Wolf’s Vendetta
Other books by Craig MacIntosh
The Fortunate Orphans
(Beaver’s Pond Press, 2009)
The Last Lightning
(Beaver’s Pond Press, 2013)
McFadden’s War
(Pugio Books, 2015)
Wolf’s Vendetta © copyright 2015 by Craig MacIntosh. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form whatsoever, by photography or xerography or by any other means, by broadcast or transmission, by translation into any kind of language, nor by recording electronically or otherwise, without permission in writing from the author, except by a reviewer, who may quote brief passages in critical articles or reviews.
ISBN: 978-0-9913611-2-0
Cover design by Kent Mackintosh
Book design by Belldog Media and typeset in Janson Text
Printed in the United States of America
First Printing: 2015
19 18 17 16 15 4 3 2 1 0
Published by Pugio Books
13607 Crosscliffe Place
Rosemount, MN 55068
www.cjmacintosh.com
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
The genesis of this story came from a question I asked a friend about a trip he had taken to Central Asia. He was there to watch a Soyuz launch from Russia’s Cosmodome site in the former Soviet republic of Kazakhstan. I was looking for a brief paragraph about his adventure that I might use to reintroduce readers to characters from my previous novel, McFadden’s War. The idea was to update my protagonists since their last appearance in print. What began as a few sentences about my friend’s tales of the launch and his Moscow stopover resulted in a full-fledged novel. I am indebted to retired Navy SEAL Chuck Wolf for his willingness to share memories of that trip. Red Mafiya, a courageous work by the late journalist Robert Friedman exposing the modern scourge of the Russian criminal underworld here at home, also provided major background material for the novel.
My reliable professional crew gave me invaluable support. Editor Cindy Rogers is the lodestar for my novels. All writers should be so blessed. Designer Jeff Wechter provided his skills in getting the book to print and proofreader Molly Miller worked in her usual efficient way to correct any manuscript errors. My brother, Kent Mackintosh, put his design skills to use. My wife, Linda, continues to encourage without complaint.
“Woe to those who devise wickedness . . .”
—Micah 2:1
For the men and women of the CIA, often unappreciated, sometimes maligned, ever dedicated, always vigilant.
Chapter 1
Russia, late winter
“Napoleon should have flown Air France on his way out of Russia.”
From his window seat, Tom Wolf gazed below at a bleak, unbroken landscape stretching to the horizon like a bleached linen burial shroud. The few roads etched in the snow-covered terrain connected towns where buildings huddled together against the cold.
Wolf tapped the glass. “Seriously, I can’t imagine the French army, let alone the Germans, fighting and retreating in these conditions, can you?” He elbowed his friend Dan Colter, asleep in the adjacent seat.
Colter did not respond to Wolf’s elbow or his comment. Another jab in the ribs and he awoke, irritated. “Huh, what?”
“Dawg,” Wolf said, “have you ever seen such an incredible space? There’s nothing out there for thousands of miles.”
A sleepy-eyed Colter looked past Wolf to the panorama passing beneath them. “Hundreds of thousands of miles, actually.”
“Roger that. I was saying how miserable the frogs and krauts must have been slogging through this stuff on their way home.”
Colter yawned. “Almost makes you feel sorry for the poor bastards.”
“They got what they deserved,” said Wolf, grim, his eyes fixed again on the countryside. “Imagine, they had even fewer roads then. Unbelievable.”
“With Cossacks kicking ass all the way back to Europe,” added Colter, his eyes closing. “How much time we have left in the air?”
“About forty minutes,” said Wolf, glancing at his watch.
“Good. Don’t disturb me with any more of your ‘gee whiz’ moments.”
Colter went back to sleep and Wolf returned to his window.
Former Navy SEALs who both held commander’s rank with ten years in the teams, Wolf and Colter were part of a low-key NASA delegation assigned to keep alive the contact between the two countries’ space programs. Flying Aeroflot from Warsaw seven hundred miles to the west, their destination was Sheremetyvo Airport, one of Moscow’s three international hubs. The fifteen-member party was en route to witness an American astronaut’s ride into space aboard a Soyuz rocket. Scheduled to launch from Kazakhstan in five days, a three-man relief crew was heading to the International Space Station. A three-day Moscow layover was planned for the NASA visitors.
