by Ben Coes
Instead, Cloud had taken a more prosaic approach to worming his way into Langley. He’d written a virus, which, once downloaded, was innocuous and invisible to its users. It sat there in silence and was impossible to detect. The virus was activated by a user mistakenly clicking a link in an e-mail. Once activated, the virus targeted music files, striking the digital code of a song as it was being downloaded. Then the virus waited. For most people, it waited forever and did nothing.
The virus was designed to awaken if it was ever placed on the CIA mainframe. Then it would go live and create a single trapdoor for Cloud.
Cloud had designed the virus, then blanketed a fifty-mile radius around Langley. The goal was to have a vital employee of the Agency, with access to the closed-loop mainframe, break Agency rules and share music on a home computer with a work computer.
It took almost a year of daily e-mails, often in the millions, but eventually it happened. A young case officer had synced his iPhone with his computer at Langley. Within forty-five seconds of the insertion of the USB, Cloud, on the other side of the world, had a ladder into Langley’s closed-loop mainframe.
He was soon staring at a live video, the same video being watched inside the CIA mission theater.
He typed in silence for more than five minutes, then, with a dramatic flair, hit Enter.
Sascha smiled at him.
“A lucky break,” said Cloud, pretending to be modest.
In a dialogue box at the lower left of his screen, the audio communications passing between Langley and the Agency’s operators in the field were transcribed in real time:
1842
phase line in twenty guys
1843
this is immediate priority
1844
its vital we capture this guy
1845
use all means necessary to bring him in alive
1846
roger langley
1847
we have sign off from the president
1848
get in and get it done
Cloud sat back, crossed his arms, and stared at the screen.
“It is beginning,” he said.
32
IN THE AIR
BRITISH AIRWAYS FLIGHT 319
Dowling looked down at the earth. He clicked the ceramic switch in his glove. A digital altimeter in his helmet read:
32,880.7FT
006.23M
He glanced at the mission clock, dimly illuminated in orange in the upper left corner of his glass:
1:06:32
They had a little over an hour to go. He clicked again. A digital chart appeared, displaying Dowling’s position relative to where, based on trade winds and other metrics, he should have been.
The data that informed the charts was compiled and processed in real time, based on readings in their helmets, in communication with an Air Force AWACS that was flying, at that moment, above the Caspian Sea.
Dowling clicked again and looked at yet another chart, which showed the three commandos, along with data as to how much height and distance separated them.
All three commandos had spent years learning how to do high-altitude high-opening (HAHO) and high-altitude low-opening (HALO) parachute jumps as Rangers. HAHOs were exhausting. The adjustments to the steering and altitude of the canopy, based upon a constant cycling through the charts, was endless. It required intense concentration, especially for the lead navigator, who, in this case, was Dowling. A strobe on his helmet enabled the other men to follow.
The sky above Russia was clear and warm as the commando team descended. The lights of the Moscow suburbs were like a carpet beneath them—yellow, increasingly bright—as they came concentrically closer to the dacha.
They reached the outskirts of Rublevka while still a thousand feet in the air. A green light appeared in the upper corner of Dowling’s helmet along with a steady beeping noise. They were directly above the dacha.
The lights of the modern glass mansion were visible below.
The three Americans circled concentrically above, funneling rapidly lower as if swirling down a drain. The lights grew brighter. Dowling triggered the ceramic in his glove several times until the plot lines of the property appeared in bright orange. He made out a line of cars in the driveway. He soared left, over the house, moving out over a dark lawn. Night-vision goggles lit up the ground in light green. Several large pine trees lay dead ahead, then a field, and he dropped rapidly now. When his feet were about to hit the ground, he adjusted his chute, letting it pull him up one last time, softening the coming landing.
A minute later, Fitzgerald landed a few feet away, then Tosatti.
The team removed their parachutes, flying packs, tanks, helmets, and anything else that was unnecessary, packing it in black nylon bags they’d carried in. All three men were sweating profusely, from the heated flight suit and from the adrenaline now coursing through them like fire.
Each commando was dressed the same: black synthetic wicking shirt and pants, light duty combat boots.
Fitzgerald pulled a thermal night scope from a pocket and scanned the property for any signs of life.
Dowling activated his commo.
“We’re clear,” he said.
The dacha’s lights cast bright warm blue and orange light into the night sky.
Each commando unzipped his weapons ruck, removed the submachine gun and slammed in a mag. Tosatti reached for his ASh-12.7 urban combat assault rifle, equipped with night optics and an undermounted grenade launcher. Dowling and Fitzgerald followed suit, slamming in mags, then grabbed several extras and attached them to their belts.
Each man grabbed OTs-33 Pernach 9 × 18 machine pistols, tucking them into the holster on his belt.
They moved across the field, dead silent as they traversed toward the dacha.
Dowling reached to his wrist and triggered his commo, then whispered.
“Phase Line One, on the ground.”
Fitzgerald, Tosatti, and Dowling made a wide arc across the back of the dacha, stalking along behind a canopy of birch trees, in the darkness and shadows.
