by Jeff Buick
He returned to the taxi and told the driver to travel in a north-south grid starting close to the stadium and working outward. He informed the man that they were looking for the SUV they had lost in the traffic. Alexi checked his watch. It was 9:15. Less than eleven hours until U2 took to the stage, and Lindstrom's chances of derailing their work were growing dimmer with each passing hour. The odds were heavily stacked against her. Still, he wanted to find Grant and Lindstrom. Partly for the quarter million dollars Fleming was paying, but mostly for the rush that would come from killing them.
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Chapter
71
Moscow, August 25th, 5:00 pm - 3 hours until the concert
Carson was covered with algae and caked-on cement dust from almost eight hours underground. His back ached from standing on bricks and his shoes and clothes were soaked from the constant drips of water that percolated through the stone ceilings. The chill in the dank air had sunk into his bones, his lungs were congested and he was starting to cough. Julie wasn't faring much better. Her matted hair was plastered to the sides of her head and she was wheezing from breathing in the mold and mildew. And they were no closer to finding the handiwork of Miller and his team.
"This is going nowhere," Julie said. She found an outcropping of rock and sat down. She used the walkie-talkie to call Evan, telling him that they had nothing to report except a lot of tunnels and rats. His response was that they had found much of the same. She clicked off the walkie-talkie and used her cell phone to call their driver. The reception was poor, but she got the latest news on the concert. Everything was in place. People were arriving and the stadium was beginning to fill. She flipped the phone shut and slipped it into her pocket.
"I'm freezing," she said.
Carson leaned against the wall, alternating his weight from one foot to the other to rest his legs and knees. "Yeah, it's awful down here. And I thought New York had rats. I've never seen ones this big."
"I hate rats," Julie said.
"You're sure about this?" Carson asked. "About Miller using the tunnels to cut the power?"
She nodded. "This is how he'll do it. We're missing it somehow."
"We keep searching for junction boxes that are ridiculously hard to find, but when we open them, everything is intact."
"So?" she said.
Carson's mind was racing now. "So...Fleming wants to discredit Volstov. If they were to tamper with the boxes in a way that could be discovered, then the blame would fall away from Volstov and onto some unknown saboteur. Mission not accomplished. But if they were to hide whatever they're using to divert the power, no-one would notice."
"We looked closely at the boxes," she countered.
"In the boxes, not behind them."
"They're set into brick and cement."
"Are they?" he asked. "We've spent hours looking for them and we know where they are. It wouldn't hurt to look again."
Julie considered the idea and said, "Let's check the closest one. It shouldn't take us more than fifteen or twenty minutes to get back there."
"Do you want to call Evan?" Carson asked.
She shook her head as she stood up. "No, we can call him if we find something."
They checked their bearings on the portable GPS and headed out.
* * *
Moscow, August 25th, 5:20 pm - 2 hours 40 minutes until the concert
"Stop," Alexi said sharply.
The taxi driver hit the brakes and the cab screeched to a halt next to the curb. Tucked between two large shrubs in the far edge of the parking lot was the black SUV with chrome trim on the side panels.
"Wait for me," he said.
He slipped out of the back seat and skirted the edge of the parking lot, cutting through the stand of trees north of where the SUV was parked. The back of the vehicle was flush to a small grove of shrubs and he had to get quite close before he could see the license plate. He read the series of numbers and letters and smiled. Finally. Five hours of driving the area had paid off. He returned to the cab and paid the driver, adding a substantial tip to the amount.
"You never saw me. You never drove me here. Do you understand?"
The driver nodded emphatically as he pocketed the windfall. "I understand absolutely."
Alexi waited until the cab had left the parking lot and was back in traffic before retracing his steps to the parked SUV. He approached it and waved to the driver, who was sitting in the front seat. He walked up to the window.
"I'm lost," he said, looking around the lot. "I'm looking for Luzhniki Stadium, but I think I got off at the wrong metro stop."
"That's Luzhniki over there," the man said, pointing but not moving from his seat.
Alexi looked in the direction the driver pointed. "How the hell can I get there from here?"
A pained look washed over the man's face and he opened the door. He walked a couple of meters in front of the vehicle and pointed again. "You need to take this road, because there is a..."
The knife severed the man's throat, cutting through the larynx, the jugular and the carotid arteries. Blood spurted from the open arteries, spraying in thick bursts with each beat of the heart, then faded to a light mist as his blood pressure dropped to near zero. He slumped to the asphalt, clutching his neck.
Alexi waited until the man bled out, then grabbed him under his armpits and dragged his body back into the bushes. He hopped into the front seat of the truck and glanced around. There was a cell phone on the console between the seats, and a thin computer screen that resembled an iPad next to it. A series of light blue lines crisscrossed the screen and two blinking lights were embedded in the grid.
