Raging Sun (A James Acton Thriller, #16) (James Acton Thrillers)

by J. Robert Kennedy

  Zorkin forced a slightly scared, slightly apologetic look on his face. “Of course not, I meant no disrespect.”

  “Uh huh.” The man stepped down and pointed at an empty spot. “Pull over there and turn off your engine.”

  Zorkin complied, stepping out to watch as a security detail quickly poked their heads inside every nook and cranny they could find, telescoping mirrors used to check underneath.

  The rear gate lowered with a bang.

  “What are you transporting?”

  “DVD players.”

  “To where?”

  “Volgograd.”

  The officer stared at him for a moment. “Aren’t you a little old for such a long haul?”

  The sad old person face made an appearance. “Son, when you’re my age, you’ll realize how useless a government pension is when inflation is running at fifteen percent.”

  The young man nodded, his expression softening slightly. “This is true. I send as much as I can to my parents, but it’s never enough.” He lowered his voice. “I now deliver for Pizza Hut in the evenings. Can you believe it?”

  Zorkin chuckled. “My friend, you do what you have to do to survive.” He regarded him with a genuine look of respect. “You’re a good boy, working hard to help your parents. I’m sure they appreciate it.”

  The young officer said nothing, the shared moment over as one of his men opened several of the boxes in the back. “Check the floor,” he said, pointing at the wood slats. The security officer stomped a few times.

  “Sounds hollow.”

  The officer turned to Zorkin who had to admit his heart was racing a little bit with the excitement.

  You’re out of practice. This wouldn’t faze you at all thirty years ago.

  “What’s under here?”

  Zorkin shrugged. “The truck? I just drive it, I didn’t build it.”

  “We’ll have to empty your cargo and inspect what’s under there.”

  Zorkin shrugged again. “Go ahead. It’s not like I’m transporting vegetables. DVD players don’t rot if you keep them waiting.” The officer was about to signal his men to empty the truck when Zorkin continued. “But it will mean I’ll be late so I probably won’t keep my job.”

  The officer stared at Zorkin, chewing his cheek, then jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “Get going old man, before I change my mind.”

  Zorkin smiled, patting him on the arm. “You’re a good boy, your parents raised you well.”

  33

  Operations Center 3, CIA Headquarters, Langley, Virginia

  “Record everything. I want visual proof the Russians have them if they’re captured. It may be the only thing that saves their lives.” He pointed at the screen. “Can we get a shot of the driver?”

  Child nodded, the camera angle changing as they watched an old man leaning out the truck window, handing over identification papers. Facial recognition points quickly mapped and a search began on the massive intelligence databases stored in the Langley server farm.

  An ID appeared, surprisingly quick.

  “Viktor Zorkin, former KGB. That’s definitely them.”

  He watched, unconsciously holding his breath as the old man pulled the truck to the side, a search begun.

  Tong gasped as someone climbed in the back of the truck. “Would they be behind the boxes?”

  Leroux shook his head. “I doubt it, too obvious. My guess is they’re underneath the truck.”

  Child cursed. “That can’t be comfortable.”

  Leroux had to agree. The vehicle appeared old, Cold War era, and if he had to hazard a guess, designed with this exact purpose in mind. He wouldn’t be surprised if Zorkin himself had used it in the past when he was still active, though why he would want to smuggle people within the Soviet Union escaped him.

  Double agents?

  He nodded to himself.

  Possible.

  He breathed a sigh of relief as Zorkin climbed back in the truck, it jerking away, the security team already turning their attention to the next vehicle singled out. He pointed at the screen. “Okay, where are they headed?” He stepped toward the map. “If we assume they’re heading south, we can probably rule out Finland, the Baltics and Belarus.”

  “The Ukraine?” suggested Child. “Pretty risky though.”

  Leroux shook his head. “No, I can’t see Kane taking them through that mess, though it would be a crazy-ass move, so maybe.”

