Viking Bay

by M. A. Lawson

  “And what happens after Morgan takes out the guard in the hotel?”

  “Morgan will take the scientist to another room in the hotel and just sit there with him for a few days until the North Korean delegation goes home, then walk him over to the consulate. Now, are you morally okay with this operation, Hamilton? Would you like to help your country better understand North Korea’s ability to start a nuclear war?”

  “Yeah, I’m okay with this,” she said.

  “Well, whoop-de-fuckin’-doo. I’ll let the president know.”

  The operation went flawlessly, and all Kay did was sit in the lobby and watch the lobby guard for half an hour. When Morgan called her at ten minutes after eight, saying he had the Korean scientist in custody, she left the hotel and drove back to the safe house in Geneva.

  —

  IN THE FIRST WEEK of March, two months after Anna Mercer had disappeared, Callahan sent Kay down to Fort Benning to take the survival course. Kay wondered if one of his reasons for doing this was to get her out of D.C. and give her something to do so she’d quit bugging him about the lack of progress in locating Mercer. She bugged him about Mercer at least once a week. And actually she was glad to go; she was tired of attending language classes and was looking forward to something physical.

  There were twenty other people in the class; three were women, including her. Half the attendees were military; the remainder were civilians from unnamed government agencies. Kay was registered under the name Karen Hart, and she assumed other folks in the class might also be using cover names. The objective of the class was to teach them how to survive if they ended up behind enemy lines in some spot without food, water, or a cell phone. They taught her how to make snowshoes out of branches, how to snare wee animals for lunch, and how to identify those plants that were edible and those that would poison her. Every day there was a five-mile run to make sure everyone stayed in shape.

  For the final exam, a helicopter dropped her off in a remote section of the Blue Ridge Mountains and she was told to make her way to a small town a hundred and fifty miles away in four days. She was given a warm ski jacket to wear, a hunting knife, waterproof matches, a compass, a topographical map, and a GPS device so they could locate her if she got lost. The GPS device also had a button she could push to summon help. Pushing the button, of course, was an automatic failure.

  The first day, she dutifully trudged through the woods. She wasn’t worried about water, as the map indicated she’d be crossing streams, but food was problematic. She wasn’t going to find a bush laden with blueberries at this time of year. On the other hand, it wasn’t like she was going to starve in three days; she had no intention of having squirrel for dinner.

  The second morning she came upon a small shack in the woods and her nose—trained by the DEA—told her that she’d stumbled onto some yokel’s meth lab. She started to go around the shack, but then noticed two Kawasaki quads—four-wheel-drive, all-terrain vehicles.

  She snuck down to look at the quads. She figured the guys inside the cabin would be too busy cooking their meth to notice her. At least she hoped that was the case, because she also figured that they’d be armed. The ignition keys were in both vehicles—which wasn’t surprising, considering the remoteness of the location—and there was a knapsack strapped onto the rack behind the seat of one of the vehicles. She pulled the keys from one of the quads and tossed them into the woods, then started up the second machine—the one with the knapsack—and took off.

  She wondered how far the meth cookers would have to walk; she doubted that they’d had survival training.

  She arrived at her destination point well fed and well rested. The backpack had contained a six-pack of beer and four ham sandwiches. Her instructor praised her for making such good time, and she modestly accepted his praise. She didn’t tell him that she’d driven most of the way, nor did she consider that she’d cheated: It was a survival course, after all, and she just did what she needed to do to survive.

  —

  AFTER SHE RETURNED from Georgia, she asked Callahan for a week off—she hadn’t had any time off since she’d hired on with him—and he told her to take two if she wanted, sounding like he’d be glad to have her out of his hair for a while.

  One of the things she did during her vacation was drive to Durham so Jessica could check out Duke University, where it appeared she’d be headed next year. Kay had decided she was okay with Jessica skipping her senior year in high school and heading off to college. And Jessica was definitely okay with the decision and looking forward to college life.

