“I have the flash drive,” he said at last as he fished through the kit until he found a hypodermic needle, loaded it with a painkiller, and jammed it into his left thigh.
“Good,” Morris said. “But where is Oleg? Was he killed?”
“No, he’s alive,” Marcus said. He spread antibiotic ointment over the wound and wrapped it with gauze and tape. “He said he’d meet us at the airport. But first he has to go see Luganov.”
“Why?”
“He said he had to see him about something critical that might help stop the war.” Marcus stuffed the first aid kit back into his pack and tossed it behind him as he scanned the skies for the inbound hostage rescue team. At the same time, he was looking from side to side for the SUV that had gotten away, lest it was lurking in the shadows, waiting to ambush them. He knew full well he was edging close to a line. He wasn’t lying to her, not quite. But he couldn’t tell her a thing. Not now. Perhaps not ever.
“Ryker, that’s not acceptable,” Morris shot back. “We had orders from the president of the United States to bring the Raven out alive.”
“Look, he knows the risks, especially with Luganov launching an all-out mole hunt. But he was adamant. He believes he has to go see the president one more time. There was nothing I could do.”
“You could have grabbed him anyway.”
“Kidnapped him?”
“Call it what you want, Ryker—the president gave us the green light to execute a plan you initiated. Not just to get the files but to get the Raven.”
“And we will. I told you, he said he’d meet us at the airport.”
“That wasn’t the plan.”
“It is now.”
“Please don’t tell me we just killed eleven Russians to retrieve a thumb drive Mr. Kraskin could have simply left on the kitchen table for us to grab.”
It was a brutal accusation, tantamount to murder. Marcus would have none of it. He pushed back with a vengeance. “We’re in the fog of war, Jenny. The situation changed. Oleg kept his word. He gave us what he promised. But he doesn’t think it’s enough. He thinks he can do more, something that could significantly change the course of the war or even derail it from the outset. You really think I should have kidnapped him? The son-in-law of the Russian president? What if I did? How would we get him to the airport? How would we get him onto the plane? Drug him? And then what? Take him to a black site? Beat the crap out of him to tell us everything he knows? And what after that? If we don’t kill him, we have to release him. You want him to go public with all that? Are you insane?”
They continued racing through the frigid countryside in the dark of night, back to the Lukoil station to switch cars. Marcus began counting silently to fifty. Panic is contagious. But so is calm. Stay calm. Do your work. Slow is smooth. Smooth is smart. Smart is straight. Straight is deadly.
“So now what?” Morris asked after several minutes. “How exactly does this play out?”
“It’s simple,” Marcus replied. “The commandos arrive at the residence. They storm inside and find Oleg safe in the panic room and everyone else dead. They’ll ask him what happened. He’ll say he doesn’t know. He’ll tell them the moment the shooting began, his agents grabbed him and got him to safety, which is true. He’ll say he heard all the explosions and gunfire but couldn’t see a thing, which is also true. He’ll ask that they take him to his father-in-law immediately to tell him what happened.”
“And then?”
“Then he contacts us and makes his way to the airport, and we’re out of here,” Marcus said. “For now, you need to get in touch with your people. Let them know there’ll only be two of us at first. Tell them to have a car waiting, something that won’t draw attention, parked near the plane.”
“Why?”
“So I can pick him up when he gets to the airport and get him to the plane as quickly as possible.”
Suddenly they heard the sound of the choppers approaching. Marcus peered through the sunroof and through the front and side windows but could not see them. He lowered his window slightly. Snow started swirling into the interior of the car. But above the rushing of the wind, he could hear the choppers more clearly. They were off to their left. Marcus put their distance at least a half mile away.
Moments later they pulled into the gas station. But there at the first pump was something they had not planned for—the SUV that had gotten away, its tank being filled by a lone bodyguard. Morris slammed on the brakes, but it was too late. The agent had seen them. They were the only car on the road, in the middle of the night, coming from the direction of the deadly ambush this guy had escaped from. They were dressed in black and obviously looked suspicious. At the very least, the agent was going to check them out. When he saw their weapons, they would be finished.
