From Russia Without Love

by Stephen Templin

  She shook her head. “That’s not good.”

  “It gets worse,” Young said. “You know Xander’s laptop? The one you and Sonny accessed and connected me to?”

  “Yes…”

  “Before I lost the connection, I was able to salvage some of the deleted internet activity, and I discovered he was using a public real-time satellite tracking website, called MarineFinder.com. We hacked into his account there, but he’d become inactive on the website and he left no record of his activity.”

  “How does that help us now?” she asked.

  “Well, now Xander’s account is active again.”

  “That seems to confirm the police don’t have him in custody,” Hannah said.

  “We’re monitoring his activity on the account, and he seems to be researching ports and ships in the Caspian Sea around Baku… in Azerbaijan.”

  “Why would he be interested in Azerbaijan and the Caspian Sea?”

  A clicking sound came from Young’s end, as if he was using a mouse. “UKP has ships there. It’s the source of natural gas for the Southern Gas Corridor that runs all the way to Turkey, up to where the newly constructed Trans Adriatic Pipeline would carry the gas across Greece.”

  “Sounds like Xander is planning to hit UKP again,” Sonny said.

  “This time in Azerbaijan,” Chris said. “Near the source of the natural gas.”

  “If that’s his plan, we should organize a proper welcoming party for him,” Sonny said.

  “I can’t say with surety Azerbaijan is his next target,” Young said. “I can only pass along the intel and analysis as it becomes available.”

  “I understand,” Hannah said into the phone. “Do you have a more likely target he might hit? Or hints of another target he might be looking at?”

  “No,” Young said. “Not at this time.”

  Sonny shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “We can’t just sit here with our thumbs up our asses waiting to react after Xander makes his next attack.”

  “Then Azerbaijan it is,” Hannah said. “The station chief there is a good man, and the Azeris have been supportive in the past. I’ll ask him if we can expect cooperation from the locals.” After thanking Young and ending the call, she stood, walked to the cockpit, and talked with the pilot.

  A screech sounded as the plane hit the ground, stirring Chris from a nap and pulling his body forward. He opened his eyes to find Hannah and Sonny had fallen asleep in their seats, too. It was dark outside the plane window, except for lights on the airfield, other planes, and the terminal. This is small for an international airport, Chris thought, then he recognized it as Azerbaijan’s military airport. He’d flown into it before on his way to Iraq. Azerbaijan allowed the US to land its planes and use its airspace during the wars with Iraq and Afghanistan. The military ties between Azerbaijan and the US were strengthened and expanded under Secretary of the Navy Ray Mabus. In the Caspian basin, with Russia to the north and Iran to the south, Azerbaijan was America’s only friend.

  Chris checked his watch—he’d slept for over five hours. He nudged Hannah and Sonny. “We’re here.”

  They both jolted to attention, and all three pulled themselves together for the mission ahead as the pilot taxied. Finally, the plane came to a stop and the ground crew rolled up an air ladder. A van pulled up, stopped near the stairs, and a man stepped out of the driver’s side.

  Chris and the others grabbed their luggage and exited the plane. The local wind was so strong Chris thought it might blow him off the ladder, but he reached the bottom safely, where the man greeted them.

  Hannah introduced the man as Mikhail from the Azerbaijan Ministry of National Security, the MNS. He had piercing black eyes, a thick stump for a neck, and cauliflower ears, indicating he was experienced with violence, possibly from practicing a martial art like judo, boxing, or playing a sport like rugby. Taking a hit to the ear could cause fluids to clot, killing part of the ear and leaving it permanently deformed. The cauliflower shape was a source of pride to some, but Chris felt no pride or shame in his missing ear. He preferred to keep his wounds private and wear his prosthetic consistently.

  After loading everyone and their bags into the van, Mikhail sped off. Once off the base, he drove even faster. “We’ve alerted the local authorities about Xander Metaxas, Animus Zacharoff, and their clan, and we’re helping cover possible infiltration points,” he said. “So far, there’ve been no reports of Xander or his men trying to enter Azerbaijan.”

  “The authorities in London were on the lookout for him, too,” Sonny said. “Fat lot of good that did.”

