by Ben Coes
She lifted the scalpel and moved toward him. He lurched at her, she ducked, then she slammed the needle into his neck. His eyes drifted back into his head and his eyelids shut.
She placed her hand on Maybank’s torso, rubbing it gently. He was breathing very rapidly, unconscious but alive.
Braga cut away Maybank’s pants at the top of the thigh, above the wound. She took the scalpel and cut four small incisions in the skin near the bullet hole. She put the forceps into the bullet hole, digging down, searching for the slug. After more than a minute, she felt the hard edge of a steel object. Carefully, she gripped it with the forceps, rocked it slowly back and forth, and pulled the slug from Maybank’s leg.
Braga cleaned the wound, sewed the skin back together, then wrapped the thigh in a thick bandage. Finally, she filled a syringe with antibiotics and injected it into Maybank’s leg.
Braga sat on the bed next to Maybank and placed her hand on his forehead. He was still hot. His eyelids cracked open.
“Get some rest,” she said. “They’ll be here soon. We need you.”
60
DURHAM DRIVE
POTOMAC, MARYLAND
At just before three, under a blazing sun, Calibrisi’s black Lincoln Town Car pulled down a quiet road lined on both sides with white horse fence and palatial homes. The car came to a set of iron gates, which parted as his driver took him closer, then moved down a long pebble-stone driveway. The driveway led in a winding arc to a massive white house that looked like a palace.
“Jesus Christ,” said Calibrisi, reaching for the car door. “What a fucking eyesore.”
Calibrisi walked slowly up the driveway, then climbed marble steps to a pair of ten-foot-high doors. He rang the doorbell. When the doors opened, a young blond woman in a bright yellow tennis outfit was standing there.
“Mr. Calibrisi?” she asked, smiling.
“Yes.”
“Follow me. John’s in back. Would you like something to drink?”
“No, thank you.”
Calibrisi trailed the woman through an entrance hall and out to a stone terrace. Below was a tennis court, a swimming pool, and a rolling lawn that spread out to a white fence several hundred yards away.
John Barrows was seated in a teak chaise. He was wearing white tennis shorts and a striped polo shirt. Barrows’s hair was tousled. He had a blank expression on his face. He clutched a glass of lemonade.
“Hi, John,” said Calibrisi, taking a seat next to Barrows. “Sorry to interrupt your tennis match.”
Barrows was one of Washington, D.C.’s most powerful attorneys. Unlike most high-profile lawyers in town, he wasn’t well known, except to the select few who needed to know him.
When The Washington Post attempted to write a piece on him a few years before, Barrows succeeded in doing something even U.S. presidents had failed to do, namely, get the story killed. Barrows didn’t just have influence. He had power. His clients were the substructure that underlined most criminal activity in the United States. On the one hand, the U.S. government fought him, but at the highest levels, at times like this, they worked with him. They had to.
“What is it, Hector?” said Barrows.
“Before we start, I want you to send Alexei Malnikov a text.”
“Why?”
“Tell him to do a sweep of all cell phones, computers, and any other appliances that are connected to outside networks. He needs to sanitize. He’ll need a good IT person.”
Barrows reached for his cell phone.
“Was Langley penetrated?” Barrows asked as he typed.
“Yes,” said Calibrisi as Barrows typed a text. When Barrows was done, he looked up.
“The floor is yours, Mr. Director.”
“The conversation we’re about to have never happened,” said Calibrisi, staring at Barrows. “Dead man talk.”
Barrows nodded.
“Okay.”
“I want to cut a deal,” said Calibrisi.
“I’m listening.”
“Alexei pressured a Ukrainian general into selling him a nuclear bomb,” said Calibrisi.
“So you allege,” said Barrows.
“He admitted to it.”
Barrows nodded.
“I figured it was something more provocative than usual.”
“The bomb is on its way to the United States.”
For the first time, Barrows looked momentarily flummoxed.
“How?”
“Boat. A fishing trawler. It left Sevastopol three days ago.”
“So sink it,” said Barrows.