The agent drew his sidearm and pointed it at Morris as he approached the Mercedes, shouting in Russian. Marcus knew he had to act. He bolted out of the car. Before the agent could redirect his aim and fire, Marcus pulled his rifle’s trigger.
The shots went wide. Now the agent was firing back, first at Marcus, then at the Mercedes. The passenger-side window exploded. The rear windows were next. Morris peeled away. Marcus fired again. Bullets were crisscrossing through the frigid night air. Marcus hobbled right, still in immense pain, using the Russian’s SUV to provide some cover. But at that moment he realized he’d made a serious mistake.
At first the bodyguard started coming around the back of the truck, firing nonstop. But now Marcus saw the agent change his mind and head back to open the driver’s-side door. Once safely inside the bulletproof vehicle, he would call for backup, and the area would be swarming with Russian soldiers within minutes. Marcus and Morris would never get away. Knowing he had only a split second to act, Marcus forced himself to ignore the pain in his knee. He raced around the front of the truck, firing everything he had. But Marcus wasn’t firing at the Russian. He was firing at the SUV’s gas tank and the nozzle that was still coursing with gallons of fresh fuel. As he fired, Marcus was rapidly backing away from the service island. With the gas flowing and fumes in the air, all he needed was to create a single spark. . . .
And then he did.
The massive explosion blew Marcus across the parking lot and flipped the SUV on its head. The fireball soared twenty, thirty feet in the air. Then came more explosions as the flames shot up the nozzle into the pump and the reserve tanks underground ignited.
Morris jumped out of the SUV and raced to Marcus. She grabbed him by his flak jacket, dragged him away from the flames, and helped him to his feet. “We need to move—now!” she yelled over the roar of the inferno.
Together they sprinted around behind the service building, which was completely demolished and ablaze. When they reached the Volga, Marcus found his keys, got in the driver’s side, and reached over to unlock the door for Morris. Before she got in, however, he told her to go to the Mercedes, start the engine, put it into drive, aim it for the SUV, and then run for the road. He would meet her there.
This time she didn’t ask questions. Nor did she hesitate in the slightest. She immediately got what he was saying and ran off to get it done. Meanwhile, Marcus shoved the key in the ignition and gave it a turn. Nothing happened. He tried it again while pumping the accelerator. The engine coughed and sputtered but refused to spring to life. Seconds later, Marcus both heard and felt the newest explosion. That was the SUV. Destroying the Mercedes would not only cover their tracks and destroy evidence but would add to the diversion and help them escape. Morris had done her job. But he had failed in his. Their getaway car was a bust.
The explosions had surely been spotted by the inbound Spetsnaz teams and no doubt by neighbors who were already calling the local fire department and the police. But Marcus stayed focused on the task at hand. Beside the Volga was a dark-green Lada, a pitifully bad Russian-made compact car that looked like a miniature version of a Fiat, if such a thing were possible. This one looked like a model from the early nineties. It had littl
e power, possibly no heat, certainly no frills, but it was theirs for the taking.
Marcus wondered briefly whom the car belonged to. He had seen no one inside the service building or anywhere else in the deserted gas station. Perhaps a night clerk had gone running when the shooting started. But he didn’t have time to worry about it now. So he ditched the Volga and hobbled over to the Lada. There was no need to dust off the snow. It had all melted away in the searing heat, and the car was dripping wet. It was also locked. Marcus smashed one of the rear windows, then reached inside and unlocked the driver’s-side door. Reaching under the dashboard, he turned on his phone’s flashlight app, pulled down a sheath of wires, and hot-wired the ignition. Within seconds the engine was purring. They were back in business.
The snow was coming down still harder. He flicked on the headlights and cranked the windshield wipers up to the maximum, then maneuvered around the blazing wreckage and found Jenny Morris standing on the side of the road. The moment she got in, Marcus floored it. He told Morris to call her boss on the secure satellite phone and alert him to the changes in their plans before pulling out her laptop and uploading all the contents of the thumb drive to Langley. Time was of the essence, and they might soon have company.
