Operation Barracuda sc-2

by Tom Clancy

  “Sam?” Carly asks. “You there?”

  “Yeah,” I say. “Sorry. I drifted off there for a second. Is the colonel around?”

  “Not right now. I was about to contact you. There’s a big snowstorm heading your way. What are you doing?”

  “I should be eating dinner but instead I’m keeping tabs on General Prokofiev. Have you made headway on those photos I sent you? Any IDs yet?”

  “As a matter of fact, I just got them back. You were right. The guy with the beard is Oskar Herzog. I guess he’s trying hard to change his appearance. It’s not working too well, is it?”

  “No, it’s not. What about the other guy? The rock star.”

  Carly laughs. “Your ‘Rasputin’ description was pretty funny. Actually, he’s just as sinister as Rasputin. He’s been ID’d as Yvan Putnik, a Russian Mafiya hit man. The guy has a record in Russia but he must have some powerful friends in the government because he keeps getting out of prison.”

  “Well, look who he’s hanging with.”

  “Right. If you’re buddies with General Prokofiev then you’ve got nothing to fear from the big bad law-enforcement dudes.”

  I rub my chin. “So what does that mean? What’s this Putnik guy doing with the Shop?”

  “I suppose he’s working for them, wouldn’t you think?”

  “Well, duh. What I meant was I wonder what kind of jobs he’s doing for them — wait a second.” General Prokofiev just came out of the building. He’s with a tall, striking blonde that must be twenty-five years younger than he is. Maybe more. I snap a couple of shots on the OPSAT. The bodyguard gets out of the passenger seat and opens the back door for the couple. After they’re inside, the Mercedes drives away.

  “I gotta go,” I say. “I’m beaming you a couple more photos. I just saw the good general with a pretty blonde. See if you can find out who she is.”

  “Is it his wife?”

  “No. General Prokofiev’s wife is his age. This girl looks young enough to be his daughter.”

  We sign off and I discreetly pull into the street to follow the Mercedes, which takes the busy Naberezhna shose south along the Dnipro until the driver makes a left onto the Metro Bridge. The car moves east on prospekt Brovansky and then pulls into the small parking lot beside an old wooden mill in Hidropark. I’m puzzled for a moment until I realize that the mill is really a restaurant called Mlyn. The Hidropark, a Kyiv landmark, is an outdoor amusement park that spreads along the riverbank and encompasses some islands. The restaurant apparently offers a spectacular panoramic view of the Dnipro and its beaches.

  I pull into the lot, park away from the Mercedes, and turn to watch my prey. The bodyguard opens the back door and Prokofiev and the girl step out. I’m closer now and can see that she’s runway model material. Who is she?

  More photos. After the couple is inside, the Mercedes leaves. I get out of the SUV and enter the restaurant. The maître d’ greets me and asks if I want a view of the river. I tell him I’m just having a drink at the bar and he frowns as if I’m committing a grievous sin. He indicates the bar with his nose and then focuses his attention elsewhere.

  I position myself on a cushioned stool where I can see Prokofiev and his date sitting on the other side of the room next to the large window. A bartender asks me what I’ll have. I really don’t want alcohol while I’m working but I figure when in Rome… I ask him for a recommendation and he tells me that the house special is a “KGB.”

  “Okay, I’ll have that,” I say. I’m expecting the KGB cocktail that has Bailey’s Irish Cream and Kahlua in it, but instead he gives me something containing gin, apricot brandy, kümmel, and lemon juice. It’s god-awful.

  As I drink the wretched thing I watch the couple and discern that they’re definitely having a romance. The way the good general is holding her hand on top of the table doesn’t evoke a father-and-daughter relationship. She laughs at something he’s saying and then — bingo, she leans across the table and kisses his forehead.

  I snap the image on my OPSAT.

