Misled

by Anderson Harp

  This guy knows what he is doing. Ridges held the backpack to his chest like it would somehow protect him from a blow. I hope he does. It’s my life.

  Chapter 62

  Tver

  The freight train’s engine derailed only meters past a yard switch on the north end of the railyard in Tver. Two tank cars carrying 14,000 gallons of oil had been riding immediately behind the engine. They derailed with the engine, but the train’s remaining fifty-six tank cars remained on the track.

  The two crew members jumped from the engine as soon as they heard the wheels strike the ground. The first tank car behind the engine piled up on the wreckage and caught fire. It was followed by the second, which was punctured by a steel rib and poured more fuel onto the flames. The train had been traveling at a yard speed of less than fifteen kilometers per hour. The slow pace helped stop the movement of the trailing cars, which separated quickly from the fiery derailment.

  “What happened?” Mikhailov ducked behind the helicopter when the burst of heat passed through the frigid night. The bright yellow plume followed lighting up the rail yard. He was standing near the nose of the aircraft with the local FSB commander.

  “Not another one!” the commander yelled out. The yard was one of the oldest in the system. It was the main connector between Moscow and St. Petersburg and well more than a hundred years old. The many switches were continually needing repair.

  “Another one?”

  “Yes, sir. Happens often.”

  The rail yard was known for derailments. The main line to St. Petersburg was kept in good repair, but the freight trains used the older tracks, which were known to split and derail trains often.

  Mikhailov watched the billowing flames and black smoke. He didn’t believe it for a second.

  If a clever coyote wanted to pull the FSB off his trail, a derailment would work nicely. All it would take was a small explosive charge planted in the switch coupling. That would cause the rail to move only a few centimeters, but the weight of a loaded train on it would further split the rails, causing the train to derail.

  Easy as pie.

  “What hotels are nearby?”

  “Several, sir. I can check—”

  “Have your men canvass each within a mile, looking for two strangers.”

  The commander nodded and turned to make a call.

  Mikhailov opened the helicopter hatch and took the radio. He called the operations center back in Moscow.

  “Is the drone working?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Get it over Tver. Run a circle around the city.”

  “What are we looking for?”

  “Anything.”

  “It’ll take some time to reposition—”

  “Do it!”

  As the noise of the conflagration lessened, he heard another train coming north from Moscow on the main line. The tracks followed the river for most of the journey from the capital to Tver. Along with the lone whistle, he heard the sound of a motorcycle off in the distance.

  He’s somewhere close, Mikhailov thought, but not close enough.

  * * * *

  The radio call the FSB commander was expecting took less than twenty minutes to come in.

  “We have him!”

  “Let’s go!” Mikhailov led the way to the commander’s jeep near the helicopter.

  “We can almost walk.”

  Mikhailov would have guessed it was that close. “Do you have it surrounded?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  They arrived at the hostel just as the FSB troops were surrounding the gray and green building.

  “Look at the alleyway,” ordered Mikhailov. As he rode to the scene in the front seat of the jeep, it occurred to him that this all seemed too simple.

  Mikhailov and the commander jumped out of the jeep. An enlisted man, with his AK-47 locked and loaded, stood at the front.

  “The clerk said two men checked in. One asked for some women.”

  “Let’s see what we have.” Mikhailov took command of the troops. He led the way into the small lobby, where the clerk, scared and shaking, sat in a chair behind the desk.

  “I told them I didn’t know.” He stumbled over his words.

  “What room?” Mikhailov followed the sergeant down the hallway to the room. Another FSB soldier led the way. The clerk followed.

  “Key?” He whispered the words with his hand extended.

  The clerk handed him the master key. The sergeant clicked the safety off of his rifle.

  “You can put the safety back on.” Mikhailov could see that he’d surprised the commander and the sergeant with the order. He already had a fair idea of what he would find in the room.

  The two women were fast asleep, their heroin supply and paraphernalia telling the rest of the story. Mikhailov sighed. It would take most of the next day for them to come out of the stupor of the drugs. The pair would get fifteen days in prison, and Mikhailov would have no problem believing them when they inevitably claimed that they knew nothing about the fugitives.

  The door to the bathroom was shut. Mikhailov kicked it open to find fresh snow on the windowsill. They quickly found and followed the tracks through the alleyway to a tarp left on the ground. From it, the knobby tire prints of a motorcycle led the way out of Tver.

  The FSB helicopter was in the air moments after Mikhailov’s jeep returned. It banked over the rail yard, which was lit in the glow from the derailment fire. Mikhailov was finding it increasingly difficult to anticipate his prey’s moves. Everything the man did was so obvious, yet no path led in any direction for long.

  From the front seat of the chopper as it flew back to Moscow, he called headquarters.

  “What about the Air France tickets?” The microphones in the hotel room picked up the trace of a conversation earlier. “Where’s Air France flying out of tonight?”

  “Sheremetyevo.”

  The airport was on the west side of Moscow. It made sense if the diversion in Tver was designed to pull the authorities away from the airport.

  “When?”

