“So you decided to drop her off on a street corner in Moscow. The KGB would eventually notice her skills.”
“Actually, it’s not much different than that. She was up for it; didn’t take any convincing. She wanted something and someplace new 5,000 miles from the horror she had enveloped herself within in New York. We built an elaborate, yet sparse backstory for her in Novosibirsk. It wasn’t hard to find a family that had been killed or disappeared at the right time. And it wasn’t hard to pick orphanages and foster homes that have changed hands or burned down. She basically showed up one morning alone, tired and hungry on the doorstep of a church school that took her in and cleaned her up. Her special abilities soon put her on a fast track and few asked about her background because of her skill level; her potential.
“She showed great promise in language comprehension and strategic concepts, as well as tactical implementation. She was a natural. And the KGB found her by the time she was 18.” Seibel smiled again. He was proud of what she had done. His crowning achievement.
The two of them looked at each other for a few moments. The game had changed again.
“A few minutes ago you mentioned finding me. Where were you going with that?”
Seibel pushed off the wall. It was a natural movement. He then turned away from Preacher, rubbing his forehead. This was unnatural for him. Lance was first to notice it and looked down at Preacher with furrowed brow. The ghost's procerus muscle tugged at his eyebrows. Preacher read the look. After all, it was his face up there. “Right after we were introduced to a young girl in western New York, we decided to do a database search into other violent crimes committed by youthful offenders. There were thousands, so we narrowed the search to killings, murders. One such suspicious event that popped up on the radar screen was a questionable suicide by a man in Fort Worth, Texas. The guy was such a prick, that no one looked too closely into the details. Nothing could be proven, because the scene was so clean, but it did raise a couple of eyebrows.
“Frank Wyrick was dispatched to collect data on the minor involved, one Lance Porter Priest, age 12. He came back with some interesting information about the boy.”
“Jesus. When I was 12?” Preacher said the words, but Lance was doing the watching.
“So, you can imagine our utter surprise when your name flashed before our eyes again nine years later. Wyrick was dumbfounded when I called him with the news.” Seibel smiled as he said the words, but he had turned away from Preacher again. Another unnatural move for Seibel. This time, Preacher didn’t know how he did it, because the whole hovering, floating, going out of body thing was supposed to show him only what he could see with his own eyes. But, sure enough, Lance could see Seibel’s face as he turned away from Preacher and looked down the hall to the doorway to the street above.
The hovering ghost glanced down the hall as well and saw the flash of movement in the darkness. It was tiny, almost imperceptible, but it happened nonetheless. What happened next took a total of six seconds.
Preacher burst up from the bench and exploded into Seibel, using his forearm to crash into his mentor’s neck from behind. The effect of the blow was a violent collision of Seibel’s head into the brick wall. He was stunned, but not out. As he started to slump to the floor, Preacher helped him get there quicker by delivering a chop to the right side of Seibel’s neck and shoulder. The CIA legend was out cold as he hit the tiled floor. Before the older man completed his descent, Preacher turned and dove for the doorway into the small laundry area. As he did, he heard the tink-tink-tink of three metal objects striking the wall. They were fired from what sounded like an air gun, which meant they were tranquilizer darts. Damn.
Lance wanted to stay there and see who came down the hall. His best guess was Fuchs. But Preacher pulled him into the laundry. You see, the slow walk through Augsburg on mostly deserted winter streets to this destination was not chance. Preacher led Seibel here because he knew two secrets about this basement in this apartment building.
Like his childhood obsession with hide and seek, Lance had prowled the streets of Augsburg two years earlier when he was stationed here listening to radio transmissions emanating from the Soviet Union. He learned about secret places, tunnels and doors, like the one in the laundry leading up a flight of stairs to the main level. Once up the stairs, Preacher used the second secret he had discovered. The office on the main floor had a hidden door behind the wall near the desk that led down a tight spiral staircase to a service tunnel below the street. The stairway was probably built four or five centuries earlier.
Preacher climbed the stairs and closed the door behind him. Stepped into the office and opened the hidden door to the staircase, closing it behind. He was in the sewage level before anyone following him even made it up the small hidden staircase from the laundry.
He felt his way along the low, narrow tunnel for 200 feet and found the set of stairs he sought. It was tight like the others, and at the top he found a door that led into another apartment building. He silently stepped into a hallway, tiptoed down the hall and stepped out a rear door. He’d done this three times before, but usually late at the night or early morning.
Once outside the rear door of the apartment building, he climbed into a Volvo idling at the curb. Marta was behind the wheel. Her smile was delightful.
Chapter 29
Thursday, March 19, 1992 — Moscow, Russia
A brief trilogy of thunderous explosions brought fear and panic and destruction. The first ripped through the center of an apartment building, basically blowing out the core of the structure and slicing the east side of the building off. No one was killed in the blast.
The second explosion blew apart a dozen or so offices on the ground, second and third floors of a government office building approximately six minutes after and four and a half miles from the smoking hull of the first explosion. Again, no one was killed in the empty building.
