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

by J. Robert Kennedy

  “Let’s hope good men have her now.”

  Zorkin shook his head.

  “That, I cannot say.”

  “What now?”

  Zorkin raised his weapon again.

  “You come with me, and I try to keep you alive.”

  Alex West Residence, Black Forest, Germany

  Present Day

  Dylan Kane took a polite sip of his tea as the old man’s name played through his head, coming up blank.

  “Biscuits!” exclaimed his host, jumping from his chair and rushing back to the kitchen. “Mustn’t forget the biscuits,” muttered the voice, Kane beginning to feel like Luke Skywalker with Yoda preparing dinner. If he found himself whining about meeting a CIA master he’d slit his own throat.

  West returned, a tray filled with cookies, tea biscuits, crumpets and other assorted treats proudly held out in front. Placing them on the table next to the tea service, he returned to his seat, it too with a good view of the front door and window. The old man looked slightly uncomfortable in it, as if Kane had taken his favorite chair.

  “They’re all homemade, I assure you,” said West, motioning toward the tray. “Please, try something.”

  Kane was starving, his stomach rumbling at the array of food in front of him. He selected a tea biscuit, splitting it in two, a burst of steam escaping, these clearly having come out of the oven recently. Kane had to assume this West was a former spy. It made him wonder of his own future. Would he too be living like a hermit, off the grid, baking treats and drinking tea?

  No effin’ way.

  He had always expected to be six feet under or vaporized, an anonymous star added to the Memorial Wall at Langley, mourned by few if any. He just hoped it wasn’t something stupid. If he were to go out, he wanted to be going out serving his country, doing something useful, bettered by a better man, not dying because he goofed.

  He bit into the tea biscuit and nearly died.

  “This is fantastic!” he exclaimed, genuinely surprised at the man’s culinary skills.

  West beamed with pride, himself selecting a crumpet and buttering it.

  “I’m pleased you like it. And also pleased you trusted me enough to taste something before I did.”

  Kane chewed through his chuckle, swallowing as he held up a finger indicating a response was to come. His mouth clear, he said, “I figured you’d poison or drug the tea. Much simpler.”

  “True, but you hate hot drinks. Maybe I couldn’t be sure you’d actually drink it, or enough.”

  Kane’s eyebrows jumped at the statement.

  “Now how the hell do you know I don’t like hot drinks?”

  West laughed.

  “You just told me.”

  “Uh huh.”

  “Deductive reasoning. You’ve barely touched your tea, you were uncertain even what to ask me to put in it, and every sip has been accompanied by a painful expression. Not to mention that at every rest-stop along the way here you never bought coffee, you bought Coke Light or some other caffeinated soft drink as opposed to the traditional large cup of coffee most road warriors use to stay alert.”

  “So that was your man following me?”

  West nodded.

  “When did you make him?”

  “Pulling out of the airport.”

  “That quickly?”

  Kane nodded.

  “A couple of too eager lane changes. I think he’s a little rusty.”

  West laughed.

  “He’ll be devastated to hear that, I’m sure. In his day he was one of the best.”

  Kane put his plate down, eyeing another tea biscuit, but deciding against it.

  “What’s this all about?” he asked. “Why am I here?”

  “Patience, young man, patience. This is the moment for tea, for pleasantries.”

  “And when can we expect your other guest to arrive?”

  West smiled.

  “Any moment now, if I still know him.”

  “Who is he?”

  “An old rival, an old friend.”

  The sound of a car driving over pine needles caused the old man to pop up from his chair. He stepped over to an old roll top desk and pulled a gun from the top drawer, checking to make sure a round was chambered and the safety was off.

  “Why do you need that?” asked Kane as West returned to his chair.

  “I’m not sure how good a friend he is.”

  West Berlin, West Germany

  February 12, 1982

  Alex West sipped a cup of glorious Western coffee. Sometimes he wondered if NATO just dropped good coffee all over the Warsaw Pact if they’d surrender just to have access. It would definitely demonstrate the West’s superiority.

