The Perfect Weapon

by Christopher Metcalf

  Chapter 30

  Once out into the night, they ran across the rear courtyard littered with debris from vehicles blown apart by explosions. Marta diverted to look into the vehicle tipped over on its side. Preacher heard two silenced shots while she was out of view. She did the job he should have done minutes earlier.

  Sirens wailed in the distance. They ran out the gate, down and street where they rounded a corner and hopped into a waiting sedan. Marta leapt behind the wheel, since she was the better driver of the two. They were at the end of the block when three police cars came around the corner. She slowed to let their headlights wash across their vehicle. It worked, they were spotted and two of the three police cars fell in behind their car as they fled the smoldering scene behind. A minute and a mile later, another two vehicles joined the chase. They were plain, dark colored sedans, which gave them away as KGB, now renamed the FSB or Federal Counterintelligence Service. Who could keep track these days.

  Marta jammed the accelerator to the floor, accelerated into corners, barreled down straight-aways and splattered into other cars entering major thoroughfares. She knew the streets of Moscow, knew them by heart. It was amazing to Preacher, and Lance sitting atop the vehicle, watching her work behind the wheel. She was simply marvelous, Preacher and Lance agreed on the description. More cars joined the parade as they veered off a major city street into a smaller business district with much tighter roadways.

  This chase lasted 11 minutes and it worked to perfection in bringing attention to them. Preacher leaned out the window several times and took some lousy shots at the tires of cars pursuing them. It was a lame attempt to emulate the movies, but one actually hit a tire. Friggin' amazing for him. Marta was enjoying herself and even reached out and smacked his butt one time as he leaned out.

  At the 12th minute, Marta changed course and made a u-turn on Tverskaya Ulitsa, back toward the destination they had passed a few minutes earlier. As they approached, she slammed on the gas and got decent separation from the police vehicles close behind. The underground parking structure up ahead was massive. It could hold thousands of cars. Right now, it was mostly empty.

  Their vehicle went airborne as they hit the entrance ramp into the structure at 70 miles per hour. As they passed the pylons supporting the structure’s main entrance, Preacher toggled a switch on his handy little remote and the blast behind them brought down several tons of concrete onto the entrance ramp, blocking it immediately. They both looked up into the security camera to be sure it caught their bearded faces.

  A few moments later, he pushed another lever and the entrance at the far end of the massive structure exploded. A third toggle brought a third and final blast at the remaining entrance.

  All vehicle entrances and exits were blocked. But doors were aplenty, so they needed to move quickly. Marta swung the car around a turn and raced down a ramp to a second level underground. The area around the car was deserted.

  They jumped out and ran over to a service door. Preacher hit the last lever and a small blast followed by disbursement of a rapid accelerant shook the vehicle and engulfed it in flames in seconds. Everything inside was charred to a blackened crisp.

  Marta inserted a key into the service door handle and opened it. Inside, they entered a stairwell that took them down two more levels into a tunnel that lead away to the north. They ran without speaking along the dimly lit route. As they approached a door marked exit, they stopped to catch their breath and looked at each other. They couldn’t resist and grabbed the other to pull close. Two Arab-looking dudes kissing in a dim corridor. Funny stuff for Lance to watch from his perch over Preacher’s shoulder. His laughter infected Preacher, who began laughing as well seeing what Lance could from up there.

  Marta didn’t know why he was laughing, but joined in. They were nearly free and a little chuckle was in order. She ripped off his fake beard and the wig from his head. She pulled out a moist towel in her bag and wiped his face. He did the same for her, kissing her several times during the process. They each removed as much makeup as possible and changed clothes. He got into standard western blue jeans, a sweater and coat. She put on black jeans, boots with heels, a sweater and long coat. She took off her wig and let her hair down and became the beauty he loved to look upon.

  They placed their dirty clothing, beards and wigs in the bag and stepped to the door. They looked again into each other’s eyes and kissed gently. Without a word, they opened the door and climbed the dark stairwell that led to an empty outdoor mall. He turned left, she turned right. They would see each other again.

