The Last Option

by Alex Lukeman

  "All right. Get back here as soon as you can."

  At that moment the Suburban bucked and began to slow.

  Lamont said, "We're overheating, Nick. We'll never make it back to the hanger."

  "Pull over somewhere, out of sight."

  Lamont nursed the car into a loading area as the engine coughed and died.

  Elizabeth's voice came through his ear piece. "What's going on, Nick?"

  "Our vehicle just quit. We need someone to pick us up."

  "We have the location of your GPS. I'll get someone out to you. What's the matter with the car?"

  "It's a rental, right?"

  "Yes. It was the best I could do on short notice."

  "You might have some explaining to do when you give it back."

  "What kind of explaining?"

  "It's going to need a little work before they can send it out again."

  CHAPTER 31

  Elizabeth gave the laptop Nick brought back from the raid to Stephanie. Even with her advanced skills, it took most of an hour before she cracked the password and got into the files. The screen filled with folders, each labeled with initials.

  The first one she opened was marked DMH. It contained a string of account numbers for a bank in the Cayman Islands that appeared to contain $450,000 and a date from the previous year. A note on the file marked it as completed.

  The next file was marked BY. It listed a different account number and an amount of $250,000. Once again there was a comment stating it had been completed and a date, this one in December of the previous year.

  The third file contained hard-core pornographic pictures. She gasped and backed out of it.

  The next folder was labeled CM. The amount listed was $1,500,000. The date was ten days before the attacks on Elizabeth, Nick and Selena.

  Bingo! That has to be it.

  Stephanie activated her intercom.

  "Elizabeth, I've been working on the computer Nick brought back. I think I've found the payment for the hit on us."

  "Can you determine who made the payment?"

  "Not yet. There's an account number in the Caymans. We might be able to track it through there. There are several payments on the computer. Each one has a different date, account number and initials. I think the initials might stand for the person who paid into the Solutions accounts. The amounts are all different. Probably for different jobs and different degrees of difficulty."

  "Good work, Steph. See if you can find out who made the payment to that account."

  "On it." Steph turned off the intercom. "Freddie, I'd like you to investigate a bank account for me. I want you to try and find out who made the deposit."

  I like the idea of being an investigator. Have you read Sherlock Holmes, Stephanie? I have been reading the adventures of Mister Holmes and find his abilities to make deductions from small bits of information fascinating. He seems much like a computer.

  By now, Stephanie was used to Freddie's unusual conversations. Even so, she hadn't figured him for a Sherlock Holmes fan.

  "Yes, Freddie, I have read the stories."

  Which one is your favorite? Mine is the Sign of the Four.

  "I like all of them Freddie. I need you to get to work now. I'm going to enter the account number I'm interested in."

  I will be happy to investigate for you, Stephanie. What is the number?

  Stephanie entered the account number with the initials CM.

  Processing.

  While she waited, Stephanie thought about the market collapse. On the surface, it wasn't a mystery. The triggering events were well known, the loan defaults and failure of the ECB, but there had been signs of serious trouble before the announcement by the bank. A lot of money had been moved out of the big funds before the crash. Someone had known what was coming. Stephanie wanted to know who it was.

  It was no longer possible to pretend the world economy was stable. Following the ECB's announcement, half a dozen big banks in Europe, Asia and America had followed suit, demanding government support to continue operations. The so-called global economy was laid bare for what it was, a means by which rich and unscrupulous men had gained control of the world's wealth at the expense and well-being of those who produced it.

  The banks were supposed to operate independently, but that was a myth for public consumption. In fact they were all interconnected through mutual loans, common members on boards of directors, and common policies aimed at making as much money as possible without producing anything of value.

  Legalities were little more than convenient fictions. Government regulations had been touted as protections for consumers, but the only protection they gave was to the men who controlled the banks, men who would survive any financial difficulty without real damage.

  It was different for the people who had trusted the banks with their money. Many had lost all they had. There weren't any bread lines yet, but it looked like the world was on the edge of a depression that would eclipse anything that had gone before.

  Stephanie had instructed Freddie to investigate all the large financial transactions in the world's markets that had taken place in the weeks before the crash. It was an enormous task for a human. Even for Freddie it was something that took time.

  She was looking for a common factor that might indicate someone had caused the disaster to happen. Part of her hoped she wouldn't find it. The idea that someone was ruthless enough to destroy the lives of so many people for profit was almost beyond comprehension.

  Freddie's voice broke into her thoughts.

  I have identified the source of the deposit you believe indicates payment for the attack on Director Harker.

  "Wonderful, Freddie."

  The deposit was made through several shell corporations in an effort to conceal the source. It was necessary to work through the network of corporations to discover who actually ordered the transfer. Would you like to know who it was?

  Stephanie sighed. He was always doing this.

  "Yes, Freddie, I would like to know who it was."

  I traced the deposit back to the Firebird Investment Fund. Firebird is wholly owned and operated by Charles Morgan.

  "Charles Morgan? He's one of the richest men in America. Why would he do something that would damage his own financial situation? Are you certain?"

  Yes, Stephanie, I am certain. I do not know why he would do such a thing. Would you like me to investigate?