  “East?”

  “No, like we already said, too long. Time is of the essence here. Zorkin is going to try and get them off his hands as fast as possible, and judging from the look of that truck, it’s not up to travelling thousands of miles.”

  Tong highlighted several countries on the map. “He’d try to get to a friendly country, though, right? Besides the Baltics, there’s none bordering the Russians.”

  “There’s not a lot of friendly countries in the area.” Child pointed at the map. “What’s left? Georgia, Azerbaijan and Kazakhstan.”

  “Don’t forget the Black Sea,” said Leroux. “Get them on a boat, zip them across to Turkey.” Leroux shook his head, dismissing his own idea. “With what’s been going on there, especially with the Russian takeover of the Crimea, they’re monitoring those waters like nobody’s business.” He sighed. “Delta should be in the air by now. Let’s keep monitoring and see where they end up. Hopefully in a few hours we’ll be able to give them at least a general idea of where they need to be.”

  34

  Prosecutor-General’s Office, Bolshaya Dmitrovka, Moscow, Russian Federation

  “We need to find them. Fast!”

  Agent Alexey Dymovsky gripped the phone tightly, the feeling of excitement from the adrenaline rushing through his veins one almost forgotten. “Yes, sir, absolutely, sir.”

  “Use whatever means necessary. I want them in custody, now!”

  “Yes, sir!”

  The receiver slammed down at the other end, the call over. Dymovsky rose, straightening his tie, checking himself with a small mirror he kept in the top desk drawer. It had been a long time since the brass had called him, and from what he had just been told, there was only one reason he had been called.

  His bosses wanted a scapegoat should something go wrong.

  Since the failure to recover the lost American nuke, their so-called Brass Monkey, he had been sidelined. He wasn’t officially blamed. That would mean something on the record, and nothing of that incident had been recorded.

  It kept his record clean, but his career idled.

  Until now.

  Find and arrest two visiting professors and a Russian national who had stolen the property of the Russian people.

  What that property was, he had no idea, but whatever it was, he knew already from the massive cordon descending around Moscow and the Federation itself, that it was of the utmost importance to the Kremlin.

  And he would take the opportunity to succeed brilliantly and reclaim what was once a promising career.

  Satisfied with what he saw in the mirror, he left his office and marched toward the command center, the door opened for him by a young officer who snapped to attention.

  “Report!”

  The coordinator stared at him, slightly surprised at who had been sent to take over, it well known in the building that he was to be shunned. She responded quickly, there no reason for her to doubt Dymovsky was now in charge.

  “Sir, we’re monitoring all routes heading out of the city, including rail and air. Nothing yet, but we’ll catch them.”

  Dymovsky took up his place in the center of the room, shaking his head. “No, forget monitoring the checkpoints. If we can spot them, so can our men on the ground. Besides, they won’t be stupid enough to leave in plain sight. They’ll be hidden in a vehicle somewhere.”

  “Then what should we look for?”

  “We need to figure out where they went after they left the hotel. Do we have the footage yet?”

  “Yes, sir,” said a young woman to his left. “An
d I think I found them. Watch.” She motioned toward the screen at the front of the room, footage showing a man and woman leaving the hotel, hand-in-hand. The image froze and facial recognition points were mapped, showing a match to their subjects.

  “That’s them alright. Good work. Where did they go from there?”

  The footage continued and a car pulled up, the two subjects climbing in almost immediately. As the car pulled out, the driver turned for a shoulder check, the camera getting a good shot of his face. The image froze, the face plotted, and the subject identified.

  The son.

  “Excellent. Follow that car. I want to know where they went.”

  35

  Outside Tambov, Russian Federation

  Acton grunted as the truck bounced, shoving his body into the wood slats only inches above him. He felt Laura’s hand squeeze his, it the only form of communication they had managed for hours, it simply too loud on the highway.

  The good thing, however, was the fact they had been travelling at full speed for some time without anyone stopping them.

