The Roswell Conspiracy tl-3

by Boyd Morrison

  Tyler looked at his watch: 9:40 a.m. Twenty minutes early for their appointment. “That would explain why she hasn’t texted back.”

  They followed the tracks for half a mile until they reached a stately white clapboard home with an attached garage. Behind it was a large red barn. Except for a few evergreens surrounding the house, the countryside was bare of trees. A fence disappeared into the hills on either side.

  The snow tracks separated into a pair that led to the garage and a second set leading to a Toyota sedan parked in the circular driveway in front of the house. Grant pulled up next to it.

  Tyler got out and laid his hand on the Toyota’s hood. Still warm, just like he expected. No rancher would drive a sedan. Two pairs of footprints wound to the door. Fay must have visitors.

  No sheep or ranch hands were visible, probably out working somewhere on the station’s two thousand acres.

  “Nice place,” Grant said.

  “Looks like ranching has been good to her. Shall we say howdy?”

  Grant nodded, and they crunched through the snow. When they were within ten feet of the front door, two shotgun blasts erupted from inside the house.

  Their Army training kicking in, Tyler and Grant both dived to their bellies without hesitation. Grant gave him a look and silently mouthed, “What the hell?”

  Tyler was about to suggest they make a hasty retreat to the Audi when he was stopped by a woman’s shout, followed by a third shotgun blast closer to the right side of the home. Tyler turned his head and saw a man skid around the corner of the house.

  He raised a pistol, but before Tyler could yell, “Don’t shoot,” the stranger fired wildly in their direction, bullet impacts kicking up snow all around them.

  That was all the prodding they needed to find cover. Grant scrambled toward the house and rammed the front door open like a charging rhino. Tyler was hot on his heels and slammed it closed once he crossed the threshold.

  The hallway seemed shrouded in darkness until Tyler realized he was still wearing his sunglasses. When he doffed them, he saw that shards of a broken lamp littered the floor and buckshot holes peppered the wall.

  From his right came the unmistakable sound of a pump-action shotgun chambering a new round. Tyler looked up to see a striking woman who had to be seventy-five-year-old Fay Turia, though she didn’t look a day over sixty. In her white hair cropped just below the ears, slim sporty figure, and bright green eyes, Tyler perceived the echo of the stunning beauty she must have been fifty years ago. Only the wrinkles around her eyes and neck and several liver spots on her hands betrayed her true age. She held the shotgun firm to her shoulder, as if she were not merely comfortable with the weapon but adept at handling it.

  “Who are you?” she growled. The yawning barrel was the size of a manhole at this distance. Smoke wafted from it.

  Tyler put up his hands. “I’m Tyler Locke. You must be Fay. I believe you invited me and my friend, Grant Westfield, for a friendly visit.”

  Recognition dawned on her face, and the scowl melted away, replaced by a toothsome smile.

  “Welcome to my home, Dr. Locke,” she said cheerfully, as if she were about to serve tea and crumpets instead of hot lead. “Would you mind terribly calling the police?”

  TWO

  Nadia Bedova stared at the water glass, hoping that Vladimir Colchev would not show up. Nestled next to her feet was the package that he’d requested.

  Her seat at the outdoor café afforded a spectacular view of the Sydney Harbour Bridge, clusters of tourists visible along its spine partaking in the Bridge Climb. A cruise ship docked across Circular Quay provided the backdrop for ferries, catamarans, and jet boats motoring past the ivory shells of the famed opera house.

  Despite her calm expression, Bedova’s stomach churned as she waited. Four of her fellow operatives from Russia’s foreign intelligence service — the Sluzhba Vneshney Razvedki or SVR for short — were stationed at key locations nearby: two in the crowded walkway between the café and water, one at another table outside, and a fourth inside the restaurant housed under a five-story apartment tower. In addition to the mass of tourists strolling along, bikers and skateboarders occasionally rolled through. None of them would escape the operatives’ notice. They were here to apprehend Colchev or, if necessary, to kill him.

