by Brad Taylor
Knuckles said, “Ha. Believe it or not, I’m off the market. I’m seeing someone.”
Jennifer perked up, sensing a potential conversation about something other than guns or four-wheel-drive vehicles. She arched an eyebrow and said, “Really? Who would that be?”
He slid a finger in the condensation from his beer bottle and made a trail on the table, clearly not wanting to talk. That got my attention. I said, “Well? Who is it? You haven’t mentioned anyone the last four months.”
He said, “It’s Carly.”
Carly? I said, “Carly Ramirez? How? She’s in Greece.”
He sighed and said, “She’s not. She got reassigned right after our operation there. Her career took a hit when the thing with Guy George blew up. She got in a little trouble because of it. She’s back at headquarters. She called, and . . . one thing led to another.”
Jennifer and I said nothing, processing the information, and Knuckles took it as an indictment. He said, “It’s not what you think. We didn’t plan it or anything.”
Carly Ramirez was a CIA case officer who had dated Knuckles’s best friend, a man with the callsign Decoy. He’d been killed in Istanbul on the same operation on which I’d met the Israelis, and through a confluence of events, Carly had ended up helping us try to stop Guy George in Greece four months ago. Intimately involved in the debacle that had caused the stand-down of the Taskforce, she’d apparently been jerked back home to protect our cover, and now Knuckles believed we thought he was sleeping around on his best friend.
Which was sort of nutty, but I could see that he felt some guilt.
Jennifer said, “Hey, we’re not judging. I was just surprised. Decoy would approve, you know that.”
Jennifer had been standing next to Decoy when he’d taken a round to the head and had killed the man who’d done it, so her words held some weight.
Knuckles smiled, and I decided to dig into him a little bit. He’d been a stickler against fraternization in the ranks, and it had taken him quite a few missions before he’d grudgingly agreed that my relationship with Jennifer hadn’t harmed our operations. The last I’d heard, Kurt Hale was looking to recruit Carly into the Taskforce fold, and turnabout is fair play for all the grief he’d given me.
I said, “Screw what Decoy thinks. How on earth can you date someone you work with? You damn hypocrite.”
Knuckles laughed and said, “She’s still CIA. The Taskforce is on complete manpower hold, no new members. We even canceled the next Assessment and Selection. Kurt Hale never offered her an invitation, so you can stow all the fraternization crap. We’re just taking it slow and easy. Nothing permanent, but honestly, I was afraid to tell you.”
I immediately forgot about his love life, zeroing in on his other statements. “What do you mean, they canceled A and S? Why?”
“I don’t know, but honestly, I’m worried. I think the Taskforce is coming to an end. I wouldn’t be surprised if that’s what Kurt’s going to tell us. Guy George scared the hell out of them, and with the election coming up, I think they’re afraid to do anything. When the new administration comes in, I think we’re gone.”
In my heart, I’d known the same thing, but just didn’t want to face it. We operated outside the US Constitution, and sooner or later, such a unit either mutates into something dangerous or is expunged. Or both. Since we hadn’t mutated quite yet, I’d just assumed we’d continue on as soon as everyone quit worrying about Guy George, but apparently others thought we’d already become too great a risk. Our actions in Norway hadn’t been exactly clean, and so the powers that be were worried about their collective asses. The easiest way to salvage that was to cut the Taskforce away.
As if to punctuate the thought, my phone vibrated with a text.
Pike, how long are you in town? I can’t make it out today.
I said, “Speak of the devil. Kurt just canceled the meeting.”
I texted back, Not sure. Depends on what happens at my other meeting. With Knuckles now. What’s up?
I didn’t like the response: Let’s just say you might want to look hard at that business proposition. I’ll have no work for you for a while.
I replied, A while, or forever? Knuckles told me about A&S.
I got the little bubble on my phone and waited for the reply. At least it had some vote of confidence, as it came in all caps: A WHILE. NOT FOREVER. Talk soon.
