The Ghost Pattern

by Leslie Wolfe

  ...31

  ...Friday, May 6, 2:56PM PDT (UTC-7:00 hours)

  ...Tom Isaac’s Residence

  ...Laguna Beach, California

  ...Nine Days Missing

  “There’s nothing I hate more than sitting idle and doing nothing, just waiting,” Sam said, getting off his chair and starting to pace the living room, impatiently, his fisted hands stuck deep in his pockets. “Makes me feel old.”

  “The kids are working as hard as they can,” Tom said. “We just need to give them time to do their thing.”

  Blake looked at them both, and said nothing. For him, waiting must have been the hardest.

  Lou stuck his head through the open door and said, “Come on over, guys, we have passenger manifest analysis data ready.”

  They all followed Lou into the den, where Alex and Steve were talking satellite deployment.

  “One of the satellites is a loaner, it’s already launched, it just needs to be redeployed to that area,” Alex said, pointing at the map, right above the Russia–North Korea border, a tiny sliver of black line perpendicular to the coast of the Sea of Japan. “The other one is being launched tomorrow at 4:00AM local time. It will need a few hours to deploy. By tomorrow afternoon, they should be both operational and scanning. We’re looking to secure a third loaner today, leased from CNC News. We’ll see how that goes.”

  “Do you have deployment patterns figured out?” Lou asked.

  “Not yet. We’ll work on that right after this. What do you have?”

  Everyone had taken a seat, except Steve, who leaned against the back wall of the room.

  Lou searched everyone’s eyes, a little hesitant in saying what he needed to say. Alex felt a chill down her spine, but nodded an encouragement to Lou. Whatever it was, they needed to know, so they could deal with it.

  “The passenger manifest deep background analysis is completed, and you’re not going to like it.” He cleared his throat a little, and then continued. “There’s a prevalence of accountants and salespeople on that flight, but somehow I doubt that the hijacking was about sales or taxes. A relatively large number of scientists who were onboard XA233, nine to be precise, represents the third most significant data cluster in this analysis. The scientists were on their way back from a pharma conference, the biggest one in the industry. They are a varied group of researchers—neuroscientists, neurologists, psychiatrists, a psychopharmacologist—all touching the field of neuropharmacology.”

  They all fell silent for a little while, processing what they had just heard.

  “Oh, my God…” Alex whispered.

  “You might have been right about your third scenario,” Lou said. “This could be about chemical weapons.”

  “What are you saying?” Blake asked in a high-pitched, trembling voice.

  There was no way she could sugarcoat that. Alex looked him straight in the eye and replied, “Some kind of nerve agent.”

  ...32

  ...Saturday, May 7, 6:46PM Local Time (UTC+3:00 hours)

  ...Bear Hunting Grounds

  ...Near Oboldino, Russia

  ...Ten Days Missing

  The days were getting longer, and the air was filled with the summer warmth, making it a lovely afternoon to hunt bear. Clear sky, calm wind, and a balmy temperature, just perfect. Now let’s hope we find and kill the damn bear fast, so we can all go home and call it a night, Myatlev thought, grabbing his rifle from Ivan. His back and stomach still hurt, but if Abramovich wanted to hunt bear with his best friends, he got to hunt bear with his best friends. Motherfucking food chain and distribution of power in this world…

  Myatlev joined Dimitrov and Abramovich near the cars, and exchanged hugs and traditional kisses on the cheeks with the other two. They had quite the entourage trailing behind them. They all had at least two bodyguards, dog handlers holding hounds on six-foot leashes, drivers, and aides. Abramovich even brought his personal chef, and a small team to prepare a hot meal, if finding a bear proved challenging.

  God, I hope that won’t be necessary, Myatlev thought, giving the confused chef a critical glare.

  Abramovich’s aide waited for the three of them to get ready, offering a tray with vodka on ice in small, cut crystal glasses, and bite-sized snacks: pâté de foie gras on thin toast, and tiny cheese crackers.

  “Ura!” Abramovich cheered, raising his glass.

  “Ura!” Myatlev and Dimitrov responded, meeting their glasses with his.

