We. That was promising. “And that is?”
“You know that none of this would be admissible in court. We can’t play this that way. Which is why you came to me.” Coftey paused, ice-cold fire dancing in his eyes. “Which begs the question: how far are you willing to go?”
1:57 P.M. Pacific Time
The abandoned mansion
Beverly Hills, California
“Andropov is back,” Han observed, lowering the binoculars from his eyes. “And maybe eight men with him. Only one of the Mercedes came back.”
“Probably out looking for Pyotr.” Harry joined him at the window, staying a careful distance back from the glass. Far enough that the sun glare off the window would mask him from the eyes of anyone looking across the road. “You figured what—four in the house?”
“Five. And the pair of guard dogs.”
Another complication that Han had observed patrolling the grounds the preceding afternoon. A pair of massive Central Asian Shepherds, or Volkodavs, as they were commonly known. Roughly translated from the Russian, the name meant “Wolf Crusher”.
“Thirteen. An unlucky number.” Long odds, thirteen men against their three. He glanced at his watch. “As for the dogs…Vasiliev will be here in thirty minutes.”
“You think you can trust him?”
A hard question. Harry looked away, remembering the look in the Russian’s eyes. Pyotr is part of the contract.
“No,” he acknowledged. “But he’s brought us this far. Might as well go all the way.”
“Just like old times.” A sad smile crept across the SEAL’s face. “You know, I never thought I’d kill again, Harry. Funny thing—you never forget how. No matter how many years or how hard you try.”
“I’m sorry. If there had been another way—”
Han cut him off, an edge to his voice. “You would have taken it, just so long as the mission was accomplished in the end. You haven’t changed.”
It was hard to tell whether that was praise or condemnation. Likely a mixture of both. “If you want out…”
Silence. Finally Han shook his head. “Like you say—come this far, we might as well go all the way. You think the van will give us enough height to get over the wall?”
“Close enough.”
3:09 P.M.
Los Angeles, California
It was the little things that killed you. Always the little things. The dead leaves that concealed a sniper. The figure loitering on a corner near a parked car.
The shards of shattered plexiglass beneath a freshly broken streetlight.
Korsakov dropped down to one knee on the sidewalk, turning one of the rough shards between his fingers. The edge was sharp,
He heard the sound of footsteps behind him and turned to see Yuri approaching. “They smashed the streetlight before they took him,” Korsakov announced. “Would have made sure the street was dark—plenty of shadows to hide in.”
“They?”
“Hard to say. A man like Valentin…many enemies.”
Yuri’s face took on a dour expression. “As if we need any more of them.”
Korsakov ignored his lieutenant’s displeasure, his eyes roving the street for nearby security cameras. “The liquor store there on the corner. Take Viktor with you and persuade the proprietor to let you look through his surveillance tapes from last night.”
“Viktor?”
“Da, and make it quick.” The assassin cast a glance toward the west, the setting sun. “We’re running short on time.”
5:15 P.M. Central Time
Police Headquarters
Dearborn, Michigan
One had to love modern technology…when it worked. And right now, the GPS locator on the tractor-trailer Nasir abu Rashid had been driving wasn’t.
Marika swore angrily, giving the computer screen in front of her a murderous look. Too much caffeine had her on edge. It had taken all day to convince the company to turn over their GPS records to the Bureau, only to have the signal trail die in central Colorado.
The alert had already gone out to the Denver field office and they were mobilizing half of the FBI team in Dearborn to fly into the region.
She took another look at the screen. The Rockies—the most forboding mountain range in the continental United States. And somewhere in those mountains, the trail of a terrorist sleeper cell had run cold.
Russell came bustling into the room at that moment, a small bag over his shoulder. “We’re going,” he announced without ceremony. “The S-A-C has given his approval.”
That was, in itself, a surprise. Maybe her career wasn’t over…just yet. “How soon do we leave?”
“Ten minutes. They’ve got a 737 on the runway at Detroit Metropolitan.”
