Today’s mission was business as usual, the only difference being that the persons they were about to pick up wouldn’t be gagged, handcuffed, and sedated. Or so Constantine hoped. He had no way of knowing whether Gene and Klimov’s source had made it safely to Switzerland. Even if they had managed to escape, Constantine felt edgy. What if the FSB had requested the Swiss authorities to arrest and extradite them back to Russia?
The Gulfstream landed smoothly and slotted into a pre-booked parking bay for refueling.
Through a porthole, Constantine spied two figures marching across the tarmac toward the plane.
He sighed with relief.
The main cabin door opened and an attractive blonde ascended the airstair.
She was followed closely by Gene.
The brothers embraced, patting each other on the back.
Gene introduced his lovely female companion.
“Paulina, I’d like you to meet my brother, Constantine.”
“You can’t imagine how happy I am to meet you,” she said.
“How was your trip?” Constantine asked.
“Went without a hitch,” Gene replied.
“What about Zubov and Mischenko? Are they in danger for helping you?”
“I hope not. Netto promised to delete or doctor all records of them piloting the Sukhoi. They’ll be fine.”
“So Pavel is a good guy, after all?”
“Everyone has a price.”
15
Barcelona’s Eixample district, characterized by a grid of octagon-shaped blocks, had grown in the nineteenth century and now hosted the city’s main tourist attractions. The narrow streets and long, tree-lined avenues, such as the iconic La Rambla and Passeig de Gràcia, were renowned for high-end shopping and modernist architecture.
To the dismay of the tourists stranded in their poky hotel rooms and Airbnb rentals, every shop front had a graffiti-stained roller shutter pulled down.
All the stores, cafes, and museums had closed.
Above the store fronts, the grimy façades of the historic buildings displayed yellow ribbons and estelada flags hanging from the balconies.
It wasn’t due to any holiday or celebration.
The estelada—fashioned after the Cuban flag with yellow-and-red stripes and a white star on a blue triangle—was the unofficial symbol of the Catalan independence movement.
Barcelona’s bustling life had come to a standstill amid pro-independence protests.
The entire population had flocked to just one street. Or so it seemed.
Avenguda Diagonal was the main thoroughfare that cut across Barcelona as the name suggested.
Today, a rally of 500,000 people had gathered there, filling a three-kilometer stretch of the town’s widest avenue.
The demonstrators waved the esteladas, carried banners and chanted slogans. Most of them were wearing yellow armbands or had yellow ribbons pinned to their lapels.
The Yellow Ribbon movement had sprung up as a viral social media campaign demanding Catalan secession. The fact that Catalonia had recently held yet another referendum on the matter and decided to remain part of the Kingdom of Spain seemed irrelevant.
Now, the protest had emerged from the Internet and had taken to the streets.
The movement had no apparent leaders but it was publicly backed on Twitter by the Catalan president, Gerard de Puig.
Paco Ferrer, a sargento in the Guardia Civil, the Spanish police force, watched the massive procession pass by his position. He was standing with other riot gear-clad policemen in a security cordon where Avenguda Diagonal entered a square facing the British Consulate. His was one of the several police groups monitoring the rally along the Diagonal.
Paco couldn’t help but feel impressed by the tide of people flooding Avenguda Diagonal as far as the eye could see. As a believer in democracy, he respected the protesters’ demands but did not share their sentiment. Himself a Catalan, he belonged to the majority of his compatriots who didn’t support the idea of independence. For starters, the Catalans numbered only a third of Catalonia’s population, effectively being an ethnic minority in their land. Some of them didn’t even speak their own language very well. Besides, Catalonia had always been so heavily tied to Spain economically that breaking away would only hurt the Catalans themselves. Independence was a romantic but impossible dream, sold to the masses by populist political charlatans.
The dream erupted in a thunderous roar that rolled through the crowd.
“Independència!”
“Independència!”
Thousands of voices cried in unison, echoing through the street.
