Day of Reckoning (Shadow Warriors)

by Stephen England

The oligarch coughed, spitting bloody phlegm onto the carpet of the study. “You are.”

  Harry inclined his head to one side, regarding him incredulously. “Is that a fact?”

  “Da.” Andropov managed a weak, yet contemptuous smile. “I have been trained to resist torture, but the human body can only take so much. We both know that.”

  His chest heaved in another fit of coughing, his face distorted in pain as he endeavored to continue. “Keep this up much longer, no matter how careful you are, and I will begin to suffer brain damage. You’re not prepared to risk that, are you? To take the chance that the information you need so desperately could be gone forever?”

  The worst of it was that Andropov was dead right, pinpointing the one thing they could not afford to place in jeopardy. Their weakness. Harry and Vasiliev exchanged glances. How far?

  At that moment, Harry’s earpiece crackled with static. Carol’s voice. “Harry, you have a police cruiser inbound. Apparently someone contacted them regarding a domestic disturbance.”

  “How did that get out?” he demanded softly, walking to the far side of the study so that Andropov couldn’t hear him. “I thought you had everything locked down.”

  “I did. I don’t know how it happened, but you both need to get out of there now.”

  His face hardened. “That’s not an option. How much time do I have?”

  10:11 P.M.

  Beverly Hills, California

  Being a cop in Beverly Hills sounded a lot more glamorous than it was, Deputy Joshua Lambert thought, guiding his Crown Victoria up the darkened street.

  Drug laws were broken on a daily basis in these neighborhoods—the four-one-five that had been reported was probably nothing more than a wife screaming at her movie star husband about a just-discovered affair. Or, better yet, that the blackout made it impossible to do her hair!

  The young police officer pulled his car off to the side of the road at the front of the Andropov estate, blocking the driveway.

  He cast an envious glance up at the mansion, through the massive steel gates. Now that was what one called living. The way a man could live if he were lucky in life.

  He’d never been lucky, he thought, shaking his head as he climbed out of the car. And paying child support every month took most of his paycheck.

  Might as well deal with this “crisis.” Another day, another dollar.

  “Are you sure you want to do this, tovarisch?” Vasiliev asked, glancing cautiously out the window. Down the driveway toward the front gate, through the fronds of the palm trees lining the asphalt, they could see the flashing lights of the patrol car. “You know your face has been on the television.”

  Harry shook his head, unslinging his H&K and carefully laying it down on the step. “You’re not going to do it,” he said, gesturing toward the Russian’s bandaged arm. “That leaves me.”

  He pulled the balaclava off his head and stuffed it in his pocket, running a hand through his tousled black hair. “Don’t kill anyone till I get back, okay, Alexei?”

  There were lights on within the mansion, Deputy Lambert thought, speaking once more into the call box mounted on the gatepost. “This is Deputy Lambert of the Los Angeles County Sheriffs’ Department. We received a report of a domestic disturbance.”

  Nothing.

  He felt a chill wash over his body. His lieutenant had warned him to tread carefully around the politically-connected Andropov. No way he was going into the estate under his own authority.

  A tall figure in black materialized out of the night on the other side of gate, the red flashers of the Crown Victoria reflected from ice-cold blue eyes above the scruffy black beard that covered the lower half of his face. “Can I help you?” he asked, his expression unconcerned, almost that of boredom, as he stared at the cop. There was something familiar about him, something he couldn’t place—but he found it unsettling.

  “Who are you?”

  The man’s identification appeared in his hand almost before Lambert had even realized the hand was moving. “Maxim Fedorenko,” he replied, allowing him a brief glimpse of the name on the driver’s license. “I’m Mr. Andropov’s head of security. Do we have a problem?”

  “We had a report of a domestic disturbance,” Lambert replied nervously.

  “Well, it wasn’t here. I’ve had men on the grounds all night with the blackout in the neighborhood. If something like that had happened, we would have heard it.”

  “Do you mind if I come in and speak to your boss?”

