Independence Day: A Dewey Andreas Novel

by Ben Coes

  ANDREAS’s third infiltration took place in November 1997, in which ABRAMOVICH was successfully exfiltrated from the country in order to save his life. (In January 1998, ABRAMOVICH was subsequently killed in Montreal by ANDREAS for reasons unknown.)

  ANDREAS is considered unusually dangerous, with Level 12 proficiency in all aspects of operations, including close quarters combat, face-to-face combat, firearms, explosives, cold weapons, transportation, and improvisation. He is trained in extreme condition field and wet work, and has seen multiple actions in hostile environments across the geopolitical theater.

  JUL 2003: FILE DESIGNATED INACTIVE

  * * *

  Cloud and Sascha read the file in silence. Sascha furrowed his brow, then looked at Cloud with a concerned look.

  Cloud picked up his cell phone and started typing a text to Roman: Kill him.

  41

  FOUR SEASONS LION PALACE

  SAINT PETERSBURG

  A minute later, Dewey’s cell buzzed.

  “Yeah,” said Dewey.

  “This is Commander John Drake on the USS Hartford. Where are you, Dewey?”

  The waitress appeared carrying a plate with Dewey’s steak.

  “At the Four Seasons,” said Dewey. “Where’s the team?”

  “The SDV is in harbor. I’ll patch you through to Jacobsson, he’s the in-water operator.”

  “Thanks, Commander.”

  A minute later, another man appeared in the restaurant. He was shorter than the first, but he was, in his own way, more worrisome. His shirt was open at the collar and unbuttoned down to his navel. Gold chains hung around his neck. He had spiky blond hair. He was wiry and pale. He wore a hard stare, his eyes sweeping the room.

  A moment later, Dewey heard a voice.

  “This is Jacobsson. You there, Dewey?”

  “Yeah, I’m here.”

  “Do you have the girl?”

  When the Russian’s eyes arrived at Dewey, they stopped. The next moments were intense, as the thug stared for several long moments at him.

  “Not yet,” said Dewey. “It’s going to be a little while.”

  “We’re here,” said Jacobsson, “and we’re good to go.”

  At the man’s breastplate, clearly visible, Dewey could see the telltale bulge of a gun, strapped around his neck.

  “What’s point of entry?” asked Dewey.

  “You need to get to the canal. To the right of the hotel.”

  The excited voice of the hostess interrupted the din of conversations inside the restaurant. A moment later, Katya entered the restaurant.

  She wore jeans and a white short-sleeved sweater. Her hair was braided back. She shook the hand of the hostess, then began speaking with her.

  The four people at the table in front of Dewey all looked in unison at her, then began whispering excitedly.

  The skinny guard looked again at Dewey. Dewey pretended not to notice, cutting another piece of his steak and putting it into his mouth. A moment later, the guard finally turned away, saying something to the larger man. He pointed to a booth, out of Dewey’s sight line.

  The hostess led Katya across the restaurant. The ballerina glanced briefly in Dewey’s direction, making eye contact with him, a carefree smile on her face, then disappeared around the corner, flanked by her bodyguards.

  “Got it,” said Dewey. “Give me a few minutes.”

  42

  LANGLEY

  “I want all non-official covers in-theater,” Calibrisi said to Polk, “with their locations.”

  One of the analysts typed, bringing up all NOCs in or near Russia. Three photos tiled across the screen:

  1. Maybank, J

  NOC 333

  Moscow, RUSSIA

  2. Fairweather, T

  NOC 009

  Poznan, POLAND

  3. Brainard, T

  NOC AW-22

  Minsk, BELARUS

  “Remember Johnny’s wounded,” said Polk. “He has a bullet in his leg.”

  “How bad is it?”

  “He has a fever and hasn’t left the bedroom. Christy thinks he needs a doctor.”

  They both knew what it meant. If Maybank’s injury required surgery, he would need exfiltration. Right now, there was a higher priority.