Colter and Wolf carried passports with numerous entry stamps into the U.S. but no imprints from countries they had visited on clandestine missions as SEALs. If questioned about the disparity, the duo had memorized detailed explanations to cover their tracks. As far as the Russians knew, the two were what they appeared to be: retired naval officers accompanying the NASA contingent as guests of the agency. With paperwork scrubbed clean of their time as SEALs, their visas had been issued without a problem.
A closer look at Wolf and Colter might have raised questions. The six-foot, blue-eyed Wolf wore his blond hair longer than his passport photo. Colter, shorter and dark-haired, had shaved his gray-flecked beard, making him appear almost boyish. Career naval officers, yet retired at the relatively young age of forty, both obviously physically fit and not in NASA’s employ, why would they be bound for Russia’s sprawling version of Cape Canaveral? The question was never asked when their Kazakhstan visit had been approved.
With Moscow’s distant lights glittering in his window, Wolf felt the Aeroflot Airbus A330 begin a gradual left-hand turn toward Sheremetyevo International Airport. Colter kept his eyes closed for the final minutes of the flight.
How can he do that so easily? wondered Wolf. Colter could sleep in the middle of a firefight if he wanted to. Definitely an acquired skill few men had.
Landing in a horizontal burst of snow, they taxied to the terminal.
Bundled in winter parkas, the fifteen Americans were met by a courteous but unsmiling tour liaison officer who shepherded them through immigration and customs. Reclaiming their luggage, the NASA team trailed guide and porters to the Aeroexpress train for the ride to Belorrussky Station near Moscow’s heart. When they reached the rail station, their minder commandeered marshrutkas—fixed-rate taxis—for the short ride to the Holiday Inn on Lesnaya Street. The minivans delivered them to the hotel where their greeter bid the Americans goodnight. After checking in and having luggage delivered to their rooms, the group reassembled in the lobby and was ushered to the hotel’s lounge where a light dinner was served.
From the head of the table, their NASA chaperone, Dr. Fritz Warren, recited the itinerary. “Though it galls me to say it,” the bearded engineer said, “we’re here because the Russians happen to be running the only game in town these days. You at least deserve the delights of the big city. After all, we’re going to Baikonur, not exactly an oasis of comfort and fine dining in the middle of Kazakhstan’s desert. But the scale of the rockets and the launch facilities will more than make up for it, I assure you. Good evening.”
“Typical NASA geek,” scoffed Colter. “Leave it to a rocketeer to care more about hardware than creature comforts or good food.”
“He’s probably got a career waiting for him in the airline industry when he retires,” added Wolf. “And speaking of the devil.”
Warren stopped at Wolf and Colter’s end of
the table. “Your reputations have preceded you, gentlemen. Please try to stay out of trouble. Keep a low profile. I’m sure you can appreciate the situation given the current tensions between our two countries.”
“We appreciate the warning,” said Wolf. “But you have obviously confused us with someone else. We’re retired. That behavior is behind us.”
“We’re practically ready for assisted living,” said Colter.
Warren smiled. “I seriously doubt that, Commander. It’s just that I prefer everything run smoothly.” Flashing a toothy smile, he left the restaurant with others in the party.
Wolf said, “Well, Dawg, what say we sample this fine hotel’s bar.”
Colter groaned. “I knew it. I’ll go with you on one condition: one nightcap and then I’m heading for the rack.”
Wolf grinned. “Don’t make promises you can’t keep.”
Chapter 2
Morning dawned cold and clear. Up with the sun, Wolf threw off the bedcovers and dropped to the floor for pushups. Scraping frost from the hotel window, he gazed at a Moscow skyline belching steam and smoke. Seen from Wolf’s tenth-floor room, bland utilitarian office towers crowded former Tsarist palaces and shops. Shabby Soviet-
style apartment buildings squatted next to ostentatious luxury hotels, and omnipresent snow-dusted golden domes crowned with crosses dotted the horizon. I still can’t believe I’m actually in Moscow. Growing up in the Cold War and now I’m actually in the belly of the beast. Ronald Reagan’s Evil Empire. This is incredible, a dream. I’m going to wake up any moment. Not going to waste the opportunity. I want to see everything.
