by Tom Wood
Reed’s answer was honest.
‘I solve problems.’
CHAPTER 59
Rotov, Russia
Thursday
17:50 MSK
In the good old days all it took to get an operation moving was the will of a high-ranking officer. While the Soviet empire stood strong, the KGB moved fast and decisively, answering only to the very top. Things moved much slower these days, Aniskovach thought bitterly, and the power of the SVR was but a shadow of that which the KGB enjoyed. In twenty-first-century Russia, as in the SVR’s Western counterparts, layer on layer of bureaucracy strangled every command.
The tall SVR colonel rubbed his gloved hands together while he waited for the plane to be loaded. Grim-faced soldiers took aboard rucksacks full of supplies: diving gear, weapons, salvage equipment, and explosives. The plane was an Ilyushin Il-76, a venerable workhorse of the Soviet and now Russian air force. This particular plane was owned by the SVR and used exclusively by the organization. The original military insignias were still visible through the thin layer of paint that covered them. The hammer and sickle still endured, albeit faintly.
In his youth, Aniskovach had witnessed first-hand the last breath of Communism pushed from the lungs of his beloved nation. That system may not have worked as intended, but at least it had given his country its own ideology and a fiercely strong national identity. These days Russia was but capitalism’s poor adopted child struggling to take its first unassisted step. If Russia was a tree, it had already bathed in summer’s warmth and now was embraced by winter’s chill. Spring’s regrowth was a far off dream. Aniskovach hoped he lived long enough to see the restoration of Russia’s rightful place at the head of the world.
He stood silently observing. There was nothing to say. The soldiers did not need his instructions. They were members of the Spetsnaz, the Russian army’s special forces, but they were all, like Aniskovach, dressed in civilian clothes. Each member of the seven-man team had been selected because of his exemplary record in both diving and demolitions. Each one was a highly trained and superbly disciplined warrior, adept at planning and logistics as well as fighting. After Aniskovach had briefed the team on the mission’s objectives, they had selected their own equipment and supplies.
The SVR had no control of the Spetsnaz, which was a regiment of the Russian army, but at times the elite soldiers were loaned out to the SVR on a per-mission basis. Any such operations were usually kept off the soldiers’ records. The GRU, the army’s own intelligence service and a fierce rival of the SVR, would often be aware of these activities, but the GRU had no knowledge of this particular mission, thanks to Prudnikov’s influence.
Bypassing the usual channels was slowing the whole operation down considerably. Aniskovach, if it had been purely up to him, would have left for Tanzania at least twenty-four hours ago, but Prudnikov was playing it safe. He had been burned once recently and was not willing to feel the fire so soon a second time, even if Aniskovach was confident the mission would be a complete success. Securing both the services of the Spetsnaz without the knowledge of the GRU and a plane to fly the equipment had taken three whole days. It would be another day before the plane was able to fly.
The wind blowing from the east stung Aniskovach’s face, especially his wounded cheek. The base had little protection from elements. The single strip of runway and three hangars that constituted the airport were the skeletal remains of a Soviet air force base, long abandoned by the military and now used privately. Tonight the only customers were the SVR.
It didn’t take long before the plane was loaded. The equipment, though too much for individuals to carry, did not require a plane with a cargo capacity of forty tons to transport. Without using such a plane, however, it wouldn’t be possible to get the equipment over several international borders and to its destination.
The plane was supposedly set to embark on a humanitarian mission, flying to Tanzania to deliver medical supplies for charities working in Rwanda to the north-west. The fact that, aside from the equipment required by Aniskovach’s team, the plane’s cargo consisted of empty crates would not matter. The appropriate officials in the Tanzanian government would be offered cash incentives for going along with the charade.
