by Seeley James
I turned slowly and faced him and waved with a wry smile.
He had a funny look on his face when Miguel darted him from behind.
Mercury said, Thanks, homeboy. You won me some money off the local goddess. Unfortunately, she’s pissed off, and you’re in her sights.
I said, What does that mean?
Don’t get too close to the cliff.
I started walking forward.
“Bianca has their office located.” Miguel picked up the knocked-out cop and put him in the driver’s seat of our trashed rental.
We climbed in the cop car, and turned off the lights, sirens, and radios, and headed back to town.
CHAPTER 29
“Your attention,” Yuri stepped up on a packing crate in the center of the office in Stavanger. “I’ve sent Vasili on an errand for a reason.”
The men stopped packing their monitors and computers for a moment and faced him. “Igor and Roman were right. The Americans will kill us if they find us. And worse, Russia will let them. You know it’s true. Only we can protect ourselves.”
“It’s time you realized that!” Roman shouted.
“We can thrive if we work together.” Yuri looked each man over, one at a time. “But not if we remain within Strangelove’s reach. That means we need to travel a good deal. Moving as much as possible. To help with that, I’ve transferred a hundred thousand euros to each of your accounts.”
A round of applause was quickly followed by murmurs.
“It is not the Motherland’s money.” Yuri held up a hand. “This is from my own account, saved for just this kind of emergency.” He felt no reason to tell them it was Alexi’s money. “Travel to your favorite country, take a few passports and identities with you, relax for a few days. In a week’s time, we will reconvene as stateless entrepreneurs.”
A big cheer went up.
“We’ve been anonymous drones for Russia. What will we do in the future?” asked Igor.
“We will form our own cyber-collective, like Cicada 3301.” The legendary, secretive hackers posted puzzles scattered online for several years starting in 2012. Cicada 3301 claimed they intended to recruit highly intelligent individuals. As a player solved each puzzle, a new puzzle or cipher was revealed, each increasingly difficult and individualized. While a few anonymous individuals claim to have won, the organization has never revealed any results. Rumors have surfaced that the NSA or CIA was the sponsor, while others believe it to be a criminal syndicate.
Yuri said, “We will call ourselves, the Stateless Hacktivist and Resistance Collective, SHaRC.”
Another round of applause and smiles.
“What about #HuntersFail?” one of the men asked. “The Americans are still tracking the source.”
“If they crack the spoofed IP addresses—” Yuri waved his hand around the room “—this is what they’ll find.”
“How do we contact each other?” Alexandr held up his smartphone. “We should burn these.”
“Throw those in the boxes we’re going to let Strangelove find.” Yuri smiled. “I have set up a secure video-chat server. We can ring each other or conference the whole group. Because we’re going to be hunted, you can force open the video link to anyone should he not answer. That way you can tell if he’s being coerced or detained.”
“You hear that, Petr?” Igor called out. “Now we can catch you having sex with monkeys.”
Yuri allowed a good laugh at Petr’s expense.
“When I find a new location, I will send for you, and we will wipe these systems clean. We will make a fresh start.”
The men talked amongst themselves with a good deal of excitement. Most of them held no allegiance to their nation. From hours spent online, they felt more European than Russian. None of them had been happy with their assignments. Killing Americans seemed pointless when they were so easily robbed. No idea pleased them more than escaping the military oversight to work for themselves.
Everyone went back to work.
Half an hour later, Vasili returned. The lieutenant handed Yuri two burner phones in bubble wrap. His expression was sour. “You cannot escape Strangelove.”
Yuri stared long and hard at his right-hand man, hoping to determine if it was a guess or real knowledge. He could not tell.
“Look at your bank account.” He patted Vasili’s shoulder. “You now have enough money to take your wife anywhere she’d like. Croatia by the sea, where they film Game of Thrones. Your family would have a wonderful—”
“It might take days,” Vasili hissed, “maybe years, but he will never let us go.”
