Near Modlin Air Base, Poland
A steady stream of small vans and cars started arriving at the old red brick warehouse shortly after dark on Sunday evening. The routine was the same for each vehicle; the driver stopped and gave the recognition signal to the guard, then the two or three passengers would get out and clear their weapons as other guards escorted them to the side of the warehouse, then another team would search the vehicle to ensure it was not booby-trapped or carried weapons. Finally, the vehicle was waved into the warehouse where it was quickly unloaded. The driver would drive through and load his passengers on the back side before rapidly driving away.
Inside the warehouse, the canvas money bags or suitcases that had been delivered were loaded into three Brink’s-style armored trucks. It was hard to tell who was more nervous, the Polish Mafia delivering the money or the Russian Mafiya receiving it. But the collection point worked well, and soon the last vehicle arrived, a dark gray Mercedes-Benz sedan. It went through the same routine and was waved inside.
The moment the car stopped, a cloud of gas erupted from the trunk, out of the grille, and from underneath. The last thing the driver did was to throw open his door to escape. That only triggered another burst of gas. Within six seconds, everyone in the warehouse, including the driver, was unconscious.
Outside, the guards heard a brief commotion as warnings were shouted. Then all was quiet. Two guards ran for the door to check. But when they opened the door, escaping gas knocked them out. Bright lights clicked on and froze the remaining guards in an illuminated tableau as a bullhorn ordered them to drop their weapons and freeze. One guard fired his AK-47 blindly into the night. A single shot dropped him before he got off four rounds.
Black-uniformed men stepped out of the shadows and secured the area before going inside where the men were starting to regain consciousness. All but one would suffer from a splitting headache and have a bitter taste in his mouth. The exception was dead from an asthmatic reaction to the gas. The commander of SPS drove up in his command Humvee and got out. He spoke briefly to his men before going inside. The prisoners were all gagged, blindfolded, and bound with plastic flex cuffs. He allowed a tight smile as the Mercedes was recharged with gas and the small convoy formed, ready to move.
Near Poznan, Poland
The bunker at Crown Central was unusually busy for a Sunday night. Crown Central was the middle early warning and GCI radar site that formed a chain across the middle of Poland with its sister sites, Crown East and Crown West. Normally, only the radar operator was awake at eleven o’clock and his main problem was to find something to read. But tonight, the entire crew was awake and still in a state of euphoric shock mixed with childlike delight over the new radar system the Americans had finished installing the day before. They never suspected a system like the AN/TPS-59 even existed. The contrast between the U.S.-built radar with its phased-array antenna, built-in antijam circuits, and sophisticated computer system and the old Soviet Barlock radar defied comparison. A vague image of the Wright brothers’ Flyer and a modern jet fighter flitted through the back of the young radar operator’s mind.
The American technician stood over the radar operator’s shoulder as the target they had been waiting for appeared on the scope, 165 miles to the west and still over Germany. “Roll the control ball and place the cursor over the target,” he explained. “Now press down on the ball until you feel the first detent.” The computer analyzed the target and spat out a wealth of digital information, displaying the key numbers on the screen next to the target. The target was an Ilyushin-76. “Good,” the American said. “If you want the system to track the target, press the ball to the second detent.” The Pole did as he said and the system flashed. The target became a green inverted V. “Now you can leave it or tag it up as a bandit—a hostile aircraft.”
“It’s a Vnukova aircraft,” the radar operator explained. “That’s a Russian diplomatic flight. We get two or three a week. They often land at Modlin Air Base near Warsaw when they are going to Europe but never on the return flight.”
“It’s hostile,” a man standing behind the American said. He was dressed in black combat fatigues and armed with an automatic strapped on his hip. Only the small patch on his right shoulder with the lightning bolt Ss flanking the P with its fishhook tail announced he was with Special Public Services.