I showed the phone to Jennifer, then passed it to Knuckles, saying, “What’s that mean for you guys?”
Knuckles was still on active duty with the Navy, sheep-dipped at some do-nothing job on the Navy rolls while he actually acted as my second-in-command for our team. The other operators were also either active-duty military or CIA. Jennifer and I were unique in that we were civilians, with a civilian company.
He said, “For now, nothing. We’re just sitting around twiddling our thumbs. We aren’t even allowed to conduct exercises to keep our skills up. Long-term, I guess we’ll all just go back to where we came from. Although the thought of going back to big Navy makes my skin crawl. I’d end up on staff at WARCOM wearing a uniform.”
Jennifer held up her phone and said, “Just got a text from Shoshana. They’re on M. Should be here in a couple of minutes.”
I nodded and said to Knuckles, “How much more time do you have until twenty?”
“A couple more years. At least I’m getting a paycheck. What are you guys going to do?”
I said, “Hey, Grolier Recovery Services still exists. The Oversight Council can’t shut that down. We’ll just take our show on the road until they pull their heads out of their asses and let us start operating again.”
He laughed and said, “Real archaeological work? Without the Taskforce paycheck, you’ll starve within a year.”
Grolier Recovery Services was the company Jennifer and I had founded after I’d left active duty. Ostensibly, we facilitated archaeological expeditions around the globe, not by doing the actual digging—that was up to whoever hired us—but by providing liaison with the US embassy, site security, and coordination with the host nation.
Honestly, Knuckles had a point: We’d done only a few contracts where the customer was an actual, real research entity—and one of those had simply been a billionaire who wanted to play Indiana Jones. Most of our money came through the Taskforce, using our business as a cover to penetrate denied areas and put some terrorist’s head on a stake.
Jennifer stood and I saw Aaron Bergman enter the bar, looking around for us. She waved and I said, “That was the past. I think GRS might be on the verge of a banner year.”
7
The dim lighting providing barely enough illumination to see his boss, Mikhail Jolson said, “You don’t seem yourself. Did everything go okay with the meeting?”
The music was overpowering, forcing Mikhail to speak above a whisper, but that cacophony was precisely why this meeting place had been chosen. There was no way any listening devices would be able to parse what was said on the small balcony. Well, that was one reason the place had been chosen. The young girls dancing below, all struggling to catch the attention of one of the men in the rarefied air above them, were the other reason.
Even so, Mikhail took care to use a language rarely heard around Moscow. Speaking Yiddish like Mikhail, Simon said, “No. It most decidedly did not go as well as expected.”
President Putin had stuck to the Russian tradition that once a bottle was opened, it had to be emptied, and in between shots of vodka, Simon had learned his tasking and the help he would have from the Russian state to ensure success. What was left on the table, besides the empty bottle, was what his fate would be once the mission was complete.
Simon had flown back to Moscow in the executive helicopter alone, save the pilots; the empty cabin seeming much larger with the absence of the Gazprom staff. It was a brutal reminder of how thin the line was between life and death in mo
dern-day Russia. How little of it he controlled, even with his vast empire.
The boss of a criminal enterprise that stretched from Moscow to New York to the Levant, he could order the death of just about anyone, and yet his own life was forfeit to a megalomaniac in charge of Russia. And that was the crux.
If he were ever to be free, truly free, he would have to deal with Vladimir Putin. And if his last tasking by Putin was any indication, he would have to do so now, before the president began sweeping away the evidence like he had before. Simon was sure he wouldn’t be lucky enough for even a jail cell when the event was completed.
A waiter stuck his head into the small balcony, a look of surprise on his face when he saw both men, mistaking Mikhail for a bodyguard. He couldn’t be blamed for the confusion, as Mikhail was fit, with jet black hair and black eyes that were constantly scanning, his hands resting near his open jacket. He could have been a bodyguard, and would most certainly act like one if any trouble appeared, but that was not his duty.