“The Mediterranean, then. Your wife will make love to you if you take her to Valletta on Malta.”
“He tracks things we never thought of.” Vasili shook with anger. “We will never rest while he’s alive because he will never let us.”
“There’s a nice bed and breakfast near the Barrakka Gardens.” He patted Vasili’s shoulder. “Have a vacation, relax.”
Vasili turned away and packed a crate.
If there was one thing Yuri had learned in his career, it was that those who voice fears have already given in to them. He made his decision without regret. He’d given Vasili a chance to join them. That’s all he could do. Nietzsche was right when he said, Nothing burns one up faster than the effects of resentment.
Yuri glanced at his system, the last computer still plugged in. “Damn. Stearne landed in Stavanger an hour ago. We must get moving.”
He turned to his men. “Step it up. The shippers close in an hour. Get these boxes down there. Then clear out your apartments and go. Before long, you will be sipping champagne at your dacha in Santorini with beautiful women hanging on your arm.”
The men laughed and picked up boxes of computers and monitors. They carried them out. Within ten minutes, the office was empty save the two officers and their personal gear.
Vasili stared at Yuri.
“Get moving.” Yuri pushed the air between them.
Vasili scowled and made a fist he didn’t raise.
“Wait.” Yuri reopened his packed backpack. “Let’s take a selfie before we part. In a few months, we will be promoted, and I will show you this picture of you—with such a sad face.”
Vasili frowned.
Yuri popped his new burner from the packaging and held it up, wrapping his arm around his lieutenant. Then he frowned at the phone and pulled it in close to examine the screen. “Fuzzy. A brand-new phone and the lens is smudged already. Hold on just one more second.”
Yuri reached into his backpack and pulled out a spray bottle that looked like glass cleaner. He looked at the camera, held it between them, and sprayed Vasili in the face. “Oops. Sorry.”
He handed the young father a tissue and watched his handpicked confidant wipe the Novichok VX-Y agent into his skin. A variant of the deadly VX nerve agent developed by the British for the Cold War, his was designed by the Soviets to have the same effect without leaving any trace behind. In an hour, Vasili would die.
“Forget it,” Vasili scoffed, tossing the tissue in a trash can.
Yuri shrugged and put his poison and phone back in his pack. “Do you have a destination planned?”
“My family will meet me here in the morning.” Vasili turned away. “We enrolled our children in school here. We were going to make Stavanger our home.”
“I see.” Yuri nodded thoughtfully. “That still might work. But take her to Malta for a vacation anyway. Or Morocco. Have you been?”
Vasili shot him a disgusted look, picked up his laptop, and trudged out.
Yuri watched his screen display the five cameras he had hacked in the city. He flipped back and forth until he found what he was looking for: Jacob Stearne and his Indian friend had already destroyed the camera feeds from the data center outside NATO’s JWC. They were making quick work of his spoofed IP addresses. He estimated he would have half an hour to get out of town.
His new phone rang with Strangelove’s caller ID.
Which
should not have happened.
He had not yet given the number to anyone. All his men had gone out to buy their own burners. A simple security measure. His video-chat system made old-fashioned phone numbers unnecessary.
Except that Vasili had bought his burner. Traitor. Yuri’s anger burned through his stomach to the wound in his ribs.
He answered the call. “General, how are you this evening?”
“Congratulations, young man. You’ve created your own nation in an afternoon, SHaRC. I like it.” Strangelove chuckled. “Vasili left an open Skype session on his laptop. I watched your declaration of independence—live.”
The pain in Yuri’s side exploded. He could feel the old man’s hands reaching through the phone to stab him again.
“General, you told me to leave the package at the lighthouse, and you would take care of it. You failed. Now Stearne is in Stavanger. My executive decision was in Russia’s best interests. We—”
“Coward! You have been given the mission to eliminate Stearne. Instead, you are deserting.”
