Kill Switch (9780062135285)

by Rollins, James; Blackwood, Grant

  “Nothing. We couldn’t get close. His employer—that bastard Bogdan Fedoseev—rented out the entire penthouse. Security was too tight. But if we can reach Khabarovsk before the train does, we’ll board there. If not . . .”

  The Swede’s words trailed off.

  Neither of them had to verbalize the problems such a failure would present.

  The railway branched frequently from there, with routes heading in many different directions, including into China and Mongolia. Following their target into a foreign country—especially China—would exponentially multiply their surveillance challenges.

  The speakerphone crackled again as the caller offered one hope. “If he is using sanitized credit cards, we should assume he has several passports and travel documents. If you have any colleagues in the FPS, it may be helpful to circulate his photo.”

  He nodded to himself, rubbing his chin. The caller was referring to Russia’s Federal Border Guard Service.

  “As you said,” the caller continued, “a man and a large dog are hard to miss.”

  “I’ll see what I can do. I would prefer to keep the scope of this operation limited. That’s why I hired you. Sadly, I am beginning to question my judgment. Get results, or I’ll be making a change. Do you understand my meaning?”

  A long silence followed before a response came.

  “Not to worry. I’ve never failed before. I’ll get the information you need, and he’ll be dead before he ever reaches Perm.”

  5

  March 7, 6:08 P.M.

  Trans-Siberian Railway

  A voice over the intercom system called out first in Russian, then in English.

  “Next stop, Khabarovsk.”

  A scrolling green LED sign on the wall of Tucker’s berth repeated the multilingual message along with: DEPARTING AGAIN IN 18 MINUTES.

  Tucker began gathering his things, tugging on his coat. Once done, he patted Kane. “What do you say we stretch our legs?”

  They’d been cooped up in the car for most of the day, and he knew he could use a bit of fresh air. He pulled on his fur trapper’s cap, attached Kane’s lead, then opened the berth door.

  He followed the slow trudge of fellow passengers down the corridor to the exit steps. A few eyebrows were raised at the sight of his unusual traveling companion. One matronly babushka gave him what he could best describe as the evil eye.

  Taking heed of the unnecessary attention, he avoided the terminal building—a whitewashed, green-tiled Kremlin-esque structure—and guided Kane across the train tracks to a patch of scrub brush. A chest-high fence, missing more pickets than it retained, bordered the area.

  As Kane sniffed and marked his territory, Tucker stretched his back and legs. Aboard the train, he had caught up on his sleep, and he had the muscle kinks to prove it.

  After a few minutes, the screech of tires drew his attention past the terminal. The frantic blare of a car horn followed. He spotted a line of cars stopped at the intersection as a departing eastbound train cleared the station. As the caboose clunked over the road and the barriers rose, a black sedan swerved to the head of the line and raced into the terminal parking lot.

  He checked his watch. Four minutes to departure.

  Whoever was in the sedan was cutting it close.

  He let Kane wander for another full minute, then walked back over the tracks to their train car. Once returned to their berth, Kane jumped into his usual seat, panting, refreshed.

  A commotion out on the terminal platform drew his attention, too. A trio of men in long black leather dusters strode purposefully along the length of the train, occasionally stopping porters and showing them what looked to be a photo before moving on again. None of the men offered any credentials.

  Faint alarm bells sounded in Tucker’s head. But there were hundreds of people on the train, he told himself, and so far all the porters had merely shrugged or shook their heads when shown the photo.

  Clearly frustrated, one of the men pulled out a cell phone and spoke into it. Thirty seconds later, he was joined by his partners, and after a brief discussion, the trio hurried back into the terminal and disappeared from view.

  He watched and waited, but none of them reappeared.

  He sighed in relief when the train whistle blew and the All Aboard was called. The train lurched forward and slowly pulled away from the station.

  Only then did he settle back in his own seat.

  But he was hardly settled.

  7:38 P.M.

