Sokol received word of the effort to penetrate the compound. His men managed it professionally. It was a punk. The matter was settled.
Still, he determined now would be a good time to inspect the compound’s living quarters. A set of twenty bunk beds were neatly made with hospital creases. The portable showers, sinks, and toilets were spotless except the one being utilized. Steam escaped the curtain.
With the grace of a dancer, Natalya slid out of a shower and dried off.
Sokol paused to praise her muscular form. “My beautiful weapon.”
Natalya dragged a towel through her hair. “Too many men forget beauty is a weapon.”
“Indeed.” Sokol soaked in her beauty and continued, focused on his mission, he passed 3D printers, lathes, and circuit board etching equipment, occasionally swiping a finger across the handles of metal working machines and electronic soldering equipment. No dust or grime. Good.
He weaved his way between large picnic tables. He froze when he noticed his team made a move. Chess was the only game he permitted. A group of his men challenged him the first night in the barracks. They were in their fifth game. Knight to King’s Bishop five. Checkmate in four. Best game yet. I will have to compliment them. He moved his piece. Checkmate in three.
A quick burst of compressed air hissed to his right. He turned his head, he saw two of his men drilling their marksmanship skills. The compressed CO2 simulated recoil and the attached laser provided the targeting, letting them practice indoors in a close quarter range.
Sokol stopped for a moment to observe. He mentally recorded their groups and made a note of the speed the men drew and shot. Acceptable. He continued without a word.
Twenty paces later, he paused in front of two inch clear Lexan blast shields that protected the living quarters from the chemical processing area. He was a statue to avoid distraction while they worked. Perhaps they knew he observed, but he preferred to think their training and expertise kept them to protocol. He noted the position of every container and instrument. Satisfied, he continued on.
Sokol entered his modest quarters and eased into a worn but comfortable leather chair. Without so much as glancing at it, he extended his arm and pressed a preset on his stereo to play a string quartet by Anton Arensky. One of his favorite arrangements of the piece, the musicians conveyed a lilting, sad, delicate rendition, not in the original timing. Nothing harsh or overly energetic. Motionless in the near-darkness, he let the music flow through him. He thought of gold-gilt paintings hanging in an old theater lined with ornate red carpets. Bullets. Blood. His mother’s soulless eyes.
The phone on his desk rang. He glared at it, letting it ring again. One person used that line, his personal contact with his financiers, someone whom he knew as Ryzhevolosyy, The Redhead.
He gripped the receiver and brought it to his ear. “Sokol.” The line was open, but no one spoke. Sokol was used to that; he had never heard Ryzhevolosyy simply begin talking. He had to wait, and perhaps, Sokol had mused long ago, that was the point.
“Hard currency, Sokol. Not something we give out freely. This investment in men and money and materials, it all seems to be sinking into a deep, dark hole in the middle of New York. I’m sure my bosses would shoot me for saying this, but I like New York, I really do. Great eating. Occasionally a decent show on Broadway. But I know you don’t spend your days eating seafood at Le Bernardin or waiting for the next big opening at the theater.”
Sokol drummed his fingers on his desk. “No, I do not like seafood, especially anything prepared off a French menu.” He hated dainty food.
Using Sokol’s full real name, Ryzhevolosyy replied, light amusement in his voice. “Ah yes, Nikolai Ivanovich Belov, the rigid nationalist. If it isn’t Russian, it’s worthless. I almost agree. But Sokol, even our most well-developed cells in America and Europe don’t drain anywhere near the cash of your operation, and for what? I don’t see papers on my desk of a new FBI informants. No dead CIA agents on my doorstep. Not even fingers in a box. And somehow, between here and there, we’ve unfortunately managed to lose track of much of your operation. So I’m asking you. One nationalist to another. Just how are you spending someone else’s money?”
“We plan to sow the seeds of discord--”
“Clichés, Sokol? You’re so much better than that. Try again.”