  “Where is this microfilm now?” asked Control.

  “The French should have it. Didn’t they pass it on?”

  “No.”

  Goddamned French.

  They called themselves part of NATO, but never really bought into it fully, their government being one step away from communist. If they had Poland on their eastern border rather than Germany, they’d have probably joined the commies.

  “Press them on it. I know the drop was made, and that it was allowed to go through.”

  “A drop made by a French agent who has not been seen since.”

  “No, she was captured by the Soviets just before they picked me up.”

  “And you claim despite them knowing what you were up to, the drop was allowed to proceed.”

  “Yes. Viktor Zorkin is a patriot, but he’s not insane. Once he heard what Crimson Rush was, he agreed with me that it had to be stopped.”

  “A top Soviet agent agreed with you that his country shouldn’t have an advantage over yours.”

  “Yes.”

  “It sounds to me as if this entire mission went astray because you hooked up with an old flame.”

  “Bullshit!” West held up his hand, halting any response. “I’m sorry, but I’m tired. Haven’t you debriefed Sergie Tuzik yet? He can confirm that the intel was delivered into my hands and what was on it.”

  “He’s refusing to cooperate until he’s on a beach in Florida with a government pension.”

  “Then put him on the goddamned beach!”

  “The Soviets have asked for him back, claiming he is a high-level bureaucrat that was abducted by you.”

  Bullshit!

  At least this time West kept his anger bottled.

  “Listen to me. Why would I make this up?”

  “Nobody is accusing you of that.”

  “Huh?”

  There was a pause, then the usually cold voice softened slightly.

  “Alex, I believe you. I believe everything you have said. But do you really think it’s plausible? Think about it. The first word we received about Crimson Rush was almost two weeks ago, and that middleman is dead. Hole plugged. Sergie, a hole in their security for years, is now plugged. You and a French agent have been captured and neutralized—your careers are effectively over. Isn’t it more likely that Crimson Rush was invented to draw people out so they could identify the leaks?”

  West felt his chest tighten and his pulse quicken. His stomach began to flip as he realized everything Control was saying was completely plausible.

  “But what about Zorkin? Why would he cooperate?”

  “Perhaps he wasn’t in on the plan.”

  “But why was he here?”

  “To save you.”

  West’s eyebrows popped.

  “Huh?”

  “Viktor Zorkin walked into one of our offices and gave himself up, told us about your status, and gave us the contact information to initiate an exchange.”

  “What?!”

  “He let himself be captured so he could save you.”

  West sank back in his chair, no longer certain of anything.

  Alex West Residence, Black Forest, Germany

  Present Day

  Kane remained seated but reached around his back to remove the Glock he had tucked into his b
elt. His host, Alex West, sat in his chair calmly, gun resting on the arm, lightly gripped in his right hand, aimed at the door.

  Footsteps on the pine needles could be heard through the partially opened window, then finally the sound of shoes on the wood porch. There was a knock, three crisp raps.

  “Come in!” called West, rising to greet their visitor. Kane didn’t rise, instead he shifted his weapon slightly, aiming it at the door, waist height.

  The doorknob turned and the door was pushed open slightly. Kane could see a tall figure but no details, the door with eastern exposure, the sun well on its way to setting in the west. The door opened some more and a foot made an appearance, and finally the entire body, the light inside revealing an elderly man with a large nose and overgrown ears, his hair a brilliant silver, his cheeks flush with energy.

  He looked at Kane and nodded, then turned to West, pointing at the gun.

  “Is that for me?” he asked in near perfect English, a hint of a Russian accent in the background that most wouldn’t detect, but Kane had been trained to.

  “Do I need it?” asked West.

  “If you did, I wouldn’t have come. I would have sent some old friends instead.”

  West laughed, placing the gun beside the tray of biscuits then extending his arms. “Viktor!”

