The Lone Patriot

by JT Brannan

  ‘Mr. Manturov,’ the anchor began, ‘we are glad to see that you are recovering after your horrific ordeal. And for viewers that do not know, the prime minister was the subject of an attempted assassination recently, which was initially linked to Latvian intelligence. But recent revelations – by Russian state media, no less – have indicated that the people behind the attack might well have been somewhat closer to home.’

  ‘Yes, indeed,’ Manturov said in grave tones. ‘The assassination was ordered by my own president, Mikhail Emelienenko.’

  ‘But why would he do such a thing?’ the anchor asked, a puzzled expression on his face.

  ‘Because I didn’t agree with some of his plans.’

  ‘His plans?’ the anchor probed.

  ‘One plan in particular.’

  ‘And what was that?’

  Vinson and Michiko watched the Russian prime minister in silence, waiting for the words they hoped would follow.

  ‘It was codenamed Proyekt Yevropy,’ Manturov said eventually.

  ‘Project Europe?’ the anchor pressed. ‘Can you tell us about it?’

  Manturov paused again, took a sip of water from the glass on the table that lay between them, and then slowly nodded his head. ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘I certainly can.’

  And in a private hospital room, five and half thousand miles away, Vinson and Michiko looked at each other, and smiled in glorious triumph.

  Mikhail Emelienenko watched the news feed from the television of his airplane.

  He couldn’t believe his eyes, his ears. First Valery Krasnov at Rossiya 1, and now this!

  Boris Manturov was telling all, a complete exposé of Emelienenko’s plans.

  Son of a fucking bitch!

  It would be a deathbed confession, Emelienenko would see to that. Makarova may have failed, but he would see to it that Manturov didn’t live out the week, and the media be damned.

  It didn’t matter if people knew, it didn’t matter if Emelienenko’s planned invasions were legitimate; it would have been nice to have some measure of justification, that was true – but nothing would stop him from carrying out his plans, from seeing them to fruition.

  Nobody could stop him, he knew, no matter who knew about it. Nobody could –

  ‘Sir?’ one of his staff members said, holding up the aircraft phone. ‘It’s the Kremlin.’

  Emelienenko snatched the phone out of the young man’s hand. ‘Yes?’ he snapped. ‘This better be important.’

  Emelienenko listened to the news with alarm, the confidence on his face washing away fast.

  ‘Vladimir?’ he asked. ‘How?’

  He listened to the voice on the other end of the phone describing how Dementyev had been executed in cold blood, right on the doorstep of his townhouse near Old Arbat, and sagged visibly, the fight all gone.

  Damn it, he thought, how has it come to this?

  He passed the phone back to the assistant, his face pale, drained.

  What was he going to do without Vladimir Vladimirovich – the driving force behind the project, its creator, its genius?

  Was it truly all over?

  No, he told himself. Do not be weak. Honor your friend’s memory.

  Damn them all to hell, and go ahead with it anyway.

  He could order it all from here, he knew.

  Everything was in position.

  All the units were waiting to strike, on his command.

  ‘Pass me that phone back,’ he said to the young man, wincing as he felt a sudden tightening in his chest.

  The assistant did as he was told, bringing back the phone and handing it to his president.

  Emelienenko took the handset, letting out an involuntary cry of pain as he did so.

  What was going on?

  It was probably just stress, he told himself; nothing more than stress.

  ‘Get me the Chief of the General Staff,’ he ordered, unable to dial the number himself; unable to think, unable to remember.

  What the hell was happening to him? he asked himself, the pain in his chest increasing, the pulsing in his brain rising.

  He heard a voice on the other end of the line speaking to him, but he could no longer recognize words, could no longer process information. His body was shaking, his heart erupting in his chest, his brain bouncing on and off his skull.

  ‘I . . .,’ he managed to say as saliva ran down his chin, his eyes rolling up into his head, ‘I . . .’

  And then he collapsed to the carpeted floor of the aircraft, his body shaking and quivering for several moments before stretching out across the aisle.

  Eternally still.

