Power Play (Titus Black Thriller series Book 7)

by R. J. Patterson

  Hawk returned to the room. “Let me see your cancer diagnosis.”

  “But, I—”

  Hawk didn’t budge. “It’s the difference between you living three or four extra months or getting shot right now.”

  “Okay, okay,” Harris said as he stood, his hands raised in a posture of surrender. “It’s over here in the kitchen. I have a folder of all my medical documents.”

  “I understand,” Hawk said. “And as long as you understand that I will shoot you in the head if I detect even the slightest of sudden movements, we’re good.”

  Harris nodded and swallowed hard. “Of course. I wouldn’t dream of pulling any stunts.”

  He shuffled over to the kitchen and dug through a filing cabinet on top of a small table.

  “I can’t imagine there are many great oncologists in Vanuatu,” Hawk said.

  “You might be surprised. There are actually several naturopathic doctors who specialize in cancer and have cured hundreds of patients with their natural medicines.”

  Hawk grunted. “Sounds like a bunch of voodoo to me.”

  “I’ve met several of them. It’s pretty incredible, to be honest.”

  Harris held up a piece of paper.

  “Let me see it,” Hawk said. He scanned the page and noted the diagnosis. Stage four pancreatic cancer, just like Harris had said.

  “I don’t know what else I can do to convince you that I’m telling the truth, but I think you’ll find that Martin Kellerman is planning a big attack on the U.S., which will inevitably make him not just rich, but filthy rich. Mark my word, something is coming down the pike and it won’t be good for our country.”

  “Our country?” Hawk asked. “From the looks of things here, it seems like you’ve given up on your country and aligned with a new one.”

  “Vanuatu will never be a threat to the U.S., and you know that. That’s one of the reasons I chose to move here.”

  Hawk shook his head. “The other being the fact that Vanuatu doesn’t have an extradition agreement, am I right?”

  “Well, of course,” Harris said. “I knew someone would come for me, but never knew who that’d be. It could’ve been someone with an agenda wanting to make an example out of me and drag me home for a trial that’d do nothing more than divide the country further. Or, instead, what I got—a reasonably-minded agent, who understands the amount of disinformation and propaganda shoveled out of Washington onto American citizens every single day. And I’m hoping you see the intel I’ve given you is worth the price of allowing me to live for three or four more months in peace.”

  “If I let you live, who’s to say that the Fullgood Initiative won’t knock on your door next?” Hawk asked. “If I found you, they can too.”

  “They won’t come looking for me if I’m dead.”

  Hawk scowled. “I’m starting to get confused. I thought you wanted me to spare your life.”

  “I do, but I just don’t want anyone else to know that you did.”

  “Seems like you’re in a predicament then.”

  Harris shook his head. “Not if you help me stage my death.”

  Hawk shrugged. “I didn’t see that coming.”

  “It’s a win for everyone. Whoever assigned you to terminate me will think that you succeeded. Whoever else might consider coming after me won’t waste their time. And you return to the U.S. with a piece of information that might save the country from disaster. What’s not to like?”

  Hawk chewed on his lip as he weighed the consequences of going along with Harris’s plan. “If we do this, we need to do it right.”

  “I’m friends with the coroner here in Port Vila,” Harris said. “We can make this as real as you want to.”

  Hawk sat down and went through the pros and cons of the situation. He could conceivably still shoot Harris and leave with the information, but he didn’t feel right about doing that, much less murdering an American citizen without a fair trial. And if Hawk went along with staging Harris’s death, he could solve all his moral and ethical dilemmas, aside from lying to President Young. That was a moral justification he could live with.

  Hawk looked at Harris and nodded. “Let’s stage your death.”

  CHAPTER 8

  Kazan, Russia

  BLACK STARED OUT HIS passenger window at the Russian countryside as Kozlov neared the city of Kazan. Nestled along the banks of the Volga River, Kazan was a thriving financial center and a booming metropolis, attractive to both Russian oligarchs and mob bosses alike. And where there was a foreign den of corruption, there was the CIA with its agents to identify legitimate threats to U.S. interests.