Aniskovach and his team would travel commercially to Tanzania in two separate groups before joining up at their destination. Eight Russians travelling together would attract undue attention, especially when only three spoke languages other than their own. The first team would pick up the equipment from the plane and drive north from Tanzania’s capital, Dar es Salaam, to Tanga. Once they had rejoined as a team they would collect the equipment that would be waiting for them and hire a suitable boat. They would then take the boat and locate the Lev.
The SVR colonel had no plans to recover all the missiles, impressive as that would be; just the guidance systems would do to provide proof of Ozols’s traitorous deception. The rest would be destroyed along with the frigate to ensure no other parties gained Russian technology. Aniskovach could then reveal the entire plot to Moscow and his role in preventing it. The stain caused by the St Petersburg blunder would be washed clean away.
With a gloved finger Aniskovach absently stroked his damaged face. The pain was still intense at times, but he made sure no one witnessed him taking his pills or those moments where the pain got the better of his will. It was bad enough to be disfigured without appearing weak as well.
A stocky Spetsnaz corporal approached him.
‘The equipment has been loaded and secured, sir.’
‘Very good.’
The corporal stepped back and rejoined his colleagues.
Though it was unnecessary for the operation’s success that he accompany the team, Aniskovach would nevertheless take direct command. He had absolute faith in the abilities of the Spetsnaz, but it would look better to the powers that be if he was there personally.
The plane would arrive in Tanzania in the early hours of Saturday and the supplies should reach Tanga by midday. It wouldn’t take long to locate the sunken frigate or to complete the recovery and blow up the Lev.
Facial movements hurt him severely, so Aniskovach didn’t look anywhere near as pleased as he felt. Within a few short days he knew his honour would be restored.
CHAPTER 60
Nicosia, Cyprus
Thursday
15:49 CET
After the chill of London and Amsterdam, the warmth of Cyprus was a welcome change. Even in November the temperature hovered in the seventies. The flight from Amsterdam to Larnaca International Airport had been pleasant enough and had taken just over four hours. Rebecca had arrived only a little fatigued.
She was amazed she didn’t feel worse. The last ten days had been the most stressful of her life, and they weren’t getting easier. She had teamed up with a ruthless contract killer in an attempt to eliminate the people trying to kill her, people who just so happened to be not only her employers but also a rogue element inside the CIA. Six months ago it would have been unreal, ridiculous even, but it was all too real. She had never felt so anxious, so scared.
Tesseract, or whatever the hell his name really was, was almost unreadable. If he had any concerns about what they were doing he didn’t let it show. He was completely self-confident, and his utter calm helped control her nerves. If she could keep doing her part, she was sure he could do his. But even if they did pull this off, what was she going to do then? Rebecca had spent the last seven years working as an intelligence analyst for the CIA before she had been pulled out of service for this nightmare of an operation. In the remote chance that she didn’t get prosecuted for her role in a highly illegal op, she would never be given her old job back. No one would trust her again. She wouldn’t blame them either.
She tried not to think about it too much. There were more immediate concerns to overcome before she considered her career. Like staying alive.
They had travelled separately. He’d told her before they’d left Amsterdam there was a chance th
eir enemies would be looking for both of them, assuming they were together, so it was safer to fly on their own. She wasn’t sure she believed him; after all, they’d travelled to London together and then to Amsterdam together and had stayed in the same hotels both times. She assumed he wanted to be on his own but didn’t say anything. The one thing Rebecca could read in him was that she made him uncomfortable. Wasn’t it supposed to be the other way around?
The hotel where they were staying was located in the southern Greek half of the city. So was their destination. The sun-faded sign that announced Olympus Trading in both Greek and English was mounted on an innocuous warehouse, whitewashed, though looking anything but. Grime caked the windows, the paint on the shutters flaked.
He adjusted his sunglasses. ‘Very classy.’
They stood in a side street in a poor neighbourhood in the south-east of the city. The district was out of the way of the main tourist areas, full of warehouses and small shops; market stalls seemed to be everywhere.