“Good idea,” said Calibrisi. “Why didn’t we think of that?”
Barrows grinned.
“There are four million registered commercial fishing vessels in the world,” added Calibrisi. “At least double that if you include unregistered boats.”
“How many fishing trawlers?”
“The size of the one the bomb left on? Approximately a million.”
“Alexei Malnikov is not a terrorist, Hector.”
“The man he gave it to is, however,” said Calibrisi.
“Who is he?”
“His name is Vargarin. He goes by the name Cloud. He’s a computer hacker.”
Barrows took a sip of lemonade. He stood up and walked to the balustrade that overlooked the tennis court and swimming pool.
“What do you need?”
“Alexei’s help.”
“You think my client knows where this guy is?” asked Barrows.
“Not necessarily,” said Calibrisi. “But he might be able to find him.”
“How do you figure that?”
“Let’s put it this way,” said Calibrisi. “If you asked me to go into the woods and find a truffle, I probably wouldn’t find it.”
Barrows laughed.
“I won’t tell Alexei you compared him to a pig,” said Barrows.
“There are air wars and there are ground wars,” said Calibrisi. “Right now, we need someone who knows the dark alleys of Russia.”
“Don’t you guys have manpower in Big Red?”
“Of course we do,” said Calibrisi. “But we need local access.”
“How big is the bomb?”
“Thirty kilotons.”
Barrows’s mouth fell open in astonishment. He looked ashen.
“If this bomb detonates, it will be a very dark day for this country,” Calibrisi continued. “We’re talking about the potential for more than a million deaths. We need Alexei’s help. We’re willing to pay a great deal of money for it.”
“You think money would move the dial with this guy?” scoffed Barrows. “If they included Alexei Malnikov on the Forbes 400, he’d be number six. He doesn’t care about another fifty million, hundred million, or whatever amount the U.S. government offers.”
“I can’t leave it to chance.”
Barrows leaned back in his chair.
“There’s only one thing Alexei cares about, and that’s his father,” said Barrows. “You want pay for performance, you need to deal with his dad.”
Barrows’s message was clear: Alexei Malnikov might help find Cloud in exchange for freeing his father from prison.
“A full presidential pardon,” added Barrows. “Nothing less.”
Calibrisi nodded slowly, deep in thought. This was the precise deal he knew he needed to cut with Barrows. But now that it was on the table, he felt sick to his stomach.
The low electric hum of a helicopter came from the distant sky.
“Fine,” said Calibrisi. “We’ll do it.”
“It’ll need to be in writing,” said Barrows. “From the attorney general.”
Calibrisi stood up as the sound of the chopper grew louder. Suddenly, a navy blue Sikorsky S-76C cut across the tree line, then hooked left and down toward Barrows’s backyard, descending with almost military intent.
“It cuts both ways, John,” said Calibrisi, his voice rising above the growing din.
“What does that mean?” Barrows shot back.
�
��We’ll do the deal. He helps us find Cloud, we stop the bomb, his dad goes free. But if we don’t stop it—”
“All the kid can do is try,” said Barrows, protesting. “It wouldn’t be fair for you to hold him responsible if this nutjob detonates a nuclear bomb on American soil.”
“He sourced it,” said Calibrisi, his anger rising for the first and only time during the conversation. “If that nuke goes off on U.S. soil, anyone with any connection to it better make damn sure his affairs are in order.”
“That sounds like a threat.”
Calibrisi watched as the chopper settled onto the lawn, just behind the tennis court. He paused, then stared angrily at Barrows.
“It is a threat. Alexei Malnikov helped create this problem.”
Calibrisi took a few steps toward the stairs that led to the backyard, then turned back to Barrows.
“You tell me, John, if this nuclear bomb goes off, and a million people die, do you think Alexei Malnikov deserves to live?”