  Black had once met Boris Lobachevsky while on assignment in Latvia when the Firestorm agent was still working for the CIA. But it had been at least ten years since they last saw each other. Lobachevsky was a crafty spy whose intuition was a valuable asset to the agency. He once saved the life of a Russian diplomat, who had begun passing intelligence to the U.S., when he suspected the tea at their coffee shop had been poisoned. A lab analysis later proved Lobachevsky was right, enabling the agency to gather several more months of intelligence before the diplomat died in a single-car accident.

  But Lobachevsky’s real talent was forgery. Despite becoming the station chief in Kazan, he still maintained his role as the chief document maker. Whenever an operation in Russia required credentials, Lobachevsky was charged with creating them. His work was so convincing that never once had anyone been fingered as being fraudulent while using his documents. He once crafted an access badge for an agent who had to enter Lefortovo as a prison guard, who eventually helped the CIA map out the famed Russian prison.

  While teaming up with Kozlov could result in the elimination of one of the most dangerous cyber terrorists, Black understood how dangerous traveling with him could be. Black could handle the disguises to avoid detection over Russia’s vast closed-circuit camera network. But if the FSB was also searching for Kozlov as he claimed, there would inevitably come a point where they would need proper documentation to cross the border, gain access through a roadblock, or simply avoid being detained.

  Once Black and Kozlov arrived in the city, they found a hotel near Lobachevsky’s office and wasted no time in paying him a visit. Lobachevsky, who grew up in Moldova before attending school at MIT, was clutching a bottle of vodka.

  “What?” Lobachevsky said as he poured a glass and eyed his two visitors. “It’s five o’clock. I’m entitled to a drink. It’s my birthright.”

  Black noticed Kozlov trying to figure out if the surprise meeting was about to explode into conflict or laughter out of the corner of his eye. Black suppressed a smile as long as he could, trying to outlast his stone-faced former colleague. But after fifteen seconds, the dam broke and the two men erupted with guffaws.

  “You win again,” Black said, ceding that he cracked a smile first. “I don’t know how you do it.”

  “It comes with living in this part of the world,” Lobachevsky said, gesturing for Black and Kozlov to sit. “When you endure as much misery as we have, you have to force yourself to smile, even when you see something that makes you happy.”

  “I’m hoping you’re referring to seeing me,” Black said.

  “I’m always happy to see you, Agent Black,” Lobachevsky said before taking a long pull on his glass. “And who is this friend that you’ve brought with you?”

  “He’s a new acquaintance, but someone I trust will be very helpful,” Black said. “This is Sergei Kozlov. Sergei, meet Boris.”

  Lobachevsky got up out of his chair just enough to reach across his desk and shake Kozlov’s hand.

  “Drink?” Lobachevsky said.

  Black nodded. “When in Rome—”

  “This is no Rome, that much I can assure you of,” Lobachevsky said. “But like Rome, this once great country has most definitely fallen and fallen hard.”

  Kozlov signaled that he’d take a drink as well. When all three men had their glasses, Lobachevsky proposed a toast.

/>   “To Russia,” he said, raising his glass in the air. “To the great country that you once were and the great country you can become again.”

  After serving with him, Black understood that Lobachevsky was a committed asset to the CIA, but only because he longed to see Russia one day shrug off the tyrannical rulers that governed her and become a place where people no longer lived in fear of those in power. In the past, he admitted he enjoyed doing his part, disrupting Putin’s regime piece by piece. The approach was a slow and arduous one, yet it was proving to be a winning strategy. No one at the agency ever thought it would take as long as it had.

  “Never underestimate mother Russia,” Black said. “You showed me that there’s still greatness in her.”

  “Some days, I’m not sure I’ll ever live to see it,” Lobachevsky said. “Other days, I feel like freedom is rushing toward Russia like a runaway freight train.”

  “We’d like to move more quickly,” Black said. “But we need to be cautious.”

  “Which is why you’re here?” Lobachevsky asked.

