Exit Blood (Barefield Book 2)

by Trey R. Barker

  He was committed, as surely as a diver who springs off the high board and waits only for the water to rush up and meet him.

  Only his reason for being there defined him, set him apart from the swarm of foreign tourists and Muscovites waiting patiently in the long line snaking towards him across the square. Weary pilgrims to a godless shrine, shuffling ever closer for a fleeting glimpse of Lenin’s waxen figure encased in glass.

  Still motionless, his eyes restlessly wandered over the slow moving file. The Russians were easily distinguishable. Uniformly dressed in drab olives and dark browns, their enduring somber faces wore resignation like a mask. They were in sharp contrast to the animated group of Japanese, nervously chattering, eyes darting everywhere, clutching cameras and thumbing guidebooks.

  Just ahead of the Japanese group, his eyes stopped and riveted on a man and woman. The man—tall, angular, seemingly oblivious to the cold in a light coat, tie flapping in the wind—stood ramrod stiff next to the much shorter woman. A mane of blond hair spilled over the folds of her thick fur coat.

  They were exactly as he remembered.

  The woman’s breath expelled in tiny puffs as she gushed in obvious delight and pointed around the square. The man nodded absently, occasionally following her gestures. Once, they turned in his direction; he thought for a moment the man’s eyes locked with his own. He turned away quickly, pulling the hood of his parka up around his face. Then, almost angrily, realizing he couldn’t possibly be recognized at this distance, jammed his hands in the pockets of the parka, and felt his hand close over the small slip of paper.

  Relax. How long had it been? Years. He forced himself to take several deep breaths and tried once again to shake off the anxiety. Was this all it would take? A hastily scribbled note?

  The file was moving faster now. He would have to make his move soon. But there was something wrong with his legs. They wouldn’t move. Again, almost angrily, he took off his sunglasses, as if they were the cause of his immobility. He turned into the wind and strolled casually towards the line.

  He pushed through a large crowd coming out of the tomb, unmindful now of the grunts of protest as he jostled for a position nearer the Japanese group. A few turned to eye him curiously as he suddenly veered away and broke into a kind of slow jog. His boots crunched over a patch of snow; the blood began to pound in his ears.

  Abruptly, he changed direction. He turned quickly, pushed through the orderly file, directly in front of the man and woman. Startled, the woman cried out, clutching her handbag close as he brushed against her. The fur of her coat lightly grazed his face. Angry voices filled his ears. Someone was shouting for the guards. The man, equally surprised said something but it was lost in the shouting.

  He palmed the folded slip of paper and slid it easily into the tall man’s coat pocket.

  For a fleeting moment, so vital that everything depended on it, he turned his face squarely to the man. He saw the flashing spark of recognition dissolve into shock, the mouth drop open to speak a name, silently formed on bloodless lips. Then he was gone, melting into the crowd, past curious stares, indignant voices.

  It was done.

  He walked hurriedly, zigzagging across the square, glancing back over his shoulder, knowing there would be no pursuit. He paused at the steps of the Metro, free at last of the crowds.

  Perhaps, free of Russia.

  ***

  Tommy Farrell was waiting for Santa Claus.

  He’d had other plans for Christmas Eve–plans that didn’t include freezing his ass off in the back of a broken down van on the New York Thruway. He sat hunched on the floor near the rear doors, shifting his position for the third time in as many minutes but finally gave it up as a useless exercise. There was simply no way to get warm or comfortable. He could only take solace in the knowledge that the red, disabled vehicle tag flying from the van’s aerial was as false as his hopes that the Jets would make the Super Bowl.

  He looked out the van’s rear window. The late evening traffic rushing by was lighter now than when he’d taken up his position nearly an hour before and moving steadily. The road had been cleared, but new snow flurries were already starting to fall and a heavy storm was predicted by midnight. Perfect weather for Santa Claus, Farrell thought, lighting a cigarette and pulling the collar of his coat up around his ears.

