From Russia Without Love

by Stephen Templin

  A hard knock came at the door, and they stopped talking. Animus reached for his pistol, keeping it concealed under his suit jacket as he approached the door and looked through the window. “It’s your father.”

  She stood up from the sofa. “You know how he doesn’t like to be kept waiting.”

  Xander was more than a mentor to Animus, he was the father Animus never had. While Animus’s contemporaries earned their bachelor’s degrees in subjects like business and biology, he earned his in the art of killing. And Xander was his sole professor.

  Animus answered the door and invited him in.

  “I was looking for you,” Xander said as he stopped in front of Evelina. “I could not find you in the main residence, so I came here.”

  “Is something wrong?” she asked, worry creasing her brow.

  “Before the party, I tried to reach you, but your phone was off. I sent a text asking you to stay away from the party. And I left the same message with your answering service.”

  “I’m sorry. I was having trouble with my phone,” she explained.

  Xander took a deep breath. “It is okay. I understand, sweetheart.” He paused for a moment. “There was an American here tonight from the State Department, a legal attaché.”

  Evelina hesitated for a moment. “Yes.”

  “Did he ask you about Michael Winthrop?”

  “He did, but I didn’t tell him anything,” she said.

  “Are you sure? I will not be angry. It is simply important that I know what you told him.”

  “I didn’t tell him anything. When he brought up the subject, I walked away and came here.”

  “He was not like any diplomat I have ever met,” Xander said. “Too calm for a bureaucrat. Did either of you see what his colleagues were up to this evening?”

  Animus and Evelina shook their heads.

  Xander hugged Evelina and kissed her on the head. “Could you bring us some drinks, please?”

  She smiled and left the room.

  “Our Albanian friends might need some help,” Xander said to Animus quietly. “Make sure the rest of our people are standing by to back them up at a moment’s notice.”

  He nodded. “Yes, sir.”

  “Kidnapping Michael Winthrop has already caused concern among the other UKP employees participating in the pipeline project. I tried to milk this for all it is worth, but with these attachés snooping around, we may have to kill the kid sooner than I expected. We may need to move on to Phase Two.”

  “UKP headquarters in London, sir?”

  Xander nodded. “Go ahead and make reservations for our crew. Get us as close to the target as you can. I want to be ready to move in an instant. We can always cancel the reservations if we decide to begin Phase Two later.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “We may not be able convince UKP’s leadership to stop constructing TAP, but if we hit their employees hard enough, we should be able to slow construction down.” Xander patted Animus on the shoulder and smiled. “Striking fear in their hearts is key.”

  5

  _______

  Chris, Hannah, and Sonny were back in Hannah’s hotel room when Chris’s cell phone rang.

  “Young,” he answered, “I didn’t expect to hear from you so soon.”

  “The computer hack Hannah initiated was terminated from the target’s end,” Young said, getting right to business.

  “What does that mean?” Chris asked.

  “Someone cut the power source and internet connection.”

  “Do you think he suspects we tried to hack him?”

  “It’s possible,” Young said. “I haven’t had time to analyze the data we were able to download, but a visual check is showing a lot of searches about Michael Winthrop and United Kingdom Petroleum.”

  “Hannah accessed the bathroom in the master bedroom, too,” Chris said, “and she took a hair sample from a comb, I assume it’s Xander’s, but she’ll send the samples to you by courier, so you can check the DNA and see if it matches anyone in our database.”

  “Will do,” Young said.

  “Can you get a cell number for Xander?” he asked. “And have NSA feed us the GPS coordinates in real time?” Xander’s phone wouldn’t even have to be switched on for NSA to track it.

  “I’m on it,” Young said.

  “Thanks,” Chris said. “Out.”

  He updated the others once he hung up, and Hannah requested an Agency courier to pick up the DNA sample. Within an hour, it had been picked up and was on its way. Soon after, Chris’s phone rang again, and he answered it.

  “NSA found a match for the digital recording of the first person in the conversation with you,” Young said.

