by Ty Patterson
‘We need more killings in Asia,’ Williams turned to Leslie. ‘You got any primed and ready to go?’
‘My people tell me there are a few. I will ask them to focus on those.’
‘What about Tverskoy?’ Smith drilled him with a cool stare. ‘His building was attacked. How badly are we affected?’
‘Not one bit,’ the Europe man answered reassuringly. ‘The tech people aren’t in Moscow. They were moved to Ukraine a long time ago.’
‘What about him? Is he okay with all this?’
‘Nikolai? Oh yes. He and I go back a long way. I know how to manage him. He’s being paid well.’
‘He has no issues with what we are doing?’
‘He doesn’t know the big picture. And even if he did, he wouldn’t care. Tverskoy would kill his mother for the money we’re paying him.’
The others nodded in understanding. They were used to dealing with such men. To the criminal bosses it came down to reward. Nothing more.
‘You got my message?’ Leslie asked them.
‘Yes,’ Williams answered. ‘I have started buying more of the European and American companies shares. The target ones. Using several investment vehicles. Untraceable to me.’
‘I’m doing the same,’ Smith joined.
‘You wanted riots,’ Leslie told the Europe man, ‘You got them. Did you see the scenes in Europe and America?’
Entire city centers had been destroyed, vehicles had been burned and stores looted in prominent European capitals. The confrontation in Dallas had been mirrored in Los Angeles, which then had broken out into a street fight between two groups of protesters. In Atlanta, a group of black men had chased vigilante white men. In Chicago, the reverse had happened. The killings seemed to have brought out race and ethnic hatred across the world.
‘And not just in the Western world,’ the Asia man chimed in. ‘In Mumbai, supporters of various political parties went on a rampage in the streets. Several killed. In Beijing, a clash between police and protest marchers against the government. In Jakarta too. It’s happening.’
‘Tomorrow my leader will make an announcement,’ Leslie announced. ‘That the way countries are governed needs to change. People need to be listened to. Their fears and angers acted on.’
‘Of course, we are the ones creating that anger,’ Smith said gleefully and held his glass up for a toast. ‘To a new world order.’
Chapter Forty-One
Zeb turned off the TV after watching news from around the world. His face, set, grim. It looked like the world was on fire. Each day brought news of a lone man killing in some country, followed by reports of street violence in different parts of the world. Stock indices had plummeted. Radio call-in shows were filled with angry, fearful people demanding that their government set things right. Gun sales were at a record high in the US. In Montana, Wyoming, Colorado, a few accidental gun killings had already been recorded. Political leaders appealed for calm; President Morgan called for the G20 Summit to have a single agenda. How to restore order.
All because someone developed an AI program and let it loose on the world. Tverskoy… is he responsible all by himself? Is the Kremlin backing him? But there have been killings in Russia too. Some of the most savage shootings have been in that country.
What about the killers’ philosophies? There was a mix between left and right wingers, but the latter outnumbered the former. Are they easier to turn? Or are there just more of them?
He shook his head impatiently. There was no point asking himself these questions. The bratva head could have some answers.
‘What’s the plan?’ Beth interrupted his thinking.
‘Recon, and then hit hard.’
* * *
They landed at Boryspil International Airport, the country’s largest, eighteen miles east of its capital.
Hot, sunny, a typical summer in Ukraine. They cleared immigration without any incident, their covers as geology surveyors raising no questions.
Caps over their heads, visors low and shades to shield their faces. Some of them with scarves and bandanas looped casually over their necks, half-covering their chins.
They hung about outside searching and then Zeb pointed to a bearded man who held a placard. Eugeniv Palichenko, it said.
‘Yurik Kotenko,’ he introduced himself and shook their hands. He sized them up and turned on his heel, gesturing at them to follow him.
A mini-bus. Black, tinted windows. Aircon, comfortable seats in which they settled themselves, Bwana leaning back with a sigh.
‘He doesn’t speak much,’ he whispered loudly. ‘Zeb, you’re sure he’s Grigor’s man?’