  “Get Brainard and Fairweather to Moscow,” said Calibrisi, walking toward the door. “Tell Christy she needs to take the bullet out herself. Then get word to Dewey. He needs to stay in-theater. We can’t afford to have him get on that sub.”

  43

  FOUR SEASONS LION PALACE

  SAINT PETERSBURG

  Dewey finished his meal and paid. He was the last person inside the restaurant other than Katya and her men, who were in a booth out of his sight line. Before standing up to leave, he removed the .45 from a concealed pocket on the inside of his leather jacket. From his pants pocket, he removed a suppressor, screwing it into the muzzle of the gun beneath the table. He repocketed the gun, then stood and walked to the door. He glanced right, around the corner, to Katya’s booth. Both of the men with Katya returned his look. As Dewey passed the maître d’, he caught movement in his eyes, a fleeting glance over Dewey’s shoulders, behind him.

  Dewey crossed the lobby, looking quickly at his room key. The lobby was empty except for a woman behind the desk, who smiled and said goodnight to him.

  At the elevator, Dewey heard footsteps, hard-soled shoes clicking on marble, approaching from behind him. A moment later, the bigger guard joined Dewey next to the elevator doors.

  They were approximately the same size. The Russian stood close, waiting for the elevator. When it came, he stepped on first.

  “Which floor, my friend?” he asked in English filtered with a sharp Russian accent.

  “Four.”

  As the doors shut, Dewey watched the guard carefully, spreading his legs in case the bodyguard wanted to engage him in the elevator.

  The bodyguard instead pressed the button for four, then a button for a floor higher than Dewey’s.

  When the elevator stopped at the fourth floor, Dewey stepped out. He walked down the dimly lit hall.

  Dewey’s back was to the bodyguard as he walked away, trying to appear nonchalant but hyperaware of the man back at the elevator. With his right hand he reached inside his jacket, removed the .45, and clutched it tight beneath his left armpit, the suppressed muzzle of the gun aimed behind him, back up the hall, inside the leather jacket, so the man couldn’t see it.

  Dewey heard the faint metallic click of a round being chambered.

  At the end of the hall, he came to the last door. With his left hand, his free hand, he pulled a room key from his pocket.

  Dewey inserted the card into the lock with his left hand while, with his right, he put his index finger on the trigger. The key slid into the lock. A red light came on. In the same moment, Dewey fired the Colt as fast as his finger could flex; several quick blasts, through the jacket, moving the .45 in a line without looking, left to right, across the hallway.

  The scream from the Russian came from the second round, in the same instant a silenced slug sailed by Dewey, striking the door just above his head.

  Dewey pivoted, ducking. The gunman lay on his back, a pistol at his side.

  Dewey’s round had struck him in the stomach. His shirt was already drenched in blood. Groaning, the Russian reached for his weapon as Dewey moved toward him. Dewey watched as the bodyguard found the butt of the gun. Dewey stepped quickly toward the Russian, who now lay on the ground in a growing pool of crimson. Dewey had his gun out and he trained it on the killer’s head, saying nothing. Then Dewey fired. A slug ripped the Russian in the right eye.

  Dewey heard the door to his right abruptly open, a curious hotel guest, then the sound of a chain. As the shocked occupant of the room screamed, Dewey booted his foot at the door, ripping the chain off, then lunging into the room.

  Standing in a bathrobe was a man in his seventies. Dewey pointed at the bed, training his gun on him, holding a finger to his
lips, telling him to be quiet.

  Dewey stepped backward, gun fixed on the man. He opened the door and grabbed the ankle of the dead bodyguard. He dragged him into the room, keeping the muzzle of the Colt trained at all times on the old man’s head.

  Dewey shut the door shut and left the dead thug just inside the room.

  “Please don’t kill me,” the man stuttered.

  Dewey said nothing. He came to the man, flipped him on his stomach. He removed his Gerber combat blade from his ankle sheath. He sliced apart a towel, ripping it into strips. He gagged the man tightly, then bound his arms and legs.

  Dewey moved to the dead man. He had another gun—Walther PPK—and a pack of cigarettes. In a secret pocket in his left sock, Dewey found a plastic room key.

