Chasing the Captain

by Terry Shepherd

  Each strand of glass could transmit the entire contents of the Internet back and forth in less than an hour. Alexandra Clark thought it ironic that Cornwall was home to this amazing on-ramp to the information superhighway. Data speeds for the locals here were little better than obsolete dial-up connections.

  What focused her attention on this place was a minority investor in UKUC: The Maitland Corporation.

  SIS Technical analyst CJ Riemer led a team of agents toward a nondescript cinderblock building, out of place and out of sight behind the 18th-century farmhouse at the end of the winding driveway. An explosive expert’s eyes and the noses of a pair of bomb-sniffing dogs confirmed the facility was safe to enter.

  Ali could hear the rotors of a Royal Navy helicopter in the distance. She hoped it carried the human cargo she had asked for.

  The security team framed a landing zone in the neatly manicured side-yard. Moments later, a Commando Wildcat AH1 was discharging its single passenger.

  Ali recognized the smile instantly.

  “Hey, Officer Clark. Thanks for busting me out of jail.”

  Andy Milluzzi’s five-foot-ten frame took a moment to watch the chopper spin up and ascend into the late afternoon sky. The backpack he carried looked out of place, so far away from the Paloma University campus. Ali knew its contents were worth their weight in gold.

  “Sorry to put you right to work, Andy, but we need to know if there are countermeasures inside the building so we don’t unintentionally alert the bad guys.”

  Andy grinned. “No worries.” He gave the grounds a cursory inspection. “There’s your fire alarm,” he said, pointing to the tiny satellite dish on the roof. “No reason for that old technology when you’ve got a zillion other safety systems reporting in real-time. Somebody wants to keep watch on this place with no one else knowing.”

  Unzipping the backpack, Andy removed a laptop and what looked like a single small jumper cable connected to his computer’s USB port.

  CJ Riemer materialized from the crowd of uniformed agents and shook Andy’s hand. “I thought the dish was out of place, too. Let me get you a ladder so you can take a closer look.”

  Ali smiled. Andy knew a kindred spirit when he saw one. “It sounds like you and I have been parallel processing. Any more infected ‘Friedas’ out there?”

  “Too many, my friend. Let’s figure out how to get them well.”

  CJ motioned to a team member who quickly produced a ladder. Andy scaled it with ease to examine the small circular disk and clasp the jumper cable to its coaxial connection.

  As the laptop screen scrolled row after row of data, Andy pulled a short piece of coax from his backpack, studying the N-connector to make sure it would fit the back of the dish.

  After about a minute, he nodded in satisfaction, typed a command on the keyboard and plugged the coaxial adapter into the computer’s thunderbolt port.

  “Yup,” he said. “That’s the handshake signal, all right. These older devices are easy to fool. Now, if I can just time the switch right.”

  With Ali watching from the ground, the ones and zeros streamed across the screen. Andy waited for the five-second silence interval, first loosening the N-connector at the back of the dish and then quickly swapping cables to connect his laptop directly to the antenna.

  It was only when a broad smile creased Andy’s features that Ali realized she was holding her breath.

  “Good to go,” he said. “As far as the other side knows, nothing is amiss. We can play to our heart’s content now.”

  Ali nodded to CJ, who gave a sign to a pair of agents standing by the door. Seconds later, it was open, revealing blinking lights and racks filled with laser gear and network connections.

  The cop patted her friend on the back. “Impressive,” Ali said. “But can you tell me the one thing I want to know?”

  Andy pulled an Iridium Extreme 9575 Satellite Phone from his pocket. “Modified,” he said, “It doesn’t use the compromised cell network. But it does everything else a cell phone does.”

  He opened an app on the tiny screen. A map appeared with a red hammer and sickle icon blinking smack dab in the middle of the City of Moscow.

  “There’s your Captain,” Andy said. “And he has no idea that we know his exact location.”

