“You want to fight the good cause?”
“Yes, but I don’t see anyone to fight against. Where are the police?”
“The police?” Artyom hesitated. “Come on, I’ll show you the police.”
He led them farther down Passeig de Gràcia, to another modernist building standing at a street corner.
As they walked, Sokolov singled out three distinct groups among the rioters in the street: the anarcho-antifascists, the immigrants, and the Russians. It was the Russian special operators such as ‘Comrade Artyom’ who were running the show. FSB, SVR, GRU or PMC—private military contractors? Whatever the acronym, one person was the real driving force behind their actions. Shaloy.
They reached the bizarre-looking house, Casa Milà, one of Antonio Gaudi’s most famous creations. Also known as La Pedrera, its wavy design had been made to resemble a stone quarry. The curtain-shaped façade consisted of thousands of limestone blocks, supported by a metal framework. Sokolov had no time to admire the architecture as they stepped through the massive wrought-iron gates as if entering a Tim Burton movie prop. Even if he had cleared his schedule for a sightseeing tour, he couldn’t care less about that abomination born in the early twentieth century.
The nine-storied, curved edifice formed an inner courtyard which looked like an echo chamber. Once a residential building, Casa Milà had long since changed its purpose to become a tourist attraction and art exhibition venue.
But today a horror show was playing out inside the atrium.
A corpse in police uniform lay on the patio’s timber floor.
The body had been beheaded recently. A pool of blood surrounded the torso. Two men in balaclavas were kicking the head around to each other as if it were a football and laughing as it bounced.
Two other masked Russian operators bent over a second prone figure, pummeling the policeman ferociously with baseball bats. The man was alive, cowering to shield his head, but it wouldn’t be long until they beat him to death. His screams reverberated around the wavy walls and escaped into the blue sky above.
A third Spanish cop could only watch on in terror, his hands and feet tied, a machete-wielding guard standing over him, AK slung over his shoulder.
Another AK was propped against the nearest column, which supported a sloping floral-painted wall, ivy plants and potted palm trees hanging from the stairway above.
Sokolov felt sickened by the ghastly scene unfolding before his eyes.
He struggled to fathom how anyone was capable of such bestial brutality. Inflicting so much pain and suffering upon a helpless victim, killing in the most gruesome fashion, defiling the corpse—and actually enjoying it. They thought it was all fun and games.
Some argued that war brought the worst out of men and turned them into beasts.
No, Sokolov would not accept that viewpoint. War, like any other extreme condition, showed men for what they truly were, brought out the true nature that lurked within the depths of one’s psyche. Honor, bravery, and compassion shone through in wartime as halos of ultimate glory but these qualities had to be present in the first place.
Or else, one wasn’t man at all.
These creatures weren’t human, even though they might have walked the same streets as Sokolov in their normal lives. Whoever they had once been, Russian officers, fathers or husbands, they had degenerated into animals.
They had to be exterminated, Sokolov knew.
He was a rescue officer but if he had to kill to save those who could still be rescued, so be it.
“I thought the police were too scared to venture into Eixample now?” Marcelo inquired of Artyom, seemingly unperturbed by the grisly sights.
“They are. We found them in the docks and brought them here for interrogation. We don’t like strangers snooping around,” Comrade Artyom said menacingly.
It became clear to Sokolov that he would be the next in line for ‘interrogation’ by this subhuman scum.
The second police officer’s agonized wails ended abruptly as one of his sadistic killers finished him off with a resounding, bone-shattering smack. Witnessing it, Sokolov felt rage coursing through his veins and throbbing in his temples.
He dove to the floor, coming out of a roll just within reach of the unattended AK. He snatched the weapon and leveled it at the armed guard who reacted too slowly, fumbling with his own AK as bullets ripped through his chest and he toppled next to his shocked prisoner.
The barbaric killers froze, the gore-splattered bats suddenly useless in their hands, ten meters separating them from Sokolov as he locked them in his sights. The slugs obliterated that distance, battering their bodies without mercy until they dropped lifelessly.