  Kay was still somewhat leery about Tanaka—son of the founder of TanTech Research—helping her daughter get into Duke. Being an ex-cop, she couldn’t help but look gift horses in the mouth. She used an old pal in the DEA down in Miami to check Tanaka out—to make sure he wasn’t some sort of sexual deviate who preyed on teenage girls—but her pal said Tanaka was clean. In fact, he appeared to be more than clean: The guy had even spent a couple years in Africa when he got out of college, helping out over there.

  They took a long walk around the campus, looking at the dorms and cafeterias and the labs in the science buildings. Kay thought the campus was gorgeous, with its grassy quads and ponds and flower-lined paths, and she was excited her daughter might be attending school there. Jessica, who had read about the place and liked to show off, informed Kay that the architecture was neo-Gothic, whatever that meant.

  “Did you know that Richard Nixon went to law school here?” Jessica said.

  “It looks like he should have paid more attention,” Kay said. “And no, I didn’t know that. The only name I know associated with Duke is Mike Krzyzewski.”

  “Who’s he?” Jessica asked.

  “You gotta be kidding me, Jessica! He’s the guy who coached the Blue Devils to like a dozen basketball Final Fours. You know, the NCCA championship?”

  “Whatever” was Jessica’s response. Basketball was not high on the list of things she cared about.

  Kay also liked the town of Durham, particularly the Bull City area. Bull City used to be home to the tobacco industry, but now the buildings and warehouses were occupied by restaurants, shops, and bars. She liked the Southern cooking, not bothered a bit that everything was fried. Kay wondered if Jessica and her boyfriend would split up when she left for college.

  As they were driving back to D.C., Kay thought about Eli Dolan. Though she’d only seen him once since the hunt for Anna Mercer had begun, she thought about him all the time. He’d been spending most of his time in New York, and when she’d asked Callahan what he was doing, all Mr. Need-To-Know Callahan would tell her was that Eli was looking into something involving the World Bank and an unnamed third-world country—and that’s all he’d say.

  One time, she ran into Eli in the reception area. It didn’t help that Henry was at his desk and able to hear what they were saying. It was an awkward encounter, both of them seemingly tongue-tied. She wanted to tell him how good he looked and how she missed him, but all that came out was “How have you been?” He said “Fine,” then mumbled that he was late for a meeting and left before she could say anything else.

  She could tell he was still attracted to her, but she figured that he’d moved on with his life. He was probably dating some supermodel in New York—or maybe three supermodels simultaneously. As for her, even though she missed him, she was beginning to think that maybe separating was for the best. She told herself again that it wasn’t smart to date a coworker and that his preferring to live in New York made things too complicated.

  And it wasn’t like the damn guy was perfect. He was obviously stubborn, overly sensitive, and he hadn’t shown much interest in Jessica. And Kay still hadn’t forgotten what he’d said about divorcing his first wife: how he became bored with her after five years of marriage. How long would it take before he became bored with her? So maybe it was for the best—but she missed him.

>   When Kay returned to work the day after her vacation was over, the first thing she did was call Callahan and ask how the search for Anna Mercer was proceeding. In answer to her question, Callahan said, “Goddamnit, quit hounding me.”

  42 | Kay entered Callahan’s conference room to find Morgan and Callahan already there, and she had the feeling that they’d been talking about her—which she didn’t like. She hadn’t seen Morgan since Geneva, and he didn’t say, “Hey, great to see you! Glad to be working with you again!” He just nodded and said, “Hamilton.”

  A moment later, two more men entered the room. One of them was Bowman, the big bastard Kay had kicked in the nuts during the hand-to-hand combat course. He stared at Kay for a moment, then smiled and said, “Stay away from me, Hamilton. I might want kids someday.” Maybe Bowman was all right.

  The other man was almost as big as Bowman, maybe six-two, and built like a serious weight lifter. Like Bowman, his hair was cut military short. Callahan didn’t bother to introduce the man; Kay later found out his name was Dotson.

  Callahan started off by saying, “The CIA has its big tit caught in the wringer, and half an hour ago I was asked to help them out.