  Dewey looked in the bathroom. On the sink was a plug-in razor.

  Dewey took the electric razor and shaved his beard, mustache, and hair. It took him five minutes, and was rough. His hair was now short, a quarter inch of stubble. He looked in the mirror, and for a second, he didn’t recognize himself.

  He checked the old man to make sure he wasn’t tied too tightly. He went to the door and looked out the peephole. The corridor wall had a small arc of wet blood. The beige carpet was pancaked in scarlet.

  He had to move.

  He exited the room and moved methodically down the hallway, soundlessly inserting the key, watching, at each door, as the light turned red. He took the fire stairs to the fifth floor, repeating the sweep. Near the far corner, a door lock suddenly flashed green and the lock clicked. Dewey removed his gun. He opened the door, then kicked with all his strength. The door swung violently in, crashing against the wall. The other bodyguard was sitting, shirt off, on one of the beds, the TV on. Next to him on the bed was a small submachine gun.

  He looked at Dewey. His eyes shot, inexplicably, reflexively, to the closet next to the door.

  Dewey turned the gun and fired into the closet as the shirtless guard reached for the SMG.

  Dewey swept the Colt and fired again, ripping a slug into the man’s chest.

  He yanked the closet door open. On the floor was another man. His chest was oozing blood. A gun was at his feet. He looked up at Dewey, whispering something in Russian as blood drenched his chest.

  Dewey shut the door. He stepped to the window. In front of the hotel, at least a dozen police cruisers had arrived, red lights flashing, along with a growing line of black sedans.

  “Fuck,” he whispered.

  He stepped to a door connecting to the next room. He knocked.

  “Da.” A woman’s voice.

  Dewey said nothing. He waited, then knocked again. The door opened. Standing in the door was Katya. She had on a white terry cloth bathrobe.

  Dewey raised the weapon and aimed it at her head.

  “Don’t say anything. Don’t scream. Don’t try to run. You do that and I won’t hurt you.”

  Katya nodded. She looked as if she was about to cry.

  “Who are you?” she whispered.

  “Put on some clothing,” said Dewey.

  He shut the connecting door and walked to the window. Flashing blue lights dotted the road surrounding the hotel. The sound of sirens came in through the window.

  He kept his gun trained on Katya as he pulled out his cell. He dialed the number of the Navy SEAL, Jacobsson, who was in the harbor waiting.

  “Jacobsson, go.”

  “I have the girl,” said Dewey. “We need to move.”

  “Who are you?” she asked again.

  Dewey ignored her question.

  “Where are you?” asked Jacobsson.

  “Four Seasons.”

  “Go out the front entrance,” said Jacobsson. “Right one block to the canal. I’ll be there, beneath the bridge.”

  “How long?”

  Above the sirens, a sharp, high-pitched beeping noise suddenly roared. The hotel fire alarm. The Four Seasons was being evacuated.

  “Five. By the time you get there I’ll be in position.”

  “See you soon,” said Dewey calmly.

  44

  FOUR SEASONS LION PALACE

  SAINT PETERSBURG

  Dewey pocketed Katya’s cell phone. He ransacked her suitcases, purse, handbags, coat pockets, and anything else he could find. He went into the bathroom and dug into her toiletries kit, keeping the muzzle of his gun aimed out the open door at Katya.

  “What are you looking for?” she asked. “Do you know who I am?”

  Dewey returned to the living room of the luxurious suite, then stepped into the bedroom, the gun always aimed at Katya through the open door. He looked in the drawers of the bureaus, lifting up clothing. He went to a mahogany desk in front of the window and opened the drawers, finding nothing. He returned to the living room.

  “Get dressed,” said Dewey. “Get some shoes on. Now.”

  “Why are you doing this?” Katya asked, her voice trembling.

  Dewey pulled out a sheet of paper and unfolded it. On it were photos of Cloud. He handed it to her.

  Katya’s hand went to her mouth, covering it.

  “Is that your boyfriend?” asked Dewey.

