by Ben Coes
In the special language reserved for covert operations, what Calibrisi wanted was full presidential authority to infiltrate a sovereign, unfriendly nation, in this case Russia, with members of a U.S. paramilitary team. Emergency Priority was the highest classification level possible for an operation. It meant the mission was critical to the national security of the United States of America. In turn, the granting of such authority gave the front-line operators a clear message, tantamount to license to kill. In his three years running the CIA, it was the first time Calibrisi had ever made such a request.
“How many people will be with him?” asked the president.
“We don’t know. It’s a dinner party. We’re not going to go out of our way to hurt any of them, sir.”
Dellenbaugh glanced to a photo on the wall, an antique black-and-white shot of Henry Ford holding a champagne bottle as he prepared to smash it on a car.
“Do it,” said Dellenbaugh. “Tell the attorney general to get me some paper. Be careful in there, Hector.”
29
IN THE AIR
BRITISH AIRWAYS FLIGHT 319
In a small, pitch-black compartment near the back of British Airways flight 319, three men sat pressed tightly together. Each was dressed in black tactical military gear, with special polypropylene underwear for warmth. On each man’s head was an airtight helmet with tubes that led to small oxygen tanks strapped to their chests. On each man’s back was a high-altitude high-opening (HAHO) parachute, designed to enable the three Special Operations Group commandos to fly a very long distance using GPS and trade winds. HAHO jumps were invented to enable special forces to penetrate deep inside enemy territory.
“Phase line in twenty, guys,” said Polk.
Between each commando’s legs was a ruck bag containing weapons and ammunition: each had a PP-2000 submachine gun, an ASh-12.7 urban assault rifle, and an OTs-33 Pernach machine pistol. All the guns were suppressed. Fitzgerald’s ruck held a Vintorez “Thread Cutter” sniper rifle. On the right leg, each man had an extra pistol. For Dowling, a GSh-18 compact 9mm. Tosatti and Fitzgerald each carried a P-96 compact 9mm.
The three commandos had been seated for three hours in a secret hold at the back of the twice-daily British Airways Frankfurt-to-Moscow flight. Their presence was unknown to anyone on board the plane, including the pilots. The small compartment was one of England’s best-kept secrets, designed by SAS, Britain’s elite Special Air Service, in conjunction with British Airways, under a top secret directive in 2001.
HAHOs had an effective range of only seventy-five miles, and that was with a strong tailwind. Moscow was two hundred miles from the nearest border. This meant that urgent missions inside Moscow were effectively rendered impossible unless manpower was already in-theater, on the ground. The small compartment enabled England and, by extension, the United States to drop operators deep into the heart of Moscow on an ad hoc basis, using the cloaking anonymity of a commercial airliner.
“Roger, Langley,” said Dowling.
Dowling, the senior Special Operations Group commander, clicked a ceramic switch in his glove, allowing him to talk on a closed circuit with Tosatti and Fitzgerald.
The outer glass of the commandos’ helmets was dark blue, making it impossible to see inside the helmets. Dowling saw the reflection of his own helmet and that was all.
“Check your packs,” said Dowling, referring to their parachutes.
“I’m good,” said Fitzgerald.
Tosatti nodded, indicating he was good to go.
“I fuckin’ hate HAHOs,” said Tosatti.
Dowling glanced at his watch. “We’re within five.”
Fitzgerald reached out and hit a yellow switch on the wall. Over the next two minutes, the compartment depressurized, reaching equilibrium with the outside air. The temperature dropped to fifty degrees below zero.
“Fuck, it’s cold,” said Fitzgerald.
“Just got the upload,” said Dowling.
Dowling clicked the ceramic. The interior upper right-hand corner of all three helmet glasses lit up. Displayed was a black-and-white photograph showing a man, young, perhaps in his twenties, and an Afro of dirty blond hair. He had a long, thin, gaunt face.
The three men studied the photo for several seconds, then Dowling clicked the ceramic again.