  The new arrival, apparently named Viktor, broke out into a wide smile, his own arms extending. The two men embraced warmly, thumping each other on the back until finally they both pushed away and simply stared for a few seconds, each sizing the other up as if they hadn’t seen each other in years.

  “Forgive my manners,” said West finally, motioning toward Kane. Kane rose, tucking his weapon back into his belt. “This is Dylan Kane, CIA Special Agent Dylan Kane.”

  “Viktor Zorkin,” said the man, extending his hand. Kane shook it, surprised by the strength of the grip, returning it slightly so the man would realize that Kane knew exactly what the man was doing, and wouldn’t tolerate any bullshit, septuagenarian or not. Zorkin smiled, easing his grip slightly. “Good. Very good. Never allow a man’s perceived weakness to lower your guard. Just because I am old does not mean I am not a threat.”

  Kane released the man’s hand with a nod and a slight smile.

  “Never be under the false assumption I wouldn’t kill you where you stand, regardless of your age.”

  Zorkin began to laugh, his head tilting back as the volume increased. Suddenly it turned into a hacking cough and he covered his mouth, reaching into his jacket as he searched for a seat. Kane stepped aside to offer him his when Zorkin’s hand emerged from his pocket with a small Beretta gripped tightly, pointed at Kane’s belly.

  “What was that you were saying?” asked Zorkin, still coughing. “Never let yourself be distracted by another’s discomfort.”

  Kane cleared his throat and motioned with his eyes for Zorkin to look down. Zorkin did and again began to laugh as he saw Kane’s Glock already pointing at Zorkin’s testicles. Zorkin stepped back, shoving his gun in his pocket and retrieving an inhaler as he dropped into West’s chair. He shook the small device then took several puffs, his cough quickly subsiding. He looked at West and pointed at Kane.

  “I like him!” he said, his voice still raspy. “He’s not like many of them today I hear about. He might actually survive to our age.”

  West nodded as he poured tea for the new arrival. Handing it to a grateful Zorkin, he sat down in the third least favorable chair for covering your back, and resumed his own cup.

  “I see you got my message,” he said as he placed his cup on its saucer, balanced on his knee.

  “Of course, why else would I be here?”

  “I wasn’t sure you’d come.”

  “What has it been? Thirty years?”

  “And then some. The last time I saw you was at Checkpoint Charlie, the night of the exchange.” West took another sip, Kane and Zorkin doing the same. Kane winced to which West jumped to his feet. “I’m so sorry,” he said as he rushed into the kitchen. “We were interrupted and I forgot.” Kane and Zorkin exchanged glances and Kane shrugged. Moments later West reappeared with a tall glass of soda and ice. “I forgot you hate tea!”

  “You hate tea!” exclaimed Zorkin. “And you expect to be a spy?”

  Kane took the glass with a smiled thank you, and took a sip of the ice cold brew, immediately recognizing the Coke Light taste.

  “Thanks,” he said to West, then turned to Zorkin. “I’ve managed so far. When I’m undercover I hide my dislike better.”

  “I hope so,” said the old man, reaching forward and refilling his own cup, waving West off. “Sit old man, I can do it myself.”

  West chuckled and leaned back in his chair, taking a bite of a crumpet he had just buttered.

  “I never saw you again after the exchange, what happened?”

  “I was promoted.”

  “Ooh, sorry to hear that. Same thing happened to me.”

  Kane listened to the exchange, trying to size both men up. They were obviously friends of a sort, both spies, and with talk of an exchange at Checkpoint Charlie, they were obviously rivals, with Zorkin most likely former KGB and West CIA.

  Their exchange continued for a few minutes, Kane remaining silent, merely sipping his diet soft drink, when finally the reminisces became more relevant, or at least Kane hoped they did.

  “So why am I here?” asked Zorkin.

  “I think you know why.”

  Zorkin nodded.

  “Crimson Rush.”