  “The first person in the recording was Xander Metaxas,” Chris said.

  “NSA matched it with a Russian spy.”

  “Russian spy?” Chris asked, immediately sparking Hannah and Sonny’s interest in the conversation. He met Hannah’s eyes, then Sonny’s. “Are you sure Xander is a Russian spy?”

  “His code name is Bayushki Bayu.” Chris recognized the phrase as something Russian mothers said to their babies to put them to sleep, but there was no direct English translation for it. “NSA and the Agency’s code name for him is Lullaby. He’s an FSB officer, a Non-Official Cover.” After the USSR was dissolved, the KGB’s foreign operations were restructured into the FSB, Russia’s version of the CIA. “Rather than work as an official spy with diplomatic cover in an embassy, Lullaby operated away from embassies and trade missions. Although Lullaby didn’t have diplomatic immunity, he had more independence and could mingle more easily in Greece, go into deep cover.”

  “I suspected Xander of being a Greek terrorist, but I’m stunned to hear he’s a Russian spy. How sure are you about this?” Chris asked.

  “Given the quality of the comparison recording and the quality of your recording,” Young said, “it’s almost a seventy-five percent match. It isn’t one hundred percent, but these matches never are. Lullaby works under Directorate S, which handles illegal intelligence, including resident spies. It is believed that Lullaby assumed the identity of a dead Greek in Albania and lived there for a short time customizing the identity before moving to Greece. To help with his legend, he probably married a Greek woman, and it is believed that he lives in Greece.”

  Chris shook his head. “I guess it is what it is—until it isn’t.”

  “One more thing,” Young said. “I tapped the phone Hannah requested. Xander made a phone call to a man he called Talos. They spoke using code words about a ‘package.’ We’re still trying to decode their conversation, but Talos’s phone was tracked to the Kypseli neighborhood.” Young gave the address.

  Chris checked the GPS on his phone and found the location. “That could be where they’re holding Michael. Kypseli is only five klicks north of our location.”

  Chris thanked Young, ended the call, and briefed Hannah and Sonny.

  “Let’s check it out,” Sonny said.

  “Better than just sitting here,” Hannah said.

  They left their room and took the elevator down to the garage where they loaded into the BMW. Hannah took her turn behind the wheel, started the engine, and mounted her GPS on the dash.

  She drove to Kypseli, in the center of Athens, where the city became denser with apartment buildings and people—more foreigners than Greeks. The GPS coordinates corresponded with a brown, 1950s apartment building that stood four stories tall. As Hannah drove by, they searched for nearby surveillance, but all they found was a stocky man standing outside the apartment building.

  Hannah drove two blocks away and found an open spot in a line of cars parked next to the sidewalk. Graffiti marked the wall beside them.

  “My gut is telling me Michael is here,” Chris said.

  “Could be indigestion.” Sonny chuckled.

  Hannah and Chris both ignored him. “Tomorrow morning, we can pose as movie location scouts and rent out one of the apartments across the street from the target
building,” Hannah suggested as she turned the car away from the building. “Find out what’s really going on here.”

  Early the next morning, they dressed casual, returned to Kypseli, and slipped through a back entrance into an apartment facing the target building. They went from apartment to apartment to request a room to rent, but the language barrier proved to be more of an obstacle than the movie production pitch.

  They hit the jackpot on the second floor, though, when an elderly Pakistani man let them inside and showed them a room. One area of the wall was a patchwork of three colors: an unfinished yellow paint, the beige color beneath, and a worn patch of brown wood below it all. Scribbled on part of the beige color were childlike drawings, and a makeshift curtain hung from a rope by clothespins. Sonny opened the curtain partway, finding an excellent view of the target building across the street.

  The Pakistani wrinkled his nose. “Albanian mafia, rude they are,” he said.

  “The men across the street are Albanian mafia?” Hannah asked.

  The Pakistani nodded. “Communism fell. Albanians illegally immigrated. Crime organizations they make.”

  “What else do you know about the men across the street?” she asked.

  “Albanian mafia, police hate.”