  “Hold on.” The operation center called the FSB officer at the Moscow airport. It seemed to take forever.

  Mikhailov looked down in the darkness to the highways below. The traffic on M10 was sporadic, with the occasional truck alone on the roadway. As they got closer to Moscow it began to pick up. He scanned each vehicle, thinking that somewhere below Ridges and the American were heading back into the city.

  “The plane is boarding now, sir.”

  “Hold that flight!”

  “Yes, sir.”

  * * * *

  When Mikhailov arrived at the gate, the FSB soldiers in their green and black camouflaged utility uniforms and drawn AK-12 automatic rifles, also covered in jungle color and with suppressors and thirty-round clips, stood guard. Each man wore a face mask and special-operations helmet with earphones and microphone built in. Several Air France clerks stood at the desk, looking frightened and tiny compared to the Russian troops guarding the entrance to the jetway.

  “Is it surrounded?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Have you run the manifest?” he asked the smaller of the two clerks.

  “Yes, sir.” Although the woman was French, she spoke Russian well.

  “Two men with tickets purchased less than forty-eight hours ago?”

  “Oh, that’s easy.” She pulled out the sheet and scanned the manifest. “This flight has only a few who booked at the last minute.”

  “Right.” He looked up as the FSB commander of the airport approached and saluted. Mikhailov returned the salute and then held up a finger so as to hold off any immediate conversation. He looked back at the agent, eyebrows raised.

  “Twelve A and B.”

  Mikhailov pulled his pistol out and put it in his jacket pocket. “F
ollow me,” he told the others.

  Onboard the aircraft, Mikhailov saw two men occupying the seats. He could smell the alcohol from several rows away.

  It turned out that the men in 12 A and B had been handed the air tickets in the metro by a stranger the day before. Both men seemed to be pleasant drunks and were more than happy to follow the lieutenant colonel off of the airplane.

  Chapter 63

  On the Outskirts of Moscow

  Will knew that his luck was running out. His arm was starting to swell from the knife wound and a low-grade fever was causing a sweat around his collar. He had to concentrate on the turns he was making with the Kia.

  “You okay?” Ridges looked both exhausted and worried.

  “I’ve got it.” They were close.

  The trip took them south on A106. The beltway around Moscow was starting to build traffic as the city awakened. He was noticing more military-type vehicles with their lights flashing. The one benefit of being this close to the city was that it would be nearly impossible for them to shut down the traffic looking for one or two men. They would be using their cameras to scan every vehicle.

  He pulled off the highway and stopped at a BP gas station.

  “I got to go to the bathroom.” Ridges sat up in his seat.

  “Just give me a few more minutes.” Will didn’t want him to go inside where a camera would get a good view. “Hand me the backpack.”

  Ridges leaned over the seat and pulled Will’s backpack to the front. Will reached in and pulled out something and then went to the back of the car. Using the same roll of colored tape he’d used to seal the knife wound, he changed the Kia’s license plate’s 6 to an 8, and the 1 to a 7. He returned to the driver’s seat, threw the roll of tape in the back, and pulled back into traffic.

  “Did you just change the plate?” Ridges put the backpack in the rear seat and settled in for the rest of the ride. “You’re good, man.”

  The citizens of Moscow had been in a revolt for some time about the government’s implementation of parking meters. For decades, Moscow had been known for its free parking. A rebellion had arisen against the imposed cameras used to fine people for failing to pay their parking fees. The motorists’ reply was to change their plates. Will’s changing of the plate would not stand out in a city where thousands changed their plates to rebel against the traffic authority. It would hardly stand out, even if seen on the gas station’s surveillance cameras, whereas in most other countries it might’ve caused a call to the police.

  They were still ahead of the chase, but Will knew their pursuers must be closing in by now. This could not go on forever. Will took an exit to Highway E115, and then another exit that passed over some railroad tracks. He turned into a parking lot. He grabbed Ridges’s forearm and, like before, pulled up his sleeve to look at the watch.

  “We’re here.” Will opened the door, grabbed his backpack, and headed for an enormous building, broader than it was tall. It was still dark and the air smelled of snow. Another storm was coming in on the heels of the first. Floodlights on the top of the building shone down on the lot. “Let’s go.”

  Ridges followed Parker, grabbing his backpack and parka. They walked up to a chain-link fence that was more than ten feet tall. It had razor wire on the top and several signs in bright red and white that said No Trespassing in Russian.

  Near the end of the building, where the fence met the corner of the metal structure, there was a full-height turnstile security gate. It had another red sign posted near it and required a magnetic card. Otherwise it was impregnable.

  A man was standing just outside the gate. He had on some type of uniform and was smoking a cigarette as if it was his last before the firing squad opened up. He perked up at Will’s approach and said, “Jesus, you ran it down to the last minute.” The man handed passes through the gate to both Will and Ridges. Will looked at the pass. It had a different name, but his own picture was on it.

  “How?” Ridges looked at his. The picture was dated, but was clearly Michael Ridges, or in this case, Frederick Smith.