  Chapter 31

  Three men watched three separate televisions reporting news from Moscow. One of them was just miles away from the destruction. The other two were in the U.S.

  Gregor Smelinski saw images on the screen and heard the inane jabbering of news anchors broadcasting from Moscow television stations, but nothing was sinking in. He'd been on the phone since minutes after the first blast, and made his way into his office in the Lubyanka, the home of the KGB. Reports came in about sightings of several bearded Arab men near the sites of the explosions in the days leading up to the detonations. The chase from a residence to the underground parking facility had produced a great many reports from FSB operatives and local police. They were preparing to enter the structure, with all entrances and exits now secure.

  If any of the attackers were in the underground facility, they would be captured or killed. The chatter on the lines increased as heavily armed crews prepared to breach the structure.

  They wouldn’t find anyone. She was gone, disappeared. Smelinski sat back, turning away from the TV. Gregor the Terrible felt relief. The man who had controlled his life and those of thousands of others for much of the previous decade was gone. If not dead, Cherzny was severely injured, reduced to a pitiful creature. She had planned this well, executed it flawlessly and escaped. She created a massive and intricate deception that implicated Arab and Islamic terrorists. The first security camera images from the bombsites were beginning to show up on news reports, each showed bearded, dark haired and dark skinned men. He smiled at the extent of the production. "Brilliant." He whispered with eyes closed.

  He opened his eyes to look at the watch on his wrist. He could stay here in this building for days, weeks even. But one day soon he would die. She would see to that. She was too slick, too sharp. He smiled again at her abilities. “Amazing.” He muttered in English for some reason.

  The phone on his desk interrupted the jabbering on the television. It was a secure line. Nine people had this number. He spun the chair back around and reached for the receiver. When he brought it to his ear there was only silence at the other end. It was Marta.

  “Da.” He spoke after 10 seconds.

  “Enjoy your freedom Gregor. I’ll collect on this debt in the future. Any further action will result in something unpleasant.” Her voice was calm, cool and he could feel it, she was close. Maybe watching him right now. He glanced at the window.

  “I understand my dear. And I am quite impressed.” His relief came through.

  Then Marta dropped a bomb. “Major will receive this same call in a few minutes. Goodbye Gregor.” The line went dead but Smelinski held the receiver to his ear. The dial tone droned on for 20 seconds as the KGB master of the universe traversed time and space reviewing her career, her time in the KGB and before. She just exploded a significant portion of Smelinski’s mind with one word – Major. It was their personal code for Geoffrey Seibel. They were the only two who used this code. If she was calling Seibel next, it could only mean that she had been doing the CIA's bidding as a double agent. She had fooled Smelinski all along.

  He felt the muscles in his chest tighten. Marta wanting to kill him was fine, understandable. Her being an operative for Seibel was more than shocking. The American had done it to him yet again. How? Where did he intercept the girl? Damn.

  Just under 4,853 miles to the west and south, Geoffrey Seibel watched CNN in his home office. It was just a
fter 1 p.m. in Washington. Eight hours earlier than Moscow. The images coming in were really something. Four massive explosions now reported. A chaotic chase through the streets of the Russian capitol apparently ended with the terrorists cornered in a downtown Moscow parking garage. News of Islamic fundamentalist terrorists behind the plot was already spreading. They even mentioned Anwar by name. This was brilliant. Completely ballsy, and completely, utterly, brilliant. Seibel couldn’t help but smile.

  He looked at it all behind closed eyes. He could see the structures damaged, the pattern utilized and the strategy behind the plan. The bombings had steered Cherzny toward a defined location where, more than likely, he had met his demise. He would no longer be a stabilizing force for international commerce. Underlings, competing interests and the growing international strength of the Russian mob would carve up his empire. That was unfortunate, but Cherzny's fate was sealed the moment he ordered action against Marta. He was just like all the other men who thought they could control her. All were wrong. Most were dead. One day soon, he would join them.

