The Russian Bride

by Ed Kovacs

  They were his words.

  Angry, Chan flung open the driver’s door.…

  “Hey, you can’t go in there!” said the shorter agent as he grabbed Chan’s arm.

  It happened so fast, Franklin wasn’t sure he saw it. All 285 pounds of Bobby Chan went into fast motion, and within seconds, both CID men lay sprawled on the pavement.

  “Cuff them,” he growled.

  Chan retrieved the files from the vehicle. In it were copies of all of the reports Chan had generated on the case. “They have all of our reports, Ronnie. Every last one of them. And some stuff from my computer that I’ve never shown anyone.”

  “What?!” exclaimed Franklin as he finished handcuffing the men.

  And then Chan saw something else. Transcripts.

  “Seems they’ve been listening to all of our phone calls too. Including calls we made to friends and family.” He held out a transcript for Franklin.

  Franklin flashed angry. As he took a step toward Chan, he “accidentally” slammed his foot into the face of the shorter CID agent. “Oh, sorry.”

  He grabbed the transcript, then “accidentally” slammed his foot into the face of the second CID man. “Wow, sorry. I am so clumsy today.”

  The two detectives stood there reading as the CID agents lay bleeding on the street.

  “Gambling junket coming,” said Chan as he read a transcript.

  The black detective looked at Chan for clarification.

  “Staci Bennings is being held prisoner in Las Vegas.”

  CHAPTER 26

  Cautiously emerging from a crushing housing, jobs, and economic collapse that hit it harder than virtually any other municipality in the United States, Las Vegas was growing again. And the only viable direction left in which to grow was southward. So the number of empty parcels of land on South Las Vegas Boulevard all the way down to South Pointe Hotel and Casino were diminishing rapidly.

  Near the Antique Mall of America, sprawling new four-story condo complexes painted in earth tones blended in well with the windswept desert that was never far off.

  A corner property near Agate Avenue looked ripe for development. The boarded-up one-story cinder-block motel with a metal A-frame roof sat far back from the street, its asphalt parking lot crumbling and overgrown with weeds. A high chain-link fence with padlocked gates surrounded the U-shaped structure. Surely the old abandoned eyesore would be removed and something modern and attractive and functional would emerge, although there seemed to be no activity at this site.

  No visible activity, anyway.

  It was still daylight when Dennis Kedrov had finished settling into his room. He entered the chow hall that had been feeding three meals a day to thirty men for the last three months: construction workers, security, IT technical specialists, and Dr. Nikoli Rodchenko and his two assistants. One wing of the motel housed the workers; the other wing comprised Rodchenko’s lab and the tunneling operation.

  So, in classic maskirovka fashion, a very old, modest, and seemingly condemned structure fronted for a very sophisticated operation.

  Dennis, the leader of Popov’s Special Operations Group, was in Las Vegas for only one night before heading to Albuquerque, but he wanted to have fun, so he toasted the blue-collar workers at dinner with bottles of Russian Standard he’d brought with him. Smiling as always, his already rosy cheeks now bright red from the vodka flush, he joked with the men easily as he toyed with his yellow golf ball. The workers’ tasks were finished, and later tonight a bus would drive them back to Los Angeles and their regular jobs working in Popov-owned construction companies.

  Dennis made his way to the table where Dr. Rodchenko and his team sat.

  “All is well, Doctor?”

  “Yes, yes. The device is operational. There’s nothing left for me to do until you people are ready to act.”

  “Good.”

  “Please tell the truth: How much longer? We have been held like prisoners here, not even allowed to go outside.”

  “Once I certify that everything is ready, the call might come any time. So please be patient and stay rested.”

  Dennis smiled, rose from the table, and gestured to the IT specialists to follow him outside, past an armed guard. He looked up into the diffused light of sunset as the group walked across the open area to the other wing of the old motel complex.