  “Let’s go.” The man let them through the turnstile and walked them through a door on the side of the building that led into an open bay with several aircraft under fluorescent lights. He took them to a locker room in the back, where two uniforms were laid out.

  “We have five minutes at best.”

  “No problem. Thanks.”

  “Oh, Mr. Ridges, you don’t remember me. We met once.” The man had a flight jacket on, but no name tag.

  “We did?”

  “I’m Wade Newton. My son’s Todd.”

  * * * *

  The fully loaded FedEx 777 cargo jet taxied to the main runway at Domodedovo and was cleared for takeoff minutes later. The final security check noted a four-man crew with Will Parker in the pilot command seat and Michael Ridges in the copilot seat. Their IDs had different names, but both acted their parts. The guards barely noticed the extra crew and didn’t doubt the two who were in control of the aircraft.

  “Don’t touch anything,” Will told Ridges in English.

  Once the guards left, Ridges was replaced in the copilot seat by Newton.

  “You got this?” Wade knew that Will Parker had the flight hours in other aircraft.

  “Sure.” Will guided the jumbo aircraft onto the center line.

  The lumbering jet taxied onto the active runway, called out for clearance, accelerated, and then rose off of the runway as Will pulled back on the yoke. The giant airplane floated as its wheels left contact with the ground. It followed the runway’s direction to the west, climbed to altitude, and turned southwest toward Charles de Gaulle Airport.

  At 10,000 feet, the backup crew took over.

  The flight turned out to be much shorter than Ridges expected. When he had come to Russia, he’d flown from Hong Kong. A crew member told him that the run from Moscow to Paris took only a little more than three hours. The winds above the incoming snowstorm favored their route.

  “I’m sorry about your son.” Ridges was in the back, drinking a cup of coffee in the cargo hold with Wade Newton.

  “I just want to know what happened.” Newton sat like a defeated man on the crew seat.

  “I think I can find out.” Ridges reached for his backpack and notebook. He guessed that one man in particular knew where Todd Newton was. “Does the aircraft have Wi-Fi?”

  “Yeah.”

  Will Parker came back from the cockpit. The fourth man was at the control.

  Ridges opened his computer and used the password given by Newton.

  “Do you have that flash drive?” Ridges asked Will.

  He handed Ridges the small black device.

  “What’s that do?” Will pointed to Ridge’s flash drive.

  “I can get into the deep web.”

  “That’s not all that special, is it?”

  “Not getting into the deep web.” Ridges held the computer up. “Getting into someone’s emails on the deep web is.”

  “What’s he doing?” asked Newton.

  Will knew the significance.

  “Here, look.” Ridges opened an email from Alexander Paul to someone with a Hispanic name. “This is only a few hours old!”

  Will Parker read the message.

  “Todd may still be alive!” The message was giving instructions on what to ask about a back door. The reply also mentioned the name of a place.

  “You hacked the deep web?” said Will, sitting in the extra seat in the cargo bay of a FedEx aircraft as he stared at the screen.

  Will realized that Ridges’s software might be the most valuable shipment the company ever made.

  “Wade,” Will said. “How do I make a call from here?”

  Chapter 64

  In the Sky Above the Baja

  The Ospreys out of Camp Pendleton held an altitude of 25,000 fee
t as they passed over the border of Mexico and the United States. The hybrid airships were in flight mode, moving at well more than three hundred miles an hour. The radios crackled with transmissions. A joint-training exercise was kicking off. Except this was not an exercise. The canisters of ammunition were broken open and each Marine in the dark cargo bay loaded their magazines.

  Just south of the border, the MV-22s descended to 10,000 feet and reduced their speed to be joined by two dark green UH-60A Blackhawks marked with the insignia of Infantería de Marina. From there, they crossed the Baja and then descended to slightly above the harsh, tan terrain as they closed in on the location. The blades threw up dust as they crossed the rocky hills and sands. It was minutes before dawn when the Marine MV-22s converted to helicopter mode and landed vertically on the other side of the hill from their target.

  The Osprey offloaded a fourteen-man MSOT special operations team with its Belgium Malinois dog. The Marines, carrying their automatic HK-416s with the barrels extended by the suppression cans, or silencers, launched a small drone. It flew to a hundred feet above the hill and crossed over the hacienda. The Mexican Marines’ Blackhawks hovered behind an outcrop of rocks, ready to spring forward the moment the attack began. Their Blackhawks stood guard in the air with their team prepared to rope down when the shooting occurred.

  Since the potential captive was a US Marine, it was agreed between the two commanders that the American MSOT would move first.

  The MSOT team commander pulled up behind a large boulder that had likely been moved there a thousand years ago, when the great earthquake caused the Baja Peninsula to slide away from the mainland. He studied the video feed. The drone had a heat sensor as well.

  “Is he still alive?” the gunny whispered to the lieutenant.

  “Can’t tell. Two up top. They’re moving around, so they ain’t him.” He signaled the team to move in.

  The attack was followed by another video feed to both Camp Pendleton and Mexico City. Later, they looked at the timing of the tape. In two minutes and fourteen seconds, the attack was over.