Then Sokolov swung the muzzle toward the two ‘footballers,’ putting them down in precise bursts like the mad dogs that they were.
Five brutal beasts lusting for human blood, dead in five seconds.
That left the main monster unaccounted for, Comrade Artyom.
Sokolov shifted his aim a second too late.
Wild-eyed, the masked operator whipped out a handgun, catching Sokolov off guard.
He pulled the trigger of the AK but it clicked, signifying an emptied magazine.
Artyom had him, gun raised.
He stared down the black barrel, knowing that everything was over.
The booming sound of the gunshot, amplified by the curved walls of Casa Milà, deafened Sokolov.
Blood sprayed on the floor at his feet.
31
For a moment, Artyom stood motionless, but then he staggered, a new hole blooming in his balaclava where the bullet had drilled through his skull, blood gushing down his face, and crashed in a heap.
Marcelo stood behind the body with a gun in his hand, used to lethal effect from point-blank range.
“Steady hand for a street vendor,” Sokolov commended him.
“Gracias, Señor Sokolov.”
“I should be thanking you, Marcelo. So you do know who I really am but I can’t say the same about you. Or why you’ve done this.”
“I’m a CNI agent.”
“CNI?”
“Spanish intelligence.”
Sokolov chose to believe him. He had no other option and logic suggested that Marcelo was telling him the truth. He had no reason not to. Marcelo had a gun pointed at him, after all, but he’d shot Artyom instead. That, and the English he spoke sounded educated enough to support the claim. He put his trust into the Moroccan.
“Any more of these apes prowling around the building?”
“I don’t think so but we shouldn’t push our luck.”
“I agree, let’s get out of here. But we have another problem on our hands.” Sokolov nodded at the policeman.
“There’s a pharmacy just around the corner,” Marcelo said.
Sokolov approached the surviving Spanish cop and picked up the machete from the dead guard. The policeman was scared out of his wits but realized that Sokolov wasn’t going to kill him.
Sokolov slashed the ropes that bound the man’s wrists and ankles and helped him to his feet.
“Gracias,” the cop breathed. A kid barely in his twenties, Sokolov guessed, and in pretty rough shape. The left side of his face had badly swollen and caked with blood from several blows that lacerated his eyebrow.
“De nada, amigo,” Sokolov replied, straining the limits of his Spanish. “What’s your name?”
“Javier.”
“Can you walk, Javier?”
“Sí.”
“Okay, but you need to lose your uniform or else the street mob will lynch you.”
The cop gave him a confused look but as soon as Marcelo translated, he nodded profusely. Wincing from pain, he stripped to the waist and Sokolov saw severe bruising on his torso, suspecting a few cracked ribs at least but nothing could be done until Javier reached a hospital.
They collected the remaining weapons, Sokolov seizing Artyom’s handgun while Marcelo took the guard’s AK, and the three men escaped from the morbid crypt that was Cas
a Milà.
Once outside, they made a darting run across the street, finding sanctuary in a pharmacy marked by a glowing green cross sign.
The pharmacy had already been broken into and ransacked. Shelves had been knocked over, medicine boxes strewn around the floor, glass smashed into shards, liquids splashed. Sokolov leapt over the counter and rummaged through drawers of prescription drugs for a painkiller injection to administer to Javier. Sokolov cursed under his breath. The drawers were almost empty. The looters had stolen antidepressants and pain relievers, probably hunting for opioids. All the syringes were gone, too, much sought after by junkies. No antiseptics to clean the cut.
He discovered some analgesic pills of metamizole, sold in Spain as Nolotil, that had been left untouched. Better than nothing. He gave a pill container and a plastic water bottle to Javier.
“Take two of these. Dos. It should make you feel a little better,” Sokolov said.
The cop willingly washed the pills down as he drained the bottle in a couple of gulps.
“You should really go see a doctor as soon as possible.” Then Sokolov turned to Marcelo. “Ask him what happened and how he ended up in this predicament.”
“Qué ha pasado?” the Moroccan asked.
