The Nemesis Manifesto, page 14
Snow lay in the gutters like the huddled masses around church fronts. An icy wind off the river made for hunched shoulders and thick scarves pulled up around the ears. Inside the Lincoln Navigator, however, it was toasty. Say what you will about the Americans, Gorgonov thought, they know how to heat and cool their living spaces, even the temporary ones.
Christmas had come and gone like the thief in the night it was. How he despised this time of year! When his wife expected more of him, when gifts had to be bought and presented, when Lolita was sullen and resentful for being pulled away from her friends, and his mother-in-law came to stay for the Russian Orthodox holiday.
Which was why a “work emergency” always came up, so that he could be with Daniella, free of family constraints and strife. Only this time there really was an emergency, and his very exacting plans with Daniella were in the toilet.
He stared out the blackened windows of the SUV as it sped across the city to the safe house where the alarm had been raised. No one inside the car spoke; no one dared.
Heading south, they crossed the Moskva, the city lights liquefied on its surface, like the tearstains on Daniella’s cheeks as he left her. The SUV came to a stop at the head of Tolmachevsky Lane, where before the glorious Revolution the court translators were housed. It seemed like an apt place for the main SVR safe house.
Gorgonov reemerged into winter along with two of his heavily armed men. Their boots crunched softly through the snow; Gorgonov’s eyelashes felt heavy with it. His men went first, guns drawn as they entered the building, past the concierge’s closed and locked door, cautiously ascending the stairs to the top floor. The hallway was deserted. It smelled of boiled cabbage and melted candle wax. From a floor below, a baby cried, a radio came on, the Sovereign’s voice penetrating the floors.
Inside the safe house, he found a mess—chairs smashed, the table overturned, a blackened crater in the center of the mattress where a small fire had once bloomed. A lone bottle of curdled milk stood uncertain guard inside the refrigerator. The cupboards were still stocked with whatever his men had originally laid in. His two men were in the bathroom, sitting, legs splayed, backs against the red porcelain of the tub. Lined up like proper soldiers as they were executed. One bullet to the forehead of each. Blood had congealed on the tile floor.
Gorgonov glanced out the window. It had begun to snow again, the sky low, a gunmetal gray. The snow made everything look forlorn—more forlorn than it already was. But perhaps that was simply his mood, he thought, as he turned away and stepped out of the apartment.
He cursed aloud. From the way his men had been lined up and executed the operation smacked of a GRU hit. It smacked most of all of provocation—a shot across the bow. He had warned General Boyko—he could never think of him as Yuri Fyodorovich, no matter how long they had known each other—not to interfere with his plans for Evan Ryder, but the head of GRU had gone and done just that: he was doing whatever it took to distract Gorgonov from concentrating on Evan. Evan was a difficult enough target without Gorgonov having to divert his energies elsewhere. That Boyko had pulled this off was enough to make Gorgonov want to torch the entire building. But, with an effort, he restrained himself, in part because he did not want his bodyguards with him to see how vexed he was, but mostly because he had a better idea, one that would get under Boyko’s skin, make him want to scratch an itch he couldn’t reach. If it was a war Boyko wanted it’d be a war he’d get.
* * *
As for the aforementioned Boyko, he was contentedly ensconced in his apartment in Tverskoi, having cajoled his wife to spend the season with her family in St. Petersburg. Of course, work prevented him from joining her—what a pity! But, he assured her, he would somehow survive.
Now, on this icy winter’s eve he was sitting in his den, outstretched legs crossed at the ankles, sipping an iced vodka, watching his cache of Leni Riefenstahl films. Somewhere in the secret heart of the apartment, where neither his wife nor his cleaning lady would ever find it, was a lockbox chock-full of Nazi paraphernalia. Long ago, at school in St. Petersburg, he had come to the conclusion that there was very little difference between fascism and communism, being two paths to the same goal: to keep the masses under control. What he admired most about Hitler was that, up until his hubris had revealed his inner madness, he had kept the masses in complete thrall. That was the endgame, after all—the Sovereign had proven that. In this day and age, however, when the Russian Federation was teetering on the brink of economic disaster, when formerly posh neighborhoods like Rublyovka were now ghost towns because their former residents—oligarchs all—had fled Russia in order to keep intact the fortunes they had extorted out of the economy, there had to be a different endgame that would make Russia great again.
