by D S Kane
Without any Stingers left to protect them from any further helicopters, buses would be death traps. Avram scanned their area and saw signs on the highway. One claimed there was a PATH station nearby. He pointed to the sign. “Let’s get inside the station.”
They all set off at a trot, and kept up the pace until they were at the turnstiles. Two mercs carried Ben-Levy.
Where to go? He had the distinct impression his attackers had herded them this way—that if they couldn’t wipe out every one of Avram’s mercenaries while they sat on the buses, the hostiles would force them to use the PATH.
There was very likely to be an ambush in one of the PATH stations. Avram imagined an armed contingent waiting at the Wall Street stop in Manhattan to finish them off. If he was right, their most direct route was likely to lead to a losing battle and to all their deaths.
How far was it to Newark Airport? Could they walk there? Could they rent a jet to take them to MacArthur Airport? And, even if they could do this, he’d have to call Jon Sommers and have the former Mossad kidon meet them there. But he’d just sent Jon back to Manhattan. Why hadn’t he thought of a better plan in the first place?
CHAPTER 32
Newark PATH Station,
Newark, New Jersey
February 24, 6:04 a.m.
Commuters crowded into the station with the start of rush hour. The men were mostly wearing suits and ties, the women were in dresses. All sported heavy winter clothing. Michael Drapoff knew the mercs were out of place, all too easy to identify.
When the mercs started crowding on the platform, Michael watched the commuters move as far away as they could from the uniformed mercenaries. He shrugged. To his amazement, he found a coin-operated phone booth that worked. He dialed an international phone number. He identified himself to the woman who answered, gave her the number of the pay phone, and waited for callback.
“Moishe, it’s Michael. I need to know the status of Stuxnet II.” Moishe was the Mossad contact Michael had worked with when he was a Mossad kidon.
The male voice on the other side of the call was deeper and shrouded with an Israeli accent. “The Stuxnet II virus works to specification. But let me remind you that remote electronic delivery is still untested and mostly nonfunctional. It’s perhaps some weeks away.”
Drapoff pursed his lips. “I’ll take it as it is. I assume it can be delivered manually using a thumb-drive?”
“Right. Put the thumb-drive into any server’s USB port and execute the module. Key its name: ‘Ratworm.’ Then remove the thumb-drive and run like hell.”
“How long until the infection roots?”
“Seconds. It takes about three minutes for it to reduce the hardware in the system to so much scrap, so if there is an alarm system on the system, you have only that long to exit the building. The worm also causes the equipment to overheat and can cause an electrical event.”
“You mean an explosion and a fire.”
“Well, we’ve sometimes seen that happen. Sometimes not. That’s why you should leave as soon as the worm flashes a ‘FIN’ on the console screen.”
“Good, good. Send a copy to the website http://www.swiftshadow.com. Place it in a ‘container’ so it doesn’t bring down the website. Put the container in the Drafts folder.”
Michael heard keystrokes.
“It’s done. Waiting for you. Good luck.”
“Thanks, Moishe. Drapoff out.”
Next, Michael posted two nearly identical messages within the Drafts folder. The first had William Wing’s name on it and the second had Ann Silbey’s name on it. Each message contained instructions for inserting the virus into its target system server.
Michael saw Lee Ainsley’s message. He searched the platform for Avram. The huge man stood a foot taller than the mercs around him, and Michael chuckled, thinking it’s hard to not be afraid of him when you are on your way to a day at your office. He pushed through the people on the platform until he reached Avram. “Avram, Ainsley says there may be a detachment waiting for us on the streets around Union Square. Halfway between the Holland and Lincoln Tunnels and close enough to the United Nations Plaza to make it very messy.”
When he had completed updating the general, Avram nodded.
Avram said, “I’ve expected something like this.” He turned and faced the others. “Okay. We’re done here. If you believe in prayer, let’s say one for William and Ann.”
He gathered them all closer, and faced the old man. “Yigdal, rent us a jet. Something large enough to fit us all. No flight plan until we’re in the air.”