  An hour later, too full of nervous energy to remain inside the berth, Tucker found himself seated in the dining car. Around him, the tables were draped with linen; the windows framed by silk curtains; the place settings china and crystal.

  But his attention focused on the car’s best feature.

  While he had never been the type to ogle the opposite sex, the woman sitting across the aisle and one booth down was challenging his discipline.

  She was tall and lithe, her figure accentuated by a form-fitting skirt and a white cashmere turtleneck sweater. She wore her blond hair long and straight, framing high cheekbones and ice-blue eyes. Picking at a salad and occasionally sipping from a glass of wine, she spent most of the meal either reading a dog-eared copy of Anna Karenina or staring out the window as dusk settled over the Siberian landscape. For one chance moment, she looked up, caught Tucker’s eye, and smiled—genuine, pleasant, but clearly reserved.

  Still, her body language was easy to read.

  Thank you, but I’d prefer to be alone.

  A few minutes later, the woman signaled for the check, signed her bill, then swished past Tucker’s table and through the connecting door to the berth cars.

  Tucker lingered over his coffee, oddly disappointed, more than he should be, then headed back to his own berth.

  As he stepped into the corridor, he found the blond woman kneeling on the floor, the contents of her purse scattered at her feet, some of it rolling farther away with each jostle of the train’s wheels.

  Tucker walked over and dropped to a knee beside her. “Let me help.”

  She frowned, tucked a strand of blond hair behind her ear, and offered him a shy smile. “Thank you. Everything seems to be getting away from me lately.”

  Her accent was British, refined.

  Tucker helped her gather the runaway items, then stood up. He nodded at her copy of Anna Karenina. “The butler did it, by the way.”

  She blinked at him, momentarily confused.

  Tucker added, “In the library, with a lead pipe.”

  She smiled. “Well, goodness. Then there’s not much point in my finishing it, is there?”

  “Sorry if I ruined it for you.”

  “You’ve read it?”

  “In high school,” he said.

  “And your verdict?”

  “Certainly not beach reading. I liked it—but not enough to wade through it a second time.”

  “It’s my third time. I’m a glutton for punishment, I suppose.” She extended her hand. “Well, thank you again . . .”

  He took her hand, finding her fingers soft, but firm. “Tucker,” he said.

  “I’m Felice. Thank you for your help. I hope you have a pleasant night.”

  It had certainly turned out pleasant.

  She turned and started down the corridor. Ten feet away, she stopped and spoke without turning. “It doesn’t seem quite fair, you know.”

  Tucker didn’t reply, but waited until she turned to face him before asking, “What isn’t?”

  “You spoiling the end of a perfectly good Russian novel.”

  “I see your point. I take it that an apology isn’t enough?”

  “Not even close.”

  “Breakfast, then?”

  Her lips pursed as Felice considered this a moment. “Is seven too early for you?”

  He smiled. “See you in the morning.”

  With a slight wave, she turned and headed down the corridor. He watched until she vanished out of sight, enjoying every step she
took.

  Once alone, he opened the door to his berth and found Kane sitting on the floor staring up at him. The shepherd must have heard his voice out in the passageway. Kane tilted his head in his customary What’s going on? fashion.

  He smiled and scratched Kane between the ears. “Sorry, pal, she didn’t have a friend.”

  6

  March 8, 6:55 A.M.

  Trans-Siberian Railway

  The next morning, Tucker arrived five minutes early to find Felice already seated at a booth in the rear of the dining car. For the moment, they had the space to themselves. This time of the year, the sun was still not up, just a rosy promise to the east.

  Tucker walked over and sat down. “You’re a morning person, I see.”

  “Since I was a little girl, I’m afraid. It drove my parents quite mad. By the way, I ordered coffee for two, if you don’t mind. I’m a much better morning person with caffeine in my system.”

  “That makes two of us.”

