by Ted Halstead
Bronstein said nothing and just nodded.
Grishkov sighed. “But you don’t think that’s what will happen. We discussed some of the problems with leaving response up to the Pakistani authorities before we left Moscow.”
“I’m only guessing,” Bronstein said. “But the Pakistanis have a complicated relationship between the civilian and military authorities, due to many previous coups where the military took power by force. If we give this warning the proper, diplomatic way to the civilian politicians, notice may well not reach the nuclear transport force in time. If we warn the generals directly, the politicians may be…unhappy. But there’s a more serious problem.”
Grishkov nodded. “Our alliance with India.”
“Correct,” Bronstein said. “We have been aligned with India for decades. They have bought billions of dollars worth of our weapons exports, and we even jointly developed the very capable BrahMos PJ-10 anti-ship cruise missile. The Pakistanis would treat any warning from us with suspicion. Great suspicion.”
Grishkov shrugged. “And if we attempt to prevent the theft, fail, and are then captured alive by the Pakistani authorities?”
Bronstein winced. “Yes. If the Pakistanis then identified you as Russian agents, our long alliance with India might make them think the attack was an Indian plot supported by Russia. Truly, our President has many factors to consider.”
“But you’re sending me to Islamabad anyway,” Grishkov said.
“Yes,” Bronstein said, standing up. “There are many reasons we should stay well clear of this business. But I think the President will decide the prospect of a nuclear-armed Taliban outweighs all of them, and that is why you are going. Good luck!”
Grishkov stood and shook Bronstein’s outstretched hand.
At least on the charter flight, he could finally get some sleep.
Taxila, Pakistan
Neda Rhahbar looked at the hotel room’s single bed and sighed. “I’ll take the couch,” she declared.
Mikhail Vasilyev raised one eyebrow and shook his head. “That will not be necessary for either of us. Recall your training.”
Neda first frowned, and then flushed as she remembered. “When two agents are sharing accommodation on assignment in a location where threats are present, one must stand watch while the other sleeps on a mutually agreed schedule.”
Vasilyev nodded. “And if we had any doubts about whether threats are present, your encounter with the intruder at what should have been our residence in Islamabad settled them.”
“So, this location is close to what we think would be the starting point for the nuclear weapons convoy?” Neda asked.
Vasilyev rocked his right hand back and forth. “More accurate to say it represents our best guess at a starting point. Both missiles and their launchers are produced here in Taxila. However, other locations such as Fateh Jang are also known to produce launchers.”
Vasilyev paused and then shrugged. “More important is that the Pakistan Ordnance Factories near Wah are only about fifteen kilometers from here. Near one of the factories are six earth-covered bunkers inside a heavily guarded multi-zone security perimeter, which we suspect is used for nuclear warhead storage. To maintain that level of security as long as possible, the last step before transport would be attaching the warhead to the missile and then mounting the missile in its launcher. At any rate, that’s how we’ve always done it.”
Neda frowned. “Something’s been bothering me since you said the name of this city. It sounds familiar for some reason that has nothing to do with nuclear weapons.”
Vasilyev smiled. “Now you’ve hit on the other reason we picked Taxila as the backup location to wait for news from Grishkov. The city is a UNESCO World Heritage site that has over a million visitors a year. There are ruins dating back to before Taxila’s conquest by Alexander the Great, museums packed with Buddhist and Hindu sculptures and artifacts, and much more. In many other places in Pakistan, two strangers, including one Iranian, would attract notice. Not here,” Vasilyev said, shaking his head.
“Yes!” Neda exclaimed. “Now I remember one of my classmates suggested a trip here, but I was a young university student free of my parents for the first time. Of course, the relatives I was staying with watched what I was doing, but not nearly as closely as my mother. I didn’t want to waste that limited freedom visiting ruins and museums. Hearing you describe Taxila, I think maybe I was shortsighted.”
