by Larry Bond
“What if you’re wrong?”
“Then I kick Corrigan’s ass,” said Ferguson. “We position the truck to cut them off and blow it up with one of the rockets. There’s a spot on the road where we can do that back by that creek.”
“Won’t stop them five minutes.”
“That’s all we need. Five minutes.”
“What if they resist? “
“We hope they don’t,” said Ferg.
“What if they do?”
“Then we deal with them,” said Ferg. “You’re beginning to sound like Rankin.”
“Me? You’re the one who’s blowing up allies.”
“Since when are the Russians our allies.”
“The Chechens sure as hell ain’t.”
Ferguson laid his head back on the seat rest. “Ah, don’t worry, Dad. We’ll give him back when we’re done. I’m betting Yellow Jacket’s smart enough to play it cool.”
“ Whiskey, you’re my darlin’,” sang Conners, changing the subject.
They sat in the car all night and through most of the next day. Finally, around 3:00 p.m. a familiar-looking Lada came out from town. Ferguson was surprised to see that the inspector was alone.
“You sure it’s our guy?” asked Conners.
The lone occupant of the car wore a yellow jacket, but of course Ferguson had no way of knowing until he uploaded the plates to Corrigan to check. Still, he cursed; the agent was obviously going to interview Daruyev in prison. The analysts had told Corrigan that the FSB didn’t trust the security system at the prison — like most Russian jails, it was essentially run by the prisoners and could best be described as ridiculously lax — and so routinely took people outside to talk to them.
“Fuckin’ Corrigan owes me one,” said Ferg.
“So now what?”
“Plan B.”
“Which is what?”
“I make a few phone calls, then get out the laptop and see if the printer I’ve used twice in its life will actually work. Then we talk about how safe it is to cut up the explosives in a mine.”
Conners whistled.
“And in the meantime,” added Ferguson, “you teach me more Irish drinking songs.”
* * *
The Russian inspector completed his interview around 7:00 p.m. and passed them on the road shortly afterward, alone as Ferguson had guessed he would be. The CIA officer immediately began setting up plan B. Shortly after midnight, he dialed a number Corrigan had set up so that calls from his sat phone would appear to originate from the FSB headquarters in Groznyy. He then dialed the prison, reporting to the half-asleep desk sergeant that Daruyev was wanted for additional questioning first thing in the morning back in the capital; he hung up before the sergeant could reach for his coffee and think of any questions to ask.
At five minutes after six, with the sun poking its nose at the red mist around the hills, a small car carrying a pair of Russian FSB officers turned onto the main road to the Brown Fortress. As it came within sight of the prison, it struck a mine apparently placed during the night.
Fortunately, the guerrillas had not set their ambush very well. Instead of obliterating the car as intended, the explosion managed only to take out the trunk. Still, the explosion compressed the vehicle’s gas tank, setting it on fire with an impressive flare of red and orange that could be seen over the nearby hills — and, most importantly, at the fortress itself. The flare and flash were accompanied by several other explosions, as several other nearby mines cooked off. One of the explosions took out the phone line south; while not entirely cutting communications out of the prison, it did complicate them.
The lights inside the fortress blinked on and off several times; before the blinking stopped, the watch commander had ordered a team of soldiers to respond to the disaster, and in the meantime locked down his facility and called all guards to action stations.
When the team of soldiers traveling up the road in an armored car arrived at the site of the rebel ambush, they found the two Russian FSB agents lying near their destroyed vehicle, their clothes singed. One of the men appeared to have had a concussion and spoke incoherently. The other, though his face and body were bruised and his clothes smeared with blood, managed to gain coherence in a few minutes. Some medicinal vodka carried for emergencies by the captain helped clear his senses. Like any good FSB man, he insisted that they must carry out their orders, adamantly cursing the bastard rebels and swearing that they would not keep him from doing his duty.
