by Brian Drake
“I don’t see you coming up with alternatives.”
Fleming glared.
“Sir,” Stiletto said to the DCI, “Miller’s phone is going to ring.”
DCI Webb turned to the other three men. “Scott, do you think he is on the level?”
“He’s telling the truth, sir. If not for the woman, we’d still be locking horns.”
“And if he isn’t?”
“Let’s go one step further. Official termination protocol, and not only for Miller.”
“The woman, too,” Webb said.
“A threat like that will keep him in line.”
The General closed his eyes and rubbed his head.
“Scott,” Webb said, “I will issue the protocol. And you give him the news.”
“It will make it easier if I can actually show him a piece of paper, sir,” Stiletto said.
“I’ll draft it right now.”
A CUP of tea in the Agency cafeteria woke Stiletto up a little.
He wanted a long rest. Maybe even a week off, but duty called.
The enemy wouldn’t quit.
Neither could he.
Stiletto returned to the black site with two pieces of paper inside his jacket, both signed by Webb, approving the assassinations of Liam Miller and Lisbeth Kalls.
Two guards escorted Stiletto to Miller’s holding cell. They reported Miller had not even sat down since his arrival. He instead moved back and forth across the small space like a nervous tiger.
Stiletto stepped into the cell and the guards locked the door behind him. Miller stopped mid-pace and gave Scott a hopeful look.
“Sit down,” Stiletto said.
Miller moved to the table in the center of the room and Stiletto joined him. He pulled out the papers.
“What did they say?”
“We accept your conditions,” Stiletto said, “but there’s a catch.” He spread out the papers. Miller scanned them with no reaction.
“I see,” he said.
“Step out of line and I have orders to kill you both.”
Miller smiled. “Of course.”
“Change your mind?”
“Never.”
“Okay.” He checked his watch. “Based on what you told me, she should be calling any time.”
“Where’s the phone?”
Stiletto took the phone from another pocket. Miller examined it. It was the same phone. He placed it on the table and the two men stopped talking. An eternity of silence passed. No sound broke the sealed room other than their breathing.
The cell phone finally rang.
Miller snatched it. “Yes? It’s me. Where are you?” Pause. “Okay.” Miller hung up.
“Well?”
“Russia, a dacha on the Volka River.” He gave the specific latitude and longitude.
Stiletto took back the phone and started for the cell door. Hand on the knob, he stopped, turned.
“By the way,” he said. “My name is Scott.”
Miller blinked. “Hello.”
Stiletto opened the door and departed the cell. He left the termination orders behind.
A PICTURE of the dacha flashed on the wall-mounted big screen.
Stiletto, General Ike, and a technician named Wesley stood in a small circular room, still in the lower basement of HQ but not too far from the General’s office. Wesley stood at a raised console and manipulated the image. He zoomed in on the location. The large dacha had a well-appointed front and back yard and sat on the edge of the Volka River as described. Other dachas were within a one-mile radius but nothing closer.
“Right where it’s supposed to be,” Stiletto said.
“I still disagree with this, Scott. Could be a trap.”
Stiletto raised an eyebrow.
“I’m well aware,” Fleming said, “the shoe is on the other foot, but I didn’t like Berlin, either.”
“We have our orders, sir.”
“Obeyed under protest.”
Stiletto smiled. “We’ll make a rebel out of you yet, General. Why did we miss this before?”
“Because it’s a rental. No connection to Zolac or any of his known associates.”
“Is he hiding or waiting for somebody to come and get him? Or is he making escape arrangements of another kind?”
“You’ll have to ask him,” Fleming said.
“Have we talked to the FSB?”
“We have full cooperation. They don’t like neo-Nazis on their home turf.”
Stiletto said, “Contact my pal Vladimir Glinkov. He’ll help us set this up the right way.”
“I still don’t like this. My head hurts, excuse me.” General Ike left the room.
Stiletto asked the technician to print out pictures of the dacha.
Chapter Twelve
YET ANOTHER jet.
Stiletto sat as far back in the cabin as he could, alone. The tactical crew filled the remaining seats with Miller secured and watched. Eventually Scott would issue the smuggler his equipment, but not until they were on the ground in Russia.
He ignored the view out the window and instead drew in his sketch book, drawing a cliff, part of the ocean, and a woman atop the cliff looking over the edge. He figured something should be in the water for her to look at, so he added a dragon, the scratching of his pencil on the paper inaudible over the drone of the jet’s engines.
Stiletto stopped scribbling and let out a breath. Still a few hours to go. He needed a nap. He set the sketch book aside, grabbed a pillow from overhead and sat back. After closing his eyes, he drifted off quickly.
THE JOLT of the landing woke him.
The jet rolled to a stop at a hanger. The tac team unloaded but Stiletto remained behind to escort Miller to the tarmac.
“Thought you forgot about me,” Miller said.
“Hardly.”
A cluster of vehicles awaited them; most of the tac team filled the cars. Stiletto steered Miller to the lead vehicle where a dark-haired short man with a smile waited in the back.
“Hello, Scott.”
