by David Archer
Molly suddenly locked her eyes on Allison’s. “A plane crash is possible,” she said, “but it would be extremely difficult to make it happen in such a way that the wreckage and bodies couldn’t be recovered. We could try a car crash, with fire and explosions, but it's virtually impossible to destroy all the DNA and prevent identification with the limited kind of heat that would generate. Besides, not being able to retrieve any DNA at all from the bodies might seem suspicious. I think most governments would automatically assume there was something fishy about it, don’t you?”
“I would have to agree,” Jefferson said. “The problem is that I can’t think of another scenario that might work.” He turned to Molly. “You?”
“Oh, I can think of a few. Have their car crash into a tanker truck full of diesel fuel; that would create a fire hot enough to destroy DNA, at least to the point that it can’t be used to confirm identity. Same for a jet plane crash, which would be plenty hot enough from the fuel exploding. The trick is to get them out alive without anyone seeing it.”
“What do you mean?” Allison asked. “Surely they wouldn’t be in the crash, right? That would defeat the purpose.”
“Of course we don’t want them to be in the crash,” Molly said. “At the same time, it's necessary for witnesses to be absolutely certain that they are. There’s got to be incontrovertible evidence that the family was present in the explosion or fire, that's the only way to circumvent the problem of nonviable DNA. I'm sure Wally’s people could come up with an idea.”
Allison turned to Jefferson. “Donald, what do you think?”
He shrugged. “I'm sure we could arrange some kind of a fire,” he said. “But even if we're certain DNA will be destroyed, wouldn’t we still need some sort of corpses?”
“Yes, there would have to be bodies,” Molly said. “Fire would leave pieces of bone and teeth, but even so, there shouldn’t be any viable DNA. Anything over about four hundred and fifty degrees Fahrenheit will completely destroy DNA beyond any possibility of identification. As long as any bodies that are recovered match gender and size, and if we can produce witnesses to the event, there shouldn’t be very much doubt that the family is dead.”
Allison leaned back in her chair and chewed on her bottom lip for a moment, then nodded. “All right,” she said at last, “let’s work up a plan. We need to create a scenario that will leave no doubt the family is dead, and some way to get them out of the country and onto American soil. Molly, I'm going to put you in charge of planning. You'll be working with Team Cinderella on this, so prepare yourself for Jenny and her particular idiosyncrasies.”
Molly smiled. “I've actually gotten to know her a little bit,” she said. “I think she might be perfectly suited to this mission. Of course, you do realize we're going to have to produce the requisite corpses. Is there any particular way you want us to handle that?”
“Well,” Allison said with a suspicious grin, “we don’t want to go killing off innocent people. I might suggest you talk to Wally. He should be able to provide whatever you need in that regard.”
Molly’s eyebrows shot upward. “Corpses? He actually has corpses?”
“We collect quite a number of them, because occasionally we need one for a purpose like this. However, we also have bodies that are physically alive even though they're completely brain-dead. They can be kept that way all the way to moments before the death event, so there’s no discrepancy that might indicate they were physically dead prior to that event.”
Molly stared at her for a moment. “Wow,” she said after a few seconds. “Gruesome but cool.”
She turned and left Allison’s office and went to her own, just down the hall. She shut the door behind her and sat down at her desk, then picked up her phone and dialed out to R&D.
“Lawson Research Group,” said a cheerful receptionist. “How may I direct your call?” The ruse was just in case of an actual wrong number, but Molly had been expecting it.
“Molly Hansen calling for Wally Lawson,” she said. Her name was one that every staff member at R&D was familiar with.
“Just a moment, please,” said the woman. Soft rock music began to play and then Wally came on the line.
“Molly? Hey, girl, how are you?” Wally asked.
“I'm doing okay, Gruesome. How have you been?”
“Me? I'm awesome, just doing my daily mad scientist routine. What can I do for you?”
