Revolution (16 page)

“And you had a change of heart,” Anastasia
put in, the sarcasm in her voice evident.

Morozoff nodded. “I did. It may be hard to
believe, Anastasia Yakusheva.”

She started at the mention of her name. A sly
smile came over his face. “Yes, I know who you are. Over the years,
I was made privy to some names, dates, monetary accounts and more.
As I met many people, it was inevitable that your name came up in
conversation and it was mentioned more than a few times. Your real
name is Anastasia Miriam Yakusheva. Your parents were descendants
of Jewish immigrants from Latvia. You were the daughter of an
alcoholic mother and father. Your mother was—”

“A prostitute,” Anastasia finished for him in
a sharp voice. “I know. I remember who I was and what was done to
me by my own people. You don’t have to bring it up again.”

Yet, here it was—Harry heard the anger and
hatred in his girlfriend’s voice. He’d heard about Anastasia’s past
from Nurmelev, the scientist who’d turned her into what she was. As
for the revelation of her religion, it was somewhat surprising, but
made little difference. He was more interested in who she was.

According to the now-dead Nurmelev, she’d
been a prostitute as well in her earlier life, contracted AIDS, and
was almost dead until he turned her into what she was. Harry knew
all about it and had come to terms with it. So had she. Now, this
old coot was bringing it up again, and what for—to rub her nose in
it?

“I say this as someone who knows the
situation for what it is. It all leads to one source,” Morozoff
said. “Please be so good as to allow me to finish.”

Anastasia growled, but said nothing else. The
old man continued unperturbed by her outburst. “Times changed, and
a person in my position was also subject to...” he hesitated as if
searching for the proper word “... removal. I knew of too many
things, did not like how those in power had abused their positions
of authority, and knew that the country would one day either lay in
ruins or be controlled by a dictator.” He leaned back in his chair.
“I am sorry to say that both my predictions have come true.”

Anastasia’s eyes had grown narrower by the
second and her body quivered with anger. She stepped over to the
old man and said something in Russian. Her voice, so knifelike,
seemed to whiplash through the air. Yet, he received what had to be
insults with a calmness that Harry envied. If there was one thing
he never wanted to be on the receiving end of, it was her wrath.
“You were part of it,” she finished off by saying in English.

“Yes, I was part of the system, corrupt and
cruel as it was,” he stated, head held high and his voice strong.
“I also did many things which I thought at the time were necessary.
I was wrong, and I have spent the last twenty years of my life
hiding out in the USA, helping this country and giving up my
secrets, those I knew. If my enemies find me, they will kill me. I
am prepared for that.”

It appeared that Anastasia still hadn’t
finished her scorn-fest. “You know what my country did to me. Look
at me now, old man. Look at me and tell me you’re sorry.”

Farrell cut in by saying that while the past
was painful, the present was more important. “Yeah, I get it,”
Anastasia snarled at him. With her teeth bared in rage, her ire
washed over the room like a flood. “Save the good Russians for our
side and let the other side have the bad ones, is that it?”

With a slow and deliberate move, Farrell
pointed at the computer as if to say it held the key to everything.
“We’ve made deals in the past, yes. We’ve done business with
dictatorships and lowlifes and other scumbags. You can’t always get
what you want, Anastasia. Believe it or not, Mr. Morozoff is here
to help, and has come out of hiding in order to give us the
information. He’s doing this at great risk to himself.”

A snort came out of Anastasia’s nose. “Yeah,
he’s only been living off the taxpayer’s money for twenty years,
eating good food, and the rest of the Russians starve. He helped
fund monsters to create monsters... to create
me.”
She
stabbed her forefinger to her chest. “He helped to take away what
life I did have. Don’t you go off and tell me about
deals.
I
don’t want to hear it.”

She pushed back her chair and walked off in a
huff, cursing as she went. Striding over to the window, she stood
there with her arms crossed and muttering dire threats.

“So what happened?” Harry asked after
glancing at her and making sure in his mind that she wasn’t about
to kick a hole in the door. “How do you know about all of this? Did
you have something to do with the genetics program?”

