The Russian Bride

by Ed Kovacs

  “Doctor Petkova,” said Kit, as he fished out another paper cup of tea and handed it to her. “I want you to know that I haven’t forgotten my promise to you. About Kala.”

  Just the mention of her daughter’s name caused Yulana’s eyes to moisten. “I’m trying hard to keep believing that maybe…” A tear rolled down her cheek. Kit gently brushed it off with his hand.

  “Popov’s hackers stole a lot of money from my mom, but the family fortune that they obviously didn’t know about was untouched.”

  “Family fortune?”

  “You didn’t know you married well?” he asked with a small smile. “I bring this up only to tell you that … Buzz helped me make some arrangements. Put some money into an escrow account. If something happens to me before I can do it myself, I’m putting out a contract in Moscow.”

  “To kill Popov?” she asked, a bit confused.

  He smiled. “Not that kind of contract. It’s to find and rescue Kala. There are private security companies staffed with veteran operators that specialize in that kind of thing. So if something happens to me, well, I don’t want you to give up hope.”

  Kit took a sip of the lukewarm tea drink and then set it down. But he couldn’t set down the heavy weight that sat on his shoulders, the weight he’d been carrying since this whole mess began. He flinched slightly as Yulana took his hand and held it.

  “First we have to find Staci,” she said.

  Kit slowly nodded. “I don’t think they’ll kill her as long as I’m still alive.”

  “So promise me you won’t get killed.”

  “Promise,” said Kit, smiling wearily. “But in case the man upstairs has other plans, if possible, could you make sure that my sister gets this?” asked Kit, indicating the key he wore around his neck. “It has special meaning to my family.”

  “I promise.”

  CHAPTER 34

  Bobby Chan and Ron Franklin didn’t bother checking in with Metro PD. They simply started inspecting hotel or apartment units that seemed a likely prospect. But their idea of “likely prospect” was different from CID Agents Flood and Bates’s purely methodical, grid approach. It was the difference between employing veteran detectives using only their instincts to spot potential terrorists in airports or employing the TSA and their politically correct dogmas to spot terrorists. One way was effective, the other created jobs and bureaucratic fiefdoms.

  The San Bernardino detectives ruled out condos and any upscale apartment buildings. Most hotels were held in abeyance for now. Their first priority was lower-rent establishments—the “no questions asked” type motels or hotels and “no contract, no lease” apartments that catered to a more-transient and lower-end crowd. And unlike the CID boys, Chan and Franklin not only asked at the office, but they personally knocked on every suspect third-floor door.

  They grabbed burgers from Wendy’s and ate as they walked the interior and exterior hallways or walkways of sketchy buildings close to, but west of the Strip and south of the Rio and Palms. Their feet hurt, but they never complained; they just kept moving.

  * * *

  “Would you rather that Major Bennings have been killed at the CIA safe house?” asked Secretary of State Margarite Padilla.

  “Yes, I suppose so. Then we wouldn’t be wasting the president’s time having this emergency meeting. And a highly destructive American weapon that could send one of our cities back to the Stone Age wouldn’t be in the hands of a Russian gangster,” snapped John Stout, the DCI—Director of Central Intelligence—the top boss man of the CIA.

  To say the meeting was contentious was to put a positive spin on it.

  The secret Presidential Finding that had allowed Padilla to use a CIA SAD officer and an operator from the Activity to run the Moscow op that uncovered U.S. moles had been an irritant to Stout for the last six months; but now, with that secret finding out in the open, others in the room who considered counterintelligence to be their fiefdom unleashed a firestorm of resentment. National Security Adviser Bob Shay, the FBI director, and others were steaming because they hadn’t been informed of the action and they would always fight fiercely for control of their perceived turfs, or for, at the very least, being kept in the loop. File that one under big egos, ruffled feathers, and interagency rivalries.

  “Viktor Popov apparently has a Russian-built e-bomb that he was going to use if he couldn’t get one of ours,” said Padilla.

  “Do you have some evidence to back that up?” asked Stout.

