by Mark Terry
When he was happy with his work, he closed and locked the briefcase. He took a swallow from the vodka bottle, then rolled down the window and tossed it aside.
He thought of the young woman, Innya; he thought of the young boy, Lev, and hoped that he was safe.
Shaking his head, Grechko said, “You really need to finish this job and get the hell out of Russia.”
He keyed the car back on and headed into central Moscow.
Derek had arranged to stay in a room at the U.S. Embassy. It had the bland sterility of a Holiday Inn—a double bed, a TV on a dresser, a chair, a bathroom. A photograph of the president hung on one wall, a painting of the Grand Canyon on another.
He took a long, hot shower, then spent a little time with his laptop writing up a report to send to Secretary Mandalevo. It felt incomplete and he was too tired to concentrate on it. He shut it down and sprawled on the bed. Within seconds he was asleep.
The insistent chime of his phone woke him up. He had been in the military and the intelligence and homeland security worlds so long that, despite having been asleep for only a couple hours, he snapped awake. Konstantin was on the phone.
“What’s up?”
“Everything has gone to hell,” Konstantin said.
Again? Derek thought. He said, “Tell me.”
Konstantin told him. Derek listened closely. When Konstantin finally stopped, Derek said, “Do you want to come into the embassy?”
Silence on the line. “I don’t think … no.”
“Then what?”
“I want to pull together my own force and take out the Red Hand’s compound.”
Ah shit, Derek thought.
The silence must have gone on a bit longer than Konstantin hoped for. “Derek?”
“Yeah,” he said, resigned.
“I need your help.”
What a pain in the ass this trip had been. “I know what you’re saying. And I’ll help. I’m just weighing the problems on my end. Do you have any real data? It’s not going to be just you and me, is it? Because I’ve probably used up all my luck on this trip already. The two of us alone assaulting an armed camp is a Butch and Sundance thing.”
“Butch and Sundance?”
“Butch Cassidy and the—”
“Ah. Yes. The shootout in Bolivia. No. I have some people I trust. And I’ve called Misha. He’s bringing men he trusts.”
“From the Air Force? Any possibility of air support? Helicopters?”
“We will see. Are you in?”
With a sigh, Derek said yes.
“In one hour, Derek. Can you get there?”
“Da.”
“When you speak Russian, it is sarcastic.”
“Da.”
He checked out of the embassy with no explanation and drove to the bar where he and Konstantin had tortured and killed Gleb Metlin. Parking on the street, he texted Konstantin with “I’m Here.” A minute later Konstantin approached and tapped at the driver’s-side window.
“Leave the car. Come with me.”
Derek slid out and followed Konstantin down the street to a parked BMW. They climbed in and Konstantin drove off, heading west out of the city. He glanced over at Derek. “We have some resources.”
“We’re going to need them. I don’t suppose you have latitude and longitude of this location?”
“We’re working on it.”
“I might be able to get some help with satellite coverage if you do it in a hurry.”
An alarmed expression crossed Konstantin’s face. “You have brought your government in on this?”
Derek shook his head. “But I have a friend who might be able to help out. And the images would be real-time, rather than Google Earth.”
“Misha may be able to help us as well.”
“Let’s hope so.”
Konstantin drove to a low, flat building that might have been a church or, in the U.S., a Knights of Columbus meeting hall. There were a number of vehicles parked in the lot. Konstantin pulled to a halt and said, “I was hoping for more.”
Derek didn’t say anything. He’d agreed to come along on this venture. He owed Konstantin that much for getting Lev back safe. Also, if they were going to try and retrieve the smallpox weapons and whatever chemical weapons the Red Hand had stolen, he wanted to be there to count them and make sure they were secure.
Inside the building about twenty-five men were sitting around checking gear and cleaning weapons. They looked up as he and Konstantin stepped inside. There were more than a few frowns, but Derek recognized the men for what they were—warriors. He recognized two of them from his arrival in Moscow and his trip to the dacha for some pointless persuasion by Konstantin.
Misha, now wearing black camo gear, walked toward them. He embraced his brother, then clapped his hands on Derek’s shoulders. “Your presence is welcome, but I’m not sure it’s a good thing.”
“That makes two of us.”
Misha laughed. “You will need gear and weapons, no?”
“Yes.”
“Let’s suit up, then.” He led Derek over to a row of duffel bags and pointed to the assault weapons and the shadow camo. Derek picked out the gear and changed into it, thinking it would be quite an interesting dilemma for a former U.S. Green Beret to be caught wearing the assault gear of a Russian Spetznaz operator.
As he was kitting up, one of the Russians walked over to him. Wiry and lean, he had short-cropped blond hair, blue eyes and a square jaw. “American, da?”
“Da.”
“Military?”
“Former.”
“What branch?”
“Army Special Forces.”
“Bunch of pussies.”
Derek looked him in the eye. “Fuck you.”
The man laughed and clapped him on the shoulder. “Just remember to shoot straight, cowboy.” He walked away laughing.
Derek shook his head and started sorting through the weapons. Damn Russians.