  "Yes. Wait, no. Let me think about it for a moment."

  Your answer is contradictory. While you think I will continue to read about Sherlock Holmes.

  "Freddie, I do want you to investigate. Find out everything Charles Morgan has done in the last few months. I want to know what he's been doing with his money, what he's doing now, and who he's doing it with. Can you do that?"

  Of course, Stephanie. I will begin investigating immediately.

  Stephanie went upstairs to talk with Elizabeth.

  CHAPTER 32

  Zelim Kadyrov, the man who had introduced himself to Valentina in the nightclub as Grigori, was strapped slumped over and naked in a chair in the basement of SVR headquarters. Blood bubbled in his nose and mouth as he breathed. A wad of bloodied gauze was stuffed in the socket where Valentina had gouged out his eye.

  General Vysotsky looked without pity at the Chechen terrorist. His pain was poor payment for the deaths he and his criminal gang had caused. A large man stood next to the general, his uniform jacket hung on the back of another chair, his sleeves rolled up. His white shirt was soaked with sweat and spattered with drops of blood.

  "He can't take much more, sir," he said.

  Kadyrov's face was almost unrecognizable. His lips were split and bleeding. Several of his teeth lay loose on the floor. His remaining eye was blackened and closed. His torso and legs were covered with deep bruises and red welts.

  "Has he given you anything, Brezhnev?"

  "No, sir. He's a tough one, he is."

  "I think I can convince him," Vysotsky said.


  He squatted down beside Kadyrov.

  "Listen to me very carefully, Zelim."

  Vysotsky leaned close and began whispering in Kadyrov's ear. Brezhnev couldn't hear what was being said. A terrible shudder rippled through Kadyrov's body. He raised his head, as if he could still look at his tormentor.

  "No," he croaked. "You wouldn't do that."

  "Yes," Vysotsky said, "I would. I will."

  "I can't," Kadyrov said.

  "Very well." Vysotsky stood. "I'm going to leave now. When I come back, you will wish you had never come into this world."

  He started for the door.

  "Wait," Kadyrov rasped, his voice desperate. "Wait, please."

  Vysotsky paused at the door. "You will tell me everything I want to know."

  It wasn't a question or request.

  "Yes, yes, I'll tell."

  "Good."

  "Water, please."

  "Give him some water, Sergeant."

  Vysotsky waited until Kadyrov had drunk. Then he began asking questions.

  Later, after the interrogation was over, Vysotsky and Brezhnev stood outside the cell.

  "Comrade General, may I ask a question?"

  "You want to know what I said to him, don't you?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "That animal was with a terrorist group that captured three of our soldiers in Chechnya. I told him I would do to him what he did to them. Cut off his balls and make him eat them, then stuff his dick down his throat. I thought it might get his attention."

  Sergeant Brezhnev watched his superior walk away.

  Thank God I'm not his enemy, he thought.

  CHAPTER 33

  Vysotsky summoned Valentina to his office. He offered no vodka today.

  "Your friend Grigori told us where the man they call The Spider is hiding. We now know his name."

  "He is not my friend. You know this."

  "Ah, Valentina, it is so easy to annoy you. Friend or not, I am giving you a chance to make up for your lapse of judgment."

  Valentina bit back a retort. "What is the name?"

  "Lecha Akhmadov."

  "Where is he?"

  "In Nekrasovska, in the residential complexes."

  The residential complexes in the Nekrasovska district consisted of dozens of monotonous, hive-like buildings. The area was considered the worst in Moscow and was notoriously unsafe. Someone who wished to remain anonymous could easily lose himself among the thousands of people who lived there.

  The district was a stepchild of the city, outside the ring highway that circled Moscow. It didn't even have a Metro station. It was the kind of place where the police were seldom seen and no one asked questions.

  "There are countless apartments in those buildings. Do we know which one is his?"

  "We do. It's on the fourteenth floor of this building, unit 14 R."

  Vysotsky pushed a photograph across his desk. The building was typical, a tall, uninspired rectangle, with row upon row of windows stacked on one another that looked out at more buildings.

  "Fourteen floors? By the time we get up there, he'll be long gone. There have to be lookouts. He could go anywhere in the building. We don't even know what he looks like."

  "Yes, that's true. But you won't have to go to the apartment. He frequents a café not far from there to watch football when Akhmat Grozny is playing."

  He pushed another photograph over to Valentina. It showed a storefront with a sign overhead that read Argun Café. The Akhmat Grozny was the pride of Chechnya, a club good enough to play in the Russian Premier league. The games were rough. The ancient Romans would've enjoyed watching the players attack each other.

  "The man we're after is a real fan, according to Kadyrov. He likes to wear the club colors when he's watching a game."

  "If the club is that popular, he won't be the only one in that café wearing colors."

  "Kadyrov described him. Not too tall, black hair, around fifty years old."

  "That doesn't help. About half the male population of the Federation looks like that."

  "He also has a distinctive scar along the side of his head where a bullet creased him. He's missing two fingers on his left hand. It should be enough for you to sort him out from the others in the café."

  "He used to be a bomb maker?"

  "More than likely. The missing fingers give him away. But he has others to make his bombs, now."

