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

by J. Robert Kennedy

  “You need help?”

  Dymovsky glanced over at the young officer, smiling slightly, the question meant for the ether of his subconscious rather than those around him. “Yes. But how do you coordinate help if you’re a foreigner?”

  The officer shrugged. “You ask for it?”

  Dymovsky chuckled. “Yes, I suppose you do.” He shoved himself off the hood of the car, his jaw dropping, his eyes widening as he had a sudden thought. “And you’ll need a new cellphone to do it!”

  37

  Operations Center 3, CIA Headquarters, Langley, Virginia

  “Is that the parking garage they went to?”

  Child nodded. “Yes, sir. It looks like the Russians have found it.”

  Leroux pointed at an officer stepping outside, handing something over to a newly arrived unit, entry to the garage now blocked from the street level. “Zoom in on that.”

  Child’s fingers flew over the keyboard, the image zooming in, coalescing around the object in question. “Evidence bags?”

  Leroux stepped closer. “Enhance it.” The image pixelated as the advanced algorithms took elements from multiple frames and morphed them together to produce a single, crisper image. His eyes narrowed. “Cellphones?”

  “Looks like it.”

  Leroux cursed.

  Tong looked at him. “What’s wrong? We knew they destroyed them so they couldn’t be traced.”

  “Yes, but now they know.”

  “So?”

  “So, if I were the lead investigator, I’d be trying to find out if they bought a new phone.”

  Child groaned. “They should have hidden the destroyed phones.”

  Leroux agreed. “Exactly. Now that they know they’re looking for a cellphone purchase, probably in the immediate vicinity, they might be able to figure out the numbers.”

  Child cursed. “We need to warn them.”

  Leroux shook his head. “If we do, and they trace the phone, they’ll be able to trace any prior activity. If they’re able to trace it somehow back to us, they’ll know we’re involved.”

  “What do we do?”

  Leroux stared at the map showing the current location of the professors, a pulsing red blip that hadn’t moved for hours. “We wait and see if the professors can beat the clock.”

  38

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

  Dymovsky jerked up from the couch in his office, glancing about to see what had woken him. Another knock at the door answered the question.

  “Come in.”

  The door opened and his newly assigned junior partner, Abram Filippov, poked his head in. “Sorry to wake you, sir, but we’ve found where the van went.”

  Dymovsky immediately leapt to his feet, adrenaline fueling his sudden alertness. Dozens of agents scouring video feeds had caught the three suspects walking into another parking garage almost two hours after they had abandoned the car, a van leaving minutes later, it the only vehicle to leave for another half hour, and it having only arrived a few minutes before them.

  He was certain they were inside.

  They still didn’t know where they had gone in between, the search still on, he convinced new cellphones had been purchased.

  All in good time.

  He grabbed his mirror from his top drawer and checked himself, running a hand over his day’s growth.

  No time.

  He stepped out of his office, Filippov on his heels. “Talk.”

  “We were able to trace the route of the van. It pulled into what appears to be a garage on Nikolskaya Street.”

  “Another parking garage?”

  “No, an auto shop. I’ve sent teams to surround it.”

  Dymovsky nodded with satisfaction as they burst through the doors and out into the crisp night. “Don’t have them enter until we arrive.”

  “I’ve already ordered them to wait, sir.”

  Dymovsky smiled slightly, glancing over at the young man as they climbed into their car. “Good work.”

  This kid might just work out.

  39

  Operations Center 3, CIA Headquarters, Langley, Virginia

  “They’re getting closer, sir. They’ve found where they switched vehicles.”

  Leroux yawned, cursing. He’d kill for a Red Bull right now, but it had been some time since he’d kicked his addiction to the caffeine infused energy drinks, and he had made a promise to his girlfriend that he’d never touch them again.

  And she had promised his lips wouldn’t touch any part of her body if he went back on his word.

  And her body was worth sacrificing air for, let alone Red Bull.

  He had just texted her that he wouldn’t be home tonight, the events in Moscow, unfolding seven hours ahead, suggesting he might not see the outside of this room for another twenty-four hours, day just about to break on the other side of the world.

  Though that could all change if the professors were caught.

  He stared at the pulsing dot, it still not having moved. He shook his head. “What the hell are they doing?” he muttered.

  “Sleeping?” suggested Tong, she looking like she could use some rest herself. The morning shift was about to arrive, but Tong and Child had already insisted on staying if he were staying, and there was no way he could leave in the middle of a rapidly developing op.

  Quick catnaps in the sleep room would have to suffice.

  “Definitely.” Leroux sat in his chair.

  A burst of frustration erupted from Child as he threw his hands toward the screen. “Don’t they realize they’re being tracked?”

  “Maybe they don’t,” said Tong. “This guy Agent Kane sent to help them is pretty old school.”

  Leroux looked over at her. “So?”

  “Well, maybe he’s a little too old school. As in, it wouldn’t occur to him that he could be tracked through traffic cameras and cellphone traces.”

  Leroux smiled, shaking his head slightly. “Men like that never let their skills get rusty, just their bones.” He looked over at the image of Viktor Zorkin, his eyes narrowing. “He knows perfectly well what’s going on.”

