“Those who survived, you mean.”
“Da.”
“They could never come home.”
“Nyet.”
“How do they get to this island?”
“The operational details would be theirs to make, but your contact will provide everything they need—civilian clothes and documents, off-the-shelf non-Russian weapons, plus an aircraft capable of flight above ten thousand meters.”
“You’re talking about a nighttime HALO operation?”
“That’s one way, but that would be up to the team,” Kanayev said, and he left it there for several long moments as he watched his son-in-law work it out. “Do you have such a team in mind?”
Nyunin took several more long moments before he nodded. “I know exactly who would be willing to carry out something like that—actually, I think they’d jump at it.”
“Are they capable?”
“They’re my men.”
“Will you do this for me?”
“Yes, I will, Nana,” Nyunin said. “But when it is over, I will resign my commission.”
FIFTY-SIX
The Spetsnaz base Promezhitsa was not far from borders with Estonia and Latvia but well away from the administrative center of the Oblast, like a state or county, at the city of Pskov. Well wooded in some spots with many rivers but swampy and mosquito ridden in the north, except during the brutal Russian winters, it was a much tougher training venue than that of the American SEAL Team 6, and the troops here were proud of the fact.
First thing in the morning, Colonel Nyunin had a runner fetch Senior Lieutenant Boris Vetrov to his office, who showed up within five minutes in regulation battle dress uniform, his blue airborne beret tucked neatly in the epaulet on his left shoulder.
Vetrov was a compact man in his late twenties, all angles, made of muscle, with a narrow face and deep eyes that never seemed to smile. He came to attention and saluted. “Vetrov, Boris A., reporting as ordered, sir.”
Nyunin, seated behind his desk, returned the salute and motioned for the senior lieutenant to take a chair.
“How would you like to be rich?”
“Like anyone, sir, but if I had my choice, I’d stay with the brigade.”
“This life comes to an end for everyone sooner or later.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I have a proposition for you to consider, but I’ll need your answer this morning before you leave this office. The op would be strictly off the grid and carry with it not only a considerable money reward in euros but a considerable risk and some very unusual conditions.”
Vetrov obviously was at a loss, but he nodded.
“Have you ever heard the name Kirk McGarvey?”
“No, sir.”
“He briefly served as the director of the American Central Intelligence Agency, and he and his wife have since became freelance operators, once just a couple of years ago even going up against President Putin.”
Vetrov was impressed, but he held his silence.
“By tomorrow evening or the next at the latest, he and his wife will be at their home in a converted lighthouse in an isolated section of the Greek island of Serifos. I want you to pick a team of five operators, who will be flown to the island for a night HALO drop. On the ground, you will locate and eliminate both of them and then make your way off the island.”
“I have the perfect five, but I can see a number of issues—among them, our exfiltration after the op.”
“That will be the least of it,” Nyunin said, and the way he said it as well as the words themselves caught Vetrov’s complete attention, but again, the senior lieutenant said nothing.
“The conditions will be the toughest to bear in the entire operation, all of which will be classified most secret for the good of the state, and that comes directly from the general staff. No one outside of you and I and your team must ever hear a word of this op. The blowback could be devastating to the Rodina, the Motherland.”
“I understand, sir.”
“Not yet, but you will,” Nyunin said. “How soon can you have your team briefed?”
“Within the hour of leaving this office, sir.”
“You’ll probably need to take most of the day for prep and equipment change-outs, most of which can be issued from special infiltration supplies. You’ll be going in civilian clothes, with Ukrainian credentials, using German Heckler & Koch primary weapons, along with Glock subcompact pistols in the ten-millimeter caliber. Take the Chinese HALO chutes. Nothing must connect you with Russia if you’re captured.”
“Except for our language and unit tattoos, sir.”
“We’ll take care of that as well later this afternoon. As soon as you’ve briefed and outfitted your squad, I’ll want the six of you back here in my office.”
“I’ll have to come up to speed on the island and the McGarveys’ exact location, as well as whatever firepower they may have at their disposal, as well as some plan for getting out.”
“If you are a go, a civilian jet will touch down here this evening, load you and your equipment, and take off for refueling in Sofia. Aboard will be your briefing kit, including maps and exfiltration plans, along with a contact number for updates or unforeseen issues.”
“What about the aircrew?”
“You will kill them, dump most of the fuel, and set the autopilot for a route south, where the aircraft will crash into the sea.”
Vetrov sat back in the chair, his shoulders slumped, an odd, almost wistful expression on his face. “There’s no plan for getting us back, is there, sir?”
“No, but I’ve been assured that an untraceable bank account in the amount of thirty million euros will be set up, to be divided among anyone who survives.”
“I’m sorry, sir, but that still doesn’t answer the question of returning to base. Unless that will be included in the briefing package.”
“You won’t be coming back, not here or to anywhere in Russia, but you’ll be given medals of highest honors for service to the Motherland in secret.”
Vetrov was bitter. “A small amount for losing a home.”
