by Jeff Buick
He had spent an hour setting up travel arrangements to New York for ten o'clock tomorrow night. A back up plan in case he missed killing Grant in the allowable time frame. A quick flight to the Big Apple and Fleming would be sorry he had ever started this whole mess. Actually, Fleming would be dead and dead people didn't care about much.
Alexi's phone rang. He glanced at the caller ID. He answered and a man's voice rattled off some names and addresses while he jotted them down on a piece of scrap paper. He thanked the man, promised to send money and hung up. He had her. Julie Lindstrom had booked her hotel rooms at the Ararat Park Hyatt through Evan Lucas, an employee of Details Matter. But his source had dug up more than simply their location. He had delivered the mother lode.
Evan Lucas had also used his credit card to make some very unusual purchases. Two portable GPS units, halogen lamps and waterproof boots among other things. They were heading into the tunnels. Lindstrom was a smart woman and he had little doubt that she was keeping Carson Grant close to her. Which meant that they would be in the tunnels together. That put them underground, in the dark and away from witnesses.
Lindstrom had a modicum of training with the FBI and Grant had no idea what he was doing. They were no match for him. Lindstrom and Grant would die like sewer rats in the tunnels under Moscow. Alexi paid his tab and hailed a cab. He gave the driver the address of the Ararat Park Hyatt. Patience was the key now.
* * *
Moscow, August 24th, 2:45 pm
The television in the luxury hotel suite was tuned to BBC.
Four men sat and watched the latest news on Halima. There was mounting proof that the gun belonging to the deceased soldier was defective. And that no one had fired on the troops. The reporter was checking on where the gun had been shipped in from, but so far had been unable to determine its origin.
Kadir, Halima's father, was interviewed from his hospital bed. He held her picture, the one that was on every television worldwide, in his good hand. Through an interpreter he tearfully told the reporters that he had sold his daughter to a man from Pakistan for fifteen hundred US dollars with the promise that she would be attending school in Peshawar. He held up his crushed hand and told of how he was unable to work, and that supporting his three children was impossible. The reporter, a serious-looking woman in her thirties with an English accent, thanked him and walked out of the room. In the hallway, she faced the camera and spoke.
"What Kadir Hussein did not know," she said, "was that Tabraiz Masood was not taking Halima to a family in Peshawar to live in their house as a servant. There was no school waiting for her. No chance to work hard, graduate, and become a teacher. Tabraiz Masood was a slave trader and Halima was destined for the United Arab Emirates, where a wealthy businessman was waiting for her. That was the future awaiting this young girl. The same future that awaits many."
The reporter signed off.
The talking head from the London studio came on. "This story is gaining momentum with every hour," he said. "It has been nineteen hours since Halima's death, and people worldwide are listening, connecting, and getting involved. There is sadness. There is outrage. There is bewilderment. And...there is understanding for Andrew James, the American soldier who fired the shot."
The man's face faded and the screen went to the now-familiar video. The audio on the film was notched down a few decibels and the anchor's voice-over dominated. "Sentiment is on the side of the troops, whether they are US, British, Canadian, Australian, or any of the other forty-three nationalities on the ground in Afghanistan. The conditions under which decisions are made are somewhere between difficult and deplorable."
The rest of the story unfolded and the video ended. The picture reverted to the London studio. "We will follow this story as it unfolds. In other news..."
The mood in the hotel room was somber. One of the men walked over and picked up a guitar. He strummed some chords. Another found some drumsticks and tapped out a beat on the table. A bass guitar was leaning against the wall and the third man brought it into the mix. The most recognizable of the four hummed in tune to the chords and added an occasional string of words. They stopped and started, changed the key, added richness to the chords, then cut it back to give the sound a raw edge. For the next two hours they hammered away at the song and the lyrics. By suppertime, U2 had written the song they would use to open the concert in Moscow.
One Child.
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Chapter
69
Moscow, August 24th, 10:15 pm
They had uncovered nothing of value in the tunnels.
Julie and Carson spent a full seven hours underground before reuniting with Evan and returning to the hotel. Combining the portable GPS system and the schematics gave them a reasonably accurate picture of the tunnel network and they had found two of the junction boxes where they felt Miller and his crew could have tapped in. Both had proven to be dead ends.
Carson showered, made some tea, then hovered near the edge of the dining room table where Julie and her crew were reviewing their strategy. The consensus was that they were on the right track and just needed a break. They were sure that the circuit breakers were already in place, set to cut the power. If they could find one of them, and the attached remote, they could dismantle it and determine the frequency Miller was using to activate them. With that, they could jam the signal and stop the devices from cutting the power.
That was Plan A. But as everyone around the table knew, Plan B existed for a reason. The problem was, they didn't have one.
Carson refilled his cup with hot water and swirled the teabag about. The television was in the adjoining room and he plopped onto the sofa and flipped through the channels. Most were in Russian and he stopped on the BBC feed. The top story of the day was still the death of the young girl in Afghanistan. He turned up the volume a few notches.