  He checked the luminous dial of his watch. Eight o’clock. He dragged deeply on the cigarette and tried to dredge up thoughts about duty to country, but they were easily obscured by the vision of his wife, at home in front of a glowing fire, putting finishing touches on the tree and explaining to their two young children why daddy had to work on Christmas Eve even if he is in the FBI.

  He shivered again and poured the last of the coffee from a thermos. It was still hot but flat, tasteless. He felt the van shudder and turned sharply as the interior was suddenly bathed in blinding light, revealing for a moment the tripod-mounted Nikon with a long-range telephoto lens. A klaxon horn shattered the night as a heavy diesel thundered by dangerously close.

  Farrell’s hand shook; the coffee spilled. He cursed the huge truck as the hot liquid splashed on his hand. Tossing the cup aside, he wiped his hand on his jacket and squinted through the lens of the Nikon.

  The camera was trained on a phone booth across the expressway.

  He carefully adjusted the focus and checked the meter reading. With high speed, infrared film to compensate for the poor expressway lighting, the pictures would be sharp and clear if conditions held. He rotated the lens slightly until he could read the number on the dial of the telephone.

  “Bingo One, Bingo One, this is Caller.” The metallic voice crackled out of the small hand-held radio beside Farrell.

  “Go, Caller,” he answered.

  “The Navy’s on the way. Just passed the toll booths. ETA, four minutes.”

  “Gotcha.” Farrell laid the radio aside, checked his watch and the camera once again and nervously watched the minutes tick off. In just under four minutes, a dark blue sedan pulled off the expressway and parked in front of the phone booth.

  The driver emerged cautiously from the car, briefly scanned the oncoming traffic and gave Farrell’s van a cursory glance. For an instant, the driver’s face was framed in the lens. “Gotcha,” Farrell murmured aloud. The Nikon’s motor drive whirred as he clicked off several frames.

  Through the lens, Farrell continued to track the man as he strode towards the phone booth. Inside, a dim light came on over his head as he closed the folding door. Farrell watched tensely as the man took a large envelope from under his coat and stuck it under the shelf below the phone. He hung up the receiver and quickly returned to his car. Farrell shot the last of the roll at the retreating car as it merged with the traffic heading toward New York City.

  With practiced hands, Farrell rewound the film, loaded the camera with a fresh roll and re-adjusted the focus. He paused for a moment, lighting another cigarette, then picked up the radio.

  “Caller, this is Bingo One.”

  “Go Bingo,” the voice replied.

  “Santa’s helper has come and gone.”

  “Roger, Bingo. Santa should be along in a minute. How you doin’ out there?” The business-like voice suddenly became friendly.

  Farrell smiled. “Okay if I ever thaw out.”

  “Hang on. I’ll buy you a drink when we wrap this up, okay?”

  “No thanks. It’s Christmas Eve remember?”

  “Aw, you married guys are all alike. Why don’t you...wait a minute. Santa just went through the gate. Black Buick, four-door.”

  “Right,” Farrell said. He snapped off the radio and rubbed his hands together. He counted off three minutes and forty-two seconds before the second car pulled off and parked near the phone booth. For more than a minute, the flashing tail lights winked at Farrell, but no one got out of the car.

  “C’mon, c’mon.” The snow flurries were beginning to thicken. As if responding to Farrell’s anxiety, the door opened and a man got
out. Short, thick-set, and as with the first man, his face was briefly framed in the lens.

  Farrell’s breath quickened at the sight of the familiar face. He pressed the shutter button. Swiveling the camera, he tracked his prey to the booth and locked in for a waist-high shot.

  This time there was no pretense of dialing. The man simply held the receiver in one hand and felt under the shelf for the envelope. He seemed to stare directly into the lens, as if he knew it was there, Farrell would remember later.

  While the man grappled with the folding door, Farrell shot the remaining film and grabbed the radio, almost shouting now. “All units, go!”

  Red lights flashing, tires screeching in protest, a police cruiser arrived seconds later. It skidded to a halt blocking the outside lane and was quickly joined by three unmarked cars. Together they boxed in the black Buick.