“Yes and no,” the old man said. “As your lady
friend has indicated, I was a database keeper. Please remember that
in the course of my duties, I saw and heard many things. In
nineteen-seventy, certain members of my government, which included
the leading scientists of the day, politicians, some businessmen
and some KGB, thought that we could produce a super soldier, much
like the superhero Captain America in your comic books and
movies.

“What you saw, what you and your girlfriend
are now, is a direct product of what we started. It is something
that your father, unaware though he was of our research, continued.
It is also what Kulakov twisted for his own reasons. I am not a
scientist, so I had no direct hand in doing what was done, but I
knew of the programs we set in motion.”

More details emerged. The KGB had spies in
many industrial and research and development labs in Western
countries. They stole secrets ranging from agricultural research to
nuclear weaponry. “One of the secrets we stole was your father’s
ideas on using DNA—animal DNA—to improve mankind. It was our
super-soldier program, if you will. He was a most brilliant man,
your father was, and you are even more brilliant.”

The father, it always came back to the
father. It seemed to Harry as if his family was the guilty party
and was on trial here. “As far as I’m concerned, my father was
innocent in all this. He was doing research to improve food
strains,” he countered. “He warned me about playing God in the lab.
I didn’t listen. But if you’re trying some kind of reverse
sins
of the son not the father
routine, it’s all BS and you know
it.”

Morozoff shook his head. “You misunderstand,
young man. You are not to blame, and neither was your father. You
are a scientist, and a great one at that, perhaps the best. Your
motives were pure as were your father’s. Ours were perverted. From
the records I smuggled out, records which the FBI and CIA now
possess, I knew that we had already begun to practice DNA
manipulation even before your father began his research. However,
when one of our spies notified us of what your father was doing, we
had to have it.”

It had all come to this, Harry thought. “So
where does Kulakov fit in?”

The old man’s right eye twitched and he
heaved in a deep breath before replying. “I only met him once when
the super-soldier program was announced. Kulakov was a most
brilliant medical student, having obtained his degree at the age of
twenty. He continued on in a research position at the main
university in Moscow. My superior—a man named General Rostropovich
who is dead now—had heard of his interest in genetic manipulation
and brought him along as the chief scientific advisor within the
KGB. From all reports, he exceeded everyone’s wildest expectations.
He delivered results when no one else could.

“However, like many who have superior
intellect, he thought himself above others and had a lust for
power. I saw the records. He conducted research and experiments
under the aegis of the KGB and was never satisfied. He was the one
who asked for and received funding for his research. I was the one
who provided the monetary disbursements for his program. He was the
one whose research created Ivan, whom you fought almost a year ago,
the dog creature and many more.”

“And he created Szabo,” Anastasia said from
her position at the window. Her ears twitched.

Morozoff, his face and manner stoic, nodded.
“Yes, he created Szabo.”

He fell silent then, staring at the empty
cup. Harry sat down, trying to process all this. The man who sat
across from him had spoken quite reasonably and rationally, yet he
was no less a monster than Szabo... or was he? No, he decided, not
a monster, just another pawn of a system bent on domination.

Or was it that simple? Confusion reigned, and
while he was thinking, Morozoff spoke up, his voice even quieter
than before. “If you are wondering what kind of person I am, I will
tell you. I am scum. I lied. I lied to my people. I may not have
given orders that sent thousands of people to imprisonment or to
their deaths—” he raised his trembling hand to wipe his lips—”but
in the end, I was just as guilty, for I knew what was happening and
could not lie to myself. If there is a hell, then I most assuredly
belong in it. I do this now for the sake of future generations, not
for money or anything else. I do not wish this madness to
continue.”

“Mr. Morozoff also defected and asked for a
prison term instead of asylum,” Farrell interjected as he swiveled
in his seat to look at Harry. “The United States government
provided asylum. Like it or not, that was the deal we made. If
anyone can help us, it’s him.”