“If it’s any consolation, I’ll be retiring myself,” Nyunin said. “But you’re a highly trained, capable man. You and whoever is left of your team could set up as independent operators. There is a great deal of need for your talents. You would not get bored. And in between times, you wouldn’t be stuck living and training in a godforsaken shithole like this.”
Vetrov nodded and got heavily to his feet.
“As soon as you’re ready, come back here with your team,” Nyunin said, the worst of his briefing coming right now.
Vetrov saluted and headed to the door, but Nyunin stopped him.
“One last thing, Senior Lieutenant.”
“Sir?”
“There will only be one official record of this mission. And it’ll be the dishonorable discharges you and your men will receive. You’ll be leaving this base as civilians.”
Vetrov nodded again. “I understand, sir. Plausible deniability.”
* * *
When the senior lieutenant was gone, Nyunin opened a desk drawer and pulled the old Makarov 9mm pistol that his father-in-law had given him as a present when he’d graduated from the Frunze Military Academy.
Its serial number identified it as the very first pistol made in the very first manufacturing run in 1949.
But its age did not diminish its ability to kill.
In a detached sort of way, he wondered how Vetrov and his men would handle the situation. The operation itself would be almost routine, but the dishonorable discharge would be like a kick in the balls to young men who had dedicated their lives thus far to their country, the Spetsnaz, and their unit.
Those who survived would be together as a unit, but they would be free of the chain of command. And for men used to taking orders, used to believing that the officers above them knew what they were doing, it would be a difficult, maybe even impossible transition.
It was going to be the
same for him after he’d turned in his resignation and it was accepted, something he knew his father-in-law would expect.
What he couldn’t understand was why the general would agree to such an insane plan that had every chance in the book to fail, and fail badly. McGarvey and his wife would die, that was inevitable. But there was a decent chance that one or more of his operators would be captured and made to talk.
There was money for them—not a lot of money, but a fabulous sum for men of their ranks who were earning on average a little more or less than fifteen hundred euros a month.
What was more important—money or honor?
He was more concerned about honor, and at this moment, his hands and more importantly his soul seemed dirtied.
His wife, Katya, had divorced him three years ago, because, as she’d told the judge, her husband, just like her father, valued the military more than their families.
Maybe he would end it, he thought.
But not now, and he put the Makarov back in the desk drawer.
FIFTY-SEVEN
At three in the morning, the Turkish Airlines 8 flight to Athens was four hours out into the Atlantic from Dulles, and McGarvey hadn’t been able to get to sleep yet, though their first-class accommodations were decent. Pete had fallen asleep after a glass of wine once they were in the air, and looking at her now, he was of a mixed mind.
He was afraid for her, and yet he was glad she was at his side. It was a new feeling for him, accepting that he wasn’t going on an assignment alone, and liking it. In fact, it was completely alien to just about everything he’d been taught and had learned by hard experience in the field.
It had to do with trust. Not loyalty, not a fear that a partner would turn out to be a traitor, but trust in that a partner was capable. He’d never wanted to find himself in a situation where he not only had to take care of himself but watch out for the misstep that would put whoever was next to him in a bullet’s path.
He looked at the window, the shade up. The cabin lights had been dimmed, but he could still see his reflection, pale now, almost like how he felt inside. And yet he’d finally—for the first time in his life—learned to trust. And he was damned if he knew whether he liked it or was afraid.
“Such deep thoughts when you should be sleeping,” Pete said.
“I was thinking about us,” he said.
She smiled. “You better have, because I was dreaming about you.” She paused. “And about our game plan. You haven’t said anything about how we’re going to play it, and I thought I’d hold my tongue for a change until you’re ready to clue me in.”
Besides the Glock 29 Gen 4 that Pete favored, and one of his Walthers in the 9mm version, plus plenty of ammunition at the lighthouse, Otto had packaged a pair of HK MP7A1 compact submachine guns along with ammunition, in a diplomatic pouch, that was placed in the cargo hold along with their bags. When it came down to a gunfight, he didn’t think that sheer firepower would be the sole deciding factor; finding the right spot would be just as important, but the room brooms would help.
His major concern was that, this time, whoever had directed the attacks on him would be sending what they might consider an overwhelming force. Maybe a team of four operators. Ex–Special Forces types who knew stealth tactics and were well connected enough to bring some serious weaponry to bear—like the updated version of the Russian-made RPG anti-tank weapon or the British-made, more compact and disposable LAW 80 rocket-propelled anti-armor weapon.
“I was thinking that, had we stuck with my original idea of using the house as our defensive position, we might have been more vulnerable. I think they were going to use the woman in the Gulf as a diversion to lure one of us outside and then come in from the ICW.”
“She would have been the bait, and I would have been the mouse out to the cheese, with you watching my back,” Pete said.
“Something like that.”
“What about this time?”
“For starters, I think there’ll be more of them, and probably better armed.”
“How many, and armed with what?”
