Misled

by Anderson Harp

  “We can’t make it tonight,” the chopper pilot said simply. “Besides, you don’t want to take on that mountain range and wilderness in the dark. Trust me.”

  “I got you.” Frank Caldwell fully understood and agreed with what he was saying. He just didn’t want to relay it to the other man sitting in the FBO.

  “The weather shows a clearing about dawn.”

  “Good.”

  “But first light isn’t until about ten.”

  Caldwell gave him a look, as if to ask, “What else?” He knew the troops wouldn’t mind. They’d be heading for the first open bar and hunkering down.

  “Thanks, then we’ll need to launch then.”

  “Should be okay. Weather’s moving fast.”

  * * * *

  Caldwell gave the thumbs-down to the three black-ops types sitting on a couch outside the visiting-crew rest area. Paul sat inside the small room, working both his phone and laptop.

  The door was closed. Caldwell knocked lightly.

  “Yeah?” Paul looked up.

  Caldwell entered the room. “No helicopter tonight, but we should be able to roll at first light.” As Caldwell spoke, he noticed another person in the room, directly to his left. A stranger, filling up the small chair with his large frame. He was dark, Hispanic-looking, and had an unfriendly expression on his face. He had on what appeared to be a new winter coat, tan jeans, and combat boots. He wore no jewelry. The stranger seemed uncomfortable, his hands gripping the arms of the chair. Caldwell looked away.

  “Goddamn it.” Paul was showing signs of stress. Clearly, time was not his friend.

  Caldwell didn’t attempt to tender an argument.

  “Got all the cold gear?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Weapons?”

  “The men have their HK416s, and HK p30s with suppressors.”

  “Get him one of the P thirties.” Paul pointed to the stranger. “One with a can.”

  The semiautomatic HK pistol with a .40 caliber Smith & Wesson round had punch and accuracy. The suppressor, or silencer, or “can” as they were sometimes called, didn’t fully silence the weapon, but did reduce the noise significantly, often preventing the enemy from getting a sense of the direction the shots were coming from.

  He isn’t going to introduce me, Caldwell thought. The lack of introduction signaled much. The man would come and go without any record of who he was or where he had come from. Things were getting progressively bizarre by the minute. If this was occurring in the back end of a C-130 heading into deepest Africa, it would have made more sense than Anchorage, Alaska.

  “We got a bunk room here we can use,” said Caldwell, trying to cover the remaining logistics.

  “Good. Less of a trail.” Paul checked his phone and laptop again. It seemed to be almost a tic at this point. “What about Parker?”

  “Do you want me to try to call him?” Caldwell had a cell number. He wasn’t sure it would work and, thus far, had held off trying to reach him directly.

  “Nah. Wait till we get to Snag.” Paul looked back at his laptop. “The FSB’s closing in on him anyway.”

  The last comment was troubling and it didn’t make immediate sense. Paul was hoping that Russian intelligence would stop an American? How would he know the status of the hunt?

  More to the point, Caldwell asked himself, why is he so scared of Ridges?

  He went back out to the main room to tell the others of the plan. They were being paid triple what they ever made when serving with Delta or Rangers. No one had any complaints.

  “Hey, Captain?” One of the black-ops types with a curly red beard stood from the couch and approached Caldwell. The man was taller than he, had the muscular frame of a linebacker, and smelled of Aqua Velva and cigars. Caldwell noticed his strikingly blue eyes. He seemed a modern-day warrior from the family tree of William Wallace. His face was rugged and red-freckled, making him look as if he had been raised in the backcountry of the Lake District and drunk warm scotch since childhood. The man moved closer to Caldwell so that the conversation would be limited to only the two. “What’s the story?”

  Caldwell knew what he was asking. It wasn’t about the weather, or the mission, or even the times of launch. It was about the stranger.

  “Just keep an eye on him.”

