by Alex Shaw
Chang bobbed his head but didn’t quite understand the Russian’s wording: “your bosses”? Was he not controlled by the Russians? And if not, by whom? Was another foreign agent involved? He saw himself in the mirror as he checked behind … The answer was literally looking him in the face. The Chinese! Could he confirm this? He had to take another chance. He trawled his brain for the correct acronym. ‘I apologise. The Ministry of State Security is very glad to be cooperating with you on this operation.’
‘Ah, come on, my friend, we are all now members of the same club. Old MSS spies and former GRU soldiers. It is a dream team!’ Vlad laughed. Like his voice, the pitch was too high, almost that of a teenage boy. ‘Together we are Blackline!’
‘You will never get away with this! You can’t!’ the grey-haired woman stated.
‘Mrs Filler, shut your old face up!’ Vlad raised his pistol as a warning of what would happen if she did not.
Chang’s mind whirred as he continued to drive; he knew the SVR was the Russian equivalent of the CIA, the external security service, but what was the GRU? Was it military? This meant the Chinese and the Russians were working together, but Vlad had said “old” and “former”. Was this non-governmental? Together we are “Blackline”? Was that some shadowy organisation? And why were these two specific nationalities working together? Both had large militaries, but he knew from documentaries on The History Channel that the Russian war machine was outdated. And he knew equally that the Chinese were the globe’s electronic powerhouse … So, had it been a Chinese bomb?
A heavy silence enveloped the taxi. Vlad watched Washington pass by, made a ghost town by the EMP, and Chang concentrated on devising a plan. The route to College Park Airport made him double back on the road he had taken half an hour before … and then he had an idea. He surreptitiously slid his left hand under his thigh, unclipping his Glock from its holster. He scanned the road and the sidewalks. No one around, no witnesses. He turned his head enough to see Vlad’s face. The Russian was gazing sideways at the passing buildings, and not ahead. No seatbelt, no ballistic vest …
Chang’s hands became slick with sweat and his heart started to pound; it was now or never. If this didn’t work, he’d be dead, but Vlad could not be allowed to live. The anger, the outrage, the shame and the sense of helplessness urged Chang on, pushing him over the edge … He slammed on the brakes. Chang’s seatbelt tightened against his chest, the tyres squealed, there was a scream from behind as the women fell forward, and a heavy clunk from his passenger in the front. Vlad’s forehead smashed into the windshield, his suppressed Beretta falling from his hands. Ignoring the Russian’s weapon, Chang let go of the wheel and withdrew his Glock, left-handed.
As Vlad started to turn toward him, blinking, Chang thrust the Glock into the Russian’s side, and shot him at point-blank range in the chest. The retort was thunderous inside the taxi and the cloud of acrid propellant engulfed them. The Russian jerked sideways as the round escaped through his back and smashed the side window.
In the tinnitus silence caused by the exploding round, Chang pushed his door handle and scurried out of the taxi. He ran around the hood and opened the passenger door. Vlad half fell out; Chang dragged him the rest. The Russian was conscious but unable to resist. His body shook as it went into shock, and a sucking noise escaped from the wet mess of his chest as he battled to breathe. Chang heard distant voices, men were running toward him, but his blood was up and he couldn’t stop. Vlad had murdered an innocent civilian, a woman, and he was not going to let the Russian get away with it! He fired again. Vlad’s chest imploded. Chang had become judge, jury, and executioner. It felt good.
His breathing heavy and erratic, he turned to face the men. ‘Metro Police!’ Chang yelled, not fully hearing his own voice. He scooted back into the driver’s seat and floored the gas pedal. The tyres chirped and the taxi shot forward.
Eventually, Helen Filler spoke; her voice was shaky but accusative. ‘You shot him!’
‘Yes, ma’am. He was a bad man, a murderer. He didn’t deserve to live.’
‘I’m not going to argue with you there.’
‘You are both safe now. I’m taking you to the British Embassy.’
‘I don’t understand. Who are you?’
‘I’m Detective Jon Chang, ma’am, of the Washington Metro Police Department.’
