by Glen Carter
“You make it sound so easy.” Raspov smiled. “But yes. Essentially that was the nuts and bolts of the plan. Brilliant, don’t you think?”
“You are crazy,” Jack replied.
“Brilliant then,” Raspov sneered. “Brilliant now.”
Jack cocked his head slightly, hoping to detect signs of life in the shed outside. There was no telling what the Russian brothers were doing in there. He shuddered to think of Uri’s and Pavel’s special talents.
Brilliant now? What had Raspov meant by that?
Satisfied that Jack was brimming with curiosity, Raspov eagerly continued, “The nukes were made ready. Twelve of them.”
Jack shook his head with disbelief. “It would have been impossible to circumvent the state’s nuclear control structure. The nukes would have been missed immediately.”
Raspov laughed softly. “Ordinarily yes,” he said. “But let’s just say accountability would not have been a problem. We had the weapons we needed because back when things were very nasty between you and us – at the peak of the Cold War – the KGB had custody and control of the nuclear warheads. The missiles were separate.” Raspov tapped his forehead. “Even then we were thinking. A number of the KGB’s warheads were skillfully made to disappear from all official records before we relinquished physical control of the weapons a couple of decades ago. They were our ‘insurance policy.’ After Cuba we decided we needed one.”
“Kruchev backed down. Tarnished what should have been a shining moment.”
Raspov’s face tightened. “That’s right. He did. But never again would that happen. No one in the Kremlin had the guts to do what we were going to do.”
Thank God for that, Jack thought. “So…”
“We had sleeper agents in place in safe houses to accept the automobiles with their on-board nuclear devices. All was set to go. Yes, a shining moment in Soviet history as you put it, Jack. Think of the strategic advantage we would’ve achieved. Soviet nuclear weapons on America’s doorstep – literally. Like bringing the mountain to Mohammed, don’t you think?”
“Mohammed was a prophet, not a terrorist,” Jack said.
“So were we,” Raspov spat. “Smart enough to see through American deception concerning disarmament. We would have relinquished the only real weapon we had left, becoming easy pickings for the hawks in Washington.”
Raspov was a dinosaur, Jack thought. A dangerous relic of out-ofcontrol times.
Raspov looked at him. “Gorbi and Reagan were talking about complete eradication. No more ICBMs. It scared the shit out of us patriots.” Raspov tapped the barrel of his weapon against Jack’s knee. “Gorbachev would eventually have given it all up. We were a Super Power for Chrissake, preparing to surrender our might. Mikhail was a traitor.”
“Some would say visionary.”
“Bullshit. The threat of a nuclear exchange was our strongest ally. It kept both sides on their toes. The Soviet Union would have relinquished its ace card, thereby destroying the balance of power.”
“The power to destroy the planet twice over,” Jack said. “Some ace card.”
“And you – ten times over,” Raspov said angrily. “Don’t get righteous with me. It doesn’t suit you.” A scornful look cut lines in Raspov’s face. “Gorbachev was to be told only when the devices were in place. Better to ask for forgiveness than permission, right, Jack? You were using the same strategy when you came to Colombia with Kaitlin. And by the way, I still cannot believe the astounding coincidence with these two women. Amazing. And very convenient for me when you came looking for my help.”
“Whatever you say.”
“What happened was this,” Raspov continued. “Gorbachev found out what we were up to – and heads rolled. Most ended up dead or in the Gulag. Not me. I cooperated with them.” Raspov’s features turned sour. “After that I was basically exiled to Castro’s shitty little island. I’ve made a living, but I’m tired now and strangely I miss the Moscow winters.”
Jack thought back to the first time he’d met Raspov. The night in Moscow when they got drunk and Raspov passed him the envelope. “You sabotaged the summit to buy time for your little plan,” Jack said, knowing the truth before Raspov answered.
“Of course we did. We would never have been able to proceed with American weapons inspectors climbing all over us with their damn verification protocols. Sniffing around to see if we were living up to our part of the disarmament deal. We were concerned they’d discover the discrepancies in the warhead numbers. By that time twelve were missing. As I said, we knew the best way to scuttle the summit was to expose Gorbachev’s hand before he had a chance to play it. That’s where you came in. You did your job, that’s all.”