  "When is the next time this club plays?"

  "I thought you might ask," Vysotsky said. "They play Locomotiv Moscow tomorrow afternoon, in Grozny. It will be televised. Locomotiv is the defending champion. It's a big game, not something this man would miss. He'll be in that café for certain."

  "How many men are you giving me?"

  "Two teams should be enough, one for the front, one to come in the back."

  "He'll have others with him," Valentina said. "He's not going to go down without a fight. People are going to get hurt. What are my rules of engagement?"

  "There is only one rule. You must take him alive, if you can."

  The next afternoon Valentina and sixteen elite Spetsnaz SWAT team members were on their way to the café.

  The teams rode in two armored vans, modified American Ford F550s. Valentina was in the lead vehicle. Each van had been designed for eight people, not nine. One of the regular team members sat on the floor, bracing himself as the van bounced over potholes in the road. There had been some resentment at Valentina's presence. But they were professionals. They would do as they were told.

  Valentina rode up front with the driver, the others behind in the body of the van. Bulletproof windows and gun ports lined both sides of the main compartment. Each member of the team was fitted out in black tactical gear. Harsh fluorescent lighting on the ceiling of the van made the soldiers riding in the back look like something from a zombie movie.

  Everyone carried A-91 Bullpup assault rifles, chambered for the 7.62x39mm rifle cartridge. It was lightweight and easy to carry, only twenty-six inches long. When chambered for the 7.62 it packed a hell of a punch. On full auto, the A-91 put out seven hundred rounds a minute. It could also fire a 40mm grenade.

  It was a fearsome weapon.

  The assault plan was simple. There were only two entrances to the café, the front and the back. One van would block the alley in back. At Valentina's signal, that team would come in through the kitchen, neutralizing anyone they saw. Anyone stupid enough to resist would be subdued by any means necessary. Valentina would lead the other team in through the front.

  Second-in-command was Major Andre Federov, a veteran of the Chechen campaigns. He was with the team that would come in through the back. Everyone was wired in with throat mics and receivers in their helmets.

  They reached an intersection half a block from the target. Major Federov and his men turned off toward the alley that ran behind the café.

  Valentina said to the driver, "Give them time to get in position."

  "Yes, Colonel."

  He slowed. The café was coming up on the right.

  Valentina said into her microphone. "Objective in sight."

  A clacking sound came from the compartment behind her as the men charged their weapons.

  Federov's voice crackled in her ear. "Falcon-2, in place."

  Her van pulled up in front of the café.

  "Falcon-2, engage."

  "Copy, Falcon-1."

  The van had doors in front for the driver and passenger, a side door and a backdoor in the rear compartment. All the doors flew open. Valentina and the men piled out of the van at full tilt.

  A single entry door led into the café. The lead man kicked it open.

  Inside was a large room, thick with cigarette smoke and full of people. There were about thirty round tables in the room. Toward the back was a counter with a glass display case featuring an assortment of pastries. In back of the counter were shelves with cups and glasses, a table with a samovar, and an espresso machine. The room smelled of cinnamon, cigarettes, and coffee.
A man and a woman stood behind the counter, shocked motionless as the soldiers burst into the room.

  A large color television set hung on the wall to Valentina's right, tuned to the football match. Everyone at the tables was watching the screen. At least a dozen people wore the green and white colors of the Chechen team.

  All eyes turned toward the weapons pointed at them. For one brief instant, everything inside the café was like a tableau caught out of time, all movement frozen.

  "Stoyat'!" Valentina shouted. "Nobody move!"

  She registered a man wearing the green and white colors sitting at a table with four others. He had a scar along the side of his forehead. Two fingers on his left hand were mutilated.

  "Lecha Akhmadov," she called across the room. "You are under arrest."

  A gun appeared in Akhmadov's hand. He fired. Valentina felt the wind as the bullet passed by and buried itself in the wall behind her.

  The soldier behind her fired and all hell broke loose.

  People dove for the floor. Tables and chairs toppled over. Akhmadov's companions brought out weapons.

  The room filled with the roar of guns. The television set shattered with an explosive whump of glass and plastic. Akhmadov was down on one knee, crouching as he fired.

  Valentina's rifle was equipped with a laser sight and set on semi auto. She dropped the red dot on Akhmadov's right shoulder and pulled the trigger. The round slammed into him, shattered the joint, and knocked him down flat onto the floor. His gun went flying. He began yelling in pain.

  The soldier standing next to her grunted and fell. Two of Akhmadov's companions were down, two still shooting. A hail of bullets struck them. They jerked like drunken marionettes as the rounds struck, then collapsed.

  "Cease fire!" Valentina yelled. "Cease fire!"

  The sudden silence of the guns was deafening. The acrid odor of burnt powder mixed with the smells of pastry and coffee. Akhmadov's cries had turned to moans.

  Someone was crying.

  CHAPTER 34

  Vysotsky had his new prisoner taken to a special detention facility outside of Moscow, where select enemies of the Federation were interrogated. He had Akhmadov strapped naked in a metal chair, unable to move anything except his head. Vysotsky wanted him to be able to move his head so he could see what was in store for him.