The photo of the target was replaced by a video, which began to play. It showed a three-dimensional topographical map, with the plane represented on the left-hand side and the word Moscow in bright red on the right.
A monotone prerecorded female voice accompanied the video.
“Gentlemen, you are now in Russian airspace, headed for a dacha outside of Moscow.”
The video sharpened to a side view of the plane. Three small figures—representing the commandos—emerged from the back of the plane. Their parachutes opened. A red arrow appeared. It cast a line from the commandos toward Moscow, then dipped and stopped on a bright green X. This was the flight path of the HAHO team.
“From the drop point, you will travel eighty-one miles northeast,” continued the woman. “Landing zone is a dacha located in a town called Rublevka, near Moscow. Target is believed on premises.”
A series of photos replaced the video. They showed a modern glass-and-steel house from a variety of angles. The house was large, spreading in an L shape atop a bluff. Manicured lawns in every direction surrounded the stunning glass structure.
“There will be security as well as a hard infrared cordon. You must land on the property.”
A drawing of the property plot lines appeared. The lot was long and thin.
“Property is two acres but is not wide. You will grab Target, then improvise vehicle transportation and move to safe house B.”
The video showed the topo map again. A red arrow simulating the vehicle moved down the long driveway. The map scaled wider and a red X appeared, representing the safe house.
“From safe house B, you will be extracted by a team from SRR. Good luck, gentlemen.”
The video froze and went off. A dull flashing red light pulsated, then went green.
“We’re going airborne,” said Dowling. “Follow my strobe. See you on the ground.”
Suddenly, a three-by-three-foot piece of steel on the fuselage of the plane moved down. The sky was eerily dark. Dowling leaned forward and jumped out. Tosatti, then Fitzgerald followed, leaping into the bitter cold, nearly oxygenless night air above Russia.
A moment later, the steel plate on the jumbo jet slid back into place and locked as the commandos disappeared.
30
MARIINSKY THEATRE
SAINT PETERSBURG
The lobby of the Mariinsky Theatre was a soaring, four-story atrium of vermillion marble, granite pilasters, and statues of Russia’s greatest dancers. The building was packed. The mood was celebratory.
A massive photograph of a woman’s face, more than three stories high, hung on the wall above the entrance. Her face was dark, Middle Eastern, and exceptionally beautiful. Her bright blue eyes resembled sapphires. Her hair was jet-black. A mysterious smile was on her face.
Across the bottom of the photo, in bold black cursive: Katya.
Dewey walked toward the entrance to the main seating area of the theater. The theater’s ceilings and walls were adorned with magnificent murals, landscape scenes painted in towering gold frames. The walls were stacked with private boxes filled with Russians dressed in formal attire. The mood was festive, excited, yet hushed. There was a palpable sense of impending adventure. It was all related to Katya.
Dewey went to the bar and bought a whiskey. He’d never been to the ballet before.
A woman approached. Her long blond hair seemed to shimmer like water beneath the chandelier light, and her green eyes, as they scanned Dewey, widened, brightened, as she smiled at him with confidence. She leaned toward Dewey and said something in Russian.
“I’m sorry,” Dewey responded, “I don’t speak Russian.”
“I asked,” the woman said in
English, with a pretty, soft Russian accent, “what do you think of the ballet?”
“I just got here.”
“Oh, that’s too bad. It was very beautiful.”
The woman was in her late twenties. Perhaps a model. The eyes of at least half a dozen men were on her. Yet the only person she could look at was the tall American.
“I’m Petra,” she said, extending her hand. “Are you from the United States?”
“Yes.”
“Would you like to have a drink afterward?”
“Thank you,” said Dewey, “but I have plans.”
* * *
Backstage at the Mariinsky, the dressing room was crowded. Dozens of dancers sat before mirror after mirror, staring at themselves, some smoking. The mood would have surprised most of the audience. It was raucous, with laughter filling the room, the occasional shout.
A half dozen makeup artists moved from dancer to dancer, reapplying powder and rouge for the final act.
