by C. G. Cooper
He was about to bite into the second half of his daily treat when the trill of the phone mounted to the bulkhead snagged his attention.
One ring.
Then silence.
Probably just a wrong number. He went for the pastry when the phone rang again. Just once.
No coincidence now. He put down the pastry, his appetite gone, and walked over to the phone. He snatched it up after the first ring.
“Yes?” he answered in English instead of his customary French.
“Uh, yeah,” there was some shuffling in the background, like the caller was looking for a script. “We’re supposed to call, I mean, who calls anymore? Every other alert I’ve ever sent goes via email or text. How old is this anyway?”
The man on the boat winced at the caller’s lack of professionalism, but he offered no rebuke. “Yeah, it’s old. What does it say?”
It wasn’t the only alert he’d set up through the years. Tripwires were what they’d called them in the past. Now, he didn’t know. He wasn’t exactly out of the game, but close to it.
Once again, the caller paused to find what he was looking for. “It says Alpha Sierra Tango Niner Niner Three.”
The man on the boat froze cold. “Is that all?” he asked, though he already knew the answer.
“Yes, sir.”
The man on the boat placed the phone back in its cradle and took a seat at the kitchen table. America. How long had it been? He couldn’t remember exactly. That didn’t matter. What mattered was that the wire was tripped. The warning clear across the globe.
The man on the boat took exactly fifteen minutes and forty-three seconds to pack his things, make a call to the friend who could watch over the boat, and then hail an Uber on his phone. He’d thought this day would never come. The warning could mean many things, things he couldn’t worry about yet. One at a time. One and only one, that’s how he’d operated.
For now, that one thing was simple: It was time to go home.
Chapter Eighty-Seven
YEGOROVICH — THE ARCTIC, WESTERN CANADA — PRESENT DAY
The Russian president sucked in the freezing air, something his doctor would abhor. He was not a young man, but he felt young, invincible even.
“Mr. President, can I get you a coat, or a hat maybe?”
His personal secretary shivered though he wore ten more layers than the president.
“Have you ever heard of a man called Wim Hof?” Yegorovich asked, feeling the cold keenly. Soaking it in.
“No, Mr. President.”
“You should read about him. They call him the Ice Man. He’s learned to harness his body and mind in such a way that cold does not affect him. Extraordinary. I should like to meet this Wim Hof.”
“Yes, Mr. President.”
When he’d had enough of his secretary’s shivering, he motioned to the hatch and they both went inside.
The blast of warm ship’s air greeting them, sending a jolt of electricity through him that further energized his flow.
“You look like you have something to tell me,” Yegorovich said, stretching his legs like he’d just finished a run.
“A call is waiting in your stateroom, Mr. President.”
Some days he wished he never had to take a call again. He’d rather be out here, in the Arctic, where his country was currently towing a nuclear reactor to a location known to only a handful of Russians, including the president, of course. It was a small play into assumed American territory, but it could become more.
The stateroom was cramped compared to his usual lodgings, and the captain couldn’t stop apologizing, but Yegorovich didn’t care. It was a place to sleep, something he rarely did. He spent his hours roaming the ship, speaking with the sailors, and gazing out over the vast white nothingness.
“Will there be anything else, Mr. President?”
“No.” Then he reconsidered. “Er, yes. Tell the executive officer I would like a minute of his time, say in twenty minutes?”
The secretary nodded his understanding and disappeared. A good young man.
His personal phone, which looked like a 1980s relic, sat waiting on the bed. He punched in his memorized code and picked up the handset.
“Can you hear me?”
“I can.”
“I don’t trust this machine.”
“Maybe you should get with the times, buy a new phone from South Korea.”
The president grinned. “I’ll think about it. Now, tell me how it goes.” He imagined the man sitting in the back of a darkened car, peering through binoculars as he’d once done. Or maybe inside the recesses of an apartment, scope pressed to his eye.
“We’re in position.”
If he was in position, the mission should be done. “And the target?”
“There’s been a complication.”