Boyko had to admit that there were times—like now—when, overwhelmed by Russian melancholy, he envied those wealthy sonsofbitches. They had the right idea. Having wrung all the money they could out of Mother Russia, they felt no compunction about abandoning her to the predations of its Sovereign and his small coterie of Politburo insiders, of which the general was sadly not a member. Lyudmila Shokova, the last person Boyko knew personally who was part of that coterie, was MIA. Maybe dead. Served her right, too, cozying up to the American agent Evan Ryder. But still, how Boyko ached to be within that inner circle, to bathe in the unique light of the Sovereign’s trust. Shokova had betrayed that trust, and spoiled it for all of us, Boyko thought bitterly.
He tried to concentrate on Riefenstahl’s images of super-men and -women, so exquisite they verged on the pornographic, but it was no use. His mind, now restless with envy, would not allow it. With a grunt, he rose and, refilling his glass, stepped to the window that overlooked Samotechnaya Street, under which the Neglinnaya River flowed through a hidden tunnel.
Snow was falling from a sky livid with the northern lights of oil and gas refineries, the insistent glow of government buildings built on a colossal scale the better to intimidate the citizenry, who hurried by them, faces averted, hearts beating jackrabbit fast. If the Americans were expert at heating and cooling their buildings, the Russians were expert at using theirs to crush the souls of the populace. Never mind the great unwashed all loved their Sovereign—but then they had no choice, Boyko thought gloomily. The Russian people were not good with choices. Change was not part of their DNA; they much preferred the status quo, even with all its deprivations. The country had been built on deprivations, both before and after the glorious Revolution. Was the Sovereign that much different than the tsars? Boyko thought not; anyone who believed otherwise was fooling themselves.
The snow was piling up, the sounds of car tires turning it to slush were a constant rhythm now, like the ticking of his grandfather’s ship’s clock. He had been a fleet admiral, much decorated, venerated by his colleagues and those who had come immediately thereafter. But, like all war heroes, he was forgotten now, a relic of Russia’s past constantly remade by drone-like apparatchiks under the Sovereign’s thumb.
He drained half of his vodka, glanced back over his shoulder at the large box, wrapped in gold foil, tied with a crimson ribbon. He’d bought an ermine coat for Raisa, a surprise that would surely rock her back on her heels. She had asked to come over earlier but he had wanted some time alone. He’d been surrounded by people, light, noise, rushing, high energy for close to eighteen hours, and he needed a brief respite. Now he found himself missing her acutely. He glanced at his watch, then down at the street. She’d be here within minutes. He allowed his mind to move a half hour into the future. In the two years since she had become his mistress, he’d never given her anything close to the ermine. She’d squeal just seeing the box. Then, tearing off the wrapping, she’d open it, plunge her hands into the impossibly soft fur and her eyes would get big around. He’d fetch the caviar out of the refrigerator, pop the cork on a bottle of Agrapart “Venus” Blanc de Blancs he had on ice. They’d drink the Champagne down, and the all-night festivities would be underway.
Outside, the car he had sent for her turned onto Samotechnaya Street, slowed as it approached his apartment. He could feel himself getting hard just at her proximity. The curbside rear door opened and Raisa emerged, elegantly dressed, as ever. At least what one could see of her apparel, her Zac Posen opera coat and her Louboutin pumps. He’d made sure when he bought the coat for her that it was short enough to show off her long model’s legs. Underneath, however, he knew she wore nothing but Agent Provocateur bustier, panties, and garter belt that held up her old-school nylons. He was so excited thinking about this he almost raised his hand to wave, but it wouldn’t do to let her see him standing at the window, waiting for her like a lovesick schoolboy.
He was about to step back when he saw her stumble over the curb. One more step and she toppled to her knees. Her Zac Posen opened and he saw the blood. The raw wound in her abdomen was enormous, as if she had been shot at close range with both barrels of a Saiga tactical shotgun.