  For the next ten minutes I sit with my drink and take a few more surreptitious photos. I even catch the general with his hand up the girl’s skirt at one point. The best part comes when he presents her with a small wrapped box. She opens it excitedly and then squeals in delight when she sees the diamond necklace inside. Prokofiev stands, moves behind her, and fastens the trinket around her neck. He then leans down and she kisses him full on the mouth.

  At that moment a text message comes in on the OPSAT. It reads: GIRL IN PHOTO IS NATALYA GROMINKO, FASHION MODEL, SINGLE, AGE 24, LIVES IN KYIV. NO CRIMINAL RECORD THAT WE KNOW OF. CARLY.

  I force the rest of the cocktail down my throat and leave a few hryvnia notes on the bar. Just as I prepare to go outside, I see Rasputin — or rather, Yvan Putnik — enter the restaurant, scan the tables, locate the general, and rush over to him. I sit on the stool and watch them in the mirror behind the bar. Putnik whispers something to the general and a look of concern crosses the old man’s face. He wipes his mouth, stands, and takes the model’s hand. He says something to her — apparently he must leave immediately — and she wrinkles her brow and pouts. The general kisses her on the cheek and then leaves the restaurant with Putnik. Miss Grominko remains at the table, sulking. I wait a couple of minutes and then follow the men outside.

  Great. It’s snowing. In fact, it’s a major blizzard.

  The Mercedes is already out of the lot when I run to get in the SUV. I switch the OPSAT to tracking mode and see that the car is heading east toward Oryal. It’s also the road to Moscow. They’re already close to two miles ahead of me so I pull onto prospekt Brovansky and proceed to catch up. I’d never lose them while the homing device is working but I like to keep a visual on the target when I’m tailing someone. Unfortunately, the snowstorm is a hindrance and the roads are slick with ice. I’m forced to slow down when I see a policeman directing traffic through an intersection where two cars have collided. By the time I’m clear, the Mercedes has a five-mile lead on me. They’re definitely traveling out of town.

  Suddenly the blinking dot stops moving. The car has stopped somewhere up ahead. I’m in the outskirts of Kyiv and can’t imagine what the general is up to. Surely he doesn’t have another mistress living out in the burbs.

  I reduce my speed when I’m within a mile of the location indicated by the blinking dot. Then, without warning, the homing signal quits on me. The blinking light disappears.

  What the hell…? I think. What happened? Those homing devices have a life of at least seventy-two hours. Did they find it and disable it?

  I pull over and study the map on the OPSAT, trying to remember exactly where the dot had been before it vanished. I pinpoint an intersection that seems to be the best possibility and then drive in that direction. I’m about a quarter of a mile away when I see, through the blinding snow, a black cloud of smoke billowing toward the night sky. I hear approaching sirens as I slowly guide the SUV down the street to a vacant lot next to a condemned building, the point where the Mercedes last sat.

  In its place is a burning wreck. The car appears to have been deliberately set on fire.

  I stop the SUV and watch the scene as two fire trucks and a police car appear with lights flashing. The firefighters immediately set about putting out the blaze. Once they do, I can see that the burning hulk is indeed the Mercedes.

  Shit! They must be on to me!

  The bastards dumped the car, destroyed it, and went on their way in a different vehicle.

  4

  Professor Gregory Jeinsen wiped the sweat off his brow as he debarked and made his way toward the Arrivals area. Hong Kong International Airport was abuzz with activity, as was usually the case, so Jeinsen felt relatively safe from being recognized. After all, who could possibly identify him? He had changed his appearance considerably since he left Washington. He had dyed his gray hair black and combed it differently, he had shaved his mustache, and he now wore glasses with fake lenses. These simple alterati
ons made him look twenty years younger than his true age of sixty-four. If the Pentagon was searching for him, an agent would have to do a couple of double takes in order to see any resemblance to the scientist who mysteriously went missing two days earlier. His liaison in Hong Kong had paved the way for a new identity and taken care of the necessary paperwork, so Jeinsen now held a German passport and entry visa with the name Heinrich Lang. This wasn’t too much of a stretch. Jeinsen had a cousin named Heinrich and his favorite film director was Fritz Lang. The new name suited him.

