by Dale Brown
Well, this was interesting, he thought, watching her approach. Whose emissary was this pretty but rather daunting Amazon? It had to be someone official. The license plates on that black sedan belonged to the number series reserved solely for government use. He made a small gesture, signaling his security guards to stand down. Relaxing slightly, they took their hands off their weapons and politely stepped aside.
“Can I help you, Major . . . ?” he asked.
“Chernova,” she said brusquely, flashing an FSB identity card. “And yes, Mr. President, you can.” She nodded toward the waiting sedan. “Minister of State Security Kazyanov asks that you accompany me to his office.”
Truznyev raised an eyebrow at that. Of all the possibilities, he would have put Kazyanov near the bottom. Russia’s intelligence chief was the prototypical yes-man, the last person he would have expected to risk contacting Gennadiy Gryzlov’s deposed rival. “Viktor wants a meeting? At this hour?” He frowned. “Why not simply phone me?”
“The matter is of some urgency,” Chernova told him. She lowered her voice. “And discretion.”
Truznyev pondered that. Given the internecine rivalries Gryzlov habitually encouraged among his subordinates, it was likely that Kazyanov’s phone calls were monitored—either by ambitious underlings or by others in the Kremlin. If the minister of state security truly wanted to avoid calling unwelcome attention to a clandestine meeting with someone out of official favor, arranging it this way made sense.
But be cautious, Igor, he told himself. Don’t jump to conclusions. While he was confident that Tarzarov’s anger with him could be managed, there was no denying that this sudden invitation to Kazyanov’s lair—once his own—was unsettling. On the other hand, he thought, was it likely that Tarzarov would trust the intelligence chief to handle his dirty work? He shook his head. That was absurd. Of all the men in Gryzlov’s inner circle, Kazyanov was the one the old Kremlin power broker viewed with utter contempt.
“Is this an official matter?” Truznyev probed further.
Major Chernova shook her head. “No, Mr. President,” she said matter-of-factly. “I am authorized to say that the minister requests this meeting as a personal favor ‘between old friends of long service to each other.’ He has also instructed me to tell you that it will be ‘a strictly unofficial consultation on certain unfortunate current events.’”
Truznyev smiled inwardly, amused by the pompous phrasing so typical of the other man. In truth, the only thing he trusted about Viktor Kazyanov was his abject willingness to toady to those in power. On the other hand, he thought, maybe Gryzlov’s hyperaggressiveness and manic behavior were finally beginning to rattle those closest to him. If nothing else, the failed attempt to assassinate Poland’s president must have shown them that they were led by a madman. If so, some of the rats who’d helped oust him as president in favor of the younger man might be scouting around for a safe way off Gryzlov’s foundering ship of state. Which meant putting up with Kazyanov’s mewling might be worth his while.
He nodded to the major. “Very well, I accept the minister’s invitation.” But there was no point in being stupid about this, he decided. Some precautions were clearly in order. He turned to Perov. “You can take the car to my apartment, Leonid. Wait for me there,” he said. “Tell Katya I’ll call her later.”
Expressionlessly, Perov nodded. “Tell Katya” was a code phrase meaning “follow me in case of trouble.” “Yes, Mr. President,” he murmured. “Your orders will be obeyed.”
With that, Truznyev allowed Chernova to usher him to her waiting sedan. Politely, she held the rear passenger door open for him.
“Thank you, Major,” he said with a smile.
“It is my pleasure, Mr. President,” she said sincerely, suddenly appearing much less staid and somber and far more . . . approachable.
Still smiling, Truznyev slid into the backseat. There were worse prospects in life, he thought smugly, than a quiet drive with a beautiful young woman in uniform. If the truth be told, he was growing somewhat bored with his current mistresses. Perhaps it was time to branch out again. Besides, seducing one of Kazyanov’s underlings might prove useful as well as pleasurable.
But instead of climbing in beside him, Chernova closed the car door firmly and walked around to get in the front, next to the driver. Taken aback, Truznyev frowned. What was this? Abruptly, he realized he was not alone in the passenger seat.
A big, beefy man in an immaculately tailored suit nodded politely to him. “Dobriy vyecher. Good evening.”
