He closed the door behind him and walked to where General Olatov sat behind a large desk which was undecorated but for a laptop computer and a framed photograph of the general’s wife and two children. Craggy, white–haired and with his uniform hanging off his wiry frame, the general looked as though he should have retired a decade previously. Mishkin realized he probably would have if not for the president’s reliance on an “old guard” to prop up his dreams of a return to former Soviet glory.
‘Sit down, colonel.’
No welcome, no preamble, just as Mishkin preferred. He sat down and waited in silence to be ordered to speak.
‘You have news of our operations in Aleppo?’
Mishkin replied in crisp, no–nonsense tones, using as few words as possible.
‘The Syrian government is making strides against the rebel factions besieging the city, and it is likely that with our continued airstrikes we will break the siege and retake the city within days.’
‘How much does the international community know?’
Mishkin knew what the general was referring to. The use of chlorine gas in Saqareb and other weapons banned by the Geneva Convention in retaliation for Russian losses in the region were political hot–points that he knew the GRU could not afford to be brought to account for.
‘Not enough for the people of the world to care enough,’ he replied.
The general smiled, the phrase a popular one in the GRU. Although world media sought often to demonize Russia for her actions, they did not do nearly enough to elaborate on the corruption that blighted all western governments. In his time at the GRU, Mishkin had learned that the US Government had virtually created Al–Queda through CIA operations in Afghanistan during the Afghan–Russian war of the 1980s. Arming the aggressive Afghan Mujahideen to fight Russian troops, the natives had rebelled when the US withdrew support from them when the war ended, their future leader Osama bin–Laden taking over the financial leadership when he joined them and forming the terrorist group a few years later to unite the tribally fragmented Mujahideen. Likewise, Mishkin knew that US Presidents had close ties to major corporations that had funded Al–Queda, but when journalists got too close to the truth they mysteriously suffered from fatal “accidents” in homicides every bit as ruthless as any carried out by the GRU or even the KGB back in the Cold War.
‘Maintaining an ally in the Syrian leadership is essential to bulwark against American expansion in the Middle East theatre,’ the general said. ‘As long as the government stands, our mission is a success. Now, what of the other mission?’
Mishkin felt his anxiety rise up again.
‘It continues but is under pressure from rebel activity and interest from US Government agencies.’
‘Which agencies?’
‘DIA,’ Mishkin replied. ‘We have intercepted communications that suggest American agents intend to deploy in or near Syria with the intention of disrupting or exposing our experiments. The presence of American Special Forces teams in the area training rebel forces is already well known, although of course disputed by the White House.’
The general’s cold gray eyes peered up at Mishkin. ‘Names?’
Mishkin had memorized the names of their foes upon first reading of them and their history of operations within the DIA.
‘Warner, Ethan, and Lopez, Nicola. Both are civilian contractors.’
The general snorted derisively. ‘Civilians,’ he uttered, as though it were a curse. ‘They entrust their foreign missions to gumshoes and bail hunters.’
‘You know these people?’ Mishkin asked.
The general reached across to a folder that he opened, and Mishkin saw an image of a man he recognized instantly.
‘This was Yuri Volkov,’ the general said, ‘a Russian billionaire who did more to expose the inner workings of the DIA before his death than almost any Russian before him. He was of course a traitor to the Motherland, more interested in his own fortune and power than that of our country.’
Mishkin felt a little of the old anger return at the general’s words, his shoulders tensing and his fists clenching where they rested on his knees. Mishkin’s parents, honest folk who had toiled the fields north of Saransk, had been the first to suffer when Gorbachev’s Glasnost and Perestroika had struck at the heart of the former Soviet Union. The economic collapse of the one of the most powerful countries on earth had sent shockwaves throughout the world, and the political turmoil that followed in Russia had seen a near famine in many remote regions of the country far from the assistance of the government. Mishkin’s dear parents had both died within three years of the so–called “economic reforms” that had destroyed so many other countries around the world as capitalist consumerism spread its greedy wings. The great glory of the Soviet empire was now just a memory to all but a few loyal souls in the Kremlin, led by their iron–willed president.
‘It was our own traitors who brought down the Motherland, for the enemy were too weak,’ Mishkin said.
The general nodded, his expression somber. ‘None the less, Volkov’s work exposed much of the DIA’s mission.’
‘Which is?’
‘Which is connected to our work in Syria,’ the general replied. ‘I take it that you have read the files concerning Operation Orakul?’
‘I have,’ Mishkin replied, squirming slightly in his seat, ‘although I must confess that I do not understand its purpose.’
‘That I sympathize with, colonel,’ the general said, ‘but it is essential that the operation be able to complete its objectives beyond prying eyes, and a theatre such as Syria provides us both with subjects and a location difficult for western media to penetrate. The reluctance of the west to openly engage militarily in Syria further plays into our hands.’
Mishkin decided to push his luck a little. ‘May I ask: what is the objective of Operation Orakul?’
The general stared straight at Mishkin and for a moment he thought that he had gone too far, but instead the general spoke frankly.
‘The GRU believes that a select number of people may possess an ability to see events deep in the human past, and perhaps a limited ability to predict the future.’