  The redheaded soldier tilted his head. “Really? Okay, well, the dude didn’t give his name. That’s cool and all, but we’re gonna keep him in front of our sights.”

  Chapter 56

  Snag

  “I’m going to hike around a little tomorrow.” Kevin Moncrief sat on a stack of MRE cases near the potbelly stove in the cabin at Snag. He had just finished a meal of chili with beans. “Your MREs are just about expired.”

  “Probably.” Karen had her boots off, in her stocking feet, sitting on the corner of her cot.

  The CDC did get the leftover of government gear, such as MREs. The organization’s hazmat suits, masks, and gloves were the best in any industry, but the food didn’t hit so high on the list.

  “You enjoy this?” Moncrief looked around the tiny cabin, his eyes settling on his sleeping pad and bag in the corner. The night was quiet, except for the crackle of wood in the stove. The room was warm, too much so for his taste.

  As if reading his mind, Karen stood to open the window on top of the door. “Yeah, I do.”

  “What’s it all about?”

  “The north is getting warmer so animals are traveling farther north. Diseases are spreading like wildfire.”

  “Oh.”

  “Why have you stuck with Will all these years?” she asked in a counterpunch question.

  “Good question.” Moncrief leaned back against the wall with his rifle across his lap. He had a cloth with which he was cleaning the Marlin. “I just know he’s got my back. Can’t say much more than that.”

  “So, what’s this all about?”

  “A man’s son got in the middle of something much bigger than himself.” Moncrief put the action back in the rifle, cocked it, and dry-fired the weapon to ensure it was ready.

  “And that could affect me—er, us, here?”

  Moncrief nodded.

  “Should we head back to Anchorage?”

  “No, we decided that you were safer here.” Kevin loaded the rifle with a handful of shiny brass casings that were thick as Magic Markers and had lead bullets the size of marbles.

  “I have to check a trap in the morning.” Karen changed the subject.

  A howl started up in the distance, in the direction of the mountain range to the west. The wolf’s voice was followed by another closer to the cabin.

  “Just like clockwork,” Karen said and turned off the lamp.

  Chapter 57

  Tver, Russia to the East of Moscow

  “I need a room with two beds.”

  The hostel in Tver had rooms for rent at less than four hundred rubles a night. That translated to approximately $6. The inn stood a block away from the tracks, behind the town’s small train station. A green and yellow fluorescent sign marked its name. The doors and windows were painted a moss green and the cement-block structure had been covered with whitewash, which did a poor job of hiding the dirt and grime.

  Tver stretched to both sides of the Volga River and was split again by the Tvertsa and Tmaka Rivers. At one time, it had been in the running for capital of Russia. Like much of Russia, Tver hosted people from a variety of religions: Russian Orthodox, Muslims, and Jews competed for the souls of the local youth.

  The train station was south of the Volga River, near the heart of the old city, where the streets were tight, some no more than narrow alleys.

  The old man behind the desk grunted. He had a cigarette hanging out of his mouth with the ash collecting on the desk. He took his hand with long, yellow fingernails and slid the ash to the floor. The wall
s behind his desk and in the hallway seemed to have been decorated by a color-blind painter. Patterns of yellow, brown, and black flowers sprawled across the walls, hemming in bright velvet red chairs with orange pillows.

  “Also, we need some fun.” Will smiled a crooked smile and spoke the words in near-perfect Moscow Russian. “My friend and I.”

  Again, the clerk grunted, turned, and picked up an old telephone that looked like a prop in a Hollywood movie from the fifties.

  “And a bottle.” Will tossed another two hundred rubles on the desk. The three bucks would buy a gallon of Russky Standart vodka if the clerk didn’t keep the change. More likely, he’d bring them a 750-ml. bottle. “With some zakuska. Maybe some black bread?”

  The man gave him a strange look.

  “How about herring?” Will suggested.