Which duty he documented with slightly burned and bloodied papers, copied via fax from Moscow, directing that the prisoner known as Jabril Daruyev be taken to Groznyy and reinterviewed by Commander Kruknokov, with a view toward removing him to Moscow for further interrogation.
The two Russian FSB officers — Conners and Ferguson in disguise — were piled into the back of the armored car and taken to the fortress. The nurse on duty at the dispensary marveled at their luck — both men were bruised and scraped, but nonetheless intact.
Officer Androv — Ferguson — said between his swollen lips that this was thanks to his mother’s offering prayers for him every day in Izveska. This was supposed to win him points with the nurse, who according to Corrigan’s research came from Izveska and was a devout member of the Orthodox Church. Either the information was wrong or Ferg’s puffy-mouthed mumbles sounded foreign to her, however; she frowned and started speaking to him quickly about why he had been out on the road when it was still dark. Ferg rubbed his forehead and mumbled again about his orders. The nurse then asked about some of the bruises, which looked a little less than fresh. He shrugged, and insisted God had saved him so he could squeeze the guerrilla rabble by the short hairs.
When they were taken up to see the watch commander, Ferg dropped the connection to Russia’s heartland, instead answering that he had been born in Georgia “before the cataclysm” when the commander asked about his background. Ferguson noticed their orders sitting on the desk and gestured toward them; the commander asked why Kruknokov hadn’t taken the prisoner back with him on his own the day before.
Embarrassed silence had no accent, and the inference that his fellow FSB officer had made a mistake was readily believed by the commander, who did not in fact like the FSB nosing around his domain. As far as he was concerned, the sooner the officers were away, the better. A car was found and the prisoner produced, wearing sets of chains on his hands and feet and a dark hood that made it impossible for him to see.
“Very dangerous,” said the commander, after checking his identity and entering the proper notes in his log and other paperwork.
Ferguson nodded grimly. Two men were assigned to drive them to town.
They were back in the front reception area when the nurse appeared at the end of the hallway, walking with the sort of grim step that could only foretell trouble. Ferg slid his hand into his coat, fingering his Glock. He kept it there as they entered the gate area, ushering the prisoner and their escorts through as the nurse reached the desk.
The guard at the desk called to them, but by now Ferguson had the door to the car open. He pulled at the prisoner and in the same motion jerked back, as if the man had hit him; he pushed the Chechen inside the car, cursing loudly.
One of the guards pulled down his rifle, ready to fire. Ferguson held his hand up, swearing that he would not let the vermin keep him from doing his duty.
“Slide over,” he told the driver, pushing him from behind the wheel. The man started to protest, but Ferguson was well into his act, lathering on anger; the man moved quickly, not wanting to get into trouble with a crazed intelligence officer.
As the guard and the nurse reached the doorway, Ferg turned over the ignition and jabbed the gas pedal. The vehicle stuttered forward through the courtyard, toward the first of the two gates they needed to pass to exit. The guards at the first gate pulled away the metal bars as Ferg approached; he fished into his pocket and waved a piece of paper as he sped through. But the second set of guards were not so easil
y flummoxed. They made Ferg stop and one took the papers from him, going over to the phone at the station next to the wall.
As he picked up the phone, Ferguson launched into a fresh tirade. It was vintage madman: He was fed up with the bureaucratic bullshit that had nearly cost him his life that morning and was undoubtedly responsible for his two brothers going home in bags three years before. Conners and one of the escorts jumped out of the car to calm him down.
As he did, something exploded beyond the wall of the courtyard. It was a grenade, tossed by Conners as the others stared at Ferguson.
Conners grabbed the rifle from the guard closest to him as the others ducked. He fired a burst at the wall, then ran to the gate, burning the clip at an imaginary group of rebels. Ferguson, yelling all the Russian curses he knew — a considerable collection — pushed the barrier aside.
“Get the bastards! Get the bastards!” yelled Ferguson, as if he’d spotted a pack of them.