  “But your superiors are more cooperative than America’s seat-hugger in London,” Hannah said to Mikhail.

  “Our chief is a good man,” he said. “But I must warn you he is worried about a possible leak in the police department, so the police don’t know you’re here or what you’re doing. Only those inside MNS with proper clearance are aware of our mission.”

  They each agreed. It wasn’t an uncommon thing to keep operations like this on a need-to-know basis.

  Half an hour later, they were downtown. Although the military base wasn’t much to look at, Baku was. Its modern skyscrapers boasted a variety of shapes and lines illuminated in fluorescent oranges, glacier whites, sparkling emeralds, and blue-blues, their reflections floating on Baku Bay. The parks reminded him of those in London. They passed what looked like a grand hotel, but Mikhail explained it was the Government House, where many of Azerbaijan’s central government ministries were housed. “This is the control center for public expression and assembly,” he said with sarcasm in his voice. “Paid for by oil and gas and corruption.”

  He stopped in the parking lot of an upscale apartment complex. “Here we are.” After they stepped out of the van, Mikhail, carrying a guitar case, led them to an apartment on the first floor, unlocked the door, and let them inside.

  “Welcome to the safe house,” Mikhail said. “Make yourselves at home.” It was a newer four-bedroom apartment with vaulted ceilings and granite countertops, matching the upscale neighborhood outside. Mikhail handed Hannah the keys and said, “I’m here to support you in any way I can.” Then he gave the guitar case to Chris.

  He opened it, and inside was an M4 like the one he ditched in the River Thames. And an iPhone. “Thank you.”

  “Langley asked us to give these to you,” Mikhail said. “It was a bit short notice, but I hope these meet your needs.”

  Chris held up the M4. “Looks like a showstopper.” There were magazines filled with ammo, too.

  Mikhail excused himself to use the restroom, and Chris closed the guitar case before pointing to Hannah’s laptop. “Mind if I borrow that?”

  “Knock yourself out.” She sat on the stuffed sofa in the living room, set the laptop on the low table in front, and turned it on. Chris sat next to her, and while he waited for her to fire it up and enter her password, he used a secure line on his iPhone to call Young.

  After several rings, Young answered. “Hey, brother. I tried to edit your team out of public CCTV files in London, but there were some cameras I couldn’t access.”

  The computer was on and the desktop showing, and Hannah slid over so Chris could take her place in front of it. He opened the web browser while he spoke into the phone. “Thanks,” he said. “We’re in Baku now.”

  “Wow, you three didn’t waste time.”

  “You know the Marine Traffic website Xander was studying?” Chris asked, pulling up the site on the laptop.

  “Of course.”

  “Can you tell me what ships he was looking at?”

  “I can compile a list, yeah. Can I call you back?” Young asked.

  “Yes, I’d appreciate it.” Chris ended the call, and using Marine Finder, he located Baku and examined it. “Okay… Here in Baku Bay, there are four Azeri passenger ships, seven Azeri oil tankers, a dozen other Azeri vessels, two Iranian cargo ships, and a Russian river cruise ship called the M/S Pyotr Tchaikovsky.”

 
Hannah looked over his shoulder. “It’s doubtful Xander would attack an Iranian ship and cause unnecessary conflict,” she said. “And it’s not clear what purpose could be achieved by attacking one of the dozen other ships.”

  Sonny joined them. “The best targets are the Azeri oil tankers or, except for the M/S Pyotr Tchaikovsky, the passenger ships.”

  “If Xander wants to attack UKP-related targets, the oil tankers would make the most sense,” Chris said.

  “Yeah, but if he wants hostages or a lot of collateral damage, he might go for one of the non-Russian passenger ships,” Sonny said. “Take ’em out all at once…”

  21

  _______

  Chris’s cell phone rang, waking him. He’d fallen asleep on the couch in the Azerbaijan safe house, and the morning sun shone through the curtains. Mikhail was wide-awake sitting on a wooden stool at the kitchen counter and looking at his cell phone. Sonny lay on the floor snoring. Young’s name showed in the caller ID.

  “Hello,” Chris answered.