  He made no effort to open the gate, instead favoring Lambert with something that was more sneer than smile. “I do mind. Mr. Andropov has retired to bed, leaving strict orders that he was not to be disturbed.”

  Lambert took a deep breath. “I’d prefer to have your cooperation, Mr. Fedorenko, but if I need to come back with a warrant, I will.”

  The man seemed to find the suggestion amusing. “Be my guest. Deputy Lambert, you said?”

  “Yes,” the deputy replied, feeling a chill run through him.

  “I’ll make a note of that to your superiors. Have a good night, deputy.”

  10:18 P.M.

  “Everything okay?” Andropov asked pleasantly as Harry reentered the room. Even in the momentary respite, the man had recovered his confidence.

  Harry stripped off his gloves, throwing them on the desk. “You and Sergei Korsakov…you served together in Chechnya, didn’t you?”

  The oligarch seemed to consider the question from all angles, puzzled at the sudden change in tactics. “Da, we did. He was one of the best there was, but I have not seen him in many years.”

  Harry nodded, his eyes narrowing as he gazed into Andropov’s pale countenance. “Tell me,” he began, “what does Korsakov think of your alliance with al-Qaeda?”

  The shadow of fear passed across the Russian’s face, leaving him rattled. “What nonsense are you talking about now?”

  Harry paced across the room to the window. “You fought together against the mujahideen in the midst of the Chechen winter. As jihad spread across the Caucasus, you watched your men bleed and die. I wonder if Sergei knows the prostitute you’ve become? Selling your services to the highest bidder.”

  He reached into his pocket, pulling out the cellphone he had taken from Andropov’s desk. It was nothing more than a simple flipphone, prepaid. Two incoming calls on the SIM, both of them missed. “Shall we tell him?”

  “Go ahead,” Andropov scoffed contemptuously, pulling himself together with an effort. “You know nothing to tell.”

  “Nothing? Is that what you would call your meeting with Tarik Abdul Muhammad?” Harry asked, turning to watch the effect of his words.

  Devastation. Surprise washed across the Russian’s features, surprise coupled with fear.

  “Be sure your sins will find you out, Valentin,” Harry laughed, moving in closer—the phone still in his hand. He lowered his voice, his lips only inches from Andropov’s ear. “Now you have a choice…you can give me the information I want, and everything of your life can go back to the way it was. Or I can call Korsakov, and give him the whole story. You can use your own imagination as to how that ends.”

  Andropov was sweating, his body trembling with rage and fear. “I will destroy you, I swear to God, you will die for this.”

  Harry glanced over to where Vasiliev stood, a masked figure by the door. “I’ve heard that song before. Tick-tock…”

  The oligarch swore, a desperate oath escaping his lips. “You really have no idea who you’re up against, do you?” He took a deep breath. “I can give you the name of the man who placed the hit on David Lay. Just give me your word that this will be the end of it.”

  “Go on.”

  “Roger Hancock financed the operation to take out Lay. That’s right,” Andropov nodded, taking in the look in Harry’s eyes, the moment of confusion. “The American president contracted the hit.”

  Nothing of the hell of the previous eight days had prepared him for that. It felt as if he had be
en struck. His eyes searched Andropov’s face, searching for any guile, any deceit.

  Nothing.

  Take her, Harry, take her and run—far and fast. Go dark. Trust no one. Lay’s words, coming back to him with new immediacy.

  “Why?” he demanded, his voice barely above a whisper.

  Andropov shrugged against his restraints. “I don’t ask such questions of a client—it was enough that he was well prepared to pay to finance such a risky operation and to provide sufficient cover to enable Korsakov to elude American law enforcement. It was clearly implied that Lay knew more than was good for him.”

  It was insane, pure madness. And yet…

  “He was the only target?” He saw a hesitation in Andropov’s eyes and cautioned, “Think carefully, Valentin. You don’t want to lie to me.”

  1:35 A.M. Eastern Time, December 22nd

  FBI Headquarters

  Washington, D.C.

  “By daylight, we’re going to have agents all over those mountains. We will find them, sir.”

