by S. L. Jones
Khrushchev pulled the ornate wooden door open, and Andrei Tinkov stood before him. Tinkov’s chauffeur was just beyond, waiting patiently next to a royal blue Rolls-Royce Phantom limousine. The exquisite yet beastly machine was less imposing on the cobblestones of the massive circular driveway than when driving through the streets of Moscow.
“Andrei,” Khrushchev said in his booming voice. He vigorously shook his visitor’s hand. “Come in, come in,” he continued, leading his guest inside.
Tinkov smiled. “Thank you, Yuri. I apologize, but I cannot stay long.”
“Yes, I know. You have a flight to Lisbon. That is what I wish to discuss.”
Tinkov furrowed his brow in anticipation and followed his friend down a long hallway into a large study with wood-paneled walls.
“You have something you wish for me to bring up at the meeting?”
“It is time, my good friend,” Khrushchev said with equal parts enthusiasm and concern.
“Oh?” Tinkov didn’t look surprised. He looked up and admired the blue skies that were visible through the long line of rectangular skylights. He exhaled and said, “After all these years.”
“Pavel almost has everything ready, but I wanted you to be the first to hear my decision to move forward. It is time to strike. Time for the motherland to rise once again, but we need your help.”
“Of course,” Tinkov said, nodding his head. “We’ve been waiting for this day to arrive for a long time.”
“We know where everything is kept, but I need you to move forward with the plan at the meeting,” Khrushchev explained. “That way, no suspicions will be raised. It will be too late by the time they realize what has happened.”
The communists had always kept a working plan to take down America, and it was one that evolved with the times.
“Are you sure it is possible for us to succeed?” Tinkov questioned. “If the United States survives this, I fear we will not.”
“Yes,” he said emphatically. “By the end of the week, the country will be in complete and utter chaos.” He smiled at his friend. “The devastation will send them back to the Stone Age. We will soon have our power and our revenge.”
Khrushchev walked over to the bar and reached for two glasses before picking up a bottle. The drink he selected represented a time that was a distant memory for both of them. He chose a bottle of the Soviet Union’s traditional Zelyonaya Marka vodka. Tinkov’s chin inclined as his friend poured them each a measure.
Khrushchev creased his brow, and his eyes darkened. “I told the president to refuse to attend next week’s G8 summit in Camp David,” he said. “He can’t be on American soil when this goes down. It would be too risky.”
“Yes, I saw that the news wasn’t taken lightly by the American president.”
Khrushchev handed Tinkov his glass of vodka. “So be it.” He raised his glass. “To Mother Russia.”
Tinkov nodded and followed suit. “Yes, Yuri, to Mother Russia!”
They both swallowed their drinks and their wince gave way to smiles.
“Make this happen, Andrei.”
“I will.” Tinkov paused for a moment and corrected himself. “We will.”
Chapter 74
Lucky Stone Quarry, Ashburn, VA
IT WAS THE brake lights that had tipped the Bratva courier off. The unexpected blast of red light this late at night in the middle of nowhere could only mean trouble. His job was to run packages from Chicago to Virginia for the organization several times a week. He didn’t know anything about the dark blue Toyota Camry he had turned around to follow, but he remembered that it had been parked on the road outside the quarry. This was the sort of attention to detail for which he would be well rewarded.
The first call he made was to Chicago. Within a couple of minutes his cell phone rang.
“’Allo,” he answered.
“We will be coming up behind you soon,” the caller said in Russian.
“I will keep my distance. I do not have my lights on. There are no cars on the roads at this hour.”
He buzzed with nervous excitement as the blacked-out car quickly overtook him. They were being led farther away from civilization by the driver at the front of the line. It was obvious that they didn’t want any witnesses, and chose a game of Follow the Leader that would bring someone straight to hell.
His pulse began to quicken as the car in front of him dove onto a side road and increased its speed. He remained on the main road and maintained a safe distance to stay out of sight from the Camry. He noticed that the lead car had slowed its pace, before it turned abruptly onto a side road.
The action was over by the time he made it to the intersection. Four Bratva soldiers had surrounded the Toyota, and a woman was leaned up against the car with her hands on her head. They forced her into the lead car at gunpoint. One of the soldiers approached the courier’s car and he rolled down his window.
“Nice work,” the soldier said with a satisfied smile. “I will tell Pavel what you have done. She could have caused big problems for the operation.”
“Is she from the police?”
“Something like that. You must head back immediately. It’s possible you will need to make another run when you get back.”
“So soon?”
“Yes, but it might be the last one.”
He smiled and held up his thermos of coffee to show he was prepared. “I will head straight back.”
“Perhaps you will be back home soon,” the soldier said.
The courier watched the soldier jog to the woman’s car and drive it into the woods. He liked the sound of home.
Chapter 75
Kozlov Bratva hideout, Leesburg, VA
THEY WERE LEFT alone in a basement room of the compound. The fluorescent lights buzzed rhythmically as they flickered. Maria Soller found it increasingly difficult to keep track of how much time had passed. She and Melody Millar had been handcuffed to steel railings that were bolted to the concrete wall. They were both seated in wooden chairs with metal frames that brought back memories from high school. The door to the yellow rectangular room was opposite a wall lined with government surplus desks. The musty smell of the basement was a vast improvement over the skanky hoods.
