“Who do you think it is?”
“Easiest guess is whoever stole the letter from the CIA, or who was in possession of it at that time. But, like I said, that’s a guess.”
“Keep going.”
The next few messages between the men provided a clearer picture of their relationship and the events leading to Borodin requesting the prince’s assistance with “a matter of utmost delicacy.” It was in one of these messages that Borodin had attached a photograph captioned “Red Square 1988.”
“Take a look.”
“Who is it?” asked Nikki.
“You don’t know?”
“That’s, um…the Russian guy with the port-wine birthmark on his forehead.”
“Mikhail Gorbachev.”
“Yeah, Gorbachev.”
“And the other guy?”
“The one shaking the kid’s hand?”
“Yes, the man shaking the boy’s hand.”
“He’s an American. He was president. Um…”
“Ronald Reagan.”
“Yes, Reagan. The cowboy. It’s your country. Why should I know?”
The photograph showed Reagan and Gorbachev along with a coterie of aides taking a stroll through Red Square. It was an informal “action” shot taken as Reagan extended his arm to shake the hand of a young Russian boy, a tourist by the look of him, about ten years of age.
“Okay,” said Nikki. “Reagan and Gorbachev from a million years ago. What’s the big deal?”
“Not sure.” Simon studied the picture more closely and it hit him. “You see anything funny?”
“No,” said Nikki, without interest.
“What about that guy?” Simon pointed to a slim man standing directly behind the boy, a person he took to be the boy’s father. “Look familiar?”
“No.”
“Sure about that?”
The father appeared to be in his midthirties, with high cheekbones and an Asiatic cast to the eyes. His blond hair was already thinning. He wore a short-sleeved shirt with a camera around his neck. The picture had been taken thirty years earlier, but Simon recognized him at once. Unlike many Russians, this one did not drink alcohol and was famed for his physical pursuits. He had aged well.
“It can’t be,” Nikki gasped.
“Why not?” Simon zoomed in on the blond man. To his eye, there was no doubt. The “father” of the boy was Vladimir Putin, leader of the Russian Federation. “It says the picture was taken in 1988. If I’m not mistaken, Putin was assigned to East Germany at the time. They must have brought him in for the job. Makes sense. Do you think Gorbachev would let just anyone into Red Square when the president of the United States was visiting? He couldn’t take a chance there might be some dissident eager to voice his discontent. The loss of face would have been incalculable. Every last person in Red Square that day must have been KGB.”
“And the boy?”
“Future KGB.” Simon smiled, but only for a moment. His eye had shifted to a man standing directly behind Ronald Reagan’s shoulder, an American in a khaki suit standing with a hangdog look about him. “No,” he murmured.
“What is it?”
“Nothing,” said Simon. “Just surprised.” But for a few seconds longer he continued to study the pallid man in the khaki suit. If he wasn’t mistaken, the man was Barnaby Neill, and he and Vladimir Putin were looking directly at each other.