  Director Haskel rubbed his brow with his thumb and forefinger. “And what if you don’t—what then?”

  There was a long pause before the voice on the other end of the phone replied. Then, “We’re working with HHS on casualty projections, sir. There are over thirteen major population centers within the potential target radius, with Denver and Colorado Springs being two of the closest. If they have a chemical or biological weapon, the result of an attack would be devastating.”

  He had missed his chance to stop it, Haskel thought, realizing in one bleak moment what a fool he had been. The Altmann woman had sent in her request for a search warrant hours before she had violated procedure and gone in on her own authority.

  There had to be a way to get ahead of this, to recover from the damage this threatened to do to him. If only his conversation with Cahill had been on the record.

  “Get it done,” he whispered, leaning close to the speaker. “Pull surveillance footage, traffic cameras, everything. I don’t care what you have to do. Just find them.”

  10:42 P.M. Pacific Time

  The Andropov estate

  Beverly Hills, California

  “There’s something wrong with your story,” Harry announced at last, rising from his seat in front of Andropov. “You speak with certainty that Hancock was your client—did he take no precautions to conceal his identity? A man of his stature risks much by a venture of this sort…”

  “He was cautious, at first,” the oligarch replied, looking him straight in the eye. “And I would have none of it. A contract this dangerous…I needed to be sure that he could provide the umbrella that he was promising.”

  Harry shook his head, reaching for the prepaid phone once again. “I don’t believe you. Shall we see what Sergei has to say about this whole sordid affair?”

  Andropov swore in frustration. “I have proof.”

  Harry and Vasiliev traded glances. The phone went back on the desk. “Let’s hear it, Valentin.”

  “We met in a hangar at Dulles, a campaign donor meeting with the man he helped put in office. Nothing overtly conspiratorial, I’m afraid. At least his detail didn’t think so.”

  “And this proof of yours?”

  Andropov inclined his head toward the bookshelf. “Take out the vellum-bound copy of the Rubaiyat on the third shelf. You’ll find the files on a thumb drive concealed within its pages.”

  10:56 P.M.

  The abandoned mansion

  It’s just a matter of deciding which set of consequences you can live with. He was right, Carol thought, standing in the door of the mansion’s master bathroom, her eyes resting on the bound and blindfolded form of Pyotr Andropov. That’s all it was.

  And what could you live with?

  She took a step into the room, their hostage backlit by the Coleman lantern on the edge of the sunken tub. He was shivering uncontrollably, though the room itself was warm.

  He recoiled at her hand on his shoulder, his body tensing. “Here, drink this,” she whispered, pressing her water bottle against his parched lips.

  Water spilled from the corner of his mouth as he tried to drink, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down as the liquid gurgled down his throat. “Please…just let me go. Whatever those men are paying you—I can double it. My father is very wealthy.”

  “I know who your father is,” Carol replied, emotions warring within her. His cheeks were stained with the salt of long-dried tears, the blindfold damp from sobbing.

  A part of her wanted to release him right then and there—before Harry and Vasiliev returned. Before any more destruction could be wrought.

  He won’t be harmed. I swear before God…

  At least not any more than he already had been. She closed her eyes, willing herself to continue down the road she had chosen. No matter where it led.

  Her fingers trailed over his shoulder as she turned to leave. “Everything’s going to be okay, Pyotr. It won’t be much longer now.”

  11:03 P.M.

  The Andropov estate

  It was true. All of it, as surreal as it was. Andropov’s men were good, judging by the photos they had succeeded in taking of the POTUS.

  Or had been, Harry reflected, staring at the broken bodies laying only scant yards away.

  “Satisfied?” Andropov demanded, glancing down at the restraints that still bound his hands and feet.

  “No. That might have been good enough an hour ago, Valentin,” Harry replied, pulling himself together—forcing himself to focus on the task at hand. “But now you’re bargaining against the certainty of a painful death—and you can do better than this. I want to know what Tarik Abdul Muhammad is planning.”