Wolf showered in lukewarm water, shaved and dressed in layers. Aiming a pillow at the sleeping Colter, he boomed, “Hit the deck! I’m heading downstairs to get breakfast. Let’s get in some sightseeing. You snooze, you lose.”
“I’m awake,” mumbled Colter. “Save me a spot downstairs.”
“How’s your head this morning?”
“Ugh, no thanks to you.” Managing a groan, Colter buried his face in a pillow.
Merciless, Wolf yelled, “Chop chop, sailor! You may have been through here before, but not me. I’m not likely to get this chance again.”
Wolf went out the door, skipping the elevator to pound the stairs to the lobby. After flirting with an icy blond manning the front desk, he took a corner table in the first-floor lounge and asked for coffee, juice and pastries.
Colter showed twenty minutes later, ordered the same and pilfered one of Wolf’s sweet rolls while he waited. “What are we doing today?”
Wolf unfolded a large map and studied it. “Got this from the front desk. This being my first time here I want to see Red Square, the Kremlin, Lenin’s Tomb, St. Basil’s…"
“Whoa, whoa, I had to ask.”
The server arrived with Colter’s order and a carafe, then withdrew.
Wolf poured coffee for both. “Did I mention Lubyanka?”
“The KGB dungeons? I’ve heard they give tours. Don’t know if I’m up for that. But don’t forget the subway, Wolfman.”
“Outstanding. Their Metro’s famous. We can buy a ticket and ride forever. How much trouble can we get into playing tourist?”
Colter arched an eyebrow. “With you along? Don’t ask.”
While Colter finished his breakfast, Wolf asked the concierge to arrange a taxi to Red Square. After a wasted hour, their ride arrived.
“Lubyanka,” said Wolf. Their driver careened into Moscow’s traffic with abandon.
“Try to get us there in one piece,” added Colter under his breath.
Amazed by the constant stream of newer, expensive cars passing them, the two picked out Audis, Porsches, and Mercedes. Here a Range Rover, there an Escalade. Sleek black Zil limousines, imperious and reluctant to share the road, overtook them, hurrying past. Across the city, sunlight reflected from church cupolas clustered like gold onions amidst monolithic Stalinist towers from another era. Their street-level view of glass-sheathed office buildings and upscale shops was eye opening—New York’s Fifth Avenue with the Kremlin as a backdrop.
Skeletal cranes hovered over side streets blockaded by backhoes, cement trucks, and plodding construction crews altering Moscow’s face yet again. On the main streets the city’s pace was constant. A river of traffic in flood stage surged around islands of Romanov wedding-cake architecture converted to luxury condos or refurbished hotels for wealthy Muscovites and foreigners. The scent of new wealth was in the air—along with an unmistakable whiff of corruption.
Billboards that once trumpeted images of the Soviet Man, tractors, and apple-cheeked Amazons from collective farms now hawked Chanel, furs, and luxury cars. Instead of gigantic dour portraits of Lenin and Marx, passersby now hurried past ads for Rolex watches, Dior, Google, and L’Oreal cosmetics.
Wolf shook his head. “When I was a kid I read something about Khrushchev saying they would bury us. Man, he’s gotta be spinning in his grave.”
“Capitalism cometh, capitalism triumphs,” said Colter.
Having seen enough, Wolf sat back, sighed. “I suppose this is progress.”
“Better than the old days of the gulag.”
“Oh, that’s still out there somewhere.”
Colter tapped their driver’s shoulder, asked, “Speak English?”
“Nyet,” he grunted without looking. He brought the cab to a stop at a snow-packed curb near the plaza’s traffic circle and waved to the hulking structure. “Ah, Lubyanka.”
The Americans got out. Wolf paid the fare in rubles and added two dollars as a modest tip. He joined Colter on the sidewalk. Struck silent, they gazed at the yellowish stone monstrosity that had outlasted multiple masters.