The old spymaster nodded and took the pay phone’s receiver from Drapoff.
* * *
Yigdal hadn’t felt any pain in hours, but he did feel weak. He found the numbers on the pay phone’s dial pad blurred, but could make them out well enough to dial the number in. It took time, precious minutes, but now he’d rented the aircraft they needed.
While he was speaking, the events of a few years back ran through his head like a broken record. He remembered once again how his insolence had caused the death of the Sommersteins, how his ignorance and arrogance had led to the order to kill Aviva, his niece, and how his fears for his home country had led him to commission Bloodridge. That final event in the sequence had reincarnated. Bloodridge was now killing those who still respected him. He might easily be responsible for the deaths of everyone with him now on this mission. My legacy is death. It always has been. Even if I succeed, there will be more death along this trip. And if I fail…
CHAPTER 33
Top floor, Kremlin,
Moscow, Russia
February 24, 6:16 a.m.
Vladimir Pushkin had always felt uncomfortable sitting behind the huge, inlaid teak desk. It dated back to Ivan the Terrible. He used it when he needed to look more imposing than he felt. Today was such a day.
His elite commando force had failed too many times to find and terminate the only real threat to his takeover of the United States: Yigdal Ben-Levy still breathed, and he was still guarded by a small, vulnerable team of mercenaries. Vladimir had had no idea they would be this effective.
Almost as bad, Cassandra Sashakovich was still alive. But she’d been sighted in the company of Ben-Levy and his mercs, making the missions to terminate both much easier now.
His last report from Major Dmitri Sokol was that the Swiftshadow mercenaries had fled into a PATH station near Newark Airport and then disappeared. Sokol hadn’t enough men to effectively cover both Newark Airport and the PATH station in lower Manhattan. PATH and taxis from Newark were their most likely alternative points of entrance to Manhattan. Pushkin now wished he’d thought to arrange some way to communicate directly with the Chinese operatives, but this oversight was now too late to correct.
Pushkin had been forced to make a choice. Sokol had advised they cover the lower Manhattan PATH stations, and he’d agreed.
But now he was growing uneasy about this decision. With every passing second, his certainty increased. If he failed to stop them this time, it would be in the hands of the Chinese, and he still didn’t trust them. He didn’t like them. It was a marriage of convenience. He suspected that whoever could stop the mercenaries would have the upper hand in negotiating the distribution of the spoils for the war about to begin.
He wanted the backdrop of the antique desk for his conversation with Sokol. He nodded to the man who operated the camera.
Twelve thousand miles away, Sokol appeared on the screen. “My President.” He saluted.
“Dmitri. Puzhalsta. Please report.”
The major shifted his gaze to and from the camera. Pushkin could see blowing snow on the street behind him but he was sure it wasn’t cold that made Sokol appear to be uncomfortable. “We haven’t found them. Any of them. Three trains have entered Manhattan, and no trace of them.”
Pushkin glowered. “Your recommendation to send the men to Manhattan may have been flawed. Leave a small team there and send the remainder of the team to Newark A
irport. How many men do you have remaining?”
Sokol’s losses had been substantial and this was Pushkin’s way of reminding him. The major lowered his eyes. “Twenty-seven.”
The Russians had been able to sneak eighty assassins into the country. They’d shipped four helicopters into the United States in pieces and assembled them over four months. Now only one helicopter remained, their spare, with little fuel in its tank. Pushkin felt his face reddening. “Find them fast and kill them all.” He terminated the connection.
The next call would be more difficult. His status update with Premier Lin Chow Chang was overdue. He nodded again to the cameraman and waited for the connection.
In seconds, the head of the Chinese premier was on screen, a nasty expression on his face. “President Pushkin, I believe the mercenaries have slipped through your grasp. Now it will be up to my forces to stop them.”
