by Chris Allen
“Well, sure, I know Zolnerowich,” said Masterson. “Our guy Helldiver’s old man. Former assassin for the KGB and an all-round evil son-of-a-bitch. Copped a bullet in the back of the head about ten years ago. I was just recapping on him with Dominique yesterday.”
“Well, you can imagine, just the hint of this connection between Zolner – aka Helldiver – and an old-guard Communist like Latushkin – especially as he was one of dear old Dad’s closest friends – has got General Davenport champing at the bit to get to the bottom of this. When Latushkin was just a major in the KGB, he was allegedly involved in the 1991 coup attempt to oust Gorbachev, but miraculously survived the aftermath, including the dismantling of the KGB and the purge of the security services that followed. Clearly, he had some very influential people in his corner. His mentor, the late General Zolnerowich, to name one.”
“And a former KGB alumni called Vladimir Putin, to name another,” added Masterson.
“Exactly. And now, he’s the head of Putin’s intelligence apparatus.” Sheridan paused for a moment, thinking. Both men settled into their Scotches. Masterson starting checking the menu.
“Davenport’s theories on the global significance of whatever it is that Helldiver is up to – destroying all these aircraft and so on – are finally starting to take shape with this Russian angle, but I gotta admit, man, this Russian–Islamist thread – this thing between Helldiver, Salazar and these extremist pilots – has got me second-guessing every theory I can come up with.”
“What does your gut tell you, Mickey?” asked Masterson. “I’ve known you a long time and nothing gets past you. So, whatever it is that’s bugging you, explore it. Don’t dismiss it.”
“You got a theory?” said Sheridan; he knew Masterson equally well and the tone told him as much.
Masterson took another drink. “Well, since you asked … It suddenly occurs to me that this SVR element is the key.”
“OK, go on.”
“We now know that Helldiver’s wife, Ms Bedrosian, is a former SVR agent. Not only that, she was Latushkin’s protégé. We also know that she specialized in targeting foreign businessmen and diplomats operating in Russia. Now, you mention that the Russian–Islamist thread is bugging you. So let’s consider that. Over the past few years SVR has been criticized for not doing enough to combat the Islamic extremists in Russia. Right?”
Sheridan nodded. A smile formed as he listened to his old friend piecing together the strands of information that Sheridan and Davenport had been grappling with. The benefit of an experienced and fresh set of eyes.
“One of the principal responsibilities of the SVR,” Masterson continued, “is destabilizing foreign governments and, if recent history tells us anything about them, they’re not averse to creating instability internally as well – when it suits them. Think of the apartment block bombings in 1999. Nearly three hundred dead, over six hundred injured. These were their own people. It secured Putin’s path to the presidency and got them back into Chechnya. That operation had General Zolnerowich’s name all over it.”
“So what’s the big deal about a couple of crashed planes and a few hundred dead foreigners?”
“Exactly,” replied Masterson.
“And who’s to say that Khristya Bedrosian isn’t still on the SVR payroll and that her marriage to Zolnerowich’s son, Helldiver – who by the way just happens to be a favored Russian oligarch who was spared during Putin’s purge of the oligarchs in the nineties – isn’t just a cover?”
“Now you’ve got it,” said Masterson. “That’s the way I see it, for what it’s worth.”
“Then this whole goddamn thing is a classic destabilization operation,” said Sheridan, following his train of thought. “Damn! I knew it. The General and I have been circling this issue for ages, but this latest development – the Khristya Bedrosian angle – makes it all fall into place.”
“Behind every great man …” Masterson said. “These guys don’t do anything unless it has a purpose. They don’t just happen to put one of their best agents on the arm of one of their favorite sons because it’s a nice thing to do. Dominique is absolutely sure that Khristya Bedrosian is playing a significant part in the organizing of their closed-door sessions. She’s not just ‘the wife;’ this has all the hallmarks of old-school Soviet global destabilization. It has to be part of a much bigger deal.”