Now he had Yegorovich’s attention. There was rarely a complication when dealing with this most trusted advisor. “What is the complication?”
The man told him, and the Russian president smiled wide. Why was it that whenever he encountered one of the Stokes clan, that unexpected opportunities seemed to come his way?
Chapter Eighty-Eight
WEST BERLIN — 1986
He could barely look at himself in the mirror, even to shave himself. He washed the razor in the scalding water and rinsed his face with cold. Even the frigid pipes did little to break through his fog.
I really screwed up, he thought, taking the hand towel and drying his face as he walked to the bed. His uniform waited; ribbons set. Trousers pressed. Shoes gleaming.
They had pictures. How did they have pictures?
Two nights before, he’d made the biggest mistake of his life, and he couldn’t even remember her name. He remembered the dress, and the shoes, and the smell of her perfume. Lilacs, yes.
The accusations came the next morning from none other than the head honcho himself, Edmond Flap. He’d simply called Stokes into his office, showed him the pictures, slid a confession across the desk, and sat there like the smug bastard he was. Stokes had been too shocked to reply. He’d stupidly signed the confession, believing it was the honorable thing to do. Now, he wasn’t so sure.
Once he’d signed, Flap filled him in on what would happen next.
“The Marine Corps is sending an officer in two days. You will be subject to a summary court-martial. Play along and I’m sure you’ll avoid jail time. No sense sending a Major of the Marines to the brig.” He paused then, as if goading Stokes to ask for the second option. When he didn’t get what he wanted, he went on. “If you fight this, I’m sure there will be serious repercussions. I don’t know how you Marines deal with infidelity, but if your haughty attitudes say anything about you, I’m sure you don’t exactly count it high on your list of life’s virtues.”
Stokes had had two days to think, plan, and think some more. Confined to quarters, there was nothing else to do. He didn’t even have access to a phone to call his wife. Maybe that was a good thing.
But Stokes was a good man, an honorable Marine, and at least used to be a faithful husband. He would tell his wife. No excuses. Just the truth. It was up to her what happened next. He would accept the consequences.
There was a knock at the door. Stokes glanced at his watch. They were close to thirty minutes early.
“Major Stokes?”
He thought he recognized the voice. “Yes?”
“Sir, it’s Staff Sergeant Gonzalo. Can I come in?”
Gonzalo was one of the embassy Marines. A good man. A comm guy with a penchant for fixing up old ham radios.
“Come in, Staff Sergeant.” Stokes was surprised to see Gonzalo in civilian attire when he entered. “Come to say goodbye?”
To say this goodbye would be awkward was an understatement.
“Sir, you need to come with me.”
“Sorry?”
Gonzalo pointed at the ceiling. He was telling Stokes that someone was listening. “The Corps sent some bullshit message about lost gear, sir.
They say you need to take care of it before you leave.”
Stokes hadn’t been issued any gear. He wasn’t under Marine Corps rule here, at least not technically.
“Should I come in uniform, or…”
“Civvies is fine, sir. This won’t take long.” Gonzalo sounded annoyed, like this duty was well beneath his station. His eyes said otherwise.
“Give me a minute.”
Though he was in civilian clothes, Gonzalo marched down the hallway like he was on the parade deck. Stokes had no idea where they were going. Down two flights of stairs. Down a hall. Hard right. Up another set of stairs. Stokes had never been in this section of the embassy. By the file cabinets along the sides and the dust on the seams, not many had.
Gonzalo reached for a doorknob and flipped on a light. “In here.”
If Stokes didn’t trust Gonzalo, he wouldn’t have gone in. But he did. It wasn’t just that they were both Marines. They’d spent time together. Stokes had even walked the staff sergeant through what he thought might be the best course for when the young Marine left the Corps the following year.
The door closed and the two men were left in a room the size of a janitor’s closet, though it was stacked with file boxes clear to the drop ceiling.
“What’s with all the cloak and dagger, Marine? Not that I don’t appreciate a stroll before walking the plank, but this could get you in a lot of trouble.”
“Don’t worry about me, sir. We Gunnery Sergeant Selects know how to take care of ourselves.”