  They were out of Moscow.

  And heading God only knew where.

  God and Zorkin.

  The truck slowed then made a gentle turn, the entire sensation changing, even the smell.

  Dirt road?

  The whine of the engines and tires lowered to the point where he could actually attempt a conversation. He stared over at where Laura was, the pitch-blackness leaving her barely a shadow against a shadow. “Sounds like we’re on a dirt road.”

  “Maybe we’re there already?”

  “Maybe. But where’s there? We haven’t been driving long enough to get out of Russia.”

  Laura moaned. “I don’t care where we are. I just have to get out of here. Every muscle in my body is screaming.”

  Acton smiled at his wife, squeezing her hand as the truck came to a halt, the engine turning off. Laura let go of his hand as everyone held their tongue. The driver door opened and they heard muffled voices before a double-slap on the wheel well indicated the all-clear. Acton breathed a sigh of relief as the rear gate was opened, the sounds of boxes overhead being removed signaling the end of their imprisonment.

  The floorboards overhead lifted and a flashlight shone in his face.

  “Quickly,” said Zorkin. “We must get you inside before you’re seen.”

  Acton struggled up, every inch of his body protesting, but the urgency in Zorkin’s voice had him pushing through the pain. The young hand of Vitaly pulled him to his feet, they both helping Laura. Jumping to the ground, an old woman, probably in her seventies, ushered them inside what appeared to be an old farmhouse, the door quickly closed behind them.

  Zorkin took off his hat. “May I present Boris and Darya. Old friends of mine. They used to be part of the underground railroad that smuggled spies in and out of Russia. I caught them in 1983 but decided to let them continue.”

  “Why?” asked Laura, shaking the elderly couple’s hands.

  “It let him know who was coming and going,” replied Acton.

  Zorkin grinned. “You think like a spy.”

  Acton shook their hands. “So you were double-agents.”

  The look of shame on both their faces was obvious, and Zorkin immediately leapt to their defense. “Not by choice, I assure you. It was cooperation or the gulag.” Zorkin sighed. “Those were different times.” He motioned at their surroundings. “We will stay here to rest, wash, eat. We will be leaving first thing in the morning.”

  “Should we be waiting that long?” asked Laura. “I mean, do we really have any time to waste?”

  Zorkin smiled reassuringly. “The truck will have been recorded leaving Moscow. If they are at all suspicious, they will expect it to arrive at a certain time. If I drive without resting, they will think something is wrong. Then there’s the fact that I need sleep, too! We’ve been driving almost six hours.”

  “Ugh, has it been that long?” Acton frowned then sniffed, his stomach suddenly taking over. “What’s that? It smells delicious!”

  Darya gave a toothy smile. “Zharkoe.”

  Acton shook his head. “Never heard of it, but I can’t wait to try it.”

  Darya pointed at a set of stairs. “Wash first. You look like the pigs.” Acton looked at her, puzzled. She pointed behind him and he turned to see himself in a mirror.

  And muttered a curse.

  He was covered head to toe in a black film. He glanced over at Laura who seemed almost spotless. “What the hell?”

  She shrugged. “I’m a lady.”

  “Uh huh.”

  “You also sat over the tire. Pretty much everything was kicked up on you.”

  Acton stared back at himself in the mirror.

  “Now I know how a mud flap feels.”

  36

  Prosecutor-General’s Office, Bolshaya Dmitrovka, Moscow, Russian Federation

  “Sir, we’ve got something.”

  Dymovsky glanced up from his laptop. “What is it?”

  The coordinator pointed at the screen, footage playing of a parking structure. “We traced them to Geroyev-Panfilovtsev Street where they entered a parking garage then abandoned their vehicle.” The footage advanced to show the three suspects leaving the building, facial recognition positively identifying them.