In contrast, Simon was pasty and bordering on corpulent, his jowls flowing out over the collar of his suit, looking vaguely like Alfred Hitchcock, which is to say he fit the template of the men occupying the adjacent balconies, and yet he knew why the waiter stared.
The nightclub was reserved strictly as a playground for the billionaire oligarchs who dotted the landscape of Russia. To prevent drunken shootouts that had occurred in the past, the hired help waited outside, while the barons—the women called them “Forbes”—sat inside and drank the night away, picking and choosing whom they would take home, the security provided by the nightclub by mutual agreement.
Simon pulled a wad of money out of his pocket and waved the waiter over, saying, “This is Mikhail, my associate. I will have some more men visiting who do not fit the profile of the others here. Sergio has their names at the door, and there will be no trouble.”
He handed a note to the waiter, who saw the denomination and smiled, nodding his head and retreating.
Reverting back to Yiddish, Simon said, “If only our business was to find a mistress, life would be much easier.”
Mikhail smiled and said, “No, it wouldn’t.” He waved a hand to the floor of women all vying to be called up to one of the balconies. “Once they get their claws in you, it’s demand, demand, demand. Apartments, cars, vacations. Better to just find a whore for the night.”
Simon said nothing, drawing on a cigarette. Mikhail waited a beat, then said, “Will your meeting upset what we have planned in Poland?”
“No. Not at all, but it might upset my ability to spend the proceeds.”
Mikhail didn’t respond, and Simon crushed the embers of his cigarette, then laid everything bare. “Putin wishes to take over Belarus. He has engaged me to do so. He wants to attack his Su-27 squadron in Baranovichi.”
Mikhail looked astounded, his mouth hanging open. When he found his voice, he said, “Take over? You mean the country? I thought Russia was building a base at Babruysk.”
“They’re trying to. Belarus is still dragging their feet, and one of the sticking points is that Russia wants to use a large contingent of infantry to protect the base. Belarus, of course, sees that contingent in a different light. They see nothing but a Russian threat, and so they maintain that they can protect their own terrain.”
“So Putin is going to attack his own people?”
“Yes. There is a squadron of aircraft in Baranovichi. He wants me to destroy some planes, kill people, generally cause havoc, then leave evidence of provocateurs behind. Chechens allied with the Islamic State. He’ll proclaim it his right to defend what’s his, and then he’ll roll in with everything he’s got over the protests of the Belarusian government, using his forces to ‘protect’ the other airbase in Babruysk and the two Navy radar relays. When he’s done, he’ll have effectively boxed in Minsk. From there, he’ll own the country. Truthfully, he has the support of enough of the population to make it happen. It’ll be a bloodless coup. Well, bloodless except for the men he wants me to kill to make it happen.”
Mikhail said, “Putin’s a shit, but I can’t believe he’d want you to actually kill his own soldiers. Are you sure you aren’t reading into what he wanted?”
Simon let a smile slip out, tainted with sadness. “Do you remember the apartment bombings in 1999? When Vladimir Putin was a newly appointed prime minister?”
Simon waited while Mikhail searched his memory, saying, “You were still working intelligence in Israel, but it made a splash on the world stage.”
Mikhail nodded, the story coming back to him. He said, “Yes, Chechen terrorists killed hundreds of people in three apartment complexes, which led to the second Chechen war and the destruction of Grozny.”
“Mostly true. It did lead to the second Chechen war, and also to the election of one Vladimir Putin to the presidency, the first time, but it wasn’t Chechens. It was the Russian FSB, all for the express purpose of starting a war.”
Mikhail scoffed and said, “Yeah, yeah, we heard those stories in Israel, but there was no proof of that. Just conspiracy theories.”
Simon took a sip of his drink and said, “I am the proof. One of the bombs didn’t go off because FSB men were arrested trying to plant it. They claimed it was an unrelated exercise. I know differently. I was involved in the planning and execution of the operation.”