  Cole stretched out his own body in the airplane seat as it took off from Warsaw Chopin, pain still ravaging him to the bone.

  He checked his watch, saw that it was almost one hour after he’d struck the vital points on the body of the Russian president. One to the arm, one to the elbow, one to the back, as he’d helped him to stay upright on the ice.

  One point was a knock-out, two points were a killing technique; three nerve points added up to certain death, delayed by a certain time depending on where they were struck, how hard, and at what time.

  That was the forbidden art of Marma Adi, the delayed death touch skill of Kalaripayattu that he had learned all those years ago, while rotting away in that prison, hidden far away in the mountains of Pakistan. The art that had led him to become the ‘Asset’, the ultimate assassin of the US government.

  And if those skills still worked, that meant that Mikhail Emelienenko – President of the Russian Federation, the only man who could order the initiation of the final stage of Project Europe – would already be dead.

  And despite the pain that wracked his war-torn body, he rested his head back into the leather seat, and smiled with a satisfaction of ultimate purity.

  12

  ‘I cannot believe what you have told us here, this evening,’ the Cypriot news anchor said. ‘This is incredible. Do you have proof?’

  Manturov shrugged, confident in his role now. ‘Other than the fact that my own president tried to have me killed?’ he asked with a smile. ‘Yes,’ he continued, ‘I have proof. Documents, communications, I have it all.’

  ‘That leaves you in a dangerous position, of course.’

  ‘Yes,’ Manturov admitted, ‘I realize that at some stage, he will probably get to me. The reach of the Russian president is far and wide, if he wants someone dead, then it is only a matter of time.’

  ‘Then this interview is a suicide note?’ the anchor asked with a raised eyebrow.

  ‘Perhaps,’ Manturov admitted. ‘Perhaps.’

  ‘Then I am impressed with your courage,’ the man said, and – watching him through the TV set on the hospital room wall – Vinson and Michiko thought that the words were entirely genuine.

  Vinson’s phone went then, and he picked it up. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Okay. Uh huh. Okay, yes, thank you.’

  He put the phone down, met Michiko’s expectant look with one of nonchalance.

  ‘Well?’ she asked. ‘What was that?’

  Vinson turned to the TV, saw the anchor pressing his finger into his ear, receiving an update through the embedded earpiece.

  ‘Just watch,’ he told her with the faint hint of a smile playing around his lips.

  ‘Mr. Manturov,’ the anchor said after he’d finished receiving his message, ‘what would happen if President Emelienenko was somehow take out of the picture?’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Manturov asked, visibly confused.

  ‘I mean, what is the protocol for establishing a new leader in the event that the existing president . . . expires?’

  ‘Well,’ Manturov began, ‘in the absence of a Vice President – a post Russia has not had for a number of years – I suppose the most senior government minister would ascend to the post.’

  ‘In other words,’ the man said, ‘you?’

  Manturov thought about it for a moment or two, then nodded his head. ‘Yes,’ he agreed, ‘if
the president were incapacitated, then I would be required to step into the role. On a caretaker basis only, you understand, until proper elections could take place.’

  The Cypriot held up his hands. ‘Oh, of course,’ he said, ‘of course.’ He paused for effect, then looked at Manturov and said, ‘Have you ever considered a caretaker position?’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Manturov asked suspiciously, although Vinson and Michiko looked at each other happily, already understanding what it meant.

  ‘I mean, I have just had word that President Emelienenko has just suffered a heart attack aboard his own plane, traveling home from Warsaw.’

  ‘You mean . . .’

  ‘Yes,’ the Cypriot news anchor confirmed, ‘it looks like you are the new president.’ He extended his hand. ‘Allow me to be the first to congratulate you, Mr. President.’

  Manturov stood, shook the man’s hand. ‘Thank you,’ he said, a note of urgency in his voice. ‘And if that’s true,’ he continued, looking frantically for a phone, ‘I know exactly what my first order is going to be.’

  Colonel Boris Ludenko put the phone down, turned to face Major Alexei Volkov.

  ‘So?’ Volkov asked. ‘Was that General Remezov?’