6:27 P.M. Eastern Time
Washington, D.C.
It was dark when Kranemeyer left the Alibi Club, night enfolding the city like a heavy garment. Rain was falling, mingled with sleet—slippery beneath his dress shoes. On the way back to his Suburban, he passed a panhandler on the street, the sign in his hands reading “Homeless Vet.”
Was he? It was hard to say—for every veteran the government had left abandoned on the streets, there were two more using the claim of service as a meal ticket. More deceit, in a city full of it.
There’s no going back, Barney. Not once you’ve started down this road.
Kranemeyer pushed the senator’s words away as he levered himself up into the SUV, forcing himself to focus on the task ahead.
One thing and only one thing mattered. It wasn’t justice, there was none to be had in this world. Right and wrong…those were issues to be decided at a later date.
They did this to my men in Cambodia, Coftey had said, gazing into the open flames of the fireplace. Sent us out into the night and abandoned us. Never again.
The DCS sat there for a long moment, in the darkness of the vehicle, sleet tapping against the windshield like a ghostly finger.
It was a personal failure. He was the spymaster, and he had never even suspected Shapiro, much as he might have disliked him. God only knew how many lives had been lost because of it.
Reaching inside his unbuttoned jacket, he retrieved the H&K USP from its holster, his movements slow and methodical as he screwed a suppressor into the muzzle. Practiced.
He caught a glimpse of his own face in the overhead mirror, hellishly illuminated in the red taillights of a passing car. An implacable Ares.
Do whatever you need to do, Barney—know that I have your back, all the way. Just don’t let him walk.
The slide of the semiautomatic slid forward with a metallic click, chambering a cartridge.
Kranemeyer laid the weapon on the passenger seat beside him and shifted the Suburban into drive.
No one was walking away from this…
4:02 P.M. Pacific Time
Los Angeles, California
“Nyet. Nothing.” Korsakov shook his head in disgust, speaking into the phone. The store surveillance feeds had been effectively useless. “Two people made the snatch.”
He paused, listening to Andropov on the other end of the line. “They knew what they were doing—beyond that I cannot say. The license plate of the van wasn’t visible from the angle of the camera. Da, I do have some idea of how many gray panel vans there are in LA…we passed eight of them on the way here.”
It was maddening, the assassin thought, placing a hand against the hood of the SUV as he leaned forward. Finding Andropov’s son was not part of his contract. Capturing Chambers was…which was why he had already dispatched Yuri and the rest of his team back to San Francisco to stage for the assault.
“Da, I think it’s a very good possibility that they could be involved.” Whether they were or not wasn’t Korsakov’s affair. It would put him one step closer to completing his primary mission. He listened for another long moment, his frustration building.
Viktor appeared at his side, laptop in hand, gesturing for his attention. “What is it?”
His eyes focuse
d in on the documents displayed onscreen, and in that moment, everything changed. A maze of deeds and lease agreements, seeming dead ends leading back to one indisputable conclusion.
“Yes, yes, I’m still here,” Korsakov stammered, in response to Andropov’s query. “I have received new intelligence…the house in the Tenderloin—it belongs to the Russian consulate. It is an FSB safehouse.”
Taking on the Americans was one thing. He had been on their radar for years—some of the best contracts available required that he work at “cross purposes” to them. But this…
His employer was still talking. And making less sense. His years of wealth and power seemed to have inured him to reality.
“That’s all very well for you to say,” Korsakov retorted, punctuating his words with an oath, “but I don’t have the luxury of retiring to Tahiti in the arms of a brainless and buxom American. When all of this is over, I still need to work in Eastern Europe and I can’t do that if the FSB is hunting me down. No, it is my concern.”
Korsakov motioned to the boy to get back in the car, lowering his voice as he interrupted Andropov one final time. “Listen to me, Valentin. You have six hours. Find a way to remove the FSB protection from Chambers and the CIA officer—or find a new contractor.”
5:04 P.M.