“Vlad. Good to see you again.” They shook hands. Glinkov was an agent for Russia’s FSB, the internal security agency, and he and Stiletto had known each other at least fifteen years, having met during a joint U.S.-Russian operation against a terror cell hiding in Turkmenistan. The man had once put away more vodka than Stiletto was sure a man could survive; Glinkov indeed survived, and even showed up to their command post the next morning before Stiletto did.
Glinkov grinned and addressed the man next to Scott. “You must be Mr. Miller.”
“I am.”
“Interesting arrangements you got away with.”
Stiletto said, “We can talk later.”
The convoy left the airport after a few minutes. Stiletto put Miller up front with the driver while he and Glinkov sat in back.
“We have the house under surveillance,” Glinkov said. “We moved into another dacha not too far away, which is empty right now. We have the owner’s permission. It’s far enough away we can come and go as we please but it might make the assault a little tricky.
“At first only Zolac and Elisa Yanovna were there. Then they were joined by—” Glinkov consulted a pocket notebook. “Karl Staar and Paul Raeder and another woman.”
“Lisbeth Kalls,” Miller said.
“Correct.”
“Troops?” Stiletto said.
“None. Staar and Raeder brought weapons from a vehicle. We know they’re heavily armed.”
“How many men do you have?”
“A rotating force, ten total. They’ll all be there for the raid. It won’t be much of a fight.”
“They had plenty of time to set up some nasty surprises your guys didn’t witness,” Stiletto said. “We aren’t going to simply walk in there.”
Glinkov shrugged. “We’ll handle it.”
Presently the convoy stopped around the backside of the dacha the FSB crew was using to watch the Zolac house.
On the kitchen table inside the hom
e, maps and photographs were strewn about. Glinkov showed Scott the blueprint of the other dacha and the American agent studied it closely. He showed Miller the blueprint as well.
Glinkov held a general briefing and they planned to strike after dark.
STILETTO SAT alone against the wall.
The others hustled their gear and prepared for the raid. He stared off into space, trying not to anticipate what might happen. Scott was glad to have a large crew with him. Whatever happened, they’d overcome the problems as a team. He was thinking of other things; namely, the people in the target house. Why had they all gathered in this spot?
When Miller, fully kitted out, eventually joined him, Stiletto frowned.
“What are they waiting for?”
“Meaning?” Miller said.
“Something my boss and I talked about before I left. Did they come to make a stand or plan a getaway on the river?”
“There is no boat near the house.”
“They could be waiting for somebody. Making arrangements. But Zolac is ruined. He has nowhere to go.”
“Friends? Contacts in the underground? Surely somebody would lend a hand.”
“Your lady friend said nothing?”
“She did not.”
Stiletto shook his head. “Something’s going to happen. Hopefully we get in there before it does.”
Scott went over to Glinkov and brought up the question with him.
The Russian said, “You could easily land a properly equipped chopper or plane on the Volka, for sure. Do we need one?”
“I’m expecting one or the other to pick up Zolac and his crew. There’s no other reason for them to be here. They aren’t making a grand stand.”
“I can call headquarters. They can tell us if anything shows up on radar. Will that help?”
“A little warning will be ideal.”
HEINRICH ZOLAC had a brooding crew on his hands. None of them were happy. He’d ordered them to take nothing but a sidearm and the clothes on their back. He wasn’t happy either, but he had promised to provide everything else they needed once they reached Switzerland.
The NWRF leader told them they needed to hide at the dacha until he made arrangements for their escape. The Americans had smashed the network he’d worked hard to build, but most of his people had gone into hiding and there was still time to carry out their final plan, a major strike against the Jewish menace that would reverberate throughout the world if they did their part. They were all that was left. Success or failure rested solely with them.
Hamid Fahzil, the man they had negotiated with to buy the Delta Nine, still expected payment, so Zolac had covered the expense on his own via transfers from Felix Gratien. Gaining access to the accounts meant the U.S. had not frozen them but had instead, more than likely, started monitoring. Another risk. But he needed to pay Fahzil or have the smuggler’s people after them and they didn’t need a two-front war. If they could acquire the Delta Nine, they might yet pull off their main strike and redeem the effort.
Heinrich Zolac checked his watch as he stood on the second-floor balcony. They occupied the rooms on the second floor because Staar and Raeder had rigged the first floor with explosives, specifically U.S. Claymores. The Claymores were particularly nasty weapons. When they exploded, the blast sent deadly steel shot in all directions, which would shred anything in their path. Staar held the detonator.
Zolac inhaled the cool evening air. His effort had failed, but he knew every successful person failed many times before they found victory. He’d experienced the process in business. No reason the same thing didn’t apply to the NWRF. Or whatever he chose to call the organization next time.
Next time, indeed.
There was no reason to think there would not be a next time. Nobody who wanted them knew where they were, or where they were going.
He slid open the patio door and reentered the house. The crew sat in the sitting room with the television on.
Lisbeth Kalls sat in the far corner. She’d said little since their arrival.
Staar and Raeder constantly talked, and carried on a low conversation about football.
Elisa Yanovna kept her attention on the T.V. Zolac figured from the dialogue the program was Moscow’s version of a soap opera.
Zolac moved toward a corner mini-fridge and selected a drink.