Truznyev’s mouth fell open in surprise. Who the devil was this clown? Alarmed, he reached for the door handle and then felt a sharp, stabbing pain in his thigh. Looking down, he saw that the big man had just jabbed him with a hypodermic. Suddenly he felt dizzy, as though he were falling into a bottomless pit. His vision blurred. His weirdly numbed fingers fumbled with the door handle. Christ, he thought in panic, I have to get out of this car. I have to signal Perov for help. But it was too late. The world grew darker with astonishing speed and then everything went completely black.
“And now dobroy nochi,” the big man said coolly. “Good night.” With one large hand, he held the unconscious Igor Truznyev upright in the seat.
The black sedan pulled away and drove up the ramp and out of the Dominion Tower garage.
TWENTY-SEVEN
ON THE THIRD RING ROAD, MOSCOW
THAT SAME TIME
The black sedan turned right onto a wide, six-lane boulevard—heading toward the Third Ring Road, which circled around Moscow. Hotels, shopping malls, and apartment buildings blurred past in a succession of twinkling lights seen through a curtain of softly falling snow.
In the front passenger seat, Samantha Kerr took off her peaked officer’s cap and ran her fingers quickly through her short-cropped dyed hair. She put her radio earpiece back in and clicked the transmit button. “Firebird to Gray Wolf. We’re on the move.”
The driver of their chase car, posted several blocks back, radioed back. “Understood, Firebird. We have eyes on you.”
She glanced back across the seat at Marcus Cartwright. The big man had just finished fastening a seat belt to keep Truznyev from slumping over. Instead, the Russian lolled back against the headrest with his mouth sagging open. “Everything okay back there?”
Cartwright nodded. He had his fingers on the former Russian president’s wrist, checking his pulse. “No problems so far. His pulse is strong. His respiration appears normal.”
“That’s a relief,” Sam said. “This guy’s a pig, but I know Mr. Martindale would rather we delivered him alive instead of as a corpse.”
The drug they’d used on Truznyev was a Scion-crafted derivative of fentanyl—a fast-acting opioid analgesic. While there were a range of dangerous potential side effects, medical specialists who’d studied what was known of the Russian’s health history had been fairly confident he could tolerate the drug’s effects without suffering permanent damage. It wouldn’t keep him unconscious for more than an hour or two, but by then they could arrange for longer-term sedation under more carefully controlled conditions.
Their sedan swung onto the access road that paralleled the main Ring Road and accelerated.
“Gray Wolf to Firebird,” the chase car radioed. “You have company. A black Mercedes S-Class. The plate number is ‘A 145 KH.’”
Sam Kerr frowned. That was Truznyev’s personal car. She turned back to Cartwright. “His goons are following us.”
“You’re sure?” the big man asked mildly.
“Yep,” she said flatly. “The turnoff to his apartment was three blocks back. They blew right past it.” She frowned. “He must have slipped a code phrase in when he gave them their orders.”
“Probably,” Cartwright agreed. He pursed his lips. “So Comrade Truznyev here has finely honed survival instincts. That is too bad, though not entirely unexpected.” He shrugged his shoulders. “Still, it’s a shame when an operation gets messy.”
He leaned fo
rward, speaking to the driver. “We’ll move to Plan B, Davey.”
“Got it, Mr. Cartwright,” David Jones said, carefully noting street signs as they flashed past in the darkness and falling snow. At the right moment, he exited the Ring Road, turning onto a broad, tree-lined street flanked by well-maintained four- and five-story-high apartment buildings. The black Mercedes limousine swung in behind them, now just about ten car lengths back.
Sam Kerr pulled out her smartphone and tapped in a short text message: KRAK ENG. Then, carefully holding her finger hovering over the send button on the screen, she kept her eyes fixed on the side-view mirror. “We’re prepped and good to go,” she told Cartwright and Jones.
Several blocks down the avenue, they turned again, this time into a narrow, dingier street running behind some of the apartment buildings. Trash dumpsters, mounds of blackened snow and frozen slush, and parked cars lined both sides of the road. A small orange reflector taped to the outside of one of the dumpsters gleamed brightly in their headlights.
They drove on past.
