Ghosts of War

by Brad Taylor

  Aaron said, “He speaks English. He would have at least understood that question and shook his head. He’s faking.”

  Aaron squatted down, saying, “If he doesn’t have that capability, he’ll be able to speak my language, I promise. Everyone understands pain.”

  He was five inches away from the Russian, and the dark angel blossomed in him, just like it did with Shoshana, scaring even me. It finally dawned what the connection was between the two of them. She wasn’t the odd one out. She was him, only he kept it hidden deep. It caused a serious reappraisal of everything I knew about the two.

  He bored into the Russian, and the man cracked, just like that. “I speak English.”

  Without breaking his stare, Aaron said, “We have some questions for you, and an answer of ‘I don’t know’ will not suffice. Do you understand?”

  78

  Jennifer and Shoshana managed to keep the men in sight without spiking even as they ran through the park. They were clearly searching for someone and, because of that, spent just as much time running parallel as moving forward. Eventually, they reached the top end and began arguing between themselves. One of them pointed to the west, and Jennifer saw a large brick building with the word MANUFAKTURA on top. On the walkway leading to it were multiple sculptures painted in bright colors, and throngs of people coming and going.

  A shopping area?

  The men took off toward it, no longer outright sprinting, but jogging with their heads on a swivel. Jennifer and Shoshana fought to keep up without showing a signature that they were, in fact, trying to keep up. The men were caught at the pedestrian crossing for a four-lane road, both sides building up with people waiting to cross. Jennifer and Shoshana joined the crowd, watching the light.

  When it changed, the men jogged across, then slowed to a walk, glancing all around, trying to find someone in the crowds.

  Jennifer and Shoshana followed, still with no idea whom they were looking for. They walked past the sculptures, then entered the building at the end of the brick promenade, and Jennifer found it was a shopping area. A gigantic, three-story mall not unlike the kind found in America, with even a few American brand stores sprinkled throughout.

  The men discussed, and one took the escalator to the second floor, while the other pressed ahead. Without needing to use words, Shoshana split off, taking the escalator. Jennifer followed the man who’d stayed on the ground floor.

  They began to wind through the mall, him still craning his neck at each store entrance, and her earpiece came alive.

  “Koko, Carrie, this is Pike, you copy?”

  She acknowledged and heard “We caught a guy here, and he’s talking. They’re after Amy Tatum, Devon’s wife. She was being held hostage and managed to escape. They’re using her as leverage to force him to give them access to the base.”

  Her phone vibrated, and he said, “Just sent a picture. I don’t know how old it is, but Devon’s in uniform, and he’s wearing captain rank, so it can’t be that off.”

  She looked, seeing a bright, cheerful woman a little on the heavy side, but with a beaming smile.

  She said, “Got it.”

  “She’s the key to stopping Devon. Find her before they do.”

  Shoshana came on. “What’s Devon doing?”

  “He thinks he’s facilitating them taking pictures, but he’s really transporting a dirty bomb.”

  Jennifer said, “Tell the base to stop him.”

  “I’m afraid to do that. I’m afraid with his wife’s life in the balance he may do something stupid to gain access. We also have no idea how that thing is triggered, or whether his passenger is on a suicide run. Remember Secretary of State Billings? His captor had the detonator on his body. Billings would be alive today if we’d realized it, and I’m not making the same mistake twice. I’ve got Blood prepared to interdict at the base, but this is much more than simply preventing an attack against our aircraft. If they trigger anywhere on the base—even if it’s at the front gate—it could be catastrophic. We need her to contact him. Give him a way out.”

  Shoshana came on. “Break, break. I found her. I say again, I found her. She’s in the food court. The other guy is tracking her.”

  “He’s found her too?”

  “Yes. He just closed in. He’s sitting right next to her. He’s holding her arm, and I’m pretty sure he’s got a weapon on her.”

  “Shit. The guy here says they’re going to kill her the first chance they get.”

  Jennifer saw her man answer his cell phone. She said, “My target’s on the phone. He’s turning around.”

  Shoshana said, “Pike, he just stood her up. What do you want?”

  Jennifer heard “What do I want? I want the fucking Pumpkin King.”

  —

  Amy reached the top of the escalator and went around to the side, where she could get a view of the entrance. Drawing in deep breaths, she began to calm down when the two men chasing her didn’t appear.

  In the park, her small bit of safety vanished the minute she finished with the dog-walker. She’d made the decision to sprint to the mall and then had seen the two men who’d held her breaking into the park, scaring the life out of her. She should have had at least another five minutes on the loose before they discovered she was missing.

  They must have heard something.

  She crouched behind a bush, the option of sprinting now lost to her because it would highlight where she was. Luckily, it was easy to keep track of the two chasing her precisely because they were running back and forth like a couple of dogs chasing a ball.

  She kept the bushes between her and them and managed to slink four feet at a time to the far side of the park. She circled a building, now blocked from view of the park, and began speed-walking toward the mall. She reached the four-lane road at a bus stop, and waited for the light to allow her to cross. It did, and she was halfway across before she glanced at the large crowd on the main crosswalk a hundred feet to her left.

