by Jeff Gunhus
The girl froze and then nodded.
Mara took a piece of tape from Scott and placed it over her mouth. She let her pull on a pair of pants and a shirt before sitting them together next to a desk and cuffing them to it as well.
“Your wife was suspicious, so she hired us,” Scott said. “If you promise to get your shit together and be a good husband, we’ll tell her we didn’t find anything. Can you do that?”
The man nodded, still whimpering.
“You tell anyone we were here, we’ll tell her the truth. Got it?” he said.
“Does this girl work for you?” Mara asked.
The man nodded again.
“She gets a raise. Fifty percent.” The man’s eyes went wide.
“Really?” Mara said. “You want to bargain with me?” The man cowered and shook his head. Mara leaned in toward the girl. “You can’t tell anyone either. Understand?” The girl agreed. “All right, someone will come let you out when we’re gone. Just hold tight.”
She followed Scott, who had already walked over to the stairs to take them to the next level. They both lifted their masks, so they rested on their foreheads, and shared a silent laugh.
“What are the chances?” Scott asked.
“I think that story will work, though. Keep them from talking.”
“At least for a while,” he said. “As long as they aren’t being questioned in the investigation of a father-daughter strike team that was killed while entering the home of a former KGB boss, then I think we’re good.”
They climbed the stairs two more levels and came to the door that accessed the roof.
“Don’t know if there’s recon sat imagery locked on this place, so go mask,” he said.
Mara pulled her mask back down and Scott opened the door onto the night.
The roof was empty except for a few storage sheds and two wicker chairs with a coffee can half-filled with sand and cigarette butts. Looked like the perfect place for the travel agency employees to take a break when they weren’t sleeping with each other.
They made their way to the low wall dividing the units, giving the next rooftop some privacy. Scott jumped over the wall and Mara handed the duffel bags over to him before jumping over herself. This roof belonged to a private residence and it showed. Potted plants lined the edges of the roof and a small marble fountain sat in the center surrounded by comfortable chairs with thick cushions. A little oasis in the Spanish heat during the day.
They cleared this roof, repeating the process of climbing over and handing across their bags twice more before coming to Belchik’s property.
Even though Mara had been keeping close count of which unit she was on, it wasn’t necessary. His was the only roof wall with strands of razor wire across its top.
Mara dug into her bag and pulled out her night-vision goggles, an upgraded version of L3’s ENVG-B, the “E” standing for “enhanced.” This cutting-edge tech was a hybrid system that included a separate thermal channel for image fusion and thermal target-detection capabilities. With all the ambient light, she could see well enough, but it was the invisible light she was looking for. She switched the ENVG to a specialized setting and scanned the roof for laser trip wires.
Nothing.
These guys were sloppy.
While Scott clipped the razor wire, she pulled out a broadband RF scanner calibrated for 50 MHz to 3GHz. She doubted any cameras set up on the roof were hardwired when wireless models were so much simpler to use. The problem with those was that their communications exit linking them back to the network was simple to track. The encryption was likely state of the art, but Mara didn’t need to see the image, she just needed to know where the cameras were located.
The scanner lit up and Mara was able to dial it in directionally to pick up four cameras. Scott armed the laser this time and systematically fried their processors. Depending on the man on duty, there was a chance that the roof cameras going offline could elicit an immediate response. But judging from what they’d seen of this crew on deathwatch, they didn’t think anyone would rush up. But just in case, they crossed quickly and took a position next to the door. Mara stood guard while Scott set up the rest of their equipment.
She checked her watch. One forty-three. Thirteen minutes behind their predicted timeline, thanks to the lovers in building one. It was all right. There was no extraction team or deadline they were racing against. Still, out of professional pride, she hated being off-schedule.
Scott placed a canister next to each of the air-conditioning units on the roof. They’d counted four from their lookout point. Full building air-conditioning was uncommon in Seville; most relied on opening windows to catch the breeze off the river and maybe a window unit or two to cool a single room for the hottest days. Apparently, Belchik liked his comfort and his security. His home’s massive system explained the shuttered windows. The creature comfort was going to cost his protective detail.
Mara grabbed a metal folding chair and wedged it against the door that opened onto the roof. She grinned, thinking of the tens of thousands of dollars of specialized equipment the courier had delivered to them, and that a chair was still the best solution to secure the door.
“What do you want me to do?” she asked Scott.
He stole a quick glance at the door. Seeing the chair brought a smile to his face, too. “Canisters are in position. I have the pumps and hoses on this one. You do the back two.”
Mara scurried over to the air-conditioning unit nearest the back wall and got to work. The setup was intuitive and, in true military fashion, designed to be dummy-proof. The hose connections were marked with a shape that corresponded to the same shape on the unit it was being attached to. Mara appreciated the designer in some faraway lab who had thought to make the process as easy as possible.
The pump was small, a black rectangular box the size of a loaf of bread. The canister hose snapped into one end and the delivery hose snapped into the other. She made certain the connections were tight. Any leakage would bring the night’s activities to an end real fast.