The American reached over the radar operator and punched at the keyboard. The inverted green V turned red. A warning light flashed and the display went to a backup mode. “I’ll be damned,” the American said, “he’s jamming us. I didn’t know the Ilyushin had a jamming capability.” His hand reached for the antijam circuits on the overhead panel.
The SPS officer grabbed his wrist, stopping him. “This is a special flight. We don’t want to scare them off. I want him to land.”
“But eastbound flights never land,” the radar operator said.
“This one will,” the SPS officer predicted.
Now they had to wait. With each passing minute, the SPS officer looked more worried. Finally, the altitude readout on the target started to decrease. “The Ilyushin is descending,” the radar operator said. “He’s on track for Modlin Air Base.”
A look of triumph flashed on the SPS officer’s face as he reached for the telephone. “Put me through to Jerzy Fedor at the Council of Ministers,” he told the operator. As expected, Fedor could not be reached and the SPS officer left a message. “Please tell Mr. Fedor that we have a Russian aircraft landing at Modlin Air Base without diplomatic clearance.”
Modlin Air Base, Poland
The Ilyushin coming from Europe touched down just before midnight and squealed to a halt, its brakes howling from the heat generated by landing on the short runway. Its rear cargo doors opened and armed men wearing camouflaged uniforms streamed out to secure the area before the plane taxied in. They were not regular military but a special unit recruited from disaffected former members of Spetznaz, Russian special forces. They ran into the surrounding trees and set up a perimeter. Satisfied the area was safe, they radioed the area was secure.
But they should have gone fifty feet deeper into the trees.
The Ilyushin lumbered clear of the runway and moved slowly to the parking ramp where a bank of portable floodlights were switched on, creating an island of light around the Il-76. The aircrew shut down engines as a fuel truck drove up under its wing. The pumper got out of the cab and connected the hose to the single-point refueling valve. Following procedures, the aircrew shut off all power and then got off the aircraft with the remaining guards. The older Ilyushins had a bad habit of not grounding correctly and generating unwanted sparks, which could be very unhealthy during refueling.
The men guarding the perimeter were tired and bored. They had gone through a similar drill at six pickup points in the last fifteen hours without incident. Soon, they removed their night-vision goggles and cigarettes were passed around. They came alert when the convoy approached. Eager to finish, they pulled back to the edge of the trees as a dark gray Mercedes led the three armored trucks up to the Ilyushin. One heard some movement in the trees behind him. He listened for a few moments and then wrongly decided it was an animal disturbed by their presence.
It all happened at once. The pumper disconnected the fuel hose from the aircraft, the men standing around the Mercedes-Benz collapsed to the ground, and the portable floodlights went out. The rear doors of the armored trucks burst open and men wearing gas masks poured out, surrounding the aircraft. A hail of gunfire rained from the trees and cut down the perimeter guards. It was over as quickly as it had begun.
Men dressed in black fatigues emerged from the trees and quickly examined the guards. No mercy was given and twice, a single shot rang out as they finished their work. Without a sound, the men dragged the dead guards into the trees and, except for the pools of blood, no trace was left. Four men emerged from the trees and sprinkled an absorbent material that resembled Kitty Litter on the blood. They swept it into a box and then disappeared into the shad
ows.
Two trucks drove up as the team who had assaulted the aircraft gave the aircrew and remaining guards an injection. They would be unconscious for another two or three hours. More men joined the assault team as they rapidly unloaded the aircraft, passing bag after bag of money down the ramp and throwing it into the trucks. Then came the suitcases and boxes filled with negotiable securities. The two trucks drove away and a cargo loader drove up. Off-loading the gold was another matter. Two pallets of gold bullion rolled out the back of the Ilyushin and the cargo loader groaned under the weight. The aircraft seemed to ride higher on its landing gear.
The cargo loader drove slowly away as two more trucks approached. But this time, they carried a grisly cargo for loading. The bodies of the perimeter guards were carried one by one onto the cargo deck and carefully arranged with their weapons and equipment. Then the aircrew and guards who were still unconscious were loaded into the trucks and driven to safety.