Mishkin stared at the general for a long moment as he considered his reply. He knew better than to scoff, for this was an operation that was clearly important enough for the general to have signed off on it, but even so…
‘Have we had any confirmed results yet?’
Mishkin added the “yet” as a sign of willingness to go along with whatever the general had in mind, and it seemed to appease the old man.
‘Yes, actionable intelligence that has allowed the Syrian army a small number of recent victories in their battle for Aleppo and the protection of our proposed trans Syrian gas lines. It is early days, but the project has sufficient value for us to support it in Homs.’
‘Why Homs?’
‘The city is uniquely placed to intercept Syrian refugees fleeing the conflict further north,’ the general replied, and then appeared to have a clairvoyant experience himself as he answered Mishkin’s next question. ‘Refugees are necessary as we require the subjects chosen for the experiments to be, how can I say it, troubled?’
Mishkin nodded, not really understanding but willing to simply go along with the general for now.
‘How may I be of service?’
The general smiled briefly, his lips forming what looked like a crack in concrete.
‘You will travel to Homs and transport the most capable of the oracles out of the city. There is more to what they have seen than we could have hoped, and if their visions are to be believed, then a grand prize may await us.’
Mishkin waited for further information, and the general did not disappoint as he passed the Colonel a simple, hand drawn image. It was crafted with shaky lines, as though drawn by a tired child, but the image before Mishkin was unmistakeable: a box, almost square, with carrying rods at its base and winged cherubim on its top, facing each other and their wings touching.
‘They have,’ Olatov confirmed, ‘more than once, and they fear their visions greatly. If we were able to obtain this artefact, colonel…’
Mishkin nodded, needing no elaboration. If the myths were in fact true, the legends actual historical record…, then it would not just be Russia who would be searching for such a prize.
‘The American agents have a long history of interfering, successfully, with major operations. It says in the files that they may have been responsible for exposing and destroying Majestic Twelve?’
The general nodded.
‘We have intelligence suggesting that the DIA was involved in that operation. Furthermore, we also understand from a number of Russian billionaires who had dealings with the cabal of Majestic Twelve that the billions of dollars recovered by the United States Government from the cabal after its collapse was only a fraction of its actual worth. We cannot be sure, but it would appear that some members of the DIA absconded with the bulk of the money and that the DIA is understandably keen to recover such vast sums.’ The general leaned forward on his desk. ‘I too would be keen to see that money recovered for the benefit of the Motherland, along with the artefact. Any officer who achieved such a goal for the GRU would be rewarded.’
For the first time since entering the room, Mishkin smiled. The old general truly was one of the old guard, and willing to bend a rule or two for his own gain rather than see a fortune go entirely to waste in the Kremlin’s coffers.
‘I take it that this meeting did not occur, general?’
‘You have been despatched to Homs to oversee and complete Operation Orakul, Colonel,’ the general smiled, ‘nothing more.’
‘Will I have support?’
‘Everything that I can reasonably provide you with, without arousing any suspicions. You will be ably assisted by a former Spetsnaz operative by the name of Gregorie Petrov, who is awaiting you outside. I think you will find him a suitable choice.’
Colonel Mishkin stood, fresh and invigorated as he realized that he would not be sitting at a desk any longer.
‘And the agents of the DIA, Warner and Lopez? They may be willing to fight for their own mission.’
‘They are civilians,’ the general replied, ‘expendable to their government and an irritation to our own. If you find them, follow them until you have extracted all that you can about their mission. Then, kill them.’
Colonel Mishkin saluted the general vigorously and then whirled on one heel and marched from the office, barely able to conceal the smile on his features. He opened the door and walked out, closed it behind him, and then turned to find himself face to face with a broad barrel chest.
Gregorie Petrov stood to attention before Mishkin, all six feet five of him. Short–cropped blond hair, cold blue eyes, shoulders as wide as a harbor wall and an inscrutably emotionless expression on his face.
‘Gregorie,’ Mishkin said as he looked up at the towering man.
‘I am at your disposal, Colonel,’ Gregorie replied briskly, and then lowered his gaze to look directly into Mishkin’s eyes. ‘When do we begin the hunt?’
***
IX
Black Dragon Canyon, Utah
‘This is it.’
Lopez pointed out of the windshield of the Lincoln as Ethan pulled in to the narrow entrance to a gorge that sliced through the towering rock faces either side of the road. He eased to a stop before a line of police tape as a sheriff approached the vehicle and leaned down beside the window, his rugged features shielded from the blistering sun by his hat.
‘Warner and Lopez, Defense Intelligence Agency,’ Ethan announced to the sheriff.
‘And what brings you folks down here?’ the sheriff asked, peering at them with an expression of disdain. ‘You think we can’t figure out our own investigation?’
‘We’re not here for your investigation,’ Lopez replied curtly. ‘We’re here for ours and your superior officers were notified hours ago. You gonna lift that tape or am I gonna have your badge by sundown?’
The sheriff raised an eyebrow in alarm and backed away from the Lincoln, then waved to a companion. The tape obligingly lifted and Ethan eased his way through.