  Dymovsky grunted. If they were abandoning their vehicle, they obviously feared it could be tracked, but they also had to have an alternative. He couldn’t believe they would be trying to hide within Moscow. They had to know with all the cameras in the city they would be traced, so they must have arranged alternate transportation. “Send units to impound the car. Tell them I’ll be attending myself.”

  “Yes, sir.” The coordinator pointed at another tech who executed the order.

  Dymovsky rose. “Do we know where they went?”

  “Not yet, sir, we’re still tracking them. It’s a slow process.”

  Dymovsky nodded. “Notify me the moment you have a destination.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Dymovsky strode out of the room on autopilot as he made his way to his government issue Chevrolet Lacetti. It had been a long time since he had his own car, the forgotten perks flowing in over the past few hours as the official notification of his high profile assignment trickled through the bureaucracy.

  Life was good again.

  If only for the moment. If he failed, he would be blamed, and in today’s Russia, that could mean imprisonment.

  I have to leave this godforsaken place.

  But it was his home. He loved his country, he loved its people, but he hated its government. Things had seemed bright after the collapse of communism, but in a country that respected strength, it mistakenly embraced a leader who projected it, and now they were paying the price. The rumors were that their diminutive leader had siphoned off over $70 billion dollars over his tenure, with much of that coming from the Winter Olympics in Sochi, the most expensive Olympics in history.

  Of course, the government dismissed the claims as nonsense.

  Yet if they were, how could their judo-chopping leader afford to build himself a billion dollar mansion on the edge of the Black Sea?

  And with corruption at the top—such blatant corruption—Dymovsky had to be careful. He didn’t know why these three people were wanted, all he knew was that they were. And if he valued his life, he would do whatever it took to catch them.

  He just hoped that if he did, he wouldn’t regret it.

  Please let them be genuine criminals, not so-called enemies of the state.

  Though he feared it was the latter. He had pulled their files, and from what he could tell, these two professors had a propensity for getting into trouble. Reports had Acton in Mecca during the Brass Monkey incident, though he appeared to be some sort of advisor, and they were both present at the suicide bombings at the Vatican.

  Along with at least a dozen other significant international incidents.

  These aren’t innocent people.

&nb
sp; The question was whether they were acting for the greater good, which too often nowadays meant contrary to the interests of the Russian government.

  He grunted out a laugh. It was almost fitting that all these years later it would be their capture that might get his career back on track. Yet at what cost? Russia wasn’t the Russia he loved anymore. Justice was arbitrary, subject to the whims of the leadership, the country quickly receding into the old, corrupt ways, and judging from what he had read, these professors probably were innocent.

  At least innocent in the eyes of any lawful country.

  Though if his government got their hands on them first, it wouldn’t matter.

  He sighed. He knew what he had to do. Getting his career back on track at the expense of innocent people was not what he wanted. It went against every fiber of his being.

  I have to get to them first.

  If he found them first then he could determine what was truly going on then act accordingly. It could mean the end of his career, perhaps his life, yet at least he’d die knowing he had done the right thing.

  Life is never easy.

  It didn’t take him long to reach the parking structure where the foreign professors and their local abettor had abandoned their vehicle, lights and sirens working wonders, especially at this hour when the streets were mostly empty. Reports from dispatch indicated they had found the car on the third level. He wound his way up, finding several marked units, the area cordoned off by half a dozen uniformed officers.

  He parked nearby then stepped out, flashing his ID at his first challenger. “Report.”

  “We’ve found nothing in the car of importance, but we did find these in a garbage bin.” He led Dymovsky over to the hood of one of the cruisers, three smashed cellphones on display, two quite expensive. Dymovsky’s head bobbed in appreciation. There’d be no way to track them now by their cellphones, which was going to make things much more difficult. He motioned toward the devices. “Bag them and get them to the lab. Let’s see if we can get anything off of them.” Dymovsky sighed, leaning on the cruiser as he watched the men work on the car. “How do you escape Russia if you’re a wanted criminal?”