  She saw her hunters and almost froze.

  She kept walking, getting to the far side, once again putting a building between her and the men. She’d taken off running at that point, trying to gain entrance to the mall while they searched the crowds on the primary walkway. She reached the building and sidled toward the entrance, scanning the crowds. She didn’t see the hunters. She ripped open the doors and immediately took the escalator to the second level, then wound around to watch.

  She waited for another couple of seconds, becoming calmer, then the two entered the lower level. She immediately crouched down, afraid they had some magical method of seeing her.

  The men split, one moving to the escalator that would lead him directly to her. She faded back in a panic, entering the food court. A large area ringed with various vendors selling the usual American fast food, along with some Polish fare, it was crowded and loud. She ran to the far corner and sat at a table behind a pillar, cautiously peeking out around it.

  She decided to wait until the man came through, playing the same hide-and-seek game she had in the park. She peeked out again, and felt a bolt of adrenaline when she couldn’t see where he’d gone. She craned to her left, looking around the pillar the other way, and locked eyes with him. She bolted upright, and he closed in on her, seizing her arm and forcing her into a chair. He shook his head left and right, showed a pistol in his waistband, then said something in Russian.

  He dialed his phone, spoke into it, then tilted his head toward the door. She sat still. He pinched her arm and, holding the skin in his hands, stood. She did as well.

  He marched her to the escalator, and the glide down felt like a mini-movie detailing the end of her life.

  When they reached the bottom, the other man was waiting. He positioned himself on her left side, and they exited, but they didn’t go down the main promenade. They steered her to the left, toward the parking garage in
the distance, the sidewalk deserted.

  They began walking, and she realized they weren’t taking her back to the house. They were going to kill her, right here, in broad daylight. Her husband was more than likely already dead.

  She began to cry, stumbling forward, and the man to her left said, “Shhhh,” shaking his head.

  She tried to stop, but couldn’t. The man on the left jerked her arm and sat her on a bench, off the gritty sidewalk and behind a maintenance shed. He sat next to her, and she thought, This is it.

  He put a finger to her lips, and she realized they were simply waiting on some pedestrians to pass. Two females were coming down the walkway, talking animatedly.

  They drew closer, and she recognized that they were speaking English. One was definitely American, with a blond ponytail. The other had an accent she couldn’t place, with black hair cut in a pageboy.

  For a fleeting moment, she thought about shouting at them to get their attention. But she knew she couldn’t. All it would do was get them killed, and she couldn’t be responsible for that.

  They came abreast, and in the span of a second, she realized she had feared for the life of the wrong people.

  Without warning, the two women turned toward the bench. The man standing in front of her, pretending to be engaged in conversation, made a half turn before his head exploded, spraying the man seated to her left in gore. The sitting man made it halfway off the bench before he suffered the same fate. He collapsed back, making more noise in the fall than the weapon that had caused his death.

  Her mouth opening and closing in shock, she looked at her new enemies. The women were both holding pistols from an action movie, with large, bulbous barrels that showed a trace of smoke. The pageboy haircut said, “Make this quick,” then retreated to the walkway, looking back the way they’d come. The blonde said, “Amy, my name is Jennifer Cahill. Are you all right?”

  She nodded dumbly, her mouth still open in shock.

  The blonde said, “Good, because we really need you to call your husband.”

  She fainted.

  79

  United States Air Force Captain Devon Tatum recognized the landmarks, and knew he had about five minutes before he reached the exit to Lask. Five minutes to figure a way out of the death spiral he was caught in.

  He’d found a radiator leak kit in the Shell station, and had managed to stretch the stop to an hour and a half because the kit required not only a completely cool engine, but also thirty minutes to solidify. During that wait, he’d thought about what these men had planned, and knew it wasn’t simply picture-taking. It made no sense.

  If you wanted to know the location of the hangars, why not use Google Earth? If you wanted a bird’s-eye perspective of what was on the ground, why use him for access when they could have simply tortured the information out of him? As the commander of base security, he had a hell of a lot more information than a simple circuit with a camera could reveal, and yet the men hadn’t asked a single question. In fact, they seemed unprepared to do so.

  They wanted base access for something else. And he had to find a way to stop it.

  He considered just driving the car at high speed into the fourteen-foot noise reduction barriers that blanketed the expressway, as he knew he was a dead man anyway, but found he couldn’t sacrifice his wife.

  And then the true fear came home: If they were going to kill him, she might already be dead.

  The thought brought a bolt of rage. He tried to contain it, but the man called Kirill noticed and said, “Don’t get any thoughts. This is easy. One lap, and you’re on your way.”

  Devon knew that was a fucking lie. If he let this killer on the post, more men than just him would die. He prayed to God for an answer, and was given one.

  He heard the distinctive ringtone of his phone, the song “Wild Thing” by The Troggs filling the car. Kirill pulled the phone from his front pocket, looked at the screen, then held it out for Devon to see.

  He didn’t recognize the number, but said, “It’s my command. If I don’t answer, they’ll just keep calling. Better if I did so, since we’re about to enter the gate.”

