“Where the hell are they, anyway?”
“At a commercial dock in St. Petersburg, Vasiliev Island. They’ve been detained by MVD guards at a customs checkpoint-”
“I thought you said they were safe?”
“Comparatively speaking. Mercutio is moving in now to get them through to the safe house.”
“Safe house?”
“A cruise ship tied up at the dock. Lia and her partner are posing as tourists. They’re close enough to the ship now that we’re getting their personal com transceiver signals boosted through from a satellite dish on the ship.” He shook his head and sighed. “It was a close one tonight, Charlie.”
Tonight. Dean smiled at that. It was, in fact, just past five in the afternoon. Rubens was so attuned to the mission in St. Petersburg right now that he was thinking in terms of it being past one in the morning.
“So why did they decide to use a Raptor?”
“My call,” Rubens told him. “We’ve been having real problems with communications in high latitudes lately. Sunspots. A live pilot gave us better flexibility.”
Dean nodded. It was as he’d suspected. Desk Three often used unmanned drones like the F- 47C to relay radio communications and datanet streams from operations on the ground, but sometimes you needed the human element.
“Do we have an ID on the opposition?”
Rubens gave him a sour look. “Hardly. Lia and her partner weren’t exactly in a position where they could stop and take pictures. Best guess at the moment is that they’re Russian mafia.”
“Oh, joy.”
Dean’s first op with Desk Three had been in Siberia-that had been where he’d first met both Lia and Tommy-so he knew a little about the Russian mob. Any intelligence agent inserting into modern Russia had to know at least a little about the Organization, if only because he was going to find himself working with them, one way or another.
“Tambov group?” he asked. The Tambovs were the largest and arguably the most dangerous of the Russian Mafia groups in St. Petersburg.
“You’re going to tell us.”
“Oh?”
“I’m sending you to St. Petersburg, Charlie. I want to know who set us up… and what they were after.”
“When do I leave?”
“ASAP. Briefing tomorrow morning, oh-nine hundred hours, Green Room. You’ll get your legend then. We’ll have a commercial flight booked for you by tomorrow afternoon.”
“Then I guess I’d better pack.” He looked up at the large display. “Cruise ship, huh? Sounds great. I know Lia could use a vacation.”
“She won’t be there for long.”
“Oh? Why not?”
“Because the Russian Mafia tried to take her down tonight, Charlie. She managed to get away, but the opposition is tough… tough, capable, and determined.” He turned a cold gaze on Dean. “I want to know exactly what the hell’s going on over there. And I want our people safe and out of there. You hear me?”
“I hear you.”
“Good.”
Dean listened to the concern in Rubens’ voice. The old man didn’t usually show his worry, not this clearly, at any rate.
Dean wondered just what it was he was about to get himself into.
Operation Magpie Waterfront, St. Petersburg 0101 hours
Akulinin considered his options-which weren’t many and weren’t good. Every sector of life in modern Russia was dominated by corruption, from ordinary citizens on the street to the highest ranks of government and industry. These two customs guards, almost certainly, were engaged in a bit of opportunism-shaking down a couple of rich American tourists who happened to be alone on the waterfront in the middle of the night.
It was just possible that something more was going on here, that the guards were part of the ambush back at the warehouse and that Akulinin and Lia were about to be turned over to the mafia. That didn’t feel like the answer, though. These two, he was certain, were just looking for a little graft.
But why did they want to take the Americans someplace else?
They couldn’t afford to be taken out of sight. If these guys weren’t in with the mafia, they might be soon, once the word went out on the street that the two Americans had escaped. It could be a pretext to rob the two of them. Or…
He glanced at Lia. She was a most attractive woman… These two bastards might have something else in mind besides money.
The watch phrase for all intelligence agents was “lowkey.” You never called attention to yourself, and kept a carefully tailored and very low profile. Still, there were times when it paid to be as loud and as obnoxious as possible.