Javier answered in rapid-fire Castilian and Marcelo did the translating.
“He says that last night they were patrolling the Barceloneta area—it’s near the beach—and stumbled upon several men smuggling cargo by boat. Before they could investigate, the police unit got attacked by the Russians controlling the docks. But he does remember that the smugglers spoke with South American accents. He’s sure of it.”
“Venezuelans,” Sokolov said.
“You know something about it?” Marcelo asked.
“It’s part of Operation X. A Kremlin plot to take over Catalonia by proxy.”
“How?”
“A false-flag op by Venezuelan commandos posing as the Spanish Guardia Civil. They’re about to stage a two-pronged attack. First, a mass shooting targeting the protesters. Not the radical provocateurs who instigated the clashes and vandalism but the romantic idiots flocking here from all over Europe. Morto per la libertà, as their stupid song goes. Dead for freedom. They’re just cattle for slaughter in this mess but they’re too dumb to ever realize it.”
“And the next step?”
“A massacre of civilians in one of Barcelona’s residential neighborhoods. In the event of an apartment bombing, the dead body of Javier or one of his partners on the scene would have been the perfect set up. Or what might be left of any corpse behind the wheel of a truck loaded with explosives. In any case, the attacks will stir a global media frenzy against the Spanish Government and law enforcement agencies. Everyone from Russia Today to CNN and Fox will lap it up. The Russian Ambassador to the U.N. will call for international sanctions and Spain will become a pariah state. Global support will be unequivocally on the Catalan side and that’s all they’re going to need for legitimacy. De Puig has sold out to the Kremlin. I have it all on file.”
“Where?”
“Like I said, everything I need is in my phone.”
“Send it to me.”
“I want you to show the files to your superiors, Marcelo. All the evidence is there. We must stop them.”
“Of course.”
“And get Javier to the nearest hospital.”
32
General Jhonder Oswaldo Rojas Villanueva surveyed the supplies. The wooden crates were stacked in the middle of an empty exhibition hall. The walls of the giant room displayed a collection of decadent abstract paintings which Villanueva found to be disgusting. Even his nine-year-old niece could produce better art than the framed pieces of crap hanging everywhere around the building.
The real beauty, of course, was inside the delivered crates. Rows upon rows of them.
Guns. Ammo. Explosives.
Villanueva opened the lid of one of the boxes and extracted a piece from beneath the protective foam pebbles.
It was an FN P90 compact submachine gun. Villanueva loved its bullpup design, which together with a top-mounted feeding system made it a true masterpiece worthy of admiration.
Villanueva continued his inspection.
Next exhibit: Heckler & Koch MP5. A timeless classic.
Other items included the refined Swiss SIG Sauer Commando assault rifle and P226 9mm combat pistol.
All of these firearms were identical to the equipment used by the special tactical units of the Spanish police.
Thousands of rounds of ammunition, enough to start a war—which was exactly what the general intended to do.
One hundred and fifty hand grenades.
And of course, the centerpiece of the inventory. Two hundred and fifty units of PE-4A, an RDX-based plastic explosive similar to C-4. He held up a packaged block of the deadly yellowish substance, weighing the one-pound demolition charge in his hand.
It felt good.
The formidable arsenal had been stolen from a military warehouse in Portugal and delivered by the Russians.
The Russians had also picked the target of the attack, a residential block on the outskirts of the town. The Russians had plenty of experience blowing up apartment buildings for political purposes, so Villanueva trusted their judgment.
The explosive charges would be put to good use.
But first, they would begin with the slaughter of the Yellow Ribbon demonstrators camping at Avenguda Diagonal. A necessary sacrifice.
So far, Shaloy’s plan had gone as expected—better than expected. The only nuisance was the Spanish patrol which had stumbled upon the shipment but that problem had been dealt with. He’d informed Shaloy about the incident, and the Russian had suggested adjusting their plans.
Villanueva proceeded to the adjoining room to address his men.