  ‘Yes,’ Ludenko confirmed, ‘that was the Chief of the General Staff.’

  ‘And did he give the order?’

  Ludenko could sense that the anticipation was palpable – after so many weeks under canvas, waiting patiently on the Belarusian border to strike hard and fast into Warsaw, Volkov was ready to attack anything that moved.

  ‘Yes,’ Ludenko said, ‘there’s been an order.’

  Volkov looked desperate, confused. ‘The order?’ he asked.

  ‘No,’ Ludenko said. ‘An order.’

  ‘What order?’

  ‘Stand down,’ Ludenko whispered softly. ‘We’re to stand down.’

  ‘What?’ Volkov asked, incensed. ‘What do you mean, “stand down”?’

  ‘Boris Manturov is in charge now,’ Ludenko told him, ‘and Project Europe is over.’

  EPILOGUE

  1

  ‘You’re home!’ Michiko said, embracing her father as he entered the apartment at Tyson’s Corner.

  He hugged her back, even though it hurt like hell. ‘Yeah,’ he said, happy to see her, ‘if you can call this, home.’

  It wasn’t that he missed the luxuries of his Georgian townhouse apartment, in the leafy and affluent Washington neighborhood of Woodland-Normanstone Terrace; nor did he oppose the less than salubrious nature of the safe house location. He had lived in better, but he had also lived in a lot worse.

  But what he did find annoying was the fact that they had to hide like fugitives, due to the president’s decree to hunt down and prosecute all Force One personnel.

  Mason had set upon them as an example, to shown that he ran a clean operation, that he was above using ‘government hit squads’. It didn’t seem to matter in the slightest, Cole thought, that Force One – along with certain elements of the CIA – had single-handedly saved Europe from invasion.

  ‘Well,’ Vinson said as he appeared from behind the door, struggling in a wheelchair but just about coping with it, ‘it’s better than nothing, right?’

  ‘Bruce!’ Cole said, reaching down to hug the eccentric Brit, the contact hurting both of them, but neither wanting to relinquish their hold. ‘How are you?’

  ‘I’d be one heck of a lot better if you stopped squeezing the juice out of me,’ Vinson said, and Cole relaxed his hold slightly.

  ‘I’m just glad you’re alive,’ Cole said.

  ‘Yeah,’ Vinson said, ‘me too. Pretty glad you’re alive, for that matter.’

  Cole nodded. ‘There are plenty that aren’t,’ he remarked, darkly.

  ‘You’re not wrong there,’ Vinson agreed. ‘And I think we both know who we have to thank for that.’

  Cole nodded. ‘Mason,’ he said. ‘Our beloved president.’

  ‘Indeed,’ Vinson said, ‘and it’s not just our people who died, although that’s bad enough. But it’s also the ones they’ve rounded up and fed to the FBI. Ninety percent of our staff are over at Pennsylvania Avenue, being interviewed by the Feds.’

  ‘Don’t we have some leverage with the new director, since Graham had to resign?’ Cole asked.

  ‘We do,’ Vinson agreed, ‘which is why they’ll probably never see the inside of a jail cell. But Mason has still completely fucked with our program, and I mean right royally. Force One is out of action for the time being.’

  Cole let out a long sigh, then turned to his daughter. ‘How’s Jake?’

  Michiko shrugged. ‘He’s about as good as could be expected, I guess. Still not speaking English, but he’s calming down now at least. I think he’s starting to mend.’

  Cole nodded, understanding that ‘starting to mend’ might mean another two or three years of rehabilitation before there was any chance of his reintegration into society. He knew that his daughter had been to see him more than once, wondered what the significance of her interest was. Did she like him because he was broken, like her?

  But he shook his head, understanding that these were questions for another time.

  ‘Makarova has gone,’ Michiko said, changing the subject.

  ‘What do you mean, gone?’ Cole asked.

  ‘Escaped,’ Vinson explained. ‘Greek jail chief goes in this morning, finds four dead bodies by the desk, no female assassin in the cell.’

  ‘We have any idea where she is?’ Cole asked.

