by Dave Edlund
Peter frowned. “That doesn’t add up. Rostov may be powerful, but I don’t think he could have ordered the submarine and soldiers into U.S. territory. That had to come from high up in the government.”
Jim was considering what he heard. It certainly made sense that Rostov Oil would benefit from maintaining high oil prices through limited supply. Did he have enough influence to convince an admiral to issue the orders to the captain of the St. Petersburg? How much money would it take to bribe the right officers? Probably not that much.
“What do we know about Rostov?” Jim asked.
“He’s not a complex character, only your basic nationalistic megalomaniac. His father fought against the German army in the Second World War. Wounded three times, lost his left leg below the knee—he was personally decorated by Stalin as a Hero of the State. Grigory was born in 1955, an only child. By all accounts he is extremely intelligent and ambitious—works fifteen to twenty hours each day.”
“That’s impressive. Okay, so he’s driven. Name a successful business leader who isn’t,” Peter observed.
Jim ignored the sarcasm. “What do we have connecting him to the Ramirez brothers and any of the known attacks?”
“It’s solid; you’ll find it all in the transcripts the lieutenant has,” Peter motioned to Lacey.
Jim pinched his eyebrows, eyes boring into Peter. “Look, I know you are vested in this. Generally, that’s not a good thing. You need to slow down and let me run this show, got it?”
Turning his attention to Lieutenant Lacey, Jim continued, “I need to be confident this has been thoroughly examined from all relevant angles. We can’t afford another mistake.” It didn’t matter that technically, the earlier conclusions regarding President Garza were preliminary and subject to revision. That is not how his superiors would see it.
“Now that we have reason to suspect Rostov, we compiled a history of calls originating from his office phone over the past five months. There were more than three dozen encrypted calls; nine of those calls were placed to the cell phone used by Vasquez Ramirez. Positive ID on his voice as well. We also have five calls placed to numbers registered to the Iranian army, and four calls placed to numbers within the presidential palace in Caracas. The encryption is very sophisticated, based on a proprietary algorithm-shifting platform. We don’t have complete transcripts yet for any of the calls.”
“Enlighten me.”
“Here, sir, you can see for yourself. These are partial transcripts from five calls placed to Ramirez between June 7 and August 16. Still working on the rest.” Lacey handed two pages to her boss.
“Is this all you have?”
“It’s extremely difficult because the encrypting algorithm is changing during the call. A complicating factor is that the shift is not regular. We’ve had Mother analyzing the transmissions and the shift is completely random, making it almost impossible to know where one encryption stops and the next version begins. Many of the encryption codes just haven’t been broken. We’re still working on it.”
Jim began to silently read through the first page.
Transcription of encrypted call
from Rostov to Ramirez on June 7
[Ramirez] …just as you asked. You can read the details in the morning paper; no doubt this will be reported around the world. The blame will certainly fall on a Muslim extremist group. Now you need to do your part and make sure the investigation does not make any progress.
[Rostov] Leave it to me. I have high-level connections…
********************************
Transcription of encrypted calL
from Rostov to Ramirez on June 9
[Rostov]… combined with our well-placed bribes. You have no reason to worry. The investigation will not advance.
[Ramirez] You better be right. I trust you have influential accomplices?
[Rostov] Yes, at the highest level.
********************************
Transcription of encrypted call
from Rostov to Ramirez on July 2
[Ramirez]… cancelation was unforeseen. Don’t worry, we will make good on our agreement. My brother is personally seeing to the planning and preparations.
[Rostov] There can be no mistakes this time. They are too far along; their work must be ended.
[Ramirez] Have I ever let you down? The American professor and his Japanese colleague will not complete their work …
********************************
Transcription of encrypted call
from Rostov to Ramirez on August 11
[Ramirez]… are planning a field excursion to an island in the North Pacific.
[Rostov] Get me the details. I want your best team to handle this. Are we clear?