  They gulped the vodka, then put the glasses back on the tray, and started walking toward the forest.

  “Show me what you have there,” Abramovich said, pointing at Myatlev’s gun.

  “Ha!” Dimitrov laughed. “That’s why I don’t like hunting with this bozo anymore. He always humiliates me with his fancy hardware. I’ve been hunting with the same rifle for the past five years.”

  “That’s your way of admitting that mine is bigger than yours?” Myatlev quipped.

  Abramovich laughed. “Good one, Vitya, you tell him,” he said.

  Myatlev showed his rifle to Abramovich, offering it to him as if on a tray, held horizontally with both his hands.

  “Here you go,” he said. “Try it out. It’s a Holland & Holland bolt action magazine rifle, a .375.”

  Abramovich handed his own rifle to his aide, and took Myatlev’s Holland & Holland. He handled it expertly, aimed at a virtual target, then let out a whistle of appreciation.

  “I still have the Cottonmouth you gave me last year,” Abramovich said, with a hint of regret in his voice. “Great rifle.”

  “I’ll trade you if you’d like,” Myatlev offered. “I’ll hunt with the Cottonmouth, and you can take the H&H. Keep it, if you like it.”

  Abramovich’s face lit up. One of the most powerful men in the world, and he was so susceptible to gifts and bribery it was pathetic. Yet Myatlev was grateful for knowing which buttons to push with the highly unstable Russian president. Any advantage when dealing with that lunatic was a gift from God.

  Abramovich came to Myatlev and hugged him, then added an enthusiastic smooch on his cheek. “You know how to make your friend happy. Thank you!”

  Dimitrov threw Myatlev a discrete, all-knowing smirk, while the president was busy playing with his new gun.

  They continued walking toward the forest, as the light became heavier with the hues of dusk.

  Suddenly, Abramovich ordered their aides to fall behind with a quick gesture.

  “What’s new with Division Seven?” he asked, as soon as the other men were out of earshot.

  “We’re making progress,” Myatlev replied, and Dimitrov nodded. “We have deployed several key assets in the field, and they’re recruiting left and right with the help of a newly formed cyber unit.”

  “I see…” Abramovich sounded unconvinced, impatient, and frowned a little. Not good.

  “We are grabbing all kind of intel from our enemy. Soon we’ll be caught up with the latest military technologies, weapons, systems, everything we need.”

  “Ah…this is nothing,” Abramovich replied, making a dismissive gesture with his hand. “Give me something concrete, something I can sink my teeth into, and see the doom of our enemies coming.”

  Myatlev hesitated a little, thinking. Maybe it wasn’t too soon to share this with him, despite a worried, warning glance Dimitrov had just shot his way.

  “All right, how’s this? I’ve formed a research unit in the far east, to develop controlled violent behavior.”

  “That’s interesting,” Abramovich replied, turning toward Myatlev. “Tell me, what do you use? Drugs?”

  “Yes, drugs, and I knew you’d be interested, knowing your background with psy ops. I have a team of researchers, some of the best in the world, working on the perfect drug mix to induce and control violent behaviors.”

  “To do what?” Abramovich asked, frowning a little.

  “Just imagine, controlling the forces from within our enemy’s most sacrosanct organizations, the ones they trust the most, the
y depend on the most. Controlling how they react, how aggressive they are, when they start killing, and when they stop.”

  The president still wore a frown on his face. Myatlev stopped talking, a little worried with his reaction.

  “These researchers, who are they? How come they’re working for us?”

  Myatlev swallowed hard, clenching his jaws, while thinking of the best way to explain it to the unpredictable Abramovich.

  “Nine top-notch researchers were on their way back from a conference. They boarded their flight more than a week ago, but never made it to their destination. That was flight XA233.”

  He stopped talking, letting Abramovich process what he’d just heard.

  “What?” he growled. “You took flight XA233? You?”

  Abramovich drilled him with his stare.

  “Y–yes, that was me, us.”

  Abramovich stared silently at Myatlev, making him wonder if he was going to survive the day. The Russian president had made people disappear in the depths of Siberia for far lesser offenses.