  Dennis walked through a door that had once led to a motel room but now opened into a large gutted area of the structure. The roof and exterior walls remained, but interior walls from half a dozen motel rooms had been ripped out, and the big space was now filled with generators, tunneling equipment, tools, and dirt. Lots of dirt. Small front loaders had moved out most of the soil from the tunneling operation and spread it out onto the four-acre plot behind the motel. This work had been done only at night, using heavy equipment that had special mufflers installed, thus creating almost no noise.

  A thin woman in her forties with dark circles under her eyes showed Dennis the seven-foot-diameter hole that dropped down thirty feet into rock-hard earth. A small steel ladder bolted to the side of the hole led to the bottom. Communications, electrical, and other cables ran from equipment in the complex into the hole and tunnel beyond.

  The woman didn’t speak, just gestured for Dennis to descend into the hole. He did so without hesitation.

  In moments he was at the bottom and followed the cabling into a small lighted tunnel, crawling on all fours. There was only enough room for one person to move in one direction at a time, and an uneasy feeling of claustrophobia enveloped him as he crawled the eighty-yard length of the passageway.

  Finally emerging into an eight-by-eight-foot space large enough to stand in, Dennis shook hands with Alex Bobrik, a wiry, bespectacled engineer about fifty years old. “Sorry to keep you waiting, Alex.”

  “Welcome to the underworld,” said Alex, smiling.

  Dennis glanced around the small room carved from the ground. An ice chest, toolboxes, laptops in hard cases, and shiny aluminum crates were stacked neatly in the space. Dennis noticed cabling was wound onto small wooden spools, a telephone handset attached to a thin line, and a bucket with the lid sealed that functioned as a toilet.

  “So this is all of the equipment you will need?”

  “Yes. We have already taken everything inside several times and practiced positioning it for the actual event. Then we brought it back here. So we are ready and now just standing by. Would you like to see the room?”

  “Just to look inside, not to go in. So I can assure the boss we are complete.”

  Three walls of the room they stood in were dirt; the fourth wall was poured cement, meaning they had tunneled right up to the exterior wall of some underground structure.

  “We used a concrete saw to cut out this doorway,” said Alex. He pointed to a small panel, about three by three, with two handles attached to it. Alex bent down and easily pulled the panel out of the cement wall. Suddenly, a flood of cool air scented with ozone filled Dennis’s nostrils. The hum of machinery murmured in the superstill air.

  “The panel is made of wood but painted to look like cement to fool any workers on the other side. It’s not a perfect ruse, but since the room is dim and seldom inspected, we should have no problems,” said Alex as he stood up.

  Dennis got down on his hands and knees and peered through the small opening into the room beyond.

  “Beautiful,” he said.

  * * *

  Less than seven miles away on West Tropicana, CID Agents Flood and Bates walked out of the office of Siegel Suites. No Russian-sounding names were on the guest register, and the manager and front-desk clerks were fairly certain that no one with a Russian or European accent had checked in recently. The names connected to the dozens of third-floor units in multiple buildings got extra scrutiny. And no one had recognized the eight-by-tens of Staci Bennings that the agents showed them. So the CID boys had no idea they stood about fifty yards from her location.

  “What now?” asked Flood.


  Las Vegas police detectives were already helping to check the hundreds of possible third-floor units in the city that might be the location indicated by Staci Bennings in her telephone message.

  “We keep looking until we find the bitch,” said Bates, irritated. Neither of the men wanted to be looking for the woman, but CID brass wanted the army to have Staci as a way to get to her brother.

  * * *

  Staci Bennings slumped on the sofa pretending to watch TV. She was scared, very scared, because from the corner of her eye she watched one of her Russian captors, Gregory, playing a video game on his cell phone as he sat at the kitchen table. She faintly heard the sounds from the game; he was playing video golf.

  Staci’s elation from having sent the text and voice messages had quickly faded. Help had not come. And the seconds ticking by were like dimmers ratcheting down her hope for rescue. Perhaps someone was looking for her, but she felt like the needle in the proverbial haystack.

  And now, here sat Gregory playing with his phone. What would happen when he noticed the keypad tones were shut off? He had yet to make a call or send a text, but surely he would, and soon.

