by Jack Carr
“Make yourself at home and relax. The family is flying in tomorrow and Dad is throwing a big dinner party in your honor.”
“It will be great to see everyone.”
“Almost everyone. You remember my younger sister Hanna. She’s currently in Romania saving the world, but I think she’s planning to come home for Christmas.”
“It will be great to see her. And it gives me a few months to get into shape. As I remember, she was always doing those ultra-marathons.”
“She won the Grand Traverse a couple years ago, so you have a lot of work to do.”
“That’s no joke. I’ve always wanted to do that. Crested Butte to Aspen, right?”
“That’s right. Forty miles of ski-mountaineering over the Elk Mountain range.”
“You have to have a partner for that one. Who’d she race with?”
“Me,” Raife smiled. “And, if they didn’t remove your liver along with your brain tumor you might want to bring it, along with a spare. You know how my family is.”
“If I find an extra, I’ll be sure to bring it.”
“I’ll be at the shop if you need anything.”
“Hey Raife,” Reece called out as his friend walked toward his Land Rover.
“Yeah?”
“You might want to check the oil in that Defender. It’s been sitting there for a few minutes so it probably all leaked out.”
Raife turned and smiled to himself as he saluted his friend with his middle finger.
CHAPTER 2
Bangui, Central African Republic
ROMAN DOBRYNIN WAS NOT a man accustomed to waiting. Usually, just the opposite. People waited on him: subordinates, security personnel, even foreign dignitaries. He was the Russian president’s man in Africa, or at least in the Central African Republic. In his mid-fifties, he was a seasoned diplomat, having earned his stripes in the chaos that was Chechnya. He had proven himself to be an aggressive negotiator unafraid to threaten and then employ the darker arts of manipulation to achieve his, and Mother Russia’s, strategic goals. Technically a senior policy advisor in Russia’s Ministry of Foreign Affairs, he was their de facto senior man in the CAR. His official title was National Security Advisor to the President of the Central African Republic.
Russia was a power on the rise in Africa, and Dobrynin had counterparts in the Congo, Ethiopia, Guinea, Eritrea, and Mozambique. With France all but abandoning its former colony, Russia and China were quick to fill the void; arms deals, security training assistance, regional negotiations, lumber, diamonds, oil, gold, cobalt, and most important for Russia, uranium. Russia had vaguely disguised its intentions on the international stage, citing its involvement in the region beginning in 1964. Strategically located in the heart of the Dark Continent, the Central African Republic was the ideal hub from which Russia could move troops into neighboring countries while exploiting and exporting their natural resources. Dobrynin was there to ensure it was Russia, not China, that would control both the natural resources of this landlocked nation and, more important, their votes at the United Nations.
Though rich in raw materials, CAR was one of the ten poorest countries in the world. Its record of human rights violations including extrajudicial executions, torture, female genital mutilation, slavery, human trafficking, the sex trade, child labor, rape, and genocide made the country the perfect home for an outside power seeking to take advantage. It was a disenfranchised country ripe for exploitation.
The call had come from the chief staff officer of the general director himself, which meant it was one of the few calls Dobrynin had to take. It was made clear that his guest was to be granted every professional courtesy and that he was coming in at the behest of the president. In Russia the lines between official, unofficial, and private blurred to the point of virtual invisibility. This visit had all the trappings of the latter. Dobrynin knew that as deputy director of Directorate S in the Russian Foreign Intelligence Service, Aleksandr Zharkov could be coming to CAR for a variety of reasons. He also knew the Zharkov name and, much more than the call he’d received from his own high command, that was reason alone to accommodate the intelligence officer. Dobrynin wanted to keep his head attached to his body. One did not offend a Pakhan in the Russian Bratva and expect to stay aboveground for long.
Dobrynin watched the monstrous Antonov AN-225 circle the airfield and begin its final approach. He remained in his vehicle until the aircraft had touched down and taxied to the Russian-controlled side of the airport before disembarking the armored and air-conditioned Toyota Hilux. Straightening the tie on his Armani suit, he walked forward to meet his guest.