  CIA Headquarters, Langley, Virginia

  Chris Leroux had nearly sprinted the entire way from his cubicle to his boss’ office, the Chief’s aide waving him in. Leif Morrison, National Clandestine Service Chief for the CIA, sat behind his desk and looked up as Leroux entered, panting slightly. Though naturally slim, he had never really been one for exercise, but was blessed with good genes allowing him to eat pretty much whatever he wanted. But after recent events, he had realized he needed to get into shape, the ability to run for your life sometimes meaning it might be slightly prolonged.

  Hence the treadmill at the Agency gym whenever he had a chance, and his only slight panting now. Three months ago he’d be gasping for air, the filling of his lungs imitating a barking seal.

  Morrison pointed to a chair and Leroux hit it, pulling out his newly arrived Blackberry Z30, its larger display and secure network making it ideal for him to take notes with and still use as a phone.

  “We just received an update from Delta,” began Morrison.

  Holy shit they’re fast!

  “Our contacts picked up Levkin and interrogated him with no success. Delta had a little more. It turns out it was detonation codes for the Crimson Rush weapons, and that there may be as many as one thousand deployed. Before his rescue”—Leroux’s eyebrows shot up—“Levkin refused to provide any additional information, except to say that our own operatives stole all the information we needed, including locations, over thirty years ago.”

  “Holy shit!” exclaimed Leroux, immediately wincing. “Sorry, sir, I didn’t mean—”

  Morrison waved his hand, cutting him off.

  “I said far worse when I heard.” He leaned forward. “We’ve searched our own databases and found only the single reference to it, essentially dismissing it as a counterintelligence operation. Now we know it’s most likely real, and apparently we’ve known for three decades exactly where it was deployed.”

  “Most likely, sir?”

  “Assuming this isn’t some bullshit hoax.”

  “Oh,” said Leroux, biting his lip. “Do you think it is?”

  Morrison shook his head.

  “Not for a second.”

  Leroux wasn’t sure how he felt about that. Part of him was happy they weren’t wasting their time, a bigger part wished they were, the devastation that could be wrought horrendous.

  “Are we sure Levkin was telling the truth?” asked Leroux. “I mean about us having the intel?”

  “I’m not sure.
If we have it, it’s been buried somewhere. Our best lead is to track down the original agent who filed the Crimson Rush report and ask him.”

  “I’ll get right on it.”

  “And get this latest intel to Kane. I have a funny feeling his little side trip to Germany might just pay off.”

  Leroux’s eyebrows shot up.

  “I wasn’t aware you were, well, aware.”

  Morrison stared at Leroux for a moment, Leroux beginning to shrink into the chair.

  “Do you really think I don’t know everything that goes on around here? Or at the malls in our fine town?” He motioned for Leroux to leave. “Now track down our former agent. He just might have the answers we’re looking for.”

  Leroux jumped, not saying a word as he fled the office, Morrison already picking up his phone.

  God I hope he doesn’t know what Sherrie and I do in private!

  Leroux ran back to his desk in time to see the DEFCON indicator switch from the green Four to the brighter yellow of the number Three, which if he remembered his briefings, meant the Air Force was prepping to mobilize within fifteen minutes.

  But who the hell are we going to war with?

  Messina Residence, Phoenix, Arizona

  Rick Messina rinsed the shampoo out of his hair as his wife called to him from the bedroom, her message lost to the suds and water. As he ran his hair through the water, he thought about how this was probably the last real shower he’d have for a week. They were minutes away from heading to the River Island State Park near the Parker Dam on the Colorado River for a week of camping with the kids. They had all been looking forward to this trip for months, it booked ages ago.

  Camping was how he had met his wife Angela twelve years ago while in college. They were both in Yosemite with different groups of friends, had hit it off and married a year later. Both avid campers, they went out almost every weekend when they were younger, but now, with careers, kids and his decision to join the weekend warrior brigade—the Arizona National Guard—free time was at a premium.