The house was long and rectangular, a modern box made almost entirely of glass. It stood elevated on steel stilts. Every room in the house was alight.
On the south side of the dacha, set back from the window, was a room full of people seated around a dining table.
Tosatti snapped his fingers, pointing to the driveway.
Dowling moved his night goggles down over his eyes. Two men were standing in the driveway, between two automobiles. One was smoking. Both men clutched submachine guns, trained at the ground.
Dowling nodded to Tosatti and Fitzgerald.
“On my go,” he whispered. “I got the Ivan in back; Dave, take the other guy. Fitz, backup.”
“Roger that,” whispered Fitzgerald.
All three men raised their carbines. Dowling aimed at the guard facing them, while Tosatti aimed at the man whose back was turned.
Fitzgerald was backup. He aimed at a spot between the two men and would fire only if Dowling or Tosatti missed.
“On three,” whispered Dowling. “One, two…”
Tosatti and Dowling triggered their guns. Dowling struck his man above his right ear, dropping him, and in the same instant Tosatti took the top of the other guard’s head clean off.
They moved quietly, at the back edge of the lawn, scanning the terrain for other guards. They didn’t see any.
Dowling took out a high-powered monocular. He studied the dining room. He counted fourteen people, all seated around a large oval table, eating dinner. The low din of conversation could be heard.
He scanned each person at the table. Seated at the right corner was a tall man with an Afro of curly blond hair. Dowling couldn’t see his face, but the hair was unmistakable.
“I got him,” he whispered. “Front right.”
Fitzgerald moved toward the driveway. He pulled a preset explosive from his weapons belt as he moved: C-4 with a re
mote detonator. He came to the side of the house, then stalked, pressed against the wall, toward the front. As he was about to move around the corner to the front door, headlights abruptly punctured the darkness.
The vehicle barreled through the entrance to the driveway. It was out of Fitzgerald’s sight line, but he would soon be illuminated by the lights.
Dowling whistled as Tosatti raised his carbine and trained it on the approaching vehicle. Fitzgerald turned. Dowling signaled to hold his position.
A Range Rover sped up the driveway and parked just feet from the dead bodyguards. The lights on the SUV went out. A woman in a white summer dress stepped out from the driver’s door. She had yet to see the dead men on the ground, but she would soon step on them.
Tosatti trained the sniper rifle on the woman, who was now walking toward the front door. The dead guards lay directly in her path. He aimed, then waited.
“Sorry, honey,” he whispered.
He fired. The bullet ripped the woman’s chest, exploding crimson across her white dress, pummeling her backward. She tumbled to the ground.
Dowling nodded to Fitzgerald.
Fitzgerald moved to the front entrance. The objective was simple: create a diversion at the front of the house, then enter through the back. The explosives were the diversion. He attached a small brick of C-4 to the door, just below the doorknob, then moved silently along the side of the dacha back to Dowling and Tosatti.
Dowling led the team to the back of the glass house. A swimming pool twinkled in muted subwater green light. Behind it was a stairway that led up to a deck. The three men moved rapidly now, around the side of the pool, then climbed the stairs. They stopped outside the door.
Dowling ran his hand along the perimeter of the door, studying it. He took a preset explosive from his belt, smaller than the one on the front door. He stuck it beneath the doorknob.
The men stood as silent and still as statues. Their faces were black with paint. They were as dark, as invisible as phantoms, shielded by the door.
“I have the target,” Dowling whispered to Tosatti and Fitzgerald.
Tosatti and Fitzgerald nodded.
Dowling reached to his wrist, pressing commo.
“We’re at the line,” he whispered, telling Langley they were about to strike.
* * *
Polk stood, arms crossed, directly in front of the plasma, watching a live video feed picked up from a satellite ten miles in the sky. Calibrisi was a foot behind him, to the right. Every man and woman in the room stared at the screen.
Polk was calm. He’d stood in the exact same place many times, directing literally hundreds of operations in his storied career. He looked like a high school English teacher, with horn-rimmed glasses, a striped rep tie, a pink button-down shirt, khakis, a needlepoint belt, and penny loafers. He was considered the best in-mission commander in the history of NCS.
* * *
The thermal prints of Dowling, Tosatti, and Fitzgerald were grouped to the left of the screen, like apparitions, huddled three abreast just outside the door.
On the other side of the door, a few feet away from the waiting commandos, the thermal outlines of the dinner party attendees were similarly visible, their movements well defined if hazy: seven bodies on each side of a table, facing each other; the rapid movements of arms, heads, shoulders in the act of enjoying dinner.
One of the people stood up and started to move toward the front entrance.
Polk glanced at Calibrisi, then reached for commo.
“You have someone moving to the door,” said Polk. “Get in there.”
* * *
At the back door to the dacha, Dowling registered Polk’s words, glanced at Fitzgerald, who clutched the detonator for the C-4 at the front door, then nodded.