  And then, almost as if he had been listening to her thoughts, Gregory turned off the game and placed a call. Staci steeled herself, waiting to see the reaction, the suspicious look sent in her direction. She waited for him to stand and charge across the room and lunge at her.

  But nothing happened. He began chatting amiably in Russian, probably to a woman. He hadn’t noticed a thing.

  Then Staci sensed something. She felt a presence and turned slightly toward the bedroom.

  Lily Bain stood in the doorway, staring at her with a wicked smile, as she sensuously rubbed gun oil onto the frame of her pistol.

  CHAPTER 27

  Time was the enemy now. As soon as Buzz, Angel, and Jen had gone, Kit took Yulana to an electronics store and she picked out various tools and parts. They both bought new outfits—the fastest shopping trip in history—at a Ross Dress for Less clothing store, and Kit bought one hundred pounds of lead pipe, two identical three-feet-long steel toolboxes, and a hand dolly at a building supply store. Next stop was a private mailbox facility on Albuquerque’s Central Avenue, where Kit picked up a large Pelican case that had been dropped there by his friend from the Activity within the last hour. The case contained a slew of gadgets and just-generated fake IDs and other esoteric items that might be needed for the operation tonight.

  From there it was a short drive to the Chili’s restaurant on Central near Eubank. Old habits die hard, and the happy-hour crowd in the packed bar area was full of mostly male black-projects scientists from Sandia getting their drink on and ogling the waitresses as they watched TV sports and talked shop, often while table-hopping.

  The setting was much the same four years ago when Kit had pickpocketed security badges from the tipsy scientists. And as Kit had learned as a Red Team leader probing security arrangements at sensitive facilities, there was always an organizational impetus not to change, even after management had been shown the errors of their ways. He was counting on that dynamic to work in his favor tonight.

  “All eyes will be on you,” said Kit to Yulana as they stood just outside the front doors. He held a brown briefcase that had been in the Pelican case. The briefcase had a button recessed in the handle. “I’ll be pretty much ignored.”

  “I’m not sure how good I will be.”

  “You’ll be fine. Just remember what I told you. But please unbutton one more button of your blouse.”

  She did so, revealing even more cleavage.

  “You look gorgeous. Just don’t start flirting until we find the right group.”

  They entered Chili’s and squeezed into the raucous bar area. Yulana led the way, and that seemed to ease the process. Entire tables full of men stopped their conversations and just stared at her: the pale skin, aqua eyes, and unruly long black hair almost had a mesmerizing effect on some of the men—and maybe a few of the women too.

  Kit scanned the standing-room-only crowd searching for faces but looked like he was coming up empty.

  “Which way?” she asked.

  “I don’t see them. Go right.”

  She worked her way around to the other side of the bar, toward the rear door.

  “There,” he said. “The last table before the exit.”

  Three men and a woman sat in a booth against the windows. They were sharing an appetizer. Kit sent a round of drinks—doubles—to their table anonymously. The more the scientists drank, the better. He ordered an iced tea for himself and a vodka martini for Yulana. They stood near the bar, pressed in by people from all sides.

  She took a sip as soon as the drinks came.

  “Wow,” she said, looking at him. “That’s good.”

  “No offense, but I think it will help loosen you up.”

  He watched in awe as she guzzled the martini.

  “I think you’re right. But can we just do it? I don’t want to get nervous thinking about it.”

  He nodded slightly, ceaselessly amazed by how much Russians can drink, and they moved to the targets.

  “No table here, either,” said Yulana loud enough for the four scientists sitting in the booth to hear. “Is this place always so crowded?” she asked, smiling, making eye contact with each person at the table.

  “It’s because everyone knew you were coming,” said Al Lara, standing as he extended his hand. “Al Lara.”

  “Elfi Korhonen.”

  “Have a seat, Elfi. We can squeeze you in.”

  She hesitated, then, “Okay,” said Yulana/Elfi, sitting next to the female scientist.

  As she sat down, Kit “accidentally” bumped into Lara, pretending to have been pushed by someone in the standing-room-only crowd.

