David Stone

by Micah Dalton 04 - The Skorpion Directive (v5)

  around.” “What does the other little flag mean?” She tapped a small rectangle in the upper left-hand corner of the card. “Looks like some sort of symbol. Maybe a clenched fist?”

  “It’s on all their IDs—at least, the three bodies I searched. The Skorpion banner and this thing. I’ve seen it before. Galan had it on the computer at his flat. He said he was finding it on some KLA websites. He mentioned it in his note to me. He thought it was some sort of unit crest for the Skorpions.” “It means something

  to them if they’re putting it on their military ID cards.” “I’m a little worried about how far ahead of us these guys are. They were waiting for us, had an ambush all laid out.” “You had to expect that.” “I expected them to make a move in Kerch. Not here in the middle of the damned peninsula.” “Even without Galan’s attempt to reach Irina Kuldic, which is why they killed him, the Russians—” “Kirikoff.” “Kirikoff. Yes, he had to know that once you found out about the Russians taking Levka and the Subito

  you’d come to Kerch anyway just to find out why. He’d got a snootful of your style last winter in Istanbul. He would expect

  you to come back at him, which, by the way, is exactly what you are

  doing, isn’t it?” “Yes. I know. Predictable as hell.” “I think someone in Sevastopol was put there to watch for you. You’re quite memorable. If Kirikoff knew you were in Sevastopol, very likely headed for Kerch, it would make sense to set a trap for you out on a lonely road somewhere. What he didn’t