Mike Kirk held up his fake ID to the physician at the Republican State Hospital in Makhachkala, Republic of Dagestan. His credentials indicated he was with the Dagestan government’s public health department. His Russian was fluent and convincing. The CIA had trained him well.
The physician nodded and told him that the men he referred to, the ones with the suspected smallpox…
“One of them is dead. Feodor Pralnikov. The other, Andrei Wakina, he’s still alive. Apparently people who had vaccinations to smallpox have at least some immunity to this new strain of virus. They acquire it, but they seem better at fighting it off.”
“What did you do with the body of Pralnikov?”
“It’s in quarantine.”
“I need to speak to Wakina. Is he conscious?”
“Off and on. We can check on him. If the fever comes back, he may not make it.”
Kirk nodded again. “I need to talk to him.”
The doctor nodded. “You have been vaccinated?”
“Yes, but I’ll gown up.”
The doctor nodded and led him to a locker room and gave him scrubs and gloves and a mask. Kirk was a hard, lean man with a shock of dark hair and the kind of beard that looked blue hours after he shaved. He pulled on the clothing and mask and gloves and entered the secure room where the Russian man lay on a hospital bed. His face was splotched with pox.
Wakina turned his head and looked at him. Kirk flinched, despite himself. The whites of Wakina’s eyes were red. The Russian croaked out, “Who’re you?”
“The weapon you sold,” Kirk said. “Who did you sell it to?”
Wakina’s disconcerting eyes did not break away. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” His voice was raspy and weak.
Kirk leaned forward. “Your partner is dead. Did they tell you that?”
A slight motion indicated a shrug.
Kirk said, “It leaked. The Red Hand killed you. Even if you live, and there’s no guarantee of that, you’re going to be locked up for a long time. I can make it easier on you.�
��
“Who are you?”
“Andrei. Who I am doesn’t matter. Who did you sell it to?”
Wakina rolled his head back and stared at the ceiling. The only sound was the beep of the heart monitor. Kirk didn’t think he would answer and was considering what lever he could use to pry him open.
Before he could select something, Wakina turned his head. “Feodor is really dead?”
“Da.”
“It was an Iranian.”
Kirk’s heart sank. Damned Iranians. “Who?”
“At the docks. A warehouse.”
“Address?”
“Don’t remember. It’s in the GPS in the truck.”
“What truck? Where is the truck?”
Wakina seemed to fade out for a moment, then he drew in a ragged breath and described the truck. “Should be outside … the hospital. The girls … the girls we were with … are they sick?”
Probably, Kirk thought. But his job wasn’t to try and contain an epidemic. It was to try and get some information on where this weapon might have gone. Hearing it was in the hands of an Iranian wasn’t a very good thing. He asked more questions. When did you turn it over to them? What else did you give them?
Andrei Wakina said, “Feodor was only nineteen years old.”
“I’m sorry.”
“A prick. Angry. So angry.”
“Where was the Iranian going?”
Wakina shrugged again. “Had a boat, I think. Don’t know when they were leaving.”
Kirk asked a few more questions, then left. He changed back into his street clothes and went in search of the truck. He found it in a parking lot next to the hospital. He jimmied the door and saw the GPS. He took it and returned to his own car and scanned through the readings. From his pocket he took out his cell phone and placed a call. “I’ve got a lead. I’ll keep digging.”
He clicked off the phone and went to take a look at the warehouse. Kirk had no desire to wander into a nest of Iranian agents operating in Dagestan, but he had to figure out if they were still around. When he got there it was obvious the warehouse was empty. The loading dock was deserted. He peered through the window of a door, saw the empty space, and jimmied the lock to get in. He found a medium-sized space, bare concrete, pallets, two pallet loaders.
A look through the office revealed empty filing cabinets and nothing else.
This would take some research and the clock was ticking. He walked back to his car, calling his source back. “We’ve got a problem,” he said.
Mikhail Grechko stopped one more time before making it to Red Square and dry-swallowed another morphine tablet, wishing he hadn’t discarded the bottle of vodka. He considered again heading for the airport, hiring a plane and leaving. But no. He had a mission to complete.
He gave the morphine a few minutes to kick in, listening to the news on the radio. President Eltsin was calling for calm. Prime Minister Arkhipov was quoted as being in support of the protests and hedging a bit on his support of General Zukhov’s call for martial law.
The car’s heater ran full blast, blowing hot air on his face, but still he felt chilled. On the radio the announcer indicated they expected General Zukhov to address the crowd in Red Square in an hour.
Grechko took a deep breath and pulled back onto the road. The closer he got, the worse traffic became. Finally, ten blocks from the Kremlin he parked the car, hefted the briefcase and started the cold walk to Red Square.
When he finally made it to Red Square, he saw three tanks and dozens of soldiers. Several of the soldiers saw him and stiffened to attention. He addressed one of them, “Is General Zukhov here yet?”
“No sir.”
“When are you expecting him?”
“I don’t know, sir. Soon.”
“Where will he be?”
“I don’t know. I think Lieutenant Lutrova is handling logistics.”
“Where is he?”
“She is over there,” he said with a wave.
Grechko saluted and headed over to the woman, who indeed was overseeing the construction of a small, elevated platform and a sound and video system. Lieutenant Lutrova was a stocky woman almost six-feet tall with an oval face and dark hair. She stiffened at his rank and saluted.