61
MOSCOW
Malnikov’s crimson red Gulfstream 200 touched down at Moscow International Airport and taxied to the private aviation terminal, coming to a stop next to a waiting bright green Lamborghini Aventador 720-4. As Malnikov hustled down the stairs of the jet, the car’s right scissor door arose like a knife blade into the air. Malnikov climbed in the passenger seat, nodding with barely concealed anger at the driver. Before the door was even halfway down, the Lamborghini’s tires screeched high and the sports car ripped across the tarmac toward the airport exit.
Eight minutes later, the Lamborghini braked in front of a low brick building that housed Malnikov’s base of operations along with his nightclub. Malnikov stepped out of the car and walked to the door, which opened as he approached. Inside, a gunman stood.
“Hello, Alexei,” he said.
Malnikov ignored him.
The club was empty. It smelled of spilled alcohol, cigarette smoke, and body odor. He crossed the litter-strewn dance floor, walking toward the stairs at the back, where another gunman stood.
“Get me coffee,” snapped Malnikov as he stepped by the gunman and descended the stairs.
Inside his office, four men were gathered: Prozkya, Radovitch, Leonid, and Obramovitch.
Malnikov crossed to his desk and reached below, opening a small refrigerator. He took out a Red Bull, popped it open, then took a big sip, staring at his men.
“I want you to drop whatever you’re doing,” said Malnikov. “Right now, we have one job: we’re going to kill this motherfucker Cloud. Find him and kill him. I want to put a steak knife in the side of his head. Do you understand?”
“I told you not to buy the fucking bomb,” said Radovitch.
“Thank you for pointing that out,” said Malnikov. “Do you want a medal? Take your fucking attitude and stick it up your ass.”
“This is about the fact that he set up your father, and we all know it. You’ve put the entire organization at risk.”
Malnikov’s hand moved imperceptibly to his hip, then swung into the air and threw a knife in Radovitch’s direction. The blade somersaulted in a tight arc and landed in the leather of the coach, only an inch from Radovitch’s head.
Malnikov stared at Radovitch as a long, pregnant silence took over the room.
“Shut the fuck up,” said Malnikov. “Just be quiet. It’s not about my father. It’s not about the bomb. It’s not the money. This is about honor. My honor. Your honor. We’re going to find Cloud. We’re going to find him and we’re going to stab a steak knife into his fucking skull and cut apart that big brain of his. Do I make myself clear?”
“Yes,” said Radovitch, who reached to his right and pulled the knife from the leather couch.
“What is the last information we have?” asked Prozkya.
Malnikov felt a small vibration in his pocket. He pulled out a cell phone and glanced at the caller ID on the screen:
:: CALIBRISI H.C.::
He stared at the screen for a moment, then answered.
“What is it?”
“Alexei, it’s Hector Calibrisi.”
Malnikov covered the phone with his hand. He looked at his men and nodded toward the door, telling them in no uncertain terms to get the hell out of the room.
“What do you want?”
“We need your help.”
“Haven’t I already helped you enough?” asked Malnikov.
“This is a zero-sum game,” said Calibrisi. “I’ll tell you when you’ve helped me enough.”
Silence took over the phone.
“Did you speak with your lawyer?” asked Calibrisi.
“Yes.”
Malnikov reached to the drawer of his desk and took out a pack of cigarettes, then lit one.
“The paperwork is in process. We have presidential sign-off.”
“How do I know the United States will keep its word?”
“That’s why you pay John Barrows so much money.”
“I don’t know where Cloud is.”
“You better start looking, then,” said Calibrisi.
Malnikov’s nostrils flared slightly. He took a sip of Red Bull.
“Look, I didn’t call to argue with you,” continued Calibrisi. “You already helped us. I want you to know I’m grateful.”
“Then why the threats?”
“Because that bomb you gave Cloud is on its way to the United States. I need you to understand that your life depends on us stopping it. You want to live? You want to see your father go free? Find Cloud.”
“I’ll find him for you,” said Malnikov. “And when I do, I will kill him myself.”
“You won’t touch him. We need him alive. He has information that is of vital interest to the United States of America. There’s an agent on his way to Moscow. He will direct the in-theater aspects of Cloud’s takedown.”