It didn’t feel like that to Jack. He’d been a pawn, played to perfection. “So what next?”
“Not so fast, Jack. I’m not finished yet.”
Jack dreaded where Raspov was headed.
“The nuclear weapons were supposed to be returned to the Soviet strategic command,” Raspov said. “And although the records indicate that’s what happened. It did not.”
More slight of hand by the KGB, Jack thought.
Raspov continued, “For more than a decade we’ve been storing…no, hiding them in a forgotten bunker at an air force base outside of Moscow. We are remnants now but we still control them, Jack. Patriots who believe in nationhood again for the great Soviet people.”
Jack shuddered at the thought. Suitcase nukes. What zealot miscreant or terrorist wouldn’t want a taste of that kind of power? Jack didn’t doubt Raspov’s reach. “Which brings us to what?” he asked, fearful that Raspov was about to put an end to this.
“Which brings us to my good friend Branko Montello,” Raspov replied. “This man, Jack. He has big balls, this man. Like her.”
Mercedes was unsettling in her silence.
“Strangely, I admire him for what he wants to become,” Raspov continued. “I’m a greedy capitalist now so I gave him my price.”
Price? She’d been holding back, Jack thought. He punished himself for not seeing it. But how exactly was she involved?
“Montello and the others were more than happy to pay.” Raspov paused, as if to savour the taste of his words. “Ask her, Jack. Ask her how much she took from her old boyfriend. My money.”
At that instant, Jack wanted to shout her deception.
Mercedes continued to stare off into space.
“I prefer bearer bonds over gold or diamonds,” said the Russian. “Much easier to handle. Ask her, Jack. Go on. It’s why we’re all here.”
Jack stared at her with reproach. “Well, Mercedes?”
“Fifty million dollars,” she replied weakly.
Jack was stung.
Raspov looked at him. “Now that we’ve gotten that out of the way I know what you’re thinking and it is too dark to comprehend. Montello’s a psychopath. He’d detonate one of the devices just to prove he has the weapons. Take out a million or so people in say, Houston, or Miami, or something with strategic military significance like Guantanamo Bay or the American military installation in Panama. Montello saying ‘Don’t fuck with me, Mister Denton. There’s more where that came from.’ No more talk of extradition to the United States. Thermal nuclear weapons have always been a wonderful deterrent. Maybe Montello wants to be president. Nukes open a lot of doors, maybe even the door to the presidential palace. The insurgents like him, Jack. They’re all whores. Everyone’s on the coca payroll and politics makes strange bedfellows.”
“You sick bastard,” Jack hissed.
Raspov chortled. “Give me some credit, Jack.” Raspov hefted the gun from one hand to the other, pointed it at Jack again. “The truth is Montello’s little problem doesn’t concern us. He would have received stage craft, duds or props, for lack of better words. His money, however. That was real. I would have taken his bonds.”
“Pretty risky slight of hand. Montello’s not that stupid.”
“No. Not that stupid. I agree. But the Argent
inean physicist on his payroll – the man who was to verify the weapons – was a willing participant in our subterfuge.” Raspov reconsidered. “Maybe not so willing until we showed him photos of his grandson leaving preschool.”
“The deal is obviously dead now.” Jack needed to hear confirmation of that.
Raspov allowed it. “Yes. Dead, I suppose. For now.”
“Don’t worry, Dmitri,” said Jack. “I’m sure there are others who’ll pay your price.”
“Yes, there are. And we’re ready for them. You see, Jack, there are old men in Russia who believe it’s the KGB’s time again. We’re believers now in something you taught us. Democracy. Back home my old KGB friends are winning elections – becoming leaders – stronger leaders willing to return Russia to its rightful place. You’ve never heard of Viktor Kryshtanovskaya. Mid-level KGB. Great politician. Won a landslide in Voronezh in the south. Now he’s in charge of the nuclear arsenal there. What a great thing, this democracy. Even I have a place in the new Russia, thanks to our old friend Putin. The government has a great many places to put us. Raspov, the bureaucrat. Imagine. We’re back, my friend, I’m back. But in the meantime we need Montello’s money – our war chest. I want the money, Jack. She stole it. It’s ours.”