  “In 2005, they faked the death of a guy named Leonid Viktoryvich Titov and snuck him out of Russia. It was a brilliant operation and, of course, you’ve never heard about it because it was a roaring success. The reason we wanted Titov was because of the kind of job he had. He was a weapons inspector and he had extensive knowledge about where the Russians store nuclear materials, the kind that can be sold to terrorists to make suitcase bombs. The CIA got him back to Langley and spent two years bleeding him dry. He identified storage locations, how well they were secured, points of vulnerability, that sort of thing. He also identified the people who basically had the keys to the facilities. In other words, people who, if they got desperate enough or greedy enough, could make a deal with al-Qaeda or Hezbollah or whatever group of nuts might want to build a dirty bomb.

  “In 2007, the agency figured they’d gotten all they were going to get out of Titov, gave him a new identity and a nice severance package. He bought a bookstore in Middleburg, Virginia, and then, in 2010, got himself a Russian mail-order bride. I guess he was lonely and wanted to hear his native tongue again. His wife is a gorgeous bimbo named Natalya who’s twenty-five years younger than him, and when the CIA vetted her they found out she’d been a hooker in St. Petersburg—but Titov didn’t care. He saw her picture and fell in love. The story should have ended with They lived happily ever after—but it didn’t.

  “Natalya has been kidnapped. By Chechens. We don’t know how many or their identities. They snatched her out of Titov’s house while he was at work, then called him and said they wanted information related to a specific nuclear facility in southern Russia. The CIA doesn’t know why they selected that particular place other than it’s close to Chechnya, but what the Chechens wanted was basically the same information the CIA wanted when they debriefed Titov. They wanted to know the type of security systems installed, where cameras are located, how many guards were normally on each shift, people who had access codes, et cetera. Titov was told to draw a detailed map of the facility and write down the information they needed. They also said they wanted two hundred and fifty grand in cash, which is almost exactly how much money Titov has in his bank account.”

  “How did they know how much money he had?” Morgan asked.

  Callahan shrugged. “I don’t know. They probably forced the information out of his wife. Or maybe they had some way to access his accounts. I don’t know. Anyway, to make sure Titov had an incentive to cooperate they e-mailed him a photo of Natalya, sitting naked in a chair, wearing an explosive vest. Titov could see dynamite sticks attached to the vest. They told him if he didn’t give them what they wanted, the lovely Natalya would be blown to bits, and likewise if anyone tried to free her. They gave him three hours—two and a half hours from now—to get the money together and write down everything they wanted. He convinced them he’d need the time to get the money.

  “So. Our job is to make sure the Chechens don’t get the information. Or if they do get it, to make sure it doesn’t leave the country. I hate to say this, but we don’t really care about Titov or his wife. We’d prefer not to see them killed, of course, but Titov has no more value as an intelligence asset and his wife never had any. Everybody understand?”

  Everybody nodded—except Kay.

  “Right now, Titov’s wife is located in a house outside of Middleburg and—”

  “How do you know that?” Kay asked.

  “Natalya Titov is severely allergic to practically everything on the planet. She’s allergic to shellfish, peanuts, eggs. A bee sting will kill her. She wears a medic alert device, one with a button she can push to call the medics, and the device has a GPS chip so she can be located. Because Natalya didn’t want to wear a big clunky device like you see on grandmas at nursing homes, her device is contained in a heart-shaped locket she wears. The guys who kidnapped her might not have even noticed the locket, and she was still wearing it in the picture they e-mailed to Titov. And these guys probably aren’t all that worried about Titov getting the cops or the FBI involved. They know he wouldn’t put his hot young wife in jeopardy, not with a bomb strapped to her.”

  When Callahan mentioned Natalya’s medic alert button, Kay had a fleeting thought about Anna Mercer—something Mercer had once said—but she didn’t have time to think about Mercer now because Callahan was still talking.

