Devil's Move: A Thriller (Political Terrorism Technothriller)

by Leslie Wolfe

  The images in the background were heartbreaking. Pictures of women and children, almost completely naked and emaciated from prolonged malnutrition, filled the immense screen.

  “Unfortunately,” Singh continued, “no matter how generous the aid donations are, they barely last a day or two out there in Eastern Africa. Therefore, our organization has mandated me to bring a new approach to helping Eastern Africa fight hunger. That is through micro-credits for local farmers.”

  A wave of applause interrupted Singh’s speech. He waited politely for it to end, and then thanked the audience with a quick nod.

  “We are resolute in seeking the developed world’s support for our initiative. Our goal is to raise five million dollars that we can deploy in micro-credits in Eastern Africa—in Sudan, Eritrea, Somalia, Djibouti, and Ethiopia.”

  The slides changed to show farming operations somewhere in Africa.

  “There is immense potential, and five million dollars represents only a tiny drop of water in the torrid African desert. We are counting on your support to help us bring relief in the form and the amount needed to make a difference.” Singh clicked his remote, and the screen displayed a map of Europe with red dots marking most of Western Europe’s capital cities.

  “Our organization is coordinating fundraisers in each major capital city of Western and Central Europe. Each of these cities has the potential to raise five million dollars. You will hear our name a lot in the next few months. We have secured the aid of several major public figures and personalities: media, artists, and politicians. We are counting on your support to make our name and cause known to everyone who is interested in making the world a better place. Eastern Africa Development Fund is counting on you, ladies and gentlemen, on all of you to bring relief to millions of Eastern Africans in dire need of aid. We thank you for your generosity.”

  A sustained wave of applause continued even after Singh had left the stage.

  ...25

  ...Thursday, January 14, 11:09AM PST (UTC-8:00 hours)

  ...Fashion Valley Shopping Mall

  ...Mission Valley, California

  Alex was enjoying the perfect day for shopping, with the only impasse being which high-end fashion outlet she wanted to hit first. The Christmas craze was over, the sky was clear, the temperature was comfortable, and everything was perfect. Of course, her legs and abs were still sore after the regular, mandatory, and intense training sessions with Lou, but even that seemed irrelevant. Seeing her reflection in a store window, she stopped and allowed herself to take in that reflected image.

  She had turned thirty a few months earlier, and she looked great. She had started showing a little bit of that self-confident demeanor that she had always envied in others. Her back was straight, her shoulders relaxed, her head held up high. She was Alex Hoffmann, an executive with The Agency. She was no longer scared, broke, living paycheck to paycheck, and taking menial jobs. She wasn’t desperately applying for jobs of all kinds anymore, just to figure out a way out of the mousetrap she had been living in since she had left her parents’ home.

  Her parents...Involuntarily, her head bowed, and her reflected image lost its poise. They still haunted her memory. Her father’s lost, foggy eyes. Her mother’s fierceness, telling her, “Well, if that’s your decision, then learn to live with it. You may not take anything with you on your way out. You have one minute to leave this house. Oh, and don’t you ever come back.” Breathless, endless moments later, her mother shouting from her childhood home’s doorstep, “You forgot to leave your keys!”

  Her mother’s voice still resonated in her memory, making her shudder. Those were the phrases that had marked her existence. Within seconds, her situation had changed from a young woman looking to become independent and trying to walk on her own feet, to someone who’s back was pinned against the wall, who had no one in the world to turn to, and no family or home to go back to.

  Life had not been that good with her parents. Their constant arguments, the yells and the screams, the slammed doors and miserable evenings had marked Alex decidedly, motivating her to leave her home in search for a peaceful place to call her own. She had since struggled with trusting people, or with allowing herself to get close to anyone. On her own since she had turned eighteen, she had worked ardently to build a life for herself, worked to put herself through college and to get as far as she could possibly get from the city of her birth, Mt. Angel, Oregon, from her German heritage, and from her parents.

