by C. G. Cooper
Chapter Seventy-Eight
VOLKOV — THE SOVIET WILDERNESS — 1981
They looked like carbon copies of one another. When a sliver of hair peeked out from behind a woolen cap, it was blonde in the extreme. Alek found that his body seemed to be changing by the day. He was still smaller than the charismatic Orlov, but the Belarusian had a feeling that he would catch up one day.
Today found them skimming a long ridge of waist-deep powder, each swish kicking up a fine smoke show of snow. Alek was in the lead with Orlov behind, cutting a perfect figure eight.
This was their new routine. The first months under Orlov’s tutelage consisted of much verbal instruction and back-breaking work. If Alek thought his first years at the remote outpost were hard, his time with Orlov was harder. But more fulfilling. Though he came in huffing and ready for sleep each night, there was always a warm meal at the table, and Orlov quizzed him with zeal.
“Who are the strongest of the new boys?” or “What is your greatest weakness?”
Alek had quickly found that truth was the right way. The only way. Somehow his mentor knew when he was lying. Every time.
He would eat his food, slowly, as Orlov had taught, and he answered every question to the best of his ability. There were always follow up questions like, “And why do you feel that way?” or “Should I intervene?”
At first Alek believed it was all a test. There were always little tests. Why shouldn’t this be another?
Then little things started happening. Small changes. An older boy got a new job, or a younger boy would move up in the team rankings. Alek discovered the pattern easily. These changes were based on his answers.
“Which way should I go?” Alek yelled back to his mentor and near-constant companion for the majority of the past year.
“Straight down,” came the reply.
Straight down? That couldn’t be right.
“That way?” Alek pointed to the left, the only logical way down the face of this formidable ridgeline. It’d been a treat, even with a half-day of hiking with skis on his back. But the views, ah, the views! They were away from everyone and everything. But this, this couldn’t be right. No, he’d heard wrong. When he turned his head to question again, he felt the air flush by as Orlov raced past him, somehow, impossibly.
“Follow me,” the older man said with a contagious zing of excitement.
This felt like one of those times when Alek should’ve been afraid for his life. They were heading straight down a cliff.
He let Orlov get well ahead, just in case.
Over the lip Orlov went, seemingly into oblivion. Alek knew all manner of skiing by then. From cross country to Super-G. He could best most men. Still, he gulped as the empty air hit him in the face and the tips of his skis went over the ledge.
A deep suck of oxygen fueled him, and he maintained his straight attack, just as Orlov had done. Gravity pulled him down, and it felt like his skis would never touch snow again. And then they did. A crunch of stone underneath, but not too far back. He jigged to the left and then back to the right, his face pointed straight down the hill. And then he saw it, the telltale sign of his mentor’s passing. A small landing. It would be close. His timing would have to be perfect.
And it was, though the quick turn jarred every bone in his legs, sending spikes of adrenaline up his body.
The hasty turn took him around a boulder, and the way was easier now, almost languid compared to what he’d just endured. Alek saw another ledge coming, this one a potentially steeper drop, if that were even possible. But before he was ten feet from the edge, he noticed the tracks stopped right in the middle of the thin trail.
Snow plowing hard, yet with the delicacy that kept him from falling right, Alek stopped a foot before the fall. He looked over—yes, much steeper. No ledges or trails below.
“This way,” he heard Orlov say, and turned to the voice. At first it didn’t make sense. The voice had come from the wall of snow. He reached out a hand. Then he saw it. A slight sway. Camouflage.
Alek pushed the winter-colored curtain to the side and peered inside. Dark. The smell of ancient stone and hay. A light flickered to life deeper inside.
“Come in, young wolf,” Orlov said.
Alek clicked off his skis, put them against the wall next to Orlov’s, and walked deeper into the cave.
“What is this place?” he asked, fully trusting his trainer. The passageway took a slight turn and there was Orlov, stoking a fire that already licked the tops of the logs that were gathered and waiting for their final act.