“Now all we need to do is prove it,” replied Sheridan. “We need information and we need it fast.”
Masterson’s phone buzzed with a text. It was the phone he used specifically for Dominique. He unlocked the phone and tapped the screen. An image appeared: a hastily taken snapshot. Masterson could scarcely believe what he was seeing.
“Jesus Christ,” he whispered. Without another word he handed the phone across to Sheridan.
CHAPTER 15
Oahu, Hawaiian Islands, United States
Alex Morgan slid his feet into a pair of well worn brown leather R.M. Williams boots, stood and wandered over to the balcony doors tucking his shirt into his chinos. He slid the doors back and was greeted instantly by the smell of the ocean and a strong breeze that filled the curtains like sails pushing them high toward the ceiling. He noticed that out past Diamond Head the sky was looking decidedly overcast and he thought there may even be a chance of rain later in the day. Great. A good day to leave, he supposed. As if there was ever a good day to leave Hawaii.
Back inside he saw that his butler, Makaio, had been in and set a pot of tea down on the coffee table. He sauntered across the room and poured himself a cup. It was exactly the way he liked it: strong and hot with a good dose of milk, no sugar. He took the tea back outside and pulled up a chair on the balcony, enjoying the view, the tea and thinking about Elizabeth Reigns and the message she’d been sent to deliver. After all the self-righteous soul-searching he’d demanded time for, he now had to suffer the ignominy of having been on the books the whole time, without even knowing. He had to hand it to the old man, he knew how to get what he needed out of his agents. Who else but Davenport and Sheridan could have an agent deep undercover for months without the agent himself even realizing? He laughed to himself at the deviousness of it. Clever bastards. He hadn’t been quite that forgiving when he’d first received the news but Reigns had talked him off that particular ledge.
Reigns. He’d missed her most of all over the past months and while he’d been in self-imposed exile he’d fought the temptation to reach out to her too many times to remember. But from the outset they’d both agreed that time apart was for the best. He’d go and get his head straight and then they’d see. She wasn’t going anywhere, she’d said. She was amazing. He closed his eyes and remembered everything he could about her face, her voice, the way she smelled, walked, kissed. Jesus. He was obsessed. He knew she’d laugh at him if he ever owned up to thinking about her like that. And that’s what made her so incredible – the freedom and unabashed confidence of her spirit. And she didn’t take any shit. Spectacular.
There was a shuffle of activity from the kitchen and Makaio entered with breakfast. He called out a warm “Good morning, sir,” to Morgan, who waved in reply from the balcony, and then he set to work arranging Morgan’s breakfast on the suite’s circular dining table.
“Did you sleep well, sir?” Makaio asked, casting his gaze across to the bedroom where the sheets and covers had been tossed onto the floor. His big face split into a broad, conspiratorial smile. “You look a little tired.”
Morgan read the intended suggestion and laughed. He walked back into the suite and sat down at the table. “I actually did sleep well, Makaio; thank you. And, I am feeling very well rested, too. This tea is great, by the way. Thanks very much.”
Makaio withdrew quietly from the suite still smiling and left Morgan to his breakfast.
Morgan turned his mind away from the distraction of Reigns and the machinations of Davenport and Sheridan’s strategy to infiltrate him. For the first time in a very long while, Alex Morgan had a purpose again. He
was an Intrepid agent and there was a job to be done. A Russian oligarch, the son of an old hardline Communist, who lived in the lap of luxury day and night, and indulged any and every pathetic little whim and fancy that came to his mind, was bringing down commercial airliners and killing hundreds of innocent people at a time to break the resolve of nation states into doing his personal bidding. Intrepid was tackling the mission from multiple angles: an agent infiltrated into Helldiver’s headquarters in France and Reigns on her way to Singapore to pick up the trail of the pilot recruiter, Salazer, and, hopefully, follow it all the way to the latest recruits for aerial jihad. And then there was Morgan. All he had to do was stay as close as possible to Helldiver, find out whatever the fuck he was up to and stop him. Simple.