Las Vegas, Nevada
Nerves. Omar reached out to grasp the metal of the railing as he moved onto the last flight of stairs, only too aware that his fingers were slick with sweat. Even as the moment approached, Satan seemed determined to test his faith.
He glanced up the stairs into the eyes of the shaikh, trying to push past the doubts. To this war a strong man may offer his courage…
That the shaikh was strong was not in question—but still. The black man shook his head, attempting to banish from his mind the image of their leader there in the club, alcohol in his hand and a prostitute at his feet.
Haram. Forbidden since the days of the Prophet. Were they all to be damned in the end?
A low rumble passed overhead, the railing vibrating under Omar’s hand as the building shook around him. Putting his doubts aside, he charged up the final few steps, reaching the side of the shaikh just as he pushed open the roof access door.
Cold air struck Omar in the face as he stepped out onto the flat roof, gravel crunching beneath his feet. The roar of jet engines buffeted his ears and he looked up to see the receding landing lights of a huge jumbo jet—that unmistakable symbol of American power—heading in for final approach to McCarran. It was close enough to see the landing gear extending from its massive belly.
He looked over to see the shaikh smiling there in the darkness. “Abu Kareem told me of your…reservations regarding our operation,” the Pakistani said softly, reaching out to place a hand on Omar’s shoulder. “I respect a man who knows his limitations—and understands how best he can serve the will of Allah.”
He hoped that his doubt did not show in his eyes. Following the teachings of the Prophet was a limitation?
The shaikh turned abruptly, his eyes darting fire as he strode to the edge of the roof, looking out over the City of Sin. “You will have only one shot—and you must not miss. Can you do this?”
“Insh’allah.”
“And then there will be one final task for you.”
6:03 P.M.
The abandoned mansion
Beverly Hills, California
“…you’ll be the second person over the wall. The dogs will be your concern.”
Alexei chuckled, squinting down the bull barrel of the Ruger Mark II semiautomatic in his hands. “If I should miss, tovarisch…they will be your concern soon enough.”
“Then don’t miss,” Harry retorted, giving the Russian a baleful glare.
Han cleared his throat. “Are you sure you don’t need me on the assault team?”
A nod from Harry. “Korsakov is still out there—hasn’t done anything more than feint toward our bait at the safehouse. If he comes back…”
He lowered his voice, glancing toward the kitchen, where Carol sat with her back to them. Pulling together the last remnants of the botnet. “Her safety is of the utmost importance. If everything goes sideways, take her and run.”
It was a strategic decision, but the accompanying risks…
“Body armor?” Vasiliev asked, shrugging as he screwed a suppressor into the threaded end of the Ruger’s long barrel.
“Depends on how much time they have to react—more than likely by the time we’re done.”
The Russian smiled, tapping his forehead as if to indicate the aimpoint. “Then we’ll plan accordingly.”
7:21 P.M.
A spa
San Francisco, California
Find a way. Perhaps Andropov had taken that too literally, Korsakov thought, doubt surging back to the fore. The same doubts that had been plaguing him ever since he and Viktor had boarded the oligarch’s private Sikorsky S-76 in Los Angeles for the helicopter flight to San Francisco. He forced a smile to his face as he made his way down the corridor toward the spa’s sauna room, toward the man standing at the door.
Standing guard.
“Good evening.”
“You can’t go in there,” came the brusque rejoinder, a hand reaching out to grab Korsakov’s arm as he brushed by.
First mistake.
His fingers closed around the guard’s arm like the teeth of a vise, catching him off-balance and pulling him forward till his head smashed into the drywall.
The man reeled backward, an arm up to defend his face as he fumbled inside his jacket. Korsakov glimpsed the leather straps of a shoulder holster—light glinting on the blued steel of a gunbarrel and he lashed out, his booted foot connecting with the man’s groin.
A strangled cry of agony echoed off the walls, the half-drawn pistol clattering to the tile.
Last mistake, Korsakov thought—pivoting as the edge of his hand came down on the man’s neck, hard against the bone.