“I've got to plan the extraction of a family that's going to be defecting from Russia,” Molly said. “It's going to be necessary to make the Russian government believe the entire family has died. Allison said that I should talk to you about how to provide bodies. I'm thinking that we're going to need to burn them, to destroy any viable DNA. Any suggestions?”
“Oh, wow, that's a good one,” Wally said, and Molly stifled a giggle. Wally often sounded like a child getting ready to open a Christmas present when he was presented with a new conundrum. “What about switching the DNA of the family? In any relevant databases, I mean? Any possibilities there?”
“Hmm, I have my doubts. The father is apparently a high-ranking Russian official, so it's safe to assume they’ve got DNA records on file that we wouldn’t be able to touch.”
“Oh, too bad,” Wally said. “Well, what about medical records? Can we get hold of those? If there’s any previous surgeries that could be identifying, they can be a problem. If you can get them for me, though, I can produce bodies that would be so close any discrepancy would probably be ignored.”
“We've got them, and a ton of other information about them. I can tell you what brand of makeup his wife wears, and that his daughter, who is only fifteen, is already using birth control.”
“Oh, excellent. Of course, we’ll only provide the bodies as an exercise in caution. The best way to handle this is to kill them all off in a situation that makes recovering the bodies pretty much impossible, anyway. I can think of a few different ways to do that without resorting to fire. Fire, believe it or not, would probably raise more suspicions than it could possibly alleviate, simply because the DNA would be destroyed, like you said. I'm thinking that we need to let dozens, maybe hundreds of witnesses see the family in an obviously fatal situation, but make it essentially impossible to recover enough remains for DNA retrieval.”
“Ooh, sounds diabolical. How would we pull that off?”
“These are Russians, you say? How many in the family?”
“Four,” Molly replied. “Parents and two teenage kids, a boy and a girl.”
“Good. Russians like the water. It shouldn’t be too hard for high-ranking officials to get a week’s vacation around this time, because they celebrate Victory Day next week. You'll want to get them onto a yacht, maybe a sailboat, even. I would suggest Vladivostok this time of year; there’s a lot of people who go there to get in some sailing, but the place isn’t really tourist friendly. What you want is to make sure the boat the family is on goes down in the middle of a lot of other boats, maybe with an explosion and fire to cap it off, but within sight of at least a few other boats, or some of the ships that are always going in and out of port.”
“Ew,” Molly said. “But what if the fire goes out before the bodies are burned enough? It could be obvious it wasn’t them, or it could be that they pull DNA out that proves it isn’t.”
“Oh, but there won’t be any bodies,” Wally replied. “Sharks, girly. In the last few years, the waters around Vladivostok have become known for sharks, and there have been a lot of recorded shark attacks. You make sure there are plenty of sharks around and nobody’s going to expect to find any bodies at all. That's why you want witnesses, of course.”
Molly shook her head in confusion. “Wait a minute,” she said. “You're saying that I should put them on a boat and let it sink with a school of sharks swimming around. Wally, how am I supposed to accomplish that?”
“Commander Lester Flanagan,” Wally said. “Les is my opposite number in the Navy. Works with naval intelligence, he devises g
izmos and gadgets for them, and we often swap ideas. I can connect you, and Allison has the authority to commandeer any of their assets in support of a mission. He has got Big Willie.”
Molly blinked. “I know I'm going to regret asking, but who is Big Willie?”
“Willie is not a who, it's a what, although there’s actually five of them. Big Willie is a stealth submarine designed to look and move like a blue whale. It's a masterpiece of robotics, and it even returns a sonar signature that's identical to that of a living blue whale. Blue whales are very common in that area around Vladivostok, so nobody’s going to be surprised to see one. Your defecting family can be sealed into canisters and dropped overboard, and Big Willie can pick them up. Then the yacht goes boom and sinks, the bodies float to the surface and the sharks go into a feeding frenzy—Big Willie can be dumping chum into the water to draw the sharks, then release the corpses in the middle of their feast—and everything’s done. Dozens of shocked people on nearby boats or ships can testify to the fact that the sharks were having a smorgasbord on the family, and your people are home free.”
