Primary Threat

by Jack Mars

  “The night watchman’s card does not require a telephone code?” Marmilov said.

  “In case of emergencies, the watchman’s card overrides all other programming, sir. Of course.”

  Marmilov nodded. “Of course.”

  He paused. He took a deep drag of his cigarette. He had enjoyed Chevsky, to be honest. Chevsky was an intelligent young man, hardworking, ambitious. He had a quirky and independent sense of personal style. He was a bit daring and courageous. At times, Marmilov had even entertained the notion that he and Chevsky were in a mentoring relationship.

  “We are assuming the engineer is dead?”

  The young man before him nodded. “I think we are, sir.”

  “Yes, I suppose,” Marmilov said.

  People died. It was that simple. In this line of work, they died all the time. The missing hard drive was very problematic, though. If Chevsky was going to die anyway, he should have given his life to protect the information entrusted to him.

  Worst of all, Chevsky was Marmilov’s primary contact with the project. Now that link was broken. For many reasons, Marmilov preferred not to communicate with the participants directly. He was going to have to find a replacement for Chevsky, and right away.

  “Was the night watchman in on it?” Marmilov said.

  “He was questioned thoroughly. He denies knowing anything. The video footage suggests that he was pistol-whipped severely by one of the intruders. They bound him hand and foot with electrical tape. Medical tests indicate a concussion.”

  Marmilov shrugged. “Beatings don’t mean anything. Keep him for another twenty-four hours and really press him.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “What else?” Marmilov said.

  “The TV producer is still missing, and now presumed dead.”

  Marmilov nodded. “Of course.”

  “We have been in touch with our friend in America,” the young man said.

  Marmilov didn’t like where any of this was going. But he supposed the disappearances of Zelazny and Chevsky, and the theft of the hard drive, could only have been leading to one place.

  “And?”

  “He was able to seize the laptop computer that was taken during the Serbian raid. His technical experts have analyzed the contents and concluded that the video shot during the raid was uploaded to an anonymous satellite, then forwarded to a private media company based in Moscow. The contact person associated with that company was a man named Leonard Zelazny. It is likely that the FBI Special Response Team, the agency which originally confiscated the laptop, was able to determine these things on their own, but did not share the information with their superiors in the FBI or at the White House.”

  Marmilov had an odd sensation—something that would not normally occur to him. He felt that he wanted to place his head on the desk and close his eyes.

  “Likely because they planned to send covert operatives here?” he said.

  The young man nodded. “Yes, sir. And they didn’t want their mission compromised by potential leaks at other agencies.”

  The sand had shifted under Marmilov’s feet. It had happened with little or no warning. The Americans now knew, beyond any shadow of a doubt, that the Serbian attack originated in Russia. They knew the name Leonard Zelazny. They sent enforcers here, to Moscow, to question him. At the very least, Zelazny gave them the name Tomasz Chevsky. Chevsky gave them the clothes off his back, and access to his office. He gave them the hard drive to his computer. Did Chevsky, or Zelazny, also give them the name Oleg Marmilov? He had to assume they did.

  This placed him in an awkward position.

  “Do we know who they are?” he said.

  The man shook his head. “We don’t know for sure. But our intelligence suggests that the Special Response Team is the same agency responsible for the rampage outside Sochi some months ago, when an American submarine crew was rescued, and war between Russian and America was nearly instigated. The video footage at the Breadbox appears to show a very large black man and a tall white man. Both of these men can be seen during the last moments of the video taken at the oil rig. Both of these men are thought to have been present at the Sochi operation.”

  “Get me the dossiers on these men,” Marmilov said.

  The man nodded. “Of course.”

  Marmilov’s mind began to leap forward, examining the moves ahead. He’d been a fair chess player in his youth. He’d lost the flavor of it when he first joined the military, but he had never lost its lessons.

  “When they analyze the contents of the hard drive, they will learn of the Beirut project,” he said. “So they will go to Beirut.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Marmilov looked at the young man. He recalled how he had given this man the order to kill the oil workers. He had hesitated for a few seconds, and then had done exactly what he was told.

  “With Chevsky gone,” Marmilov said, “I need someone who can take over his duties. Specifically, I need someone to immediately handle the details of the Beirut project, at least in the short term. You seem a capable man. Tell me…”

  “Babayev, sir. Victor.”

  “Yes, Babayev. Tell me, do you have any experience in the sciences?”

  “I attended two years of technical school, sir, before I joined the military.”

  “And what was your field?”

  “I studied electrical and chemical engineering, sir. Primarily chain reactions, explosions, detonators, things of that nature. My ambition was to be soldier, and I thought it would...”

  “You’re hired,” Marmilov said.

  The young man Babayev smiled. “Thank you, sir.”

  Marmilov shrugged. “Of course. You’ve earned it. Now, your first task is to eliminate everyone associated with the Beirut project. Everyone currently in that facility. To a man.”

  “Sir?”

  It must seem a harsh decision to a person as young as this. But sometimes harsh decisions were the only ones available.

  “You heard me.”