  Farrell continued to watch through the lens. The expression of bewilderment and shock on the man’s face quickly gave way to resignation as he was led away to one of the waiting cars. Then, police cruiser in the lead, one of the policemen driving the Buick, the convoy roared off, leaving the phone booth deserted once again.

  Farrell quickly packed up the camera and lens in an aluminum case. He jumped out of the van’s rear doors, tore off the red tag from the aerial and climbed into the driver’s seat. Turning the ignition key, he smiled in relief as the engine came to life easily.

  He paused for a moment wondering as always where his photos might end up. On the desk of the Bureau Chief? In the Kremlin? Well, it didn’t matter really. He’d done his job.

  He shoved the van in gear and pulled onto the expressway. With any luck he’d be home in time to help with the turkey.

  One

  It was nearly nightfall as the jumbo jet burst through the heavy dark sky over Washington and touched down at Dulles International Airport. The chirp of tires and sudden reverse thrust of engines jolted John Trask, brought him to the surface of an uneasy slumber. He rubbed a bony hand over his sharply chiseled face, blinked out the window at the airport lights flashing by and unbuckled his seat belt.

  Once inside the terminal, Trask eased through customs and immigration. Diplomatic status has its rewards, he thought, smiling at the novelty of traveling under his own name. He moved quickly to beat the crowd to the ground transportation exit and scanned the rank of taxis for the car that would take him to Langley.

  There was snow on the ground and the night sky promised more of the same. In a moment he was joined at the curb by a much younger man and directed to the waiting car. Trask eased in the back seat, and closed his eyes as the driver negotiated the airport traffic and angled towards the Virginia Expressway.

  Gratefully, he sank back against the seat, feeling the fatigue spread through him. But even his weariness could not stop the jumble of thoughts racing through his mind. It was happening again. Just when he thought he had the answer, it slipped away, triggering the familiar signs he’d grown to trust that meant something didn’t quite fit.

  The arrest of a Soviet official—especially one without diplomatic immunity—was always welcome news, but this one didn’t make any sense at all. Why would a senior trade delegate, with an unblemished record, jeopardize his career and usefulness to Moscow with a stupid blunder?

  Yes, the stakes were high and the target, seemingly ready-made: a dissatisfied young naval officer, up to his neck in debt with access to a guidance system project. Normally an ideal situation, but not for Dimitri Zakharov. He was an old hand and knew better than anyone how Moscow viewed mistakes. The evidence was undeniable. The photos wrapped it up very neatly and were no doubt giving the Kremlin fits. Too neat? It all stacked up on paper, but Trask couldn’t shake the feeling something was wrong.

  Zakharov had seemed oblivious to the FBI surveillance. There were several meetings on film and the financial arrangements were astonishingly amateurish. Cash wrapped in brown paper and deposited the morning after a drop. Still, the material he was buying was top grade so maybe he could be excused the indiscretion and the speed of the operation.

  Moscow normally took months to set up a recruitment. Zakharov had moved in on the naval officer in weeks. Maybe he was coming over. It was an unusual approach, but it had been done before. To avoid suspicion in Moscow, a would-be defector forces an arrest, then quietly disappears into a new life, new identity and leaves the Kremlin to wonder what went wrong.

  For the moment, Trask discarded these thoughts. He had his own defector to worry about. An American defector.

  “How much further driver?” Trask asked. He sat up straight and lit a cigarette. He’d lost track of where they were.

  “Not long, sir,” the driver replied. “Turnoff is just coming up.”

  Trask looked out at the rolling hills blanketed with snow as the car swung off the George Washington Parkway and sped up to the Langley complex. Identification cards were checked quickly and they were waved through towards the seven-story main building. The car submerged into the basement garage. Trask nodded his thanks to the driver, grabbed his briefcase and took the elevator to the Director’s conference room. Only the quiet hum of the heating system and the faint throb of the computer center broke the stillness.

  Trask saw he was the last to arrive. They all looked up as he entered. Eugene McKinley, sitting in for Director Richard Abrams, a young aide from the State Department, a gruff looking Admiral from Naval Intelligence, and of course, Charles Fox, old friend, former mentor, looking a bit tired, a bit older, but Trask was happy to note, the sparkling blue eyes were bright as ever.