On the end of the delivery hose, she attached the last piece, a large bag of stretchy material. This she placed over the top of the air-conditioning unit, pulling it first across its length, then down its sides. Once it covered the entire thing, she tugged on a cinch at the bottom and then pressed all around the edge, knowing the adhesive inside the bag would create a strong, airtight seal.
She moved to the next unit and completed the same process.
Scott finished his two first and came over to help her.
“Ready?” Scott asked when they’d pulled the cover tight.
Mara nodded, pulling out her Sig Sauer. “Showtime.”
CHAPTER 13
Demetri Isimov hated this assignment.
He’d been hopeful at first when his supervisor had informed him of the duty, whispering the name of the new protectee. Viktor Belchik was a monolithic figure not only in Russian intelligence but in Russian history. A man with hands that stretched into every corner of the world. Isimov had imagined getting to know the great man, being a sounding board for stories of the glory days of the KGB. Perhaps even gaining the man’s favor in a way that could lead to introductions and advancement.
None of that had come true.
In two months of duty, he’d said only a few words to the man. Mostly in greeting or asking for instructions. The responses came back in either grunts or a short, barked order, but never with even a moment of eye contact.
And then the poisoning happened. No one was certain how, but suspicions had gone immediately to the trip Belchik had taken to the hospital clinic next door for an MRI. Everything else for the man’s cancer treatment could be brought to the town house, but the MRI to see whether the immunotherapy treatment was having any effect on the lung cancer could not. Isimov had been off rotation that day, enjoying the sun in Cadiz. Lucky for him because the team that failed to protect him were now stationed in obscure facilities in one of the -stan countries watching over crumbling
nuclear facilities in the middle of nowhere. Nothing said career end like being on post when one of Russia’s greatest men was poisoned.
The investigation turned up minute traces of polonium in the hospital. Not enough to injure anyone there. Just enough to confirm that was where the assault had taken place.
And that’s what it was, an assault. Isimov knew of the FSB’s use of polonium as a weapon of assassination. After the events in England years earlier, the whole world knew it. But seeing the ravages of the radiation poisoning firsthand had been terrible. The sores. The hair loss. Bleeding gums. The rheumy eyes.
Not only that, but the idea of poisoning an already dying man seemed cruel and unnecessary. Then again, a man like Belchik had created his share of powerful enemies over his life. That one would want him to die a slow, painful death wasn’t too surprising.
What had been surprising was the series of events that had followed the poisoning. Things had gotten so bad that some of them had started to lie to the old man, sheltering him from the terrible news from the outside world. It didn’t take a genius to determine that whoever had poisoned Belchik had meant that as only the first step in his torment. What had happened afterward, and continued to happen every other day with numbing regularity, showed they were dealing with a sick mind.
Isimov just hoped whoever it was had moved on. And, in a reversal that surprised even himself, he wished the old man would just die and get it over with.
He walked into the kitchen and rooted around the refrigerator for something to eat. He was the only one still up. Demitri Golav was supposed to be on watch with him, but the older man was even more done with this assignment than he was. All of them had been lowered to being nursemaids to the old man when the medical staff was off duty, tending to him, assisting the staff cleaning his shriveled body when he defecated in his bed.
The two medical staff were sleeping upstairs, a man and woman who Isimov heard having sex earlier that night. The sounds didn’t offend him, only made him horny and lonely. Five minutes alone in the bathroom got rid of the horniness but only made the loneliness more acute. Next time, he thought, maybe he’d see about joining the two upstairs. He knew it was a pipe dream, but it at least gave him something to think about to pass the time.
Golav could be heard snoring in the other room, sprawled out on a couch, a bottle of vodka half-stuffed into the cushion next to him. The other two men on the protection team were sleeping downstairs, but their shift started at six in the morning. Golav was a derelict, an embarrassment to the team.
And no one cared.
Belchik was a dead man. In fact, all of them had participated in a whispered conversation that if the old man tried to commit suicide again, they should just let him. They’d sworn a pact, but it was one Isimov knew he couldn’t follow. Part of it was self-preservation. His orders were to keep the man alive. If Belchik were to kill himself under his watch, then it would reflect on Isimov’s record forever. Apparently, the powers-that-be didn’t want their hero’s end to be a story of suicide. Bad for morale, Isimov thought glumly.
As if dying of polonium poisoning at the hands of a madman was any better.
But the other reason he couldn’t bring himself to look the other way when Belchik tried to steal a length of cord or a scalpel from the visiting doctor’s bag was his remaining affection for the man. Or at least the larger-than-life legend of the man. Isimov believed in God. He understood the penalty for suicide and, in his hero’s moment of weakness, didn’t want to think of him enduring everlasting damnation for a single act of cowardice at the end of a life of bravery and accomplishment.
So, he watched closely. Made certain there was nothing within Belchik’s reach that he could use to do himself in. And, with the others, he waited for the radiation poison to do its slow, nasty work. Cringing every other day when the news inevitably came from Moscow of the next tragedy in Belchik’s life. The tragedies he’d wanted to keep from him, but which Golav insisted they share whenever he got wind of them. It was the only part of the assignment the senior man enjoyed.