‘Yet you shot him?’
‘I did.’
‘Can you explain to us what on earth is happening, Detective?’
Talking louder than normal, but not realising the fact, Chang related the events of the day and his understanding of them. He left out the assassination of the ambassador – that would be too much for his charges to handle. He wanted them to feel safe at their embassy. By the time he had finished his explanation and fielded questions, the taxi was pulling up again outside the British Embassy. He was glad to note that now a duo of patrolmen was manning the barrier.
‘I’m going to need to see some ID, sir.’ The fresh-faced officer peered into Chang’s window.
Chang deliberately reached for his badge and held it up. ‘What are you doing here, officer?’
‘Brennon, sir, and it’s our duty to protect and serve.’
Chang stopped himself from rolling his eyes at the eager officer’s textbook reply. ‘But why here?’ Chang persisted. He was taking nothing and no one at face value today. ‘Did you get orders from dispatch?’
‘No, Detective, we were patrolling the area when our car just cut out. This embassy was unguarded so we used our initiative.’
‘No security guards?’
‘None.’
It was puzzling, but he had no time for jigsaws. Chang let his face soften a little. ‘Good.’
‘Attaché Filler has informed us of the situation.’
‘Is Eric all right?’ Helen Filler asked from the back seat.
The officer bent down, addressed her. ‘Yes ma’am.’
‘Well, thank the Lord for that.’
‘Where is your patrol car?’ Chang asked.
Brennon gestured up the street. ‘Back there a way.’
‘And it doesn’t work?’
‘Nope, as I told you, it cut out. Your taxi is one of the only working cars we’ve seen.’
Chang was interested. ‘You see any black Tahoes?’
‘Yes.’
‘The shooter escaped in a black Tahoe.’
The officer stiffened. ‘What are your orders, Detective?’
Of course, Chang remembered, he was the senior officer. ‘Stay here, stay vigilant, and if you see a black Tahoe, tell me immediately. Do not engage. Got it?’
‘Yes, sir.’ Brennon’s face became grave.
Chang gave a curt nod and drove into the embassy parking lot. This time he parked against the steps that led up to the main entrance. He helped the women out. They hurried into the foyer, leaving him locking the taxi. Chang let out a sigh. Now what? He’d been involved in more action in the last five hours than he had in the last five years. If this were a normal day, there would be procedures to follow, steps he had to take, an investigation by internal affairs, but now that nothing worked and no one could be contacted, he had no idea what to do. If he drove to the station, the chances were more than likely his commandeered taxi would in turn be commandeered by his captain, or the commissioner, or anyone else who outranked him. But here at the British Embassy, he was the ranking law enforcement officer, he was in charge. He heard a noise and reached into his jacket pocket. The sat phone was ringing. ‘Yes?’
The voice was the same as before, but now the tone was angry. ‘Where are you?’
‘We are on our way.’
‘What is taking you so long?’
‘There was an accident – the road was blocked. I had to take an alternative route.’
‘Your passengers are safe?’
‘Yes, quite safe.’ Chang felt his pulse quicken.
‘Keep it that way.’ The line went dead.
Chapter 18
&
nbsp; College Park Airport, Washington, DC
The Russians had unceremoniously dropped him onto the concrete floor in a small room at the back of the hangar. Hunter’s eyes were heavy. It took all his willpower to stop them from closing, and he knew this was an effect of the unknown drugs injected, against his will, into his system. The narcotics continued to make his temples throb; he prayed for it to pass. The most important aspect for Hunter was that Terri was safe, for the moment at least. She was by his side, her head leaning on his shoulder. Her eyes were closed and she was snoring gently, something she would never admit to.
Another diplomat, a Frenchman whom Hunter knew well socially, sat on his left. Each of them had their hands bound and legs hobbled, but they were not gagged and able to talk freely – as freely as their guard would let them. Hunter looked up at the surly, burly Russian who watched over them as his face, a mask of professional disgust, peered through the window in the door. His nostrils flared and he sniffed, as though checking the progress of wet paint drying, before he moved away.