He walked back into the bedroom and took the Heckler and Koch VP9, spare magazines and extra ammo from his suitcase and brought them back to the table. He laid them out and mechanically went through a basic strip-and-assemble routine, including emptying and reloading the magazines, all to make sure that everything was working as it should.
Satisfied, he fitted the gun and mags back into the BlackHawk Tactical Pistol Case Rodenko had given him and then put it down. That would stay with him until he worked out what was going on. His cellphone buzzed. It was a text from Simon, Helldiver’s personal assistant.
Wheels up in an hour. Car downstairs in fifteen. Destination to be advised once airborne.
Acknowledged, he replied. No heads up on where they were going. Morgan felt the familiar tension of pre-mission anticipation building. It was a good feeling to be back in the game properly now. He topped up his tea and returned to the balcony, deciding it was time to take a private moment to enjoy the cool breeze and a few minutes of nothing. Who knew where the day would take him?
Morgan put on his lightweight navy sports coat, checked his watch, and went downstairs. In the hotel reception area, Makaio and the duty manager were waiting for him. Makaio had already taken care of Morgan’s luggage. Morgan attempted to tip him but his butler politely declined; Mr. Zolner had apparently been more than generous already. Morgan thanked him and walked outside.
The car was waiting and his luggage had been loaded. Unfortunately the driver wasn’t Bill; Morgan recognized him as being one of the security guys on Helldiver’s payroll, so he got in the back and they drove in silence all the way to Honolulu International Airport. Morgan was pleased to avoid small talk. The car took him straight to a private hangar where he saw Simon with a couple of US Customs and Border Protection officers in their navy blue uniforms standing in front of a gleaming fire engine red Gulfstream IV with a large white Z emblazoned upon the tail fin. Morgan decided to leave the HK VP9 with the driver.
He walked over to Simon, who was in the midst of discussing the arrangements for the flight. As had previously been Morgan’s experience, the CBP officers were being friendly but professional. They engaged immediately with Morgan, who handed over his passport and, with a discreet nod from Simon, went with the flow of the conversation regarding his impending departure for France. He was on his way, although there was no sign of the Zolners or any of the other crew, for that matter. Morgan’s luggage was being unloaded by the driver and presented for inspection to the CBP officers. For a few moments, Morgan found himself alone with Simon and out of earshot of the others.
“So,” he said, “care to enlighten me?”
“You’re off to France,” Simon replied. “Nice, to be precise. I’m staying here.”
“And what about the Zolners; are they onboard already?”
“No, they flew out last night. Rodenko and the others flew with them. Mr. Zolner thought you’d enjoy some more time to yourself before he gets you working, so he arranged this plane just for you. He has three of them.”
“Very kind of him,” replied Morgan. On the surface the gesture appeared generous although from what Morgan knew of Helldiver now, it was apparent that he was to be kept on the outer edges of Helldiver’s circle for a little longer yet. “What happens when I arrive?”
“You’ll need to refuel en route, the pilot will advise you of that in flight. When you arrive in Nice you’ll be met at the airport and taken to Mr. Zolner’s private residence in Antibes, Le Château de la Lavande. Mr. Zolner will see you there.”
Morgan watched as the CBP officers finalized their inspection of his gear. They returned to ask him a few questions and he completed and signed some exit declaration forms. He got the all clear, his passport was stamped and returned to him and his luggage was loaded into the Gulfstream by the ground staff. Finally he was being ushered aboard by a beautiful young stewardess, who introduced herself as Famke.
Famke familiarized him with the aircraft, including his sleeping quarters, bathroom, film, audio and computer facilities and then settled Morgan into his seat. She gave him the standard safety brief for the flight and offered to get him a drink for take-off. Morgan chose scotch. As she disappeared in the direction of the galley, the pilot appeared, introduced himself as Thomas and talked Morgan through the flight plan, including a refueling stop in New York, and then left him to his scotch.