‘Who else would hold that board?’ Meghan retorted. ‘We made that name up only when we were landing and informed Andropov.’
‘We can always kill him if he turns out to be hostile,’ Bear suggested and that settled it.
The Ukrainian drove them to Kiev on the E-40, a major route that started in Calais, France and ended in the Altai Mountains of Kazakhstan. Zeb sat in the front but the two men made no conversation.
Grigor’s probably briefed him about you, Meghan smirked in his headpiece. That small talk isn’t your strength.
‘You know what we want?’ he ignored her and turned to the driver.
‘Da.’
‘You speak Russian?’
‘And Ukrainian and Belarussian too. Whichever you prefer,’ his lips parted briefly in a smile that disappeared as quickly as it had arrived.
He drove competently, didn’t point out any of the sights as they entered the capital. St Sophia’s Cathedral, Independence Square, Khreschatyk Street, the main street of the city. He kept silent as he navigated past tourist buses and citizens. Holosiivkskyi District to the south in the city. A series of warehouses on the Dnieper River. Ugly, grey buildings with large shutters. A metal gate which required an access card, which he flashed and the barriers opened.
The bus jolted as it drove over rails in concrete, past port workers and forklifts until it came to a stop in front of a shutter at the far end.
Kotenko jumped out, bent down and unlocked the padlocks. He struggled to raise the rolling metal sheet until Bwana and Bear gave him a hand, their biceps bulging under their tees.
‘Spaseeba,’ he thanked them and went inside the darker interior. Turned on lights and brought the bus inside. Rolled the shutter down behind them.
Zeb looked around the vast interior. Musty from lack of circulation. Covered boats mounted on stands. He lifted one sheet peered beneath it. A go-fast boat, also known as a rum-runner or a cigarette boat. Bwana whistled in appreciation when he unveiled another vessel, a fifty-foot luxury runner.
‘What’s this place? Grigor owns this?’
Kotenko didn’t answer. He had disappeared from sight and presently returned driving a forklift on which was a wooden crate. He stopped near them, unloaded the box and opened it with a claw-hammer.
Weapons wrapped in plastic. HKs, Glocks, Sigs, two Barretts, magazines, knives, NVGs, armor.
Bear hefted a rifle and inspected it. No serial, he mouthed silently. Zeb nodded. He wouldn’t have expected anything less from the Russian spymaster.
They weaponed up, transferring the gear to the large cases they carried with them. Zeb looked around, but the Ukrainian was nowhere in sight. Nor was the forklift.
He took a few steps, stopped, when Kotenko returned with a larger crate. He lowered it to the ground and opened it with a crowbar.
Gestured to the large, multi-colored shapes inside.
‘Your balloons,’ he announced, simply.
Chapter Forty-Two
Kiev to Chernihiv in two pickup trucks that Kotenko arranged for them, a balloon in the bed of each vehicle, still in their packaging. Their rides bore the names of an international oil company. The same names on the coveralls that each one of them wore.
Past Dytynets Park, where many of the Chernihiv’s attractions were based. Towards Desna River, turning into a large driveway in front of a sa
ndstone house.
A burly man opened the door. ‘Palichenko?’ he asked, his eyes moving over the men.
‘Da,’ Zeb replied.
‘I have rooms for you,’ he moved out of the entrance to allow them inside, and then spotted the pickups. ‘You can move those to the garage.’ He pointed to a large building to the side.
‘That’s the garage?’ Bear blinked at the structure almost as tall as the residence.
‘Da. Among other things. It has some stuff inside for you.’
He disappeared inside and returned with a remote for its door and sets of keys for their rooms and the house. They never saw him again.
‘Where does Andropov get these men?’ Chloe murmured. ‘Not one of them has asked any questions.’
‘His equivalent of the sayanin,’ Zeb replied, referring to the Jews who helped Mossad around the world.
The inside of the garage was painted white, metal beams high above on which was a crane and a pulley, but no other machinery. Concrete floor, totally empty.