  Unexpectedly, Abramovich grabbed Myatlev by the shoulders and kissed him on his cheeks, three times, in customary Russian style.

  “You got balls the size of trucks, Vitya, but you’re a reckless idiot,” he finally said. “Did you stop to consider the consequences of what you have done?”

  Myatlev shrugged, speechless. He didn’t know what to say. He looked at Dimitrov for some guidance, but Dimitrov only shrugged.

  “Jesus Christ, Vitya, if the world finds out about that plane, they could completely blockade us, roll out full sanctions. Hell, they could even invade us! You reckless fool! Genius, but reckless,” he ended his tirade signaling his aide for drinks.

  “Since when do you care about what the world has to say, Petya?” Myatlev asked, mustering his courage. “We’re patriots, we’re mercenaries in the service of Mother Russia, and we have no other supreme goal than to see her glorious and victorious again!”

  Myatlev swallowed hard; tension was still crackling in the air.

  The aide brought their shots, then disappeared discreetly.

  They grabbed their glasses and raised them, but before they could clink them together, Abramovich said, “Yes, be bold, my friend, but don’t be stupid. Where the hell is that plane now?” he asked, then gulped down the alcohol without the usual cheers.

  Myatlev frowned slightly.

  “It’s hidden, buried under a hill, at an abandoned air base in the east.”

  “Put some PVV explosive on it and blow it to hell. It never existed. Never happened. And those people can never be found, you understand me? None of them can ever see the light of day again. Once they finish what you have them do…”

  He ended his phrase making a gesture with his hand, running the tip of his fingers against his neck, in the centuries-old gesture that signified decapitation.

  “Not a single one, you hear me?”

  “Da, gospodin prezident,” Myatlev replied, turning formal all of a sudden to illustrate his commitment.

  They resumed walking quietly toward the forest. No sign of any bear anywhere, and the dogs were barking playfully thirty yards behind them.

  “You know, all I really want is my war,” Abramovich suddenly said, a cloud of concern shadowing his eyes. “Neither of you are delivering that to me. You keep coming up with these crazy ideas, most of them don’t even work, when all I want is to drop a nuke over New York, another one over San Francisco, then watch the Americans squirm. Why can’t I have that? It would be simple, clean. They’d go into a nuclear winter so deep and dark, they’d beg me for food and aid for decades. That’s what I want. To see them begging, defeated.”

  “That’s not that easy to do, gospodin prezident,” Dimitrov finally spoke. “We can’t just shoot missiles toward those cities; their early detection systems would catch anything we throw their way. Even if we do nuke them, then what? We annihilate the entire planet. You see, that’s the real problem with nuclear war. Once radiation is out there, it can go anywhere, and a simple change in the wind direction could kill more Russians than Americans. We need to be smart about it. That’s what we’re trying to do.”

  Abramovich looked at them both with an expression of deep disappointment.

  “Neither of you has the balls for what I need,” he finally spoke. “Was I so wrong about you?”

  They had stopped walking, and stood facing each other in a small circle, all engulfed in their conversation.

  “I will give you what you want,” Myatlev said, “we both will. We just need a little more time to finish what we’ve started building. You want them to pay for the sanctions, for their arrogance? They will, I swear to you, here where I stand, on my life! If it’s a nuclear attack you want, that’s what you’ll get, but we have to be smart. They can’t see us coming, and they have to be weakened from within first. Controlled. By us.”

  Abramovich nodded, pursing his lips, probably wondering what to believe, what to expect. Myatlev fell quiet, giving him time to think.

  The voices of their aides sounded louder now, and he could almost distinguish a yell. He looked back at them, and saw them gesturing desperately and running toward them with their guns drawn. Then he turned toward the forest and saw it.

  A brown bear, huge, was forging ahead, running fast, and approaching them in big leaps.

  “Bear,” he screamed, and readied his rifle.

  But Abramovich had already fired, his bullet grazing the bear’s right shoulder, making it roar as it stood on its hind legs. The bear’s roar was deafening, echoing strangely in the silence of the forest. Slobber dripped heavily from its open mouth, its teeth bared, and lips curled with anger. Then it fell back on all fours and resumed its attack, not even limping from the bullet wound.