Alek looked all around. There were shelves cut into the stone. Books and ammunition crates lined them. There was a picture of a young woman, pretty and composed with platinum hair.
Orlov must have seen him staring at the picture because he said, “My sister. You would’ve liked her, young wolf. She had a kind soul. Just like you.”
Alek understood without asking. The sister was dead.
“What is this place?” he asked again, noticing a metal door behind Orlov. There was faded Cyrillic lettering along one side that was worn with age.
“Your father is dead, Alek.”
Something crept into his chest and sat heavy. Something like sadness. But it was more. It was anger.
“Is this why you brought me here? To tell me? Why? Why did you take me over that damn cliff? I could’ve died.”
It was the first time he’d ever had a heated word for the ever-nonplussed instructor.
“It’s good to see you have a temper, Alek. But be careful, a temper untended turns into an inferno of the devil’s making.”
Alek was in no mood for a lesson. Now the reality of what had been said hit him. He sat on the cold ground and put his face in his hands. He was not embarrassed when the tears came. It was the least he could give to the bastard who’d had half a toll in bringing him into this world. But even as the tears ran down his cheeks and froze on the hard floor, he knew this was the one and only time he would weep for the man he’d called Father. The last of it.
When it was done and shed from his heart, he looked up at Orlov, now ready.
“What is this place?” he asked for the third time, his tone just shy of defiance.
Orlov stoked the fire. “We’re all alone, you and I. No family. No place to call home.” Then he looked up over the fire, right at Alek. “At least that’s what it seems.” Orlov stood, walked around the fire, and offered his pupil a hand. “Come, young wolf, let me show you what this place is, what I’ve chosen you for.”
Chosen?
Alek took the proffered hand and was hoisted to his feet.
“The door?”
Orlov took a skeleton key from his pocket and handed it to Alek.
“You can say no. I won’t be offended,” Orlov said, his eyes never leaving Alek. “We can integrate you back in with the other boys. It will be as if none of this ever happened. I will leave, and you can attain your glory for the Motherland.”
Alek wasn’t sure, but he thought he now detected an edge to Orlov’s tone. He’d never uttered a single cross word about his homeland.
But Alek knew his answer without the edge, without a push. He would never go back. And he would follow this man, this friend who treated him more like a son than his own father had, over any cliff he chose.
“Tell me what to do,” Alek said, his voice sounding stronger than he remembered.
Orlov nodded and pointed at the metal door.
“Open the door. Your past is gone, vanished forever like the cities of the ancients. This,” he stomped on the ground. “This ground is where you make your choice, Alek.” Orlov nodded at the door. His voice softened now. “There’s no trick, my boy. Your future lies inside.”
Alek went to the door, key in hand. The yearning for change, the opportunity to follow Orlov, this good man, this noble soldier. That’s what he wanted. As he inserted the key and let his eyes adjust to the darkness, he’d not yet comprehended that his dreams of winning an Olympic me
dal had just disappeared off a snowy cliff face.
Chapter Seventy-Nine
WEST BERLIN — 1986
"It’s all set. They’ll pick you up just after midnight.”
The poor woman was barely listening. It seemed like every bone rattled despite being bundled in layers.
“What if they don’t come?” She was becoming hysterical again. He put an arm around her, and the shaking slowed. “He’s going to find me. I just know it.”
“Shhh... ” Stokes rubbed her back and grasped for the right words. “I’m not going to let him hurt you. I promise.”
She turned suddenly, eyes flashing in the gloom of the darkened apartment. “That’s what they said before!” She hissed it out like a woman possessed. “You Americans promise and never deliver.”
All he could think to do was wrap his arms around her. That seemed to calm the hisses and trembles.
“This American’s not going to break his promise.”
As if to add more gravity to the situation, he thought he felt the kick of the baby in her belly against his midsection.
“You’ll take good care of her?”
