Cold Warriors (A Special Agent Dylan Kane Thriller, Book #3)

by J. Robert Kennedy

  Kane laughed, loving the awkwardness of the still developing Leroux. He had a stunning girlfriend, CIA Agent Sherrie White who was the exact opposite of Leroux—outgoing, personable, fun. She had fallen for him and they were now living together, her personality slowly pulling Leroux out of his lonely hole of bachelorhood, self-imposed due to extreme shyness. He was a good looking kid, just never been kissed—at least not enough for a man his age.

  Sherrie certainly took care of that!

  “Fine. Listen, I need a favor from you. I’ve already sent in a secure packet for analysis, but I need the best. How’s your schedule?”

  He heard giggling in the background and the sounds of an embarrassed Leroux shushing Sherrie who apparently was checking the hanging status of something.

  “Open enough, I guess,” managed Leroux between grunts, giggles and protests.

  Kane grinned.

  “How about you take care of business there first otherwise you won’t be able to concentrate. Get back to me through secure channels when you have something for me.”

  “Hey! Not while I’m on the phone!” came a muffled protest, the phone mouthpiece not properly covered. The sound of a hand uncovering the phone had Kane wondering exactly what was going on, a little jealous of the action his friend was apparently getting.

  Get it while you can buddy! I’ve been holed up in Chechnya with nada available!

  “I’ll get back to you as soon as I can,” said Leroux.

  “Okay, thanks buddy, bye.”

  Kane killed the call to free up his friend and his libido, placing the phone back on the table, then dropped on the bed, the squeaking of the metal springs loud and disturbing, this being a fairly dry climate.

  Within minutes he was asleep, his mind a turmoil of thoughts on what Crimson Rush might be, then turning to the cute Chechen girl, her mother nowhere to be found.

  Sheremetyevo International Airport

  Moscow, Union of Soviet Socialist Republics (USSR)

  February 6, 1982

  Alex West, CIA Special Agent, or spy for lack of a better word, shuffled along the long line of those waiting to clear customs at Moscow’s Sheremetyevo International Airport, his Aeroflot Ilyushin Il-86 four engine wide body having landed about forty minutes before. He had his suitcase and carry-on with him, and his ass was killing him from the threadbare seats he had been forced to endure, the cushion flattened down to the metal frame.

  Soviet superiority my ass.

  Ten years ago it wouldn’t have bothered him, but now in his mid-forties, he knew he was reaching the end of his useful life as a spy. He kept himself in top physical shape, that was essential, but he knew it was just a matter of time before the old bones just couldn’t keep up with the young ones they were competing with.

  The line shuffled forward.

  His disguise was simple. Look exactly the same as he had every other time he’d been here. Trying to disguise yourself like in the movies was dangerous. Very dangerous. If you were pulled aside, explaining false mustaches, dyed eyebrows and cotton stuffed cheeks was difficult. But a well-crafted background identity, consistent mannerisms, and confidence with zero arrogance would get you through almost every time.

  The KGB usually knew who you were when you came through, it was the customs guys you didn’t want blowing your entry. The KGB didn’t want them blowing your entry either—they wanted to know what the hell you were up to.

  He reached the kiosk and handed over his papers, a perfectly forged Canadian passport and a perfectly valid Soviet Visa, a detailed itinerary showing hotel, planned meetings, etc, and a thin smile without a trace of worry on his face. He’d been here dozens of times, using this same passport, and the same cover story.

  “Your purpose here in the Soviet Union, Mr. West?”

  The accent was as thick as the man’s mustache, and rather than answer him in Russian, which West spoke perfectly with a trace of an Odessan accent, he stuck to English, his cover unilingual.

  “Business, and I hope to squeeze a little bit of pleasure in of course,” he replied.

  “And what type of business are you here to conduct?”

  “I represent a company that sells farm equipment. I do a lot of business with your government, especially around this time of year when we’re nearing planting season.”