  “No, she doesn’t,” said Shay, answering for her, “but there’s plenty of evidence that her man Bennings and his Russian bride stole the bomb from Sandia. And shot up half of Albuquerque.”

  “Thanks for answering for me, Bob, but would you mind saving the second-guessing until after I finish the brief?”

  “I think we got the gist of it, Margarite,” said President Jason Lane. Thin and savvy, Lane appeared intently focused on the issues at hand. “The secretary of state didn’t authorize Bennings to steal the bomb, so keep the sniping down, people. The question is what to do now.”

  “We throw everything we’ve got at finding Bennings and his most likely collaborators,” said Stout. The DCI signaled his aide, who distributed dossiers on Buzz Van Wyke, Angel Perez, and Jen Huffman to everyone in the room.

  “Wouldn’t our efforts better be served by focusing on Viktor Popov and his collaborators?” asked Padilla. “Unless you’re protecting a source, John.”

  “That’s out of line.” Stout gave Padilla a look that suggested he intended to get even with her. And soon.

  “Well, John, the CIA has a history of protecting Popov, doesn’t it?” asked Secretary of Defense Dan Bartok. Bartok was the old college buddy of Sheriff McCain’s brother-in-law and was already taking action regarding the spying mess created by the two CID officers and their NSA pal.

  “I wasn’t the DCI then.”

  “No,” said the president, “but you’re the DCI now, and neither the CIA nor FBI uncovered this plot, did they? Why did I hear about it from a lone operator working undercover for the State Department?”

  “Sounds to me like the lone operator is in on it. Maybe that’s why, Mister President,” said Stout.

  “Considering what happened to Bennings’s family, that’s cynical, John. Even for you. We’re here right now because Major Bennings has been keeping the secretary of state apprised of developments,” said the president, not bothering to hide his displeasure.

  “So Secretary Padilla makes a mess and we have to clean it up, is that it?” asked Shay.

  President Lane slammed his coffee cup down, breaking it. “The next person who bitches about turf issues and doesn’t focus on protecting the country will be removed from this room … and will never return, as long as I’m president. I want to hear constructive comments and potential solutions only, is that clear? Save the butcher work for some other meeting.”

  Silence fell over the room. The president wasn’t known for such outbursts, and so Stout, Shay, and others knew they’d have to proceed in a more … clever fashion.

  “Clearly the focus should be on finding Viktor Popov and his men,” said Padilla.

  “Agreed,” said the president.

  “We should quietly raise the DEFCON level and security threat level nationwide. Deploy agents or local officers to every airport in the country,” suggested Bartok.

  “We should close the airspace over the Las Vegas Strip and all military and federal sites in Nevada,” said Shay, trying to sound helpful now.

  “We’ll need armed jets over Las Vegas and other sites in Nevada flying continuous sorties. If the e-bomb’s GPS gets activated, we will have a very short shoot-down time,” offered Stout.

  “We’ll need to move more fighter squadrons into the area,” said Bartok.

  “Alert FEMA and the governors of every state within five hundred miles of Las Vegas to ramp up their disaster response agencies,” suggested the FBI director.

  “I disagree with most of what’s
being suggested here.” Donna Ibrahim, the president’s chief of staff, was perhaps the craftiest political player in the room. Her remark garnered sharp visual reactions from everyone. But no one spoke, because they all respected just how sly, conniving, and totally amoral she was.

  “Elaborate on that, Donna,” said President Lane.

  “First, we’re talking about a nonlethal weapon that will cause no loss of life. Second, the bomb’s target zone is very small and would affect relatively few people. Third, there’s a very good chance the target is civilian and does not threaten national security. So since there’s no evidence that Popov possesses a Russian bomb, and since Bennings can deactivate the Sandia bomb if the GPS signal becomes active, we should take only very discreet actions.

  “Forget about going public in any way, and don’t notify any states or governors that they may have a crisis on their hands—that would leak out to the press almost instantly. Instead, we implement a covert, full-court press to hunt down Viktor Popov and his gang’s leadership and terminate all of them, unofficially, of course. Popov’s entire U.S. organization must be dismantled, regardless of whether they are legal entities or not. This will send a message to the Russians not to try anything like this again.