As the throbbing human wave moved along, Paco spotted a number of different flags that mingled with the main group of demonstrators. The red and black of Antifa. There was also banner which read NO PASARAN, a motto from the Spanish Civil War.
Paco smelled trouble.
The Antifa group marched in a well-organized column of their own, numbering a couple thousand. They were hiding their faces behind yellow bandannas and black skull face masks.
Seeing the Guardia Civil presence, they moved through the crowd toward the police like a pack of predators sensing prey.
The aggression was palpable.
“Fascistas!”
“Fascistas!”
Eggs and plastic water bottles bombarded the policemen, hitting their shields and helmets.
“Tranquilo! Tranquilo!” Paco calmed his men. “No respondemos!”
We do not respond! He was now repeating the words of his commanding officer from the morning briefing.
The superiors had ordered the Guardia Civil force not to react to any provocations during the rally for fear of accusations of police brutality in the media. Even if he wanted to put those Antifa thugs back in their place, there was nothing he could do. He had to avoid clashes under any circumstances.
As the Antifa section faced off with the police, the non-response to provocation only succeeded in inciting the scumbags further. Their attitude was becoming increasingly more violent. They started throwing rocks. And they far outnumbered the policemen.
Paco keyed his radio set.
No sooner had Paco called for reinforcements than all hell broke loose.
Another bottle was hurled from the crowd.
It wasn’t plastic. And it was filled with something far deadlier than water.
The Molotov cocktail smashed against the Guardia Civil car parked next to Paco and the white-and-green Peugeot 308 burst into flames.
The acrid stench of burning gasoline filled his nostrils as black smoke billowed.
“Mierda!” he cursed, coughing. “Hijos de puta!”
To hell with it. He wasn’t going to just stand here and watch as his men were being attacked by that scum. He’d deal with his commanders later but he wasn’t going to follow stupid orders that put police lives in danger.
“Vamos! Vamos, chicos!” He motioned, unable to hold his men back anymore. “Venga!”
Finally authorized to use force, the Guardia Civil men charged at the Antifa thugs. In the skirmish, as police batons swung finding bodies, anguished cries filled the street. The crowd dispersed. More Antifa joined in to aid their comrades while the peaceful Catalan demonstrators marching around them fled in terror.
The thugs regrouped, shouting to each other as they coordinated movement.
Paco heard their voices clearly over the commotion.
“Davai, blya! Suka!”
He recognized Russian obscenities. He was sure of it.
Before he could muse on the implication of what he’d just heard, a projectile landed at his feet, breaking. The napalm-like mixture of the Molotov cocktail spilled all over Paco and ignited immediately, engulfing him in intense fire.
Screaming, Paco Ferrer became the first casualty in what the media would label as the Catalan War for Independence.
AMERICA
16
The Gulfstream completed the return leg to Washington, D.C. and parked in
side a private hangar at Dulles.
Stephen Hilton III greeted them as Sokolov, Constantine, and Paulina emerged from the rendition plane.
“Welcome to the U.S. of A.”
“Thanks for bringing us to the Land of the Free,” Sokolov said.
“People like you who fight for their freedom remind us that we shouldn’t take it for granted.”
He took Sokolov’s and Paulina’s passports and handed them to a waiting customs official who cleared them for entry into the U.S. on a humanitarian parole, thanks to a pre-processed application filed earlier.
Once they exited the hangar, they got into Hilton’s black Chevrolet Blazer.
When they hit the highway, Hilton outlined his plan.
“You guys have been through a lot. First, you need to get some rest. Right now, I’ll drop you off at a safe house and then pick you up for debriefing tomorrow.”
“What happens next, after we give you our statements and the evidence?” Sokolov asked.
“You’ll have to testify before the U.S. Senate Intelligence Committee. I’ve already got in touch with Senator William Brathwaite about the hearings.”
Sokolov reckoned that he and Paulina would have to recount the story of their escape many times in the coming days and weeks. They were defectors now, on the run from the Russian security services.