  The exodus had been planned for years. Jeinsen had come to the United States by way of an even earlier defection. Born and raised in Germany, Jeinsen unfortunately found himself growing up on the eastern side of the Berlin Wall at the end of World War II. As an adult he worked as a weapons development scientist for the GDR until the fateful day in 1971 when he was smuggled through Checkpoint Charlie in a laundry truck. A job with the U.S. government had already been arranged; hence for over thirty years Jeinsen lived in Washington, D.C., helping to design and develop weapons technology for the Pentagon.

  After flying smoothly through Immigration and Customs with no problems, Jeinsen picked up his one piece of luggage from the baggage claim and made his way outside to catch a taxi. His instructions were clear: go directly to the hotel, check in under the new name, and await further orders.

  It had been an anxious two weeks preparing to leave. He had to make sure he left nothing behind that might implicate him as a government traitor. All traces of communication with Mr. Wong in Hong Kong were to be erased. It was best if Jeinsen seemed to have simply disappeared. The D.C. police would chalk it up to a missing persons case. Because of Jeinsen’s status within the Pentagon, FBI involvement in the search was of course inevitable. But if he had done everything correctly, the authorities would find no trail to follow. Jeinsen had done it once before in East Germany. He was fairly certain he had accomplished the task successfully in D.C.

  The taxi dropped him off in front of the magnificent Mandarin Oriental Hotel on Connaught Road in the Central district of the island. Jeinsen knew it was possibly the most luxurious hotel in the territory, aside from perhaps the Peninsula Hotel in Kowloon. He was pleased that Mr. Wong had seen fit to treat him as a VIP and provide him with such flattering accommodations.

  Yes! Jeinsen thought. The decision to defect to China is already turning out to be the right one!

  The bureaucrats and military bigwigs at the Pentagon never appreciated Jeinsen’s talents. Sure, he was given a top-level security position, had carte blanche in the weapons design programs, and was respected by his peers. It was the moneymen that always gave him short shrift when his colleagues received higher advances. Jeinsen had asked for better raises time and time again. He got raises but they were never what he felt he deserved. Growing up in East Germany, Jeinsen had a delusion that anyone who defected to America could become rich. It had never happened. He had made a modest income, lived comfortably, but was by no means “wealthy.” Jeinsen firmly believed he was a victim of prejudice due to his former nationality. The thirty years in Washington ended up being a huge disappointment.

  When Mr. Wong contacted him through a liaison in a government agency, Jeinsen was ready to consider any offers made to him. Wong promised him a fortune and secure passage to Beijing by way of Hong Kong. All Jeinsen had to do was hand over information concerning a special project he was working on and use a transmittal system that Mr. Wong specified. The process would take three years. Jeinsen didn’t want to wait that long but Wong convinced him to be patient. It would be worth it in the end. Thus, when Jeinsen’s role in the project ended recently and the task was complete, everything happened quickly. Wong made good on his promises, arranged Jeinsen’s travel plans, and quietly got the scientist out of the country.

  Jeinsen approached the front desk and checked in under his new name.

  “Welcome to the Mandarin Oriental, Mr. Lang,” the registration clerk said, handing Jeinsen a key and an envelope. “Oh, someone left this for you this morning.”

  Jeinsen took it. It was a brown envelope addressed to him in care of the hotel. “Thank you,” he said.

  The physicist nearly gasped when he saw the room. It was a full suite with a terrace. He had never before stayed in such lavish surroundings. Even when he had to travel for the Pentagon, they always pinched pennies and put up their employees in midrange hotels. Mr. Wong was truly a generous man.

  Before unpacking, Jeinsen opened the envelope and examined the contents. There was a small silver key with the number 139 engraved on it, a phone number written on a piece of paper, and fifty Hong Kong dollars. Jeinsen picked up the telephone and dialed the number.

