Free Scorpion Winter by Andrew Kaplan

hit him. Gabrilov would lead him to where information on the assassination was coming from, without ever knowing that he was doing it . . . in the morning.

Chapter Eleven
    Povitroflotskyi Prospekt
    Kyiv, Ukraine
    T he Russian embassy was a concrete structure on Povitroflotskyi Prospekt, an area of government buildings and wide boulevards covered with snow. By morning it had stopped snowing. Scorpion crunched through the snow into the embassy and went up to a man at a desk in the marble lobby, done in a style Bob Harris had once facetiously called “dictatorship moderne. ” Framed pictures of the Russian president and prime minister were on the wall behind the man and a bored-looking Russian soldier sat in a nearby chair beside a metal detector.
    â€œI would like—” Scorpion began.
    â€œNo visas here. Go to Consular Division on vulytsya Kutuzova, Pecherska Metro,” the man said in English.
    â€œI’m here to see Oleg Gabrilov.”
    â€œYou have appointment?”
    â€œTell Gospodin Gabrilov I’m about to publish a story that names him, but prefer to give him a chance to talk to me first,” Scorpion said, handing the man his Reuters business card.
    The man looked at the card.
    â€œYou wait,” he said, and picked up the phone. He dialed an extension and spoke in rapid Russian. It sounded like he was arguing with someone. That didn’t surprise Scorpion. Unlike the CIA, senior SVR officials often held low-level positions in Russian embassies. “With the Russkies, don’t look at the guy being chauffeured around, look at the driver,” Rabinowich used to say.
    The Mercedes killings had been on TV and were the second lead on the front page of the Kyiv Post that morning, the top story being accusations of corruption and bribery alleged against presidential candidate Viktor Kozhanovskiy by a newspaper associated with the Cherkesov campaign. Scorpion had read the story over breakfast at a local Dva Gusya fast-food restaurant.
    The politsiy believed the Kutuzova Street killings, named for the street where he had left the Mercedes, were a mafia hit. They were questioning Syndikat informants but so far had no leads. The Syndikat boss, the notorious Genadiy Viktorovych Mogilenko, was “unavailable” for comment.
    The man at the lobby desk hung up the phone and motioned to Scorpion.
    â€œGabrilov upstairs. You go through,” he said, motioning him to the metal detector. “He take you,” indicating the soldier.
    Scorpion went through the metal detector and followed the soldier to a second floor office. The soldier knocked and gestured for him to go inside.
    Gabrilov was a medium-sized man in a sagging gray suit. His face sagged too, like a basset hound, and his office reeked of the same pipe tobacco Scorpion had smelled in his apartment just a few hours earlier.
    â€œGovorite li vy Rossiyu?” Gabrilov asked him if he spoke Russian.
    â€œOchen malo,” very little, Scorpion said.
    â€œWhat wants Reuters agency with me?” Gabrilov said in an odd English-Russian hybrid, a hodge-podge Harris, referring to someone else, had once called “Bering Strait English.”
    â€œI’m an investigative reporter on a story about a possible assassination attempt on one of the Ukrainian candidates,” Scorpion said. “Your name came up.”
    â€œWhich candidate?”
    â€œCherkesov.”
    â€œThis sumashedshy ! You understand, crazy!” tapping his head with his fingers. “Cherkesov is good droog friend of Russiya. Who tells you this?”
    â€œ Izvinitye.” Sorry. “I don’t name my sources.”
    â€œYou sure? They say my name?”
    â€œMy sources say the assassination story comes from you.”
    â€œIs mistake. I know nothing of this! You must not spread such lies!” wagging his finger at Scorpion.
    â€œOf course, it could be disinformation. Just to throw suspicion on Kozhanovskiy to