Molly’s mouth opened and closed two or three times before she managed to speak. “Wally, are you serious? There really is such a thing as Big Willie?”
“Oh, yes,” Wally said. “Some of his software was actually developed right here. Les and I always help each other out when we can.”
“Okay, but what about risk? We're talking about bringing in a Russian defector. What happens if he decides to go back to Russia one day and tells the Kremlin about Big Willie? I mean, it's gotta be top-secret, right?”
“That's why you put your people into the canisters. They're sealed in, they can’t see or hear anything outside. They get dropped over the side or out the bottom of the yacht, and then Big Willie swims by and opens his mouth. Once they're all inside, Willie swims back to his mother, which looks for all the world like a container ship. He gets taken in through the big hatch in the bottom, crewmen remove the canisters and carry them up into one of the containers that's set up like a living area. They let them out of the canisters but lock them into the container, so nobody knows they're even there. When it gets back to the U.S., it's offloaded onto a truck and disappears onto the highway. All they have to do is sit around and watch movies or play video games for about two weeks, and then their new lives begin.”
Molly’s eyes were wide but she was smiling. “Wally, how soon can you confirm that Willie is available? This actually sounds like it could work, and it's crazy enough nobody would ever figure it out.”
“Hang on a minute,” Wally said. He put Molly on hold and was gone for almost five minutes, then came back with a chuckle. “You couldn’t be any more lucky if you were a four-leaf clover. Big Willie three can be at Vladivostok within a week. His mother ship, the Hyperion, carries lots of different cargo that can go just about anywhere. Les can modify a few shipping documents and deliver fifty containers of rolled steel for the Russian auto manufacturers there. It will take the ship about two days to clear port, and then you could stage your little accident while the Hyperion is heading out.”
“Wally, you're awesome! Let me get back to you, but I think this might work.”
Molly called Allison and asked if she could come right down to discuss a possible plan, and Allison invited her to lunch, instead. The two of them met down in the parking garage and Allison drove them to the Assassin’s Club, where they could discuss sensitive information while they ate.
Once they were seated and their orders placed, Molly went over the plan Wally had come up with. Allison nodded in all the right places, raised her eyebrows a couple of times and finally gave Molly her blessing.
“It sounds like it ought to work,” Allison said. “I'll put in a request for assistance from the Navy as soon as I get back to my office, and you can start working the plan up today. As soon as we confirm the availability of the Hyperion and Willie, you can begin briefing Team Cinderella.”
* * * * *
“How do you feel about sailing?” John Wilkerson, once again in disguise, asked his passenger. John was driving a taxi cab, and his passenger was Anton Kalashnikov.
Kalashnikov looked into the rearview mirror, focusing on the driver’s eyes. “I find it enjoyable,” he said. “Of course, I don’t get to do as much of it as I would like. My work keeps me very busy.”
John shrugged, trying to affect an air of nonchalance. “That's too bad,” he said. “I understand there’s quite an experience next week near Vladivostok. I've a cousin who would be happy to rent you his yacht. Let me give you his card.”
He pulled a small envelope from his pocket and passed it back to Kalashnikov. Inside, there was a business card for a small yacht rental service in Vladivostok, along with a miniature electronic tablet with a two-inch video screen, like the ones used in cell phones. Kalashnikov tucked the envelope into his own pocket, showing no signs of the excitement he felt. Somewhere inside it, he knew, would be the plan for getting him and his family out of Russia forever.
The taxi made it to its destination and Kalashnikov paid the fare and got out. He was having lunch with another deputy minister, this one from education, but he was early. He went to the men’s room and into a stall, lowered his trousers and sat down on the commode, and then opened the envelope. The little tablet confused him for a second, but then he found the power button on the side.
The screen lit up and Kalashnikov spent five minutes reading the plan. He was to call and rent a sailing boat for the following weekend, then take his entire family out to join the whale watchers. Some hours afterward, while they were in international waters, the FSB would be alerted to a planned assassination attempt and would send agents from Vladivostok to try to warn him. Those agents, in a helicopter hovering overhead, would themselves become witnesses when the yacht exploded.