Pain pulsed behind Sokol’s eyes. “We have an extensive operation underway to undermine ties with Russia and the United States. I will prevail--”
“There isn’t an operative alive who seethes as much as you for revenge, the hate we fester. Not a well-kept secret. But so much of what we do relies on a complacent, sleeping beast called the United States. Stomping your foot on its tail is not in our interests.”
“We will do more than stomp! This is our time! Russia’s time!”
Protracted silence followed. Sokol rubbed his eyes, waiting. Not again! The man is irritating.
Ryzhevolosyy broke the silence. “Nyet, Sokol. There is now less than twenty million U.S. dollars in your three bank accounts. No more will be forthcoming. In fact, they are no longer your accounts. I froze them. Come home. You are done playing in that sandbox.”
“We”--Sokol gripped his desk, his fingers turning white--“we are close to bringing America to its knees. A new Soviet Empire will rise. Don’t tell me to stop now.”
“I believe I already have. Your moment has come and gone, my little bird of prey. Pack up. Kill whatever operatives you don’t need and return to Russia. You are too skilled a resource, too gifted an organizer, for us to have you sit there and engage in schemes that would bring ruin to everyone, including us. We have other operations for you. Operations…closer to home. Italy, perhaps.”
“No! I will see this through!” He slammed the receiver down and picked up the phone to rip the cord out of the wall.
The Red Head was right Sokol was a skilled resource. Sokol made contingency plans and siphoned a four point five million rainy day fund. It poured. He was more frugal than the Red Head thought.
Shaking, Sokol slapped a switch on the desk in front of him, a bit harder than he meant to. A wall of monitors lit up: garages, eating areas, the shooting range, and several other areas in the compound. Doveryai no proveryai. (Trust, but verify.)
Two men on one of the monitors caught his attention. He flicked on the audio and leaned forward.
Grigory poked a finger at his comrade. “Kak dva pal’tsa obossat--”
Filiks glared back. “Sokol demands when in Rome be Roman. Every word of your mouth better be in English.” He turned toward the camera. “He could be watching us now, stop the bullshit.”
Sokol scrutinized Grigory, his glasses as thick as vodka bottles, scan the other members of the team. Sokol gave him the moniker of Bugs. Not for the glasses, but his ability to plant them.
“As you wish. Please pour the acid with care. You weren’t around to clean up after the training accident, what a bloody mess.”
Filiks stopped pouring nitric acid into a glass beaker in the center of an ice bath. “If you don’t like the way I’m doing it, you do it.”
Sokol observed sweat stains grow on Filiks’ shirt. He turned off the music and heard Bugs coo, “Damn, you’re sensitive for someone who’s about to blow us up.” He heard a deep breath. “We’re on the same side, remember?”
Damn them both. Walking out the door, Sokol heard Filiks.
“Sorry, making explosives is nerve racking.”
Sokol locked his quarters behind him, strode past several workers, past the picnic tables to the doorway of the blast chamber.
The men focused on making the explosives did not notice.
Bugs gestured toward the equipment. “Keep checking the temp; it should be less than twenty degrees.” With a slow, precise movement, he looked at the thermometer.
“Looks good, we’re holding steady at eighteen degrees.”
“Add the tablets. Thirty degrees max.”
Sokol watched Filiks hands tremble as he pla
ced a few methylamine fuel tablets into the cold acid. The acid’s temperature crept to a dangerous thirty-three degrees.
Filiks all but whimpered. “Trouble. The temp is rising too damn quick.” He got up to withdraw behind the glass.
Bugs fingers dug into Filiks’ arm. “Don’t go anywhere. We’ll fix this. Ever see Sokol kill someone when he’s mad? I’d rather be blown up; less painful.”
Sokol smiled when their heads turned toward him. Not a warm smile, a smile to freeze hell.
Filiks trembled. “What I do?”
Sokol’s soft words traveled across the room, “To strive, to seek, to find and not to yield.”
A silenced gunshot clapped. A perfect round hole appeared in Filiks’ head.
Sokol pushed the body to the floor. “Bugs, follow my lead.”
With extreme care, Sokol added more ice and salt.
Bugs jumped in without hesitation. “Temperature is dropping. It's working.”