  Her reflection caught her eye again, this time not so flattering: her head still bowed, back hunched, as if she were carrying the weight of the world. Nah, just crappy post-Christmas blues, that’s all, she thought, correcting her posture. Christmas had always been tough, as thoughts of her parents were making her feel her loneliness even more. Yet, when her father gave her one of the two calls he gave her each year, on her birthday and around the holidays, she had nothing left to say. Being broke was not helping much with the holiday blues. She giggled at the thought. But now that’s over, so let’s enjoy it to the max. She cheered herself.

  Alex took a few moments to immerse herself in the present moment. She was ambitious, driven to the point of becoming consumed, self-sufficient, competent, creative, and adaptable. She had an amazing talent of adapting to any environment and integrating without any problems, a talent she had developed over numerous job changes and moves, looking for a good professional fit for her highly intelligent brain and impetuous personality.

  She had found that perfect fit. She had a fascinating, yet dangerous job that rewarded her curiosity and need for excitement and exploration. She still interviewed for jobs, but only to infiltrate organizations where owners or CEOs had suspicions of wrongdoings and wanted matters investigated with paramount discretion. She had been the director of technology for a drone manufacturing company for a few months, then the vice president of payment processing for a global bank for a few months more.

  Alex now had challenge and reward in her professional life beyond her wildest dreams. She had a nice home, a rental though, not very well furnished and still looking like a dorm room, only with much more technology. She had money in the bank, her own money, and that made her feel safe. She didn’t need to use The Agency’s limitless corporate card anymore to make ends meet. Her job paid really well. She had friends, and she had a new family in Tom Isaac, Claire, and the team. This past Christmas had been the most fun she’d had since she was nine. She was not alone anymore. Yup, I’ve done good, she thought, giving her reflection a wide smile and proceeding to visit Chanel’s outlet store.

  She looked into the store window at some fantastic bags and was absorbed in fashionable new trends rather than her own reflection. More reflections in the glass caught her eye though. The image of a person wearing a gray, dingy, hooded sweatshirt appeared several feet behind and to the left of her own reflected image. The hood covered his entire head, and large shades covered his face. His or hers, Alex couldn’t tell.

  The person’s figure was tiny, weighing most likely under 120 pounds. Wearing a fully zipped hoodie on such a sunny, warm day was a little bit weird. Pretending to admire a red shoulder bag from the newest collection by Chanel, Alex focused more on Hoodie’s reflection. It was a woman. The jaw line was delicate, the frame too frail for a man. She shrugged it off, blaming Lou and Tom for her recently acquired paranoia. “You must be aware of your surroundings at all times,” Tom had said.

  “Where is the attack going to come from? If you know, you live,” was Lou’s version of the same advice. Must be nothing, she dismissed, moving on to visit Ann Taylor.

  Minutes later, a new shopping bag in her growing collection, she had forgotten everything about Hoodie. Neiman Marcus was right there, and she had never really spent time in it. Just passed through a couple of times in a hurry. Her taste in clothing had improved after having shopped with her Agency colleague and fashion mentor Richard Fergusson, who had taught her how to dress for any occasion with class, while projecting any ima
ge she desired. She and Neiman had work to do.

  Look at that, Alex thought with excitement, I must try this out. Out of habit, she first checked the price tag of the long-sleeve tunic by Donna Karan. Holy shit! Almost a thousand bucks! She hesitated and started to turn away, then remembered her new reality. The hell with it, she thought, let’s live a little!

  She picked the blouse off the rack and headed for a fitting room. She opened the door to one of the fitting rooms, and just before closing it, caught a glimpse of Hoodie in her peripheral view. Shades still on and fisted hands buried deep into the sweatshirt’s belly pockets, the stranger looked even more out of place here, at Neiman Marcus, among lightweight silk gowns, evening cashmere dresses, and fine Italian leather shoes.

  Alex pulled the fitting room door closed and locked it. She didn’t rush to try on the tunic; her thoughts were stuck on Hoodie and why she kept appearing wherever she went. Was Hoodie following her? She spent a few minutes evaluating options, the thousand-dollar Karan outfit forgotten on its hanger. Leaving it behind with regret, she exited the fitting room, cautiously looking to spot Hoodie. The stranger was nowhere to be seen. Alex let out a long sigh but decided to head home anyway. Tom and Lou would be proud of me right now, but I am not, she thought. Damn, letting some two-bit stranger scare me off my shopping spree.