  His actions had driven her reluctantly to this point. If he had just disappeared, he might have been left alone. But his last contact with her made it obvious that the SVR would have to bring him in or get rid of him once and for all.

  A voice issued from the tiny microphone in her ear. One of the men in the walkway.

  “I see him. One hundred meters behind you and coming this way.”

  Bedova didn’t turn. “Is he alone?”

  “Yes.”

  The agents had already checked everyone else in the vicinity, and nobody seemed suspicious or put in place to help Colchev. He really was on his own, just as he’d said on the phone this morning.

  She felt him touch her shoulder and didn’t flinch. She looked up and saw him smiling back at her. He was as fit as she’d ever seen him — broad shoulders, slim hips, steely gray hair — and she suddenly experienced a rush of memories of when they’d been together.

  He bent down and lightly kissed her cheek. Then he came around the café’s front railing and took a seat opposite her. Now that he was in the shade, he removed his sunglasses and the intense eyes she remembered drilled into her.

  “You look lovely, Nadia,” he said in a silky bass, using his native Russian.

  She responded in kind. “I miss you, Vladimir. Why don’t you come home?”

  “You know I can’t do that. At least not yet.”

  “When then?”

  “I have something to do first.”

  “Is that why you needed this?” Bedova handed the bag over to him. He unzipped it, confirmed that the contents were complete and intact, and then closed it back up.

  “Thank you, Nadia. I know procuring this must have been difficult.” He withdrew an envelope from his jacket and slid it across the table to her.

  “I can’t take that,” she said.

  “You deserve it. For everything you’ve done.”

  She ignored the bulging envelope and leaned forward, taking his hands. “You must tell me what you’re doing. I want to help you.” She knew all four operatives, as well as her superiors back in Moscow, were hanging on every word.

  Up to this point, the only intel they’d had to go on was courtesy of a single encrypted communication intercepted from one of Colchev’s known associates that referred to “Wisconsin Ave.” and an event taking place on July twenty-fifth, less than a week away. The belief within the organization was that he was planning a rogue op using former SVR operatives turned mercenaries and that the target was somewhere in America.

  “I wish you could come with me,” Colchev said, “but the risk is too great.”

  “When I volunteered for the SVR, I knew the risks.”

  “I meant the risk to my mission.”

  “You don’t trust me?”

  Colchev turned to watch a passing ferry. “What I’m planning takes a special conviction. Honestly, I don’t think you would have the stomach to follow through.”

  “Why?”

  “It’s better that you don’t know.”

  She let go of his hands and sat back. “Did you know I have spoken to the head of the SVR?”

  Colchev’s head snapped around. “Why?”

  “I didn’t tell him about our meeting. I wanted to know what he had planned for you if you returned.”

  “A sham trial followed by a swift execution, I expect.”

  “No, he said that he understands that the situation wasn’t your fault. And he knows that you have another operation in motion. He wants to know if there is any way he can help you.”

  Colchev was silent as he examined her for deceit. Like him, she was an expert at lying, which she was doing now. Her objective was to find out about Colchev
’s current plan. The director was hoping that Colchev would bring her onto his team or at least give her some hint of his mission. Barring that, the four operatives were instructed to move in and take him as soon as he walked out of the café with the bag. Bedova couldn’t have asked for a more wrenching assignment: to bring in the man she had once loved to be executed just as he’d theorized.

  Colchev had created the spy ring that included Anna Chapman and nine other spies who were exposed by the US counterintelligence agencies in 2010. To prevent divulgence of their intelligence-gathering methods, the Russians retrieved them by swapping four imprisoned Russian intel officers who had been moles for the Americans. Nobody had been happy about the deal, but the SVR couldn’t allow the spies in America to reveal any more than they already had.

  Someone had to be blamed for the debacle, and the obvious choice had been Colonel Alexander Poteyev, the SVR agent who’d sold the spies’ identities to the Americans for thirty thousand dollars. But internally, the fault rested with Colchev, the man responsible for setting up the entire operation in the first place. If he wasn’t incompetent for letting the Americans discover the spies, then he was complicit. Either way, he had to be dealt with. Permanently.