  “We should announce a training exercise and close all airspace over military installations and sensitive federal sites in the Southwest. And yes, have twenty-four/seven armed jets patrolling with secret orders to shoot down any intruders.

  “We tell the Sandia folks that a secret CIA Red Team stole their device and to keep their mouths shut about it. We tell Albuquerque PD a training exercise went awry, to cover up the shoot-out there. The shopping mall explosion in El Monte is easy: since Russian gangsters were the only fatalities, we have DEA sell it as a drug beef. The LAX smoke-bomb business we call another Red Team exercise. And by the way, why didn’t the local yokels find those devices before they went off? Put some public pressure in the press for LAPD to tighten up at LAX.

  “As for Major Bennings and his team, they must be captured and extensively debriefed. Bennings should then be promoted, given some medals, and forced to retire from the army. But make it an honorable discharge, and let him keep his pension.”

  After a few moments, a number of people in the room began to nod in agreement; not Stout or Shay, but a consensus had emerged.

  Padilla had a slight smile on her face as she stared at Ibrahim. A bigger snake you couldn’t find in D.C., but the woman had hit on a plan that would probably satisfy most in the room. And it protected the powers that be while leaving the public with their asses hanging out, making it business as usual in Washington.

  Bennings would only lose his career, not his freedom. That was more than he expected he would get when he made the decision to go rogue. Of course, his freedom was contingent upon his not being killed by Viktor Popov.

  CHAPTER 35

  Two pickup trucks, a couple of big “bucket trucks,” and a lowboy semitrailer carrying a giant, 87-ton D10 bulldozer, turned as a convoy from South Rainbow Boulevard onto West Post Road just north of the 215 freeway on a beautiful Las Vegas night, with the faint scent of desert sage wafting in a slight breeze.

  The convoy pulled over and parked a half block from Rainbow Boulevard.

  Dennis Kedrov, wearing a white hard hat, sat in the passenger seat of the lead pickup. A pile of weapons on the floorboard was covered with a dirty blanket.

  Dennis lit a Turkish cigarette and marveled at how well built the road was for such a lightly traveled street. It would not be so in Mother Russia, where too many hands reached in, hands like his own, so there was seldom enough money to do simple things right.

  He would surely miss America, but with the bonus money he was about to earn, the south of France would do just fine. He already had his eye on a couple of chalets.

  * * *

  Alex Bobrik bent down in the small underground room, grabbed the handles, and eased the wooden panel out of the concrete wall as his two assistants watched. Alex crawled through the opening into the room on the other side of the wall, and his assistants began passing electronics and the other gear to him that had been stacked and was ready to use in the long-awaited deception.

  * * *

  An orange-pink sunset painted the horizon above the Spring Mountains. The Vegas Strip ran calmer with a quiet interlude before the controlled chaos of the evening’s diversions. One in a seemingly constant stream of blue-and-red Southwest Airlines jets roared in low at McCarran Airport and touched down on runway 1L.

  In a private hangar not far from where the Southwest flight just landed, Yulana dozed with her head on the table next to a laptop; the tips of her fingers, which twitched slightly as she slept, rested on the now-dog-eared photograph of her and her daughter, Kala.

  Kit stirred from his own nap and checked his watch. He rubbed his eyes, grabbed an untouched cup of cold tea, and crossed over toward Jen and Buzz, whose tired eyes scanned laptop screens. Angel slumped in a chair as he made adjustments to the guts of a handheld radio using his lucky green screwdriver.

  “Any word on Staci?” asked Kit.

  Buzz shook his head.

  “I’ll hang around another hour. Then I’m going to join the search.” Kit looked over to Yulana. “She’s got to be worried sick about her daughter, but you should have seen how she handled herself in Albuquerque.”

  “Life-or-death stakes. People do things they never thought they could do,” said Buzz.

  “Kit, there’s something here you need to see. It’s about your family, and about you.”