The guard crumpled, sagging into Korsakov’s arms as the assassin lowered him to the floor. The “fight”, if one wanted to call it that, had lasted a scant forty-five seconds. Someone needed better security.
Retrieving the pistol with a gloved hand, Korsakov pushed open the door to the sauna, steam billowing in his face as he entered.
Droplets of water condensed on his face as he moved forward, making out the figure of a middle-aged man reclining on a wooden bench near the far corner of the room, arms folded across his naked chest. The target.
Alone.
If the rich and powerful had a weakness, it was that they valued their privacy. Solitude. Aside from the obvious benefits, it made Korsakov’s job much easier.
“Who are you?” the man demanded, reaching for his towel as the assassin approached.
Too late. Much too late. Korsakov was on him as he rose to his feet, one hand closing around the man’s throat—forcing him against the wall of the sauna.
“Dmitri Vournikov, I presume?” Korsakov sneered, staring down into the Russian consul’s bulging eyes.
A frightened nod, but the older man made no attempt to resist. Surrender, survival, those were the watchwords of the bureaucrat. “What do you want with me?”
The words came out as a squeak.
Korsakov stared into the man’s eyes for an eternity of a moment, watching him begin to gasp for breath—the awareness of his own impending death spreading across his face.
“Valentin sends his regards,” he announced, allowing Vournikov to fall back against the bench, massaging his bruised vocal chords.
Korsakov stalked back to the center of the small room, drawing the bodyguard’s SR-1 Gyurza from his pocket and ejecting the magazine. Fully loaded. “You know Valentin Andropov, do you not?”
Another nod.
“Good. Then you have some idea what I am capable of—and what I will do if you lie to me.”
“Da, da.”
“Who is really in charge at your consulate?”
10:19 P.M. Eastern T
ime
“The Farm”
Camp Peary, Virginia
No Internet. No cellphone. No PDA. It had been a couple of decades since Carter had been so disconnected. He’d been given a computer when he first arrived in isolation at Camp Peary, an aging Dell loaded with a copy of Fallout 3. That had lasted all of two days—until his FBI wardens realized that he had reconfigured it to access the Internet through a vulnerability in the Farm’s secure network…
And that was the end of his computer. In its place, someone with a bad sense of humor had supplied a few issues of Dog Fancy.
He wasn’t a dog person. Never had been.
Maxwell…Carter shook his head, staring at the featureless wall of his “room”. Prison, more like it. No one had been able to tell him whether his cat had survived the carnage at his apartment. The FBI wasn’t particularly communicative.
The door opened and one of the CIA personnel entered. A tall, lanky man with a full head of silver hair, Carter knew him only as “Frank”. He looked about as old as time itself, unsmiling mud-brown eyes shining out from a leathery face.
“You have a call,” he announced, dispensing with the pleasantries and handing a small disposable cellphone to Carter without another word of explanation.
“This is Carter. Hello?”
“Listen to me carefully, Ron.” Kranemeyer’s voice, full of all the usual intensity. And something else. “I need you to do something for me.”
Carter cast a glance toward the CIA man standing there by the door, arms folded across his chest. “We’re not secure, boss.”
“Frank? You can trust him. In fact, you’re going to have to. I need you on-line and Frank is going to get you secure access.”
“What about the FBI?”
Silence. Then, “We don’t have another alternative. You’ll just have to work around them.”
Yeah. That sounded easy.
8:24 P.M. Pacific Time
The abandoned mansion
Beverly Hills, California
“She’ll be there,” Vasiliev observed, sliding a loaded magazine into the butt of his Grach. “You’re prepared for that, aren’t you?”
Harry finished securing the clasps of his body armor, pulling his shirt on over it. It wasn’t heavy enough to stop a rifle bullet, but he’d have to make the most of it. Speed vs. armor, a trade-off as old as war itself. “Who do you mean?”
Day of Reckoning (Shadow Warriors) Page 37