Malnikov shook his head, then took another drag on his cigarette.
“Do I make myself clear?” asked Calibrisi.
“What’s his name?”
“Dewey Andreas.”
“You want me to find Cloud and bring him to this agent, Dewey?” said Malnikov, a hint of contempt in his voice. “Treat him like a little baby?”
Calibrisi was silent for a few moments.
“I realize you think this is some sort of deal that’s gone bad for you, Alexei,” he said calmly, “but it’s much more than that, and you need to drop the attitude and accept the situation you’re in. If that nuclear bomb goes off inside the United States, we will scour the earth until we find you, and then you’ll die. Got it?”
“Yeah, I got it.”
62
IN THE AIR
Katie Foxx stared out the window of Delta flight 35, the 9:10 P.M. Chicago-to-Atlanta direct. She was seated in first class. Next to her was Rob Tacoma, leaning against her shoulder. He’d been asleep since taking off from O’Hare.
Katie imagined that everyone surrounding them thought they were married, or a couple, but Tacoma was like a little brother. In fact, his snoring was annoying the shit out of her. She flared her elbow up, cracking him solidly in the neck. He opened his eyes, looked at her with a dazed, confused look, then shut his eyes again and leaned even farther into her seat.
Tacoma and Katie had worked together for more than a decade, first at the CIA, where she ran Special Operations Group under Bill Polk. Tacoma was her most reliable paramilitary agent, a tough-minded, fearless in-theater operator with stunning athletic skills. He was the best face-to-face combatant she’d ever seen. He wasn’t the sharpest knife in the drawer by any stretch, but with Katie around, he didn’t need to be.
When Katie left Langley to start a consulting firm, Tacoma was the only one she took with her. The firm, which didn’t have a name, provided a wide complex of services to individuals and corporations alike, all under the general rubric of security. These services usually involved doing things, in foreign countries, that were against the law.
Katie and Tacoma operated with th
e express approval and permission of the CIA. In fact, Langley was their biggest client. The firm enabled Langley to occasionally move faster and with more savageness than usual.
The serenity of the first-class cabin was interrupted by an announcement over the intercom.
“Ladies and gentleman, this is Captain Fletcher. I’m afraid we have a slight change of plans. We are having a medical issue involving two of our passengers, nothing to worry about, but we’re going to land in Columbus and make sure everything’s all right. I apologize for the inconvenience.”
Tacoma opened his eyes. He looked at Katie. She returned his look.
“This should be interesting,” Tacoma said.
Ten minutes later, the Boeing 737 touched down at Columbus International Airport, then taxied to a stop in the middle of the tarmac. A set of mobile air stairs was driven from the terminal building to meet the jet. Behind it sped a black Chevy Suburban.
A stewardess opened the cabin door as the air stairs were moved into place. Tacoma and Katie stood up, grabbed their bags from the overhead bin, walked to the door, and climbed down the stairs. They sprinted across the tarmac to the Suburban. The Suburban crossed two runways, then came to a stop next to a shiny light blue Gulfstream G100, its engines humming. A minute later, the jet was ripping through the sky, toward New York City.
63
SHENNAMERE ROAD
DARIEN, CONNECTICUT
Just before midnight, under a dark sky, Calibrisi’s Sikorsky S-76C helicopter dropped from the sky upon a bucolic Connecticut estate, landing on a large, circular pebble-stone driveway before a rambling mansion, now dark, except for a lone light in a first-floor window. Calibrisi, Foxx, and Tacoma jumped from the cabin of the chopper as the rotors continued to slash the night air.
Calibrisi had already briefed Foxx and Tacoma on the situation in Russia.
In the driveway was a pair of vehicles. One was a black Range Rover, the other a convertible Porsche 918 Spyder, yellow with black racing stripes along its sides.
They moved quickly toward the large door that marked the mansion’s entrance, a copper lantern dangling from above. Two men stood watch, both dressed in jeans, running shoes, and T-shirts. Both men clutched submachine guns.