Vasilyev shrugged. “I wouldn’t mind walking in the footsteps of Alexander the Great. Late in life, my father developed an interest in history and would talk to me about the people and events that captured his imagination. Maybe it’s not a surprise that someone with ‘the Great’ as part of his name was one of them. Anyway, we’ll be staying in this hotel room until we hear from Grishkov. It should be a matter of hours.”
“I heard about your father during my training. I know he died very recently, but I never had a chance to express my sympathies to you. The only other thing I heard about him was that he died a hero, but nobody I asked knew any details,” Neda said, her voice trailing off.
If Vasilyev picked up on the implied question, he completely ignored it. “Good,” he replied. “I’m pleased to hear you’re not the only one paying attention to the other Mikhail’s advice about keeping your mouth shut.”
He paused and then added, “I’ll take the first watch.”
Neda said nothing more and went to bed fully clothed, taking off only her shoes. As she put her head on the pillow and turned her back to Vasilyev, she had just one thought before exhaustion claimed her.
“This job is hard enough. I’m glad I don’t also have to live up to a legend.”
Islamabad International Airport, Islamabad, Pakistan
Anatoly Grishkov grunted with satisfaction as he recognized the model of the large black SUV waiting for him in the airport parking lot. Its presence meant his request for weapons in addition to the ones in his diplomatic cases had been approved. He was particularly hoping that one very special weapon was in the SUV’s hidden compartment but would have to wait for a less conspicuous location to check.
Everything had gone well so far. Grishkov had finally been able to sleep on the plane, and the diplomatic passport had worked like a charm. Grishkov and his luggage had been waved through customs and immigration.
Now, Grishkov scowled, if the President would make a decision. For now, his orders just said to rendezvous with Vasilyev and Neda, and await further instructions. That was fine as far as it went since the attack on the Pakistani nuclear weapons convoy was going to happen not far from Taxila.
The problem was time. There wasn’t much left. It was now to the point that it depended on traffic whether Grishkov would be able to make the rendezvous and then the attack location.
It would make much more sense for Vasilyev and Neda to head to the ambush site, and for Grishkov to meet them there. But they couldn’t do that without orders, and so far, only Grishkov and the President knew the attack location.
It wasn’t like the President to hesitate over a decision. Grishkov had undoubtedly disagreed with some of them, but “vacillating” wasn’t a word he’d ever heard used in describing the President.
The choices on hand weren’t great. Do nothing, and take the chance that the Taliban would succeed in obtaining nuclear weapons. Warn the Pakistani authorities, and if the warning came too late, perhaps be blamed for the theft.
Or take a chance that two Russian agents and one brand-new female Iranian recruit could help the Pakistanis foil the Taliban’s planned ambush. And if they were killed and their bodies identified, perhaps have Russia accused of complicity in the trap.
Grishkov shrugged as he put the SUV in gear. All he could do was drive, and hope that the President made the right decision in time.
Chapter Eight
Taxila, Pakistan
Neda Rhahbar felt a curious mixture of excitement and annoyance when the phone buzzed in her pocket. Excitement, because it almost
certainly meant news from Grishkov. Annoyance, because while she was now well-rested, Mikhail Vasilyev had only been asleep for two hours.
She wasn’t sure why that bothered her so much.
Neda hesitated between reading the message and immediately waking Vasilyev. This dilemma was quickly solved when Vasilyev woke, pulled out his phone, and began reading in a series of movements so rapid and fluid that Neda took a step back.
She didn’t envy anyone who attempted to attack Vasilyev in his sleep.
Whatever Vasilyev was reading, Neda could see it evoking an emotion she hadn’t yet seen from him.
Anger.
Visibly collecting himself, Vasilyev glanced at Neda and said, “We leave immediately. You’ll find your purse is a bit heavier after a gift I put there while you were sleeping.”
Neda looked inside her purse. What she found there made her smile, because it was apparent Vasilyev had read her file.