Behind them, the Mercedes accelerated, obviously moving to close the gap now that they were caught in a confined space without room for any fancy escape maneuvers. Sam’s eyes narrowed as she began counting down, watching the headlights of the car behind as it drew closer. “Three. Two. One,” she murmured, and then pushed the send button.
Fifty meters behind them, a small, soda-can-size plastic tube packed with C-4 dangled from the side of the marked dumpster. The Krakatoa-shaped demolition charge detonated with a blinding flash. A massive shock wave slammed straight into a thin, inverted copper plate set at the mouth of the plastic tube—instantly transforming it into a mass of molten metal flaring outward at hypersonic speed. Hit broadside, Truznyev’s black Mercedes was blown apart, ripped into a blazing heap of pulverized metal and plastic.
“Problem solved,” Samantha Kerr said evenly. She slipped her phone back into her uniform coat and turned back to Cartwright. “But the heat’s going to come down hard on this one, Marcus. I think it’s high time I disappeared. Along with the rest of my team.”
The big man nodded. “Quite true, Ms. Kerr. Once we part company at the rendezvous point, activate your exfiltration plan.” He offered her a crooked grin. “After all, there’s no point in spoiling the beauty of the thing by lingering too long where you’re likely to be wanted . . . at least by the Russian security services. Davey and I will take our sleeping friend here the rest of the way.”
Minutes later, their sedan turned onto the M2 Motorway, heading south out of Moscow. Police and fire sirens wailed in the distance, converging on a plume of oily black smoke rising into the night sky.
OSTAFYEVO INTERNATIONAL BUSINESS AIRPORT, SOUTH OF MOSCOW
AN HOUR LATER
Ostafyevo lay roughly twenty-seven kilometers south of Moscow’s Third Ring Road. Originally owned by the Russian Ministry of Defense, the airport was now operated by Gazpromavia, a subsidiary of Gazprom, the giant, state-controlled natural-gas corporation. Much smaller than any of the other Moscow-area airports, it was used mostly by chartered flights and by corporate jets owned by favored international and domestic companies. Its two-thousand-meter-long concrete runway could accommodate aircraft ranging from Learjets to Boeing 737-700s and Sukhoi Superjet-100s.
Marcus Cartwright’s black sedan, again carrying its regulation license plates, pulled up alongside a small but elegant, mirrored-glass terminal. Even this late, all the lights were on. Ostafyevo ran on international time, welcoming flights from Europe, Asia, and the Americas at all hours. The big, beefy man, back in his Klaus Wernicke persona, climbed out from behind the steering wheel. With a smile, he handed the keys and a fat tip to one of the hovering valets. “Put my automobile in long-term parking, please, Dmitry,” he said. “I may not be back for a few weeks.”
With a pleased grin, the young Russian made the banknotes disappear. “At once, Herr Wernicke,” he replied.
A utility van pulled in behind the sedan and David Jones got out. He moved around to the back of the van and yanked open its rear doors, revealing two large crates. Each crate already bore inspection seals from Russia’s Federal Customs Service. Imperiously, the slender man waved a handful of waiting airport cargo handlers over. “These go to Herr Wernicke’s private jet,” he said. “But be careful with them, mind you. They’re fragile.”
They hurried over and began muscling the crates out of the van and onto the snow-dampened pavement.
Leaving the matter in the short Welshman’s capable hands, Cartwright entered the terminal to handle the rest of the formalities for their departure. He moved straight to the main desk. An airport official in a jacket and tie looked up at his approach. “Welcome to Ostafyevo, Herr Wernicke.” He checked his watch. “Right on schedule, as always.”
Cartwright laughed. “We Germans are nothing if not precise,” he said in Teutonic-accented Russian.
“I hope your visit to our country was pleasant?” the Russian asked obsequiously. It was widely known that the Kremlin smiled on Tekhwerk, GmbH, thanks largely to its role in supplying otherwise-difficult-to-obtain Western high-technology equipment useful for both civil and military applications.
“Extremely pleasant,” Cartwright told him. “And very profitable.” He slid a folder across the desk. “I trust that you will find my shipping and customs paperwork in good order?”