  Alex headed for the parking garage, carrying shopping bags in each hand. The day hasn’t been completely wasted, she thought, starting to feel good again. Turning the corner toward her parking section, she felt a painful nudge in her back. She turned and saw Hoodie holding a gun firmly pressed against her ribs.

  “Keep going,” Hoodie said in a low, menacing tone. “This time I will not hesitate.”

  This time?

  “Who are you?” Alex asked.

  “How very fitting of you to ask that question.” Hoodie nudged Alex with the gun, causing her to groan.

  Hoodie’s voice sounded eerily familiar, but Alex couldn’t place her. She turned to face her attacker, dropping her shopping bags quietly, and discreetly looking around. No one was there, just parked cars in semi-darkness. It was all up to her.

  “Only months after ruining my life, and you forget I ever existed,” Hoodie continued.

  “Kramer?” Alex suddenly remembered. Her first case, NanoLance, the drone manufacturer. Kramer was the first person to ever hold her at gunpoint. The first person who had tried to kill her. “I thought you were in jail. I remember putting you there.” Alex smirked, buying herself time to get grounded. She started moving slightly sideways to have room to move and place Kramer with her back against the concrete wall.

  She remembered Lou’s instructions. “Feet well-rooted into the ground, knees slightly flexed and springy, arms ready to strike. Think fast, don’t hesitate. Maximum prejudice in defense.” Yep, this lady deserved the maximum prejudice she was going to get.

  “Out on bail with one purpose in life,” Kramer said, lifting the gun to Alex’s face. “To make you pay.”

  “Umm...not today, bitch!” Fast as lightning, Alex prepared to deflect Kramer’s gun-holding hand away from her face and toward her left. She hit Kramer’s right hand with a quick blow of her right palm. Her left hand grabbed the gun and twisted it upward, forcing Kramer to release it. Alex’s right palm then came right back and hit Kramer’s chin with full force, making her head bounce back and hit the concrete wall behind her. Kramer fell to the ground, out cold.

  “Lou would be so proud,” Alex muttered, crouching to check the vitals on Kramer. She was still alive. “Lou will be so proud,” she corrected herself, “and there will be no end in sight to his smugness.”

  She pulled her cell and speed-dialed Tom’s number.

  “Hello,” the familiar voice answered almost immediately.

  “Tom? It’s me.”

  “How’s shopping?”

  “I’ve acquired some unwanted merchandise,” she answered. “Hey, are the NanoLance bastards out on bail?”

  A quick moment of silence, then Tom replied, “I have no idea. Are you all right? What happened?”

  “Nothing much, really, didn’t even break a fingernail,” she said, amusement seeping into her voice. “I ran into Kramer at the shopping mall, and she had a gun again. This lady loves her firepower. She’s out cold now, but I’ll need someone to come clean up this mess. Can you call our detective friends for me, please?”

  “Alex,” Tom said, then cleared his throat. Definite sign of concern when that happened. “This is not something to laugh about. I am glad you’re OK, but this is serious. I need to make some calls and figure out what’s going on. In the meantime, why don’t you join Steve in the Virgin Islands for a quick vacation?”

  “What? No,” Alex said, determined. “I’m not letting this incident scare me away. I will not run. What’s my life gonna be like if I run away every time one of these bastards resurfaces? Plus, I enjoyed it. I owed her a good beating from the last time we met. She left me locked in that bunker to die, so she had it a long time coming you know.”

  “This is not negotiable,” Tom said in his I-am-the-boss-and-I-will-act-like-it voice. “You need to give me time to sort this out, and I want to make sure you’re safe while I get things figured out.”

  Silence. Alex did not respond. A few days in the sun wouldn’t hurt at all, and she always loved spending time with Steve.

  Kramer moaned and started to move, coming about. Alex turned, and with a quick kick in the neck, knocked her out cold again.