* * *
Deputy Director Zharkov waited patiently as the aircraft hinged just behind the cockpit, pulling the entire nose of the massive plane skyward. It stopped when it reached ninety degrees, leaving the fuselage open to the elements. Most planes have cargo ramps in the aft but the AN-225 has just the opposite. The nose gear slowly lowered the open beast to the ground, a unique design feature that allowed the largest aircraft in the world to load a staggering amount of cargo. A blast of heat off the tarmac nearly took his breath away, a clear indicator that he was no longer in Moscow; its intensity carried the distinctive smell of conflict. His mind raced with possibilities.
Scanning the tarmac, he saw a four-vehicle convoy of trucks surrounded by a perimeter of armed security. Spetsnaz. They had once been feared the world over as the premier special operations force of the former Soviet Union, based on what was touted as the toughest training ever devised by a modern military and because of their actions, the West would say atrocities, in Afghanistan in the 1980s. They had now been relegated to protection duties for those who wanted to be surrounded by the myth that was spetsnaz.
A man in a crisp black suit walked toward him flanked by two men from his security detail carrying AKM rifles.
“Director Zharkov, I am…”
“Roman Dobrynin,” the deputy director completed the sentence for him. “It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance. Thank you for taking the time to meet me. I am sure you have pressing matters that require your attention. I have heard glowing reports of your progress here as national security advisor, advancing Russia’s interest in the region.”
“It is an honor to be of assistance,” Dobrynin countered, his eyes moving up to the large airframe and then back to his visitor. “Are you alone, Director Zharkov?”
“Da,” Zharkov confirmed with a wave of his hand, as if there were nothing odd about him being the single passenger on the heaviest airplane ever built. With a quarter-million kilograms of payload capacity, the plane had completed its fourteen-hour flight from Moscow to the middle of the African continent and successfully inserted the senior intelligence official into the heart of darkness.
“No security detail?” Dobrynin asked, looking back to the plane.
“I prefer to travel light and without the trappings of my position that could draw undue attention.”
Zharkov was dressed comfortably in brown pants and a beige safari shirt with the sleeves rolled up, a canvas pack slung over his shoulder.
“Besides, with your clout and control in the area I knew you would have security arrangements taken care of.”
“Of course, Director. Shall we?” Dobrynin motioned toward the waiting vehicles, struggling to decipher if the director’s words were a compliment, a warning, or simply condescending.
Zharkov nodded. “I understand you were briefed on my requests?”
“Da, we will take you to the hotel now and tomorrow we will go to the mines.”
* * *
Zharkov took in the sights of the bustling city, politely listening to Dobrynin drone on about his most recent diplomatic victories. A five-thousand-man force of Russian military and contracted advisors were in the country training the CAR special operations forces on the finer points of counterinsurgency. Zharkov correctly assumed that meant a systematic campaign of terror aimed at keeping the dissidents in check and ensuring the current pr
esident remained in power and friendly to Russian interests in the country.
At each stoplight, the cars were swarmed by children, arms outstretched, their faces hopeful for a coin or a piece of candy. Traffic was at its usual stop-and-go, broken-down vehicles impeding their progress as scooters buzzed past like the swarms of insects that infested the nearby jungle. It was a country on its last breaths.
Just outside the hotel, a small convoy of taxis lingered, each flying a small Russian flag on the front bumper, waiting eagerly for the opportunity to ferry guests to and from the airport. At the approach of the convoy, the Hotel Ledger’s guarded gates opened, and the depravity of the streets was left in the dust. The driveway curved up to the entrance, and the outside world was forgotten. Old-world opulence, no doubt a vestige of the French colonial days, permeated every aspect of Bangui’s finest hotel; abundant marble and ornate tapestry were accented by rich African wood polished to perfection, its gold inlay reflecting the late afternoon light.
“My men will show you to your room. I trust you will find your accommodations acceptable. Will dinner in two hours be convenient?”
“That will be fine, thank you,” Zharkov nodded politely and proceeded to the elevator to the penthouse suite, two spetsnaz and one bellhop in tow. As they arrived at the double suite doors, his new security halted him on the outside.