  count on was you killing three of his men and chasing the fourth into the wild blue yonder with his arse shot full of buckshot. But he knew you’d be coming. It’s your idiom, isn’t it, dear boy?” “Seems to be,” he said, rubbing his cheeks with both hands and sighing. “But what else can I do? I’m all out of pixie dust. And God’s not returning my calls.” “Mine neither,” said Mandy with a smile. “But Satan keeps in touch.” “He would, wouldn’t he?” said Dalton. “Since he’s a relative. I keep thinking about the Kamov. Not very many of them around in the Crimea. Too expensive for this area. Can’t be more than ten in the whole peninsula, and most of those would be down around the resort areas. Yalta, Sevastopol, Balaklava, Jasper Beach.” “So why keep one around here? In the middle of nowhere? Is that what you’re thinking?” “Yes. You’d have to have a damned good reason. It’s not just the machine itself. Choppers need a lot of maintenance, as much as three hours for every hour of flying time. The operational range for a Kamov Two-Six is about three hundred miles. That’s one-fifty out and one-fifty back home again, unless they have a FARP—” “Micah, did we not agree on a no-acronyms policy?” “Sorry. A forward area refueling post. Someplace at the other end where they could count on getting fuel. As we’ve seen, fuel is an issue around here. There’d have to be some sort of central support base, a supply depot, spare-parts warehouse, technicians to do the work, a hangar to keep it out of the weather.” They rounded a turn, and a few outbuildings started to appear in the prairie grass. “Welcome to Staryi Krim,” Mandy said, shaking her head. “Christ, what a hole.” And it was, at least on the outskirts. As they rolled at high speed through the town—a bullet-pocked Lancer draws attention—they passed block after block of squat stucco-walled housing roofed in corrugated-tin sheets, with shabby wooden outhouses scattered about, packs of stray dogs and feral cats prowling through threadbare yards fenced in rusted chain link. There were very few people out: a few peasant farmers pushing carts full of cordwood, more two-wheeled, rubber-tired carts pulled by undernourished oxen, here and there a run-down market stand, a vodka bar, sodden drunks littering the steps out front. Things improved slightly when they got into the old part of the town, where the main street was lined with neoclassical buildings, white marble or painted to look like it, Doric and Corinthian columns holding up Greek temples, and, at the top of the stony street, a large drum-shaped church. The area around the church was packed with locals waving colored banners. A balalaika quartet on a podium was playing something polka-ish, damsels in dirndls were flashing their petticoats, huddled villagers were clapping in time. It was a street party or celebration of some kind, which they dodged by taking a back lane and skirting the town center. Soon they were into the slums again. More butt-ugly Stalinist housing and lots of Stone Age plumbing. Then Staryi Krim petered out like a drunkard’s tale of woe, and they were back in the high-desert prairie again. As they cleared a steep pass, the Crimean Peninsula opened up in front of them, and they saw in the hazy distance a cluster of office towers and apartment blocks beside an arc of glittering blue, the Black Sea port of Feodosiya, about twenty klicks away. On their extreme right, far away to the southwest, there was a jagged line of snowcapped peaks on the horizon, the Crimean Mountains. “We’re up pretty high now, aren’t we?” asked Mandy. Dalton gave her a sideways look. “Yes, Mandy. We certainly are up pretty high.” “Sarcasm,” she said, “is the last defense of the witless. What I meant was, I’ll bet we can use the BlackBerry.” “I can’t. I can’t turn mine on. And I haven’t had a chance to pick up a black cell anywhere. Why?” “I have mine,” she said, turning it on. “And I’m pretty sure nobody has my SIM card cloned. Look,” she said, flipping the device faceup. “There’s even a good signal.” “Is your GPS off ?” “Really, Micah,” she said with a tone. “I was thinking about what you said, about the Kamov Two-Six needing a service base?” “Yes? What have you got in mind?” “Poppy’s man in the Ukraine, Earl Ford? He has aerial photos of the entire peninsula. They take them to identify geological formations that might have coal, iron ore, bauxite seams in them. What if I call him and ask him to send us whatever photos he might have of this area? What was the operating distance of the Kamov?” “A normal one, I’d say three hundred miles. The one we tangled with was armored, so that would bring it down to, let’s say, two hundred miles. There and back again, if we assume no refueling depots on the perimeter, so they have to go back to home base before they run out of gas. That would still mean a radius of one hundred miles. Basically, if we’re using here as the center, that’s the entire Crimean, from Sevastopol to beyond Kerch.” “Worth a try, no?” “Not really. Not without some way of narrowing the limits.” “Then narrow them, Micah. What else would isolate this particular chopper? You said it had armor. Anything else?” Dalton gave it some thought. “Markings. I didn’t see any. No registration numbers. No corporate logo. Unmarked choppers would draw some attention, even here in the outback. The Ukraine’s not some Third World backwater like Toronto. They have a very good civil-aviation authority. Just like everywhere else, each airframe has to carry a registration number. Sooner or later, someone would report an unmarked chopper.” “Maybe someone already has?” That stopped him. “This Ford guy, he got clearance for Poppy’s Lear to land without the usual red tape, right? That means he has friends in the local government. Do you think he’d be willing to ask around, see if anyone knows anything about an unmarked brown Kamov Two-Six operating in the Staryi Krim region?” “Yes. He would. That’s

  worth a try, at least.” Mandy picked up the phone, tapped in a few numbers. Dalton watched the road unwind, bringing them down toward the sea again. Mandy got the receptionist, identified herself, and asked to speak to Big Bear. In a moment she was put through. “Earl . . . Yes, everything’s fine, sweetheart . . . No, really, just fine . . . Pardon? On the road near Staryi Krim . . . Yes, yes, it is