  “Well then he’s just an idiot.”

  Leroux turned to Child. “I doubt that. My gut’s telling me he wants to be tracked.” He pursed his lips, turning back to the image of the former spy, staring at the man’s eyes. “The question is, why?”

  40

  Nikolskaya Street, Moscow, Russian Federation

  “Proceed.”

  Security teams rushed forward, silently, both ends of the street blocked off to keep civilian interference at a minimum. As his team covered him, one of the operators placed an explosive charge on the entrance to the left of the large garage door. He rushed back to safety, raising a hand to signal the imminent detonation, looking to Dymovsky for the go-ahead.

  Dymovsky nodded and a small explosion tore through the early morning calm as his lighter flicked, a cigarette dangling from his lips, lit. The team rushed inside, shouts heard but no gunfire, the all-clear sounded in less than two minutes. He took a long drag, exhaling the life shortening deliciousness.

  Filippov looked at him. “Those will kill you.”

  Dymovsky grunted. “Hopefully before the job does.”

  A disheveled, bloodied man was led out, his silver hair and wrinkled skin betraying his advanced age. Dymovsky tossed his cigarette onto the ground, striding quickly toward the man. He flicked his wrist toward the door. “Take him back inside.”

  The man was half-dragged, half-pushed inside as Dymovsky followed them into the dusty garage, it clearly having seen better days, though its condition suggested it was from the Soviet era, so perhaps it had never seen good days. He pointed at a chair, his men shoving the suspect into it. Dymovsky slowly rounded the well-organized garage, it old and decrepit though clearly operated with pride. The shell of an old Lada sat in the corner, an apparent labor of love underway.

  Then there was the large rectangle where t
he dust seemed to have been blocked by something.

  Something large.

  He finished his circuit in front of the man. “Your name?”

  The man said nothing, simply staring at the ground, blood from a broken nose dripping onto his overalls, ‘Andrie’ sewn proudly onto a patch over his heart.

  “Old man, don’t test me. You know we’ll find out soon enough.”

  “Andrie.”

  “Your last name?”

  “Volkov.”

  “Good, that wasn’t so hard, was it?” He knelt down in front of the man. “Two professors were here earlier. An American male and a British female. James Acton and Laura Palmer, along with Vitaly Orlov, a Russian citizen.” This elicited no reaction. “They are wanted by your government for crimes against the state. Do you deny they were here?” Still nothing. Dymovsky stood. “I’ll take your lack of a reply as confirmation they were. Someone opened the door for them. I’m assuming that was you. Who was driving the van?”

  No answer.

  “We’ll find out, old man, with or without your help.” He shoved the man’s head back so he could look into his eyes. He was met with a blank stare. “You know what will happen to you if we have to find out without your help?”

  The man stared at him as if he didn’t care, as if anything they could do to him was nothing compared to the life he had already endured.

  “Sir!”

  “What?” snapped Dymovsky at his underling, his stare fixated on the suspect.

  “You need to see this!”

  He was about to dismiss his junior partner, but the excitement in the man’s voice suggested he truly did need to see whatever his partner had discovered. Dymovsky pointed at the old man. “Take him to headquarters. We’ll soften him up a bit, see if he’ll talk then.” He stepped outside, the morning light barely breaking on the horizon. “What is it?”

  Filippov pointed down the street. “What do you see?”

  Dymovsky looked, seeing nothing at first, then a smile broke out on his face as he spotted what his underling had discovered.

  A private security camera, angled so that it would catch anyone walking in front of the store’s door.

  And anyone approaching the garage door that stood beside him.

  41

  Outside Tambov, Russian Federation

  Acton groaned then bolted awake as something kicked him in the ass.

  “Hey, what the hell?”

  “Up you lazy American. Don’t make me believe the propaganda about your people.”

  Acton threw his pillow at Zorkin, the old man easily catching it, his reflexes still good.

  Laura moaned. “I’m British.”

  Zorkin tossed the pillow back at Acton. “Bah! You don’t want to know what they said about you!”

  Zorkin left and Acton leaned over to give his wife a kiss, instead crying out in pain, his back spasming. He dropped back down, driving a handful of knuckles into the small of his back. “I can’t believe how sore I am.”

  Laura rolled him over and straddled him from behind, working her thumbs and heels of her hands into his back, he moaning in pain and pleasure. “God only knows how many more hours—or days—we’re going to have to spend underneath that truck.”

  “Ugh, don’t remind me.” He reached back with one hand and gently swatted her away. “That’s good, let me see if I can stand up.” She jumped off him, apparently none the worse for wear, the few years of youth she had over him apparently working wonders.

  “Come on, old man,” she laughed, dragging him to his feet. “Look!” She pointed at two stacks of neatly folded clothes. She picked up the pile of women’s clothes, holding up a pair of slacks. “They’re even in our sizes.”

  Darya walked into the room carrying a tub of hot water, Acton grabbing the pillow and covering what was now Laura’s exclusive domain. She pointed at the pillow then the water. “You wash.” She tossed her head back and roared in laughter as she waddled out of the room, Laura grinning. She closed the door, Acton tossing the pillow aside. A bar of soap floated in the water, several clean towels already sitting beside the piles of clothes.