Roger scratched his head as he inspected it. ‘Beats me what it was. A workshop?’
A beep made him jump sideways as Beth and Meghan drove the pickups inside and then they went to their rooms.
The house had been a hotel at one time and was well-maintained. It looked like the owner, who never mentioned his name, had turned it into a safe house for Andropov’s agency.
Their accommodation was comfortable with clean bathrooms. ‘Good WIFI,’ Meghan declared. They used secure satellite networks, but wireless networks were required as a backup.
An hour’s rest and then they gathered in the garage, unpacked the balloons and inspected the coils of wire that lined the insides. ‘Good condition,’ Broker said. ‘I wonder how Andropov got his hands on them so quickly.’
‘He and I used such balloons, in Syria, a few years ago. They need helium not hot air.’ Zeb checked out the fabric of the inflatables, looked around and pointed at the tanks in the corner. ‘He’s arranged the gas, too. Looks like Grigor liked the inflatables so much, he made a few and kept them ready for missions.’
Each balloon had large baskets which normally would have carried people. Beth and Meghan inserted large receivers in them while Bear and Chloe mounted motors and propellers.
Two hours later, they stood back, disheveled, and watched as the balloons rose in the roomy garage and twisted and turned as the twins operated the remotes.
‘Now?’ Broker turned to Zeb.
‘Let’s check out the farmhouse.’
Chapter Forty-Three
Recon began that night.
They split into two teams. Zeb, Meghan, Bwana and Broker in the first, the remaining in the second.
The first team went out when dark fell. One pickup that they had spray-painted to dull black, non-reflective, keeping the oil company’s logo. Out of the house, each one of them in dark combat gear, carrying their weapons of choice.
Zeb drove out, no headlights. Along the river, initially, and then onto the E-95 which crossed into Belarus. A country road three miles out of the city, and then a dirt track. Their truck bouncing and jostling on the bumpy road. Slowing when Meghan held up a hand, a screen in front of her. A map on it, zooming in on the farm, coordinates to which, Andropov had provided.
‘There’s a dried canal to the left of it.’
Zeb drove as she guided, over fields that hadn’t been ploughed and then down the slope of the bed and they were out of view.
They climbed out quickly, gathered around the older twin for a few moments, and when she launched the stealth drone, they split up.
Zeb sprinted a mile, turned and ran until he curved around the back of the farmhouse.
‘In position,’ he gasped in his headset.
‘Roger,’ Meghan replied. ‘Bwana, Broker?’
‘Yeah,’ came the replies.
Four of them spread around the house while the drone checked it out from the sky.
Small details came to Zeb, through his NVGs. The farm was L shaped at the front, a driveway on which was a tractor and a few trucks. The back had a separate building, like a stable.
‘No animals,’ Meghan seemed to guess his thoughts. ‘Looks like some farm machinery there. We’ve got thermal prints,’ her voice rose in excitement. ‘Eleven bodies. Five of them in one room at the rear. Large heat signature. I bet that’s where the server racks, the computers are. The other six are spread out. Two in the front. Two at the back, one each at the end of the L.’
‘No one outside?’ Zeb queried.
‘Nope.’
‘It’s the middle of nowhere,’ he mused aloud, answering himself. ‘They wouldn’t need sentries anywhere else. They’ll have cameras –’
‘Yep. Eight in all, mounted on the underside of the roof, spread around the house.’
‘Ground’s flat,’ Bwana grunted softly. ‘They can see anyone coming from a mile off. Nope, there’s no need for sentries.’
‘Any gate at the front,’ Zeb asked. He didn’t recollect seeing one.
‘Nope. Anyone can just roll up to the door and knock on it.’
‘I bet no one does that,’ Broker chuckled. ‘I have a feeling those six guys aren’t friendly looking. They probably keep to themselves.
Zeb nodded in the dark. Not friendly. They’ve likely got a reputation in town. No one approaches them. The people suspect they could be criminals. But in that part of the world, bratvas and mafia gangs weren’t uncommon and most citizens gave them a wide berth.