“Just a moment, sir.”
“Open it,” one commanded the bellhop.
They entered the six-thousand-square-foot suite guns raised, then performed a sweep of every corner before pronouncing it safe to enter.
Zharkov walked in and was not surprised to see two young girls who couldn’t have been more than fifteen in thin white linen dresses standing obediently by the king-size bed. This was Africa. He eyeballed their lean, underfed bodies, dark skin a sensual contrast to their scant dresses. A bottle of vintage 1987 Dom Pérignon and fresh strawberries covered with chocolate were set at the table. He set his pack down and poured a glass of the cold sparkling wine, savoring the taste, and glanced at the agenda sitting on the table.
He looked back to the girls and was tempted, watching them shift nervously, fear radiating from their not-yet-vacant eyes. They still held a glimmer of hope.
He shook his head toward the door, “Ukhady,” he said. “Von,” the Russian said again, more firmly when they remained motionless.
Not knowing a word of Russian, the girls stood there unsure of what to do. Zharkov pointed to the door.
“Out!” he said, this time in English, pointing at the door.
Understanding the international language of tone and gesture, the two girls made their way slowly past him, still unsure of what they should do and beginning to worry they had somehow upset the man they had been told to obey and pleasure. Opening the door for them, he told his new security detail he did not want to be interrupted until dinner.
He’d been through enough prostitutes in this part of the world in his younger days and he needed to stay healthy; his mind was on his mission.
CHAPTER 3
Akyan Hotel, Saint Petersburg, Russia
TO IVAN ZHARKOV, INFORMATION was everything. It had been information, and his willingness to exploit it at all costs, that had led to his position of power in the Bratva, the Brotherhood, known to the rest of the world as the Russian mafia. His consolidation of St. Petersburg’s Tambov Gang was the result of well-timed intelligence, brought to him by his eldest son, Aleksandr. Some even thought that, through Aleksandr, Ivan may have organized the arrests in Spain that took out the powerful gang’s former leadership, though no one dared whisper such a thing. Ivan was the Vor v Zakone. No one, not even the government in Moscow, would cross him.
It was Ivan’s lust for information that persuaded him to send an emissary to Argentina, where a CIA officer was offering him valuable intelligence. That job fell to Dimitry Mashkov, a trusted bratok who had interrogated enough Chechens during his days as a paratrooper in the 104th Guards Airborne Regiment to know when a man was lying. If he could break a fanatical Muslim, stay alive in Kresty Prison, and take out members of the rival Solntsevskaya Gang, he was confident he could discern if some American desk officer was the genuine article.
Dimitry spent three days interrogating the American in a Cordoba farmhouse and was convinced he was being truthful. Such an asset would be invaluable to Zharkov’s operations. The trick was getting him from Argentina to Russia, which meant airports and customs officials. Via his son, Aleksandr, the elder Zharkov had the appropriate influence to provide the man with a clean passport, but he would still have to traverse a series of international airports. These days, ever-present surveillance cameras using facial recognition technology made clandestine travel problematic.
Luckily, Zharkov’s friends in the South American drug trade were the best in the world when it came to moving contraband; they ultimately provided the solution. The former spy was moved overland from his Argentine hideout to Caracas, where the failing government was ripe with corruption. For a staggeringly low sum, he was shepherded through the airport’s already lax security and loaded onto a Havana flight without incident. From José Martí in Cuba, it was a direct flight to Moscow on an Aeroflot SU-151, an unremarkable event for a man carrying a legitimate passport of the Russian Federation. Aleksandr was able to smooth things over at Sheremetyevo, one of Moscow’s four international airports, and the man had been delivered to Ivan just a few hours and a quick domestic flight later.
The CIA man was now parked in a hotel suite, waiting impatiently for what was, effectively, a job interview.