  The hostel was not known for food, of course: Only vodka and a warm place to sleep. Most of the short-term tenants were railroad workers from the nearby rail yard. Will’s requests and money would seem suspiciously generous here. The clerk appeared torn between temptation for cash and worrying about what he’d need to report to the local police.

  Tver was the Wild West. It also had become known as the home of hack central. Investigators chasing hackers from around the world often followed the trails back to Tver. The digital exploit might run through France and Italy and India before it hit a company like ITD, but it always started in Tver. The FSB had been known to use Tver as a base for its cyber-attacks on the “payment space,” as ITD’s financial subsector was called. The creator of the famous program SpyEye had been from Tver. He’d lived with his grandmother in a small apartment while he was stealing data from more than a million computers worldwide.

  Ridges looked ill as they closed the door to their room. A single bulb hung from the ceiling over two metal-framed beds. Pale green paint peeled off of the walls.

  “They said I’d be dead if I ever tried to leave Russia without Putin clearing it.”

  They sat across from each other on the small beds as they spoke.

  “You would be dead if you stayed,” said Will. “Why does Alexander Paul want you so bad?” he asked, figuring the tiny motel room was as safe as anywhere in Russia for a frank conversation. “Why aren’t you already dead?” Both questions had been lingering in Will’s mind for some time.

  “That one’s easy.” Ridges ran his hands through his hair. “Putin isn’t ready for me to be dead.”

  It made sense. Putin hadn’t figured out the endgame as of yet. Ridges was a bargaining chip that could be played in a million different ways.

  “So, Paul?”

  “He’s not sure exactly what I know.”

  “How about the two Marines?”

  Ridges rubbed his face, stared at his feet, and shrugged. “They just got caught up in it.”

  “How?”

  “Paul must think they know what I know and what I can do.”

  “How did you get into this fix?” Will kept firing questions. “A son of a housebuilder from Richmond. Smart, but not smart enough to get out of college.”

  “I was smart enough, just didn’t care,” Ridges said, defensively. “Hell, I was an Eagle Scout.”

  “And?”

  “Just saw too much at DIA. I knew that these guys play for keeps. I didn’t want a bullet in the back of the head in some fake robbery in DC. Russia became the only option.” He didn’t realize how close his example was to the truth.

  Will leaned back against the wall.

  “What about you?”

  “A father needed help in finding his son. He thought you were the only way.”

  “You’re talking about Todd’s father? I thought they didn’t like each other.” Ridges seemed to know more about his past friend than was expected.

  “The father is betting a lot on getting you out of here.”

  “Really?”

  Much more was not being said.

  “Both of you must be crazy!”

  “You may be right.”

  In less than an hour, two Russian women, both blond and torn up, knocked on the door. One looked like she had visited hotels near the train station for too many years. The other, dressed in a lipstick-red dress, seemed barely out of high school. The older one seemed the boss, with the younger one following her lead. They already smelled of cigarettes and liquor.

  “Vodka?” Will spoke in perfect Russian with an accent from Moscow. Ridges kept quiet.

  He took the bottle, gave them each a thousand rubles, and started to pour drinks. One woman pulled up next to Parker and the other sat on the bed across. They drank from one glass.

  “What else do you have for fun?” Will asked.

  The girl pulled out a small packet of heroin. She raised an eyebrow inquisitively. Will shrugged, palms up, giving her the universal sign for Be my guest.

  Will and Ridges declined to participate as the two women drank, shot up, and shortly fell into a doped-up sleep. One started to snore almost immediately.

  * * * *

  “I’ll be back,” Will whispered to Ridges. He grabbed his backpack, went into the bathroom, and quietly pulled the door closed.

  Ridges listened for something, but heard only silence. He huddled up in a chair, hands in his pockets, waiting and listening. From underneath the bathroom door, a bright light shined, as if inside a bare light bulb swung back and forth from a wire.

  What the hell have I done?

  There was only one reason he trusted this stranger. It was only going to be a matter of time before the Russians got out of him what he had discovered…either that, or else Putin would soon tire of the distraction.