Only a few white clouds floated through the deep blue sky above. She could tell her companion didn’t like the heat. She imagined that he did most of his sleeping in the day; seeing the world under the cover of darkness had given him pale skin that was already starting to burn, and from the way he breathed she could tell he had a low tolerance for high temperatures. He’d covered his face, neck, and exposed arms in sunscreen but, even still, he wasn’t comfortable out of the shade.
Conversely, Rebecca relished it. Her skin was brown already, and she had put the sunscreen straight down when he had handed her the bottle. She had some flesh on display, bare legs protruding from her skirt, naked arms and stomach, but on his request she’d wrapped a shawl around her to cover the cleavage on display from the bikini top. It would draw too much attention, he’d told her. She’d given him a look in return that he quickly shied away from. She grinned briefly.
In this part of the city there were mostly locals, market stalls selling fruit or fish. Farther down the street a drunk sat propped against a wall sipping from a bottle of rum while a tourist examined peaches at a trader’s stall. A skinny kid pushed a wheelbarrow full of old newspaper past an old man with a thick beard who grilled prawns on a rusty barbecue.
A wide-brimmed hat and sunglasses provided her with a basic disguise, one that would work against a cursory glance but nothing more. She’d cut her hair shorter and bleached it too, on his instructions. Being a bottle blonde definitely didn’t suit her complexion, but even Rebecca didn’t recognize herself in the mirror any more.
‘You think it’s deserted?’ he asked and took a bite from his vanilla ice cream. He’d asked for a double-sized one from the vendor.
Rebecca stood next to him. She had a guidebook in her hand and tilted her head forward as if reading it.
‘Olympus is more than just a paper trail, it’s a working front, so there are people in there. Probably only a handful of employees by the looks of it. I doubt any will know who they really work for.’
Rebecca moved her free index finger down the page as if she were searching for information.
‘That’s a nice touch, by the way,’ he said.
She kept her eyes on the page. ‘I’m a fast learner.’
He had to be quick to prevent half his ice cream from collapsing. ‘Do you really think we’ll find anything there?’
‘Don’t talk with food in your mouth.’ She turned over a page in the book. ‘We don’t know until we look.’
He walked away down the street a few steps, held his hand out as if pointing. ‘Okay,’ he said. ‘I’ll come back tonight after I’ve picked up some things.’
Their hotel was only a half-hour walk away. They left the way they had come, negotiating the maze of side streets at a leisurely pace. Rebecca took his hand in hers as they walked and felt the tension in his touch, but she didn’t let go, and together they looked like any other couple enjoying some winter sun.
The tourist, eating his perfectly ripened peach, was never far behind.
CHAPTER 61
21:01 CET
The bar was noisy with conversation, laughter, and traditional Greek music. Rebecca sat alone at a small table along one wall. She had a feta cheese salad in front of her, untouched except for the odd black olive. It was hard to eat when she was so tense. She looked at her watch every few minutes. He’d been gone for hours. He needed to get ‘equipment’. It would have been nice to have some idea of how long he was going to be.
She didn’t like being on her own, knowing she was vulnerable, knowing that without his help, if anyone made a play for her, she was dead. Initially she had been terrified to be in his, a hired killer’s, presence, but the rational part of her brain told her that she was safer with him than alone. He had survived two CIA-sponsored attempts on his life, and she had witnessed first-hand how he’d dealt with the French RAID team. At the moment he was the best and only friend she had. Rebecca was desperate to be near him again, to feel safe again.
She felt a little better being around lots of people. The bar was full of dining couples and partying tourists, only a few locals. There was an especially loud group of guys at a table close to Rebecca’s playing drinking games. The bar was across the street from her hotel, and from where she sat she could just about see the hotel entrance. He’d told her to wait in such a place.
Maybe he was testing her. Rebecca could tell he didn’t trust her fully. She wouldn’t have been surprised if he was watching her right now and had been minutes after he’d supposedly gone off to get whatever else he needed. Maybe he is waiting for me to set him up, she thought. If he didn’t trust her by now, then, not to put it too bluntly, he could go to hell.