The others shouted at him to get down; instead, he turned and vowed that no bearded shithead would ever drive him into the ground. The guerrillas outside answered with another grenade; as the others ducked, Ferguson jumped into the car and whipped forward through the gate.
Yet another grenade went off, this one in the courtyard, though a good distance away. Conners just barely managed to grab on to the car, brandishing the AK-47 — which suddenly had a fresh clip in it — as they zipped away.
“That was close,” said Conners, as they sped around the first bend. The turnoff for the truck was about a half mile away.
“Nah.”
“I thought you were going to shoot the guard with your Glock,” said Conners.
“Wasn’t even close,” said Ferguson, though he had in fact palmed the small gun before getting out of the car. “I thought they were going to find the grenades on you when they picked us up on the road. Good thing you have such a fat belly.”
“Smooth, Ferguson, real smooth.”
“Would have been a shitload easier if that nurse didn’t figure it out. Corrigan’s information must have been bad. Fucker couldn’t sift through an intelligence report with a shovel.”
“He’s an officer; what do you expect?” said Conners.
Ferguson slammed on the brakes about a hundred yards before the turnoff. He jumped out and ran to the truck, leaving Conners to take the prisoner. After he started it he climbed up to see if they were being followed. While he couldn’t see the fortress because there was a hill in the way, he could see a curl of dust coming from the road.
Conners, meanwhile, had the prisoner by the arm and dragged him to the truck. He put him in the front cab, then backed out of the hiding spot, rumbling toward the road.
The AK-47 Conners had taken from the guards lay on the ground. Ferguson picked it up and fired the last four bullets into the rear fender of the car. Then he took his shirt and draped it on the ground near the driver’s side door, which he left ajar. Finally, in an inspired bid for greater authenticity, he took off one of his shoes and threw it on the ground nearby.
There was no sense hopping around on one foot, so he yanked off the other and tossed it in the front seat. His soles were callused, but not nearly enough to take the sting out of the rocks and uneven gravel as he ran in his socks up the road about thirty feet. There he grabbed the Russian bazooka he’d hidden there the night before and fired point-blank at the front of the car. He was actually too close to the target; the missile shot upward and rather than hitting the engine compartment went through the windshield, exploding in the passenger compartment. The fireball blew Ferguson back in a tumble, and he smacked his head against the rocks.
By the time he got to his feet, Conners had the truck moving. Ferg started running, then slowed to a trot, the throb in his skull too fierce to permit anything faster. He made the running board on the second try, pulling himself into the cab as his head spun in a dizzy swirl, the world moving on an odd horizontal axis.
Blinking didn’t help; he put his hands to his temples, rubbing as Conners drove.
“Russians are coming,” Ferg told him.
“I figured.”
“Man, my head hurts.”
“Vodka’ll do it to you every time,” said Conners. “By the way, you have to give those Russian RPGs a little more room. They’re not meant for close range.”
“Now you tell me,” said Ferg.
“You’re Americans.”
Ferguson turned his head. “And you’re not,” he told the Chechen, who was trussed and hooded beside him.
“What are you doing with me?” The Chechen’s English was very good, and his accent shaded toward American, though it had an obvious foreign ring to it. Though that made it easier for Ferguson to talk to him, it angered him — Corrigan’s background data on him had not included any of this information. Once more, their intelligence had failed; the fact that it was in their favor was besides the point.
“We’re going to ask you some questions and get some answers,” said Ferg.
“Then what?”
“Then we’ll see. How do you speak English?”
The Chechen hesitated, suspecting an elaborate Russian trick.
“Last night, you were interviewed by a Russian FSB agent,” said Ferguson. “He asked you about a man named Novakich. He may or may not have explained why he was interested in him.”
“I’ve been interviewed many times,” said the prisoner.
“Yeah, but not about a dead man.”
“How do you know Novakich is dead?”