  “The problem,” Callahan said, “is we don’t know where Titov is or where he’s going to meet the Chechens to pass on the information. And the reason we don’t know is because Titov doesn’t want us to know. Titov’s not a dummy. He knows all the CIA would have to do is grab him so he couldn’t pass anything on to the Chechens, and he isn’t going to allow that. He wants us to try to free his wife, and if we can’t do that, then he’s going to give the Chechens what they want.”

  “Wait a minute,” Kay said. “Back up. How do we know any of this stuff? And why isn’t the CIA or the FBI dealing with this?”

  “I don’t have time—”

  “Yeah, you do,” Kay said. “Just give us the condensed version.”

  It looked like Callahan was going to refuse, then probably figured it would take less time to tell her than to argue with her. “When Titov was told his wife had been kidnapped, he contacted his handler at the CIA, who was the main guy he worked with when the agency was debriefing him. He told his handler about his wife’s medic alert device, gave him the data, and the CIA located Natalya. Or, I should say, they located the device. I’m just assuming she’s still wearing it.”

  “So why doesn’t the CIA go get her?” Kay asked. “Why us?”

  “Two reasons,” Callahan said. “First, as I’m sure you already know, the CIA isn’t allowed to operate in this country. They’re not a law-enforcement agency.”

  “Yeah, right,” Kay said, “like that would ever stop them.”

  “The second reason is the CIA doesn’t know how the Chechens found Titov. There are maybe a dozen people at Langley who knew he was living in Middleburg, and Titov’s handler is afraid one of those people might have sold Titov to the Chechens. The CIA will eventually find out if they have a traitor in their ranks, but for now, Titov’s handler doesn’t want to use anybody at Langley because he doesn’t know who he can trust.”

  “That still doesn’t explain why they’re not using the FBI,” Kay said.

  “They’re not using the FBI because the CIA doesn’t want to end up with egg all over its face. They know if the FBI frees Titov’s wife and captures the Chechens, it’ll be all over the news. I mean, have you ever seen an FBI hostage operation, Hamilton? They’d have fifty agents involved, communication vans, personnel carriers, guys dressed in body armor, and five minutes after the operation started, ten news helicopters would be circling overhead. The end result wo
uld be the CIA having to deal with the embarrassment of having a turncoat in their own house, not to mention the Russians finding out that we slipped Titov out of Russia under their noses and know a whole lot more about their nuclear facilities than they probably want us to know. Okay? Can we stop with the questions now? We’re running out of time.”

  Kay nodded, but she knew Callahan was keeping something from her. How would the CIA know to contact Callahan, since he supposedly worked directly for the president?

  “The reason you four were picked,” Callahan said, “is simply because you were all here in Washington and can get down to Middleburg in a hurry. The reason you were picked, Hamilton, is because you’re a woman. If these guys raped Titov’s wife—and they may have, judging by the naked picture they sent to Titov—I figured it would be nice if there was a woman along to comfort her. Or whatever. While we’ve been talking, Henry’s packed a couple of bags containing what I think you’ll need. Bowman, your rifle is in the bag.”

  Kay figured that meant Bowman’s personal sniper rifle.

  Callahan looked at his watch. “You now have two hours and fifteen minutes to get to Middleburg, scope out the house where she’s being kept, and figure a way to get her out of there.”

  —

  THE HOUSE WHERE Natalya Titov was being held captive was on an unpaved road twenty miles west of Middleburg. It was a small, unkempt place with paint flaking off the siding and a cedar shake roof covered with moss. There were no other houses within sight. Callahan had called to say that the house was a rental property owned by an elderly woman in nearby Front Royal, and the current tenant was a man named Malik Zakayev.

  Morgan drove the Ford SUV they were using past the house and stopped in a place where it couldn’t be seen from the house. Everyone was wearing earbuds and throat mikes so they could communicate. Dotson—the man Kay had never met before—got out of the SUV and belly-crawled through weeds and shrubs until he had an unobstructed view of the house. He pointed a thermal imaging camera at the house, and a moment later Kay heard him say: “There are only two people in the house. They both appear to be sitting down in a room that’s just to the left of the front door. All the curtains are closed, so I can’t see them visually.”