  The man nodded. “Yes, sir.”

  “If the Americans approach the project—when they approach it—allow them to enter unmolested. Allow them all the way inside. Then don’t let them out.”

  Marmilov was reminded of the Old Testament story of the great warrior Samson.

  “When our enemies enter the temple, we will pull it down on top of them.”

  The man nodded again, and turned to leave. “Of course, sir. As you command.”

  As you command.

  It was exactly the correct phrasing.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  8:35 a.m. Eastern European Daylight Time (1:35 a.m. Eastern Daylight Time)

  The Coral Hotel

  Palaio Faliro Municipality

  Athens, Greece

  The phone was ringing.

  Luke opened his eyes.

  It was the room phone, not his personal cell or satellite phone. He was half asleep, still in the middle of a dream that was fading away fast. It took him a moment to remember he had left both of his phones with Big Daddy in Rome.

  His first thought was of Becca. Maybe she was calling him here.

  No. That wasn’t possible. She didn’t even know where he was.

  And it wasn’t going to be possible to call her. For the time being, he had to give up that idea. It was too dangerous—what if the house was bugged, or her cell phone was? A call could let someone know where he was, and what he planned to do. A simple call home could compromise everything.

  But all that said, the phone was still ringing.

  It was on the night table to his left. A big blue button on the phone flashed, and the phone itself made an obnoxious buzzing sound. He stared at it. He didn’t want to pick it up. He let it ring until it stopped.

  It was probably just the front desk, asking him if he wanted room service, or his sheets turned down, or asking whether he’d like to apply for the rewards card.

  Luke was on a big king bed. He looked across the room. There were floor to cei
ling windows over there, giving him a wide open, room-width view of a beautiful green and blue sea. He hadn’t bothered to pull the curtains before going to sleep this morning. He didn’t even remember there being curtains. That’s how tired he had been.

  A sliding glass door opened onto a balcony outside the windows.

  Luke thought back to the five-star hotel in Moscow, with its views of Red Square and Saint Basil’s Cathedral. He was starting to get used to this whole music mogul gig.

  The phone started ringing again.

  He picked it up this time.

  “Rob Simmons,” he said, his voice still thick with sleep.

  “Mr. Simmons,” the voice said. “It’s Don Wellington.”

  Luke shook his head. Swann.

  Who else would call him at… was it 1:30 in the morning where Swann was? Luke thought yes. The guy never stopped. It felt like Luke had just closed his eyes a few moments ago.

  “Wellington, hi.”

  “How are the accommodations?” Swann said.

  “Great. But listen I’m kind of tired, so let’s just dispense with the small talk, okay?”

  Swann paused. You never could tell if you were offending him or not. Usually, he seemed to have skin as thick as a special operator’s. But sometimes…

  “Of course. I just wanted to let you know that we looked at the information you sent. There is a great deal for us to talk about. But given contractual obligations, non-disclosure clauses, and the like…”

  Luke got it. He was holding a hotel room phone in his hand—hardly encrypted communications.

  “This probably isn’t the best venue,” he said.

  “Exactly.”

  “What do you recommend?” Luke said.

  “I will arrange a venue for later today. What you should know right now is that we see more travel in your future.”

  Terrific. At the moment, the travel he was most looking forward to was back to the United States. Even if Becca wouldn’t have him back, she hadn’t tried to kick him out of the cabin yet.

  “Is it going to be hot, where I’m going?” he said.

  “Unfortunately, it seems like it’s going to be very hot. Historically, it’s been one of the hotter places that we know of.”

  Of course it was going to be hot. What else would it be?

  “Are you in your office right now?” Luke said. “It seems to me it must be late at night over there.”

  “Uh… the office is closed until further notice,” Swann said. “There’s been some trouble with the parent company.”

  Swann was mixing his metaphors. Didn’t he used to work for the State Department? Now there was trouble with the parent company. Either way, that didn’t sound good.

  “This is likely to be a solo project,” Swann said.

  Luke didn’t speak for a long moment. He and Ed had just gone on a solo project, and it had gone okay, but he didn’t want to start making a habit of it.

  “How do you suggest I…”

  “Well, Mr. Simmons… Rob… can I call you Rob?”

  Luke nearly laughed. “Call me whatever you like.”

  “I’ve sent a courier to you with some details of the project. I put them together with uh… Mr. Leishman and Ms.…”

  Luke was still smiling. Where was Swann going to go with this now that he had appropriated Trudy’s last name for himself?

  “…Ms. Morris. You should get a knock on your door any moment. Please read the notes over thoroughly. I think the whole package will give you a sense of what we’re looking at. When you’re done, please commit them to memory and observe all local recycling laws when discarding them.”

  Read and Destroy.

  “Got it,” Luke said. “Anything else?”

  “Yes,” Swann said. “One more thing. There’s a soloist I think you should consider bringing in. The guy is practically a virtuoso. You may know who I’m talking about.”

  Luke nodded. “I think I do.”