“We are through with you, Strangelove.” Yuri took a deep breath. “You no longer own us.”
“I will call you tomorrow,” the general growled, “after you’ve had time to think things over.”
Strangelove clicked off.
Yuri hurled his phone against the wall. It shattered.
Immediately, he realized his mistake. He couldn’t leave a scrap of anything behind. He scrambled to pick up the pieces and put them in the last trash bag with Vasili’s tissue.
The whole time, his mind boiled over with hatred for the general. Who did the old man think he was? Turning perfectly good lieutenants into informants against their superiors. It had been Vasili who told Strangelove about the keylogger. Had to be. It was Vasili who gave the old man his new phone number. Had to be. Which made killing the young man Strangelove’s fault.
The general had put Vasili up to it. Probably threatened his wife and children in the beginning. One way or another, he would make Strangelove pay for forcing Vasili’s murder. And Alexi for that matter. And the others before that.
Yuri felt the hate and anger on his face. He was hot. People don’t think straight when they’re angry. That’s why athletes trash-talk. Which was exactly what Strangelove was doing to him now. He stood up straight and took a deep breath.
Strangelove would not win this round.
He calmed himself. There were many good things in life to occupy his mind. Andrine waited for him. That was something to look forward to.
Andrine. Just the memory of her pretty face smiling at him lifted his spirits. Could he have picked a better hotel than the Andaz on 5th Avenue? Would she love the restaurant he’d chosen? Was a candlelit dinner on the roof too much? Would she suspect his intentions when she discovered they had adjoining rooms? Why was he so nervous?
He took another moment to calm himself and think clearly. One more check of the office. Everything looked clean. He dropped the laptop in his backpack, swung it over his shoulder, grabbed the trash bag, and left.
As he floated down the stairs, he plugged in his earbuds. Miles Davis, ’Round Midnight, streamed into his ears like a drug. Bopping his head, his shoulders twisting with the rhythm, he kept his head down.
Three blocks up the street, police shuffled a crowd of people into his path. An ambulance pulled up behind him, locking him in. He jostled to see what was happening. A policeman pushed him back and barked at him to stay on the sidewalk.
He pulled his earbuds out and asked bystanders what had happened. No one was certain. A man had collapsed on the sidewalk. Yuri pushed his way forward and stood on his tiptoes. As he feared, it was Vasili. Too much nerve agent. The lieutenant should’ve been across town before he dropped.
Yuri’s thoughts were interrupted by a tall man standing in his personal space, pressing uncomfortably close. In English, the man said, “Whoa, is that Miles Davis?”
Yuri felt a grin spreading. Running into someone who could identify Miles was rare. He looked up at his new companion.
Jacob Stearne.
The man who’d wiped out Strangelove’s ambush.
He wore jeans and a leather jacket over a t-shirt with the silhouette of a soldier aiming a rifle directly at Yuri. It read, US Army: If you’re not behind us—start running.
Yuri hunched his shoulders to mask his shock. “You’re a fan?”
“He’s OK.” Stearne leaned over the lady in front of them to look at Vasili. “Innovative, but not as pleasing to the ear as Louis Armstrong and nothing as powerful as Trombone Shorty.”
Yuri looked around the crowd to find Stearne’s companion. The big Indian’s eyes were glued to Yuri as he circled through the crowd thirty yards away. The two worked like wolves, one in front of you, keeping your attention, the other sneaking around behind you. Yuri admired his adversary for a moment. He was lucky there were only two of them.
They would never attack in a crowd with so many police officers and witnesses. Stavanger was a ridiculously peaceful town. Every civil servant in uniform had turned out to help the fallen foreigner. But the same rule applied to Yuri—there was nothing he could do either. They stood there, side by side, tensed and ready but unable to fight.
“Where can I find Strangelove?” Stearne asked.
“I beg your pardon?”
“Tell me where he is, and I’ll let you go.”