Within fifteen minutes they were airborne. Morgan figured there wasn’t anything he could do in flight so he’d just go with the flow until they arrived in France, and then he would see what he would see. He rummaged around in his carry-on daysack, found his copy of The Count of Monte Cristo by Alexandre Dumas and got comfortable.
The mission was unfolding faster than even he’d anticipated.
CHAPTER 16
Holiday Inn Singapore Atrium, Outram Road, Singapore
Elizabeth Reigns waved off another wave of advances from the detective who was her appointed contact in the investigation to track down Salazar. Detective Leong of the Singapore Police Force had been unrelenting in his campaign to convince her that dinner would be a great idea and she had been equally resolute in conveying her disinterest. She was there for one reason and one reason only, and Detective Leong was not it. Apart from anything else, he was short, twice her age, she could see that he’d removed his wedding ring, and he stank of cigarette smoke and body odor. Not a winning combination.
Reigns’ mission was to trace the connection between a body discovered by garbage collectors three days earlier and Carlo Alfredo Salazar, the former Argentine Air Force pilot turned commercial-pilot recruiter who was squarely in Intrepid’s sights. Detective Leong wasn’t aware of Intrepid’s interest in Salazar, he was simply the appointed contact from SPF’s International Cooperation Department, the ICD. As far as he knew, Reigns was the Interpol liaison between the FBI and SPF regarding the body. That was all. Leong’s job was to make sure that she got the access she needed to get her job done. She wished he would just stay focused on doing that. Between picking her up at Changi Airport and escorting her to meetings at SPF Headquarters, they’d been together for almost six full hours. It had been painful. The police officers who were actually responsible for investigating the murder had all been absolutely professional and courteous and she wished she’d been allowed to deal directly with them, unescorted, but in international circles certain protocols needed to be followed. In this case, she had to be hosted, which Leong interpreted as escorted at all times. His presence was supposed to be simple professional courtesy but his constant attention was verging on plain creepy.
Reigns sighed and turned her mind back to the case. Workers from Veolia Environmental Services, one of Singapore’s contracted public waste collectors, had found the body when they’d returned to the waste-to-energy incineration plant at Tuas to unload. The police were called, SPF forensics subsequently confirmed the identity of the body and, armed with that information, were able to confirm his next-of-kin details and importantly his previous employment status. The dead body belonged to Captain Farooq Chaudry. Chaudry had been a pilot for Katak Airlines. More specifically, according to airline records, he had been the pilot at the controls of Katak Airlines 712 when it had disappeared from Malaysian civil aviation radar o
nly to reemerge on Thai military radar flying directly into the path of Cyclone Penciptaan over the Andaman Sea a week ago. Despite the assurances of the airline that Captain Chaudry was confirmed as taking command of the aircraft from the origin point, Singapore, and was again in command from Kuala Lumpur, following an extended layover, clearly the actual Captain Chaudry had not been the man at the controls of flight 712 at all. Working back from the last known sighting of Chaudry, SPF traced his final movements to the Holiday Inn on Outram Road. The discovery in Singapore of a body that technically should have been in the cockpit of flight 712 when it flew into a cyclone enroute to the Bay of Bengal had prompted Reigns’ redeployment to Singapore and away from Alex Morgan in Hawaii.
For most of the day, Reigns had been receiving a string of detailed briefings covering everything SPF homicide investigators had found out about the deceased since they’d confirmed his identity. The body of Captain Chaudry had been wrapped in bed sheets, stuffed in a dumpster and dropped into a waste collection truck, destined to rot among the garbage until incinerated at the Tuas plant, never to be seen again. The coroner reported that a hypodermic needle had punctured the skin on the left-hand side of the neck and blood results indicated it had contained a concoction designed to immediately render an adult unconscious. The two bullet wounds in the back of the head from a .22 pistol had happened some time later.
Now, as she’d requested, they were at the hotel with the Holiday Inn security team, reviewing CCTV footage.