* * *
Oliver Grey looked at his watch, the iconic dive instrument that had influenced a thousand knockoffs. The stainless steel case and bracelet were worn and scored by a hard lifetime’s worth of use, though they had accrued before Grey took possession. The acrylic crystal was burnished by time and the bezel and face were faded from months in the sun, a standing testament to the original owner’s vocation. Behind the battered exterior, though, the hands of the precision Swiss instrument swept on unscathed.
He knew that the watch was a Rolex Submariner, and that its former owner was the late Thomas Reece. What he did not know was that Tom Reece purchased it on R&R in Saigon during his first tour in Vietnam with SEAL Team Two. He’d worn it on hundreds of ops both as a frogman and an intelligence officer, and had planned on passing it to his son, James, when the time was right.
He never got the chance. Grey had planned his demise, outwitting the legendary CIA case officer who was far past his prime, sticking his nose where it didn’t belong when he should have been fishing or playing golf or whatever it is that retired spooks do with their free time. Grey had used the watch’s absence to make the murder appear to be the result of a simple mugging in a South American city well acquainted with that brand of violence. Grey hadn’t killed him with his own hands. He’d instead used his Cajun pit bull Jules Landry, who had brought him the watch as a trophy, eager to please his new boss. That was fifteen years ago. Now Landry was dead, castrated and left to bleed out on a dirty floor in northern Iraq. Grey had no illusions as to where his future was headed. He knew he was firmly in James Reece’s sights and, if he hoped to survive, he was going to have to strike soon, before the frogman had a chance to track him down.
He will come for me and that Syrian sniper, Nizar, who put a round through his SEAL friend.
Grey had read all about it in the papers, how two Americans had thwarted the assassination of the U.S. president in Ukraine and saved Odessa from a chemical weapon attack at the last moment. The coup orchestrated by the late Vasili Andrenov, Grey’s Russian handler, had ended in failure. Reece had been unsuccessful in saving the Russian president, and Senior Chief Freddy Strain had been killed in the attempt.
He needed to outthink James Reece before the SEAL could track him down and put a bullet in his head, or worse. Grey had no illusions about the true reason James Reece was currently in the employ of the CIA; he needed their resources to find hi
s friend’s killer. Since his former employer and the closest thing to a father Grey had ever known had been sent to a fiery grave, killed by one of the countless weapons with which he’d sown the seeds of revolution around the globe, Grey was now a rōnin. He needed a new master. Grey was sure that Tom Reece’s son had been involved in Vasili Andrenov’s assassination and he knew he was next on Reece’s list.
Grey had endured the brutal questioning from the criminal called Dimitry as well as the excruciating overland trip taking him nearly the length of the South American continent, both only made bearable by the sweet tobacco he packed into his old billiard pipe. Add in the international flights on aging aircraft serving cheap booze, and Grey was in rough shape. They hadn’t even offered him a coffee. An accountant by trade, he sought order in life, and that order was severely lacking at present. The watch was the only thing that had kept him sane, its hands moving steadily and predictably as his world became anything but. The irony was that the time wasn’t even correct. He hadn’t changed it since he’d left Buenos Aires.
Grey was not an imposing figure, and the travel had done nothing to improve his bearing. His beard needed trimming and had turned nearly snow white over the past few months. He wore a sweat-stained wool fedora over his cap of thinning hair, and his tweed coat was badly in need of washing. He hadn’t been able to bathe since he’d left Venezuela and looked like a disheveled university professor, wearing a bitter halo of stale sweat and metabolized vodka. His appearance was in stark contrast to the spacious and orderly hotel suite. It was known as the White Suite, thanks to the snowy fabric that covered its luxurious furniture. A large freestanding bathtub sat just feet from the rounded bed on a waxed parquet floor. What he would give for a warm bath and some sleep!
His escort hadn’t said a word, but had motioned for him to sit in a chair padded in white leather that faced a comfortable-looking love seat against the suite’s wall. He was near the balcony and had a marvelous view of the Tsentralny District. Though mentally exhausted, he took comfort from being in the land of his ancestry. His plan had been to rise alongside his mentor, Colonel Vasili Andrenov, the right hand of the returning leader. Instead, because of James Reece, he was here to beg for a job from a criminal.