The commander of SPS drove up in his Humvee. He got out and inspected the area, obviously very pleased with the operation. He checked his watch. They were ahead of schedule. He gave an order and thermite charges were placed in the Ilyushin. The last went into the single-point refueling valve. Radio-controlled igniters were inserted and the men moved away. The commander gave the order and the thermite charges were sequentially detonated. A small explosion flashed and the right wing of the aircraft crumpled to the ground, severed at the wing root. A series of explosions tore at the aircraft as flames engulfed the fuselage. Soon, it was a roaring inferno sending a beacon of flame and smoke high into the night sky.
“Sparks during refueling,” the commander said. “The politicians in Warsaw will understand.”
The blue-and-white helicopter circled the still smoldering wreckage before landing. Little was recognizable of the Ilyushin other than black scorch marks that roughly outlined the airframe. Jerzy Fedor got off the helicopter. His normally lean and ravaged face was even more cadaverous as he spoke to the cluster of officers and firemen waiting for his arrival.
“The survivors are all requesting political asylum,” the base commander told him.
“Why?” one of Fedor’s assistants asked.
Fedor snorted. “Consider who we’re dealing with. If you were a Russian who survived this, would you want to go home?”
“But it was a refueling accident.”
“A very convenient accident, yes?” Fedor climbed back into his helicopter and took off. But instead of returning to Warsaw, it headed for an old country manor house that had served as a resort for the Communist elite and their families during the heyday of Soviet rule. Now, it was a dilapidated eyesore. The helicopter landed in the paddock beside the stables and Fedor climbed out and walked quickly inside where the commander of SPS greeted him.
“Why wasn’t I told of this?” Fedor demanded.
“I thought you were,” the commander replied. “Perhaps you should speak to President Lezno.”
“I will.”
The commander led Fedor into the stables. Fedor froze, struck dumb by the sight. “How much is here?” he asked.
“We haven’t even tried to count it.”
Fedor’s face became alive and animated. “My God! What do we do with this much money?”
Moscow
A very worried group of men clustered around Geraldine Blake on the main floor of the Action Room in Vashin Towers. “I think you should wake him and tell him now,” one of the men counseled. She hesitated, not sure what to do.
“Treat it as a state crisis,” another offered.
“Do you know what was on that airplane?” she asked. No answer. “Thank God it was an accident.”
“Mikhail Vashin does not believe in accidents,” a third voice said. From his tone, he was dismally contemplating his longevity.
“Who planned the shipment?” the first voice asked. They needed a scapegoat. Head shakes all around.
“Did the American have anything to do with it?” This from the third speaker.
“Not that I know of,” Geraldine answered. “But one hand never knows what the other is doing here.” She thought for a few moments. “I’ll wake him.” She walked quickly off the floor and returned to her office where she placed a call to Le Coq d’Or and ordered Naina and Liya to come immediately to the penthouse suite. The manager said they were with clients and it would take an hour. “I want them here in thirty minutes,” she said, banging down the phone. Then she called Vashin’s doctor and told him to come over. Finally, she called Tom Johnson, just in case.
The girls arrived last and Geraldine gave them all final instructions. Then she went to the rest room off her office and undressed. She combed out her hair, slipped on a silk dressing gown, and stepped into high-heeled slippers. She took one last look in the mirror and walked to Vashin’s bedroom. Tom Johnson was with the guard on duty and gave Geraldine a nod as she went in. A blue light glowed from one corner casting a soft light over the room as she approached the huge bed. She nudged the girl sleeping beside Vashin and motioned her to leave. Then she dropped her robe and sat on the side of the bed. She reached over and stroked Vashin’s penis until it was hard. He groaned in his sleep. Slowly, he came awake.
“Mikhail,” she whispered.
“Yes.” He was awake. She continued to stroke him.
“There’s bad news.” She felt him grow even more rigid. “There’s been an aircraft accident.”