  “Look, it’s Thursday,” Tom continued. “Hop on a plane, get down there, spend the weekend. You can come back on Monday if you like, or you can fly back with Steve.”

  “All right.” She caved. There was logic to Tom’s request, and the perspective of a weekend in the islands was not an easy offer to decline. “But I’m not scared, and I’m not running, so you know.”

  “Yes, yes, I know.” Tom chuckled. “Head straight for the airport as soon as the cops take Kramer. No packing, no going by the house, no nothing. Buy some new stuff from the airport; it’s on me.”

  ...26

  ...Friday, January 15, 9:17AM Local Time (UTC+3:00 hours)

  ...The Kremlin

  ...Moscow, Russia

  Russian President Piotr Abramovich greeted Minister of Defense Mikhail Nikolaev Dimitrov with open arms and a full glass of vodka, despite the early morning hour.

  “Mishka,” Abramovich said, hugging the man in a rare gesture of benevolence, “have one with me. Let’s drink to Russia’s glory.” He handed Dimitrov the glass.

  Dimitrov took the glass and inhaled the cold alcohol vapor. “To Russia the great,” he cheered and downed the liquor.

  “To Russia the great,” Abramovich followed.

  Dimitrov’s senses perked up. Abramovich was unusually friendly, a state of mind just as dangerous as one of his famous rages, because it could change without notice or reason. One wrong step, one uninspired comment, and he could be thrown into the depths of Siberia, never to see his family again. Fuck...

  “Tell me about your plan,” Abramovich said. “When can I have my old KGB back?”

  He had suggested the idea to Abramovich only a few days earlier. His current friendliness was an indication of how much the president had liked his idea. Now he had to make it happen. Dimitrov truly believed Russia deserved to recover its long-lost glory and restore order, progress, and control within its boundaries. Maybe this was the way to make that happen. And hopefully it would please the unstable alcoholic he had the privilege to work for.

  “Yes, of course I have a plan,” Dimitrov said, unbuttoning his overcoat. The vodka was heating his blood, making him sweat under the heavy winter astrakhan coat he was wearing.

  “Great, I knew you wouldn’t let me down,” Abramovich said, reaching to fill Dimitrov’s glass again. “When do we start operations?”

  “We’ve already started. Vitya is organizing the network for his first assignment. On my end, I’m assembling a joint unit, FSB and SVR, and w
e’re going to name it Joint 7th Division. It will be entirely dedicated to covert operations. Our own black-ops unit. The unit commander will report directly to me, bypassing the heads of the FSB and SVR.”

  “Why joint?” Abramovich asked. “Why not completely new, independent?”

  “KGB disbanded to form two pieces in 1991; that’s how FSB and SVR came to be, you remember. That’s where all the talented operatives are, in one or the other of those organizations.”

  “So we are going to join the two to bring KGB back?”

  “No. In that case, everyone would know what we’re planning. We’re just going to handpick the best of the best operatives from each organization and assign them to the new Joint 7th Division, unseen and unnoticed. FSB and SVR will continue to exist as cover for the real intelligence black ops. Vitya will lead the 7th.”

  “Good, good,” Abramovich said, deep in thought.

  “Any concerns? Anything you don’t like about this plan?” Dimitrov probed.

  “It’s the name. Why the 7th Division? What are the other six?”

  “They don’t exist, gospodin prezident, but everyone will think they do. They’ll waste their intelligence resources trying to find them.”

  “Da! I like that! What are you planning to do next? When will you start making the bastards pay?”

  “Soon, gospodin prezident. Our first Joint 7th Division mission is well underway, and it will make you proud.”

  ...27

  ...Friday, January 15, 9:22PM Local Time (UTC+1:00 hours)

  ...Kurhaus of Baden-Baden

  ...Baden-Baden, Germany

  Vitaliy Kirillovich Myatlev relished in the VIP treatment he was offered every time he visited the majestic Kurhaus Casino and Resort in Baden-Baden. Secular building, famous for two centuries for its fine dining, excellent amenities, and high-roller gambling in discrete, full-service settings, Kurhaus knew how to welcome its regulars. Especially the very rich ones like Myatlev.