‘Locals don’t like us snooping around I guess,’ Lopez said as they drove through the canyon toward the site of the cult compound that Nellis had briefed them on before they departed Washington DC.
‘I don’t care about that,’ Ethan replied as he pulled over alongside a pair of Sheriff’s Department cruisers parked outside the smoldering remains of a large ranch. ‘I want to know what the hell we’re doing out here. If our enemy is in Russia or at the very least Syria, why would Nellis send us all the way out here?’
‘Beats me,’ Lopez replied as she got out of the car in time to be approached by a young sheriff, handsome and with a clean jaw and gray eyes.
‘Miss Lopez?’ he asked, clearly already knowing the answer.
‘Every bit of me,’ Lopez replied with a bright smile that Ethan suspected was more than a little flirtatious. ‘You must be Sergeant Robbie Dixon.’
Dixon shook their hands, Ethan judging the young trooper to be born and bred Utah, an all American boy who was somewhat out of his depth.
‘What’s the story?’ Ethan asked.
‘You haven’t been briefed?’
‘We have,’ Lopez replied, ‘but we want to hear it from your perspective, right from the beginning.’
Robbie nodded, took a breath and started talking. Ethan listened as the trooper explained the cult’s history in the area, the abduction of two young girls, the connection to one of the cult members and the subsequent raid on the building.
‘We came in through the front, with two teams in support at the rear and above on the mesas,’ Robbie explained. ‘Everything was going fine right up to the point when we got into the center of the building. There must have been an explosive device waiting to be tripped, or maybe one of the loonies in there was waiting to hit the button when we got close enough. Either way, the blast took out five men including our lieutenant.’
‘How come you got clear?’ Ethan asked.
‘Dumb luck,’ Robbie replied. ‘I was at the rear when I entered one of the side rooms and cleared it. There was a female hostage and one other woman who made a play for me with a knife. I took her down, told the other woman to stay put, and was advancing down the corridor after the rest of my team when I noticed the pictures.’
‘Pictures?’ Lopez asked.
‘Yeah,’ Robbie replied. ‘It’s gonna be easier to show you than tell you. The fire didn’t reach them so the images are mostly undamaged. Darn’est things I ever saw.’
Ethan and Lopez exchanged a glance as Robbie led them through more police cordons and into the remains of the building, and Ethan momentarily experienced the sensation that he was walking into the charred remains of hell itself. The air was thick with the stench of smoldering blackened timbers and ash, gray smoke rising in lazy coils from charred walls and collapsed roofing.
A few forensics teams were picking over the debris nearer the center of the building, much of which was also drenched in fire retardant foam, and Ethan could see where markers had been placed denoting the fallen officers whose lives had been claimed by the apocalyptic cult.
As he walked he saw a curved piece of metal half–buried in the ash to his right. Ethan moved across to it and pulled on a pair of latex gloves before he crouched down and pulled the metal from the ash.
The curved band was scorched black, but he could see melted wires dangling from it and other cables snaking away through the debris. Lopez moved to his side and looked at the device.
‘Trans Cranial Stimulator,’ she said as she identified it, ‘just like Hellerman showed us. What the hell were they doing here?’
‘Here,’ Robbie said, and gestured to a nearby wall.
Ethan moved across to him and could see that a small lamp had been placed in the corridor that now illum
inated the wall before them, and for a moment he felt as though he could have been standing in the pyramids or the Sphinx of ancient Egypt.
The wall was painted the color of old sandstone, and before them were emblazoned upon the wall endless lines of Egyptian hieroglyphs. Ethan was no historian but he recognized easily the stylized imagery, the shapes denoting letters and numbers, the images of Atum and other famed gods of Egyptian lore. What captured his attention were the ranks of Egyptians bowing or kneeling before the gods, arms raised toward them, and the brilliant depictions of the sun blazing above their heads.
‘What the hell is this doing here?’ Lopez asked Robbie. ‘Was this cult based on some kind of Egyptian worship?’
‘No,’ Robbie replied, ‘that’s why this caught my attention. The cult was apocalyptic in nature and based on the Old Testament, the lunatic fringe fire–and–brimstone Christianity. There is nothing in any of our records suggesting any connection to ancient Egypt. I would have put it down to just the madness of the members, or maybe drugs or something, but what happened next really freaked me out.’
‘What did happen next?’ Lopez asked.
‘I got to the center of the building after the blast, and although my team were already down and in the flames and I couldn’t reach them I could hear somebody calling for help. I made my way over and found a girl in a cage in a revetment in the wall. She’d escaped the blast, but would have burned if I’d left her there. The thing was, she was calling me by name.’
‘She knew you?’ Ethan asked.
‘Never saw her before in my life,’ Robbie replied. ‘I get her out of the cage and we make a dash for the rear entrance. The thing is, all the way she’s whispering warnings to me: turn left, turn right, get down. Every time I did what she said and it saved my life.’
‘How so?’ Lopez asked.
‘Because right after she warned me, something happened that would have killed us both,’ Robbie explained.
The Genesis Cypher (Warner & Lopez Book 6) Page 6