Sokol wiped his hands. “Stir slowly. Keep the temperature inside the glass beaker below zero degrees centigrade for at least twenty minutes.”
Bugs shook his head yes.
Sokol pointed at two nearby men in the hallway. “You. Clean up this mess.”
Twenty Texas minutes later, Bugs poured the mixture into a quart of crushed ice and stirred the chemicals. The mixture melted the ice and crystals formed. He filtered out the material and poured the leftover corrosive liquid into a glass-lined metal container for disposal.
He used boiling, distilled water to reduce the acidity, and then added ammonium and sodium nitrate to desensitize, stabilize, and increase the blasting power.
After the crystals had dried, he kneaded them together with a small amount of SAE 10 non-detergent motor oil to make the explosive easier to work.
He formed odorless blocks of plastic charges. The charges were a magnitude more powerful than C-4. Russian science at its best.
Although not quite the same, a similar scene was repeated in a warehouse complex in New York.
CHAPTER 17
Breaking Trust
Mike, hands on his hips, watched Eddie and his wife cram their luggage into the car. “I know you won’t listen, but don’t drive like a maniac.”
Eddie shoved a cooler into the back seat and faced him. “I Promise, besides she’s driving. Take your dog out and get some fresh air, will ya? You’re always in that basement.”
“I’ll think about it.”
Eddie climbed into the passenger seat while his wife revved the car engine to life. “Later, Mikey.”
Eddie’s wife swivel toward Mike and grinned. “Be good.”
Mike strained to force a grin. “I will.” His lips curved down and shoulders sagged when they drove away.
Mike planted himself on the steps until Eddie’s car vanished from sight. He looked up. Gray skies, gray streets, gray buildings. This is it. Waiting for life to happen or some FBI imposter to find me and put me out of my misery.
The Judge told him no. The FBI told him no. Lady Justice told him no. His bank account told him no. So where’s the yes?
His mind emptied, and his thoughts drifted. Cars rolled past in a random pattern, but he ignored them. If I wanted to get this depressed, I could’ve stayed in prison. Funny how the definition of prison doesn’t change, only the location. I’m back at square one. That’s it, isn’t it? You take your prison with you. If you don’t shake it, it’s always there, doesn’t matter how far from four walls you get, there it is.
He lowered his head, sneering. I am my own prison. “Fuck!.”
Still sitting on the steps, Mike put his head in his hands, covered his eyes, fell short of stifling a cry. This sucks.
Time marched. Tears spent. Mike tilted his head back, sunlight bathes his face. “I can’t sit here all day. Please give me strength mom and dad.”
He flexed his leg muscles to stand, stiff from sitting on the cold steps, and went inside. He stopped when he passed the hallway that led to Eddie’s bedroom office. He stared at the carpet and the chipped plaster on a wall.
He flipped on a nearby light switch and looked at the door. There’s the key to my prison. The laptop. A few minutes on the Dark Web, that’s all I need. Find that asshole’s IP address location. Track him down before he finds me. Screw him the right way.
Mike approached the door, paused, and stepped forward. He twisted the handle, it did not budge. Locked. “Well, that’s one promise Eddie kept.” He jerked his hand from the knob and bristled at the brand new deadbolt above it. Locked twice? It’s a hollow-core door. I could break it in half in a couple of kicks.
Breaking it wouldn’t be the hard part; repairing it would. “Door, you’ve something I want, so we’re gonna have a little talk.” His thoughts rushed back to a year earlier when kicking in doors was the last thing he could do.
Mike gripped his wheelchair. “How the hell did you get that in the prison?”
Mieszko “Ducks” Dupiński held up a thin metal instrument. “Half diamond and snake rake. And I didn’t sneak it in. I made it in this joint.”
Ducks concealed the lock pick. “And by that frown on your face, I’d say, you want to know how.”
“Yes.”
“It’s a hobby. I let the guards find them later. Drives them nuts.”
“Why would you do that?”
“I’m a lifer. It’s entertainment.” Ducks pushed his gray-white hair to one side. “A lock won’t get you out of here. Won’t get me out of here. Perhaps money would. Or influence”--he shrugged--“sometimes they’re one and the same.” Duck’s ugly mug smirked. “No worries, we have neither.”