  “And you feel your equipment is superior to our Soviet designs?”

  West knew he was being baited. Less experienced agents quite often tripped up here, sending themselves down a path that attracted attention, too eager to avoid offending and raising suspicions.

  “Absolutely. Our company is famous across the world for its farm equipment. Our latest combine is capable of clearing more acres of—”

  “And what type of pleasure do you wish to ‘squeeze’ in while you are here?”

  “Some of your fine cuisine, perhaps a visit to the ballet if possible. No one can match your dancers.”

  “It appears we agree on one thing, Mr. West.”

  And with that a large stamp was slammed against his passport and other documents, and he was waved on. West took the documents and nodded, not saying another word as he pulled his luggage through the airport and out to where a limited number of cabs waited, mostly first generation Volga GAZ-24’s with an easy to hose down all vinyl interior that oozed comfort, their lime yellow paint job with heavy chrome a pale imitation of the yellow cabs of New York City. Looking about at the drab Moscow streets that greeted him, any color nature might have provided pushed south by the harsh winter, he wondered if the country even had yellow paint.

  He tapped on the trunk of an idling cab and it popped, the driver staying inside the warmth of the vehicle. West placed his bags in the trunk, slammed the lid shut then climbed in the back of the vehicle, already thankful for the semi-warm interior, the heaters in these barely adequate by North American standards.

  He was asked where he wanted to go in Russian, but since his cover had no clue what was said, he replied, “Do you speak English?”

  “Da,” replied the gruff voice, the man occupying the front seat large, bearded and weathered, his skin a thick leather from decades of lye-based soaps, inadequate insulation and a cold and lonely job.

  “Berlin Hotel, please.”

  The man nodded, a slight smile creasing the leather as he realized he might be in for a large tip, the hotel one of the finer ones available, only used by the Party elite and foreign visitors. It used to be called the Savoy, but the Party had it renamed to cater to wealthy Germans and Austrians. The same Party members wouldn’t tip him should they grace his cab rather than take an official car, but tourists and foreign businessmen were in the habit, quite often taking pity on the poor souls relegated to this side of the Iron Curtain.

  “Very nice place, da?” asked the man as the cab pulled from the curb and into the barely existent traffic.

  “Yes it is.”

  “You’ve been there before?”

  West looked at the reflection in the rearview mirror, nodding.

  “Many times.”

  “You important business man, da?”

  West chuckled, shaking his head.

  “Business man, yes. Important, no.”

  As they turned on to Volokolamskoye Highway the cab driver glanced in his side mirror, then his rearview and became silent for a moment, glancing between his passenger and the mirrors.

  “I think you’re more important than you think you are,” muttered the man in Russian.

  “Sorry?”

  “Ah, nothing,” replied the now nervous man. “We almost there, I get you there in good time.”

  West shifted slightly in his seat so he could see through the side mirror without making it obvious. A black sedan, standard issue KGB, was behind them, the same one he had seen pull out after them from the airport.

  He had successfully acquired his tail.

  Now all he had to do was lose them.

  CIA Headquarters, Langley, Virginia

  Present Day
>
  CIA analyst Chris Leroux held his right hand out, watching it shake slightly. His Red Bull habit was back with a vengeance. It had been fueling him since the New Orleans crisis, allowing him to put in extra hours on his delayed assignment to find out who The Assembly were, and what they were up to. What he did know was that The Assembly was an ultra-secret organization made up of senior corporate executives as well as government officials, including elected politicians, some voluntarily, some coerced.

  They claimed to be the puppet masters pulling the strings of society, and claimed it was for a long time.

  It was why he had a 24/7 security detail, and why he was working late nights. He had an accidental breakthrough during the New Orleans crisis when the President essentially suspended the Constitution, allowing all taps to be opened without warrant requirements. His automated searches had been working behind the scenes, constantly seeking out any mention of The Assembly or the few things they knew this organization had been involved with and the few people, all dead, that had ties.