  Seibel had been on the phone with several people during the last two hours. He, like them, did not have much information about the Moscow attacks. It was all educated guesswork. Granted, he did know exactly who had orchestrated and carried out the attacks. But he didn’t share this with anyone. He withheld this even from his boss, the CIA Director. He’d tell him later, when he had all the facts.

  He closed his eyes and saw both of them. He swelled with pride thinking of the sheer brilliance, the catastrophic brilliance the two of them represented. He had played a part in bringing them both into this life and developing their skills. He knew he could not claim their innate abilities toward mischief, lying and killing, but he had guided Marta, and then Lance. Damn, they were good. She was ruthless and cunning and deadly. He was flexible and dishonest and despicable. They were perfect, perfect for each other. And uniquely dangerous for the rest of the world.

  Seibel looked at the phone on his desk and wondered who would call first. He guessed it would be Lance. He was wrong.

  The phone rang three minutes later. It was Marta.

  “You’ve seen?” Her question was short. The conversation would be as well.

  “Yes. Watching now. Very impressive.” His reply was short also.

  “I’m signing off for now. Don’t look me up.” Translation – don’t come looking for me and don’t send anyone else.

  “Understood. How long?”

  “Time and tide will tell. Circus received the same message.”

  Damn.

  Seibel gripped the phone tight in his hand. She told Smelinski. Nearly 11 years of deceit revealed. “Understood.” He whispered. He just lost his most precious weapon. She was alive, but no longer his secret. The question now -- did Smelinski know about Lance?

  “Goodbye.” Her voice had a smile to it and then it was gone, replaced by a dial tone.

  Geoffrey Seibel, spymaster, ringleader, legend, replaced the receiver on the phone. He couldn’t help but smile, even though he’d lost her. She had been a marvel from the beginning and he would undoubtedly see her again. She deserved a break, a vacation from the death and destruction she had wrought on his behalf. She would return to him one day, and likely put a bullet through his brain. That was fine. He deserved it. He couldn’t think of a better way to go.

  And then he thought of Lance. Dying at his hands would be justice as well. That’s what you get for playing both Machiavelli and Pygmalion.

  Two hundred and eleven miles to the north and slightly east, Anwar Mohamed Mustafa sat in a Brooklyn diner finishing his lunch and watching the television hanging in the corner of the room. He was clean-shaven, his hair short. He could be Italian, Spanish, Turkish, Greek or any number of ethnicities. When he was apart from his operatives in Manhattan and New Jersey, he left behind his Arab persona. Earlier this morning, he walked block after block on this fine spring day. He smiled at others along the way.

  This was one of his favorite places to eat in New York. He loved the mashed potatoes. The secret was leaving the skin on and just the right amount of garlic. He scooped up last a bite of his potatoes and wiped his mouth. A swig of coffee washed down the meal. He kept his eyes on the television screen and CNN’s reporting of the Moscow bombings. A very impressive operation.

  His eyes squinted slightly when the first grainy image from security cameras showed up on the screen. In the next minute, an image captured seven years earlier on a hillside in Afghanistan filled the screen. Damn. It was him. A lousy photo, but him nonetheless. He’d seen the photo before. An operative who was given the printed photo in Jordan showed it to him. The image was proof they had very little good intelligence on him. He had eluded them for more than a decade now.

  The audio on the TV was turned down low so he could only see images and the computer generated text and graphics on the screen. The American anchors were attractive and pleasant to look upon. It was all so childish. The waitress stopped by to take up his plate and pour more coffee. He thanked her in accented English and then looked out the window into the street. He pieced together what he had learned over the last hour. Four explosions for sure. Images of Arabs captured by nearby security cameras. His fuzzy bearded image splashed onto the screen in connection with the bombings and now with the bombings from seven months earlier. People attempting to flush him out orchestrated it. People who did not have much information about him were attempting to force his hand, to force him out into the open. He smiled for a brief moment. He was out in the open right now. He was walking among them. One of them.