“Even still, I won’t be in here forever. But it might be worthwhile to learn that.”
“I’m sure it would. Since they will take your profession away from you, cat burglary might supplement your income, huh?” Bugs smirked turned into something else. “But when you’re all alone, and I’m gone, will you know what you’re doing?” He pointed to his forehead. “This is my manual. My instruction book. Get paper and pencil. You will need to know how to draw one by heart.”
“I will not become a thief.”
Mike headed to the garage, froze when he breached the interior. And I thought Eddie spent all his money on whores.
Tools of every imaginable description hung on pegboards along one wall. A worn bench held the largest toolbox he’d ever seen. Scattered in a pile were hacksaw blades. He searched the toolbox for Allen keys. His heart beat a little faster when he saw the table-mounted grinding wheel. A Dremmel. Emery paper. “Jesus, when the hell do you use all this stuff?” He chuckled. He continued his self-conversation. “This is so much like that knucklehead, if something needs doing, overdo it.”
He inspected a few Allen keys. Finding the perfect one, he flipped on the grinding wheel. “All right, let’s start with this, shall we?” The wheel spun until the abrasive grain appeared smooth. He put on gloves and safety glasses. Sparks shot out when metal kissed metal.
This is what I needed, to get my hands busy. Do something. He ground both the top and bottom sides of the smaller leg of the rake pick. The grinding wheel ate away the metal and the hexagonal shape flattened. Within minutes, Mike’s first burglar tool was complete, an L-shaped torsion wrench.
The next part was harder. He traced the two picks from memory.
He drew and sliced out the templates with scissors for a small half diamond and snake rake pick, which required the least skill to craft.
He laid the templates on the hacksaw blades and used an indelible marker to draw the shape.
Burning metal sparks shot and sprinkled the air while he ground away the excess steel on the edges. The shapes formed. Little rough around the edges. He used a fine grain file to finish.
He inspected his effort. The tools looked good. His lips curled up, the expression odd. He could not recall the last time he was happy. There was an actual real smile on his face, not a fake one to make others happy. The memory of ‘Escape to Wisconsin’
prison sign flooded back. Escape.
At the bolted door, Mike held the snake rack lock pick in mid-air, inches from the deadbolt. Are we there yet? A memory flooded back. Metal on metal. Screaming. Last breaths. Not your fault, Mikey. He thought about all the times he’d gotten in trouble in school, the first time he’d pissed off his foster parents. Kim. Juan. Do it. Be your freedom.
“Sorry, Eddie.” He inserted the torsion wrench in the bottom of the lock. He didn’t apply torque. He slid the rack pick in the key slot, keeping light tension on the keyhole with the torsion wrench and rocking the pickup and down, in an effort to push the pins in place.
He strained to hear the pins snap into place. One click. He repeated the process for the remaining pins. Two more clicks. The tension on the deadbolt released and turned. He repeated the process for the door handle lock.
Locks picked, Mike opened the door. He focused his gazed on the desk where the laptop usually rested. Empty space. It was gone. Jesus, Eddie you really don’t trust me. Guilt pounded his soul. He looked around the room. I can’t say I don’t blame you.
Frustrated he swung around to leave. In the corner of Mike’s eye, he spotted the network cord strung behind the dresser next to the desk. He got an idea and searched the desk drawers. The laptop was buried under a stack of nudie magazines. Sloppy, Eddie.
Mike clamped the laptop onto the docking station and pushed the power button. The monitor displayed dozens of icons scattered on the desktop; haphazard and unorganized as Eddie.
Mike downloaded and installed Tor and the Tor Browser and got tools he had stashed in the Deep web. Over 200,000 deep websites hid from the public. Mike required access to two: the site hosting his collection of hacking software and a specialized database.
Mike programmed Tor to encrypt and triple-bounce his web traffic requests among thousands of computers around the world. Mike utilized all the tools he could to evade the NSA’s all-seeing eyes.
I Will Not Yield Page 11