The contractor gave him a bored nod and took a last drag of his cigarette before flicking it to the ground. “We do this every day, Major.” The German accent was thick and full of disdain. Sometimes being the Boy Scout bought you a little less than a full box of Girl Scout cookies. Major Stokes was used to it by now.
He’d follow behind in his own car, cursing the entire way for sure. The prick at the embassy who had a raging hard-on for screwing Stokes hadn’t agreed to the meticulous plan of sending Americans for the short pick up. He himself could’ve done it, and he had a handful of Embassy Marines on call just in case. They seemed to be the only ones who liked having the Marine on loan to the spooks.
The German team made their way up the back stairs, leaving a man at the bottom level, ostensibly to watch their six. Stokes thought it was more likely they were making sure he didn’t follow. The haughty look on the rear guard’s face said it all.
It was five minutes later that the Germans hit pavement, their frightened quarry in tow. Stokes wanted to break out of the shadows and give her a reassuring nod, but he’d promised. Besides, he was in enough hot water for the thing with the Russians. What a mess.
Four Germans and a pregnant woman jammed into a beat-up BMW. Stokes was in his car, waiting.
“Hurry up,” he murmured, fingers hovering over the ignition.
And then something unfathomable happened. Four Germans got out of the BMW, locking the car behind them. Major Stokes was out of the car, running, saw the girl’s wide eyes, caught a glimpse of the double-crossing German grinning his way.
Stokes’s warning scream was drowned out by the explosion that enveloped the BMW and slapped him to darkness.
Chapter Eighty
WILCOX — DEADHORSE AIRPORT, DEADHORSE, ALASKA — PRESENT DAY
Glacial wind tried to push him back into the building as soon as he opened the door. Wilcox braced against the chill and barely missed getting hit by the metal-hinged slapper.
“I don’t know why I ever listened to that kook.”
There came no reply, though Stokes and the others were listening. And not only listening but tracking his every damn move as well. Not entirely a surprise considering what he’d put them through, but Wilcox couldn’t help thinking the entire enterprise a tad juvenile.
“How come I’m the poor schmuck that gets the cold? I’d rather be somewhere warm. Soaking in the rays. Guzzling some fine island rum with a fine island babe. Or vice versa.”
He imagined them rolling their eyes, and that made Wilcox feel all the better.
“Okay. Everything checks out,” the man who could’ve posed as Santa’s twin said as he reappeared and checked off the final items on his clipboard. “Now, Mr. Lincoln.”
“You can all me, Abe,” Wilcox said.
The man couldn’t help but chuckle. “You know, when I saw the request, I thought it was a joke. But here you are, and I’ll be damned if the ID doesn’t match you in person.”
Wilcox leaned in a little closer, like he was going to tell the guy a joke. “You know, it’s a federal offense to impersonate an American president.”
“You know, I think I heard about that once. Maybe it was in grade school. But I don’t think it applies to dead presidents.”
Wilcox nodded sagely. “A president is always a president. Kind of like those silly Marines saying there’s no such thing as a former Marine.”
Santa Claus, Jr. chuckled and tipped his Navy ball cap to his customer. “I wonder if they say the same thing about being called Jarhead.”
They both had a laugh at that, and Wilcox grinned even wider imagining the look on Cal’s face.
“And now, back to the task at hand,” Wilcox said. “All the maps I requested—”
“Are loaded into the tablet sitting right there.”
Wilcox snatched the tablet from the pilot’s seat and made a show of scrolling through the mapping application.
“Everything looks in order. I’ve gotta say, you sure have a shipshape operation here.”
St. Nick, the Home Game Edition, stood a little straighter at that and even adjusted the belt under his ample belly. “Well, I sure appreciate that, Mr… I mean, Abe. Took the best of what I learned in the Navy and applied it here.”
Wilcox patted the plane lovingly. “It definitely shows. And now, before I get cold feet, I better skedaddle.”