A loud beeping sound startled Isimov. A burst of adrenaline entered his system. An alarm. Someone was infiltrating the apartment.
But he quickly realized it was nothing of the sort. It was just the refrigerator door. He’d been standing with it open, absently staring at the contents, not really hungry, not really seeing what was inside. Just on the autopilot that happened in the middle of the night when the boredom set in.
He closed the door and opened the freezer. He pulled back the small bags of ice there to reveal three bottles of vodka. It wasn’t a good hiding place, but the ice in front at least gave the appearance that they gave a shit if one of the medical staff happened to open the freezer.
He twisted the cap and took a long drink from the bottle, feeling the fire in his throat spread through his chest as a warm heat. It felt like coming home, even though it was laced with the sense of guilt from drinking while on duty.
Isimov put the bottle back and piled the ice back up in front of it.
He took a staggered step back, suddenly dizzy.
He laughed at himself. Maybe he should have eaten something. The single drink had hit him like he was a teenager.
Blinking hard, he shook his head to clear it, but that only threw him more off-balance.
His throat and nose burned.
It took him a second to recognize it as something more than just the vodka. The sensation was too strong. Too intense.
Something was wrong.
He tried to run to the living room to wake Golav but he only made it a few steps before his legs buckled under him.
He hit the floor hard, still in control enough to twist his body so that his shoulder took the impact instead of his face.
For some reason his arms weren’t working.
He blinked hard again, his eyes tearing up. His throat constricting.
Poison.
The vodka had to be poison.
But that was impossible. He’d seen the others drink from the same bottle earlier.
Then something else happened.
He tried to lift his head to scan the room but was only able to move it a few inches.
Terror raced through him. There were two men in the room. Dressed in black. Gas masks covering their faces.
That was it. Why he was on the floor. They’d used gas. All of them would be out.
Isimov knew they were here to kill Belchik. And there was nothing he could do about it.
As he closed his eyes and lost consciousness, his last hope was that they would make it quick and painless.
The ending his hero deserved.
CHAPTER 14
Scott trained his gun on the bodyguard sprawled on the kitchen floor. There’d been a moment when it seemed like the man was going to have enough fight left in him to pull his weapon, but he’d succumbed to the gas and fallen to the floor.
He nudged the man with his foot. Totally out.
The GX gas was powerful, a variant of the knockout agent developed by the Russians. The public knew it from the 2002 Dubrovka Theater hostage crisis in Moscow. Chechnyan separatists had taken 850 hostages. After a long standoff, Russian Special Forces had piped an undisclosed chemical agent into the opera house. But it had two problems. The first was that it created panic as the separatists watched it come in and started firing wildly in reaction. Secondly was that while it successfully rendered all the occupants of the opera house unconscious, for over two hundred of the hostages, it turned out to be permanent.
Langley had taken notice and went to great lengths to procure exactly what the Russian Special Forces had used. After much testing and adjustment, they’d perfected a variant that was powerful enough to overwhelm an adversary quickly, but without the fatality rate or long-term effects.
GX had proven useful on a number of missions. The last time he and Mara had used it had been to kidnap the ex-president of the United States, still a sore spot with the Secret Service.
&
nbsp; Mara’s voice came over the speaker in his left ear. “One on the couch. He’s out.”
That made four so far. The two medical staff upstairs, passed out in the same bed together. Two bodyguards here. One floor to go.
He and Mara worked their way through the room in a two-by-two cover motion. They each had guns drawn, fitted with a red-dot laser sighting unit that crisscrossed the apartment, searching every corner and behind every piece of furniture for an adversary.
Clear.
Mara went down the last flight of stairs first. “Careful,” he whispered, knowing she would hear it clearly in her ear mic.
He knew the warning likely annoyed her, but she did slow down just a fraction.
The lower level opened to a wide foyer of marble columns. It was more ornate than the other levels, a formal entry to impress guests. A metal desk with two open laptops on it was positioned at the base of the stairs with only a narrow space through which someone might walk. The laptop screens were partitioned into grids, each box a different camera feed. Four of the boxes were black—the cameras they’d taken out on the roof. Clear evidence there was an issue, only there was no one monitoring the screens to raise the alarm.
Scott toggled through the other feeds, enlarging each in turn, looking for anyone else in the building. He paused on the image of Belchik’s room, smiling as his hopes were confirmed.
“Moving to the last rooms,” Mara said.
“Let me see if they are on the feed,” he said.
From his peripheral vision, he saw Mara move across the room. He quickly stamped his fingers on the keyboard, trying to find the right room.
Just as he found it, Mara said, “Going in.”
Scott squinted at the screen. It was sparsely furnished. Just a bed and a small table. There appeared to be a man asleep under the sheets, probably passed out from the GX. The door opened and he saw Mara step into the room.
But then Scott spotted something wrong.
The two windows above the bed were wide open.
The meant fresh air.
“Mara, wait!”