  Ridges had found out something that could tilt the world on its edge. The flash drive he had given to Will held a secret that went well beyond his troubles with Alexander Paul.

  Ridges had originally gone to Russia because it was his only option. In Russia, as long as they thought the DIA computer geek had something of value, he would be safe. Using that safety, while theoretically out of the reach of Alexander Paul, Ridges had made his move, sending a message to Paul in the form of the ITD breach.

  “It was pretty ingenious, if I say so myself,” he whispered for the benefit of the sleeping Russian women.

  Alexander Paul had signed a contract with ITD to protect the company from hacking attacks. As soon as Ridges had learned about the contract, he’d known exactly how to get Paul’s attention.

  So far, Paul had been held at bay. Or, if he’d had the ability to see Ridges murdered in Russia, he’d chosen not to do so, perhaps because he’d rightly assumed that Michael Ridges had a backup plan in place in case he suddenly died.

  The death of the two Marines had changed everything, though. It meant that Paul was willing to take chances. And that had scared Ridges into reaching his ultimate conclusion: He was no longer safe in Russia.

  A draft of cold air from under the bathroom door caused the two women to stir. The older one leaned up, looked around, and then fell back to the bed, her snoring only growing louder. The younger one clutched a brown pillow and had her body curled up around it. The spent needle used by the two and a scorched spoon from the heroin sat on the nightstand. Next to the drugs, the half-empty bottle of vodka was missing its cap. He stood up and walked over to the nightstand and took a swig from the bottle. The vodka tasted like a bitter swallow of gasoline. It burned as it went down. Ridges wiped his lips with his sleeve and put the bottle back down.

  It seemed an eternity before the door to the bathroom cracked open. The interior light had gone out, leaving the room lit only by a small lamp in the corner. Along with Will Parker, a stronger rush of cold air came into the room, causing the women to stir again but not to wake.

  “Do you have gloves?” Will asked as he closed the door behind him.

  “No.” Ridges had left his gloves in the La
da somewhere in the rush of the last few hours. A major mistake in the bitter cold.

  Will rifled through the coat of one of the women and pulled out a pair of leather gloves with white and black fur on the trim. He replaced them in her coat pocket with a wad of rubles. He did the same with the other woman. For days they would be held in a cell. The FSB rarely believed the truth, even when it was true. The wad of rubles might be of some help.

  “These might fit.” Will tossed a pair of gloves to Ridges.

  “Okay.” He pulled the gloves on and held them up to show that they were a tight fit, but would work.

  “Now we wait.” Will reached over and turned Ridges’s wrist to look at his watch.

  The placing of each piece of this puzzle was timed to the minute. They sat in the room, the vapor of their breath visible. Off in the distance they could hear the whistle of a train and the click-clack of rail cars as they passed over the tracks. The train to Helsinki was long gone.

  Chapter 58

  The Casa

  “I think he’s dead.” The smaller of the two Mexican men stood over the bunk in which Todd lay unconscious. He pushed the body with his hand like someone who thought the creature’s corpse would suddenly bite back. Newton’s vomit covered much of his blanket.

  “Mierda,” growled the man with the silver-plated .45 revolver. He knew that if Todd died, they would be next. “Get him up.”

  The smaller man had felt dead bodies before. He was the one assigned to the job of burying what was left. A dead body would be stiff and cold. As he lifted the Marine up, he felt the same cold flesh, though the body remained pliable.

  “Does he have a pulse?”

  “I don’t know!” the small man shot back.

  The two struggled with the limp body, shaking him as if that would help. The body stank from days of being locked to the rack with no shower or bath, only able to use a bucket in the corner of the room. The task was nearing unbearable for the two of them.

  “This won’t be good,” said the smaller man. His face was pale white with fear. To kill a man was something that they had often done, but to lose something entrusted to them was far different.