  Acton began a quick bird bath, Laura joining him. “I feel like I’m at a dig.”

  Laura laughed. “I thought we were supposed to be pampering ourselves this week.”

  “I guess not.”

  Laura gasped, her eyes wide as she turned to her husband. “Oh my God, Greg and Sandra must be worried sick about us by now!”

  Acton continued to wash, working out some road grit from the nether regions he had missed last night. “We did say we might be a couple of days and not to expect a call because of the hush-hush nature of things.”

  “True.”

  Acton grinned. “He’s been feeling pretty good lately, maybe they won’t even notice we’re gone.”

  Laura eyed down below. “He has been acting a little frisky lately…”

  Acton turned his midsection away from her slightly. “Don’t get any ideas. There’s no locks on these doors and we’re in a hurry.” He sniffed. “Oh God, is that meat candy I smell?”

  Laura drew a breath through her nose. “If your American bastardization of a perfectly good language my people invented is meant to suggest bacon, then yes, I believe it is.”

  Acton gave her a toothy grin. “Sex is out. Bacon is in.”

  She laughed and they quickly finished washing and getting dressed, Zorkin giving them a displeased look from the table, Vitaly giving a friendly wave as he ate. “You two took your time.” He dropped his head slightly and gave them a look. “You two didn’t sneak in a little, you know, private time?”

  Laura flushed and Acton chuckled as they sat at the table, a generous breakfast slid in front of them. “Jealous?”

  Zorkin laughed. “I outlived my little guy. He died an ignominious death years ago.”

  Laura stifled a giggle, Acton shaking his head. “They’ve got pills for that now,” he mumbled through a mouthful of bacon and eggs.

  “Bah!” Zorkin swatted the air. “You need someone to share it with, and an old dried up spy doesn’t have much to offer a good woman.” He raised a finger to cut Acton off from the obvious retort. “And I don’t go for bad women.”

  Laura leaned over and patted him on the leg. “You’re a good man.”

  Zorkin grinned at her. “Careful, we don’t want to test my claim.”

  She laughed and gave his leg a squeeze before tucking into her breakfast, their plates cleaned within minutes.

  “When do we leave?” asked Acton, shoveling in a second helping.

  “Now.”

  Acton glanced out the window, barely a sliver of sunlight in the east. “Jesus, even the early birds aren’t threatening any worms.”

  Zorkin grunted, standing up, signaling the end of the meal. Acton grabbed the bacon off his plate with his fingers, Laura giving him a look. He gave her a “whatcha gonna do” shrug.

  “Trust me, the more distance we travel before the sun comes out, the better off you’ll be. It’s going to be scorching hot in your hiding place.” Zorkin pointed at a box of water bottles as Acton shoved the last piece of bacon in his mouth, glancing about for a paper towel.

  Darya whipped a tea towel at him.

  “Thank you,” he mumbled, his mouth full. He swallowed, wiping his mouth and hands. “At least this time we won’t go thirsty.”

  “Or hungry?” prompted Laura. The old lady lifted three bags that looked heavy, handing one to each of them. Laura gave her a hug and kiss on each cheek. “Thank you so much, you’ve been such a dear.”

  “You welcome, you welcome,” said the woman, her husband exchanging handshakes.

  Zorkin opened the door. “Enough of the love in. Let’s move before they find us.”

  42

  Nikolskaya Street, Moscow, Russian Federation

  “There!”

  Dymovsky pointed at the tiny monitor, the variety store’s owner standing in the corner, biting his nails as Filippov operated th
e computer. A van pulled up on the screen, coming to a halt in front of the garage door before it opened, then disappeared inside, the door immediately slamming shut.

  “Back it up and see if you can get a clear image of the driver.”

  Filippov reversed the video and froze it, a shot of the driver doing a shoulder check giving them a perfect view.

  Dymovsky smiled. “Get that to headquarters. I want to know who he is.”

  Filippov shook his head. “No need, sir. I already know who he is.”

  Dymovsky’s eyes narrowed. “You do?”

  “Yes, sir. That’s Viktor Zorkin. I’d recognize him anywhere. He’s a legend!”

  “In what?”

  “The KGB, sir. I read a profile on him. He was one of our greatest spies during the Cold War. He retired a Hero of the Soviet Union.”

  Dymovsky grunted. “It would appear he’s switched sides.” His phone vibrated in his pocket and he grabbed it. “Da?”

  “Sir, this is Polzin at HQ. We’ve found them!”

  “Just a moment.” Dymovsky stepped back, pointing at the screen. “Get that to HQ anyway, I want it on the record. And see what kind of vehicle they left in. Something big was in that garage.” Filippov nodded as Dymovsky stepped outside. “Go ahead.”

  “You were right, sir. They did buy new phones.”

  Dymovsky smiled.

  I love it when I’m right.

  “We’ve got footage showing them going into a repair shop then leaving a few minutes later with a bag. We traced the shop owner and were able to confirm the type of prepaid phones purchased. We contacted the company and they provided a list of all the activations made after the purchase time.”

  You have to love not needing pesky things like warrants.