  61

  Moscow

  Govyadiny Moscava translates as “Beef Russia.” That’s all that patrons see on the dim sign in front of the tiny restaurant located south of the Moscow River and less than a mile from the Kremlin. Beef Russia had the perfect mix of anonymity and access—a hole in the wall, hidden in plain sight with access to a high-capacity fiberoptic cable that ran northwest, through Estonia and across the Baltic Sea to Stockholm. The roof of the building obscured satellite dishes from the street, but not from the CIA’s spy satellites.

  The agency could not connect the place with anything particularly sinister, considering that “sinister” was associated with just about everything and everyone in Russia’s capital city.

  Now, there was a connection, and Govyadiny Moscava was about to get a lot of attention.

  Vladimir Prokofiev sat at his private table, a circular red-leather booth with a complete view of everyone who came in and out of his restaurant. On the wall to the rear of his booth, a large, thick pane of mirrored, one-way, bullet-proof glass made the place seem bigger than it was. Prokofiev’s office was behind the glass. But he liked how the smell of the applewood bar mixed with the aroma of grilled red meat and retreated to the sterile silence of precise furnishing only when privacy was a necessity.

  Besides the attraction of its beef, the chefs at Govyadiny Moscava cooked everything in plain sight. Half of the place was an open kitchen. Steaks sizzled atop gas-fired grills. Breaded chicken bubbled in deep fryers, boiling in canola oil. Salads were tossed with the dexterity of a pizza chef. And it was all within view of the customers.

  The place had a wide-open feel.

  Not that security was an issue among the patrons. Every employee, from the burly bartender to the husky East German waitress, had KGB credentials and weapons. Any malcontent who made the mistake of coming in the front door and confronting the wrong person disappeared out the back door into eternity.

  The Captain wasn’t alone. Jack Crawford, aka Giovanni De Triste, sat in the booth with him, maintaining his distance, his right arm pressed against his chest in a sling and a plaster cast.

  Despite some excellent Russian narcotics, Crawford felt the throbbing pain of his fractured humerus and two taped ribs. He felt lucky to have survived the chopper crash in London.

  “Why did you shoot the pilot?”

  One did not ask The Captain those kinds of questions. But the meds gave Jack Crawford a precarious shot of courage.

  The Captain grunted. “Broken legs. The man couldn’t get away and allowing him to be interrogated by British Intelligence was an unacceptable option.”

  Crawford considered the hulks behind the bar. “I sometimes wonder what you might do if I outlived my usefulness.”

  Prokofiev sniffed. “You are a long-term investment, my friend. And you still have one significant task to perform for me.”

  Crawford instantly knew what the menacing man was talking about. “I delivered the two women into your hands. We are even.”

  “Jessica Ramirez still lives. Yes, we know she is currently barely a mile away, but while she breathes, you have failed. Your attempt at the airport was another failure.”

  “We neutralized a British agent who has long been a problem for your country. On my ledger, that counts as a success.”

  The Captain brushed a bit of dust from the tablecloth. At the bar, Crawford saw an employee flinch. Prokofiev terrified even his closest associates. “We know that he still breathes. And as we’ve seen, the SIS puts damaged men into wheelchairs and continues to utilize their wisdom and experience against us.”

  Crawford’s voice belied incredulity. “No normal human being recovers from the dosage Commander Anastos receive
d.”

  Prokofiev grunted. “The commander is anything but normal. Do you know his history?”

  “I know he will live the rest of his brief life on a ventilator. If your plan executes as you expect, his existence won’t matter.”

  The Captain continued to focus on his vodka. “Death is the ultimate arbiter. Anastos is a resilient and resourceful man. If he survives, he will exact vengeance.”

  Crawford ignored the warning. “What’s so important about one small-town police officer? If you left her alone, she would probably have spent the rest of her life arresting college kids for smoking dope. You’ve killed the girl’s father, and she’s not one who will let that go.”