********************************
Transcription of encrypted call
from Rostov to Ramirez on August 16
[Rostov]… have confirmed the date?
[Ramirez] Yes. They will arrive on Chernabura Island on September 24; the two professors plus their research teams. We will eliminate all of them and effectively put an end to their research program.
[Rostov] You are certain?
[Ramirez] My brother is personally leading the team. Just make sure your friends in the Kremlin have all of the assets in place …
Jim had seen all he needed. In time, the remainder of the communications would be decrypted, but he had no doubt about Rostov’s role in orchestrating the massacre in Caracas as well as the failed attack on Ian Savage and his research team.
“Good work, Lieutenant. Let me know when we have more. Send these partials to the colonel ASAP.”
As Lieutenant Lacey turned and left his office, Jim popped two antacids in his mouth and quickly chewed them. Peter remained standing in front of the desk, his body tense.
“You can’t tell me you don’t see the connection to the president or prime minister.”
Jim sighed. “The message refers to connections at the highest levels, is that what you mean?”
“That’s right, what else could it mean?”
“It could mean an admiral. It could mean a low-level party member willing to take a risk for a million dollars. Peter, it could mean a lot of things.”
“You don’t really believe that, do you?”
“It’s not conclusive. At best it could be construed as suggestive. We blew it once. That’s not gonna happen again.”
Now it was Peter’s turn to sigh as he tilted his head to the floor, contemplating the next move. “I understand,” he said finally. “And after you talk to your boss, let’s finish this.”
As Peter left the office, Jim picked up the secure phone and pressed the number one. Colonel Pierson’s secure office number rang immediately.
“Pierson.”
“Sir, Commander Nicolaou. I’m sending a collection of partial transcripts to you… phone conversations between a Grigory Rostov and Vasquez Ramirez made between June 7 and August 16. You’ll want to read these, sir.”
“Care to clue me in, Commander?” Pierson didn’t like mysteries.
“Yes, sir. President Garza wasn’t the ringleader. It was Grigory Rostov, Chairman of Rostov Oil.”
Chapter 39
October 18
Over the North Atlantic
It took less than 30 minutes for Commander Nicolaou to receive his orders. He pressed the intercom button on his desk phone, paging his assistant.
“Mr. Ryerson, please find Peter Savage. He’s probably in the lab. Escort him to my office immediately.”
“Yes, sir.”
Ten minutes later Peter entered Jim’s office. “I presume you spoke with Colonel Pierson,” said Peter.
“Yes. He approved the mission, and I need your help.”
Peter nodded. “Whatever I can do.”
Jim handed a photo to Peter. It was medium quality and appeared to have been printed using the office ink jet machine. “That’s Grigory Rostov.”
Peter held the photo, staring at the image
. Rostov had dark brown, almost black, hair—cut short and combed straight back. In this photo he was wearing a medium gray suit with green tie and white shirt. His face was clean-shaven, and he appeared to be about the same age as Peter.
“I need that MI pistol again, the Mk-9 single shot model. You and I are going to Moscow. We’ll be traveling under aliases. Our cover will be that we’re executives on a government sponsored trade mission—metals or something like that.”
“How will we find Rostov?”
“Leave that to me. I’ve got my team researching his habits, patterns of movement. I need you because we can’t run the risk that Russian customs agents will identify the MI gun for its real purpose. That’s why I want the Mk-9. A revolver cylinder, even from an MI gun, is too easily recognized. You’ll disassemble the gun prior to landing. After we clear customs, you’ll put it back together and ensure proper functionality.”
“Everything I need is at my shop in Bend.” Peter was already constructing a mental list of the tools, spare parts, and other supplies he’d need.
“I anticipated that. We’re leaving here in the Gulfstream and will fly north to Bend, stopping long enough for you to get everything you need.”
“It won’t take long, fifteen, maybe twenty minutes.” Peter paused, his mind addressing a new concern. “You’re going to kill Rostov.”