  a beastly little piss pot . . . Now, the thing is, Earl, I was wondering if you could do us a simply massive favor?” She laid it out for him, described the Kamov in detail—dun brown, no markings at all, cargo box not fitted—leaving out the fresh bullet scars on the cockpit belly. She got a few clarifying questions, which she answered, and ended the call with, “Thanks, Big Bear. Do love you!” She turned to Dalton, her face bright and happy. “Finally I get to feel like something other than cargo.” “He’ll do it?” “Yes. He has a man at Simferopol Airport who has access to official records, incident reports, flight-path filings, airframe registrations
. Earl says this man knows most of the Kamovs in the Crimean. He’s going to call him and see what he can get.” “How long?” “Minutes, he said. Hello, what is this?” Her voice trailed off, and her face took on a look of puzzled concentration. She studied the screen for a time. “Okay, this is interesting. I have the news feed for the BBC. It seems our old friend Ray Fyke has made the news.” “Ray? What the hell has Ray done now?” “Apparently, he’s gone to war with the Mossad.” “The Mossad? Show me.” “Pull over and read it,” she said, handing Dalton the BlackBerry. He found a turnout near a bridge, pulled in, and parked. BRIT SAILOR CLASHES WITH ISRAELI SECURITY TEAM IN TEL AVIV: REUTERS: What was initially reported as fight in a beachside bar in Tel Aviv has taken on international significance after it was leaked that the three Israeli men who were injured in the incident were actually members of the Mossad, Israel’s counterpart to the CIA. The confrontation, which took place at Joko’s Beach Bar on Tel Aviv Boulevard yesterday evening, began when a British citizen, later identified as BRENDAN FITCH, got into a loud disagreement with three unidentified males, two of whom then brandished firearms. Fitch proceeded to overpower and disarm all three men. According to witnesses, Mr. Fitch, slightly injured in the affray, then left the bar in the company of a young woman and disappeared into the suburbs of Tel Aviv. So far, no arrests have been made. The information that the three men were Mossad agents developed when an ER technician at Tel Aviv General Hospital, where the three men were taken after the assault, leaked the identity of the men to a local news reporter following the incident. FITCH is described as being forty-one years old, about six feet two, weight two hundred and twenty pounds, with green eyes, a black, full-face beard cut short, and very muscular. The fact that FITCH was able to overcome and disarm three Mossad field agents seems to indicate some degree of military or martial-arts experience. The owner of Joko’s Beach Bar, Mr. Joachim Levon, who was also injured in the fight, has refused to comment on the incident, as has the Israeli government. The search for Fitch and his female companion, tentatively identified as BEATRICE GANDOLFO, a U.S. citizen, continues. “What the—” “My sentiments exactly,” said Mandy, taking her BlackBerry back and hitting STORE to save the report. “By the way, does anybody outside hack journalism still use words like brandished

  and affray

  ? I trust you brandished your hand cannon during the affray back there? Never mind. Merely rhetorical. What do you think this means? I mean, it cannot

  be a coincidence that you draw the wrath—totally unwarranted, I know—of the Mossad and shortly thereafter an old friend of yours shows up in Tel Aviv, the headquarters of the Mossad, where he proceeds to dismantle three of them and then saunters off into the night, can it?” “Not with Joko Levon involved. I know the man. He’s an old Mossad katsa

  , an intelligence operator. Fyke and I had some dealings with him when we were running the Birdman operation in Pristina. Fyke had a pretty good rapport with Joko; they both knew how to put away the Jim Beam. I can see him going to Tel Aviv if he wanted to make a back-channel contact with the Mossad.” “I think we can say with some degree of confidence that if this was Ray’s intent, Fortune has not smiled upon his efforts. What I do wonder about is, how the hell would he know anything about your situation? I thought Cather booted him out the servant’s entrance last year.” “No idea. Last I heard of him, he was back in the South China Sea—” “Looking for Chong Kew Sak, as I recall? I haven’t heard any more since I’ve been on my sabbatical.” Dalton smiled at her. “He found him. In a village upriver from Port Moresby.” Mandy smiled back. Last year, Chong Kew Sak had done his very best to throw Mandy into Changi Prison in Singapore and keep her there for his personal amusement. “I’ve always liked Ray. In theory. Any idea what he’s up to?” “I think we can assume that somebody inside Langley—” “Maybe Sally Fordyce? She’s always had a soft spot for footpads and scoundrels. She’s very fond of you