The PSS-2 was the culmination of a KGB quest begun in 1980 to develop a genuinely silent pistol. Instead of a suppressor, which never did more than reduce the sound of a gunshot, the PSS-2 used a unique 7.62 x 43 mm SP-16 cartridge with an internal piston to nearly eliminate the sound of its discharge. Weighing less than a kilogram fully loaded, it was less than 165 mm long, including the 35 mm barrel, making it easy to conceal.
While most of Neda’s firearms instructors had been men, a woman had trained her on the use of the PSS-2. She had emphasized that “your male opponents will not expect you to be armed,” and taught her a grip taking advantage of Neda’s long fingers to help conceal the small pistol from view.
With an effective range of just twenty-five meters, the PSS-2 was only useful at close quarters. Neda had practiced with the weapon almost obsessively until her instructor finally pronounced her not only qualified but the best shot with a PSS-2 she had ever trained.
Neda closed her purse and hurried after Vasilyev.
20 Kilometers North of Islamabad International Airport, Pakistan
Anatoly Grishkov finally saw a promising opportunity to assemble the special weapon he’d requested unobserved and took it. The dirt road turnoff was framed with trees on both sides, and there was a clearing a short distance to the right. The clearing had no trees but was overgrown with tall grass and low brush, so that once his SUV entered it, it would be effectively invisible from the paved road.
At first Grishkov had been unsure about spending the time required to assemble the weapon, but finally decided its capabilities made it worth the extra few minutes. After all, new orders could come at any time, redirecting him from the Taxila rendezvous with Vasilyev and Neda to go instead directly to the ambush site.
First, Grishkov pushed down the rear seats. Next, though the remote he held had only the standard door and trunk buttons, pressing them in the correct coded sequence caused the entire rear two-thirds of the SUV to lift to the ceiling, revealing a cavernous storage compartment.
Grishkov was pleased to see the Chukavin SVCh-308 sniper rifle had been packed with a German Schmidt and Bender scope as he’d requested. Opening another case, he was astonished to find an American-made Harris bipod stand, laser designator, sound suppressor, and a barrel-mounted flashlight.
There was only one possible explanation for this fantastically expensive collection of sniper hardware. This was the actual rifle that the previous Russian President had fired years ago on national TV, hitting a target at maximum range three out of five times.
FSB Director Smyslov had told Grishkov that the current President had been pleased with his performance on his last two missions. As he assembled the rifle, he thought to himself that this gift had done more than awards and cash to convince him Smyslov had meant it.
The Chukavin came in three versions, one firing the same round as the Dragunov sniper rifle it replaced and another the Western equivalent .308 Winchester. The third version was what Grishkov had received, the high-powered .338 Lapua Magnum. He’d asked for it because the Lapua-chambered version had a longer effective range of nearly one and a half kilometers.
There was also an assortment of submachine guns, grenades, and ammunition in the vehicle. For now, though, Grishkov decided to leave those in place.
Grishkov hesitated but finally made his choice. After assembling the rifle, he lowered the storage compartment and put the rear seats back in place. Then he put the assembled gun on the floor of the back seat, covering it with a black tarp designed to match the rest of the SUV’s black interior. It would fail all but the most cursory inspection, but at this point, he didn’t imagine stopping short of his goal.
Whether that goal was to rendezvous with Vasilyev and Neda, or to go straight to the ambush site, Grishkov wasn’t going to let anything stand in his way.
30 Kilometers Outside Taxila, Pakistan
Neda Rhahbar finally couldn’t resist. “I can see that something about our orders upset you, but I’ve read them on my phone and don’t understand why. Is there something I should know?”
Mikhail Vasilyev relaxed his grip on the SUV’s steering wheel and glanced towards Neda. Finally, he nodded.
“Yes, and I should have told you sooner. There is an excellent chance we will be too late to stop the attack. I’m angry because though Grishkov did his part and got us the ambush’s time and location, the President took too long to decide to send us.”
Neda, at first, said nothing. Then, slowly, she said rather than asked, “Your message gave you more details than I received.”
Vasilyev shrugged. “Yes. When one agent is more experienced than the other, this is standard practice. We are all given only the information we must have to do our job. But there is some good news. I’ve also been told that Grishkov is on his way to meet us.”