A dozen of Venezuela’s finest soldiers, handpicked from the Special Action Force of the National Bolivarian Army. All were members of the Cartel of the Suns. Loyal Chavistas who’d squashed the riots in Caracas. Standing at attention, they were like marble statues. Ramrod straight, unmoving, eyes fixated into the distance, faces showing no emotion, but, Villanueva knew, raring to go into battle.
They wore the midnight-blue uniforms and insignia of Spanish police officers.
Villanueva broke the news to them. The updated instructions would come as a reward for their commitment.
“Comrades,” he began, “the great moment of victory is almost upon us. We shall strike into the heart of the enemy, the imperialists who want to see our beautiful country on its knees, the capitalist scum who want to conquer us. Instead, we will bring the revolution to their doorstep. It means that we must strike early.”
He flicked his wrist to consult his aviator watch, a $30,000 IWC Big Pilot Top Gun of black ceramic.
“Our timeframe has shifted. Phase Two of Operation X will commence twenty-four hours ahead of schedule. We’re moving out to launch the attack in exactly two hours and seventeen minutes from now. Get ready!”
33
The Glen Cove mansion, also known as Killenworth, sat on the crest of a hill overlooking the Long Island Sound.
Constructed in 1913 for industrialist and philanthropist George Dupont Pratt, son of Standard Oil’s Charles Pratt, the Glen Cove estate had been purchased by the Soviets in 1946. The T-shaped stone house, built in the Tudor Revival style from granite of a warm gray texture, had 49 rooms with a total area of almost 26,500 square feet. Occupying an area of 36 acres, the Glen Cove estate featured a gargantuan stone-lined swimming pool surrounded by evergreens that reflected in the water, its edges decorated with flowers. Landscaped to the left of the pool was the Green Garden with its yews and box trees, and a carpet-like lawn.
Since 1951, the Killenworth mansion had been used as a summer retreat for the Soviet delegation to the U.N. Today, Russian Ambassador Roman Chepurin used it exclusively as his private villa.
At the epicenter of numerous scandals and accusations of espionage over the last fe
w decades, the Killenworth compound had always employed tight security measures, its high walls impregnable to any unauthorized vehicles driving off Dosoris Lane, the only means of approach.
During the Cold War, the top floor of Killenworth had accommodated eavesdropping equipment to spy on Long Island’s defense industry contractors, with fifteen KGB technicians working around the clock. Under former KGB man Chepa, the space had been converted for the storage of narcotics flown in from Venezuela by diplomatic transport jets.
Khrushchev had stayed at Killenworth during his U.N. visit, which was remembered for his notorious shoe-bashing. Roman Chepurin, corpulent and completely bald, bore a resemblance to the Soviet leader in both his physical appearance and his theatrics. From the lofty stage of the U.N. Security Council, Chepurin spouted the most outrageous lies, falsifications, and propaganda conceivable. As far as he was concerned, he was just doing his job. He’d do anything to serve the interests of his master, President Frolov.
And Frolov had only one thing on his mind: Operation X.
Chepa mentally rehearsed the key points of his U.N. speech in support of the Catalan People’s Republic’s right for independence. He was contemplating the most eloquent terms in which he would condemn the upcoming terrorist attack against Catalan civilians—the same one he’d helped manufacture—as he breast-stroked across the pool. Water cascading off his whale-like body as he emerged, he toweled himself dry and dropped onto the lounger.
Lost in thought, he did not immediately recognize the buzzing sound carried by the wind. Faint at first, it grew louder until it forced the Russian Ambassador to turn his attention to the source of the droning whine.
It came from somewhere up in the sky. A chopper was not an unusual sight around these parts. The rich routinely used helicopter services instead of Uber, flying over to the Hamptons to beat the New York traffic. Tourists chartered rides for the promised scenic views of the Manhattan skyline. Then there were the cops, firefighters, news crews, and other aircraft operators.
Yet there was nothing normal about this chopper. Painted back, it circled directly over Killenworth like a bird of prey.
Moscow Gold (SOKOLOV Book 5) Page 13