  “Anything else?” She showed him a photo of Michael.

  The Pakistani shrugged as if he didn’t recognize Michael. “Albanian mafia rude. Women buy and sell. Money take. You room want?”

  “Human trafficking and extortion doesn’t equal Michael being in there,” Sonny said.

  Maybe I’m wrong this time. But there’s only one way to find out. “It’s the best lead we’ve had,” Chris said.

  After some haggling with the Pakistani, they settled on a price.

  Peering through the window, they could see there was a new guard across the street, taking the place of the one the night before. This guard was taller but not as stocky and had a permanent scowl.

  “The right window on the fourth floor is protected with metal bars,” Sonny noted.

  Chris nodded. “Maybe these Albanians are more interested in keeping someone inside than keeping people out.”

  Smoke rolled out of an apartment window next to the Albanian building.

  The Pakistani became agitated and pointed to the smoke. “Everyone say, ‘she oil too much! She food burn!’” He walked out of the room, closing the door behind him.

  Hannah sat down, opened her laptop, and typed. “I’m sending an update to the station chief, telling him we need Technical Intelligence to confirm what’s inside that building.”

  After spending the night in the small room, a message returned from the station chief, telling the trio to keep an eye on the Albanian building until the agency’s technical wizards arrived. In the afternoon, before TECHINT arrived, smoke poured out of the same apartment window next to the Albanian building.

  “Looks like someone burned the toast again,” Sonny said.

  Soon, flames crept out of the side of the window. Shouting came from inside the burning building. Strangely, the smell reminded Chris of a backyard Texas barbeque. “If the toast wasn’t burned before, it’s burned now,” he said. “I’m going to ask the Pakistani to call the fire department. It’s getting out of control and the people in there are going to need some help.”

  Hannah nodded in approval.

  Chris left the room and talked to the Pakistani, who made the call. When Chris returned to their room, an ethnic mix of people were noisily evacuating the burning building, carrying armfuls of papers, pictures, electronics, clothes, and other belongings. One woman dumped her things in the street and ran back into the burning building, presumably for more. Another tried to follow, but others stopped them.

  In front of the Albanian building, the guard moved away from his position in front of the door and peered around the corner. Now the fire next door was licking the side of his building. He shed his composed demeanor and ran inside. Chris could hear the shouting from across the street. Two Albanians came out with the guard, and he showed them the situation, pointing up at the fire and gesturing wildly. His comrade shook his head and spoke loudly in Albanian. The guard became quiet, but the third man spoke up in a booming voice. The guard paced as the other men argued.

  One of the Albanians pulled out a cell phone. Behind him, a man staggered out of the front door of the Albanian building. Plasticuffs were bound around his ankles, but the plastic band between his ankles was severed, and he had full use of his legs. His hands were bound by plasticuffs in front of him, still intact. Although the man was disheveled, he was clearly Michael Winthrop. The guard must have spotted him out of the corner of his eye because he turned and looked straight at Michael.

  “Shit!” Without thinking, Chris burst out of the room, ran through the Pakistani’s house, and dashed down the stairs. As he rushed out of the apartment building, he realized he had his pistol in hand, even though he didn’t remember drawing it.

  The guard tackled Michael, and Chris ran at him, instinctively pointing his pistol. “Get off him, now!” Chris commanded.

  The guard turned his head toward Chris’s voice. When he saw who it was, he let go of Michael, who crawled away. The guard got to his feet and reached into his waistband. Chris adjusted his angle so he could shoot the guard in the upper body without hitting Michael or the others in the street. It would be a tight shot, but he could do it.

  His rapid breathing and stampeding heart caused his pistol sights to wobble uncontrollably. Just pull the trigger when the sights wobble over the target, Instructor Hickok had told him. Although he was aiming for the guard’s chest, his first shot put a hole in the man’s gut. The second shot caught the guard in the chest, knocking him backward. The guard pulled his pistol free and fired in Chris’s direction but hit a woman in the crowd, who screamed as she fell. Chris’s respiration and pulse calmed down a notch, and he aimed at the guard’s head and squeezed the trigger. Pop! Gray brain matter spilled, and the guard fell to the asphalt as if he’d been pasted there. Screams came from all directions.