  So who was behind this? KGB, CIA, Mossad? They were grasping at straws floating in water. Again, it was so childish; so beneath them. It stood no chance of succeeding and they knew it. So why? It certainly raised the level of the game, but it really put them no closer to tracing him. He was a continent away from the action in Moscow. The questions were many. The answers unsatisfying. His operatives in and around New York would certainly be excited and agitated by this news. The blind cleric would see this as another opportunity to inflict pain on this infidel nation.

  Anwar put a few bills on the table, got up and walked out. The spring day had warmed even more during the last hour. He decided to walk several more blocks and couldn’t help but smile as he did so.

  Chapter 32

  Wednesday, August 12, 1992 — undisclosed location

  Kamil al Ransfri wasn't praying. At least not nearly as habitually as he had been before he was shot, chased and captured by Preacher in Cairo. For whatever reason, and he knew the reason, he had lost faith. He also knew this was a sin that would keep him from a life of eternal bliss, but he was simply changed by the experience. Preacher had changed him.

  It started on that plane over the Mediterranean Sea. It continued during conversations in the bleak and dark prison he now called home. The change was cemented by the actions George, a.k.a. Preacher, reported back to him in the months since.

  Kamil's family had been destroyed. His younger brothers killed. And his Imam had disavowed him as a heretic, an infidel who faltered when faced with a challenge. Kamil was at a spiritual crossroads. He should have prayed three times today already, but hadn’t. He just didn’t have it in him.

  Even on the occasions George showed up and asked him to join him in prayer on the floor of the tiny cell, he could not do it. Maybe it would come back. Probably not. He had traded his soul for those of the innocent people he had killed in the market in Cairo when he pressed a button. George had shown him photos of the people he had killed, the children. They were innocent and did not deserve their deaths. No amount of devotion could make up for murder. It was wrong, and Allah had punished him accordingly by sending an avenging angel. George was his name. And he was surely the righteous hand of God and the Devil in one. He was truly evil, yet truly loyal to his beliefs. He was a dichotomy, a living example of the battle taking place inside each of us. George was good and evil, life and death.

  Kamil wa
s ready when the knock came on his cell door. It was him. He’d been informed this morning that George was coming. He looked forward to these visits because they were so challenging, so informative. The man who’d bested him and placed him in the proverbial chains that bound him, was his sole contact with the outside world. He usually brought unhappy news, but it was news nonetheless.

  The door opened and Preacher stood there smiling. He was dressed in simple clothes. His hair dark, eyes brown, skin darkened. “Greetings Kamil, friend.” He waved for the prisoner to follow him. A guard stood 12 feet away. He was not necessary. Kamil knew George could kill him in a dozen ways. It would be a fine death, a deserved end.

  “Greetings George. You look well.” They walked down the corridor to another door that opened as they approached. After walking through it, they turned to enter an interrogation room that had been transformed. Metal chairs and tables were replaced with two soft leather chairs and a cherry wood table. A pitcher of ice tea and two glasses sat on a serving tray on the table.

  “Have you been praying?” Preacher asked as they each took a seat.

  “Some, not every day.” Kamil responded, resigned to his fate.

  “You struggle, I can see. I understand.”

  “Do you?” Kamil was nearly broken.

  “I am not comfortable with all that I have done. I know it is wrong to kill, but I also know it is necessary to punish, to avenge. Yet who am I to enforce laws written by men who can only guess at God's intentions? That is my challenge.” Preacher was pious, devout. A floating Lance loved the show he was putting on below. Lance also thought for a moment about being an angel. Maybe that’s what he was really. Perhaps he had died and left his earthly body behind and now floated on breezes and currents. This made him laugh. Preacher was interrupted by Lance's laughing and glanced up at him with his brow furrowed. Kamil thought is was just another example of George's insanity, his divine inspiration.