Mikhail said nothing, absorbing the information. Simon said, “Can you get me back into Israel, with your connections?”
“No. Not now. It was all I could do to get you out the last time. The Shin Bet has you at the top of their list. Christ, you’re on the top ten of the American FBI. Even if the Shin Bet wanted to leave you alone, you’d be arrested by pressure from the United States. We’re going to have a hard enough time keeping your name off what we get in Poland when it’s sold. They smell you on it, and nobody will touch it.”
Simon sagged back against his chair, then said, “That’s what I expected. Which leaves only one option. Putin has to go.”
“What are you talking about? Just do the job. Who cares about Belarus?”
Simon leaned forward, his eyes burning. “The last time I ‘did the job,’ I went to jail for a year of hell. The others, the ones closest, like I am now, were killed. And Putin’s only become bolder. Christ, I just saw him kill four executives of Gazprom because they weren’t selling enough gas. I do this and I’m dead. There is nowhere I can hide. He’ll start cleaning up immediately, even as his tanks are rolling into Belarus.”
“Wait, wait, I’m still a little confused. We’re businessmen. How are you supposed to execute a coup in Belarus? Who are the foot soldiers? FSB agents?”
Simon barked a mirthless laugh. “No. Putin’s smarter this time around. There won’t be any FSB men arrested at an inopportune time. He’s using the same men we deal with for our protection network. The Night Wolves.”
“You’ve got to be kidding. Those nutcases? That’s insane. He gives them a match and they’ll turn it into a bonfire. At least he can control the FSB.”
The Night Wolves were ostensibly nothing more than a motorcycle gang, but while its roots began with a Harley Davidson, its DNA had become much more. Springing forth during the perestroika days of the old Soviet Union, it had started as a small group of men clinging to the identity of Russia beyond the constructs of the USSR. Since then, it had grown to over five thousand members with an ultra-nationalist bent that saw enemies of Russia in every corner, a paranoid group with the strength to enforce their will.
In one respect, the club was different from the so-called one-percenters of American biker gangs such as the Hells Angels or the Mongols, in that it had embraced a nationalist identity fully in lockstep with President Putin. Far from being chased and hunted by the law enforcement of Russia, it was encouraged to the point that it had become a quasi–state arm, and was used to crush any potential protests in Red Square, with the cu
lmination of President Putin himself riding in a Night Wolves rally.
Wrapping themselves in the Orthodox Church and having a rabid belief in Russian superiority, the group had achieved a mythical status as the final protectors of Russian sovereignty. Under whispers of state control, they had actively participated in the annexation of Crimea, providing its members as “volunteers” driven to return the peninsula to the Russian homeland. Three had officially been killed in the fighting, and had been hailed as heroes.
The titular head of the Night Wolves was a man known as the Surgeon, either because he had once been a doctor, or because—as the myths held—he was good with a knife. Neither could be proven to any degree, but both were just as likely to be true.
Simon said, “Yes, you’re right. The Night Wolves are uncontrollable, and that’s exactly what I’m counting on. I’m going to give them Putin’s mission, and Putin’s support, but I’m going to spur them on for something greater.”
“What do you mean?”
Simon said, “There’s only one way Putin will be removed. Only one way he’ll cease to be a threat to me, and that’s if he oversteps his bounds as president.”
The waiter entered the room, leaned over, and said, “Your other guests are here.”
“Please show them up.” When the waiter had left, Simon said, “I’m going to need your help as well.”
“Doing what?”
“Starting World War Three.”
8
Aaron entered the bar by himself, letting the door close behind him. He stood for a moment, then caught Jennifer’s wave. He started to come our way and I wondered what had happened to his satanic partner. Okay, that was a little mean. Truth be told, although I’d never admit it to anyone but Jennifer, I was sort of sweet on her.
Knuckles said, “Should I go?”
I said, “Not unless you want to. I’ve got no reason for you not to hear what he has to say. Aaron might have a different opinion, but you might as well finish your beer.”