“You’ll have to talk to her about that,” Jack said.
“You’re absolutely right,” Raspov replied. “I shall.” With that, Raspov raised the weapon until it was level with Jack’s forehead. “Sorry, old friend.”
Suddenly the house went dark.
The first concussion came from the front door, followed by simultaneous eruptions of thunder and smoke from the windows and at the back of the house.
Pain exploded in Jack’s head. He covered his ears and lunged towards the spot where Raspov had been seated. He tumbled over an empty chair onto the floor. More explosions were followed by the stomping of heavy boots and American voices shouting hurried commands. Jack heard screams in the shed, followed by loud reports from a killing shotgun. People were dying in there. A pair of sweaty hands encircled his throat and squeezed. Raspov was suddenly on him and he weighed a ton. Jack swung – and swung again – his knuckles cracked as he pounded at the Russian’s upper torso. The fingers around his neck tightened, but with a final flurry of punches Jack was able to break Raspov’s death grip. He heaved Raspov off and fought to catch his breath. A split second later the Russian was on him again, spittle erupting in curses, sour breath and slimy fingers at his throat again. With his free hand Raspov struck him with something hard, something that made a sickening thud as it struck Jack’s skull. Jack was losing consciousness. His arms lay helplessly at his sides. Everything was turning black as he looked up to see Raspov wild-eyed with rage. The Russian placed the barrel of his revolver against Jack’s forehead.
“They’re all dead out there, Jack. My orders–” Raspov didn’t finish. The bullet that killed him entered his head at the left temple and dissected the frontal lobe of his brain before burying itself harmlessly into a wall. Raspov fell limply forward and grunted against Jack’s cheek. A soliloquy of the dammed.
Jack must have blacked out. When he regained consciousness it took all of his strength to push Raspov’s dead body off him. A moment later the shooting and shouting halted. The smell of sweat and cordite was thick. Jack lay there trying to catch his breath when a pair of boots thumped heavily toward him. A powerful light struck him square in the face, causing him even more pain. He slammed shut his eyes as a voice barked at him, a soldier’s voice, gravelly and hoarse with the beginnings of an adrenaline hangover.
“I thought I told you not to come back, Doyle,” Colonel Neil Braxton said.
SEVENTY-FIVE
The medic who looked at Jack said he’d definitely live. Jack quietly nodded as he watched the Delta boys stomp around the house, grimly gathering up their hardware, satisfied looks on blackened faces. The guy with the bag of medical supplies leaned in to examine the robin’s egg on the side of Jack’s head. “You get the guy’s number who did this?”
Jack ignored him. “160th Regiment – Night Stalkers. Right?”
“Can’t say, sir.” The soldier smiled and resumed his examination.
Kaitlin and Mercedes were safe and huddled together under Alejandro’s watchful stare. Seth was getting in everyone’s way demanding his right to use the video camera he had retrieved, along with the rest of their belongings from the car.
The soldiers ignored him.
Colonel Neil Braxton waited for the medic to finish his work. In the meantime he shook his head in disbelief. “You’re a lucky man,” he said.
“Thanks. What can you tell me?”
“Most of it’s classified,” Braxton said. “And we don’t have a lot of time to talk about it. Our eye in the sky is telling us FARC boys are headed this way. We definitely want to bug out before they get here.”
Braxton’s eyes glowed from beneath a shiny layer of dark camouflage paint. He looked larger to Jack in fatigues and a flak jacket. And to Jack he appeared exhausted.
“Intel gave us a heads-up about three days ago when satellites picked up Raspov’s boat about fifty miles off the Colombian coast.”
I was aboard it, Jack didn’t say.
“We know you were a passenger, Jack.”
“How did–”
“Not important.”
Braxton shouted something about a security perimeter to one of his men, then turned back to Jack. “Raspov was up to his ass in some pretty scary shit.”