Kalashnikov and family, of course, would no longer be on the vessel. Each of them would be locked into a coffin-like device that would be dropped into the water when the explosion took place, and then retrieved by some kind of undetectable submarine. They were then to be transported to a ship and taken to Japan, where they would be placed on a diplomatic flight to the United States. The plan was so detailed that it even described the video games and movies that would be provided for them to enjoy for the hours they would be on the ship.
Kalashnikov committed the general details to memory, then dropped the tablet into the toilet. It was designed to be flushed, and the memory chip inside would be instantly wiped on contact with the water. Even if it were recovered somehow, there was no possibility that anyone could recover the data.
Three hours later, when Vasily stopped by to drop off some papers, Kalashnikov looked up at him and smiled, then said, “I think I'm taking the family out whale watching this weekend. Would you like to come along?”
Vasily declined, but later that evening he reported to John Wilkerson that Kalashnikov had agreed.
CHAPTER TWO
Jenny’s phone rang, and she rolled over to pick it up from the nightstand. “It's Allison,” she said, and then she hit the button to answer. “Hello?”
“My office, 10 A.M. Briefing for your next mission.” The line went dead.
She glanced at the time and saw that it was only seven thirty, then dropped the phone back on the nightstand and rolled over. She snuggled up against Neil and pulled him close. “I've got a mission,” she said. “Allie wants me at the office by ten for briefing.” Her hand played with the sparse hair on his chest, and then started moving lower.
An hour later, freshly showered and dressed, the two of them got into Jenny’s Jaguar and drove the 300 yards to Noah’s house. Ever since Jenny had given up her apartment and moved into Neil’s trailer with him, they had gotten into the habit of having breakfast with Noah and Sarah. Usually, that meant that Jenny and Sarah would make eggs and sausage or waffles and syrup or some other breakfast combination, but occasionally they would simply go down to Charlie’s. Charlie’s was a restaurant not far fro
m the headquarters offices, and breakfast was their specialty.
This particular morning called for waffles, and Sarah was already in the kitchen preparing them. Neil sat down at the table while Jenny poured coffee for each of them. She added sugar to Neil’s cup, stirred it carefully, and set it in front of him. “Here you go,” she said. “Is it okay?”
Neil took a sip and smiled. “Perfect, like always,” he said. “Good girl.”
Jenny beamed as she got her own cup and sat down beside him.
Noah came in a moment later and poured his own coffee, then sat down at the table with them. “Any idea where you're going?” he asked, but Jenny shook her head.
“Not yet,” she said. “You know better than to ask, Allie never gives out any details over the phone.”
“True,” Noah said. “I heard a rumor yesterday that there’s a mission coming up in Russia, but nobody knows any details yet. If that's it, just be careful over there.”
“I'll find out soon enough.” She turned to Neil. “I'm gonna miss you,” she said, putting a pout into her voice.
“Ditto,” Neil said. “Like Noah said, you just be careful. I don’t want anything happening to you.”
Jenny smiled, her entire face getting in on the act. “I'll be careful,” she said.
Sarah dished up the waffles and set them on the table along with butter and syrup, and the four of them sat down to eat. Without any details of the mission, they simply made small talk. Noah noticed that Sarah kept grinning at Jenny, but he’d already grown accustomed to it. She found Jenny’s natural submissiveness entertaining, even though it only manifested itself when she was with Neil. At any other time, Jenny was as controlling and ruthless as Noah himself. The only difference was that she could be quite emotional at the same time.
Noah couldn’t. After witnessing the traumatic deaths of his parents when he was a child, Noah suffered from a form of PTSD known as histrionic affect disorder, which meant that he lacked the ability to feel normal emotions. Without emotion, he was also without conscience, and it was this reputed handicap that made him the most effective assassin the United States government had ever known. He could kill his target without feeling any guilt or recriminations, but only if his own internal logic agreed that the death was necessary.