  The searches had produced nothing until the blocks had been lifted.

  After the crisis when he examined his files he had found a single hit but hadn’t opened it. He knew if he did, and it went to court, the evidence would be tossed due to the lack of a warrant.

  His boss, National Clandestine Service Chief for the CIA, Leif Morrison, had told him to ignore it, fruit of the poisoned tree. He wanted to take down the network legally. Leroux hadn’t said anything, his personality not one to challenge, but felt it was a mistake. It was more important to take them out, not take them to court.

  Kane would have opened the attachment.

  Leroux, hand still shaking, flipped over to his secure email and clicked on the email in question, highlighting it in the long list of false positives.

  Open it!

  His finger hovered over the mouse button, shaking, spasm after spasm urging him to click, fake an accidental click, do something.

  Take action!

  His computer beeped with a tone indicating something urgent had just arrived for him. Sighing, he flipped over to his main Inbox and saw the email containing the results of his search Kane had requested. His heart pounded a little faster as he opened it and began to read.

  By the time he was finished reading the single hit found in the archival database, his heart was slamming in his chest. He leaned back in his chair, sweat having broken out on his forehead. He wiped it with the back of his hand, then his hand on his pants as he mentally processed what he had just read.

  Why is Kane asking about Crimson Rush?

  He knew he was on an op, and that it was classified as per usual, but he knew enough from the other intel requests he had seen that it seemed to be Chechen related, except for one group of Russian ID requests that was almost immediately followed by a reprioritization.

  And now he knew why.

  “Holy shit!” he muttered.

  “What?”

  His head spun toward the voice as his fingers instinctively raced for the keyboard to blank the screen, his brain not yet registering the voice belonged to his girlfriend. He smiled at her, his fingers still doing their job as he spun his chair toward the love of his life. In fact, she was the only woman he had ever loved. And the only woman he had ever really been “with” if you didn’t count the couple of pity “dates” he had been on years ago. He was a late bloomer, and probably never would have bloomed if it weren’t for this incredible woman who had taken a chance on a dork, thanks in no small part to his best friend, and perhaps his only friend, Dylan Kane.

  It had been a lonely life.

  He raised his chin as Agent Sherrie White leaned in for a kiss. But instead of their lips meeting, she gave him a gentle smack on his cheek, wagging a finger at him then pointing at the half-empty can of Red Bull.

  “How many is that today?”

  Leroux flushed.

  “Do you mean since we came in this morning, or since midnight last night?”

  “You mean there’s been enough to actually warrant a different count?”

  He shrugged.

  She dropped in the spare chair in his cubicle.

  “I thought you were going to stop?”

  “It’s a hard habit to break,” he replied, his eyes bouncing around the office, finally settling on her breasts for a moment, then her face. Sherrie pointed at her breasts.

  “Until you quit, this treasure chest is off limits.”

  His eyebrows shot up as his eyes dropped to where she was pointing, just to be certain she wasn’t talking about some other chest. Then the question begged to be asked if the quarantine included other bits and pieces. He opened his mouth.

  “And yes, that includes everything.” She leaned over and squeezed his leg, causing a twitch. “That’s all the sugar you get until you’re off the energy drinks.”

  His shoulders slumped. He eyed the can, sleek and narrow, the grey and blue longtime friends to a lonely existence occupied in an office that fed off of people like him, willing to go above and beyond the call of duty and devote their lives to the organization not due to patriotism, but due to a lack of better options. Those doing it were mostly young, male and single.

  It had sucked.

  And he hadn’t realized how badly it had sucked until Sherrie was in his life.

  “Fine,” he said, not wanting to lose the nookie over a drink. “I won’t touch the stuff again.”

  She smiled, satisfied.

  “Good.” She motioned toward the locked screens with her chin.

  “Same old stuff?” she asked, privy to his long term assignment.

  “No, something for a friend.”

  She knew immediately who he was talking about.