Ferguson’s head hurt too much to play games. The best thing at that point was just to ship the bastard back to Guantanamo and let the intelligence geeks put the drug into him.
“I might be able to help you,” said the prisoner after a few minutes. “If you got me away from the Russians.”
Ferguson ignored the Chechen — he figured it was just bullshit — and rummaged in his bag for some aspirin.
“How are you going to help us?” said Conners.
“A few weeks ago, someone came to me looking for information about radiological bombs.”
“What’s a radiological bomb?” asked Conners.
“A bomb built from waste,” said the Chechen.
“Who?”
“The Russians call him Kiro. He’s not the one you have to worry about,” added Daruyev.
“Who’s worried?” said Ferguson.
“Allah’s Fist is building a weapon. They’re taking hospital waste and storing it.”
“Yeah?” said Ferguson skeptically. “Where?”
The Chechen said nothing.
“How come you’re ratting on your friends?” said Conners.
“They’re not my friends.”
“Fair enough,” said Ferg. He waved at Conners, trying to make him shut up.
“Allah’s Fist is not part of the freedom movement,” said Daruyev. “And I do not think that Kiro is. He is slime.”
“Unlike you,” said Conners.
“Eyes on the road, Dad,” said Ferguson, exasperated.
Daruyev remained silent as they drove northward. There was a small town about four miles ahead; there were bound to be Russian troops there, and Ferg didn’t want to chance being stopped. Instead, they headed toward what looked on the sat photo to be an abandoned farm to the west, figuring they could sit in the ruins until nightfall. By then, he’d have hooked up with Van on an exfiltration plan; no way he was driving all the way to Georgia again.
“My war is against the Russians,” said Daruyev. “There was a time when Americans helped me, and because of that, I will help you now.”
Ferguson sighed wearily and slid sideways in the seat. “Well, fire away then,” he told the Chechen. “We’re all ears.”
11
BUILDING 24-442, SUBURBAN VIRGINIA — SEVERAL HOURS LATER
Though he had been with the CIA for more than two decades, Thomas Ciello had never been in the Cube, otherwise known as Building 24-442. In fact, he had never physically been to th
e “campus” where it was located — campus being a somewhat overblown term for the collection of warehouse buildings on the cul-de-sac just off the Beltway.
While the warehouses and the small administrative building called 24-442 behind them looked like typical industrial architecture, they were anything but. Beneath the outer metal were thick concrete bunkers extending deep into the ground. Each held several floors of disk arrays organized according to an arcane system that even Ciello, an experienced Agency analyst, only partly understood.
Ciello had not been told why he was to report to Building 24-442. He hoped, however, that it had something to do with a memo he had sent to the director three weeks before. The memo detailed his findings on an unofficial research project he had been conducting practically since his first day in the Company’s employ: Ciello believed he had found definitive proof in the CIA records that extraterrestrial explorers had visited the earth.
Thomas knew, of course, that the CIA had purposely promulgated UFO reports over the years as part of a disinformation campaign to draw attention from various “black” programs ranging from overflights of the Soviet Union in the 1950s to the development of stealth aircraft and UAVs in the Nevada desert during the 1970s and ‘80s. But he had meticulously separated chaff from fact, lie from radar contact. His memo had been distilled from a six-hundred-page, single-spaced report; he planned on forwarding the entire report as soon as his memo was officially acknowledged. At that point, he reasoned, the hierarchy would establish a “committee” to investigate, along the lines of the British Ministry of Defense’s UFO Team.
Oddly, this had not yet occurred, and in fact he had started to believe the e-mail had somehow been misdirected before the request to appear at Building 24-442 arrived.
He showed his creds at the gate and drove quickly to the assigned parking slot behind the thick berm separating the buildings from the roadway. His pulse started to rise as soon as he locked his car, and by the time he cleared through the elaborate security at the entrance to 24-442, his hands were trembling uncontrollably.