The third explosion five minutes later was deadly. It occurred on the underside of a parked sedan with two men inside. The amount of material used in the charge was sufficient to blow a crater in the road, send the car 210 feet to the north and incinerate the vehicle's occupants. The buildings surrounding the blast were damaged extensively. However, no one else was killed.
Smoke billowed into the air above each site. Sirens wailed. Police and military were placed on the highest alert. Checkpoints were established in grids around each incident. The city of Moscow was shut down and shut off by this calamitous triple act of terrorism.
Within minutes, the media began talking about the blasts in relation to the three explosions from the year before, which were also separated by only minutes, but were thousands of miles apart in Zagreb, Chechnya and Cairo. Investigators examining the sites would all find traces of the same materials, devices and accelerants used in the bombings from the previous year. It was obvious to anyone that the bombings were related. The methods, the directional shaping of the explosions, the source of detonations, were all similar. They all pointed to one conclusion – this was the work of the same bomber. This was an attack on Moscow, the heart of Russia.
And within hours, video and grainy images surfaced referencing one individual – a bomb maker named Anwar, who fought against Soviet soldiers under the name Mohamed in the mountains of Afghanistan. He was implicated because he had obviously done this. He had finally attacked Russia in retaliation for the Soviet Union’s invasion of Afghanistan in 1979. He was a fighter for jihad, a Mujahedeen. He was a known killer of hundreds of Red Army soldiers. He was an expert in explosive devices detonated by remote, by fuse and by radio. He was a murderer.
The media and law enforcement focused on the three Moscow bombings. In doing so, they missed three others in the country. At a private airport 60 miles southeast of the Russian capitol, a Learjet was incinerated from within via an accelerant that raced through and ravaged the aircraft's fuselage as it sat parked in a secure hangar. The hangar was empty. No one was hurt in the flash fire.
They also missed a mountain dacha in the hills outside of Stepantsminda, Georgia that collapsed and avalanched down the side of a mountain when the pylons holding it in place from below were blown out at their metal roots. The multi-million dollar structure was a total loss. Good thing it was empty. No one killed.
The final bomb ignited to create smoke and flames on the shimmering waters of Sevastopol Bay on the Black Sea. The 110-foot sailboat burst into flames and lit up the marina. It was a total loss with crews unable to reach it before it burnt to the water. Good thing no one was on board.
To the casual observer of the evening news, the explosions did indeed appear to be the work of terrorists attacking mother Russia. For the more informed, the attacks could all be directly tied to one individual – Kirill Cherzny. Each of the properties, structures and vehicles destroyed by the bombings were his. Only those very informed about Cherzny’s extensive holdings would be able to piece all this together. Marta Sidorova and her partner Lance/Preacher Priest knew more about the Russian oligarch’s operations than most, a lot more.
Marta knew she could drive, or better, herd Cherzny to a location of her choosing by eliminating his options. It was a gamble, but she had a secret weapon. This weapon just happened to be an expert at planning, building, placing and detonating bombs.
Preacher wanted desperately to help Marta get out of the mess she found herself in when she set her sights on Cherzny. But he also quite selfishly wanted to put on a public display that could only be traced back to Anwar. Strategically planting his name and image with certain people and specific locations helped implicate the terrorist.
They found a beautiful alliance in their consolidated union. The two of them had still not talked about the 800-pound gorilla in the room. Preacher kept his conversation with Seibel to himself. He didn’t care if they withheld a few things from each other. Heck, if she was withholding the fact that she was not born in Russia, he was keeping his little floating other self thing a secret from her. In many ways, they were like any couple in that aspect – they kept parts of themselves secret from their loved one. Nothing strange there.
The fact that they were lovers on the run from the former KGB, the CIA and the tentacles of a Russian kingpin made their relationship a little more interesting than others. But again, life is strange.
Preacher stood exactly 172 feet from the house at the center of a large compound in the northeast section of central Moscow. He hid behind a towering oak tree in a garden area to the east of the house. From his vantage point, he could see both the front and rear entrances to the compound. It should be any minute now. Cherzny’s vehicle had pulled in two minutes earlier. The head honcho was inside with security personnel stationed at the front and rear doors. It wouldn’t be long until others arrived.
Marta was nowhere in sight. That was because she was inside. This home, beautiful by any standards, was the residence occupied by Cherzny’s longtime mistress Anna. He moved her here three years earlier for several reasons. One of the important reasons being the underground infrastructure he was able to construct. The home could be transformed into a base of operations if necessary. After the explosions now 40 minutes old, it was necessary.
Inside, Cherzny composed himself in the front foyer. He looked into the full-length mirror on the wall. He didn’t like what he saw. Cherzny was shaken by the events of the last hour. He frowned at himself and exhaled. He was in control and would find out who did this and make them pay. They always paid.
The powerful oligarch walked down the hall to the kitchen that had a small dining room attached. Anna was sitting at the table. She too looked shaken. He looked at her and followed her glance to his right, turning his head to look into the kitchen. Marta leaned against the counter with a gun in her right hand and her left index finger pressing a small earphone to her left ear. She wore a black wig and fake beard. Cherzny opened his mouth to speak, but Marta raised her finger to stop him. She turned her head to listen and then turned back to him.