He folded his arms belligerently. “I’m not goin’anywhere, fella!” he bellowed, his voice echoing from the walls of nearby buildings. “I know my rights! I am a citizen of the United States of America, and you can’t tell me where to go or what to do!”
Startled, both MVD guards took an awkward step back. Akulinin stepped forward, crowding them, jabbing an angry forefinger at them both. Their English probably wasn’t up to deciphering more than a word in three, but it was clear that Akulinin’s emotion needed no translation.
“What kind of country are you running here, anyway? I demand to see the American consul! I demand to see your commanding officer! I demand-”
Psychologically, the tables had turned. The guards still had the assault rifles, but the large American, screaming into their faces, had the advantage.
“There you are, my friend!” a second booming voice called across the pier from the St. Pete 2’s gangway. “What has been keeping you, eh?”
James Llewellyn strode toward the customs checkpoint, an impressive figure in a heavy trench coat and a goatee that Lenin himself would have been proud of. Llewellyn was in his sixties, with a deeply lined and weathered face, but he moved with surprising strength and self-assurance. One of the MVD guards turned, raising his weapon, apparently grateful for the interruption, and barked, “Stoy!”
Llewellyn, Akulinin knew, was Welsh-normally he worked for the National Security Agency at the Menwith Station in Yorkshire-but his Russian was excellent. More, his understanding of Russian psychology was excellent.
“Nyeh kulturnii!” he snapped at the guard in Russian. “Do you know who I am?”
He waved an open wallet at them, presumably flashing an ID. Both MVD guards came sharply to attention.
For the next five minutes, Llewellyn reamed both guards a variety of new bodily orifices. In his role as an American tourist, Akulinin had to pretend he didn’t understand a word, but he listened with genuine admiration as Llewellyn-code name Mercutio-discussed in vivid detail the guards’ mysterious parentage, lack of breeding, improper upbringing, nonexistent education, subhuman intelligence, and utter lack of culture, never once repeating himself and never once actually telling the two just exactly who he was supposed to be. The Russian syllables, thick as glue, flowed from his lips in an uninterrupted and uninterruptible torrent.
“These are my friends!” he said at last, gesturing at Lia and Akulinin. “My very special friends! They are coming with me! Vih panimayiti?”
“Da, grahjdaneen!” both guards stammered. “Panimayu!”
“Get your papers,” Llewellyn said in English, still glaring at the two guards as if he could nail them in place by sheer force of personality. “Start for the ship.”
Lia snatched up passports and ID, then touched Akulinin’s shoulder. “Move it!” she said, her voice a harsh whisper. Together, they walked past the checkpoint, past the pier facility with its shabby hotel and gift shop, and onto the wharf. As they walked up the pier toward the gangway, Akulinin felt an intolerable itch building between his shoulder blades; if the guards decided to start shooting…
Llewellyn remained to have a few more choice words with the MVD guards. When Akulinin glanced back, he saw a sheaf of Russian currency changing hands as Llewellyn paid their “tax.” He then turned and strode after them, his trench coat billowing after him like a cape.
Once on board the ship, Akulinin allowed himself to begin to relax. “Was that a shakedown?” he asked Lia. “A simple extortion? Or something more?”
“I don’t know,” Lia said. She looked at Llewellyn as he joined them. “How about it, Lew? Was that random, or were they after us?”
“Hard to tell,” Llewellyn replied. “Probably random…”
“But you never can tell in this game,” Lia said, completing the thought. “Thanks for coming to our rescue.”
Llewellyn grinned at them. “The new kid here was doing pretty well on his own. You did exactly right, son. The Russkies respect authority. Step on their toes until they apologize. If you throw your weight around, chances are they’ll cave.”
“Yeah,” Lia said. “Either they cave or they’ll shoot you.” She seemed to sag a bit. “Where are our staterooms?”
“I’ll show you. But… don’t get too comfortable. The word from the Art Room is you’ll be on the move again soon.”