  Kirill handed him the phone, saying, “I’m listening. You say anything suspicious, and your wife is dead.”

  Devon took it, hitting the green button at the bottom, and said, “Hello?”

  And heard his world flipped upside down. “Captain Tatum, my name is Pike Logan, and I work for the United States government. I need you to pretend that this is an official call, and I need you to just listen. I know who is sitting next to you. Do not say anything to alert him. Okay?”

  Devon said nothing. The man on the phone said, “You can answer the damn question with a yes or no.”

  He said, “Yes.”

  “Good. First, your wife is alive and fine. She’s with my team. The men who held her are dead. Do not, under any circumstances, ask to speak to her.”

  He felt a bolt of adrenaline at the news and fought hard not to show anything. Robotically, he said, “Okay.”

  “Good. You’re doing good. The man in the seat has a dirty bomb in your car. He’s planning to set it off inside the American perimeter of the Lask airbase. Confirm you understand.”

  “Yes. I got it.”

  “Say something about the flux capacitor, like you’re talking about work.”

  “What?”

  “Say something related to work. Make it sound like you’re talking about your job.”

  Devon glanced at Kirill and said, “Yes, I have the oil for the flux capacitor. I can bring it tomorrow.”

  “Jesus, man, I didn’t mean actually say ‘flux capacitor.’ Listen, I don’t want you to try to do anything. We don’t know if this guy is a suicide bomber or what. He might have a detonator on his body. Under no circumstances are you to try to stop him. Do you understand?”

  Confused, Devon answered, “Yes. I understand,” but thought, If not me, who?

  “Good. Listen, you go to the airbase just like he expects. When you get to the American perimeter, you’ll be met by a guy you don’t recognize. I need you to show him your ID card upside down. Do you understand?”

  “Yes. I can do that.”

  “How far out are you? You can answer that, but do it in a normal way.”

  “Sure, that’ll only take about five minutes. It’s easy.”

  “Okay, got it. Remember, don’t show any surprise at a man on the gate you don’t know. His name is Brett Thorpe. Roll up and say a greeting. He’ll do the rest.”

  “Okay. Talk to you soon.”

  “Good answer. Because you will. Hang in there. It’s almost over.”

  He ended the call and said, “Some bullshit from work, but I can deal with it tomorrow.” He handed the phone back and said, “I will be able to do that, right?”

  His suspicions belied because of the question, Kirill said, “Yeah, sure. One lap, and you’re back to your normal life.”

  They exited the expressway, Devon fighting to control the adrenaline racing through his body. They reached the street that dead-ended into the base, and went down the pitted asphalt to the main gate. He rolled up to the outer perimeter, seeing the same Polish man he’d seen when he left earlier, fearing that he’d be stopped and questioned about his passenger. Wondering if he was about to feel a fireball. The man didn’t even ask him to roll down the window, waving him through.

  He exhaled and Kirill said, “Good. Very good. Keep it like that, and you’ll be home with your wife soon.”

  They rolled down the flight line, and Kirill made no attempt to retrieve his “camera” from the back. Devon realized everything the man on the phone had said was true. He saw the temporary American inner perimeter ahead, and felt the spike of adrenaline again.

  This is it.

  He slowed, seeing a short African American man he didn’t recognize, wearing a u
niform that didn’t fit. He prayed that Kirill wouldn’t notice. He rolled down his window, struggling to remember the last name of the man, but couldn’t. He spit out, “Hey, Sergeant Brett. Just running in for something I forgot.”

  Devon held out his CAC card, upside down.

  The man called Brett leaned in as if to study the card and said, “Hey, how’s the wife?”

  Stunned, Devon stuttered, “She . . . she’s good.”

  He said, “I know.”

  He jammed a pistol past him, slamming it right up against Kirill’s head, then pulled the trigger.

  80

  So they really have him?” Putin asked.

  The head of the FSB, Ilya Kozlov, glanced around the table, not meeting the eyes of the men sitting, and said, “Yes, sir. They most definitely have him.”

  It was Kozlov’s first time visiting the Black Sea Estate, and he was clearly awed not only by the grandeur of the structure, but also by the power of the men around the table.

  “Can we get to him?”

  “Not anytime soon. He is under incredible security, an outer ring of Austrian special police, and an inner ring of United States FBI. Maybe when they move him, but short of blowing up the building, there is no way to currently effect any lethal operations against Simon.”

  Putin took that in, then said, “And our team in Warsaw? What of them?”

  Kozlov shuffled from foot to foot, then said, “Dead, sir. They were found in a tenement house by Polish police. Gunshot wounds.”

  “The Americans again?”

  “We don’t know. Odds are it was Simon, sending a team to rescue the man we were going to interrogate.”

  “What about the Cesium the Colonel was trying to sell?”

  “It has disappeared, along with the man named Mikhail.”

  Putin slowly nodded, then said, “You may leave.”

  Putin waited until he’d closed the door to the ornate dining room before returning to the men around the table. Powerful oligarchs, not politicians, they were the true heart of the Russian machine, and had been privy to the attempts to annex Belarus.