  , I know.” “They’ve got Sally in lockdown. I asked her to look into the Vienna thing. She did, got out one e-mail to me—a warning—and then went dark. No. Somebody told Ray, but not Sally.” “Would your shiny new boss . . . What’s his name? Something about dirt? Mud? Gravel? Pottery?” “Clay,” said Dalton, grinning at Mandy, who knew perfectly well who had replaced Deacon Cather as DD of Clandestine. “Clay Pearson. And, no, I think not. Now that Mariah Vale’s got her fangs into my ankle, I’m more likely to get a French kiss from Nancy Pelosi than the time of day from him.” Mandy, shuddering, was about to say something withering when her BlackBerry kicked in with the first few bars of Mozart’s Dies Irae

  . Mandy picked it up, saying to Dalton as she did so, “I know. Day of Wrath. I downloaded it last year when Poppy was always calling me up to scream about George Bush. Hello, Big Bear. That was quick . . . yes? Terrific . . . Hold on . . .” She waved her free hand at Dalton, making a handwriting gesture. Dalton got a pen and the rental receipt for the Lancer. “Okay . . . Yes, four-five degrees zero minutes two-point-eight-zero seconds north . . . Three-five degrees three minutes four-five-point-eight-five seconds east . . . Can you send me the JPEG? Right below the mountain . . . Three kilometers southwest . . . One road in . . . Take the last lane on the west end of town, turn south . . . Okay . . . No, I promise. We’re just following up on a friend . . . Really, Big Bear . . . No risk at all. Anyway, I’m with a terribly competent fellow—” She looked over at Dalton, saying, “Big Bear says to tell you anything happens to me and he’ll—” “Well, I’m not going to tell him that

  , sweetie. I’ll just tell him you’re worried, shall I? . . . Yes, I promise . . . Thanks so much! Bye, babe!” She clicked off, turned to Dalton. “I think we’re going back to Staryi Krim.”