Pushkin was tempted to say, “Let me explain,” but held his tongue. He took a deep breath. “I hope they are very capable. I hope you can stop them, or we could have a public relations nightmare. If we both fail, our own countries’ economies would be hurt hard by the sanctions the other Western countries might apply.”
He could see the man’s face go red. “We will succeed.”
Pushkin glanced at notes showing on the tablet on his desk. “It appears you have just shut down the telecommunications grid in the United States. We weren’t ready for this. It will be more difficult for us to coordinate our end of the invasion.”
“Yes. Our technicians have been disciplined for their error. It is a problem for us as well. We’re developing some workarounds to recover communications but it will take some time. We won’t be ready to launch the troop transports for at least another ten hours.”
Pushkin thought about telling him his own troops weren’t ready yet either but decided to use his silence to diplomatic advantage. “Let me know when you are ready.”
He signaled his cameraman to cut the connection.
He cursed silently. The weather in Russia had put the departure of his troops behind schedule. He’d be lucky if they were ready to launch in under twelve hours. He wondered if there was a way to speed things up. But he knew there wasn’t. Mustering over seventy thousand troops during a massive winter storm took time.
Coordination and time were the biggest factors for any sneak attack. The Japanese had managed it successfully in the 1940s, but now, with the Internet and Wikileaks, secrets were not so easy to keep.
CHAPTER 34
Terminal D,
Sheremetyevo International Airport,
Moscow, Russia
February 24, 7:21 a.m.
Misha Kovich sniffed the air as he debarked the Delta Airlines aircraft. The stink of jet fuel filled the air. He felt fear and tried not to show it in the company of his travel companion, Ann Silbey Sashakovich. It would be bad if the teenager knew her uncle wasn’t fearless. Worse, she might assume that his fears were based in some ugly reality. And that was true. He wasn’t about to reveal every aspect of his plans. For the first time ever, he doubted she was trustworthy in the face of what he planned for them.
He felt an uncomfortable rush of memories from decades of living in Russia, all returning in a flash. He shivered for a second, and dropped Ann’s hand so she wouldn’t feel his uncertainty. One of his hands held the strap for his go bag. The other one shook, no longer holding Ann’s hand.
He breathed deeply to calm himself, then turned to her. “We process into Russia and go by train to Moscow.”
She nodded, toting her rolling suitcase behind her. Her cellphone vibrated against her hip pocket. “Wait.” She pulled the cell out and scanned its screen. “Drapoff sent the package to the Swiftshadow website.” She punched in a few commands. “I’m now getting a copy into my cellphone. The file is intact. We’re good to go.”
He shrugged. “We have to hurry.”
* * *
William Wing felt his heart flutter as he and Betsy the Butterfly walked from the United Airlines flight that had originated at Newark. Terminal 1 of Hong Kong International Airport was home base for his travels and he felt instant comfort arriving here.
He’d lived in Hong Kong most of his life. One of his hands pulled his rolling suitcase; the other held the Butterfly’s hand. He’d never thought he would see Hong Kong again but here they were, on their way to Beijing. The word “home” dropped from his lips. Betsy cast him an accusatory glance. He knew she was consumed with his fears about how dangerous this might become.
He saw the sign for “Passport Control” and nodded toward it. His cellphone beeped an incoming message. The Swiftshadow website now contained a copy of the Stuxnet II virus. He didn’t have to look at the phone to know. It was the reason for this trip. The flight he’d booked them for Beijing was about an hour away. He and Betsy would have to hurry. He downloaded the file containing the virus and checked its integrity. “We’re good to go.”
CHAPTER 35
Terminal 3C,
Beijing Capital International Airport
February 24, 10:31 a.m.
A brisk wind clipped through the exit tunnel connecting their 747 to Terminal C at Beijing Capital International Airport. The terminal was warm, but William Wing shivered as they left the China Southern Airlines flight. He clasped the Butterfly’s hand tight to his.
Every sound had him turning his head toward it. He was sure the feeling of paranoia he felt was due to his father’s warning about the State Security hit squad, and the struggle his father had with Chen that led to both their deaths. But, he thought, even paranoids have real enemies.