"GPS tracker," he whispered under his breath. "How fortunate."
He searched the truck for extra gear and found two halogen lights and a stack of waterproof jackets and boots. He slipped a set of protective clothing overtop his suit jacket. A quick flip of the switch ensured the halogen light was working and had a full charge. He pocketed the cell phone and carried the GPS screen with him as he started searching the area for access into the tunnels. It took less then five minutes to find the grill. The padlocks had been cut and put back in placed with a smidgen of grease on them. He put the cell phone on vibrate and started down the stairs. As he moved through the tunnel, the blips on his screen adjusted slightly. He was moving toward one, away from the other. Choosing the closest one, he set a course through the underground maze. His hand instinctively touched the gun.
Soon. Very soon.
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Chapter
72
Moscow, August 25th, 6:00 pm - two hours until the concert
Trey adjusted the transmitter and pushed the test button. The light flashed green. He checked the remote sensors. All six remotes attached to the contactors Petr had placed on the junction boxes responded that they were still functional. He set the time for two hours and five minutes and armed the device.
"Enjoy the first song," he said to no one. "That's all you're getting tonight."
He set the transmitter in the garbage dumpster and placed a crumpled newspaper over top. Then he shut the lid and padlocked it in place. There was no chance a homeless person could happen along looking for food and find the machine. The company that emptied the bins had a weekly routine, and this one was scheduled to be picked up forty-eight hours from now, on Friday. Trey returned to the street from the alley and settled into the back seat next to Maelle. He asked the driver to drop them at the International Terminal at Sheremetyevo II Airport.
"Well done," he said as they navigated the congested traffic on Leningradskij Prosp
ekt. "And you managed to get out of this without sleeping with Petr."
"The man is a pig," she said.
"But he's a brilliant pig." He smiled at her. "Everything is a go."
The driver changed the channel on the televisions in the seatbacks to suit his English-speaking fare. The anchor was talking about flooding in South America that had caused mudslides and wiped out numerous villages.
"Are you heading back to New York from Paris?" she asked.
Trey shrugged. "Maybe. I'm not sure. I like Paris. I might stay for a few days."
"Need a place to crash?" she asked. A seductive smile spread across her face. Trey returned the grin. He was about to say something, when Maelle pointed to the television. "Check this out."
A picture of William Fleming was on the screen and the anchor went live to a reporter in New York. He was standing on the Avenue of the Americas outside the high-rise that housed Platinus Investments. Trey asked the driver to turn up the volume.
"...the allegations by Carson Grant, head of High Frequency Trading at Platinus Investments, and another employee working in the same division, were a one-two punch for Fleming, and this latest development confirms Grant's allegations. Jorge Amistav, an Armenian arms dealer, has told police in New York that Fleming was involved in a shipment of defective arms to Kandahar Airfield, and that Fleming netted thirty-five million dollars from the sale. Fleming has numerous criminal charges pending. Further to this, the M-4 rifle that backfired and killed US Army Specialist Robert Sullivan is thought to have been among the defective weapons, and there is talk of possible manslaughter charges. Fleming's flagship, Platinus Investments, is in a financial freefall. It opened the day at just over thirty-two dollars and when trading was suspended two hours later, it had dropped to under six dollars. This is Rory Black, reporting from New York."
"Hope you got paid upfront," Maelle said.
Trey shook his head. "Unbelievable." He was thoughtful, looking out the window as the car sped toward the international airport. "I almost wish I could put a stop to it."
"You can't?" she asked.
"Unfortunately, no. The transmitter is locked in a garbage bin and I threw away the key. There's no way we have enough time to get back there, disarm it, and make our flight."
"We could take a later flight," she said.
"This thing could completely blow up in our faces if the Russian police tie us in with Fleming. We need to get out of this country now."
"Any chance Lindstrom will figure it out?"
Trey didn't answer. He thought about the nearly hundred thousand people who were now crowding into Luzhniki Stadium unaware of the potential danger. "I hope so," he said.
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Chapter
73
Moscow, August 25th, 7:15 pm - 45 minutes until the concert
Carson opened the junction box and stared inside at the maze of wires. He set the cover on the ground and pushed at the stone surrounding the box.
"It has some give to it," he said.
Julie slid in beside him and watched as he applied more pressure on the rock wall. It was moving. Ever so slightly, but compressing inward with each push. He gave it everything he had, getting his arms and shoulders and back into the thrust. The rock split and caved inward. He grabbed the pieces that were still attached to the wall, broke them off and threw them behind him on the ground. He shone his halogen beam in the hole and they peered in.
"Oh my god," Julie said. "That's it." She snugged up between him and the wall and traced two thick wires running from the back of the box into the hole. "These are the wires to divert the current, and the rest of the gear is to cut the power." She poked around for a minute, then said, "There's no remote, but there is a wire connected to this mess."