  The waiter arrived with a pair of steaming mugs and took their orders. Felice opted for the closest semblance to a standard big English breakfast. He nodded his approval, appreciating a woman with a good appetite. In turn, he chose an omelet with toasted black bread.

  “You’re the owner of that large hound, aren’t you?” Felice asked. “The one that looks smarter than most people on this train.”

  “Owner isn’t the word I would use, but yes.” He offered up his service dog story, explaining about his epilepsy. “I don’t know what I’d do without him.”

  At least that last part was true.

  “Where are you two headed?” she asked.

  “I’m booked to Perm, but I’m flexible. Plenty to explore out here. We might get off and sightsee if the mood strikes us. And you?”

  She gave him a sly smile. “Is that an invitation?”

  He gave her a shrug that was noncommittal with a hint of invitation, which only widened her smile.

  She skirted over to tamer topics. “As to me, I’m headed to Moscow, off to meet some friends from my university days.”

  “You went to school there?”

  “Goodness, no. Cambridge. Arts and humanities. Hinc lucem et pocula sacra and all that. From here, light and sacred draughts. Latin motto. Very highbrow, you see. Two of my girlfriends moved to Moscow last year. We’re having a small reunion.”

  “You boarded in Khabarovsk?”

  “Yes. And almost got run over in the parking lot for my trouble. A big black car.”

  “I remember hearing some honking, saw some commotion. Was that them?”

  She nodded. “Three men, dressed like old-school KGB thugs. Quite gloomy looking. Very rude, marching around the platform like they owned the place, flashing their badges.”

  Tucker struggled to keep his brow from furrowing. “Sounds like the police. Perhaps they were looking for someone.”

  She took a dismissive sip of coffee. “I can only imagine.”

  “It’s not you, is it? I’m not having breakfast with an international art thief?”

  She laughed, tilting her head back and slightly to the side. “Oh, my cover has been blown. Stop the train at once.”

  He smiled. “According to my guide, Khabarovsk’s Fedotov Gallery is a must-see for art connoisseurs. Especially for any sightseeing arts and humanities graduates from Cambridge. I almost wish I’d gotten off the train to go. Did you visit?”

  She nodded, her eyes shining. “Absolutely stunning. Wish I’d had more time myself. You must go back sometime. And you, Mr. Wayne, what’s your secret? What do you do when you’re not traipsing around Siberia?”

  “International art thief,” he replied.

  “Ah, I thought as much.”

  He patted his jacket pocket. “Excuse me,” he said and pulled out his phone, glancing at the screen. “Text from my brother.”

  He opened the phone’s camera application and surreptitiously snapped a shot of Felice’s face. He studied the screen for a few more seconds, pretended to type a response, then returned the phone to his pocket.

  “Sorry,” he said. “My brother’s getting married in a month, and he’s put me in charge of his bachelor party. His wife is worried it’s going to be too risqué.”

  Felice raised an eyebrow. “And is it?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Men,” she said, laughing, and reached across the table and gave his forearm a squeeze.

  8:35 A.M.

  After finishing breakfast and lingering over coffee for another half hour, the two parted company with a promise to share another meal before Tucker disembarked at Perm.

  Once free, he returned quickly to his berth, pulled out his satellite phone, and speed-dialed the new number Painter Crowe had given him. It was answered immediately.

  “Tucker Wayne, I presume,” a female voice answered.

  “Ruth Harper.”

  “Correct.” Harper’s speech was clipped, precise, but somehow not quite curt. There was also a distinct southern accent there, too.

  “What do you have for me?” Harper asked.

  “No nice to meet you or how are you?”

  “Nice to meet you. How are you? How’s that? Warm and fuzzy enough for you?”

  “Marginally,” Tucker replied.

  As he paced the small space, he tried to picture what she looked like. She sounded young, but with a bite at the edges that spoke of some toughness. Maybe late thirties. But he knew Sigma operatives had prior military experience, and Harper was likely no exception, so some of that toughness could be from hard lessons learned young, an early maturity gained under fire. From her seriousness, he imagined her dark-haired, wearing glasses, a battle-weary librarian.

