, some of it familiar, some not. In any event, Rodion’s attention was firmly fixed on the opened-up corpse.
He stood on one side, the major on the other, with Morokovsky at the head.
“You can clearly see the damage done by the tines of the stag’s antlers,” the pathologist said. “But that’s not how Levrov died.”
The major’s eyebrows lifted lightly. Her eyes seemed to change color, but that might just have been a trick of the light. “Evidence.” Once again a command rather than a question. This was one means, Rodion was discovering, by which she continually got her way.
“The volume of exsanguination is inconsistent—”
The major lifted her head. “What are you saying, Morokovsky. There was plenty of blood.”
“Correct. But almost all of it was postmortem.”
The major’s nostrils flared as if she were just now taking in the stink. “Meaning.”
“Meaning, Levrov was dead either just before or simultaneous with being gored. The blood did not gush out of him when the stag pulled back. It would have if Levrov’s heart was still beating. It wasn’t. His blood dribbled out slowly.”
“How.” She shook her head. “Explain, please.”
He sighed. “That’s the problem, Major. I can’t.” He spread his hands. “At least not in this makeshift mortuary. I haven’t the instruments.”
“Draw up a list. I’ll have whatever you need flown in.”
But he was already shaking his head. “What is required cannot be moved. The machines are too delicate, too interconnected.” He threw her a look of disdain. “Even you, Major, magician that you are, cannot get an MRI out here.”
“Why not?”
“For one thing, we will never have enough power. For another, as I said, our MRI instrument cannot be moved. It’s huge.” He shrugged. “The only recourse is to bring the body back to Moscow for deeper analysis.”
“Why,” she said. “Why do you need to perform an MRI on Levrov.”
“I’ve told you.” Morokovsky scrubbed his tired face with his hand. “This man did not die from being gored, as it was first surmised. He also did not die of a heart attack.”
“The fear of death could have brought on a heart attack or a stroke.”
“Just before he was gored? Ask yourself, Major. What are the odds? No.” He pushed his lower lip out. “To determine the real cause of death we need the MRI.”
The major took a step back, turned and crossed to the tent flap, looked out onto the compound. When she turned back, she addressed Morokovsky. She was at her most imperious when she said, “You will pack up your equipment immediately.” Her tone was crisp and all business. “I’ll make the arrangements. You’ll leave for Moscow within three hours.”
“Sure.” He nodded. “That’s more like it. Now you’re listening—”
“The autopsy is concluded,” she added.
The pathologist froze, goggled at her. “What?”
“Your services are no longer required, Morokovsky. You will go. Levrov will remain here.”
“But … but you can’t,” he sputtered. “The autopsy isn’t complete.”
“It is because I say it is.”
“But his family.” There was spittle on his lips. “What will I say to his family?”
“You will say nothing.” She came toward him, her aura shining like a second sun, almost blinding Rodion, but he must be the only one affected. No one else seemed aware of it. And yet, Morokovsky must have felt something, for he shrank back solely on instinct. “Nothing to the family. You are forbidden to take their calls, forbidden to talk to anyone else concerning your visit here.”
“Visit?” Morokovsky said. “You make this sound like a family reunion.”
“If that story makes it easier for you, by all means use it.”
“Please, Major, this is—”
“Go, Morokovsky, before this becomes difficult for you—and it will, I promise you.”
11
ISTANBUL, TURKEY
Darkness and the sharp cries of seabirds. The hooting of a ferry, infinitely sad; so far off.
She was breathing through a hood, which meant she was inhaling more carbon dioxide than normal, than was good for her. Lack of sufficient oxygen made her weak, as if the lingering weakness from the drug she’d been administered weren’t enough.
An entire orchestra of tympani was having it off inside her head. Her temples throbbed, her eyes felt distended. Somewhere close by was terror, but she refused to acknowledge it, knowing giving in would only make things worse. And her situation was bad enough as it was.