  “Ah, John, at last,” Charles said rising. “Good to see you again. How are things in Moscow?”

  “Fine, Charles. Good to see you. It’s been too long.” They clasped hands warmly, memories reflected in both their eyes. Field work in Budapest, debriefings in Berlin and Prague. They had crisscrossed Europe together. Looking at Charles Fox, one would be surprised to learn that this urbane, distinguished gentlemen had once run one of the most effective networks in Eastern Europe. It was just too bad about Prague, Trask reflected.

  He nodded greetings to McKinley and was quickly introduced to the others. A Filipino mess steward brought in coffee and sandwiches while Trask dropped into one of the easy chairs arranged around the fireplace. The blazing logs gave off a pleasant aroma of cedar and pine. A fireside chat, Trask thought. This should be interesting. Abrams from State, looking far too cool and young for such a job, shuffled through a pile of papers and munched on a ham sandwich. The admiral puffed sullenly on his cigar and stared into the fire. The amenities were quickly over as Eugene McKinley led off.

  “Well, gentlemen, shall we get started,” he began. He was a beefy man and bulged under his dark suit. His face was pink and freshly shaved. “The Director asked for this meeting to iron out the initial details, give us a starting point so to speak, and hopefully, after tonight we’ll have our bearings. As I’m sure you’re all aware, the Director is devoting his time, as is the president, to the current situation in Iran.” He looked around the group for confirmation and found it in the expressions and silence of everyone present.

  It was unthinkable, but fifty-two Americans were at the mercy of a fanatic Islamic leader and the U.S. Government, with all its power and resources, was seemingly helpless. Everyone there silently contemplated the consequences of an unfound solution.

  Trask wondered if it were true that at the time of the hostages were taken, there was not a single operative in Iran with the exception of those in the embassy.

  McKinley broke the silence and turned to Abrams from State. Trask eyed him coolly. Sharp, perhaps too sharp. He had Ivy League written all over him and reminded Trask of those young, ambitious men of the long but not forgotten days of Watergate who had hovered about the Nixon White House.

  “Richard, suppose you bring us up to date on the Zakharov arrest,” McKinley said.

  Abrams barely referred to his notes as he began. “Dimitri Zakharov, a senior official of Amtorg, th
e Russian trade organization based in New York City, arrested December twenty-four by an FBI surveillance team. At the time of his arrest, he was in possession of highly sensitive classified material secured from,” he paused to check the name,” Lieutenant Mark Hopkins, U.S. Navy.” Abrams flicked a glance at the Admiral and got a stony stare in return.

  “What about this Hopkins?” Charles interrupted.

  “I was coming to that,” Abrams said. He seemed slightly annoyed at Charles’s question. “Hopkins, age thirty-seven, was working on a guidance control project. I don’t really know all the details, but he had apparently gotten above his means. New house, new car, charge accounts, and of late, some gambling debts.” Abrams paused again. “As we all know, this is exactly the tailor-made situation the Soviets ferret out these days.”

  No one disagreed with Abrams. Blackmail, subversion, compromise, even the odd assassination were still very much a part of the Soviet arsenal but in recent years, they had gone right to the core of things—money.

  “Hopkins was put under routine surveillance as part of a periodic security check when he was accidentally seen in the company of Zakharov,” Abrams added.

  “Accidentally?” Charles broke in again and exchanged the briefest of looks with Trask, who was thinking the same thing.

  “Well, not exactly by accident.” Abrams appeared slightly flustered. “He and Zakharov were spotted together in the same restaurant on two separate occasions. Coincidence was ruled out enough to step up surveillance on Hopkins and take a closer look at Zakharov, although at the time of his arrest, his record was clean.”

  “Maybe somebody should have been a little more careful with Zakharov,” the admiral put in from behind a cloud of smoke. His edginess was understandable. Hopkins was the navy’s responsibility and the admiral would be held accountable.