  “I don’t think he’ll come on board this project unless he speaks with you personally. He’s got one of these creative temperaments. The last time anyone on this end invited him to play, he declined.”

  “Okay,” Luke said. “But I don’t have my contact book with me. I seem to have forgotten…”

  “Oh, his contact information is in the package I’ve sent you.”

  “Great. So I’ll look forward to…”

  A soft knock came at the hotel room door.

  “Don?” Luke said. “I think the courier is here now.”

  “Good,” Swann said. “In that case, I’ll leave you to it. Happy reading.”

  Luke got up and padded across the deep pile carpet to the door. He checked the peephole, but didn’t see anyone out there.

  He put his ear to the door. Somewhere in the hotel, far away, there was a faint rumble of machinery. Other than that, there was no sound.

  Luke shrugged. He’d given Chevsky’s gun to Albert Strela before leaving Russia. Not because they wouldn’t let him on the State Department plane with it—because it was clearly not a service weapon and he didn’t want to have to explain where he got it.

  Luke was unarmed. If someone out there wanted trouble, they were going to face Luke’s bare hands.

  He opened the door and a thick manila envelope fell into the room. It had been standing tall and leaning against the door.

  Luke looked up and down the long hall. There was no one here.

  He picked up the envelope and brought it inside.

  * * *

  The envelope gave Luke more questions than answers.

  He sat out on his balcony with a cup of coffee from the room coffee maker. The view was stunning, facing southwest into the Saronic Gulf, with the city of Athens proper spread out to the north, on his right.

  This early in the morning, the sun was still behind the hotel. From here, Luke could see a sweep of golden beaches and calm sea. Ferry and tanker traffic passed by out in the gulf, coming and going from the large commercial port facilities in Athens. Far in the distance, Luke thought he could make out a white blur that might be the island of Aegina.

  The envelope had contained a small stack of printouts. It had also contained a very small handheld satellite phone, with two numbers preprogrammed into it. One of the numbers said WELLINGTON. The other said VIRTUOSO.

  Wellington was Swann, of course. And if Luke understood their conversation correctly, Virtuoso was Murphy.

  A cursory look at the documents indicated they were going to need Murphy, or someone just like him.

  There was a map of a neighborhood in south Beirut, Lebanon. A small block of text made it clear that the neighborhood had been controlled by Hezbollah militants since the Israelis pulled out of the city in the year 2000.

  A spot was marked on the map, which appeared to be at the top of a hill overlooking the city and the waterfront. Superimposed aerial photos showed it was a mosque. The words al-Khattab Mosque appeared in a box near the mosque itself. The mosque was a small, seemingly old, sand-colored building with a silver dome and a single blue minaret.

  Here was a page with a list of specs that Swann or Ed Newsam would understand better than Luke. The numbers were like a blur to Luke. He stared at them for a moment, until he noticed a single word at the top of the column: Yield.

  Yield was a word Luke associated with explosives, in equivalent units of TNT. When people like Swann or Trudy or Ed mentioned yield, they were most often talking about nuclear weapons.

  Here was a line drawing of what certainly looked like a missile or a bomb. It was bullet shaped, with no obvious means of propulsion at either end. A line cut across it vertically—along the line, it said 10.2 meters. To Luke, that drawing suggested that it was a bomb, and it was more than 30 feet long. Another line was drawn across the bomb. Along this line, it said, 2.5 meters. That meant it was about 8 or 10 feet wide.

  If it really was a bomb, it was a big one.

  Luke turned to the last couple of pages. Here was a map of the Arctic Ci
rcle. A red spot was marked on it, way out on the ice of the Arctic Ocean, hundreds of miles from land. Aerial imagery showed an endless field of white, disappearing into the vast distance. A tighter shot seemed to show a small encampment on the ice, maybe a few temporary structures and paths between them. A little bit away from the camp was a long scratch, which could be a landing strip.

  An even tighter shot showed a large grayish dome against all the white. A couple of all-terrain vehicles were parked outside of it. The vehicles gave a sense of the size of the dome—it was big, like a tennis bubble with a dozen courts inside of it.

  What did all this mean?

  Were the Russians planning to position some sort of military base or missile battery in the middle of the Arctic Ocean? Were they building a weapons lab out there? Were they hoping to be able to launch nukes from the North Pole? Why would they do that, when everyone seemed to agree that the Arctic was melting?

  Heck, it wasn’t very Christmasy, was it? Santa Claus lived at the North Pole.

  Luke picked up the satellite phone. It was bright blue and friendly-looking. He looked at the number for VIRTUOSO.

  He felt odd calling Murphy, truth be told. Big Daddy had inserted the smallest germ of doubt in Luke’s mind. Murphy had gotten a few days off and had immediately gone to the Caribbean. He did it under an assumed identity.

  Luke had to admit that every time he said goodbye to Murphy, it seemed like it was for the last time. Murphy was not on salary. He was a consultant, paid by the day. He was a tremendous asset on missions. Murphy was hell in a firefight. Few were better than he was. But he was not a company man. There were some days—days when it would mean just sitting around the office—when he didn’t come in at all.