  He smiled inwardly at that image.

  “So what’s your take on the situation?” she asked.

  “I think I’ve picked up a tail.”

  “Why do you think that, Captain Wayne?” Her tone grew grave with a trace of doubt.

  “Just call me Tucker,” he said and explained about the leather-jacketed men on the Khabarovsk train platform and Felice’s insistence they were flashing badges.

  “And they weren’t?” Harper asked.

  “No. They were just showing a photograph. I’m sure of it. She also claims she visited the Fedotov Gallery in Khabarovsk. It’s been closed for renovations for the past month.”

  “And you know this detail how?”

  “There’s not much else to do on this train but sleep and read travel brochures.”

  “Anything else that makes you suspicious of her?”

  “She’s pretty, and she finds me fascinating.”

  “That certainly is odd. Are you sure she’s in possession of her faculties?”

  He smiled at her matter-of-fact tone. “Funny.”

  He decided he might—might—like Ruth Harper.

  “Your accent,” Tucker said. “Tennessee?”

  She ignored his attempt to draw her out, but from the exasperated tone of her next words, he guessed he was wrong about Tennessee.

  “Give me Felice’s pedigree,” she said, staying professional.

  Tucker passed on the information he had gleaned: her name, her background at the University of Cambridge, her friends in Moscow. “And I have a picture. I assume your wizards have access to facial-recognition programs.”

  “Indeed we do.”

  “I’m sending it now.”

  “Okay, sit tight and I’ll get back to you.”

  It didn’t take long. Harper called back within forty minutes.

  “Your instinct was sound,” she said without preamble. “But you’ve picked up more than a tail. She’s a freelance mercenary.”

  “I knew it was too good to be true,” he muttered. “Let’s hear it.”

  “Her real name is Felice Nilsson, but she’s traveling under Felice Johansson. Swedish citizenship. She’s thirty-three, born in Stockholm to a wealthy family. She didn’t graduate from Cambridge, but from University of Gothenburg, with a master’s in fi
ne arts and music. And here’s where things get interesting. Six months after graduating, she joined the Swedish Armed Forces and eventually ended up in Särskilda Inhämtningsgruppen.”

  “SIG?”

  As a member of the U.S. Special Forces, Tucker had to know the competition, both allied and enemy alike. SIG was the Swedish Special Reconnaissance Group. Its operatives were trained in intelligence gathering, reconnaissance, and covert surveillance, along with being superb, hardened soldiers.

  “She was one of the group’s first female members,” Harper added.

  “What was her specialty?”

  “Sniper.”

  Great.

  “I urge you to approach her with extreme caution.”

  “Caution? Never would have thought of that.”

  Harper let out what could be taken as a soft chuckle, but it disappeared so quickly that Tucker couldn’t be sure.

  “Point taken,” she said. “But do not underestimate her. After six years in the SIG, Nilsson resigned her commission. Eight months later, she started popping up on intel radars, first working small-time stuff as a mercenary, mostly for established groups. Then, two years ago, she struck out on her own, forming her own team—all former Swedish Special Forces. Last estimate put her roster at six to eight, including herself.”

  “Bored rich girl goes rogue,” Tucker said.

  “Maybe that’s how it started, but she’s got a real taste for it now. And a solid reputation. For now, the question remains, Who hired her and why?”

  “You’re in a better position to answer that than I am. But this must have something to do with your operation. Otherwise, it would be about me personally, and that doesn’t seem likely.”

  “Agreed.”

  “And if that’s true, if they’re already on my tail, I don’t have to tell you what that means.”

  “We’ve got a leak,” Harper replied. “Word of your involvement must have reached those who are hunting for Dr. Bukolov.”

  “But who leaked that information? For the moment, let’s assume it didn’t come from anyone inside Sigma command. So who in Russia had my itinerary? Who knew I’d be aboard this train.”