"...it is now confirmed that authorities have arrested Tabraiz Masood, the slave trader who bought Halima, as he was attempting to flee Afghanistan. He is being held in prison in Kandahar city and has been cooperating with the Afghan National Police. He has admitted to paying Kadir Hussein fifteen hundred American dollars for his daughter and confirmed that she was en route to the United Arab Emirates." The screen shifted from the news anchor to the video. "Bobby Sullivan, the US soldier killed in the incident, died when his gun backfired and struck him in the face. Mr. Sullivan had taken possession of the standard-issue M-4 ten days earlier, on August 13th, and speculation is that the weapon was defective. With more on the story, this is Lisa Ambridge in London."
A woman appeared on the screen, framed by the British parliament buildings in the background. Hundreds of people were in the street, many holding placards.
"Thank you, Liam. As you can see behind me, the country is reacting to Halima's death in many different ways. There are calls for the international community to crack down on slave traders targeting destitute families in hopeless situations. There is a greater understanding of the plight of Afghan girls, many who find themselves without a voice in their own country. Schooling is out of reach for the vast majority, and the lack of education is condemning them to lives of subservience and monotony. Grass roots organizations are springing up, raising money to fund schools and for desperately-needed medical clinics."
Carson muted the volume and picked up the telephone as the images moved from London to Rome and Washington DC. The iconic picture of Halima was omnipresent. He asked the operator to connect him with the BBC in London, England. It took a few minutes, but she found the number and put his call through. Carson asked the receptionist for the newsroom and waited. A woman answered, identified herself and asked the reason for his call.
"I may have information about the gun that backfired and killed the soldier in Afghani
stan," he said.
"Yes, go ahead," the woman said. Her voice was interested, perhaps a bit excited.
"I believe a well known New York businessman was involved in shipping defective arms to Kandahar Airfield. They would have arrived on August 4th. Some of the weapons were M-4s."
"Can you identify this man?" she asked.
"William Fleming."
"That is a very serious allegation, Mr..."
"Grant. Carson Grant." He gave her his home address, phone numbers and date of birth. "You can quote me on this."
"Do you have any proof?"
"Yes. I have e-mails sent from an arms dealer named Jorge Amistav to Fleming that discuss the details. One deals with bank information for transferring funds. Another is about crating the weapons in Germany and shipping them to Afghanistan. The final e-mail has the weapons arriving at the airfield and an instruction for Fleming to submit the invoice."
There was no mistaking the anxiousness in her voice now. "Is there anyone who can corroborate this, Mr. Grant?"
"Yes."
"Who?" Even the single word was tinged with relief.
"Alicia Crane. She and I both worked for Fleming at Platinus." He gave her Alicia's contact information. "I haven't had a chance to speak with her about this, but you can call and tell her to phone me at the Ararat Park Hyatt in Moscow if she needs to. She has a copy of the e-mails on her computer."
"Can we contact you again, Mr. Grant?" she asked.
"Anytime," he said. "You have the number for the hotel in Moscow and my cell number. If there is anything else you need, please call."
"Thank you."
Carson set the phone down and sipped his tea. Fleming was a sick bastard who deserved to be brought down a few notches. Fitting that he was the one to initiate the process.
"Go ahead and try to kill me, you prick," he whispered to himself.
* * *
Moscow, August 24th, 11:15 pm
Alexi sat smoking a cigarette in the lobby of the Ararat Park Hyatt. He liked the hotel, from the massive stone pillars at the front entrance and dark-stained wood that dominated the reception desk, to the large, elegant rooms. He had attended many functions and stayed overnight numerous times. It was the perfect place to eat, lodge or wait for a victim.
Ninety minutes earlier Lindstrom and Grant, with two unknown men in tow, had marched through the lobby and taken the elevators to the twelfth floor. He followed on the next available lift and saw which room they entered. He could wait until they were asleep, enter their rooms and kill all of them. Messy, and sure to have the international media and police all over it. Or, he could wait until they revisited the unforgiving underworld, follow them in and take care of things in the dark. It was a no-brainer.
He was quite sure they wouldn't be coming out again tonight. Their backpacks were heavy with gear and the looks on their faces told the story of how things had gone. They had failed to find the circuit breakers. Good luck, he thought. His design was ingenious. The small contactors, tucked behind the main junction boxes, were impossible to find. But one thing was certain - they would try again in the morning.
This time, he would be close behind.
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Chapter
70
Day 30 - 8.25.10 - Morning News
Moscow, August 25th, 8:10 am - 12 hours until the concert
Preparations for U2's arrival at Luzhniki were proceeding as usual. Julie's onsite team was setting up security barriers, running over detailed procedures with the local security staff they had hired, and checking the band's route in and out of the stadium. Dressing rooms were stocked according to the rider, and the sound and light technicians were running their final checks. It was business as usual on the surface.
Julie and Evan were up at six reviewing the sections of the underground they had covered the previous day. Despite having two teams, almost eighty percent of the tunnel system had yet to be checked. The task was daunting and time was quickly running out.
"Is the jamming apparatus ready?" Julie asked as they prepared to leave the hotel.