  Mr. Wong answered, saying, “Welcome to Hong Kong, Mr., uh, Lang.”

  Jeinsen chuckled. “Hello there. How did you know it was me?”

  “No one else would be calling this number. How was your flight?” Wong spoke good English with a strong Chinese accent.

  “Long. Very long.”

  “Yes. Do you need some time to rest?”

  “No, no, I slept on the plane. I think I’m ready to… well, whatever you need me to do.”

  “Fine. Did you get the key?”

  “Yes. What is it?”

  “It’s to a safety-deposit box in the Bank of China. Do you know where that is?”

  “I can find it.”

  “It’s very close. You could walk there if you want.” Wong relayed directions. “You’ll find further instructions and the rest of your payment in the box. I look forward to meeting you finally.”

  “Er, me too,” Jeinsen said. “Thank you.”

  He put down the phone and rubbed his hands gleefully. Jeinsen felt like a young man again as he unpacked, freshened up, and changed clothes. In a half hour he was ready for the next great adventure in his life.

  Jeinsen left the Mandarin, followed Wong’s directions, and walked south across Chater Road to Statue Square. He was impressed with the collection of fountains in the square but it was too crowded with Asian migrant workers. Apparently a lot of Filipinos and Manilans congregated there, hoping to obtain employment as maids.

  The impressive HSBC bank building stood towering over the square to the south. Jeinsen skirted east beyond the monumental structure and headed southeast on the footpath along Des Voeux Road, past Chater Garden, and finally to the equally impressive Bank of China Tower. The seventy-story building, designed by Chinese-born American architect I. M. Pei, was apparently the third tallest structure in Hong Kong.

  Jeinsen went inside the banking lobby, approached a teller, and showed the woman his key. “I’d like access to my safety-deposit box, please,” he said.

  “May I have some identification?” the young Chinese woman asked. It seemed that everyone Jeinsen saw was Chinese. Most of the British minority that occupied the territory had left after 1997.

  He showed her the new passport. She gave it a cursory glance, handed it back to him, and gave him a form. “Please fill this out and take it to the representative over there.” She pointed. Jeinsen thanked her and moved to a counter. He wrote down his new name and indicated the Mandarin Oriental as his address. When he took it to the uniformed bank employee, the man asked to see the safety-deposit key and then led him through a vault door.

  The rep used a key of his own as Jeinsen twisted his key in the lock for box 139. The rep removed the box and handed it to Jeinsen, pointing to a private room. Jeinsen nodded and went inside. After shutting the door, he opened the box.

  It contained HK $100,000 and a deposit slip indicating that two million more were in a special account with his name on it.

  Jeinsen wanted to shout aloud. His hands trembled with excitement as he stuffed the cash into his pockets.

  At the bottom of the box was a white envelope. He opened it and found another note from Mr. Wong. It instructed him to go immediately to the Purple Queen nightclub in Kowloon. There were instructions on how to take the ferry across the harbor a
nd the address to give to a taxi driver on the other side. He was to leave nothing in the safety-deposit box and place the key and the note in his pocket.

  Jeinsen was walking on clouds when he left the bank. He didn’t bother hailing a cab to take him to the Star Ferry pier. He preferred to walk, admiring the hordes of Asian people sauntering through the streets. For the first time in his life he felt superior. All these workers, these common folk! He was now a wealthy man. He could hire servants and maids. He could be the master for a change! Life was wonderful!

  The ferry shuttled him across Victoria Harbor to Kowloon’s Tsim Sha Tsui district. Jeinsen’s earlier elation changed when he began to walk through Hong Kong’s tourist ghetto. He found Tsim Sha Tsui crowded, energetic, and bright. It was still daylight but already the multitude of neon signs overwhelmed his senses. The streets were full of countless restaurants, pubs, clothing stores, sleazy bars, camera and electronics stores, hotels, and people. Traffic was bumper to bumper and the noise was deafening. Jeinsen suddenly felt his age.