  Black nodded. “We need proper documents.”

  Lobachevsky took another sip and closed his eyes before leaning back against his chair’s headrest. “And that’s your reason for being here?”

  “You’re the best on the continent, dare I say planet,” Black said.

  Lobachevsky chuckled. “All my failures are dead and buried, so you’ll never know about them.”

  “For a spy, you’re a terrible liar,” Black said before he threw back the rest of his drink.

  “Step into my studio,” Lobachevsky said, gesturing toward a door behind him. “You two gentlemen deserve some nice mug shots.”

  * * *

  BLACK AND KOZLOV retreated to their hotel for the evening after grabbing a quick bite to eat. They awoke early the next morning to go pick up their IDs from Lobachevsky. After Black finished getting ready, he called Shields on his encrypted sat phone while Kozlov took a shower.

  “Do you still trust Kozlov?” Shields asked.

  “You and Blunt are about the only people on this planet that I trust fully,” Black said.

  “You know what I mean.”

  Black sighed. “It’s hard to say. He’s quiet, but if this isn’t your world, this kind of situation can be traumatic. And if I’m being honest, sometimes it’s still traumatic for me.”

  “So, you’re just going to wait and see?”

  “That’s about all I can do,” Black said. “If I leave now, we’ll miss our opportunity to catch DarkNite. And if he pulls the trigger on whatever he’s planning, who knows how many innocent people will pay the price.”

  “I understand. Just be careful about what you say and who you introduce Kozlov to. We just don’t know much about him.”

  “Roger that. I’ll update you when I have something. But in the meantime, keep tracking me and be ready to help out when I need it. I know it’s late there for you.”

  “I’ll be right here. Be safe.”

  Black hung up in time to see Kozlov exiting the bathroom with a towel wrapped around his waist.

  “Everything okay?” he asked.

  “We’re good. Get some clothes on and let’s go grab our IDs and get out of here.”

  A half-hour later, Black and Kozlov walked in tandem toward Lobachevsky’s office. When they arrived, Black pushed the intercom button to let Lobachevsky know they had arrived. But there was nothing but awkward silence.

  A minute elapsed after Black’s third attempt to garner Lobachevsky’s attention. Frustrated by the lack of response, the Firestorm agent tugged on the handle, which surprisingly gave way. Black shrugged.

  “That was easy,” Kozlov said as he stepped into the storefront office.

  Black put his hand on Kozlov’s chest. “Don’t go any farther,” Black said in a whisper. “Something doesn’t feel right.”

  Black drew his weapon as he stepped in front of his new asset. They crept through the quiet building, the silence interrupted by the occasional horn blaring outside on the street or the whirring of the oscillating space heater positioned in one corner of the room.

  Black approached Lobachevsky’s office and knocked on the door, which was slightly ajar.

  “Boris,” Black called, “are you in here?”

  Black swallowed hard when he saw a hand dangling over the arm of the chair, which was facing the opposite wall. Kozlov gasped as he peered around the corner to take in the scene. Black put his index finger to his lips and stealthily moved across the office toward the door leading to Lobachevsky’s studio.

  A quick glance at Lobachevsky made Black think the CIA operative was dead, but that couldn’t be verified until Black was confident the facility was secure. Black and Kozlov poked around the entire building before finding it to be completely empty.

  Satisfied that there wasn’t anyone waiting to ambush them, Black returned to check Lobachevsky’s body. Once he confirmed that the Kazan station chief was dead, Black returned to the studio to search for the IDs that Lobachevsky had created for them. After fifteen minutes, he called off the search. Boris obviously hadn’t finished them—or maybe not even started them.

  But they couldn’t hang around the office much longer. The scene left no clues as to the motivation for Lobachevsky’s murder. Maybe it was sinister. Maybe it was over a poker game. Maybe he was a double agent. But no matter the reason, Black felt more uneasy than he’d felt the entire time he’d been in Russia.

  Moments later, a bell clanked against the glass door and a husky voice called out for Lobachevsky. “Boris, are you in here?”