“Give me any trouble, and I’ll give the authorities a video of you slaughtering ten men on Bornholm.”
Stearne snapped a look at Yuri.
Stearne’s were cold, dead eyes. A good deal of madness lay in them. He was a man who thought of human beings in stark black-and-white. If he deemed you worthy, he would sacrifice his life to save yours. If Stearne deemed you unworthy, he would snap your neck in line at Starbucks and order a latte over your carcass without so much as a dropped syllable.
“Don’t worry.” A crude smile tugged at one corner of Stearne’s mouth. “I’ll take the video off your corpse before I leave town.”
The Indian had nearly completed his circle. In a matter of seconds, the two Sabel agents could drag him off. It was time for a tactical retreat. They would meet again, and next time, he would be prepared.
Yuri backed up a step.
The emergency team pushed through the crowd like an icebreaker in the Arctic. Outstretched arms created a corridor between the bystanders with Stearne and the Indian on one side—and Yuri on the other.
He waved goodbye.
“You forgot something,” Stearne called.
The stretcher bearing Vasili’s body traveled up the narrow space between them. Stearne tossed a small object across the gap. Yuri caught it without looking and backed up, letting the bodies of strangers fill in around him. He turned and walked quickly around a corner.
He moved briskly for a block before looking at the object.
Suddenly, he couldn’t breathe.
He couldn’t believe he’d been so careless. In his anger at Strangelove, he had indeed made a mistake. He’d left one last traceable object in the office. The wireless router with the logs of every internet connection the banda had ever made.
CHAPTER 30
Pia froze with the limo’s door handle pulled halfway. Outside her window, a freezing rain fell on the main house at Sabel Gardens. She took another look at Dad, then started to speak.
He cut her off. “Don’t worry. I’ll have Olivier and his family settled in the guest house before you’re done. And I’ll be sure Jacob’s girlfriend gets a room in the guest wing.” He paused a beat. “You’re stalling. Like it or not, Chuck Roche is the candidate for a major party and—if he’s elected—will have sweeping powers that could make or break Sabel Industries in an afternoon.”
“He’s working with the Russians.”
“Don’t let on about that.” Dad gave her his stern look. “Right now, he doesn’t know what we’re doing. Keep the conversation about money. Nothing else.”
“But Roche is
such a little bi—”
“So was President Hunter. We don’t have any proof of his involvement in #HuntersFail. We will get him. Or. We may never get him. Justice is an uneven thing. Either way, we have to play the hand we’re dealt. That takes us back to the standard operating procedure: kowtow to the powers that be. Party and ideology might change but we must kneel before presidents, or we’ll wind up laying off tens of thousands of employees. Go in there and kowtow. That means: press your forehead to the floor.”
“Thanks, Dad. I needed the visual.” She nosed at the other limos lined up behind them. “Do you trust Olivier about Popov’s dacha?”
“You’re stalling.” Dad shook his head and pointed at the house. “Kowtow.”
She blew a frustrated breath and finished pulling the lever. The driver took the signal, opened the door for her, and stepped aside. She strode up the grand staircase with Tania and Emily a step behind. The Post’s embedded journalist looked eager for her exclusive.
The trio marched into the main library. Chuck Roche leaned on his silver-handled cane in front of the giant globe. His white hair was neatly combed, his paper-thin skin revealing the network of veins beneath. Two aides, one tan and the other pale, stood near a side table, staring at her Gutenberg Bible. The book was displayed under a sealed glass bell.
Despite three women entering with heels that clicked on the hardwood floors, Roche pretended not to notice Pia’s arrival. She turned to his aides at the bible. “Number Fourteen, formerly of Leipzig University.”
The pale man’s shocked expression gave away his understanding. The tan man’s blank expression enticed her to explain. “There are only twenty-one complete Gutenbergs today. This is number fourteen, one of the vellum editions. That’s why we keep it under the crystal dome.”
She glanced at Roche, who continued his pretense.