“Ten minutes,” shouted one of the assistant directors.
A dimly lit corridor behind the cast dressing room had walls adorned with framed photographs of famous Russian dancers. Many were old, black and white, with a thin layer of dust.
The photo before the door at the end of the hallway was in color and showed Katya Basaeyev.
A hulking man with black hair and a mustache stood outside the door, guarding it.
Inside the private dressing room, a long table was cluttered with bouquets of freshly cut flowers, bottles of champagne, and unopened gifts. On the wall, dozens of articles had been cut out of newspapers and magazines, all of them showing photos of Katya and heralding her performances in Saint Petersburg over the last two weeks.
Katya was alone. She stood, naked, before an oval full-length mirror.
She shook a glass bottle filled with baby powder into the palm of her hand, then lightly dusted it into her brown skin, so that in the heat of the stage lights and the exertion of the dancing, perspiration would not make her slip in the hands of one of the male dancers there to catch her.
Katya pulled on her outfit for the final act.
A soft knock came at the door.
“A package, Katya,” came the voice of the bodyguard.
She said nothing.
She sat down before another mirror.
“Katya?”
“Who is it from?”
“He didn’t say.”
She shut her eyes and steeled herself. She stood and walked to the door, opening it slightly, and took the package.
The box was blue and was tied with white string. She sat down at her makeup table. She put the box on her lap, then yanked up on the string. She lifted the top of the box.
Inside the box was another, this one long and thin, wrapped in light blue velvet. She opened it. Inside was a stunning diamond necklace. It was anchored by a large yellow diamond. Katya pulled the necklace out and stared at it for several moments. She fastened it around her neck and admired it in the mirror.
A small note was stuck inside the box: I love you, my future wife.
A light tap came at the door.
“Two minutes, Katya.”
Katya let the note fall from her fingers onto the floor. She took the necklace off and placed it on the dressing table, then walked to the door.
“Yes,” she said, barely above a whisper.
The door opened. Katya walked past the bodyguard, saying nothing, as the lights from the theater flickered in the distance.
* * *
Bond was seated in the backseat of the red Mercedes limousine, at that moment parked one block behind the Mariinsky Theatre. He was dressed in a linen suit, his hair combed back and dyed black, a white handkerchief puffed out of his breast pocket. The get-up was perhaps overkill, but Bond had spent two years in Saint Petersburg working for the CIA, and Polk didn’t want to take the risk he might be spotted in the middle of a live operation.
In the front seat, Joe Oliveri had on a chauffeur’s outfit. A former member of Force Recon, the Marines’ elite deep reconnaissance unit, Oliveri was considered one of Langley’s top “escape men,” the agent charged in a dead zone operation with getting whatever individual or materials that needed to be extracted to a drop zone.
Tonight, if necessary, it would be Bond’s job to grab Katya, and Oliveri’s job to get her to water, where Navy SEALs lurked eighteen feet beneath the waterline.
Bond stared out the side window, in silence, as Oliveri tapped his fingers absentmindedly on the steering wheel.
“Your kid make that baseball team he was trying out for?” asked Bond.
“Yeah,” said Oliveri, keeping his eyes trained on the street ahead. “First game’s tomorrow night. Hopefully, this’ll all be cake and I’ll be there to watch it.”
* * *
An usher led Dewey to the orchestra section near the front of the theater. His seat was on the aisle.
Dewey sat next to a woman and her young daughter. Dewey smiled at the girl, who smiled back. Her mother stared at him.
His eyes scanned the left and right balcony boxes. Seated inside were elegant-looking groups of Russians dressed in evening attire. The men varied in their looks, but each woman seemed like she could have been on the cover of a magazine.
The curtain opened to the final act of Swan Lake.
At Katya’s entrance, a wave of hushed whispers swept the theater. Even Dewey leaned forward in his seat to get a better view.