  “Nadia,” Colchev finally said, “they have already tried Poteyev in absentia and found him guilty of treason. He’s now a non-person in Russia. If it weren’t for the CIA’s protection, he’d be dead by now.”

  “Why didn’t you go into protective custody like Poteyev?”

  Colchev’s jaw worked back and forth, and then he spoke in a hush. “Because I’m not a traitor. I didn’t sell out my country. I hate America for everything they’ve done to Russia. I’m a patriot.”

  “Then prove it. Come back with me and tell them the truth.”

  “They aren’t interested in the truth. They want a show trial to save face. It will accomplish nothing.”

  “Then what are you going to do?”

  “I have assets in the US that I never revealed because I feared Poteyev’s treachery myself. Because they weren’t compromised, I saw my opportunity to act independently, and I’m taking it. I’m going to prove my allegiance to Russia and the SVR. And when I do, my men and I will be welcomed back to our homeland as heroes.”

  “But what can you possibly do that we can’t?” Bedova asked.

  “Something that takes will. Now that I’m a non-person, whatever I do can be blamed on a rogue spy. I didn’t ask for this status, but since I have it, I will take advantage of it and do what Russia never could without fearing retaliation. Once they see the results, they will do everything they can to reward me.”

  “I don’t understand.” Her gaze lingered on the bag holding the equipment Colchev had requested. “How will Icarus make this operation possible?”

  Colchev tilted his head as if considering a decision. “Are you sure you want to be a part of this?”

  She had reached him. Now she had to delve into his mission. “Are you planning an attack?”

  He smiled. “I am planning to strike a blow that will change the course of history and Russia’s place in it. I have—”

  Colchev’s phone buzzed. He stood and picked up the bag. This was it, as soon as he left the café, the operatives would move in and grab him.

  But instead of leaving, he put the bag on his seat and held up a finger. “Excuse me while I take this call. Then I’ll share my plans with you.”

  He stepped away to a pillar by the side of restaurant, just out of earshot.

  “Can you hear anything?” she said without moving her lips.

  “Nothing,” one operative said.

  “Keep an eye on him,” said another.

  “He won’t leave without the bag,” Bedova said. “He needs it for some reason, and he’s about to tell us why.”

  Bedova felt a rush of air blow by her, and the swift hand of a bicyclist snatched the bag from Colchev’s seat. He threw the satchel over his shoulder and pedaled away furiously, scattering yelling pedestrians in every direction.

  The thief, who was wearing shorts and a T-shirt, must have thought it was Bedova’s luggage carelessly placed across from her, but he would get a rude surprise when he saw that it held no money, jewelry, or electronics.

  Before she could call for help, the other operatives were shouting in her ear.

  “Get him!”

  “He’s too fast!”

  “Cut him off!”

  The operative seated at the café tried to jump across the railing to stop the cyclist, but he was too late, as were the agents in the walkway and the one bursting out of the restaurant’s interior.

  Bedova knew that Colchev would be just as concerned with retrieving the sack, but when she turned, she couldn’t see him. The wail of an alarm coming from that direction cut through the other noises.

  “What happened to Colchev?” she said.

  “He was right there a moment ago!” came the harried reply. “I looked away for a second, and then he was gone.”

  Bedova grabbed the envelope and leaped out of her chair. She ran through the café to see a fire exit from the adjoining apartment tower click shut. The alarm it had tripped continued to shriek. Because it was a metal door with no exterior handle, someone inside must have opened it for Colchev.

  Only then did she realize that the whole scenario had been a setup. Colchev had chosen the restaurant, no doubt paying off the waiter to steer Bedova toward the seat she’d taken. He had used the cyclist as a distraction, giving him enough time to duck into the building.

  She took off after the other men chasing the rider, who disappeared around the corner of the building.