Soller had tucked her iPhone away and out of view at her first opportunity. Once their captors had left, she had tried to calm Millar down. The teenager was still in shock from the earlier killings, and focusing on someone else had proven to be a good way for Soller to deal with the situation.
“We’ll be out of here before you know it, Melody. Just hang in there,” she whispered.
“I’m really scared,” she said.
She was no senator’s daughter, which Soller realized might make her feel disposable. She leaned toward her, but the reassurance the gesture was meant to convey was quickly erased by an angry pull from her restraint.
“It’s okay. We’ll get out of here together,” Soller insisted. “Soon. I promise.”
Millar forced a smile, but it was quickly wiped away by commotion out in the hallway. They exchanged a fearful look as the men barked out commands in Russian. Seconds later the door flew open and three powerful men shoved a hooded, violently protesting figure toward the other side of the room. Soller recognized that it was a woman. The hood brought back unsettling memories. She felt a chill as she recalled the putrid smell of the canvas that was once fastened over her head.
“Fucking assholes!” the woman yelled.
She kicked one of the guards in the hip, clearly hoping to hit him in his groin. They immediately converged on her flailing body and secured her to the railing.
She must have known she had missed her target, but it did nothing to break her spirit.
“Touch me like that again, and I’ll make sure I don’t miss next time,” she growled.
Two of the soldiers were forced to hold back the man she’d kicked. He struggled to get free from their hold and landed a blow to her head, which sent her to the ground.
“Bitch,” he spat in Russian. “Next time you will be mine.”
“Calm down, you idiot,” the other soldier wearing a utility jacket said. “We need her to stay healthy. If you harm her, we won’t have a chip to bargain with in case there is a problem. She’s yours once we’re in the clear.”
The dazed woman dangled from the wrist that was secured to the steel railing. A soldier walked over and helped her into a chair. The soldiers argued bitterly in Russian for a few minutes before they exited the room. Soller listened to them bicker back and forth down the hall. She looked over at the woman, who was rising slowly out of her slumped posture. Her hood moved back and forth as if she was trying to scan the room, but she didn’t make a sound.
Soller looked over at Millar, who again was on the brink of tears, and then back to the new arrival. “Are you okay?” she whispered across the room. There was no response, so she decided to try again. “Hey. Can you hear me? They left. It’s okay.” She wasn’t sure what she should do to gain her trust. “Nod your head if you can hear me.” Still the mysterious woman did nothing. “My name is Maria,” she continued, “and my friend Melody is here too.”
When the woman heard the name Melody, her head seemed to perk up.
“We were grabbed by these people from a house in Maryland,” she explained quietly. “We’re not sure what they’re going to do to us…”
The sounds of footsteps were heard from the hall. It was more than one person, and the noise was growing louder. Maria stopped talking, closed her eyes and began to pray.
Chapter 76
Island Industries satellite office, Reston, VA
THE MORNING SUN punched its way through the blinds and slowly worked its way down the wall toward the couch. Jack Turner was in a deep sleep when it reached him. He opened an eye with a squint and instinctively jerked his head away from the beam. He sat up and put his hands on his knees.
“Shit.” He tried to wipe away the morning grog with a head shake. “Addy? Hey, Addy?” He looked at his watch. “Motherfucker.”
Turner walked into Addy Simpson’s office, where Addy was slowly coming to life on the other couch.
“What? What is it?”
“It’s already eight in the goddamn morning.”
The two men looked at each other and shook their heads. Simpson took a deep breath and exhaled.
“I’m tellin’ ya, we’re too old for this shit, Addy,” Turner said. “You know what the aching feeling you have is? I’ll tell you what it is: it’s the twenty-five-year-old inside beating on the walls that have him trapped. He’s wondering what the fuck happened and how the hell he can get out.”
“I can’t remember the last time I slept past seven,” Simpson said, indirectly agreeing with his friend. He pulled his cell phone out of his pocket and checked the display. “You’ve got to be kidding me.” He read the text messages first and then punched in the code to listen to his voicemail. After listening to the message his expression turned to a grimace. “I turned the ringer off when we were in Poolesville and forgot to turn it back on.”
“Shit. Did we miss something?”
“You could say that. The mystery cell phone from the FBI site came online last night.”
Simpson shook his head in disbelief, and Turner mirrored his response.
“Yeah, tell me about it. They traced it to a place just down the road.”
“You’re kidding.”
Simpson gave him a hard look. “We’re like a couple of damn amateurs these days.”
Addy Simpson sat in silence for a moment and then explained that just after Turner had fallen asleep last night, he had placed a call to Matilde Soller. The conversation had a painful but expected outcome, the sort of emotion that can only be conjured up when delivering bad news to a loved one. He explained that he had left out the details of what they had found at the house in Poolesville, telling his friend that he was afraid that would have been too much for her broken heart to take.