  THEY

  could see the upper levels of the compound from the outskirts of the village. It was sitting in a hollow below the tallest hill for miles around, a collection of white-painted outbuildings and one central structure, also white, with a long, peaked roof and a turret at the western side capped with red shingles. It was only about two klicks away, as the crows flew, but for the Lancer it meant negotiating a long, curving track, little more than a gravel road, all the way around a lower slope and then working back along a narrow road running beside a little river and on into the hollow itself, some of it in plain sight of who or whatever was in that compound. “Not an easy place to creep up on,” said Dalton. “Let’s see the JPEG again.” Mandy handed him her BlackBerry with the aerial photo of the compound taken by Earl Ford’s consulting company. In the shot, according to the digital readout taken from five hundred feet, they could see the layout: the scattered outbuildings, the main structure, large and rectangular with a sharply peaked metal roof, a series of low tin-roofed sheds in a long row behind the main structure, and, on a cleared and paved area beside the structure, a landing pad, and, in the middle of the pad, the Kamov in its plain brown wrapper. A few yards away, parked next to one of the outbuildings, was a large light brown flatbed truck and what looked like a long black sedan, almost a limousine, boxy, blunt-ended, shining like a polished stone in the lemon-colored winter light. The time stamp on the shot and the snow that lay everywhere around in it indicated that the shot was taken in early February of that year. Dalton handed the BlackBerry back, a look of resignation on his face, which Mandy correctly interpreted a few seconds later. “Oh bloody hell. We have to walk?” Dalton gave her a broad grin. “We do.” And walk they did, following a dry riverbed that meandered down from the hills, their boots crunching on rock and dead brush, Mandy leading the way, her SIG in her hand and down at her side, and Dalton following a few yards behind with one of the AKs on a sling. For two and a half klicks, the bed ran along roughly the same path as the gravel road that led up to the compound. The road was built on a cleared track about eight feet higher than the riverbed, its bank giving them very good cover until, with less than a hundred yards to go to reach the compound, the river veered sharply away from the roadway. If they wanted to cover the last one hundred yards, the
y’d have to do it in the open, across a stony field. Mandy stopped at the crest of the road and looked across the rising slope to the compound and then she slid back to the bottom of the riverbed in a little landslide of pea gravel. “Can you smell that?” she asked, wrinkling her nose. “I can,” said Dalton. “I’ve been smelling it for almost half a klick. Haven’t you?” “I smoke more than you do,” she said. “And a damned good thing. What is that vile stench?” “Pigs,” said Dalton, who had worked summers on a cattle ranch in Tucumcari only a few miles downwind of a large pig farm, which was not nearly far enough. “Smell like that, you don’t forget.” “I’ll make a heroic effort.” Dalton was silent for a moment, listening hard. The wind had dropped as the day was dying down, and now they both could hear, faint and muted, a kind of guttural singsong tone—irregular, harsh, sustained—with a definite note of squealing desperation in it. “What is that unholy sound?” asked Mandy, holding a very nice Liberty kerchief up to her nose. “It’s the pigs. They’re in the sheds along the back, or at least that’s where the sound is coming from. If I had to guess, I’d say they’re hungry. Wait here a minute.” He worked his way around the bend of the road, got to within sixty yards of the compound. Even from that distance, he could see that the windows were closed and shuttered on the big house, and there were no vehicles in the lot, other than one rusted tractor and another tractor without wheels sitting on cement blocks. The place looked—and felt—empty. He came back around the bend to Mandy, took a knee, leaning on his AK. “I think they’ve bolted. Just like in Kerch.” Mandy gave him a look. “What? You mean scarpered?” “Looks it. One way to find out,” he said, handing her the AK. Mandy stared at it as if he had just handed her a live flounder. “Oh great. Is this the part where you say, ‘Cover me, Tex, I’m a-goin’ in’?” Dalton gave her a quick kiss, turned away and went back to the curve, climbed to the top, his Colt out. He took careful aim. And he blew a large hole in the side of the main house, just beneath a small slit window that dominated the eastern side, right about where a sniper would be hiding if the house weren’t really empty. The sound of the gun rolled away into the hills and died. The large, splintered hole in the white-painted clapboard did not run with blood, and nobody opened up on him from another window. His experience with the people back down the road suggested that no one in the house would have the fire discipline to hold off after getting a round like that through the wall. Empty. Had to be. One way to find out. He got up and walked slowly across the field, his boots crunching down on the sliced-off stalks of corn freshly harvested. He reached the main gate, checked it for a trip wire or an IED, opened it, and walked slowly through the entire compound, looking for mines, explosives, traps, trying doors and shaking the shutters. He walked up to the back door of the big house, booted the glass to shards, and stepped inside. He was in some sort of mudroom, filthy boots caked with dried pig shit, coat hooks laden with farm smocks. Equally squalid, the rest of the interior rooms were in semidarkness. The big house ticked slowly but steadily as the beams cooled in the gathering chill of sundown. Dalton did a quick walkabout through a large main room. Reeking of Russian cigarettes and spilled beer, it was set up like a military mess hall, with scruffy couches and mismatched chairs scattered about, a large stone fireplace, smoke still rising from the coals. There was a huge kitchen, and the trestle tables were bare and the cooking pots clean, but the smell of baked beans and boiled turnips still hung in the musty air. The house was as empty as the yard, he decided. The noise from the pig sheds was getting louder and more shrill. Maybe they could sense someone was in the area. He went back outside, walked over to the helicopter pad, went out into the middle of it, pulled his gloves off, and got down on one knee to touch a fingertip in a pool of greenish liquid. It was still warm. Hydraulic fluid, leaking from the Kamov. He had hit the damned thing, all right. Vukov had flown it back here, patched it up somehow, maybe picked up another passenger . . . Kirikoff ? And then he had taken off again. Where to? Kerch? Or all the way back to Russia? The grunting and squealing from the sheds was getting hysterical. So was the stench. He walked back to the gate. “Mandy,” he called out, his voice echoing back from the hill behind him. “It’s okay. They’re gone.” DALTON