THE PRESIDENTIAL PALACE, NOVO-OGARYOVO, RUSSIA—29 SEPTEMBER
Oleg Kraskin was terrified, unsure if he could go through with it.
It was almost five thirty in the morning when the helicopter carrying him touched down on the freshly plowed landing pad beside Luganov’s much larger Mi-8 chopper. So far Marcus had been right every step of the way. From the moment the commandos had entered the panic room, he hadn’t simply been questioned; he’d essentially been interrogated. The lines between the two had been badly blurred, but Oleg’s story had held up.
No, he was not wounded, not seriously, though he’d banged up his knee in all the commotion. No, he had no idea who had attacked his parents’ home. No, he hadn’t seen a thing. Yes, the agents had done their jobs brilliantly and courageously. They’d immediately rushed him into the panic room and proceeded to fight bravely to save his life. In this, they had succeeded, and Oleg had gushed his profound gratitude for every single one of them. He’d literally wept when he’d seen the carnage and the destruction throughout the house. He’d bristled, even yelled back, when he’d felt treated like a suspect. In the end, there wasn’t a shred of evidence that he’d been complicit in any way. To the contrary, he appeared to have been the target of a sophisticated and brazen assassination plot.
Thus, as Marcus had predicted, Oleg had been cleared and brought to the palace, to his father-in-law’s side, both to recover and to assist with the war effort. All that had been the easy part. What was coming next would be infinitely more difficult, testing every ounce of discipline and cunning Oleg possessed.
Oleg grabbed his leather briefcase as six burly agents helped him out of the chopper. They created a tight cordon around him, and he limped inside the doors of the north portico. Waiting for them was another group of agents, manning a checkpoint Oleg had only seen used before for the staffs of foreign heads of state. Never for family. Never for him. This time, however, the checkpoint supervisor surprised Oleg by asking him to put his personal possessions—his watch, his wallet, briefcase, shoes, the change in his pocket, and anything else he had on him—through the X-ray machine.
“The president is expecting me,” Oleg said indignantly.
The FSB officer nodded again. “Yes, sir. I understand, sir.”
“I have urgent matters to discuss with the president.”
“Of course—this will only take a moment,” the officer assured him.
This was not going as planned. Oleg could feel beads of perspiration forming on the back of his neck.
“This is ridiculous,” Oleg objected again. “I’ve never been subjected to such things.”
“My apologies, Mr. Kraskin, but these are the president’s orders for everyone entering the residence,” the officer replied while his colleagues looked on. “Given all that’s unfolding, we are operating under a heightened state of readiness. I’m sure you can understand. We cannot take any chances.”
Feeling trapped, Oleg moved directly to the officer and got in his face. “Can’t take any chances?” he asked. “Do you have any idea what I’ve just been through, what I’ve just survived?”
“I do, sir, and—”
“And yet you have the gall to speak this way to me?”
The tension in the air was thick. Several of the agents looked away. Still the supervisor humbly but firmly held his ground. “I mean no disrespect, Mr. Kraskin, but orders are orders.”
The two men stood there for a moment, staring at one another. Then Oleg blinked. He untied his shoes and set them on the conveyor belt. He removed his belt and his cuff links and his watch and wallet and a fountain pen from his breast pocket and put them on the conveyor belt as well. The operator immediately moved the items through the machine.
“The briefcase, too, if you wouldn’t mind,” the supervisor said, noticing that Oleg had initially set the bag on the floor when he removed his shoes but hadn’t placed it on the conveyor belt.
Oleg’s heart was pounding. If he was stopped here, it would be disastrous. Not only would Marcus’s plan be ruined and the war proceed, but Oleg would be going straight to the bowels of Lubyanka to face the torturers of the FSB and a fate far worse than death. He picked up the briefcase.
“Do you have a laptop?” the supervisor asked.
“I do,” Oleg said.
“Please take it out and run it through separately.”
Oleg did as he was asked.