Akulinin leaned against the ship’s railing and studied the vista ashore. A more depressing location for a cruise ship dock would be difficult to imagine. The facility was brightly lit, but hemmed in by ancient apartment buildings, close huddled and clotted with shadows, and industrial complexes, rusted, decrepit, and cloaked in night.
In the parking lot, two men approached the rental car Akulinin had acquired that afternoon-part of Mercutio’s cleanup team. They would drive the vehicle someplace safe and get rid of the incriminating evidence-weapons and clothing-hidden inside.
He looked to the right, toward the southeast. The warehouse district they’d just escaped from lay just beyond the port’s security fence.
“Can I help with the post-op cleanup?” Akulinin asked. He was still thinking about the equipment he’d left behind. Stupid, stupid, stupid…
“We’ll take care of it,” Llewellyn told him. “I need to take you two down to the communications center. They need some data back at the Puzzle Palace.”
“Does it have to be tonight, Lew?” Lia said. “I’m dead on my feet.”
“Tonight, Lia. There’ll be time for rest later.” He turned and led them toward a companionway ladder descending into the ship.
Ghost Blue Approaching Waypoint Tango Bravo 0119 hours
Major Delallo stuffed his nose down and raced toward the surface of the sea. He only had one engine, but he had it wide open and was using gravity all he dared. Down he went into the gloomy night, trying to get against the surface of the sea, where he would find some measure of safety from his pursuers. He just might make it. He allowed himself that much hope, at any rate.
A worrisome thump began sounding from somewhere aft, causing the aircraft to shudder and buck. He’d been supersonic when he took the missile. Now, as the thumping became louder and the instrument panel jiggled and danced, he automatically retared the throttle and let his speed bleed off as he tried to assess the damage to his mount. The missile’s detonation had peppered the Raptor with shrapnel, knocked out one engine, and played merry hell with his avionics. The slipstream might be peeling back a piece of the aircraft’s fuselage, and that might make for a bright, easy target on hostile radars.
He loved the Raptor, an astonishing piece of advanced aircraft engineering. Its one weakness, though, was a variation on the Murphy Effect. When things went wrong with the aircraft, everything went wrong, and in the worst possible way.
In February of 2007, Delallo had been one of six pilots ferrying a flight of F-22s from Hickam Air Force Base to Kadena, Okinawa. The moment they’d crossed the international date line at the 180th meridian, the computers on all six aircraft had crashed, taking out all navigational systems and most communications. It had been good weather and broad daylight, thank God, and the flight had managed to form up on their tankers and make it back to Hawaii. Forty-eight hours later, the problem had been fixed and the flight had continued, but the incident had been a nasty reminder of how complicated these systems were. The F-22’s software ran to something like 1.7 million lines of code, most of it concerned with data processing for the incoming signals from the aircraft’s sophisticated radar systems.
Right now, he was getting squat from the radar-both the AN/ALR-94 passive receivers and the AN/APG-77 AESA, or Active Electronically Scanned Array. His navigational systems had crashed as well, leaving him as in the dark as he’d been that afternoon over the central Pacific.
The one electronic system that appeared to be working was his SAS, or Signature Assessment System, which threw up warning indicators when wear and tear on the aircraft had degraded its low radar signature to something the enemy could detect. Of course, the warning indicators might themselves be a glitch in his failing electronics… but he didn’t want to count on that. Something was thumping hard against the side of the aircraft aft, like the monotonous beat of a flat tire on pavement.
The aircraft shuddered, the thump growing savagely more severe. The aircraft was completely fly-by-wire, with three flight-data computers that actually flew the aircraft. All his stick and rudder controls did was make inputs to the computers. They were doing all right just now, but if the structural damage exceeded the computers’ ability to cope, or the control throw available, he was going to tumble out of the night sky.
He was down to four thousand feet now and still descending. Where were those MiGs? His gadgets were silent-which probably meant they were damaged-although it might mean the Russian jocks had headed home for the night.
Delallo searched the darkness behind him as he keyed his radio. “Haunted House, Haunted House, Ghost Blue,” he called.