“It’s what we do.”
s
Eight hours later Peter, Jim, and two members of the U.S. diplomatic core were crossing the Atlantic at 37,000 feet, having fueled the Gulfstream 650 in Washington, D.C. Their cover—members of the board for Allegiance Specialty Metals— had been developed during the previous flight segments.
Since this was supposed to be a trade mission to help U.S. companies secure additional long-term purchase contracts for strategically important metals, the State Department employees lent credibility to the cover. They also provided justification to enter Russia with minimal scrutiny.
If all went well, the Russian authorities would accept the cover story, but there was some risk since trade missions were normally organized months in advance.
The plan was simple and relied on speed and daring to succeed. It was known that Rostov was a true workaholic, seldom leaving his office before 10:00 P.M. That is when Jim would strike.
The Gulfstream landed at Sheremetyevo 2 International Airport and taxied to a secure hangar leased by the U.S. Department of State. As soon as the engines were shut down, the aircraft door opened. Standing on the concrete floor facing the private jet were two Russian customs officers. One remained at the base of the stairs, while the other boarded the aircraft to check personal documents.
The official seemed to be familiar with the State Department employees. “Back again so soon?” he commented and then stamped their passports. He also stamped the documents for the pilots and cabin attendant as if it were just another routine task.
He turned his attention to Peter. “We have not met before,” he said.
“No,” said Peter.
The official looked carefully at Peter’s passport and then studied his face, making sure the photo matched the man standing before him. He took his time, and Peter willed himself to remain calm. To show signs of anxiety would only trigger further investigation. He felt his heart rate slow, and concentrated on controlling his breathing. The customs official raised his eyes again from the passport photo to Peter, only to be greeted by a smile. He stamped Peter’s passport, officially marking his entry into Russia. “I hope your business is successful,” he said as he returned the document.
Next, the customs official approached Jim and received his passport. Unlike Peter, the official hardly gave more than a moment’s consideration to Jim’s documents before stamping a blank page in the passport.
The official stopped at the cabin door, turning back to face the American passengers. “Does anyone have anything to declare?”
Jim and Peter replied in unison. “No.”
“Of course not.” He squeezed a disingenuous smile. “Enjoy your visit.”
Peter breathed a sigh of relief as the official departed, but not before watching him exit the hanger with a second customs official.
It was nearly 6:00 P.M. and Peter went to work. Needing only two screwdrivers, he assembled the Mk-9 magnetic impulse pistol in five minutes. Inserting a fully-charged battery in the grip, Peter pushed the power switch to the on position. A small red LED illuminated just below the rear sight indicating the electrical system of the weapon was active.
Next, Peter retrieved a large piece of ballistic fabric from his suitcase. The fabric was used in bullet-proof vests. He folded it over until he had a square eight layers thick and about the size of a Kindle.
Jim asked, “What’s that for?”
“I want to do a live fire, and I presume you don’t want any holes in your aircraft.”
The flight crew had been watching Peter, fascinated by what he assembled from an odd assortment of parts.
“Hey, you can’t discharge a weapon inside the cabin!” said the pilot.
“Don’t worry. This pad of fabric,” Peter held it to show the pilot, “will stop a 9mm round.”
“You’d better be right. If there’s any damage to this plane it’s your ass, not mine.”
“I signed for this aircraft, captain, not you,” said Jim. Then he nodded to Peter. “Let’s get on with it. I’ve got a job to do.”
Peter set the square of black ballistic fabric against a seat cushion, loaded the Mk-9, aimed, and fired. Other than a metallic click, the only other sound was a dull thud, like someone had forcefully punched the cushion.
“It works,” said Peter amid amazed stares from his audience. Jim took the pistol, stuffed it in his backpack, and then descended the aircraft stairs. No sooner had he stepped onto the hangar floor than a black GAZ model 3115 four-door sedan pulled to a stop near the parked aircraft. The driver left the door open as she exited, keys still in the ignition.