“I hadn’t heard,” Stokes said proudly. “Congratulations, son. Marine Gunnies are the backbone of the Corps.”
“Thank you, sir, but that ain’t why I brought you here.” Gonzalo looked uncomfortable for the first time. “Sir, I need to ask you something. It’s a question no staff sergeant in their God-fearing right mind would ask a senior officer.”
“I think we’re well past that, Staff Sergeant. Why don’t you just ask.”
Gonzalo nodded, the surety returning to his face. “That night, when you stopped by the Marine House,” he paused, digging for the most respectful words, “that was the night it happened, right?”
A foreign embassy was a small place. Even smaller when you considered the tight knit group of Marines.
“It was.”
“Okay. And this girl, the one, you know, that it happened with—did you know her?”
Stokes was about to put his self-righteous foot in his self-righteous mouth. He somehow avoided that urge. “I’d never seen her before.”
“Okay. And when you guys, you know, when it happened, do you remember?”
What a strange question to ask. No sense dancing around it. Stokes was not the first, nor would he be the last Marine to have zero memory of a one-night stand.
“I’m embarrassed to say that I don’t remember, Staff Sergeant.”
Gonzalo smiled. Smiled.
“That’s what I thought, sir. You see, me and the other guys. Well, I won’t tell you who, cuz I don’t want them to get in no trouble, but we saw the pictures.” That was embarrassing. Gonzalo didn’t skip a beat. “Pretty girl. Real pinup type.”
“I’ll have to take your word for that. I don’t remember.” Stokes was about to request he be escorted back to his “cell” when Gonzalo brightened again.
“We know her, sir. I mean, well, now I gotta girl back home and all. We’re not real serious yet. Might be one day. But not while I’m over here. I don’t want none of this to get back to her. You understand?”
“I promise I won’t say anything.”
At that Gonzalo grinned. “Look, sir, sometimes this duty is great and sometimes it’s boring as hell. You know what I mean. Well, Marines gotta blow off some steam. And sometimes that steam has curves and kisses like a princess on prom night. One night, and this was probably a year ago, three of us are in the mood to blow off some steam. We find a place that looks nice. Respectable, you know? And the girl they hook me up with is gorgeous. You know what I mean?”
“I do.”
“Well, I’m sure she thinks I’m hammered. Maybe they think all Marines are like that. But I don’t drink much. Just a beer here and there. Wouldn’t you know it, I catch her pouring something into my drink. I asked her about it and she tried to distract me. Kissing me. Saying it’s just something to get us in the mood. When I don’t drink it, she gets mad. Starts yelling in German. Some big dude with a bald head comes in with a bat. She’s yelling in German, pointing at me, and I yell for my boys. We have a secret war cry, you know, in case there’s trouble. My boys come running. One of ’em is totally naked. Doesn’t care. Takes bald guy down with one hit. Girl is still screaming. We get the hell out of Dodge before the reinforcements show. Just in the nick of time, too. Bunch of thugs come running out onto the street as we screech away. Closest call I’ve had since reporting into Camp Lejeune.” Gonzalo looked at Stokes like it all made sense. “I didn’t want our boys to get tangled with that crew. So, I did some snooping. We make friends too, Major. I know you’re in the spy business, but I’ve learned a bit, too. One of them’s a good photographer. Took some great pics of the lady in question. Got a full dossier on the joint. It’s off limits for Marines now in case you were wondering.” Gonzalo reached into his pocket and unfolded a photograph. “Is this her?”
Stokes brought the photograph close. Recognition hit, the first since it happened.
“That’s her. But her hair, it’s blonde in the picture. I swear she was a brunette.”
“Blonde’s her real color,” Gonzalo explained.
Stokes handed the picture back. “If the connection you’ve made is that I got seduced by a prostitute, I’m embarrassed to admit you’re probably right. Not that I can remember paying her. Now, if you’ll take me back, I’m sure they’ll be looking for me soon.”