Neda smiled. “I’m glad to hear that. As you know, he helped me escape Iran, and I have great faith in him. Will he be able to join us in time?”
Vasilyev scowled. “Maybe. I don’t know anything for sure, which is why I probably seem so angry. Difficult odds I have faced and overcome before. Uncertainty is what I dislike above all.”
Neda looked at the car’s GPS unit, and then asked, “What do you think we will find ahead?”
Vasilyev nodded. “A good question. Standard Pakistani military procedure for nuclear weapons transport calls for the use of well-paved secondary roads, not highways. A ‘rolling roadblock’ stops traffic a fixed distance ahead and behind the transports. It’s easy to break down and reset the roadblocks because the transports rarely go even as fast as their top speed of fifty-five kilometers per hour.”
“So, when we come across this roadblock, what do we do?” Neda asked.
Vasilyev grinned and gave Neda the answer she was dreading. It was the three words she had heard most often in training.
“Assess and improvise.”
As Vasilyev said those words, Neda could see the roadblock ahead. She reached into her purse, removed her pistol, and rolled down her window. Next, she lowered her veil until only her eyes were visible, and folded her hands over the PSS-2 in her lap.
Vasilyev nodded approval and rolled down his window. His weapon was in a hidden compartment in the lower driver’s side door. A tap of his knee at the right spot would reveal a GSh-18 pistol, with an eighteen round magazine. The compartment’s placement put it out of easy view of a man standing outside the vehicle, and it was a fact that untrained opponents tended to fixate on their target’s right hand.
There was a good reason for that, Vasilyev had to admit. His initial belief that learning to shoot left-handed would be easy had been…mistaken. Only dogged persistence and many hours of practice had finally allowed him first to meet and then exceed qualification standards. It helped that unlike many pistols, the GSh-18 had a reversible magazine release for left-hand shooters.
Vasilyev had been particularly annoyed to find that his new ability to shoot left-handed failed to translate to any other field. His mediocre tennis skills, for example, had not benefited at all from his weapons tr
aining. Unless amusing his opponent counted as a “benefit.”
As he examined the soldiers coming into view, though, Vasilyev counted the training time that would let him make use of the hidden compartment as well spent. The GSh-18 pistol was one of the few capable of firing the armor-piercing 7N31 9 x 19mm round. All of the soldiers were wearing vests, and though headshots were preferable, they weren’t always possible.
An angry red light winked on the satellite phone attached to a dashboard mount halfway between Vasilyev and Neda. Seeing Vasilyev’s reaction, Neda had to ask.
“Does the light mean there’s a problem with the phone?”
Vasilyev nodded. “Yes. There’s a jammer nearby capable of blocking satellite as well as cell phone reception. To do that, the Taliban would need a truck-mounted system, probably a R-330ZH. It means the Pakistani soldiers, including the ones at this roadblock, won’t be able to call for help.”
Vasilyev would have much preferred talking his way through the roadblock but rated his chances as low. It’s not that his cover story was so bad. There was a hospital about ten kilometers ahead, it was the only one close by, and he was going to claim his “wife” desperately needed medical attention. He was even going to suggest soldiers in one of the several vehicles manning the roadblock escort them to the hospital.
A close look at the soldiers at the roadblock changed Vasilyev’s assessment of their chances of avoiding violence from “low” to “none.”
Some of the soldiers’ uniforms were too loose, and one was too tight, and several soldiers were poorly groomed. None of this was likely in the elite troops that the Pakistanis would assign to guard nuclear weapons in transit.
And Vasilyev’s sharp eyes also spotted two soldiers with small dark patches on their uniforms. Their particular shade could have come from only one source.
Dried blood.
The attack was already underway. This roadblock was manned by Taliban fighters wearing the uniforms of the Pakistani soldiers they had killed, probably just minutes earlier. They were here to make sure no one interfered with the Taliban’s assault on the nuclear weapons transports further up the road.