Time seemed to stand still as the X-ray operator studied every square inch of every item. When each one was cleared and emerged on the other side, a different agent examined it manually. He removed the battery of the notebook computer, studied it closely, and then replaced it and turned the computer on. When it flickered to life, the officer was satisfied. He turned it off again, then turned his attention to the briefcase, thoroughly checking every section. When he found an unopened pack of cigarettes, he carefully tore the cellophane away, opened the pack, and dumped the contents on the counter. Convinced nothing was amiss, he put each cigarette back in its place and the pack back in the pocket of the briefcase where he’d found it.
Next he pulled out a small digital voice recorder. The officer opened up the back and removed the batteries. Then he opened a drawer in a desk behind him, fished out batteries of the same kind, and put these in the device. He turned the recorder on, but no sound emerged. The device was new. No messages had yet been recorded on it. Satisfied, the officer replaced the device in the briefcase and nodded. “You’re all set.”
Oleg began breathing again and was about to work his way around the magnetometer like he always did. However, the supervisor asked Oleg to take off his raincoat and his suit coat and put them through the X-ray machine as well.
“Then I’ll need you to step through the metal detector,” he said.
Oleg just stared at him.
“Again, my sincerest apologies, Mr. Kraskin, but the president’s orders . . .”
Oleg paused, trying hard to look annoyed and not terrified. But terrified he was, and he could stall no longer. There was no way he was going to make it through the metal detector without setting it off. He would be immediately searched and quickly arrested when they found the gun.
Slowly, with a room full of agents watching him, he took off his coat and put it on the conveyor belt. Then he did the same with the jacket of his suit. When the operator turned on the belt and both items began moving through the X-ray machine, Oleg straightened his tie, wondering what to do next. There was no place to run, no place to hide. This was it, the end of the road.
Why hadn’t he fled the country with Marcus Ryker?
Resolved to his fate, Oleg took a deep breath and limped forward.
The machine started beeping. He put out his hands, preparing to be wanded.
/> Just then Dmitri Nimkov came around the corner.
“That’ll be all,” Nimkov barked before any of the officers could begin the search. “How dare you treat the president’s own son-in-law like this, especially after all he’s just been through! What’s wrong with you men? Have you no respect for the family?”
The men froze. Oleg was ashen. None of them moved, but Nimkov put his arm around Oleg and helped him gather his belongings. When Oleg was finished putting on his shoes and belt, he collected the rest of his things and put them in his briefcase along with his computer. Then he put his suit jacket back on, draped his raincoat over his arm, and as calmly as he could, thanked the FSB chief, surely the last man he’d expected to help him clear security.
“My pleasure, Oleg Stefanovich,” Nimkov said. “Come. The president is waiting for you.”
“Then by all means, lead on,” Oleg replied, though he knew the route by heart.
When Nimkov saw Oleg moving so slowly, his left leg stiff as a board and pain streaked across his face, he asked what had happened. Oleg said it was nothing. He’d fallen during the rush to get to the panic room, inflaming an old hockey injury.
As they snaked through several hallways, Oleg noticed they were passing far more agents than were typically posted inside the residence. They were stationed every ten meters or so. Through the windows, Oleg couldn’t help but notice K-9 units roaming the grounds. Sharpshooters in arctic combat wear were visible on the roofs of the outbuildings. With each step Oleg felt his fears rising and his resolve weakening.
Finally they turned a corner and arrived outside Luganov’s private study. Stationed in that hallway were no fewer than six elite members of the presidential bodyguard division. None of Luganov’s team was more trusted than these, and trusted most of all was Special Agent Kovalev, posted directly in front of the door. Kovalev nodded as Oleg and Nimkov approached. He knew them both well. Nevertheless, he asked both to present photo IDs. This was unheard of, yet neither man argued. Both dug their IDs out of their wallets. Kovalev studied them closely, then studied the men’s faces. Oleg felt sure the man was going to see right through him, but he returned the IDs and stepped aside from the door to let them through.
The Kremlin Conspiracy Page 35