“Run me through this, please,” he said.
“Sir?”
“The logistics. When will General Zukhov arrive? When will he speak?”
She explained that he was on his way and planned to speak at 8:30 PM. “The media is already getting set up,” she said, gesturing to a gaggle of cameramen from around the country and the world.
He nodded. “Very well. Carry on.”
When she had left, he walked over to inspect the platform, which was about six feet high and approximately twenty feet by ten, with a podium bristling with microphones. The platform was completed, and red and black bunting was being attached to it to cover the façade. Looking at his watch, Grechko saw that he had twenty-five minutes. He turned and looked at the Kremlin.
For a moment he sat on the edge of the podium, resting. One of the men working on the sound system said, “Sir, are you okay? You don’t look well.”
“Just a little under the weather. Going to be a big night, huh?”
The man shrugged. “You like The Who?”
“Of course.”
“It’s like ‘Won’t Get Fooled Again.’”
Grechko looked blank.
The man said, “’Meet the new boss. Same as the old boss.’”
Grechko laughed. “Perhaps you’re right.”
The man shrugged. “It’s Russia.”
“So it is,” Grechko said, and stood up and pushed his way through the crowd, heading toward the Kremlin.
30
Misha Nikitinov used a laptop and a projector to splash a satellite photograph of the Red Hand’s compound onto the wall. He spoke in Russian and Konstantin translated for him.
“The compound has two buildings. The main structure is a former school. It is two stories tall and probably has a basement. It is basically one long corridor with classrooms off it on both sides. There appears to be four doors. A main doorway on this end.” He pointed to the side of the main building closest to the main gate. “Here, here, and here. The door at the rear side of the property appears to be a single door, whereas the others are double doors.”
Mishka pointed to a large structure behind the main structure. “This looks like it was a garage for school buses.”
Derek said, “Any idea what it’s being used for now?”
Misha brushed a hand over his jaw. “Only guesses.”
Waving a hand, Derek said, “There are what, six vehicles parked outside it. What are those?”
One of the soldiers said, “Two Patriots, four Vodniks.”
Derek shot Konstantin a puzzled look. Konstantin said, “The Patriots are SUVs. The Vodniks are armored personnel carriers.”
“So it’s possible the garage isn’t being used for vehicles.”
Konstantin said, “What are you getting at?”
“We know they stole weapons. We know they have sarin gas bombs and smallpox weaponry. What else did they steal?”
Konstantin hesitated. But the question had gotten the attention of everybody. “Several crates of AN-94s, SKS’s, a case of Kornets.”
Several people muttered. Derek raised an eyebrow.
Konstantin explained. “Automatic rifles and the Kornets are anti-tank missiles.”
“Dandy,” Derek said drily.
Misha said, “Any other surprises?”
“A case of Grinches.”
More mutters.
Derek held his hands out, palms up. Konstantin said, “Shoulder-launched anti-aircraft missiles.”
Glancing back up at the compound, Derek said, “Any gas masks for us?”
“Da,” Misha said.
“Well then,” he said. “I guess we’re all set.”
His Russian buddy said, “Pussy.”
“I’ll take the Soman
gas. You handle the missiles.” He pointed again at the projection. “My guess is their weapons, for the most part, are being kept in the garage. That’s my area.”
Konstantin nodded. “You and I. Who’s with us?”
Misha took charge, setting up four teams. There was access through the main gate. Along the back of the property, which was surrounded by a chain-link fence topped with razor wire, ran a dirt road. Team A would get in place ahead of the rest of the team, breach the fence, cut through the strip of woods that filled the back of the property, and assault the back of the school.
Team B would go through the main gate.
Team C was assigned the front of the building. Team D, which both Derek and Konstantin were leading, was going after the garage.
One of the Russians asked a question. Konstantin said, “He wants to know what vehicles we’re using.”
Derek had been wondering that himself. Misha grinned. “Team A will use street vehicles. Whatever you want to use. Team B, we’ve got two armored Patriots.” The team B members were nodding, apparently pleased.
“Team C, which I am leading, and Team D, which Konstantin is leading, will fly in. Team C will be in a Crocodile. Team D, a Kamov 226.”
Derek saw a lot of faces light up. Konstantin seemed pleased as well. To Derek he said, “The Kamov is a light chopper. The Crocodile is the Mi-24, an attack helicopter.”
“We got air support.”
“We have air support,” Konstantin agreed.
General Zukhov sat in the back of the armored limousine and looked with satisfaction at the many people clogging the streets. His plan was going fairly well. President Eltsin was bleating all over the press about how there was no need for military intervention, that he had everything under control, but each terror attack made him look foolish and ineffectual. Zukhov’s sources indicated that key members of the Duma were preparing a no-confidence vote.
When Grechko got the bomb into Lubyanka and it exploded, the Russian people, the Duma, the Federal Assembly, and the world would realize just how much sense it would make for the army to be in charge, to calm fears, to provide security. President Eltsin would step down or be removed, and General Zukhov would take his place with the recommendation of Prime Minister Arkhipov.