Julie traced the wire to where it entered a small, rusty conduit. She glanced in the direction it headed and followed the metal tube with her flashlight beam. The conduit faded off into the darkness that permeated every inch of the tunnel. She kept the beam angled upwards and carefully picked her way along the slippery stones as she tracked the thin-diameter pipe for fifty or sixty meters. It truncated in a small grey box tucked up near the ceiling. The latch was secured with a small padlock and she used a screwdriver to snap it open. Inside was a small rectangular piece of plastic with a tiny flashing light on one end.
She turned to Carson and gestured to the flashing green light. "This is the remote. The signal will come in through here."
"And it's activated," Carson said, staring at the flashing light.
"It's activated all right." She stepped away from the wall and slipped off her backpack. "I need to get in there, and I'll need lots of light. Can you stay to one side and shine your halogen in there for me?"
"Of course." He watched her unload some strange looking gear.
"What is all that?" he asked.
"I'm going to use what's called a patch antenna and micro strip method to determine the frequency. When I insert some EBG structures between the radiator and the detector and measure the transmission between them, it will identify the electromagnetic band-gap."
"I have no idea what you just said."
"Hold the light."
"That...I understand."
It took twenty minutes to nail the frequency, and when she was positive she had the right one, she reran the test. They were rewarded with a second positive response and she jotted the frequency down on a scrap of paper and stuffed it in her pocket. "They're using 117 MHz to transmit on. I'd never have guessed that. Never." She pulled her cell phone from her pocket and called their driver. It rang, then went to voice mail.
"Why not?" he asked.
"From 108 to 137 MHz is reserved for air traffic control. Nobody ever messes around with those frequencies. If you get caught, you're in a shitload of trouble."
"Like they care," Carson said.
Julie was scrolling through her address book, looking for the number of the tech waiting at the stadium with the other jamming machine. She found it and her finger moved to the send button. It never connected.
The bullet hit her in the left shoulder and she spun sideways and slammed into the wall. The force of the impact ripped the cell phone from her hand and it bounced on the stone and landed in the water. She slid down the wall, grabbing at the wound. Alexi appeared out of the darkness, a silenced pistol in his hand.
"You think you're pretty fucking smart, don't you?" he said as he neared her. He angled the Sig Sauer at Carson. "And you," he fired a shot that caught Carson in the arm. "Ever been shot before?" he asked.
Carson's nervous system went into overdrive. The pain from the bullet tearing through his skin, muscle, and nerves was excruciating. He clutched at his arm while blood seeped up through his fingers. It felt warm to the touch, soothing in the coldness of the tunnels. He looked up at the hired killer. The man was staring directly at him with disdain.
"You embarrassed me," he hissed, his finger tightening on the trigger. He caught a movement out of the corner of his eye and swiveled the gun toward Julie. She froze. "Give me your gun. Carefully or I'll kill you now, in front of this Wall Street Boy Scout."
She reached inside her jacket and pulled the Glock out with two fingers. She made a motion to drop it in front of her, but Androv shook his head.
"Throw it to me."
She heaved it in his direction as best she could from her stance lying in the water and sludge on the tunnel floor. The gun clattered on the ground, a meter in front of Androv. He moved forward slowly, the pistol trained on her, and picked it up.
"I love these guns," he said. "Thank you." He turned back to Carson. "That was nothing. It went right through. When a bullet sticks in your muscle, or shatters a bone - now t
hat is painful."
He was close to Carson, his eyes raging with excitement and desire. "I don't want this to end," he whispered. "It's just too much fun." The sound carried well in the closed environment. He laughed and sighted the pistol on Carson's leg.
The retort from the gun was loud, reverberating through the tunnel like a sonic boom. Carson lay prone against the wall, not understanding the noise. Androv's gun had a silencer. Then he realized there was no pain - that he hadn't been shot again. Androv staggered slightly and blood dribbled out the corner of his mouth. He tried to bring the gun around and sight on Julie.
Another gunshot. The bullet hit Androv in the center of his chest and he teetered back and forth for a moment, then fell face first into the thin layer of water covering the tunnel floor. Carson flopped his head to the side and looked at Julie. She was holding a pistol, almost identical to the one she had thrown to Androv.
"It was nice of Evan to find me a gun, but I already had one," she said. She struggled to her feet, her injured arm hanging limp as she pushed by him. "We need to move. The concert starts in less than ten minutes."
Carson fell in behind her, amazed at the speed at which she was moving. The loss of blood had left him feeling strangely cold. He concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other and somehow managed to keep up with her.
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Chapter
74
Moscow, August 25th, 7:58 pm - 2 minutes until the concert
