Scorpion Winter by Andrew Kaplan

explained. “Thirty-four percent for Kozhanovskiy in Kharkov.”
    â€œDoesn’t sound so good.”
    â€œIt’s not bad,” she said. “Kharkov is a Cherkesov stronghold. Another minute, Slavo,” she told the aide in English. He glanced curiously at Scorpion as he left.
    â€œAlyona. I need to talk to her. Now,” Scorpion said.
    Iryna looked at him as though trying to decide something.
    â€œSo how do we do this?” she asked.
    â€œFor the moment, I’ll hold off. There’s no story till I find out what’s going on. I’ll keep you as background. An unnamed source. But from now on we stay in touch,” he said, pulling on his jacket.
    The male aide, Slavo, had come back. He stood in the door and pointed to his watch. “Iryna, bud’laska, ” he said, in accented English. “Viktor Ivanovych is waiting. We must go.” Scorpion assumed he was referring to Kozhanovskiy. She nodded and waited. After a moment, he left.
    â€œAll right,” she said. “Meet me tonight. Call me,” writing her cell number on a slip of paper and giving it to him. She started to go, leaving behind a lingering scent of Hermès, then stopped at the door. She had an odd look on her face. “Cherkesov has a big rally in Dnipropetrovsk tomorrow night,” she said. “It would be the perfect place.”
    â€œYou mean for the assassination?”
    â€œYes,” she said, and was gone.

Chapter Thirteen
    Andriyivsky Uzviz
    Kyiv, Ukraine
    A sign with the silhouette of a black cat hung above the door of the Chorna Kishka Theatre Café on Andriyivsky Uzviz, a cobblestone pedestrian street winding steeply up the hill from Kontraktova Square. A poster in the café window advertised a play with a cubistlike drawing of a clown’s face dripping blood, as if it had been drawn by an untalented Picasso. There were few people out. It was very cold; the wind blowing traces of snow across the cobblestones, the sky steel-gray and promising more snow. Scorpion hunched inside his overcoat and went inside.
    The café was nearly empty. Half the space was taken up by rows of folding chairs fronting a small stage. There were photos with the names of the actors in the play on the wall next to the bar. On one side of the stage hung an odd-looking puppet. It looked like a fairy-tale woodsman holding an ax. A young man sat at the bar, reading a paperback and nursing a beer, ignoring the nearly silent TV on the wall. A waitress in jeans came over. She was young, thin, her short reddish hair streaked with blue, metal studs in her nose and upper lip. Her photo was one of those hung by the bar.
    â€œYestli u vas menyu?” Scorpion said, asking in Russian for a menu.
    â€œWe got borscht,” she said in a thickly accented English.
    â€œWhat else?”
    â€œBorscht is good,” she said.
    â€œI’ll have the borscht and an Obolon,” Scorpion said.
    A few minutes later she brought him a steaming bowl of soup with a dollop of sour cream, some garlicky pampushkamy rolls, and a bottle of Obolon beer.
    â€œKak vas zavut?” he asked her in Russian as he started to eat. What’s your name?
    â€œEkaterina,” she said, turning back toward him, one hand on a bony hip.
    â€œAre you an actress?” indicating the photos on the wall.
    â€œWhy? You want to put me on the televidenie ?” she smirked. “I’ve heard this story before, krasivyi. ”
    â€œI’m looking for Alyona Kushnir,” he said. “I’m told she’s an actress in the play.”
    The young man sitting at the bar stopped reading his paperback and turned to look at him. “What you want with Alyona?” he asked in clumsy English, putting down the book.
    â€œShe’s missing. I’m working with Iryna Mikhailivna Shevchenko. She asked me to help,” Scorpion said, watching them.
    â€œThat sooka suna ! I knew something would happen!”