“Four, maybe six operators. RPGs or LAW rockets to dig us out of the lighthouse.”
“You were thinking that we’d have the high ground,” Pete said. “But they’d have to get that stuff onto the island. Might not be so easy.”
“By sea in the middle of the night. Or if they’re as well funded as I expect the others were, they could come in by air high and slow and make a parachute drop.”
“Sounds military.”
“I think that’s likely,” McGarvey said.
“Otto should be able to come up with some ideas.”
“Plenty of ideas, but ex–special operators are a dime a dozen in the business.”
“It’ll be a night attack, and we’ll be outside in the bush or behind a rock somewhere with good firing lines on our house,” Pete said. She reached out and touched his cheek. “You sure know how to show a girl a good time.”
* * *
The Hotel du Paris, Monaco’s finest, had always been one of Hammond’s favorite spots anywhere on the planet. After he had made his first five million, he’d treated himself and his girlfriend at the time to the Princess Grace Diamond suite, which even then was more than twenty thousand euros per night, worth every cent in his estimation. And he’d been staying there at least once a year ever since.
He and Susan had gotten up around ten and had sauntered down to the private beach, where they sat on chaise longues drinking Krug under one of the striped cabanas. It was just past eleven, and Susan said she was getting hungry.
“Let’s finish the wine and then go up,” Hammond said. “Unless you want a picnic lunch brought down.”
“Out here,” she said. “It’s nice.”
Hammond picked up the phone that did not ring but was answered immediately by a woman speaking English with a French accent.
“May we be of service, Mr. Hammond?”
“We need another bottle of wine, and fix us something for lunch.”
“Do you have a preference, monsieur?”
“I’ll trust your good judgment.”
Susan had watched, and when he hung up, she managed a slight smile. “How do you do it, Thomas?”
“Do what?”
“Sit on the beach, drink wine, and order lunch as if nothing were going on?”
“It’s a nice day, I’m with a woman I love, and I’m hungry.”
“But it’s going to happen in Greece in the next thirty-six hours, and if it fails again, it’s very possible that a virtual shitstorm could rain down on us. Aren’t you worried?”
He’d thought about that from the point when the second attempt in Washington had been made and failed, and he had been frightened for a time, but then he’d relied on his pipeline deal with Tarasov to provide him with a shield. Shortly after that, he’d once again played the situation like the game he’d wanted it to be from the start.
“Actually, no,” he said.
She laughed. “You’re either the smartest man I know or the craziest.”
He laughed, too. “Probably a little of both,” he said. “But the game’s afoot.”
“Sherlock Holmes.”
* * *
Senior Lieutenant Vetrov showed up with his team a few minutes after 1800 hours, assuring Nyunin that they fully understood what was needed of them and had agreed without reservation to the terms.
“We’re doing it for the Rodina,” the senior lieutenant said.
“And yourselves.”
“If you say so, sir.”
The six of them crowded into Nyunin’s office, and Vetrov handed them their terms-of-enlistment papers. All of them in battle camos stood at attention.
They looked young, Nyunin thought, barely out of their teen years. But they also looked hard, their bodies for the most part smaller than the average Russian, but muscled without being muscle-bound. Supple, with an almost wild animal edge to their faces and postures.
“Do y
ou understand what you have been asked to do, and the requirements of the mission?” Nyunin began.
All of them nodded.
“This will be handled as a captain’s mast, the result of which will be dishonorable discharges and a debt to you men that your country will never be able to properly repay except by its lasting gratitude.”
No one said a thing.
“Sound off.”
One by one, they reported their names, ranks, and serial numbers, beginning with Vetrov, and from his left, the youngest looking of them all, Vasili Anosov, Aleksei Petrin and Eduard Nikolayev—who could have been twins—Ivan Orlov with his Siberian looks, and Ilich Silin, a man near thirty who had the attitude that he was ready to cut everyone’s throat.
When it was over and they were gone, Nyunin took the Makarov out and laid it on the desktop.
The Gulfstream G500 leased from a Bulgarian service was incoming and due to land within forty minutes. Vetrov’s team would have changed into civilian clothes by then, and within fifteen minutes of the aircraft touching down, they and their equipment would be aboard and the Gulfstream airborne.
FIFTY-EIGHT
Clarke Bender flew up to New York on a private FBI jet and was met at LaGuardia by Alicia Sherman, the Bureau’s special agent in charge of the UN desk, who’d been working on the case she’d been sent twelve hours ago. She was a businesslike woman in her midthirties, a Harvard graduate on her way up, but she looked athletic, even hard around the edges, with a sharply chiseled face and deep blue eyes.
They got into a Caddy SUV, Sherman driving, and headed into the city. “There definitely was a connection between Rodriguez and Viktor Kuprik other than one of a simple business relationship.”
She took a file folder from between the center console and her seat and handed it to Bender. “What we’ve come up with so far.”
“I’ll look at it later; for now, give me the highlights, because I think that we’re running out of time,” Bender said.
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