Sick of the whole deal, the lies, the
betrayals, the monsters created in the name of science, Harry
smacked the table. The sharp sound startled everyone into silence.
“I’ve heard it all before,” he said. “There are always
tradeoffs.”

“It is part of life,” Morozoff said in a soft
voice.

Facing down the old man, Harry went for the
payoff. “Okay, so if you know so much, then you tell us where the
secret labs are. That way someone can put them out of business. If
it’s not us, then it can be someone from those countries.”

A deep sigh came from him. “That, I am not
sure of.”

“Smoke and mirrors,” Anastasia snorted from
afar and stabbed her forefinger at the old man. “He’s been playing
us all this time—”

“Cut it!” Farrell snapped. “Listen up and we
may all learn something.”

A look of annoyance crept over Morozoff’s
face. “What I have told you is the truth. Kulakov
is
the
person that you are looking for. It cannot be anyone else.”

Doubt had already crept into Harry’s mind. He
glanced over at Farrell, whose face wore a dubious expression as
well. Anastasia’s eyes glittered angrily. It seemed as though she
didn’t care who was behind this. All she cared was getting some
payback. “Uh,” Harry said, “don’t get me wrong, but how can you be
sure it’s Kulakov? I mean, he’d be in his mid-seventies by now,
right? So maybe it’s his son or a relative or—”

“It is
him,
” Morozoff insisted. His
mouth set in a straight line. “From the records I saw, from the
inception of the program to its fruition, there could be no one
else. He never married, and he had no siblings. He had protégés,
Nurmelev and Grushenko, but they were not his equal. All of this,
you, your lady friend, the other mutated specimens—they are all
products of his diseased mind.”

He sank back in his chair. “However, I have
been out of Russia for too long. My contacts are either dead or are
too old to do anything. Additionally, I have no way of knowing if
the original labs have been moved or not.”

So they were back to square one, Harry
thought and then had an idea. “We’ve already been to Hungary,” he
said. “The lab there was destroyed. But there are other reports of
attacks in Serbia and in Russia. I just got word that two people
were killed there yesterday.”

Had Szabo been able to return that quickly?
It didn’t seem possible. And what was the endgame in all this?
Szabo wanted to build his own little world, transform those who
wanted to be transformed and go his own way. Kulakov had other
designs, but what? How were they working together? Moreover, would
he simply let his underling do what he wanted?

All those thoughts and more circulated in his
mind until a tap on his shoulder startled him back to reality.
Anastasia had crept over to his position and he hadn’t even heard
her. He had to watch that. His girlfriend was one thing, but he
couldn’t afford to let his guard down, not against Szabo or any of
the other enhanced. “What is it?” he asked.

“You’ve got that broody look again,
boyfriend. What are you thinking of?”

“Just wondering how fast it took Szabo to get
back to Russia, if he went there at all,” he answered.

Farrell cut in, his face grim. “They’re way
ahead of us. My guess is that they still have contacts over here,
private planes—the works. But my info shows that while Russia has
had the most attacks, the most recent ones were in Serbia. Szabo
won’t be going back to Hungary, so my guess is that he went to
Serbia.”

Anastasia’s face had a slightly more relaxed
look to it. “It doesn’t make sense for him to go back to Russia.
The authorities will be waiting.” She speared Morozoff with a
glare. “Won’t they?”

He nodded. “Perhaps they will. I do not know
how many friends Kulakov still has. If he has managed to survive
all this time, then he might have found another secret hideout.
Russia is a vast country.”

“Added to that, if Szabo has any more
monsters on his side, then he might be setting a trap,” Farrell put
in.

He would have to mention the obvious, Harry
thought. As well, the idea of taking on more of the enhanced made
his heart zoom into the redline zone. Szabo was the technician, the
fighter. He wasn’t.

The Hungarian shark was also way more
dangerous than he’d figured on. And while anyone could see that he
liked to kill, combined with his intelligence, it made him a person
to watch out for—watch out for and fear. Shifting his gaze to
Anastasia, he got a shock. Fear also lurked in her eyes. She’d
never been afraid of anyone before. She was now.