  ‘No,’ Vinson admitted, ‘but I’d be tempted to sleep with a gun under my pillow for a little while at least, if I was you.’

  ‘I always do,’ Cole confirmed with a smile, although he took the warning seriously. The woman was a top professional, and Cole had not only made her fail in her mission, but he had also grossly disfigured her in the process. There were better people to piss off, he reflected, than one of the world’s best assassins.

  Cole turned back to his daughter. ‘That was good work with the ID by the way,’ he said, turning the conversation away from Makarova. ‘That made a big difference.’

  Michiko turned her head, embarrassed, knowing that her father was referring to her identification of Gorchakov, one of the things that had ripped this thing wide open.

  ‘Thanks,’ she said, ‘but it was you who followed him across Warsaw. If you hadn’t, there wouldn’t have been fingerprints for me to work with in the first place.’

  Cole grinned, massaged his wounded body. ‘Don’t I know it,’ he said. He turned back to Vinson, expression serious once more. ‘You still talk to Pete?’ he asked.

  ‘Sure,’ Vinson replied. ‘On the down-low.’

  ‘So how’s it really going over there?’

  Cole knew the media stories, the ones that maximized the coalition’s victories and mitigated their failures.

  ‘It’s not good,’ Vinson confirmed. ‘We’re not losing, but it’s not like Iraq either. These guys are good, and they’ve got the weather, and the terrain, on their side.’

  ‘They knew we were coming from Turkmenistan,’ Cole commented.

  ‘Yeah,’ Vinson said, ‘you probably have your friend Emelienenko to thank for that. One more part of his effort to get us bogged down in Iran, keep us from being able to help out in Europe.’

  ‘They still getting their weapons and supplies from Russia?’ Cole asked.

  ‘For now,’ Vinson said, ‘although I’m sure Boris will put a stop to that before long.’

  ‘I hope so.’

  ‘Yes,’ Vinson agreed, ‘me too.’

  ‘But I guess we can’t complain too much,’ Cole said, ‘when you think about what might have been?’

  ‘I guess you’re right,’ Vinson agreed. ‘We did pretty well in the end, didn’t we?’

  ‘The best we could,’ Cole said, remembering all the good men and women who had been sacrificed along the way. ‘We did the best we could.’

  And who, he wondered as he sat down on t
he cheap but comfortable sofa, in his safe house on Tyson’s Corner, could truly ask for more than that?

  2

  So Emelienenko was dead, Mason thought.

  Ah well.

  It had actually worked out quite well for him – he’d received the man’s help in consolidating UN support for the invasion of Iran, and now any agreements that they might have made were rendered null and void.

  Despite the mounting evidence, Mason had found it hard to accept that the Russian president had actually been wanting to start World War III, a major invasion of Europe. It just didn’t make sense. Although, he sometimes wondered, maybe it did? Why not invade Europe? Wouldn’t Mason himself be tempted, if he had been in Emelienenko’s position?

  He shook his head. No, he thought, the invasion of Iran was more than enough to be going on with. The whole situation was bad, Mason considered, and he sometimes regretted that early press conference he had given, when he’d promised revenge against the Islamic Republic.

  It wasn’t that he ever considered the possibility that the coalition would lose, Mason told himself; it was just calculating at what ratio of Iranian to American losses that the average citizen would stop supporting the whole enterprise.

  Four thousand coalition troops were dead so far – not helped by the fact that the Iranians seemed to be anticipating the surge from Turkmenistan – with another seventeen thousand injured.

  Ridiculous figures, yes, Mason admitted; and yet when seen in the context of the Iranian losses – forty-two thousand dead, nearly three hundred thousand injured – it seemed like a pretty good deal. The ratio was, after all, more than ten to one, and the coalition was making definite inroads into Iranian territory.

  As to the rumors that the entire terrorist attack was encouraged by some SVR colonel, in order to create a war between the United States and Iran, so that Europe could then be invaded at will – well, Mason found them to be just a little bit farfetched, in the realm of JFK-style conspiracy theorists.