  Black motioned for Kozlov to join him and exit through a door leading to the alleyway behind the building. Kozlov hustled behind Black and moments later, they were outside and sprinting down a narrow passageway.

  Black nodded toward a stack of pallets. “There. We can hide behind those pallets.”

  They worked furiously to arrange them in a way that formed a blind in the alley. And just as they completed their task, they heard approaching footsteps and ducked down into their makeshift hiding spot.

  “You can hide, but you can’t hide forever, Mr. Black,” said a man in English wearing a dark peacoat and wielding a handgun. “Yes, I know exactly who you are.”

  Black watched the man carefully, almost feeling as if they’d made eye contact.

  “It gets awfully cold out here at night,” the man said. “I just want to talk.”

  Black swallowed hard. He wasn’t buying it. If the FSB had been pouring in resources to track him to this point, the Russian secret police weren’t going to scold him and then release him. They obviously had big plans for Black.

  And he didn’t want to stick around to find out what they were.

  CHAPTER 9

  Kazan, Russia

  SASHA PETROV FLICKED HIS lighter and held it up to the end of his cigarette. He sucked hard as the flame ignited the tobacco. After he inhaled and then exhaled, he watched the smoke swirl upward. The snow crunched beneath his feet as he paced down the alley.

  “Agent Black, I know you can hear me,” Petrov said. “I’d much rather we had this conversation face to face, but if you must hide like a coward, I understand. It is the American way.”

  Petrov took another long drag on his cigarette before continuing.

  “You probably don’t remember me, but I remember you all too well—the American operative who ruined my career in the military. But make no mistake, this time you will help me achieve my greatest triumphant. I’ll see you very soon.”

  Petrov strode down the alley, checking over his shoulder several times to see if he could spot any movement behind him. Cameras were already blanketing the area, serving as an inescapable surveillance net. Petrov wasn’t completely sure that Agent Black was in the alley, but it was the most likely place. And even if Petrov had to repeat his speech, he didn’t mind. He’d been rehearsing it for several years in anticipation of this moment. If he was honest with himself, he never thought he’d ev
er get the opportunity to atone his greatest failure. But sometimes life surprised him.

  Once Petrov reached the main street, he signaled for his car to pick him up. He told his driver to leave in a hurry and ordered all the other FSB agents supporting him on the case to do likewise. In his effort to catch Black, Petrov wanted to create a sense of false security, the kind that would lure the American into the open where they could apprehend him.

  During the short drive two blocks away to the FSB field office, Petrov stayed in constant communication with the team monitoring all the area’s cameras. He’d already received word that one analyst had spotted the exact location where Black had entered the alley. But then Black disappeared amidst a strange glitch with the camera.

  “That’s no glitch,” Petrov said. “That is willful interference with our surveillance network. Track the glitches because that’s their path.”

  When the SUV pulled up to the office, Petrov flicked his cigarette onto the sidewalk and then rushed inside. He bypassed the elevator, hustling up three flights of stairs to study the situation. As soon as he walked into the command center, one of the analysts gave Petrov a recap of all that had happened, along with the bad news that he’d somehow vanished.

  It’s happening again.

  When Petrov was stationed at the military prison on the Kamchatka Peninsula, he was the general charged with security. It wasn’t the best assignment he could’ve drawn, but it was an easy one. The facility was located in a remote area, and anyone wishing to break out would have to endure the harshest of conditions to escape. Only a fool would try it. And during Petrov’s tour at Kamchatka, only three prisoners were foolish enough to attempt it. Two of them failed miserably, ending in their deaths at the hands of the elements.

  But the third escapee was the one who haunted Petrov.

  An American pilot had crashed in Russia and was being held at the prison. However, one night a black ops team broke him out. It wasn’t until weeks later when the surveillance footage was reviewed that Petrov discovered that there wasn’t really a team involved. A single man had managed to breach their supposedly impenetrable defense mechanisms and break out the pilot. In an even more puzzling twist, footage showed that the pilot didn’t seem like a willing participant as the operative knocked him out to continue their escape without incident.