The Kremlin had taken too much away from him. His father, his career, his best friend. And ultimately, his country.
But not his brother.
The Russian word for Motherland, Rodina, had been corrupted by the Kremlin to exploit patriotism for its own benefit, especially among expats. In its original Slavonic sense, however, rodina meant family. Sokolov felt that way now. His allegiance lay with his brother and no one else.
He owed no debt of duty to any government or territory.
They drove in silence for the rest of the trip. Klimov’s death hung over them like a dark shadow.
The ‘safe house’ turned out to be a cheap motel somewhere in Virginia.
Stephen Hilton had checked them in under false names.
“While you take your time to recover, Constantine and I still have some work to do,” said the former diplomat. “I’d like to have the drives so we could have a quick glance at the contents and make backup copies in our office.”
It sounded more like an order rather than a request.
Sokolov and Paulina complied without objection. Sokolov handed him the hard drive with the surveillance footage and Paulina surrendered the flash drive with the financial data.
As he pulled up in front of their rooms, which faced the parking lot, Hilton handed them the keys and dropped them off.
“See you tomorrow, brother,” Constantine said. “It’s going to be a long day.”
The Blazer drove off.
Sokolov and Paulina found themselves alone in front of the motel’s flat, L-shaped building.
The Royalty Inn & Suites, as it was called, hardly lived up to its name but from the outside, it appeared decent enough.
They had adjacent rooms on the ground floor. The room number signs marked them as 13 and 14.
As Paulina unlocked her door, Sokolov went in first to inspect it for anything suspicious.
Sokolov didn’t hold high expectations of the room itself, which was typical two-star fare in bad need of remodeling. A cursory glance at the interior revealed a low ceiling, decades-old furniture, an ancient A/C unit, fridge, and CRT TV. The air stank of cigarettes and weed, despite the entire premises supposedly being a ‘non-smoking’ area.
Only a desperate traveler would want to spend one night at the Royalty Inn & Suites. Sokolov could wager that the motel didn’t have a lot of good reviews on booking websites. The CIA bean-counters must have been on a really tight budget when they chose it.
There were no intruders, except for a large cockroach. At the flick of a light switch, it scurried across the carpeted floor that looked like it hadn’t been vacuumed in ages.
Following Sokolov inside, Paulina let out a squeal as she saw the reddish-brown insect.
“Eww!”
She pressed against Sokolov instinctively for protection.
“Don’t be afraid. It’s gone.”
“I’m afraid of getting stuck in this roach-infested dump forever.”
“I do admit that this place is a bit of a letdown. America was supposed to be great again.”
“What are we supposed to do now, just sit here and wait? How long do we have to stay here?”
“I don’t know. As long as it takes.”
She let out an exasperated sigh. “Is that it? Is this all we get? Aren’t we supposed to be included in the Witness Protection Program? New ID, a new house, a new car, stuff like that? What about money? Heck, I don’t see any bodyguards providing our security.”
“Hilton is with the CIA not the FBI. And they don’t owe us anything, anyway. At least not until they’ve seen what we have to offer. Even after our information proves its worth, it will be passed on to the Treasury Department’s Office of Terrorism and Financial Intelligence.”
“The U.S. Department of Treasury? Doesn’t it run the Secret Service? Surely they can send a few agents to protect us.”
“We’re not exactly the President and First Lady. We’re not supposed to be in this country. It’s a small miracle that they sent the plane after us. Trust me, the fewer people know about us, the better. Everything is over. Nobody will get us here.”
“My God. How did I end up like this? It’s all a huge mistake.”
“It sure beats being dead, if you ask me.”
As he turned to leave, she clung onto his sleeve. Her eyes stared into his.
“Then stay with me,” she begged. “Make me feel alive!”
17
Gliding effortlessly through the Mediterranean off the Costa del Sol, the Catalina, a 50-meter, $50-million yacht, presented a gorgeous sight. Her streamlined white hull shimmered in the sun. The Spanish coast was her playground.