‘There was no warning, no nothing,’ Remy Debois complained, his Gallic accent wafting off the walls. ‘I heard a knock at the door. A big man stepped inside and hit me. I do not know why they want me; I mean what for? I am the French Cultural Attaché. What do they think, that I have the Mona Lisa rolled up in my pocket?’
Hunter smirked, in spite of the situation; he found it hard to take Debois seriously. Both men were members of the Washington Hash House Harriers, which was described as a drinking club with a running problem. They, and other expats, met up twice a month and ran a course around the leafy Washington countryside before stopping for beer and burgers. Burgers … Hunter heard his stomach rumble. ‘I need to eat.’
‘Ah, me too! I need my breakfast.’
‘How many eggs does a Frenchman have for breakfast?’
Debois raised his eyebrow. ‘I do not eat eggs.’
‘Humour me, it’s a joke.’ It was best that they kept their spirits up. ‘I ask you, “how many eggs does a Frenchman have for breakfast?” and you say “I don’t know”.’
‘OK.’
‘So, how many eggs does a Frenchman have for breakfast?’
‘I do not know.’
‘One. Because one egg is un oeuf.’
Debois shook his head.
‘You Roast Beef have a funny sense of humour.’
‘Do the French still call us that?’
‘I just did, and I am the cultural representative for my country so the official answer from the French government is “oui”, Roast Beef.’
They became silent as the guard passed again.
‘This place is an airport, but it’s too quiet,’ Hunter noted.
‘I agree. I cannot understand what is happening. It is a Monday morning and we should be hearing the sounds of planes, helicopters, but instead all I hear are your jokes about eggs.’
To Hunter’s trained mind the silence was ominous, but he had no idea why. ‘What do you know, Remy?’
‘Know about what?’
‘Confidential information, secrets about your embassy, your government. What do you know that is so important that the Russians want to kidnap you for it?’
The Frenchman raised his bound hands to his face and rubbed wearily. ‘I do not know. I am not a spy. Perhaps I was just an easy target? I live alone, no wife, no children.’
‘For a normal kidnapping, yes, I’d agree but for an operation on this scale? I have my doubts.’
‘They are Russian – who knows what their aims are. Perhaps they plan to claim Washington for “Mother Russia,” to protect the Russian speakers in the District of Columbia?’
‘Wait a moment …’ Hunter remembered something they’d discussed over a beer. ‘Didn’t you back the boycott of that Russian soprano from performing in Paris?’
‘You know I did. Valentia Smetaniuk – the crazy woman who sang in support of Russia’s bombing of Syria. I did not merely back the boycott, I banned her from performing in all of France! Le Pen’s National Front were not happy; neither was the Russian ambassador. But I do not see how that is connected to this. Valentia Smetaniuk was only an opera singer.’
‘She was a Moscow mouthpiece, a favourite of the president; a ban on her was a slap in the face to the Kremlin.’
‘So for this the Russian state kidnaps me?’
Hunter sighed. ‘It sounds far-fetched, but what else can it be? I think we are both here because we’ve spoken out or angered the Russians in some way …’ His voice trailed off as he understood completely. The drugs had slowed his mind, prevented his brain from seeing it all, but now as he reasoned it out with his French friend, the clouds were moving, the sky was clear. Hunter knew it was too much of a coincidence Dudley Smith’s murder and his kidnap happening within hours of each other. The Russians had, he decided, murdered Dudley Smith – murdered him because in his official capacity as the British Military Attaché, Smith had been a vocal critic of the Russian regime. Hunter explained his theory.
‘That is unbelievable.’
‘I agree.’
‘I have nothing against Russia or her people. Are you telling me that we are part of some “hit list”?’
‘If they had wanted us dead, we would already be knocking at the pearly gates; they had plenty of opportunity. We are alive for a reason.’
‘What reason? If it is information, I have none.’
‘And nor do I.’ It was a lie, a huge one. Hunter had information, too much information, about the SIS and especially about past E Squadron operations and the men who had undertaken them.
Debois asked, ‘I wonder how many people they have kidnapped. You saw the other room, like this one?’