No vehicle approached the house at night. No shootings, no developments until dawn broke and then a truck approached the house.
No movement until it was a hundred yards away and then the door opened. Six men emerged, all of them armed. They spoke for a few minutes with the arrivals, climbed inside the vehicle, while the newcomers went inside.
‘Change of shift,’ Zeb surmised. ‘Those are the guards. It doesn’t look like anyone relieves the programmers.’
* * *
Chloe took the rear when her team came out for recon. Beth operated the drone which was high above, practically invisible to the naked eye. Bear and Roger on either side of the L.
More details in the daylight. The house was tiled, with sloping roofs. A central chimney from which lazy smoke emerged. Glass windows periodically set in the walls that had once been white but were now a dull brown.
It was Beth who spotted the barb-wire fence running around the farm. Wooden posts, painted to blend with the background, making them hard to detect by the naked eye. They ran parallel to the canal bed for several hundred yards and then curved to follow the lay of the land.
She trained her binos on the driveway. ‘No gate,’ she announced. ‘Just two posts on either side of that approach track where the wire ends.’
‘Electric?’ Bear enquired.
Beth followed the wire to the wooden posts. No insulation of any kind. She lowered the drone by several feet and checked out the compass on it. No needle deflection. ‘Not scientific,’ she murmured to herself. ‘It’s too high.’
‘Doesn’t look like it,’ she replied, ‘but don’t touch it.’
The day saw more activity from the house. The armed guards brought out the engineers every two hours. The programmers were pale-skinned as if they didn’t see much sunlight. They were in tees and jeans and lounged on benches at the back. Not much conversation among them.
‘What’s there left to talk about?’ Bear growled when Beth voiced her comment. ‘Looks like they’re cooped up all day. They’ve been together for months. Don’t go anywhere, it looks like. Nope, they’re thin on conversation topics.
A guard came to the back door and yelled at them, at which they stood up and shuffled inside. The same routine, every two hours, until dark.
Occasionally one of the guards came to the rear, threw out dirty water or washed pots and pans at a wall-mounted water tap.
‘No cook,’ Chloe guessed. ‘Maybe they take turns at rustling up meals.’
&n
bsp; Twice during the day, two men, different each time, climbed into a truck and patrolled the perimeter of the farm. One time, the vehicle came close to where Beth was hiding, just beneath the edge of the canal bed, but didn’t detect her.
It stopped. One man said something to another and climbed out.
They’re speaking Russian, Beth thought, looking at them through the sides of her eyes, not wanting them to feel the weight of her gaze.
One man, AR-15 across his shoulder, approached the fence, bent over the wire and touched it with his bare fingers.
‘It’s fine,’ he called out to the driver. ‘It looks cut, but it isn’t.’
Fence is not electric, Beth concluded and watched the guard stomp back to the truck, which drove away.
‘Security feels casual,’ Roger drawled. ‘These dudes are acting as if they’ve nothing to fear.’
‘They don’t,’ Chloe replied. ‘They’re well-armed. I’m guessing they are good fighters, and they have excellent visibility. The house looks like it’s well-constructed. If attacked, they will hole up inside. Those gang members in the other shift, they’re backup. They’ll come running in case the farm is attacked.’
They settled back to watching.
Beth noticed additional details during the day. A black cable that ran alongside the house and went inside, beneath a wall. Fiber, she thought, for their network connection. She and Meghan had decided not to hack into the house. They didn’t know how good the engineers were and didn’t want to alert them with any intrusion attempt.
* * *
One more day of recon, but with a difference. Chloe and the sisters followed the men who got relieved, the night shift, into Chernihiv. The operatives gossiped in Ukrainian as they window-shopped, keeping an eye on the bratva men.
The gang members went to a restaurant and wolfed down a heavy breakfast. Then they broke up, one man went to a barber shop, two others went to a book store and thumbed through the men’s magazines while the remaining two sat on a park bench and commented on the passing women.