  Young’s voice was full of excitement. “In Xander’s Marine Finder account, he saved the names of four ships. All Azeri oil tankers.”

  “What were the names of the ships?” Chris asked.

  “Babek, Shusha, Binagadi, and Zengezur.”

  “Anything else?”

  “That’s all I got,” Young said.

  “That narrows it down for us. Can you maintain a monitor on the Marine Finder account and keep us updated of any new activity?”

  “Will do.”

  “Thanks, brother.”

  “Later.”

  Young ended the call, and Chris dragged himself into the kitchen. “Were you awake all night?” Chris asked Mikhail as he entered.

  “Figured you guys could use some sleep,” he said, “so I stood the watch.”

  “Thank you,” Chris said. “Want some breakfast? We could use a good meal.”

  Mikhail smiled and nodded.

  Chris rummaged in the refrigerator looking for something to cook. After spotting eggs and cheese, he decided on omelets. There were plenty of tomatoes, bell peppers, and onions, so he grabbed those. Searching for ham, he found none and remembered Azerbaijan was a Muslim country and eating swine was haram, unlawful. So he snagged some ground beef instead.

  “Do you want help?” Mikhail asked as he put away his phone. “I can set the table. I can also make toast, but you don’t want me to cook anything else. Trust me.”

  “Sure,” Chris said with a chuckle. “Thanks.”

  Soon, Hannah came into the kitchen, yawning and her hair a mess, but as beautiful as ever. “That smells good. We’re going to have to change your call sign to the Galloping Gourmet,” she said.

  Breakfast was ready, so Chris walked into the living room and gave Sonny a playful kick. “Wake up, sweet pea.”

  “Hey,” Sonny complained, rolling over to face away from Chris, but he must’ve smelled the food because he sat up and said, “Breakfast!”

  They all sat around the table and began to talk about their next moves while they ate.

  “If Xander succeeded in slipping into the country,” Mikahil started, “he could try to board a ship here in the Baku Bay, or forty-five klicks south of here is Sangachal Terminal, where they process the natural gas and produce oil. It’ll be a lot easier to board the ships in port than at sea.”

  “We could recon both, familiarize ourselves with the area, until we figure out exactly what his plans are,” Chris said, washing his food down with some water.

  “We should prep most of our gear in the SUV,” Sonny said, “so at a moment’s notice we’ll be ready for a variety of contingencies.”

  They all agreed.

  Chris shared their call signs with Mikahail. “Infidel, Sunshine, and Reverend.”

  “My call sign is Jirtdan, but English speakers call me Dirt Dan,” Mikhail explained.

  “Does Jirtdan have a special meaning?” Chris asked.

  “In Azeri, it means little. There is a fairy tale about a small boy named Jirtdan who helps his friends escape a monster by crossing the river. When the monster asked Jirtdan how they crossed the river, Jirtdan pointed to a millstone with a hole in it and said, ‘We held that over our heads as a life preserver to help us cross.’ When the monster held the boulder over his head like a life preserver, he drowned, and Jirtdan became a hero.”

  “I like Jirtdan better than Dirt Dan,” Hannah said, smiling.

  After cleaning up, they prepared to go out low profile, armed only with pistols on their person and keeping their rifles tucked away in the back of the SUV. Soon they exited the condo, and Mikhail drove them in a gray Toyota Prado SUV. Many of the vehicles on the streets of Baku were SUVs.

  The four of them did a recon of Baku Bay, and in the afternoon they ventured the forty-five klicks south, remaining on the Caspian seacoast, to Sangachal Terminal, where there was a complex of pumps, storage tanks, and support buildings. That evening, they checked out both locations again. Chris took notes as he tried to put himself in Xander’s shoes, seeking patterns of weak security and targets of opportunity.

  In the evening, as they drove out to Sangachal Terminal again, Young called Chris’s phone.

  “What’s up?” Chris asked.

  “I don’t know if this is helpful or not, but we were trying to gather more intel about Lullaby and we came across two reports from different sources that claim Lullaby ordered a hit on Xander’s wife,” Young said. “At the time, it was thought Xander had done something to irritate Lullaby, but it wasn’t clear what. It was reported that Xander mourned deeply for her, but at that time, no one knew Lullaby and Xander were the same person.”