Jack wondered how far Braxton would go.
“How much of this is off the record,” the colonel asked.
“As much as you can tell me,” Jack replied.
“Raspov did the justice minister and was planning plenty more – union leaders, mayors, anyone with a title. Anything to destabilize the country, nothing like the candy-ass violencia of the past. Harder, faster, much more blood. The president was going down. They had an assassin on his staff inside the presidential palace. The Colombian military was in for new leadership. You met him. Guzman. By the way, how does President Branko Montello sound?”
“Like a nightmare,” Jack replied.
“That’s why we’re here,” Braxton said. “Anyway, our Intel was slow on the restaurant job that got you and your friend, otherwise we would have intervened, saved our buddy Amillo. You know what they say, Doyle. Wrong place, wrong time. You were collateral damage. Though it looks like the O’Rourke woman managed the impossible by the looks of it. I won’t ask how she got here.”
“It’s a long story,” Jack said, feeling no inclination at that moment to reveal Raspov’s nuclear intentions. That was to be his exclusive – and he intended to protect it.
“Anything we should know, Jack?”
“No,” Jack replied. “Just a coupla old friends catching up on old times before you interrupted.”
Braxton appeared doubtful.
Jack looked past it. He counted six body bags which were being loaded aboard a Blackhawk helicopter. Two others had touched down seconds before, turbines spooling for a rapid exit.
“What about Montello?” Jack asked as Braxton was getting up.
“Let’s just say that Montello and two of his business partners are now guests of Uncle Sam. Three Blackhawks like those are on their way to a secure runway in Panama. An army transport is waiting for them. Montello and his friends aren’t going to like the in-flight service.” Braxton smiled. “How about you? You need a ride home?”
Jack nodded.
Kaitlin and Mercedes got up to join Alejandro who was standing at the bedroom door. They spoke quietly for a moment. Mercedes stepped tentatively into the bedroom and halted. Regret painted her face as she stared down at the death shroud. After a moment she turned and walked back to her twin sister, hugging her affectionately.
Alejandro smiled and reached out to take their hands, mindless of the intrusion of armed men and the racket from a launching helicopter.
Jack walked over. “There’s no time left,�
�� he said. “We’re going with them.”
Alejandro nodded.
Kaitlin hugged him. There were more quiet words, and then in a move unnoticed by everyone, an object was tucked tightly into her hand. Finally they said goodbye.
Five minutes later they were airborne. The crew chief brought them coffee, and then Jack and Seth watched the Mendoza sisters shyly studying one another, duplicates inspecting their own special qualities. There were two lifetimes to catch up on, stories of a million words. Kaitlin smiled. “Thank you,” she mouthed to him.
Jack nodded, smiled back, and in that moment the guilt and shame that killed his father were forever finished with the Doyle name. Jack stared into the darkness outside the helicopter and breathed deeply. Passing trees and rooftops were barely visible except where home fires flickered brightly.
This time everyone was going home.
SEVENTY-SIX
They spent two full days in Panama City. Jack and Seth were relegated to loungers at the hotel pool while Kaitlin and Mercedes disappeared on long walks or to the quiet shady places on the hotel grounds where people could sit and talk.
“What about it?” Seth said on the afternoon of the second day, an umbrella drink of some kind balanced precariously on his white chest. “Another Emmy’s got your name on it.”
Jack looked at him reproachfully. “Don’t you think you’d better find out if the sisters are OK with this? After all, it’s their lives, Seth. Rule one, remember?”
“Understood, my liege.”
Seth had documented nearly everything. His videotapes were on their way to New York, including the ones shot with his hidden lipstick camera. He’d managed with that camera to shoot the aftermath of the raid in Maradona and something that happened on a jungle tarmac west of Panama City, where three grumpy and sneering drug lords were bundled in leg irons aboard a C-130 military aircraft.
Jack had asked Braxton for a favour which the Delta leader granted. “Why not?” he had chuckled. “I expect the Mendoza woman’s got some parting words for the bastard.” Better than words it turned out when Mercedes stepped up to the shackled drug lord and smiled.