  “Excuse me. There are a few drunks in here, I think,” said Kit, having filched Lara’s BlackBerry during the physical contact.

  “There are a few at this table,” joked Al.

  Al sat back down so that Yulana was the meat in a sandwich. Kit remained standing. “I just flew in from D.C., and I hate flying. I need to relax and have a few drinks,” said Yulana. “That’s my cousin, Peter. He lives here.”

  Yulana had indicated Kit, and he gave a wave and a nod to everyone.

  “Sorry we don’t have a chair for you.”

  “No problem. I’ve been sitting all day,” said Kit as he surreptitiously pushed the button in the handle of his briefcase. Electronics inside the case enabled him to “image” any magnetic keycards and magnetic strips used on many security badges. While he did this, Yulana/Elfi introduced herself to the others at the table.

  “What were you doing in Washington?” asked Al. Al Lara was Kit’s main target. Divorced, forty-five, and always on the make, he was the head of Sandia’s nonlethal weapons R&D directorate. Kit learned years ago that Al was sloppy with security and often took his Sandia-issued laptop home with him.

  “I’m posted to the Pentagon. I was born in Finland, but I’m a U.S. Army first lieutenant. I joined as a pathway to get my citizenship.”

  Everyone congratulated her, but only Al touched her arm as he did so.

  “So what do you do at the Pentagon?” asked Al, slurring his words slightly.

  “I could tell you, but then I would have to kill … myself!”

  Everyone laughed.

  “To be honest, my job is boring.”

  “Let’s see some ID,” said Al. He said it lightly, but even though he was drunk, a part of him was still being careful.

  “You show me yours, I’ll show you mine,” said Yulana, reaching into her purse.

  “Promise?” Al practically shouted.

  The female scientist shook her head in amused embarrassment.

  Yulana/Elfi fished out some identification and handed Al an army ID that had just arrived an hour earlier in the black Pelican case.

  “Damn, she really is a grunt. A ground pounder. A grunting pounder—”

  “Al!” admonished one o
f the male scientists.

  “I want to talk about cars!” Yulana/Elfi laughed. “I don’t have one yet.”

  “Cars?” asked the female scientist.

  “I love cars! Peter has a white SUV, but that’s boring, I think. What kind of cars do you guys have? And what color?”

  “White Toyota.”

  “Silver Honda.”

  “Since you’re Swedish, I have to say Vulva,” joked Al.

  “That’s Volvo, Al, and she’s Finnish.”

  “Then I’d like to start her engine and cross the finish line,” cracked Al.

  “Stop joking! What kind of car?” asked Yulana/Elfi.

  “Black Beaver,” said Al, looking at Yulana’s hair.

  “He means black Beamer—a BMW, and I have a boring white SUV,” said the female scientist, a bit exasperated with Al’s behavior.

  Yulana pointed out the window at a passing car. “What is that one?”

  As they all looked out the window, Kit swiftly dropped a tiny tablet into Al’s drink. The scientist would sleep soundly tonight, unable to answer any late-night phone calls from Sandia’s security team if they should happen to call his home landline.

  “Excuse me,” interrupted Kit. “Elfi, I’m just going to put my briefcase in the car. I’ll be back.” Kit left through the rear door.

  He found all four vehicles in the parking lot and casually pointed his briefcase at them as he passed, constantly pushing the button recessed into the handle. And he stealthily took photos of the Sandia decals on a certain black BMW.

  Kit unlocked the rented Pathfinder and sat behind the wheel. Seven minutes later, Yulana strode out of the front door and a group of guys yelled catcalls as she breezed past.

  “I told them I was going to the toilet,” she said, getting into the SUV.

  “And Al didn’t try to follow you?” Kit joked.

  “He tried.”

  “I don’t blame him.” Kit held her gaze. “You did great, by the way.”

  Yulana smiled at him. For the first time. And for the first time, he smiled at her.

  As Yulana kept her smile going, she thought, This man Bennings, he will save my daughter.