  “You must understand—I am a facilitator, nothing more.” The oligarch met his eyes with an unwavering gaze. “I was paid to bring the Pakistanis across the border, paid to provide them with weapons. Nothing more.”

  “How many men did you smuggle into the United States?”

  “Five.”

  “What’s their target?”

  Andropov shook his head. “I don’t know.”

  Something there in his eyes, the shadow of a falsehood. He was lying. And Americans were going to die because of his deceit.

  Harry’s eyes flashed with anger. “I gave you a warning,” he whispered, opening the phone and beginning to type in the number. “I told you what would happen if you lied to me.”

  “Wait.”

  “Why should I?” Harry demanded, turning his head to spit on the carpet. “Give me a reason, Valentin. One good reason, because I’m running out of patience and you’re running out of time.”

  “They’re going to strike Las Vegas,” Andropov replied desperately. “They paid me to supply them with intelligence on the operational capabilities of the LVMPD. On Christmas Day.”

  “Vegas is a big place. What was their target? What was the means of their attack?”

  “I don’t have that information. I truly don’t. You have to believe me.”

  Harry laughed. “No, Valentin. I don’t. You see, that’s the problem with lying to someone. Once you’ve been caught, they never trust you again. That leaves you with a choice: never lie…or never get caught. Unfortunately, that choice is now in your rearview mirror. What weapons did you supply to the Pakistanis?”

  The Russian’s face was soaked with sweat, fear filling his eyes. “Body armor, fully-automatic Kalashnikovs, fifty pounds of C-4. And that is all I know, I swear it.”

  Was it the truth? Hard to say—and only one way left to find out. Harry punched SEND, raising the phone to his ear…

  11:14 P.M.

  Southbound I-5

  California

  Traffic was heavy on the I-5 as the pair of Suburbans rolled south, with Korsakov in the lead vehicle. His decision had been made—alea iacta est, as Caesar would have put it.

  The face of Pavel Nevaschin rose before his eyes, a reminder of the friends this contract had cost him. And he would see it through to the end
, no matter what he found at Andropov’s estate. For they had been played, of that he was sure.

  The phone in his pocket vibrated suddenly, startling him from his thoughts. Andropov?!

  “Yes?” he answered cautiously. “I’ve been trying to reach you for several hours.”

  “Then you’re going to have to wait a while longer,” an unfamiliar voice replied. “Valentin asked me to give you a message—he’s terminating your contract. Shutting the operation down. Time to go home, Sergei.”

  “Who is this?” Korsakov demanded, his face hardening at the audacity of the man’s words.

  “You know my name.”

  And he did. The assassin closed his eyes, struggling to control his voice. “Then know this, Mr. Nichols. You killed a friend of mine in Virginia, a man who saved my life in Chechnya.”

  “Fortunes of war, Sergei. Don’t ask me to regret his death.”

  “Wouldn’t dream of it. But if you think that taking Andropov hostage is going to make me stand down, that’s a decision you need to rethink.”

  “Hostage?” the voice on the other end of the phone demanded incredulously. “He’s not a hostage. Question is…do you know the type of traitor you’ve been working for?”

  “I don’t understand,” Korsakov retorted, motioning with his free hand for Viktor to hand him the laptop. There—on the screen, the message from Yuri. Twenty minutes out.

  “Your buddy Andropov—he’s been doing deals with the hajjis. An alliance with The Base to launch an attack against this country.”

  The base. Al-Qaeda. The ex-Spetsnaz assassin swore, his mind racing as he struggled to process the information. If it were true…

  “None of that changes what is between us,” he said finally. “I will deal with Andropov when I see him.”

  “I don’t think you will,” the voice replied, a cold certainty in its tone. He could hear the slide of a pistol being racked back. “See you on the other side, Sergei.”

  And the phone went dead.

  11:20 P.M.

  The Andropov estate

  Beverly Hills,

  California

  Harry dropped the phone to the bloodstained carpet of the study, smashing the screen beneath a booted foot.

  During the entire conversation, the oligarch had remained stone-faced, silent. Nothing left to bargain with.