Fitzgerald flipped the metal cap off the detonator and thumbed a small red button. A loud boom abruptly ripped the air on the other side of the house, shaking the ground.
The steel front door was blown like a cannonball into the dacha, down the front hallway. It slammed headlong into a woman on her way to the bathroom, hitting her at more than fifty miles per hour and killing her instantly.
Steel and concrete from above the door were kicked thirty feet in the air. Red and orange flames burst in a fiery cloud. Glass shattered throughout the front wing of the dacha as shouting, then screams, suddenly filled the air.
The wailing of the house alarm came next, a high-pitched siren that only added to the sense of chaos.
Then, at the seeming height of pandemonium, Dowling hit the button on his detonator.
A small-burst explosion ripped the back door off its hinges. It tumbled down onto the deck.
The screams from inside the dacha were louder now.
Tosatti held a small pocket mirror in the door opening, looking for security or signs of weapons. All he could see, through the smoke-clogged air, was the dining room table filled with people, all of whom had raised their hands.
Tosatti signaled the other two commandos, then moved.
They charged through the smoke into the dining room. Tosatti surged first into the room, ASh-12.7 in his grip, suppressor jutting out, then moved right. Fitzgerald was half a step behind him, also armed with an ASh-12.7, and he leapt to the left, surrounding the table.
Then Dowling ran in, moving to the man at the corner of the table as Tosatti and Fitzgerald provided cover.
The thirteen remaining guests stared at the three commandos. Several of the women were crying, hysterical with fear.
“Comment?” asked one of the men, his accent unmistakably French.
Dowling stepped in front of the man known to them only as Cloud. But instead of a young man, the one who now cowered before Dowling’s suppressor was much older. He stared blankly at Dowling, his arms raised.
“Where is he?” asked Dowling.
“Who?” he whispered.
“Cloud.”
The man was silent. His hands, raised above his head, trembled in fear.
Fitzgerald moved his wrist to his mouth and triggered commo.
“Bill, we’ve got a situation,” he said.
But before Polk could respond, another explosion shattered the night.
It started beneath the dacha—ten pounds of Semtex, igniting in a ferocious moment that no one had time to flee. The detonation ripped the floor, scorching white-hot fire and heat through the dacha like a grenade through a sand castle. The three commandos, along with the guests, were vaporized before they could even register the white heat as it engulfed them. The glass-and-concrete house shattered in a wild, violent moment. Steel beams went flying as the force of the explosion spread sideways and up, in one horrendous sequence. The dacha burst into a mushroom cloud of flames and heat, white, red, and orange, against the desolate Russian night.
33
MISSION THEATER TARGA
LANGLEY
At CIA headquarters, Polk, Calibrisi, and the rest of the NCS mission team watched as the plasma screen abruptly lit up. A bright orange ball of flames appeared at the center of the screen, then spread out in a concentric wave, overtaking and obliterating everything in frenzied light.
Gasps came from the back of the conference room.
Calibrisi lurched toward the screen.
“Mother of God,” he whispered.
“Johnny!” barked Polk.
But there was no answer.
Polk watched the screen for a few more moments as it billowed in a silent blur of white light, then disappeared into black. A pained look crossed his normally placid demeanor. He shut his eyes for a moment, swallowed, then stepped to the left, in front of the other plasma screen. On it, the red Mercedes was visible from the sky above, the size of a toy Matchbox car.
Polk looked at Calibrisi, then triggered commo: “Saint Petersburg,” said Polk calmly, “you’re live.”
Polk glanced at Calibrisi, who held up his left index finger, signaling Polk to tell the agents an additional piece of information.
Polk hit commo again: “This is an Emergency Priority operation. I repeat, Emergency Priority. Safeties off. Take whatever action is required to get the girl.”
34
ELEKTROSTAL
Cloud read the words and shook his head in disbelief.
119
saint petersburg youre live
“Idioty,” he muttered.
“What is it?” Sascha asked.
“They still don’t know we’re watching.”
He had on black Oliver Peoples sunglasses. Behind the lenses, his eyes were rimmed with red from a lack of sleep. He wore black leather pants, Saint Laurent boots, and a sleeveless green T-shirt. His shoulders and arms were visible. His muscles were sinewy, brown, sensual, muscles that aren’t made by weights or steroids but rather a gift from his lineage. He was extremely thin.
His feet were up on the table. He stared lackadaisically at the screen, reading live transcription of the CIA operation.
120
this is an emergency priority operation
121
i repeat emergency priority
122
safeties off
123
take whatever action is required to get the girl
Most people looking at a Monet in a museum see the subject of the painting: flowers, colors, water. A rare few, other masters, see beyond the visual representation. They see brushstrokes. They see layers beneath the colors that are at the surface. They see empty spaces. Motivation and passion, deceit and laziness. They see the way the painting itself is done, from the very kernel of the idea through the painting’s completion. They understand it in a way only Monet himself could have intended.
Cloud was able to see the Internet in much the same way.
124
roger that bill
125
were moving into position
126
well recon as soon as she exits the theater