No response. If a data stream was still going out, it wasn’t registering on his almost nonexistent instrumentation.
Well, at least he was going in the right direction, west. Waypoint Tango Bravo was inside Finnish waters, a few miles south of Kotko. A support vessel was there. If necessary, he could bail out and hope for a pickup.
That, however, was an option he didn’t want to have to use. Those black waters, patchy with streamers of fog, were frigid even in late spring. Not even his flight suit would keep him alive for long, and with his navigation systems out, finding the support vessel would require outrageous luck.
Still looking aft, he saw a flash high and behind him, at four o’clock.
The northern sky flamed and shimmered with the cold glow of aurora. His eyes searched the deep twilight… Now he saw it, a streak of fire in the night.
A missile contrail, a thin white thread arcing around to intercept him.
Oh, shit! There was no way his crippled Raptor could manage the maneuvers necessary to evade an incoming air-to-air missile.
He grabbed the lanyard for his ejection seat and yanked up hard…
St. Petersburg 2 Waterfront, St. Petersburg 0230 hours
Lia was exhausted. She’d been at it for an hour and a half, with no results yet. She was ready to pack it in.
“Anything, Lia?” Rubens’ voice said in her ear.
She leaned back in her chair and looked around the stateroom, a fairly luxurious suite booked under the name Stevens but occupied by Llewellyn. It was the “communications center” only by virtue of the laptop computer set up on a desk in the corner.
A cable ran from the back of the laptop to a suitcasesized unit beside the desk, the hardware necessary to link Lia’s computer to a satellite dish above the cruise ship’s bridge. A black-box encryption device guaranteed her that her connection to the NSA computer center back at Fort Meade was secure.
The laptop was open. Prominently displayed on the flat 19-inch screen were front and profile views of a bearded, rumpled-looking man with watery eyes. He might have been a thief… or, just possibly, an unshaven accountant. A third photo showed a candid surveillance shot of the same person, taken in a crowd on a city street.
No.
“Nothing so far,” she said. She was alone in the room. Llewellyn was off somewhere with his cleanup team, while Akulinin had gone to his stateroom to get showered and shaved.
/>
She pressed the enter key, and another face came up on the screen. A big man with an ugly scowl.
No.
Enter.
“I’m not sure we’re going to find him this way,” she told Rubens. “How many mug shots of Russian Mafiya big shots do you have, anyway?”
“About a thousand,” Rubens told her.
Another face, small, thin, and mean. He looked like a school bully Lia once had flattened on the playground.
No.
Enter.
She’d been through about half of the database already, focusing on those members of the Russian crime syndicates known to be operating in and around St. Petersburg.
No.
Enter.
“This is getting us absolutely nowhere,” she said.
“It’s important that you look through these pictures while impressions are still fresh in your head,” Rubens told her.
No.
Enter.
With a start, she recognized the next face-the man with bad teeth she’d seen in the warehouse.
5
Airport Hilton Heathrow Airport, London 0815 hours GMT
THE POUNDING ON THE DOOR woke him.
Tommy Karr was on his feet next to the bed before he was fully awake. It took a moment for him to remember where he was. London. He was in London. The pretty flight attendant had agreed to have dinner with him, and they’d spent a pleasant evening chatting over espressos in a coffee shop. What was her name? Julie. Yeah, Julie… something.
“Hey, Karr!” a voice called from the hallway. The pounding sounded again. “We’ve got to get moving!”
He went to the door and peered through the spy hole. It was Payne, one of the FBI agents, blue suit, sunglasses, ear wire, and all. Karr opened the door partway. “Yeah?”
“Get dressed, lover boy. We’re rolling in ten.”
“Be right there.”
Minutes later, shrugging into his sport coat, Karr walked through the hotel lobby at Dr. Spencer’s side. Agents Payne and Delgado were with them. Agent Rogers was bringing the rental car around to the parking garage pickup.
Arctic Gold Page 6