  Kit’s face grew serious as he walked around behind Jen. “What you got?”

  “News item from the Internet,” she said, as Angel joined the group.

  Jen clicked PLAY and the video of a Los Angeles TV news reporter appeared on the screen.

  “San Bernardino County Sheriff Jim McCain held a press conference today and announced that the death of a Chino Hills woman was now being classified as a homicide and is linked to a recent multiple murder and possible kidnapping in a Chino Hills home.

  “Gina Bennings, age sixty, was found dead in her car at the bottom of an arroyo off of Carbon Canyon Road.

  “Forensic evidence now links her death to the grisly scene of a gun battle in her home, where Rick and Maria Carrillo were shot to death by unknown assailants. The fingerprints of Gina Bennings’s missing daughter, Staci, were found on a tranquilizer dart at the scene, and detectives now believe she was tranquilized, kidnapped, and remains missing.

  “Here’s what Sheriff McCain had to say about the strange case”:

  “I’d like to reassure the citizens of Chino Hills and all of San Bernardino County that they are not in danger. While I can’t get into details, my department has a good idea of who the perpetrators are, and now that we are working closely with the FBI and the army’s Criminal Investigation Command, we expect a breakthrough very soon.

  “My detectives would very much like to talk to Major Kitman Bennings, who disappeared after arriving in Los Angeles two days ago. He is not a suspect in the murders or kidnapping. In fact, he’s exactly the opposite. There is concern that he might be a target and might now be suffering from some kind of emotional breakdown.

  “General Stoakes, the newly appointed commander of CID, asked me to make clear that no charges will be filed against Major Bennings for any actions he has committed during the last seven days, if he reports for duty at any army post in the next twenty-four hours. That is an ironclad guarantee of amnesty and a good-faith public gesture on the army’s part to help solve the horrible tragedy that has befallen the Bennings family. That’s all I can say for now.”

  “So a very unusual case continues to develop here in San Bernardino. I’m Roberto Riviera, Fox 11 News.”

  Jen clicked off the video.

  “Politics, politics, politics. They’re worried about me. That’s nice to know,” said Kit.

  “The army sent a message through the sheriff granting you blanket amnesty.”
Buzz looked Kit in the eye.

  “They want the bomb back,” said Kit.

  “Whatever their motivation, we all hope you take the offer seriously.”

  “There’s nothing I can do to change the fact that my military career is over. They may not bring me up on charges, but I’m toast.”

  “Toast sounds better than thirty years in a military correctional facility,” said Angel.

  “I think they’re more scared of what you might do than of what Popov might do,” said Jen.

  “They should be. Because I’m not giving up till my sister is safe, and until I’ve evened a score with Viktor Popov.”

  CHAPTER 36

  Popov watched from the shadows as technicians attached two bombs—one Russian, one American—onto hard points on the R66 helicopter’s undercarriage. This was done in the open in the unlit parking lot off South Las Vegas Boulevard. And as Viktor had predicted, no one noticed. A traffic cop could have pulled up and called it in, and the whole deception would be in the toilet. But no one in glitzy Las Vegas noticed a black helicopter with no lights and no markings sitting on a truck in the rear of a dark, empty parking lot.

  The rotors were untethered, the tie-downs removed. The copter would lift off right from the bed of the lowboy trailer.

  Popov’s already hulking form looked even larger due to the bulk of a slim black parachute he wore snugly over his black flight suit. The technicians smiled at the boss, but he only scowled. He turned away from them, and as a throwaway afterthought said, “See you in L.A.” They had no way of knowing that, win or lose tonight, he had no intention of ever returning to Los Angeles.

  Popov stepped up onto the trailer and climbed into the cockpit. The first thing he checked was to make sure the transponder was switched off. Three minutes later he was airborne, flying dark as he gained altitude while heading northwest. One minute from the target, he activated the American bomb’s GPS guidance system.

  * * *

  Jen Huffman’s laptop alarm beeped, and she snapped to, ultra-alert. One of her screens displayed a map of the Las Vegas area and showed a “+” marker moving slowly.