The car bore diplomatic plates and was one of three in the U.S. embassy motor pool. Chosen for its mundane appearance, the car was anything but ordinary. Originally manufactured by the Russian Gorkovsky Avtomobilny Zavod (Gorky Automobile Factory), the sedan had been modified by the State Department. The engine control microprocessor had been reprogrammed for high performance, and a super charger had been added, along with racing suspension and high-performance, run-flat tires. Although the car still looked like a stock GAZ sedan, it could do a standing quarter mile in under eleven seconds.
Jim tossed his backpack onto the passenger seat just as Peter came dashing toward the car. “Hold up!”
Jim cocked his head to the side as he looked to Peter.
“What is it?”
Rather than answer, Peter opened the back door and tossed in a small black bag and climbed in. Jim grabbed the door, preventing it from closing.
“What are you doing? You can’t come along.”
“The hell I can’t. You have minimal training with a single shot weapon. I’m your technical expert, your geek.”
“I know what I’m doing. You’re not trained for this type of mission.”
“The only way I’m getting out of this car is if you drag me out.”
Jim knew he could do just that. But he also understood Peter’s need to see this through, to bring closure and certainty that the person responsible for nearly murdering his father, and himself, was dead. He thought for a moment, teetering between giving in and hauling his childhood friend from the back seat. Then he made up his mind. If this goes bad, Pierson’s gonna court martial me.
Jim settled in behind the wheel. He turned on the in-dash GPS system—another custom modification—and input his destination, 26/1 Sofiyskaya Embankment, before casually driving out of the hangar.
The traffic into Moscow was heavy, and it took almost a full hour to reach the headquarters of Rostov Oil along the banks of the Moscow River. Since it was still early evening, there was no street parking available, but he had p
lanned for this. Driving slowly in the right-most lane, Jim cruised past a green Audi A4 parked only four car lengths away from the front entrance to the Rostov Oil building. The driver of the A4, a driver for the U.S. State Department, glanced at Jim as he passed and gave a discrete nod of acknowledgment.
Jim turned the block and circled around for another pass. As he approached, the green A4 abruptly pulled out of its parking spot, and Jim claimed it. It would be an ideal location for watching those coming and going from the large stone building with its distinctive green metal roof.
Immediately after turning off the engine, Jim pressed a button beneath the driver’s seat, and the license plate quickly rotated to a standard, non-descript plate rather than the diplomatic plate that had been displayed. He pressed a second button that activated the electrochromic windows, including the windshield. This feature worked on the basis of an applied voltage that caused the windows to darken, making it virtually impossible to see inside the car, while still allowing visibility out.
“I hope you have a book or some music in that bag of yours; we’re gonna be here for a while,” said Jim.
“I planned this—I’m set,” answered Peter.
Settling in for what was expected to be a long stakeout, Jim plugged in his Bose ear buds and turned on his iPod while Peter just slid down in the back seat, closed his eyes and drifted off, lost in thought. It was still much too early to expect Rostov to leave the building.
Jim removed a compact laser range finder from his backpack and discretely ranged the distance to prominent landmarks near the building entrance: 45 yards to the front door, 39 yards to the water hydrant. Then he checked the distance to the sidewalk on the opposite side of the busy street: 21 yards. Satisfied, Jim returned the range finder to his backpack.
A cool drizzle came and went as the evening progressed, but the number of pedestrians walking by did not diminish. Most were dressed fashionably for an evening out, and no one paid any attention to the man dozing in the black GAZ sedan, ball cap pulled low over his eyes.
But Jim wasn’t sleeping. His senses remained sharp despite the hours he had spent sitting in the car watching, waiting for Grigory Rostov to leave the office building that bore his family name. Jim was in no rush—in fact he hoped that Rostov would leave work late to allow time for the foot traffic to thin out. He inserted his right hand into the backpack and again checked that the Mk-9 impulse gun was loaded, with its safety on.