  The Captain considered the top-shelf vodka that gleamed in a crystal glass on the table before him. “You of all people should know that the snake remains deadly until you cut off its head.”

  “This snake is part of a nest. She has imaginative friends.”

  “Then we shall kill them all.”

  Crawford sipped his bottle of Baltika. He’d had better beer but could understand how the brew was second only to vodka in popularity here. “You have a plan?”

  Prokofiev continued to study the glass. Crawford watched him move his thumb to trace a droplet of condensation.

  “The British have assembled a team that will attempt to abduct or kill me. Detective Ramirez’s associate is among them. I have a trusted operative in their midst. Our little snake is about to lose her closest friend. And MI6 will know the extent of our power over them.”

  Crawford narrowed his eyes in concern. “Why do this when you are so close to victory? We are within forty-eight hours of executing your plan.”

  “The assassins will be here in twenty-four. Detective Ramirez speaks tomorrow night. We will soon have her in our grasp. If all goes as I contemplate, witnessing the deaths of her associates will be her last living act.”

  Crawford pondered this new information. His mind was unchanged. “Eventually, someone will come for you, too.”

  The Captain lifted his glass, sniffed the contents and drank. “I don’t expect to die in my bed. We all serve someone. I failed my client because of that ‘small-town police officer.’ I have convinced them that what I now propose is worth a second chance. If I fail again, the entire national security apparatus won’t be able to protect me.”

  He said this without emotion. Empty gray eyes scanned the restaurant and the street on the other side of the front windows. Crawford wondered if the man had any feelings at all.

  “And yet, you have no fear.”

  Prokofiev turned those gray eyes to consider the American. “Fear is weakness. It can be a tool to control a man, a flaw to exploit.”

  Crawford didn’t break the gaze. Everything with The Captain was a test. “And if someone channels the desire for revenge to banish fear?”

  “Then,” The Captain said, “they become dangerous beyond measure.”

  62

  The American Embassy Infirmary—Moscow

  Tom Anastos fought to breathe. Every beat of his heart was an exercise in will. The commander knew the symptoms of Novichok poisoning well. Now, as he lay intubated in a makeshift hospital bed at the American Embassy, he felt a curious detachment from it all.

  He thought back to his boyhood in Greece and how a love for ice hockey in a country with hardly any ice first brought him to Russia.

  His teenage teammates were all bigger, stronger, and more experienced. They saw the boy with the strange accent and the trusting smile as the perfect target, a disposable plaything for a group of thugs who enjoyed covering dogs in gasoline, lighting a match and watching the helpless animals run themselves to death, engulfed in flames.

  Tom learned his lesson when his hockey “teachers” sent him toward thin ice after a puck. He heard it crack and couldn’t turn back before what held him above the dark, icy water gave way.

  The force of his forward progress sent his body below a hard, shimmering shield. It soaked his clothing, dragging him deeper into the freezing darkness. Tom felt as if his lungs might explode. His fingers were instantly numb, and he felt the icy grip of death encircling him.

  He imagined his parents interrogating his teammates and the shrugs they would give in return. His bloated body would not appear until the ice melted in late spring, if at all.

  Kids disappeared here all the time. Parents mourned. Everyone else moved on.

  Fear morphed into anger. Tom brought his legs together and undulated like a mermaid. The movement, along with the slight buoyancy of the oxygen in his body, slowly lifted him toward the glassy surface.

  Frozen fingers felt their way along the thickness until he sensed a break. Grabbing the edge of the shelf of ice, he pulled himself into the open air, gasping for breath.

  Nobody offered him help. Life and death were his two options. Only his desire to survive gave him the will to persevere past the searing muscle pain and the hypoxia, dragging his body back onto a thicker foundation.

  Naturally, his teammates laughed. The show was over. They dispersed, leaving Tom, wet and shivering, to walk home alone.

  But Tom Anastos learned a lesson that day. And he remembered every face. Over the next few years, each disappeared, one by one. The manner and timing did not attract attention. Everyone knew bad boys had a way of self-destructing.