The ballerina wore a simple white dress, which looked as if it had been painted onto her body. Her black hair was braided on top of her head and shone like leather beneath the stage lights. Her skin was dark and dusted with white makeup. She stood motionless near the back of the stage. She looked sad, vulnerable, even frail. And then her head moved slightly around and her gaze ripped across the crowd.
In an instant, what had appeared weak and frightened disappeared. Her beauty shot from the back of the stage like lightning across the night sky. Audience members reflexively moved forward in their seats. The little girl two seats away from Dewey shot her arm out, pointing. The electricity in the audience was palpable, and Katya had yet to take even her first step.
And then she began her run. She moved as if galloping on the wind, toward the center of the stage, then leapt high into the air as gasps arose above the orchestra music. She seemed to hold the air for an inhuman amount of time. The lights from behind her brightened, creating a dark silhouette of her soaring figure, like a five-pointed star crossing in front of the sun. Then, just when it seemed like she would remain airborne forever, she fell like a bird in flight, a bird who’s been shot, falling helplessly, listlessly, freely, with no concern for her own safety. She fell as if she had just died midflight. Inches from striking the stage, a male dancer caught Katya, swinging her up and around, landing her on one toe, upon which she proceeded to pirouette like a top, until at long last she stopped, raised her arm triumphantly above her head, then looked out across the audience. A mysterious smile creased her lips. The entire audience erupted in a cacophony of cheering as it stood up to welcome its beloved Katya.
She seemed to glow, to radiate, and yet her eyes met no one’s, not the dancer who caught her, not the audience that screamed in delight. She was in a different world altogether.
Dewey had never seen anything like it. He’d never seen a woman with such beauty as the woman standing on the stage before him.
Finally, the clapping ended, and the audience sat down to watch the rest of the performance.
In Dewey’s ear, the monotone Philadelphia accent of Bill Polk brought him back into focus.
“We have sign-off from the president,” said Polk. “Get in and get it done.”
31
ELEKTROSTAL
Sascha nodded at Cloud. Cloud stepped around the table and walked to him.
Sascha was a gifted programmer in his own right and was the one who was able to penetrate Alexei Malnikov’s father’s VPN, thus enabling Cloud to anonymously set
up the elder Malnikov.
“What is it?” asked Cloud.
“The trapdoor into Langley,” said Sascha. “It was there an hour ago. Now I can’t find it.”
In hacker lingo, a trapdoor was a hole in the security of a system deliberately left in place by a designer or maintainer.
Cloud moved quickly to Sascha’s workstation.
“The operation will be going live,” said Cloud.
“I know.”
Cloud leaned over and took Sascha’s keyboard, then started typing.
“Yes, I see,” said Cloud, typing away. “They found the evidence of one of the times we were inside. Like finding the ashes after a fire. But they’re not anywhere near the matches or the gasoline.”
Cloud gently pushed Sascha aside and took over his computer. He typed a URL into the Web browser. This was the enterprise server in Elektrostal. He went through a series of consecutive screens, entering passwords, each time pressing his right thumb to the computer’s thumbprint detection security device. At the fifth screen, a large cartoonish-looking eye suddenly appeared. Cloud leaned forward, staring into the laptop’s built-in camera. After a few moments, a soft musical note chimed, the eye disappeared, and the words came onto the screen.
Welcome home, Cloud
Cloud had succeeded in hacking into the CIA but not by penetrating the Agency’s computer networks. The odds of being able to pull off such a “front door” intrusion were not only remote, but they would also likely lead the CIA back to him. The CIA was in large part a closed-loop user of the Internet and originator of signals intelligence. This meant there were few exposed access points into the Agency. Those that did exist were for noncore, “passive” activities, such as human resources and public relations. Those access points which allowed the general public into the CIA through e-mail or a Web browser were heavily monitored and delivered visitors to a digital world entirely separate from the important stuff, such as communications regarding live operations.
The coming attack on America was based on surprise. Although he’d stolen hundreds of millions of dollars from U.S. corporations over the years, he’d never targeted any entity that would consider it a national security violation.