“Pretty banal. Could be an ugly post office or government patent office,” said Colter. “Can you imagine what went on in there?”
From Lenin’s Cheka, to Stalin’s NKVD, to Andropov’s KGB and Putin’s FSB, the building had served as secret police headquarters for each in turn. In its basement cells, corridors, and cobbled courtyard, thousands had died at a tyrant’s whim or an informer’s whispered rumor.
Wolf said, “The scale of this place is overwhelming when you realize what they used it for. Blood ran in the gutters like rainwater. Lenin said it was better to arrest one hundred innocents rather than risk missing one enemy. Man, what an affront to the Russian people this is. I’d raze the place if it was up to me.”
The two crossed the street and strolled to a flat, polished granite slab topped with a jutting rock. Wilted bouquets killed by frost lay across engraved letters filled with snow. Colter reverently brushed away the flakes.
“Monument to victims of the Red Terror,” read Wolf from a guidebook. “I’m surprised they allowed this reminder to be put here.”
“Maybe a guilty conscience or the new Russia,” said Colter.
“Hey, Wolfman, on second thought this place bums me out. To hell with a tour or another taxi. How about we hike to Red Square?”
Wolf put away his tourist pamphlet. “Okay by me. There should be a couple of cafés along the way. We can stop and warm up.”
“Getting soft?”
“Hey, you want to jog all the way to Lenin’s Tomb? Listen to your elders. We’ll stop at a café and flirt with the old babushkas who run it.”
Wolf consulted the concierge’s map then nodded at a street hemmed with parked cars. “That’s Nikolskaya. We can follow that all the way to the State Museum on Red Square. That edible blonde at the front desk told me there’s a corner café two blocks from the Kremlin. You game?”
“C’mon, let’s go. Get the blood moving.”
They skipped the café and arrived in Red Square to play tourist.
Linking arms with Lenin and Stalin, Wolf posed with the Kremlin’s soaring Spasskaya Tower in the background. The two Bolshevik lookalikes were doing a brisk business at one hundred rubles per photo. Despite the chill, a knot of amused tourists was taking turns with the icons. Changing places with Colter, Wolf snapped a pi
cture of him with the dvoiniki—impersonators. A uniformed Czar Nicolas II wandered over and after paying the fee, Wolf took a selfie with the bearded royal imposter.
“Now that was surreal,” he said, emailing the photos to himself.
Though the wide, paved parade grounds had been swept clean of most snow, the base of the Kremlin’s imposing red wall wore a skirt of ice. A must-see for a curious Wolf and an indulgent Colter, Lenin’s Tomb proved a disappointment. Sandwiched in a constantly moving line of sightseers, they entered the dimly lit memorial, hustled past the waxen corpse, and were grateful to trade the polished stone crypt for sunlight.
“Lenin looked in better shape at Madame Tussauds in Amsterdam.”
“Creepy,” said Colter. “He looks more like a giant candle these days.”
They stayed long enough to watch the mausoleum’s changing of the guard. Robotic, jack-booted sentinels wearing greatcoats and over-sized saucer hats goose-stepped with fixed bayonets for camera-toting visitors.
Wolf and Colter tagged along with a tour group across the vast brick cobblestones to the famous GUM Department store with its vaulted glass indoor malls. At a tiny sweet shop the two ordered coffee laced with sugar and crème and gobbled overpriced bite-sized sandwiches. They went outside to shoot St. Basil’s Cathedral, a tourist favorite with its iconic Disneyesque domes, then headed for the nearest Metro station.
Belowground, the ornate underground platforms more than lived up to their reputation. The marble columns and frescoes amazed Wolf. More palace and art gallery than subway, the transit stations prompted them to hop on and off to explore each opulent stop. The train cars were clean, but worn.
“Lots of lookers and no hookers,” rhymed Wolf. “Not like New York or Chicago where you see spray paint on everything. It would almost be sacrilegious to tag these walls.”
Colter was studying the crowd. “If I didn’t know better,” he said, “I’d say we were being followed.”
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