  Pumping her arms, she sprinted after him, rounding the building not far behind the other agents. As the cyclist came into view, she saw him dump the bike at Macquarie Street. A van screeched to a halt next to him. He hopped in and the van sped away.

  She heard it stop again only a few seconds later. She kept running, and when she got to the street, she could see Colchev climbing into the van. He caught sight of her and gave her a wave. He mouthed “Spasebo” and the door shut. The van accelerated and whipped around the corner.

  “Did you see the plate?” one agent said.

  “Don’t bother,” Bedova replied. “It’ll be a stolen number.”

  Their own van arrived a minute later, but by now the trail was too cold. Colchev could be heading in any one of six directions.

  Bedova patted the envelope in her pocket and withdrew it. She opened it to find a stack of hundred-dollar Australian bills. They were wrapped in a white sheet of notepaper.

  She unfolded it and saw Colchev’s handwriting.

  I don’t blame you for trying, Nadia, because you are a patriot, too. But don’t get in my way again.

  THREE

  Tyler was surprised when the men who’d attacked Fay didn’t jump into their car and drive away, instead taking up positions covering both sides of the house with their pistols. Tyler, Grant, and Fay had retreated to the top floor to wait there until the cavalry arrived. The only time she had left them was to duck into the living room and retrieve a canvas satchel that now sat by her side.

  “Have you ever fired a Remington twelve-gauge, dear?” Fay said to Grant. The weapon that had loomed like a howitzer in Fay’s hands looked like a pea shooter in Grant’s.

  “I’ve handled a few in my day,” Grant replied.

  “He was in the Army Ranger Regiment,” Tyler said. “He could shoot an RPG if you had one.”

  “No, the New Zealand government won’t let us own those, I’m afraid,” Fay said. Tyler didn’t know whether or not she was seriously chastising her adopted country for not allowing her to own a rocket-propelled grenade until she winked at him.

  “You don’t have any more ammo, do you?” Grant asked. “We’re down to four shells.”

  “No. It was my husband’s gun, God rest his soul, and I hadn’t fired it in years until today.”

  Fay’s initial calm demeanor hadn’t been an act. Onc
e they’d heard that the police were on their way, Tyler had expected her to collapse from the strain. Instead, she’d methodically related the events preceding their stumble through the front door, although she did give Grant the shotgun, which he kept trained on the stairwell.

  Fay had been traveling in the US for the past two weeks, and she had returned to Queenstown that morning, in time for her meeting with Tyler. Five minutes after she got home, two men knocked at the door. New Zealand normally being a safe place, Fay didn’t think twice about letting them in, especially when they said they were there representing Tyler Locke, who unfortunately wasn’t going to be able to come himself.

  The men, both of whom spoke with American accents, seemed to know everything about the meeting, including the ten o’clock appointment they’d set, so she showed them her artifacts from Roswell. The lean blond man who’d shot at Tyler and Grant called himself Foreman, and the other one, a hulking giant sporting a black goatee, went by the name of Blaine. They wanted to know whether she’d ever come in contact with an opalescent metallic material, and she told them she honestly didn’t know what they were talking about.

  Fay was already beginning to suspect their motives when she went into the kitchen to fetch a pot of tea and saw Tyler’s text message that he would be early.

  Calling from the kitchen, she asked Foreman and Blaine where Tyler was, and they claimed he hadn’t been able to make the trip from America. Instead of coming back with a tray of Earl Grey and scones, she entered the living room holding the shotgun.

  The men put up their hands and moved as if to leave, but one of them drew a pistol, and that’s when the shooting started.

  “I guess those two will think twice before underestimating an old lady again,” she said.

  Fay certainly didn’t fit the image of an elderly pensioner. Tyler guessed she kept herself fit working the sheep station. Her hands were callused and she had lines on her face from being outdoors in the sun, but the sweater she wore left no doubt that she had some muscle on her bones, holding the shotgun with ease. She was the antithesis of a doddering grandmother.