Turner and Simpson both had been up against worse odds through the years, and neither man was about to give up now. Jack Turner sensed a mixture of guilt, anger, and pain, and knew that being sloppy and missing the crucial communication had hit Simpson hard. It may well have been too late for young Maria Soller, but they needed to do what a good soldier did best: compartmentalize the emotion and focus on the job at hand.
“You know you’re right,” Simpson said.
Turner raised an eyebrow. “About what?”
“I’m too close to this…to the point where I’m making mistakes.”
“Yeah, well, it happens—”
“Let’s not sugarcoat it, Jack. I could very well have gotten you killed last night.”
“But you didn’t.”
Simpson shook his head. “Now we’ve missed out on a lead that could have broken this wide open.” He continued to shake his head, this time it was with guilt. “And maybe even led us to Maria,” he said, the sadness evident in his voice.
“Look, we don’t have many options right now,” Jack Turner said as he sat down in one of the chairs. “We’re doing the best that we can. Most of our guys are out of the country. It’s not like we have an army of operatives. Feeling sorry for yourself isn’t going to help matters,” he said flatly.
“Have you spoken to Trent?” Simpson asked, and noted the surprise on Jack’s face. “What I mean is, can you get in touch with him?”
Turner was clearly uncomfortable.
“Okay, look,” Simpson said, “don’t even answer that. If you can get in touch with him somehow, do it. We need him.”
Turner furrowed his brow but remained silent.
“If I’ve learned anything since yesterday, it’s how I would react to a situation similar to what happened with him and Ryan.” Addy locked eyes with his friend and hid nothing behind them. “I get it. I could have handled things better. I could have been more supportive, understanding. I’m the one who signed up for the risk, despite the good doctor’s recommendation not to bring a twin into the program. And you’re right.” His expression darkened. He bowed his head in thought for a moment before returning to his friend. “Feeling sorry for myself is stupid, I should know better than that.”
They were the leaders of one of the most formidable paramilitary teams in the world. As much as the training served to prepare them for the horrors this world had to offer, at the end of the day they were all still human.
“I’ll see what I can do about Trent,” Turner said. “Now let’s get over to that site and see if we can find anything.”
Chapter 77
FBI Headquarters, Washington, DC
FRANK CULDER HAD slept very little. His eye was on the prize, and the thrill of a power grab provided enough of a buzz to top off his energy levels. Normally he wouldn’t come into the office on a Sunday morning, but he had some loose ends to tie up before taking a trip to Chicago. His men had spent the night in the bureau’s private hangar at Frederick Municipal Airport and were planning to pick up the director at Reagan National with the jet when he was ready.
His technology lab had delivered the expected news. The hard drive in the computer taken from Maximillian Soller II’s car was useless; the techs weren’t able to retrieve any data. The lab also confirmed that the other device the forensics team retrieved from the scene had been assembled by Francis Millar. His fingerprints were found on the inside of the system’s chassis. They explained that the device was used to find wireless networks. The system would automatically connect to open wireless networks and scan for vulnerable computers. It was also programmed to exploit known hacks into any secure wireless networks it encountered.
Culder’s patience was growing thin as he waited for a call. When his cell phone finally did come to life, he didn’t recognize the caller.
“Culder,” he answered.
“Director Culder, this is Bart Stapleton calling.”
He recognized the name but couldn’t connect a face or title. “Bart Stapleton?”
�
�Yes. That’s right. Senator Soller said I should give you a call. He told me you might be able to help me out with a little problem.”
Culder considered how much easier life would be once Soller stopped cashing favors in all the time. He still wasn’t sure who the caller was, so he pulled a browser up on his computer and searched for the name. He was surprised.
“Sure, Mr. Chairman. What can I do to help?”
“Please, call me Bart.”
“Okay. What can I do to help, Bart?”
“To be blunt, I want you to help me crucify someone.”
The director was put off by the comment, until his eyes drifted to the requisite portrait of President Vincent Cross that was hung on his office wall. He smiled. “I see.”
“Rumor has it there’s a particular Island he enjoys. A place that makes the legendary Alcatraz look tame. If the public were to get wind that he’s connected to a group of hoodlums, I think our friends in the media could do something with that.”
There was history between Cross and Culder, and it wasn’t pretty. The president had become aware of an attempt by the FBI director to pry into his private life. The action was done at Senator Soller’s request and, in so many words, the president reminded Culder that J. Edgar Hoover was long dead, and that it wouldn’t be wise to try to follow in his footsteps.
The director was amazed at the president’s reach. He still hadn’t figured out who the mole at the bureau was, but it was only a matter of time before he did. Cross was a man he would happily bring down, given the chance. His thoughts returned to the call he was expecting, and he decided he would take advantage of the opportunity.
“You know, I think there might be a little birdie on that Island that will sing for us.”
“Splendid,” Stapleton said. “I have an important meeting, but I will get back to you directly. If that birdie needs a little incentive to make its music, that is something that can be arranged.”