Hunter had noticed the second cell. ‘Have you heard any noise from it?’
‘I have heard nothing. Are we just to sit here and wait to be interrogated, tortured?’ Debois rubbed his face again. ‘I need a cigarette!’
‘I need a drink.’
‘What … what?’ Terri sat up.
‘You fell asleep.’ Hunter stroked her head.
‘We are still here – it’s not a dream?’
‘No,’ Debois added, ‘it is a nightmare.’
The guard appeared at the door. This time, however, he stepped inside the crude room and made to grab Terri. Hunter raised his arms to try to stop him. The large man brusquely brushed him aside.
‘Simon!’ Terri yelped as she was dragged to her feet.
‘Where are you taking her?’ Hunter demanded and tried to stand.
The Russian looked down; he was smiling. ‘On vacation.’
‘I demand you let us go! We have diplomatic immunity!’ Debois’s voice became indignant.
*
Oleniuk eyed the woman as she was brought before him. ‘What have you learned?’
‘Simon is trying to understand why you are holding him and Debois.’
‘And why are we?’ Oleniuk asked, noticing again that she used Hunter’s first name.
‘He thinks it is because he and Debois are enemies of the Russian state.’
‘Hunter is extremely perceptive, rather a good job that he is an intelligence officer.’ Oleniuk snorted at his own joke.
‘Debois says he knows nothing.’
‘That is true. Anything else?’
‘They were talking about the other room.’
‘Oh?’
‘They were speculating if that too holds hostages.’
Oleniuk snorted at the word “hostages”. The correct term was prisoners. ‘And does it?’
‘They do not know.’
‘Good.’ The cell held no one, but believing it did would increase their sense of unease. ‘Are they aware of the EMP?’
‘No.’
‘Splendid. Go back. We have a little more time on our hands before I make my final decision.’
‘Decision?’
‘Whether or not I take both men to Moscow.’ He noticed her mouth tremble. It opened and she was about to sp
eak but then apparently thought better of it. Oleniuk gave a signal and the guard grabbed her.
Oleniuk sat back in his chair and laced his fingers across his stomach. He hated being a patient man. He hated having to wait with nothing to do. It was as though he were just as much a prisoner as Hunter and Debois.
It was almost midday and on a normal Monday morning he’d be about to start his three-hour lunch interlude. First would come a fine restaurant, where red wine and red meat would be consumed in large quantities, followed by a professional massage to loosen his war-weary body and relieve the twinges in his neck; and there were usually “extras”. He wet his lips. The Chinese were good at that, or at least those he had encountered here in Washington on his many scouting and planning visits were. His mind wandered to his Chinese business partner, Chen Yan, and a smile crossed his face as he imagined himself with her.
He let out a sigh. The damned Chinese, he snorted. Yes, their progress and delivery of the EMP device was to be commended, but he hated their fake subservience, like a pretty, tamed tiger who, given the opportunity, would rip apart the hand that fed it. And rip apart Russia they would, if Russia dropped its guard. He was glad that Chen Yan had persuaded the Chinese authorities to allow Blackline use of their in-country deniable assets. These hangars, like others around the US, were leased or owned by Chinese shell companies. An excuse for Chinese pilots to come and go in private jets without a second glance. The fact that his own country no longer had the necessary assets in the US was by the by. He was a realist. He knew that despite the bluster and the Russian president’s promenading, his country was poor and heading in the right direction to become Third World.
Oleniuk checked his watch again; the minutes ticked by sluggishly and the taxi driver had still not arrived. Something was definitely wrong. Something had happened to Li Tam. The more the day wore on, the more conspicuous a working taxi would be. The last thing he needed was for any of his vehicles to be seized by first responders, law enforcement, or armed citizens. In a country where the Second Amendment was sacrosanct, it wouldn’t take long for armed mobs to replace the void left by the authorities. And nature did so hate a void. His men were professionals, handpicked former Spetsnaz commandos who could easily shoot their way to safety, but he did not want any undue attention brought to the operation. If any of the planes were to be damaged or destroyed, it was a long walk home to Mother Russia.