He screamed her name, but of course she couldn’t hear him through the double-paned window. Then, as she collapsed onto her stomach, like a marionette whose strings had been cut, he wondered whether she could hear anything at all.
19
The taxi let Riley Rivers off outside Isobel’s mansion. It was a clear day. The bright sunshine, brittle as ice, was exhausted, without warmth. Puffballs of clouds dotted the sky as if it were a painting. California Street was, as usual, quiet at this time of day.
Mounting the steps, he pressed the buzzer. When there was no response, he buzzed again repeatedly until, after an unconscionably long time, the door opened inward, but just a crack. He was surprised to see Mike looking the worse for wear. He was savvy enough not to mention it, though.
“Mr. Rivers,” Mike said shortly. He moved with uncharacteristic stiffness.
Rivers stepped into the entryway, took off his coat.
“Ms. Lowe will be with you presently.”
“She’s upstairs, yes? I know the way,” Rivers said, which wasn’t the smartest thing to say, given that Mike took hold of his biceps in a grip that was just short of being painful.
“Please stay just where you are, Mr. Rivers, there’s a good boy.”
Rivers looked at him as if he’d lost his mind. He wondered what the hell was going on, but was now certain he’d learn nothing from Mike, who acted as if he didn’t know Rivers at all.
Ten minutes later, Mike must have received a signal in his earbud. He lifted an arm, pointing. “Library.”
Rivers, feeling more and more shaky, as if he were stepping out into quicksand, stepped down the hallway to the right of the staircase. More muscle, highly refined, more than was Isobel’s wont, watched him from the far end. When he reached it, the muscle frisked him, much to his surprise and chagrin. Only then did he open the heavy mahogany door.
Across the threshold, Rivers saw Isobel perched on the arm of one of two matching chairs, legs crossed at the knee, smoking a long, thin cigarette. The chairs were covered in tobacco leather you could get lost in even if you had the legs of a runway model.
He went toward her as if magnetized. “Isobel, I—”
“Not a fucking word.” Cigarette in one corner of her mouth, one eye half-closed against the blue smoke, she held out a hand. She knew what was required of her in her double—sometimes triple!—life. It was vital that she exhibit an unmistakable change in demeanor; Rivers needed to feel an added pressure because Ben was feeling added pressure. But there was another reason: Ben had warned her that Evan Ryder was coming, warned her further that the visit could get rough. But she’d had no way of knowing how formidable Ryder would turn out to be. In any case, Ryder was on her way to whatever destination her brief dictated; everything now revolved around Isobel keeping her marks on a tight leash. Any break in their routines might very well alert their higher-ups that they had been compromised. The way to do that with Rivers was to keep him scuttling—so busy he had no time to think. Hollis was her mark, as was Rivers. The little twerp was easily manipulated and thus neutralized. But Hollis—Hollis had put something over on her with this Nemesis business. It was all she could do not to strangle him. She hated him with a fire that would never be extinguished until he got the end he so richly deserved.
“Just give me what you have.” Her voice sounded strange—rough and uneven.
Rivers handed over the packet of the day’s dezinformatsiya. She opened it and began to read as she drew on her cigarette. She took short, quick, agitated puffs. Halfway through her reading, she said, “Sit down, Riley,” without looking up.
He sank into the enormous chair facing her. He held his hands together between his knees.
“Pour yourself a drink,” she said, still not looking up. “You look like a penitent schoolboy.”
He rose, crossed to the sideboard against the left-hand wall, fixed himself a generous portion of bourbon and water from the array of bottles and the stainless-steel pitcher. He noticed with chagrin that his hand trembled slightly as he lifted the water jug. He bit down on his lower lip, took a nice long slug of the bourbon.
Reading through the last page, Isobel closed the folder, set it down on the cushion of the chair upon which she perched. Only then did she finally look up at him. “There’s nothing here about who is spearheading the attacks against Benjamin Butler.” Her eyes glittered like knife blades. “Didn’t I ask you to find out? Did you not hear me? Are you stupid?” She tilted her head, and before Rivers could respond, added, “Or maybe you’re simply incompetent.”