  “So Xander had his wife killed,” Chris said, tapping Hannah and Sonny on the arms in an effort to share the info. “Why would he do that?”

  “Seems like she outlived her usefulness to him.”

  “Seems that way.” Chris pinched his nose between the eyes. “Thanks, Young. Talk to you later.”

  He hung up as they parked at Sangachal Terminal.

  “What’s that?” Chris asked, pointing to a puff of smoke in an unlit corner of one of the terminal’s parking lots.

  The four of them squinted from a street, a hundred meters away. It was a black Kia Sportage SUV parked with its engine running.

  “The car is facing the sea,” Hannah noticed. “Whoever is inside might be watching the ships. Should we take a closer look?”

  “Nothing ventured, nothing gained,” Chris said.

  “And tip off Xander that we’re here?” Sonny said, playing devil’s advocate.

  “I could pose as an Azeri security guard and check the car out,” Mikhail said. “Unless someone else here speaks Azeri?”

  “That’ll work,” Hannah said. “I’ll take the wheel and keep the car running in case we need to get out in a hurry.”

  “Sonny and I can stand by from a distance to cover Mikhail,” Chris said.

  “Since when do you decide what I’ll do?” Sonny asked.

  “Pretty please?” Chris fake-begged.

  “Since you put it that way,” Sonny said, flipping him the bird and staying put in his seat.

  Mikhail opened the door of the Toyota, its interior light already switched off. He stepped out and softly closed the door behind him. Then he walked in the direction of the SUV. Chris opened his door and stepped out, too, but before he closed it, Sonny got out behind him.

  Mikhail closed half the distance to the SUV—fifty meters—and was well within an enemy’s rifle range and still within pistol range for Chris and Sonny. They drew their pistols and covertly kept them down at their sides. At twenty-five meters, Mikhail was in enemy pistol range. Mikhail closed in on the suspicious vehicle from the rear. Chris and Sonny moved forward. In the middle of the parking lot, they had absolutely nothing to hide behind or use as a shield to stop flying bullets. They aimed their pistols at one of the SUV’s tinted windows. If any shots were fired at Mikhail, Chris and Sonny would return fire fir
st and ask questions later. Sonny stepped away from Chris, giving them separation so an attacker couldn’t easily hit them both with the same salvo.

  Mikhail looked in the rear window. When he reached the driver’s side, instead of presenting a smaller target, the side of his body, he presented a bigger target, the full front of his body. He didn’t even have his weapon drawn.

  Is Mikhail so tactically stupid? Or is he sure this isn’t a threat?

  Chris’s heart thumped faster and his breath chased after it.

  Mikhail tapped on the window. No answer. He tapped again. A woman’s voice screamed from inside. Chris’s pistol hand perspired, and his heart raced. There was a flurry of movement in the SUV in front of Mikhail before the engine revved and the vehicle sped away.

  Mikhail calmly turned and walked toward Chris and Sonny. Mikhail smiled so hard that it seemed his jaw might crack.

  Chris lowered his pistol.

  “What the hell happened?” Sonny asked.

  “Kids,” Mikhail said with a chuckle. “Making the beast in the backseat.”

  Chris’s heart rate slowed as he holstered his weapon. He wiped his damp palm against his trousers. He shook his head, and they returned to their vehicle without a single lead.

  On the drive back to the safe house, Chris gnawed on one question. Where are you Xander?

  Inside the safe house, Chris studied a map of Baku Bay and Sangachal Terminal, and then he opened his guitar case and broke out his M4.

  Hannah sat down next him. “I’m sorry to keep dragging you into these messes,” she said with a somber voice.

  Chris cleared his M4 in order to do a function check. “I came because I wanted to. After Xander killed Michael, nobody had to twist my arm to make me stay. I wanted to get Xander. Still do.”

  “This work is how I breathe.”

  “I know.”

  “But you don’t need this work to breathe,” she said. “Not anymore. Your life as a preacher gives you oxygen.”

  Chris made sure his weapon was on safe, with the bolt forward, and squeezed the trigger. The hammer didn’t fall. “I’m not sure where this conversation is going.”