“Is it the money?”
“I’m afraid so.” She bent over and took him in her mouth.
“What happened?” His voice was amazingly calm and she wished she could see his face.
She raised her head. “There was a fire on the ground.” His hand grabbed her hair and jammed her back onto him. She used her teeth and tongue until he came.
“Are you sure it was an accident?”
“We’re not positive. The details are still coming in.”
He pushed her away. “Get Yaponets.”
Vashin was dressed and drinking tea when the senior godfather of the vor arrived. “Did they tell you?” Vashin asked. Yaponets nodded. He was still groggy from lack of sleep. “What do you think?” Vashin demanded.
“There are no accidents.”
“Who is responsible?”
“My guess? Since it happened in Poland, the SPS. My sources say they are led by the devil himself.”
Vashin grunted. “They are only an arm. Who made the decision?”
“There’s only one head.”
“I want it cut off.”
Yaponets considered his answer. “I made many contacts in prison.”
“Do it quickly.”
“It will be difficult. I’ll do what I can.” Yaponets stood and paced the room. “You have a leak.”
“That’s why we are speaking alone.” He waited. “Now we need a diversion.”
“One of your spells?”
“Give me a few minutes then call them in. This will be a bad one. Make sure there are no sedatives.”
The White House
“Seventeen days and counting,” Patrick Shaw said, claiming the undivided attention of the six people who made up Maddy Turner’s reelection committee. They were gathered in her private study off the Oval Office. “After the president declares, the bastards will be in high gear and going for the jugular. Count on ’em hitting us with legal action to tie us up in knots in the courts and wasting money hiring lawyers.”
The hungry look on his face reminded them of a great white shark contemplating its next meal. “Lawyers and the courts are the weapons of choice these days. It’s the new checks and balances for the politically incontinent. Well,” he drawled, “I don’t mind playing that game one little bit. So we’re gonna set them up.”
Turner shook her head stopping him in full flow. “We’re not going to run that type of campaign,” she said, her words quiet but firm.
Shaw dropped his Southern accent. “Madame President, think of a vaccination against a disease. If the disease
stays away, no harm is done. But if the disease hits, our defenses are ready. The ball’s in their court and they can do whatever they want with it. But if they take the bait, we’ll play them like hooked flounders. They’ll come down with the worst case of political herpes on record.”
“Political herpes?”
Shaw gave a wicked laugh. “Yep. You get it from screwing around where you shouldn’t and then when you think you’re over it, it comes back.”
Turner laughed. “You’re mixing your metaphors.” Her voice turned hard as granite. “I repeat, we will not play those kinds of games.”
The meeting was over and the committee left murmuring about their latest instructions. Shaw held back for a moment. “Madame President, are we set in concrete on this one?”
“We are, Patrick.” He shook his head as he left. Mazie came in. Since no sitting president is seldom alone with one staff member, Richard Parrish sat in a far corner. “I wanted to speak to you in private,” Turner said. Mazie arched an eyebrow but said nothing. “What’s the story behind the item in the PDB about the Poles capturing a major shipment of drug money last night?”
“It’s a success story, Madame President. We provided the Poles the intelligence they needed and they acted on it.”
“Who acted on it?”
“An internal security organization called Special Public Services. You might call it the focus group for our security-aid package.”
Turner drummed her fingers on her desk. “Richard.”
Parrish cleared his throat. “Senator Leland called about it this morning.” Because Leland was the chairman of the Select Committee on Intelligence, he was the only senator who saw the “President’s Daily Brief.” “He’s concerned that we’re supporting a fascist organization in Poland.”
“The SPS a fascist organization?” Mazie said. “He needs another visit to the Betty Ford Clinic.”
“We are going to have to respond,” Parrish said.
Mazie thought for a moment. “I’ll brief him this afternoon. The national security advisor going to his office should stroke his ego.”
Edge of Honor Page 24