Evan nodded. "They both are." He pointed at two cases that traveled everywhere with the band's security. One was considerably larger than the other. "The crew is going to take the Patrol-PX to the stadium and we'll keep the Patrol-BJX with us."
Julie nodded. "It would be best if they could jam the signal from the stadium. Their antenna and range will be far better than the remote unit we'll have with us at the tunnels."
"Way better. The PX uses a high-gain antenna and the BJX has a simple external one. That said, the small unit we'll have with us has 300 watts of power and can jam both VHF and UHF frequencies."
"If we can nail down the frequency and call it in to the guys working the machine at the stadium, that's best. The second option is to use the mobile unit and jam it from wherever we are."
"Right, but we have to be above ground. No sense taking it with us into the tunnels. The jamming signal from the machine can't penetrate ten or twenty feet of concrete and dirt."
Julie leaned back in her chair and ran a hand across her forehead. Her eyes were bloodshot and worry lines creased her face. "Are we on the right track?" she asked. "What if we're out in left field somewhere?"
"You think we are?" Evan asked.
She reconsidered the possibilities and shook her head. "No, I don't."
"Then let's go find whatever they hid in the tunnels. I'll send the large unit to the stadium and have a man standing by once we get the frequency."
"Okay, let's do it."
Carson was in the adjoining room, having a quick breakfast. The television was on and there was more on the Afghan situation. The American government had waded into the frenzy surrounding Halima's death with a promise of two hundred million dollars that would be targeted at building schools. The deal assured the funds would be managed by existing NGOs with strong ties to the local communities. The government viewed it as a new approach - grass roots rather than top down - one that would have tangible results.
Carson was reaching for the buttons to turn the TV off when a picture of William Fleming appeared on the right side of the screen. His name was emblazoned under his photo in block letters, and under his name was a caption. Billionaire brokered defective arms. He turned up the volume.
"William Fleming, one of the richest men in the world, has been identified as an integral link in the chain of events that saw defective weapons shipped to Kandahar. One of the weapons from that shipment backfired two days ago, killing Bobby Sullivan, and the ensuing firefight resulted in the death of twelve-year-old Halima Hussein. BBC news has determined that the weapons, which included Javelin missiles in addition to M-4 rifles, were classified as defective by the US military and sent to Germany for disposal or remediation. Instead, the weapons were resold to the US government by Jorge Amistav, an Armenian arms dealer, and the deal was financed by William Fleming. Thirty-five million dollars was deposited into one of Mr. Fleming's Caribbean bank accounts. Mr. Fleming has refused our repeated requests for an interview."
Carson thumbed the power button and the screen went dark. It served the son of a bitch right. He pushed himself off the couch and joined Julie, Evan and the fourth man in the foyer. They took the elevator together to the main floor where the SUV was waiting at the curb. Eleven and a half hours remained until the concert.
It was panic time.
* * *
Moscow, August 25th, 8:30 am - 11.5 hours until the concert
Alexi watched the black SUV leave the hotel and told the driver to tail them. He noted every detail on the vehicle - chrome trim on the side panels, low-profile tires, the license plate number. The taxi pulled into the busy morn
ing traffic and settled in a couple of cars back and one lane to the left. Five minutes into the drive, the cab driver sped up and ran a red light to keep the SUV in sight. Alexi pulled a wad of bills from his pocket and dropped them on the seat next to the driver.
The Sig Sauer P226 was uncomfortable tucked up against his rib cage. The gun was loaded, and he had a silencer in his blazer pocket. Using the metal cylinder to suppress sound was a good idea in close quarters, but it was heavy and affected the degree of accuracy at distances over fifteen meters. He didn't expect to be working with a shot over three to five meters, and he was deadly accurate inside that range. The silencer shouldn't factor in. In fact, he may not need the gun. He had a small, razor-sharp knife in his other pocket.
The sound of a siren filtered through the traffic and the car immediately ahead of the taxi slowed, leaving a growing gap between it and the delivery van it was following. Alexi leaned forward a bit so he could see what was happening. Concern tugged at his stomach as the distance increased and the wail from the siren intensified. Another siren joined what was now a cacophony of noise echoing off the four-story buildings on either side of the road. Alexi yelled at the driver to get around the car and make it through the upcoming intersection. The man frantically looked to both sides, trying to find a space to shift lanes but there was nothing but solid lines of traffic. They were trapped. Brake lights flashed and the car ahead lurched to a stop. A police car and an ambulance raced through the intersection. Another siren blended in and none of the cars moved. A second police car pushed its way through the intersection and disappeared down the cross street.
Alexi slumped back into the seat and waited. The light had changed from green to red and a full minute passed before the cab could move again. The SUV was nowhere in sight. He ordered the cabbie to drive to Luzhniki Stadium and he sat quietly in the back seat for the twenty minutes it took to make the trip. When they arrived, he asked the driver to wait. He got out and walked about the empty parking lot, wondering how he could find one vehicle in a city the size of Moscow. He knew Lindstrom and her crew were heading for an entrance to the tunnel system. Which meant they would be close to the stadium. Maybe there was a chance the SUV would be parked nearby.