  That Tom Anastos exacted his revenge in ways that made his victims’ final horrific moments the stuff of nightmares didn’t bother him. He did not kill for sport. But he was not afraid to kill for a purpose.

  The ideal profile for an MI6 field officer.

  Tom Anastos understood how the world worked and how to survive. Hockey didn’t kill him. There was no way that Novichok would, either.

  63

  I Need Distance

  Jessica Ramirez and Michael Wright stood next to the commander’s bedside. Jess couldn’t know what was going on inside of Tom’s head.

  All she could feel was anger.

  “Now, do you see why I’m terrified that they involved you in this thing?” Michael asked.

  Jess nodded. Her iron expression did not change.

  “Now, do you see why I have to be? This has become more than just a personal vendetta. Phoenix. New York. They are all connected to this man, Prokofiev. We set him back a step. What he intends to do will kill hundreds of millions of innocent people. But I’m his weakness. By drawing me into the game, he’s revealed enough for us to find him.”

  Michael interrupted her narrative, his voice unusually cold. “He tricked you into the game, Jessica. And you delivered Marie Culpado into his hands, almost losing your own life in the process. That was a fail, Jess. You’re in over your head.”

  Jess turned to face her lover, taking a tiny step backward as she did so.

  Distance. She needed distance.

  “You’re right, Michael. Rule number one in our world is that when it gets personal, you make mistakes. I know that now. But it’s personal for Prokofiev, too. Anastos said I’m the ‘bait.’ So, let’s dangle that bait in front of this asshole’s face. Put me up on that stage tonight as planned. Invite the public. Put your agents all around me if you have to. But let’s grab whoever he sends to dispatch me and squeeze him until we know exactly where The Captain is.

  “With any luck, they will succeed in abducting me tonight. The Captain wants to take me out with his own hands. Like Crawford did to Marie.” Jess’s expression turned ice cold. “Get me in the same room with that bastard, and I’ll kill him myself.”

  “Excuse me, Agent Wright.” It was the measured tones of the US Ambassador, who had silently entered the room. “There’s a message for Detective Ramirez from Officer Alexandra Clark.”

  64

  Cornwall

  Andy Milluzzi grinned. “Message received. And nobody knows what it is or where it came from.”

  Apparently, the comms system Alexandra Clark’s students at Paloma University crafted had done the job.

  Ali returned her young ment
ee’s smile. “You’re pretty damn good, kiddo. How in the hell did your team figure this thing out?”

  Andy looked to his SIS counterpart. CJ Riemer grinned back. This was heaven for nerds and hell for everyone else. “No offense, Officer Clark,” Andy said, without a bit of arrogance in his voice, “but it’s beyond your level of experience.”

  “Then dumb it down for me.”

  “Every communications protocol includes a ‘handshake.’ When it connects with the server that controls it, it transmits the same bit of code every time. In amateur radio, we call these ‘packets.’ They contain identifying information about the device and other stuff that the system needs to know to do what it needs to do. I don’t know how this Captain of yours did it, but he’s infected every server, every cell phone, every smart device with this tiny bit of software that spits out everything the device knows to his servers.”

  CJ jumped in when Andy took a breath. “Using other information he already somehow possesses, he’s able to extrapolate where we are, read our mail and, in some very scary cases, give commands to our technology that can do some pretty ugly stuff.”

  Ali knew what that last bit meant. A rash of minor news stories about tiny failures in rural power grids, smart cars that suddenly swerved into oncoming traffic, text messages and social posts that could influence malleable minds to do bad things. This was the currency Ali traded in. And there had been more of it lately.

  Was it all connected?

  She saw Andy watch her process what he was saying. “Right before your NSA friends arrested us, my team hacked into the MSPC, the Midwest Power Cooperative. That’s the central authority that balances electricity demand for ten states, including Illinois. Guess what we found in the command-and-control data stream?”