  Dimitrov had sprung to the left and was fumbling with his weapon, unable to fire.

  “Jammed,” he yelled, then started running farther, still holding his useless weapon.

  As in a dream, Myatlev took a few steps to the right, leaving Abramovich alone on the path of the charging bear. Calmly, he readied his Venom tactical Cottonmouth, feeling a hint of recognition handling the exquisite weapon that used to be his.

  Abramovich, who had taken his second shot but missed, walked backward, as in slow motion, unable to take his eyes off the attacking monster. The hounds had caught up with them and charged the bear from all directions, but they didn’t slow its attack.

  The bear was thirty feet away from Abramovich, advancing in big leaps, roaring, and baring his formidable fangs. Then Myatlev fired one shot, calmly reloaded, and fired another.

  Both shots hit their target, one entering the bear’s massive skull through its ear canal, and the other hitting it in the neck. The bear fell heavily, its dying groan terrifying, the momentum pushing its lifeless body farther on its path. As it fell, it took Abramovich down with it, landing with its massive head and front paws on the president’s legs.

  Myatlev approached calmly and extended his hand to the pale, round-eyed Abramovich, as his aides moved the bear’s head and paws away from the president’s body. Abramovich grabbed his hand with gratitude, grasping it firmly.

  “And this, my dear Petya,” Myatlev said while pulling the president off the ground, “is how you get your enemy. You attack where he least expects, where he doesn’t see it coming.”

  ...33

  ...Saturday, May 7, 8:17AM PDT (UTC-7:00 hours)

  ...Tom Isaac’s Residence

  ...Laguna Beach, California

  ...Ten Days Missing

  There he was again, sitting sideways on his favorite lounge chair, head bowed, hands clasped tightly together, as he rocked almost imperceptibly back and forth.

  Alex cringed thinking how Blake must have felt. Ten days since XA233 had fallen off the radar, ten days of anguish, not knowing if his wife was still alive. No, she corrected herself, he knew she was still alive. Blake believed that to be true with every fiber in his body, and he wanted her back.


  She approached him and touched his shoulder gently. He turned to her, letting her see the pain written on his face. Hollow eyes surrounded by black circles, a creased brow, and an unshaven face. She could barely recognize him; he was falling apart right under their eyes.

  “Alex, thank goodness,” he said, taking both her hands into his. “Please help me,” he continued, almost sobbing. “I can’t—I can’t sit like this and do nothing. What if she…Do something, please!”

  She stood silent, unsure what she could say. They were all working round the clock, doing the best they could think of.

  “Let’s go, let’s just get out there,” he continued his plea. “I—I have every bit of confidence in what you say, and if you say the plane’s in Russia, then let’s just go there, now!” He was squeezing her hands tightly, his tight clasp conveying the same pleading urgency his words did.

  “Blake, listen,” she spoke softly. “Russia is a big place…where would we go? Plus, it’s not exactly a tourist resort, you know. We have to be careful. Here, we have equipment, access to the Internet, to technology, to people who own satellites and are willing to share them with you. We have contacts, and we have access to resources.”

  His creased brow relaxed a little, as he processed what she was saying. He was, ultimately, a rational man driven by logic, regardless of the all-consuming pain and worry he must have felt.

  “But I promise you this,” she added, “The moment I have even the slightest idea of where that plane would have landed, it’s wheels-up for this team. We’re going out there, we’re going to find them, and we’re going to bring them back. That’s a promise.”

  He let go of her hands, a little embarrassed for his moment of weakness, and stood, his back still hunched. Then he started pacing the patio slowly, pensively, rubbing his forehead with one hand, the other stuck firmly in his pocket.

  “I can only imagine how hard this is for you,” Alex said, “but don’t give up hope. You have to try…we’re making progress. I know it’s hard for you to see that, when you’d like us to go out there guns blazing, but we have so much information now. We have a working theory, and in my line of work, that’s what makes a case.”