  She nodded as tears rolled down her cheeks.

  “He’s a terrorist,” said Dewey. “He’s planning an attack on the United States.”

  Katya wiped her cheeks, staring at the paper, then let it fall to the floor.

  “He killed five Americans tonight. Lured them into a trap, then killed them. They never had a chance. Now get dressed.”

  Katya burst into tears.

  “Pyotr,” she said. “He’s not a terrorist.”

  “What’s his last name?”

  “Vargarin.”

  Dewey took out his cell and hit Speed Dial.

  “Control. Identify.”

  “Andreas, put me through to Bill Polk.”

  As Dewey waited, he nodded to Katya.

  “Get dressed,” he said again. “Now.”

  Polk came on the line.

  “Dewey?”

  Dewey stepped to the window, out of earshot, then spoke in a low voice, all the while keeping his gun trained at Katya.

  “I have her,” he whispered.

  “Where?”

  “The hotel.”

  “That would explain why Metro police is going haywire.”

  “Yeah, I know. I need to get going, but you need to know something: His name is Pyotr Vargarin.”

  “She told you that?”

  “She seemed genuinely shocked that he’s a terrorist. She’s either a very good liar or is unaware of this guy’s true identity.”

  “Does she have a cell phone?”

  “Hold on.”

  Dewey took out Katya’s cell phone, then dictated the number to Polk.

  Polk cleared his throat.

  “One more thing,” Polk said. “You need to stay inside Russia. We just received word that the nuke is through the Strait of Gibraltar. Katya Basaeyev is now our only link to Cloud. Get her out, then stay in-theater and wait for further orders. You got it?”

  “Yeah, I got it.”

  “Get going.”

  “Where are you taking me? Please, I ask you sincerely.”

  “You’re the only connection we have to Cloud,” said Dewey. “I’m taking you out of Russia.”

  “You’re kidnapping me,” she sobbed.

  “Yes,” said Dewey, “I am. Kidnapping. Abducting. Whatever you want to call it. We will do whatever we need to do to stop this attack on the United States. I don’t want to hurt you, Katya. But that’s up to you. Do you understand?”

  She stared at him in silence. He looked back, trying not to look too long into her eyes, trying not to get to know her in any way, trying not to think about anything other than the mission. His eyes went to the window and peered down at the chaotic mess in front of the hotel.

  “Please get dressed,” he repeated.

  In the reflection in the glass, Dewey watched as Katya removed her bathrobe and allowed it to fal
l to the ground. He stopped looking, even at the blurry reflection, until she had pulled on a pair of white jeans and a sweater. He saw her take a small object from the table, something that was beneath her shirt, and tuck it under a book.

  “What was it?” he asked, pointing to the book.

  “Nothing.”

  “Give it to me.”

  Katya picked up the object and stepped toward Dewey, staring daggers as she handed him a small leather object the size of a wallet. Dewey opened it up. It was a traveling photo album, with slots for just a few photos. There were only two. One was a color photo of a pair of teenagers, a girl and a boy. They were seated at a restaurant. In front of the girl was a piece of cake with a single candle lit on top of it. They were holding hands. The girl had pigtails and a big smile on her face. The boy had short, curly blond hair. He was smiling too.

  Dewey stared at it for several moments, then looked at Katya.

  “My fifteenth birthday,” she said.

  “Is that him?”

  Katya nodded.

  The other photo was black and white, its edges frayed with age. This photo showed a child. He was standing dead center in the middle of the photo. Other children were gathered to his side, all eyes looking at him. He was in front of a table, upon which was a large trophy. An adult, presumably a teacher, was presenting the trophy to the boy. Behind him, a plain-looking, slightly rotund woman was standing next to a tall, bearded man with glasses and curly brown hair. The woman had a blank, serious expression on her face. The man was smiling proudly.

  Dewey studied the black-and-white photo. Cloud was very young. He wore a button-down shirt and tie. His hair sprouted up from his head in big, wavy curls.

  “What is this?”

  “The only photo he has of his parents,” she answered. “They’re both dead.”