With a pleased smile, the Russian smoothly pocketed the sealed envelope discreetly tucked away inside the folder. “Everything is in perfect form, Herr Wernicke,” the official assured him. “As always.” He checked a monitor on the desk. “In fact, your baggage is being loaded aboard the aircraft now. There should be no trouble with an on-time departure.”
“Even with this snow?” Cartwright asked. “I thought there might be a weather delay.”
The airport official’s smile widened. “All the runways have been thoroughly plowed and swept, Herr Wernicke. Remember, while you Germans may be the most punctual of all peoples, we Russians certainly know how to handle a few centimeters of snow.”
Not long afterward, Marcus Cartwright and David Jones lounged comfortably aboard a nine-passenger Dassault Falcon 50 corporate jet—flying west out of Russia. Behind them, in the aircraft’s baggage hold, a heavily sedated Igor Truznyev slept on, securely strapped inside a shipping crate.
TWENTY-EIGHT
A PRISON CELL
THE NEXT DAY
Slowly and painfully, Igor Truznyev clawed and fought his way back up out of oblivion. He opened his eyes and then closed them again for a moment, feeling light-headed and utterly disoriented. He tried to move and found it impossible. Where was he? What had happened? Had he been in some kind of accident? Was this a hospital?
But then his memories flooded back. The memories of Kazyanov’s strange invitation. Of climbing into that sedan. And then the sharp sensation of that needle plunging into his thigh. He swallowed in sudden panic. He’d been drugged!
His eyes opened. He took a deep, shuddering breath and regretted it straightaway. It was cold. So cold that the very air seemed full of ice crystals that stabbed and hacked and slashed all the way down his throat and into his straining lungs.
Truznyev stared down at himself. Clad in a threadbare, sweat-soaked shirt and rough, ill-fitting trousers, he was strapped upright on a tiled metal table. Everything else around him was almost completely dark, with only glimmers of light seeping under a heavy steel door set in a dank concrete wall. Beyond the ragged sound of his own labored breathing and the thudding of his heart, there was only silence—an oppressive, all-encompassing silence like that of the grave. Fear crawled down his spine.
This was no hospital.
He had seen places like this before—places where soulless, cold-eyed men tortured other men and women, systematically reducing them to broken, barely human husks emptied of all knowledge and hope. He had been one of those cold-eyed men himself, in his younger days.
Straining futilely against the straps th
at bound him in place, Truznyev fought to regain control. This is a mistake, he told himself. A terrible mistake. Or maybe, he thought wildly, it was only some horrible nightmare.
And then, with a harsh, rippling crackle of electricity, a spotlight flared on—spearing him in its stark white glare, as though he were a cockroach caught crawling along a kitchen countertop. Squinting painfully against the pitiless, blinding light, he could only blink away tears.
“You are a traitor, Igor Ivanovich Truznyev,” a flat, emotionless voice said, from the shadows behind the light.
All Truznyev could make out of the other man were a pair of highly polished boots. He swallowed and then tried to speak. “That is a lie,” he stammered. “I am no such thing. I—”
“You will be silent,” the voice said brutally. “Your crimes are no longer hidden. They stand revealed for all to see. Last year, at your orders, Ukrainian terrorists murdered numerous loyal Russian officers. Under your direction, these same terrorists committed acts of sabotage designed to drag this country into a war with Poland under false pretenses. Hundreds of our countrymen were killed in this war and thousands more were wounded. Tens of billions of rubles of valuable military hardware—missiles, aircraft, armored vehicles, and artillery—were lost. And then, simply to camouflage your role in luring the Motherland into this disastrous conflict, your agents murdered a Chinese intelligence officer and planted evidence suggesting Beijing’s involvement. You were willing to destroy decades of delicate diplomatic rapprochement—to set us again in enmity against a nuclear-armed neighbor—and for what? Just to try to save your own skin.”
Sweating now, despite the cold, Truznyev shook his head repeatedly, trying desperately to signal his denial of each accusation as it was made. Inwardly he felt mounting despair as the litany of his crimes unfolded, including details, dates, and names known only to a few of those he had covertly manipulated and corrupted—many of whom he had believed were dead, murdered at his own orders. Someone had betrayed him, but who?