  Pop! Another gunshot sounded. Then more gunshots. It sounded like Hannah and Sonny were shooting it out with the Albanians, but Chris couldn’t be sure. His adrenaline was pumping so wildly out of control he couldn’t tell whether he’d even been shot.

  “Michael Winthrop, I’m from the United States government!” Chris blurted. “I’m here to save you!”

  Michael turned and stared at him, his expression a mix of fear and confusion.

  While helping Michael to his feet, Chris glanced behind him. One of the guard’s comrades lay in the street, moving slowly, and the other seemed to have taken cover around the corner. The slow-moving Albanian aimed up at the Pakistani’s window. Another gangster appeared in the doorway and aimed there, too. He could see Hannah now on the street level while Sonny remained upstairs providing overwatch, both firing at the Albanians.

  With the fire in the building next door and the shootout in the street, a handful of the civilians waved their hands wildly and cried out. Chris had seen such pandemonium before. Some helped those in need, some ran away, some froze, and others collapsed.

  In the pair of hostage rescues Chris had performed, he hadn’t lost a hostage. Each rescue was intensely personal, and he wasn’t about to lose Michael now. There was no time to waste; he had to trust Hannah and Sonny to cover his six, and he didn’t have time to worry about their safety. He had to get Michael to the car… two blocks away.

  Chris pushed at the small of Michael’s back, propelling him forward, and Michael tripped. “Pick up your feet,” Chris told him.

  Michael did so with a whimper, picking up his feet and putting them down, but he wasn’t going fast enough. The longer it took Michael to move, the more chance there was that none of them would make it out alive.

  Chris grabbed a handful of Michael’s trousers near the small of his back and lifted him up while pushing him forward, giving him a boost. In spite of his efforts, it still felt like th
ey were moving in slow motion.

  The Albanians are going to overtake us any minute now.

  They turned the corner to head south, but Michael stumbled again, slowing them down. Chris pulled him to his feet and put his arm around Michael’s shoulder, shifting much of the young man’s weight onto himself, helping them move faster. They hurried south one block and then another, the gunshots behind them continuing.

  Chris spotted the BMW. He pressed onward and assisted Michael into the backseat before he took the driver’s seat. “I’m taking you to safety. You’re going to be okay.” Now Chris was too busy scanning for threats to see if Michael was even responding. Chris spotted no threats in the immediate vicinity, and when he put his key in and turned it, the vehicle started without any problems.

  Hannah appeared around the corner then, sprinting faster than he’d ever seen her run. When she reached the vehicle, she gasped, “Sonny is right behind me.” After taking her position beside him in the passenger seat and closing the door, she tapped the GPS screen and set the US embassy as their destination. “I called the station chief and told him we have the PC and we’re gunning it out with Albanians, so now the chief is on the phone requesting approval from Washington for Six’s assistance.”

  Come on, Sonny, where are you?

  Gunshots sounded again, and Sonny charged around the corner like a bull with its ass on fire. “Enemy right behind me!” he shouted. He jumped into the car. Michael grunted as Sonny landed on him in the backseat. “Get us out of here!”

  Without waiting for Sonny’s door to close, Chris stomped on the accelerator. The BMW leaped forward just as an Albanian, armed with a handgun and speaking into a cell phone, came around the corner. Chris didn’t slow down, hitting the man and knocking the pistol and phone from his hands. The Albanian landed on the hood, rolled up the windshield, and thumped the roof before Chris caught a glimpse of him in his rearview mirror as he landed in the street. It wasn’t very reverend-like of him, but he didn’t have the luxury of gazing into his belly button and soul searching right now.

  Sonny closed the door, and Chris turned the corner with tires squealing, onto a street that cut southwest. “I’m heading for Olympus,” Chris told Sonny, using their code word for the embassy. “We’re only five klicks away.”