Lisbeth called out, “How much longer?”
Zolac stopped, checked his watch. “Any minute now.”
The young woman shifted in her seat and went silent again.
Zolac sipped the bottled beverage.
He hated hiding out like a common crook. But you play the cards you’re dealt until the game turns in your favor.
Or you find a way to cheat.
GLINKOV ORGANIZED the assault force.
The Russian team would go through the front door and the Americans through the rear patio entrance. Glinkov, Stiletto, and Miller would cover the balcony facing the water. As the teams made final preparations, Glinkov called HQ to see if there were any unauthorized aircraft in the region. There were none.
The assault team moved out, ink-like shadows in the night, the moon hidden behind thick clouds.
Stiletto, Miller, and Glinkov circled to the side of the dacha. No downstairs lights were on, only upstairs. As the trio dropped flat on a slope of ground near the edge of the property, Stiletto said that was odd. He clicked off the safety of his Heckler & Koch UMP and Glinkov gave the go signal.
The Russians battered down the front door.
The Americans blasted through the rear.
Explosions rocked the ground floor; loud, solid booms shook the ground. Glass shattered; men screamed. More blasts thundered from the back of the house.
Glinkov shouted into his radio: “What’s happening? Somebody report!”
Only the echo of the blasts answered.
THE BATTERING of a front door is such a specific sound Karl Staar didn’t need confirmation.
As soon as the door crashed, all activity on the second floor sitting room stopped. Elisa turned off the T.V. Paul Raeder grabbed an assault rifle from a corner, and tossed it at Elisa. He tossed another to Zolac before taking a third for himself.
Staar pulled the remote detonator from his shirt pocket. It wasn’t any bigger than a pack of cigarettes. He pressed one button, and another. When screams accompanied the blasts, he knew he’d been right.
“Where the hell is the chopper?” Staar shouted to a stunned Zolac. The billionaire had no answer. Staar grabbed the last assault rifle.
A set of steps led from the balcony to the side yard and water’s edge, but Staar, taking charge, used a hand to hold everyone back as he went out to check.
The burst of gunfire following his exit didn’t come from his weapon.
GLINKOV KEPT trying to reach his men with no success.
The explosions had wiped out both teams.
Stiletto and Miller watched the balcony. Scott noted the steps. Fast way down but equally fast the other way.
A man appeared on the balcony. Miller said, “Staar!” He fired a burst. The shots went high and smacked the doorway, spraying bits of shrapnel at Staar, who threw up a hand as he dropped back. Another man, Raeder, took his place, but Raeder stayed flat. He fired at the shadows, missing the commando trio, kicking up dirt and grass. Glinkov and Stiletto fired back. Raeder retreated.
“This is no good,” Stiletto said.
“I’m open to suggestions,” said Glinkov.
Stiletto looked at Miller. Miller nodded.
“Vlad, stay here and keep them occupied. Miller and I will go inside and up.”
“Better hurry.”
“What’s that sound?” Miller said.
A helicopter, swooping in low from the south. The aircraft headed straight for the dacha.
“There’s the pick-up!” Stiletto said.
A spotlight flashed from the belly of the chopper, sweeping the area and stopping on the three commandos.
“Move!” Glinkov
shouted, the three of them scrambling out of the spotlight. Glinkov rolled and stopped suddenly when he hit a bush. He scrambled back on hands and knees and turned to jump into the water.
Stiletto and Miller rolled the opposite way, running to the darkened corner of the house.
The chopper dipped and slowed to a hover over the water.
Glinkov rose from the lake and flame flashed from the muzzle of his weapon. A machine gunner leaned out the chopper’s side door and returned the shots. Glinkov dived into the river.
The chopper landed on the water, the landing-rail pontoons keeping it afloat.
Staar led the way down the balcony steps, Raeder following, Elisa and Zolac in the middle with Lisbeth bringing up the rear.
Stiletto, still at the corner of the house, raised his weapon. Miller grabbed his arm. “No!”
Staar turned at the sound of Miller’s yell, throwing a burst. The shots went wide as Stiletto and Miller ducked back. More covering fire from the helicopter kept them down face first in the grass, as the death-stingers crackled overhead.
Zolac and his crew splashed into the water, Zolac climbing aboard first. The machine gunner continued firing short bursts. Staar, Raeder, and Elisa jumped into the cabin. As Lisbeth began to climb aboard, her foot slipped and she fell into the water. She scrambled up and tried to reach the pontoon again, but she fell a second time.
Zolac shouted an order to the pilot and the chopper lifted off. Staar, Raeder, and the door gunner kept firing until the chopper turned and headed back the way it had come.
Stiletto jumped up and fired an ineffectual burst. The chopper continued on its way.
Miller charged into the water. Lisbeth was getting to her feet; also rising from the water was the Russian agent, Glinkov.
Miller and Lisbeth ran into each other’s arms and hugged tight. She said, “He kept me from getting aboard,” and turned to look at Glinkov.
“We couldn’t lose entirely,” the Russian said.
Lisbeth turned back to Miller and gasped, pushing him away.
Miller turned. Stiletto stood on the slope covering them with the HK.