“Go ahead, please.” She was quite polite.
“I was going to say that I assume you killed Ivan.”
“Anna’s bodyguard?” She asked.
“Yes.”
“Yes I did. It was quick and painless. More mercy than he deserved.”
Cherzny turned to Anna. “No need to worry my dear. She is not here to harm you. It is me she wants. She is fascinated with me for reasons I can't fathom.” He took a step toward the dining table, very confident for someone so close to death. “And your being here certainly confirms my first impression of all this destruction today.”
Marta smiled. “You thought it was others, competitors at first. Probably Karlov. After him, you thought of the Kiev gang. I know very well the way you think through a challenge.”
Cherzny furrowed his brow at that. The look gave him away. She was correct. “No. I knew it was you. Not acting alone of course." He pointed to the radio headset as evidence of her reliance on a team to put all this in motion.
Marta shrugged, “Regardless, your operations have been dealt a serious blow tonight. You have lost huge amounts of data in your computer warehouse and a good many of the key individuals you rely on to maintain your empire have been compromised or killed.”
Cherzny maintained his cool exterior, but his hand trembled as he brought it up to adjust his tie.
Marta looked away as Preacher’s voice came over the headset. “Go.” Her one-word reply to his request. She pushed away from the counter and let the gun sag at her side. “Prepare for a little noise in a few seconds. And I’d advise ducking.” Right on cue, four explosions shook the night. Heavy drapes kept shards of glass from flying across the room. The explosions rocked the house, rattling art on walls and knocking dishes from shelves.
Marta stood and walked over to the table, a couple of feet from Anna. “That last round was my cue to get moving. Anna, before I go, the wire transfers to the locations we discussed are all confirmed. Do you have anything to say to Kirill?”
The attractive women in her early 40s looked from Marta to Cherzny. The surprised look on his face was priceless. Anna raised a gun she had been holding under the table and pointed it at her lover, her keeper. Her hand did not tremble. She pulled the trigger four times, putting four bullets into his chest. He fell to the floor gasping, sputtering. It was an anti-climactic death for a man who had destroyed so many lives. But Marta considered it a fitting end.
Anna jumped to her feet and dropped the gun on the table from her gloved hand, momentarily frantic. Marta stepped to her and took her shoulders.
“You did well. You are free. Now, upstairs to your room, your closet. You are the anguished mistress. You need tears and hysteria. In three days, you can leave. Go anywhere; no one will care about you.” Marta picked up the gun from the table as the woman fled the room.
In seven trips to Moscow over the last eight months, Marta had embedded herself in Anna’s life after casually bumping into her in a department store one afternoon. In ensuing visits, she had learned of the woman’s plight, her fears for her life once she became too old for Cherzny. Marta learned of the mistress' hatred for her captor. So Marta offered her the opportunity to escape. But she needed to take the final step herself. And she had done just that with those bullets in her oppressor’s chest.
“Two entering from north. Remaining sentry on south is out.” Preacher’s voice rang in her ears.
A few minutes earlier, four large all-terrain vehicles had arrived. Preacher knew the vehicles because he had been lying under each early this morning. Underneath each, he had attached an explosive device that required only a brief radio signal to detonate. As they pulled into the courtyards at the front and rear of the compound, Preacher toggled levers on the remote he held in his hands, after he had put plugs in his ears and stepped behind the towering oak, of course.
The explosions were ferocious. The men inside three of the four vehicles were incinerated in moments. The fourth vehicle was blown sideways and toppled
over, but its occupants were not killed instantly. Preacher was headed toward the overturned vehicle when two men raced from it to the north door, requiring him to alert Marta over the radio.
“Thank you,” she replied and moved down the hall to the foyer, where she slid to the floor and waited. Outside, Preacher approached the one vehicle not in flames to peer inside. The two men in the vehicle were unconscious, piled on top of one another. He turned toward the rear door to the home and raced across the ground in the darkness with only flames lighting the night. He too wore a black wig and beard.
The two Cherzny security members had split up upon entering the home. The one that found his way into the foyer from the rear was met with a silenced bullet an inch above the space between his furry eyebrows. “I’m coming in.” Preacher whispered.
“Go to your left.” She replied.
He complied and hugged the wall as he followed it to the left. Marta rose from her prone position and moved back down the hall toward the kitchen. She knew the layout of the home well, having been inside several times. The guy had only one way to a back foyer near the kitchen. Marta knew this and slid to the floor again in the kitchen listening for any footfall. She didn’t need to remind herself of their need to be out of the house very soon.
The lone remaining Cherzny security operative hugged the wall and aimed his automatic rifle into the kitchen, preparing to enter. The instant he stuck his head around the doorframe, it was hit by three shots. One from Marta and two from Preacher behind. The man crumpled. Marta scrambled to her feet. Preacher stepped to meet her. Even with a beard and bad wig, he wanted to kiss her, to ravage her. Later.
“Let’s move.” They said in unison, in Russian. They raced back down the hall into the foyer and out through the back door. If they had taken the time to look at themselves in the full-length mirror, they would have seen two Arabic men in beards run by. Kind of funny.
The Perfect Weapon Page 19