Wilcox made a hard bank and waved down at the man who would never see his plane again. The assassin didn’t feel bad about it. He’d made sure there was enough insurance, and of course he’d paid in full.
But if that wasn’t enough payback for the owner of the small fleet of puddle jumpers, maybe the fact that he could tell all his grandchildren that one of his planes had been part of the kidnapping of a sitting Russian president. Now that was a tale worthy of a salty Navy chief.
Chapter Eighty-One
STOKES — NASHVILLE — PRESENT DAY
“You should ask him,” Diane said, fixing a stray strand of hair by tucking is behind her ear. “What’s the worst that could happen?”
“I’m lucky enough to be on this side of the bars, Diane,” Cal said, trying not to stare at his ex-girlfriend. He was more than regretting his decision to bring her into the operation. The distraction was one thing. The mess that deploying Wilcox without Zimmer’s consent, by the way, could be huge with a capital H. But he needed answers. Not one answer. All of them.
“You men and your stupid feuds.”
“Hey, I’m one of those men,” Top complained from the next table over. They’d gotten a private spot at a new restaurant started by one of Trent’s friends from culinary school.
“Sorry, Top,” Diane said with an exaggerated bow.
“M’lady,” and Top went back to his dinner.
“Seriously though, I don’t know why you can’t just ask Brandon. I’m sure he can push a couple of buttons and bibbidi-bobbidi-boo, you’ve got your answers.”
“Bibbidi-bobbidi-boo? What? Are we in a Disney movie now?”
“Why? Are you about to break out in song?”
“Ha, ha. Fine, I’ll ask him.”
Diane clapped her hands together eliciting a glance from half the waiters in the joint.
After some seriously forced pleasantries that sparked more than one eyeroll from Diane, Cal just went for it. He called the president.
“I need a favor.”
Cal braced for impact. He imagined Brandon laughing, yelling, or just hanging up the phone. He was zero for three.
“Name it,” said the president.
Diane gave him an I-told-you-so look.
“We’re hitting a wall with my dad.”
“You mean about his time in Berlin.”
“Right. We’ve confirmed that he was there, but we’re striking out on the rest.”
Zimmer didn’t immediately reply. When he did, it was obv
ious he’d taken his first steps down the rabbit trail. “How much of this investigation is about the Russians, and how much is about...” he paused, searching for the right words. Cal finished the question for him.
“About dad’s infidelity?”
“Yes.”
Part of Cal wanted to lie. It would be so easy. Write it off as keeping Brandon in the plausible deniability realm.
No. The time for lies between friends was over.
“Honestly, I’m not sure. I don’t even know if his time in Berlin ties back to the Russians, despite what the president said. But personally? Yeah, I want to know the truth.”
He fully expected a no. He deserved it.
“Okay. I’ll do it. How discrete do I need to be?”
Cal had to catch up mentally for a second. “Uh, well, it’s not like mom is still with us, so why don’t we say discretion isn’t as important as finding the truth.”
Diane nodded her agreement.
Brandon was quick to agree and promised to call with updates as soon as he had them.
The call over, Cal looked up at the ceiling, one thought ping-ponging back and forth in his head: Why did you cheat on Mom?
Dad, why?
Chapter Eighty-Two
WEST BERLIN — 1986
Stokes dreaded his next stop. By now all of Berlin knew about the explosion. There would only be a handful of people who knew the deceased. Stokes said a prayer for mother and son/daughter. She hadn’t even known the sex of the baby.
It was all he could muster to keep his head up as he marched down the embassy hallway, ignoring the stares that greeted him from every open door. Everyone knew. Everyone. At least the Marines at the gate had offered their sympathy. That was something.
He had to knock twice. The second time, the voice of CIA Chief of Station for Berlin, Edmond Flap growled, “Come in.”
Stokes cringed at the man’s voice. It reminded him of those hunched, black-clad villains in old-time movies.