  And only nodded, knowing she wasn’t cleared for the intel.

  “Then I’ll leave you to it,” she replied, leaning in and faking him out on a kiss, instead turning her head at the last moment so his lips met her cheek. She picked up the can, wagging it at him between her thumb and forefinger. “Don’t forget. You drinkie, no nookie.”

  He shook his head with an awkward smile, still not certain how to respond in these types of situations.

  “I promise.”

  She bounced on her toes.

  “Good!”

  She winked and left him alone, his response apparently appropriate. A quick glance at his watch told him he had about two hours before the caffeine crash would hit him. Fortunately that was about the time his shift was over and they’d be heading home.

  Unless Kane needs me.

  He forwarded the intel to his friend, his thoughts of Sherrie pushed to the background as the intel he had just read flooded back. The implications were terrifying. The terrorist potential was massive. It was a worst case scenario type threat. The question was why were the Russians selling it to Chechen rebels? They were enemies in the post-Soviet era.

  He didn’t have answers, and he didn’t know who knew what he now knew. It was time to see the Director.

  If the Homeland Security Advisory System was still in effect, we’d be at Red for sure.

  As if the world were reading his mind, an alarm sounded, a single harsh pulse of what mimicked a klaxon. He had never heard it before, and had hoped to never hear it in his lifetime. He knew what it was, they all knew what it was as the entire office stood.

  The Defense Readiness Condition or DEFCON indicator on the wall at the front of the large room crammed with analysts was flashing, the blue “Normal Readiness” indicator of 5 no longer lit, the green indicator of 4 now flashing—“Above Normal Readiness”.

  Jesus Christ! Someone does have Crimson Rush!

  Berlin Hotel (Formerly Savoy), Moscow, USSR

  February 6, 1982

  Alex West lay on his fairly comfortable bed, the mattress far better than many of the flea bags he had stayed in over his career. He was completely naked, his legs spread, his arms spread, as he examined the room without moving. He knew for certain there were listening devices. The q
uestion was whether or not there were cameras as well. His in the buff spread-eagle display was designed to cause those who might be observing to look away from the camera.

  Men don’t stare at naked men, even when ordered to.

  They look away, which meant his close observation of the room from his vantage point might just not be noticed, and instead excused as a man relaxing after a long shower and an even longer journey. And a generous amount of vodka. The ceiling was plaster and solid, a white dulled into a dark cream from years of cigarette smoke, the lone light overhead, its brass fixture in need of polishing touched recently, but with one of the three bulbs shining brighter than the others, he assumed maintenance. The light was still an option, but it was such an obvious option, he felt no self-respecting spy agency would use it.

  No, he was looking for something that would give coverage to the entire room, but not easily discoverable like the camera in the bathroom, his long, hot shower having revealed a difference in the fog on the mirror where the camera was hidden. A shaving cream accident covered it up for a minute while he had scanned the bathroom for listening devices with his modified transistor radio.

  It had whistled at the ceiling light.

  Now the game in the main room, examining everything carefully from a distance, narrowing down the list he’d have to check more closely. The advantage he had over looking for listening devices was there was no way to transmit a video signal without a device far too large to hide in small places. Audio was easily transmittable, but video? Nope.

  Perhaps one day?

  Which meant any video device would need a wire, and that wire meant it had to be either in the walls or close to the walls.

  There was an impressive painting over the headboard which would be a prime candidate for hotel room shenanigans to be taped, but again an obvious choice. He reached down with one hand and scratched his kibbles and bits as he reached with the other arm and stretched up, pulling the painting out from the wall a bit.

  Nothing.

  Reaching up with the other hand, he duplicated the stretch to avoid suspicion, then turned his attention to the one other painting on the wall, a typical Soviet style piece showing a worker toiling in the field, a young child handing a water filled ladle to the man, a woman in the background hauling a bundle of hand-reaped wheat over her shoulder, all with smiles.