Free Scorpion Winter by Andrew Kaplan Page A

hurt him in the election. There’s been a suggestion you might be SVR. They’ve been known to do such things.” Scorpion smiled.
    â€œThis is big lie! I am kulturnye officer. Vydi von! ” he shouted. “Get out!” gesturing for him to leave.
    â€œThat’s too bad,” Scorpion said, starting to rise out of his chair. “We could have cleared this up and no one would know. I could keep you as an unnamed source. Now, you’ll be famous. Probably not what the SVR had in mind.”
    â€œWait! Pazhalusta! ” Please! Gabrilov held up his hand. He looked shrewdly at Scorpion. “Who are you? CIA?”
    â€œI’m not even American,” Scorpion said.
    â€œNichivo.” Never mind. Gabrilov shrugged. “What your nationality?”
    â€œCanadian; working out of London. Who’s your source on the assassination plot?”
    â€œI know nothing.”
    â€œYeah, I know. You’re just a kulturnye officer. Da svidaniya, miy drooh ,” Scorpion said, getting up. He had almost reached the door when Gabrilov called after him.
    â€œWait! Was someone from Kozhanovskiy campaign. Secret. I cannot say name.”
    â€œYou have someone embedded in the Kozhanovskiy campaign?”
    â€œThis election important to Russiya. We have informants in both sides. No doubt your CIA is doing same.”
    â€œI told you, I’m not American. It’s not my anything.”
    â€œOf course not! You Canada-man, not Amerikanyets. I am kulturnye officer, not SVR. We understand each other perfect,” Gabrilov said, and lit his pipe, wreathing himself in a cloud of smoke.
    â€œYou’re saying someone in the Kozhanovskiy campaign is planning to assassinate Cherkesov?”
    â€œThis is bad thing, understand? This not good for Russiya, not good Ukraina. Will be very bad. Someone must to do something, da ?”
    â€œDa,” Scorpion said. “Someone must to do something.”

Chapter Twelve
    Lypky
    Kyiv, Ukraine
    S he blew into the room telling him he had three minutes. Her armament included a gray Prada suit, pearls, and a Ferragamo purse. Her hair was black and pageboy straight, and her eyes were like no one else’s, a disturbing lapis lazuli blue. Iryna Shevchenko was stunningly beautiful and knew it. Even more, Scorpion thought later, there was something about her. A presence. Even in a room full of people, you wouldn’t be able to take your eyes off her.
    She waved away a male aide who had followed her in and sat on a desk.
    They were on the top floor of a building on Instytutska in the Lypky district that served as a campaign office. Through the window behind her Scorpion could see buildings, and beyond them the snowy expanse of Pecherska Park and the Dnieper River glazed with ice.
    â€œMr. Kilbane,” she said, peering at his Reuters badge after they said hello. “They said you were an investigative reporter, Reuters, London. You don’t sound British.”
    â€œCanadian. Where’d you learn your English?” Scorpion asked.
    â€œBenenden and Oxford. Plus some time in Washington,” she said, lighting a cigarette. “What’s this about?”
    â€œThere’s a story going around that someone in your campaign is planning to bump off your opponent, Cherkesov. Care to comment?”
    â€œGood God! Where’d you get such a story?” she said, color draining from her face. Her fist clenched and unclenched in her lap.
    â€œLet’s just say a source.”
    â€œWhat source?”
    â€œSorry.” He shook his head. “Do you have any comment?”
    â€œIt’s a lie. You can’t print that. Barely a week before the election. It would destroy us.”
    â€œIt would help,” he said, “if you told me what you knew.”
    â€œIs this coming from the Cherkesov campaign? It’s a plant. Surely you can see that?”
    â€œIt’s not coming from your opponents. Is it