Gonzalo didn’t move. “It’s not about her being a hooker, sir. I mean, yeah, that looks bad, but that’s not it. I told you I did some digging. These spooks think we’re stupid cuz we’re Marines.” He slid another piece of paper out of his pocket and held it out for Stokes. That’s when Stokes saw the crusted blood on one of Gonzalo’s knuckles.
“How did you hurt yourself?”
Gonzalo grinned. “Had to get this information somehow. Sometimes it takes a little convincing.”
Stokes took the paper. Unfolded it, not understanding. He read it out loud. “Edmond Flap?” He looked at Gonzalo. “What does this mean?”
The grin turned to a straight flat frown. “That’s the name of the asshole who paid to set you up, sir.”
Chapter Eighty-Nine
VOLKOV — THE SOVIET WILDERNESS — 1982
Much had changed in a year. He’d learned the truth. A hard truth at first, but one he came to know as his past and his destiny. Alek the Wolf was with his people now. Well, one of his people. Orlov was his near-constant companion. Save the occasional trip his mentor took they were always together. Virtually inseparable.
They spent days and nights in their hidden lair, Alek reading to Orlov, the elder sometimes chiming in with tidbits from his experience.
They’d begun as the Lebensborn, a Nazi program right out of Satan’s handbook. The plan was twofold.
First, recruit willing women of Aryan descent—lineage traced back three generations. Second, match them with German soldiers of pure breeding. Third, voila—the Furhrer’s got another pure-bred baby for his twisted future. Lebensborn mothers and their offspring utilized the secret homes scattered across Germany and other countries, including Belgium, Norway, France, and Austria.
Next, “racially pure” children were found, hunted down, and kidnapped in the name of Nazi Germany. There would never be an accurate tally, but most experts agreed that at least 250,000 children were taken from their families. Many would never make it home. The repatriated children were taken from neighboring nations like Poland, who may have supplied some 100,000 children for Hitler’s need.
A smaller player who would soon get stuck in the mid
dle was Belarus. Some estimates said that near 30,000 children were taken from what would soon be a Soviet vassal state.
When the Second World War ended, some of the Belarusian children made their way home. What they received was far from a happy homecoming. With Stalin sinking his teeth into Belarus, fear was already high on the minds of the Belarusian people. When these “bastards” tried to return home, they were cast out, and some were even killed on sight. When Moscow caught wind of the attempted repatriation, the response was swift. Families were interrogated. Children, even those who’d never left, were taken and never returned. Word was that Stalin considered these poor Lebensborn youth tainted, damaged beyond repair. Some said he’d classified them as spies, though no witnesses ever testified to that fact.
But one thing remained, the plight of the unwanted Lebensborn who’d returned to Belarus dipped closer to doom.
“The man who saved us was my grandfather,” Orlov explained, looking deep into the fire as he told it. “He’d survived the worst of that war. Had seen the concentration camps. Even liberated three Lebensborn homes in Germany. At first, he was disgusted by what Hitler and his minions had done. Then he witnessed what mothers and fathers did to their own children.”
Alek sat entranced. “What did he do? How did he help the children?”
“He was a cunning man, my grandfather. He’d been a merchant before the war, worked as a trader for one of his cousins. He had contacts in every country along the Baltic and Black Seas. He called in every favor he had. He tracked down more children. He fed them. He clothed them. He gave them places to live. He became their father.” Orlov tamped more tobacco into his pipe, then lit it with a wooden match, sucking out the smoke with practiced grace. When he was happy with the pull, he continued. “I only saw my grandfather cry once. Too much vodka, you see. He wasn’t a drinking man, but that night something sparked the urge. He drank, then he cried. I found him at the kitchen table. I’d just learned the truth. Thought him a hero. I asked him what was wrong, this giant in my eyes, and he said, I’ll never forget this, he said, ‘I should have saved more. I should have saved more.’ His records were meticulous. I’ve reviewed them many times. My grandfather saved more than one thousand children in those first years. One thousand saved souls and he thought he should have done more.” Orlov shook his head in wonder. “He was a great man, my grandfather. I wish you could have met him, Alek.”