The little things. Noting the little things would keep her sane because she couldn’t move her limbs. Her feet were numb, her arms stretched above her head, wrists tied tightly together with what felt like a zip tie. She was hanging from either a hook screwed into the ceiling or a rafter. Her legs were doubled up so that her heels dug into the backs of her thighs, tied with hemp as zip ties weren’t long enough to do the job. Her knees just brushed the floor.
The strain on her shoulders and neck was excruciating, and she was in danger of losing all feeling in her legs. She had no idea how long she had been unconscious, but judging solely by the state of her limbs it must be hours.
The best—the only—thing she could do. Eyes closed, she sought to empty her mind. She concentrated on the ferry hooting until she no longer heard it. She redirected her mind to the seabirds, hearing them as an agglomeration, then as separate species, picking them off one by one until they, too, were gone. The creaking of the building, gone, the tiny skitter and snuffling of rats, gone.
Nothing remained now. Her mind was empty. She felt no anxiety, no fear. She did not consider what would happen to her or ruminate over the recent past—how she got here. There was only the present, where nothing existed but her pain. Then that, too, was gone.
Nothing, not even silence, disturbed her inward direction. Her essence slipped its leash. Detached from her body, it floated above her corporeal form. Free, seeing everywhere and nowhere at once.
The squeal of a bolt being withdrawn, the scrape of the door being opened, shut, relocked.
Voices.
Two females, both voices in the same register, so similar they must be sisters.
Twins.
She knew who they were.
One stationed herself behind Evan’s body, the other stood in front.
“Well…”
“What do we have here?”
“Still asleep?”
“Not for long, she isn’t.”
A bucket of water crashed down onto the hood. Another, then another. The hood became soaked, then sodden. The cloth clung to her face like a mask. More water. Breathing became impossible; she didn’t try. She was deep within prana; her body’s processes slowed.
“Nothing?” Voice from behind.
“Fuck this.” Voice from in front.
A fist buried itself in her solar plexus. Her autonomic nervous system could not help responding. Her body spasmed.
“That’s more like it.” Voice from in front.
“Now we find out what she was doing with Shokova. Now we find out how the two of them survived. Now we find out where Shokova is.” Both voices mingling. Two mouths in one body. One mind. Monstrous.
“So.” Voice from in front. “What is Lyudmila Shokova to you?”
She had been taught that keeping silent only engendered escalating pain. She had been taught that to be branded a liar engendered escalating pain. She had been taught to turn an interrogation into a negotiation without your inquisitor’s knowledge.
“Take off the hood.” Her voice was muffled, but she made it more so.
She was rewarded by a slap across the face so hard it drew blood out of the corner of her mouth. She tasted copper and iron. That side of her face bloomed heat.
“Shokova. Boss? Informant? Cutout?” the voice in front of her said. “Tell us.”
“Take off the hood.”
Something hard slammed into the back of her head, white pulses blooming and dying like novae. Her head fell forward briefly before she lifted it.
“Yobanaya suka!” Fucking bitch! The voice from behind her. It was harsher, fuller of vindictive rage than the one in front. “Tell us about Shokova.”
“I will when you—”
A bucket of ice water sluiced over the hood, choking her. “We tell you. You don’t tell us, blad.” Whore.
Evan, sputtering more than she needed to, said, “I can’t talk clearly with this hood on. I can scarcely catch my breath.”
“Fuck you,” said the voice behind her. “That’s the idea.”
Amateurs, Evan thought. Or poorly trained professionals. One and the same. And as if to prove her point the hood was whipped off her head. Evan sucked in air, slowly, regularly, taking it deep into her lungs, holding it there, oxygenating her body before she exhaled. She saw one of the twins from the hammam. She looked more Russian than Turkish and seemed inordinately proud of it. Another amateurish misstep.
She came up in Evan’s face. A hawkish countenance, prominent nose, Cossack’s eyes, a mouth like the slash of a stiletto. Beautiful and intimidating. She wore black designer jeans, a T-shirt of the same color splashed with PUSSY RIOT in slanted white graffiti across the front. “Ti moy suka,” she said through gritted teeth. You’re my bitch. “Don’t forget it or you’ll be hooded again.”
“So, come on.” Her twin put a knee in the small of Evan’s back. “Spill it.”