Rivers swallowed hard. “I’m still digging.”
“Well, dig faster.” Her fingernails clicked like an impatient insect. “I want to know who or what is behind the online attacks. I want to know who’s pulling the strings.”
“Besides you, you mean.” It was a feeble joke, and he cursed himself silently. His voice sounded weak, watery.
Isobel produced the ghost of a smile, but it wasn’t a happy one. “Yes, Riley. Besides me.”
“Whoever it is, is well-hidden. It’s like going through a maze that leads nowhere.”
She drew on the last of her cigarette, nodded. “Finish your drink.”
Rivers did as he was told.
“From this moment on you’re on the clock, Riley. You have twenty-four hours to find out who’s targeting Butler.”
“Isobel…” Sweat broke out on his hairline. He spread his hands. “Have a heart.”
“I can’t give you what I don’t have,” she said so softly he had to strain to hear. “My heart was incinerated long ago, Riley. Now there’s only fire and ice inside me. You don’t want to come up against either, believe me.”
During this discourse, she had become more animated. A fierce energy poured off her like a furnace going full-blast.
“I’ll do my best. You know I will, Isobel.”
Uncrossing her legs, she stood up. “I don’t want your best, Riley,” she said emphatically. “I want it done.” Her hand swept out, making him cringe. “Work your contacts. Squeeze them hard. Call in favors. Promise them the moon. Whatever it takes. Find out who’s behind this campaign against Benjamin Butler.”
“Right. Absolutely.” Rivers’s head nodded as stupidly as a bobblehead in the back of an off-road vehicle. “Whatever it takes,” he parroted.
* * *
When she was sure Riley Rivers had vacated the premises, Isobel returned to the entry staircase, ascended to the second floor. Before heading to her bedroom, she looked the other way down the hall and winced to see the damage to the guest room doorframe, which was worse than she had first thought. Ben owed her one—a big one.
Her own bedroom, at the other end of the hall, was large and light, beautifully furnished in boot-leather tans and sky blues. To the right was a king-size bed, to the left a love seat, an armoire, a chest of drawers, and a closet door. Windows along the wall straight ahead brought in western light. Every single item was aligned perfectly; the room was immaculate.
Roger Hollis was standing, gazing out of the window, smoking idly, his pose relaxed, as if he owned the room and whatever was in it. The windows overlooked a pair of pencil pine trees, beyond which was the street, a hurrying figure now, a car starting up, driving slowly away.
He stubbed his cigarette out in the crystal ashtray on the windowsill, turned back into the room. She stared with a kind of abstract fascination at the bruises and swelling on his face and neck.
“Now what?” he asked. The pain, along with the swelling, lent him a disfigured look, like a reflection in a fun house mirror.
She snorted, crossed the room to where he was standing. Her hand was a blur as she struck him across the face. So hard his head snapped around.
“What the—”
Isobel’s gaze was like a second blow. “What the fuck, Roger? Nemesis?”
“What of it?” Hollis said sullenly. He was about to raise a hand to his cheek where she had struck him, but apparently thought better of it.
“Shall I spell it out for you? You work for me, that’s what. I ask you to gather intel on targets and you use the Rubicon software to find it.”
“You’re handled by the SVR,” Roger said, somewhat defensively. “I get my orders from GRU.”
Isobel watched him, doing her best to keep calm. How had it taken Evan Ryder to crack this rotten egg open? No matter. Why feel jealous when, because of Ryder, she was finally getting somewhere with Hollis? “So Nemesis is a Russian initiative?”
Hollis shrugged. “I don’t know who’s behind it, but it’s been clear to me for a while that it’s needed.”
“What the hell does that mean?” she snapped.
He grinned. Clearly, he felt on firmer ground. “Do you think you’re the only one with a secret life?”
“That pin…”
“The double ravens, yes.” Hollis shook out another cigarette and, without offering her one, lit up. “They’re a symbol—a symbol of a new era, the start of a cleansing.”