A couple of times a guy from the group nearby would shout something to her. They looked like navy types. Brits by their accents. They seemed pretty harmless, just guys out getting drunk. She didn’t respond, just smiled the polite but uninterested, universally recognized, leave-me-alone smile and averted her gaze.
Rebecca stabbed her fork into a piece of feta and again into a slice of tomato. She forced a small amount of food into her mouth. Her clothes were starting to feel a little loose. It took a long time before she finally swallowed and then felt immediately full. She hailed a waiter for another glass of wine.
When a guy got up from his seat with the encouragement of his buddies, she kept her gaze directly at her food, silently hoping he would lose his nerve at the last second and walk away. He didn’t. Some men just couldn’t take a hint.
‘Hey, I’m Paul,’ he announced as he took the seat opposite her.
‘Hi,’ she said, giving him just a second of eye contact. He wasn’t bad looking but wouldn’t have been her type even if she had been in the mood.
‘You got a name, love?’
She hesitated, partly because she didn’t want anyone to know her real name, but mostly because she just didn’t want to talk to him.
‘Rachel,’ she answered eventually.
He smiled. ‘Cute name.’
He did the talking, asked the questions, made the jokes. Rebecca responded each time in as few words as possible. She tried her best to discourage him, but Paul had too much Dutch courage inside him to give up without a hell of a fight. Occasionally he would receive leery encouragement from his friends.
‘Listen,’ he said, eventually coming to the point. ‘My distinguished colleagues and I are moving on to another bar. I would be honoured if you’d join me.’
‘I don’t think so,’ she said.
He hadn’t expected that. ‘Why not?’
‘I’m just not interested.’
‘Sure you are.’ He was persistent, if nothing else. ‘I’m a goodlooking guy, you’re a good-looking girl; think of all the interesting things we could do.’
When charm failed, the desperate ones always tried a deluded appeal. ‘Just leave me alone, Paul.’
He scowled for a moment. ‘All you Yank bitches are the same; you think you’re so superior.’
‘That’
s probably because we are,’ Rebecca said, finally losing patience. ‘Now do us both a favour, and, if you can find it, go fuck yourself.’
He stood up fast, glaring, and for a second she thought she’d pushed him too far. A voice interrupted the stand-off.
‘I got us both a drink.’
Rebecca glanced up. It was him. Tesseract. The killer.
With complete nonchalance he placed a couple of glasses on the table. ‘Vodka tonics,’ he said. ‘No ice in yours.’
Paul looked him up and down. ‘What are you, her boyfriend?’
‘We’re business associates.’
‘Then you won’t mind me and Rachel here getting to know each other.’
‘You’re in my way.’
Paul sneered. ‘Just fuck off, mate. Let a fella work.’
‘I’ll say this as simply as possible so you don’t get confused.’ His voice was icy cool. ‘Leave.’
Paul stood, turned, reached a hand out as if to push him. Big mistake. In less than a second he was on his knees, his arm twisted and locked, ready to be snapped with an ounce more pressure. Paul yelled in pain.
His drinking buddies were out of their chairs. Tesseract applied a fraction more pressure to Paul’s arm and they froze at his scream.
‘ Whoa, whoa.’ Rebecca was on her feet, palms up. ‘Easy, we don’t have to do it that way.’ She looked at Paul. ‘Do we?’
‘ FUCK NO.’
She looked at her companion. ‘Let him go.’
His eyes were focused on the four other guys, but he spoke to Paul. ‘Do you promise to behave yourself?’
Paul frantically nodded.
He released him. ‘Find another place to drink.’
Paul pulled himself to his feet, cradling his sore arm. He went back to his friends, and, while they threw threats and insults, they backed off out of the bar. Everyone else was quiet. People were looking at them. Her heart was thumping. Equal parts relief and anger surged through her.