Although far from being the largest or the most expensive yacht owned by Russian oligarchs, she was no less luxurious, able to accommodate up to twelve people in six staterooms. Her owner, Anatoly Shaloy, was a 57-year-old Russian ‘businessman’ based in Marbella. Back in Russia, he was a notorious Mafia figure with strong ties to the Kremlin. Shaloy tried to keep a low profile but an investigative journalist—who’d later die mysteriously—had estimated his net worth at $7 billion.
In a Málaga court, Shaloy had faced charges of money laundering, drug trafficking, contract killings, arms contraband, extortion, and running a prostitution ring.
The trial had fallen apart due to ‘lack of evidence,’ despite Shaloy pleading guilty on several counts.
He’d laughed all the way back to his beachfront estate in Marbella. From his stunning mansion which had a private yacht dock, Shaloy continued to act as an underworld viceroy advancing Moscow’s interests in Europe.
Now, he was running one of the FSB’s biggest foreign operations, personally sanctioned by Russian President Frolov.
Operation X.
Shaloy was entertaining three guests aboard the Catalina. All three had arrived for the meeting secretly to discuss their business over black caviar canapés, lobsters, and $5,000-per-bottle sparkling wine.
He sat sprawled in his chair at the head of the table, sucking with gusto on a lobster claw he’d ripped out and cracked open with his stubby fingers. His shaved scalp seemed to grow right out of his massive frame of a former heavyweight boxer. The top buttons of his floral-printed Brioni shirt were undone to reveal matted gray chest hair and a pair of eight-pointed-stars inked below his collarbones. In the language of Russian prison tattoos, they denoted him as a high-ranking mob boss.
The man to his right was accustomed to wearing stars on his epaulets. General Jhonder Oswaldo Rojas Villanueva of the Venezuelan Army was a member of the Cartel of the Suns. The drug cartel owed its name to the gold insignia on the shoulders of military officers. The Venez
uelan Government directly participated in cocaine trafficking with the help of the armed forces. In effect, Venezuela’s socialist regime was a military narco-cabal. General Villanueva had risen through its ranks to become a kingpin. He’d been involved in smuggling hundreds of tons of cocaine, including cooperation with Mexico’s Sinaloa Cartel. Wearing a civilian shirt and slacks instead of a full-dress uniform, he didn’t look any less brutal. His tanned face was bat-like, with small dark eyes, a flat snout, and crooked teeth. His close-cropped hair made his prominent ears stick out even more.
Sitting opposite Villanueva was Gerard de Puig, the Catalan leader. A Euro-bureaucrat with a fake smile, he was as slimy as the gel in his slicked-back hair. Riding the wave of populist nationalism, he’d founded his own political party, criticized by opponents for unclear sources of campaign financing.
They talked in English for the benefit of the final attendee, occupying the far end of the glossy walnut table. An American. His FSB file, kept under lock somewhere in the Lubyanka, provided his alias, BLACKFOX.
“I see that the first phase of Operation X has been a success,” said Shaloy, congratulating de Puig.
“Indeed,” replied the politician. “We couldn’t imagine a more favorable outcome for the rally. Images of police violence have gone viral on social media. There is outcry over the use of tear gas and water cannons. The excessive force has been condemned globally. The media bias is strongly on our side. The injuries suffered by the police officers haven’t been widely reported. All focus is on some protesters getting beaten and arrested. As clashes continue, we are bringing our supporters from all across the country. Antifa, anarchists, communists, they are ready to fight. The Spanish Cabinet is holding an emergency meeting in Madrid as we speak. They are losing control of the situation. They have denied us a re-vote in a new referendum. Now they will face direct democracy. The democracy of the streets.”
“Are you ready to begin the second phase, General?” Shaloy asked.
Moscow Gold (SOKOLOV Book 5) Page 7