Betsy pulled him to a stop. She faced him. “Are you okay?”
He shook his head. “This place scares me.”
They pulled their spinner suitcases toward the terminal’s exit. William stared at a uniformed security officer as they passed him by, and the man stared back.
He took a deep breath to calm himself. Didn’t work. He felt chills up his spine. “Hurry.”
“Jeez, Willy.”
The security officer trotted toward them. He pulled a photograph from his pocket and stared at it, then ran fast toward them. “Halt. You! Halt.”
William bit his lip. “Big trouble. Let’s get out of here.”
They sprinted through a nearby fire exit door. Loud alarms rang all over the airport. They sprinted down a flight of stairs onto the tarmac. About a hundred feet away, they found another door, this one locked. William pulled a bump key set from his pocket. In a few seconds he led her back upstairs and into the airport near one of the exits.
William pulled her through the crowd, past the taxi line, and out toward the exit road.
They were now blown. He needed a backup plan, especially since the original plan had just gone to hell. He scanned the area, looking for something, anything that could help. Either something that could be used as a weapon, or something that could be used as a disguise. A hiding place. An unoccupied car he could break into. But all he saw was the thickening crowd of people. At least that provided a buffer between William and Betsy, and those who he was sure were now pursuing them.
CHAPTER 36
Sheremetyevo International Airport,
Moscow, Russia
February 24, 10:38 a.m.
At Sheremetyevo International Airport, Ann and Misha boarded the Russian version of local rail airport transport, the Aeroexpress, and took it from Belorussky Railway Terminal to a downtown Metro station.
There, they walked the stairs from one platform to another and rode the Metro to the Partizanskaya Station, six stops from Red Square.
Ann couldn’t read Russian very well, so she depended on Misha to point her toward where they had to go. Bundled into her parka, she still shivered, thinking, I can’t imagine anyplace colder.
Misha pointed to a huge building and said, “Izmailovo Gamma-Delta Hotel is old and out of the way. Is run-down, not recommended for tourists. If we appear to be locals, we will draw little notice here.�
�� He pulled his cell from his pocket. “I have old friend, used to be stringer for KGB.” He punched a number into the cell and spoke Russian to his contact.
Ann stared at the decrepit hotel, across the frozen street. She wondered how long they would be in this very foreign city. She supposed she could manage for a few nights. She walked behind Misha, pulling her rolling suitcase. The lobby was almost as cold as the outdoors, in need of redecorating, mostly gray and black.
Misha walked to the hotel’s registration desk, smiled, and spoke in Russian to the clerk waiting there. When the clerk replied, Misha smiled again before handing Ann her room key. He turned and faced her, then whispered, “We are next door to each other. Let’s drop luggage, then go meet my friend.”
Ann watched Misha handle the registration process with the lone desk clerk. She was silent as they walked away from the registration desk. When they were far enough away so the clerk couldn’t hear her speak English, she touched his shoulder. “Who is your friend?” She had already concluded Misha wouldn’t be attempting this mission assisted only by a teenaged gray-hat hacker.
Misha pulled his parka hood off. Ann could see his face had been perspiring. “Chow Sang. Former KGB asset. Decided not to work for SVR. Retired instead. Was retired, living in Shanghai. Recently relocated to Russia. Now taxi driver. He will get us into Kremlin.”
She chewed on that for a moment. “A former spy, now a taxi driver? Really, now! And you trust him?”
Misha stopped and faced her. “Da. But only a little. No one in my business trusts anyone. Ever. First one of the famous Moscow Rules, taught now by all world’s intelligence services.”
She nodded, wondering if she was doing the right thing, trusting Misha. The elevator doors opened and they entered. She feared their visit would play out badly.
The lift’s doors creaked shut and its sides scraped the building’s walls as it rose.
Something in the back of her mind screamed at her to remain cautious and vigilant.
