Kill Switch (9780062135285)

by Rollins, James; Blackwood, Grant

  He returned his attention to the ramshackle church. For the next thirty minutes, as darkness slowly enveloped them, he watched for any signs of life.

  Nothing.

  Still, he used the cover of snowdrifts and trees to make his way down to the churchyard. With Kane at his side, he crawled through the fence and walked around to the porch. He tried the knob. Unlocked. They slipped through and into the dim interior.

  They were greeted by a wave of warmth and the tang of smoke and manure. Directly ahead, a wood-burning stove cast the interior in a flickering orange glow. A metal flue led upward from the stove toward a second floor.

  Tucker kept near the door, waiting for his eyes to adjust, then called out in Russian. “Dobriy večer?”

  No reply.

  He tried again, a little louder this time, and again got no response.

  Sighing, he followed the faded red carpet runner down to the domed nave. Beyond a small altar, a flaking, gold-painted wall bore religious icons and tapestries. There, he found a door, one likely leading to the church’s administrative area.

  He opened it with a protest of old hinges and discovered a spiral staircase. With Kane in tow, he scaled up it, ending in a small office area. Seeing the wood-slat cot in the corner, the freestanding wardrobe, and a closet-sized kitchenette, Tucker surmised it also served as a living space.

  Judging by the cobwebs, no one had been up here for months. Above his head, the woodstove’s pipe gushed warm air.

  It would do.

  He shrugged off his pack and cold-weather gear and tossed them on the cot where Kane had already settled. He spent a few minutes searching the kitchenette but found nothing save a few broken plates, a rusty tool chest under the sink, and a tarnished silver fork. In the wardrobe, he discovered an old patched greatcoat, its shoulders piled with dust.

  “Looks like it’s home sweet home, eh, Kane?”

  The shepherd gave a tired wag of his tail.

  Starving, Tucker fixed a quick meal of coffee and dehydrated camping rations, preparing enough food for both him and Kane. An upper-story window, frosted with grime, allowed him to study the village as he ate. A stranger would stand out like a sore thumb here—and raise too much suspicion—especially one who could not speak Russian with flawless fluency.

  He needed a remedy, a cover.

  After a bit of thought, Tucker rummaged through the tool chest and found a spool of wire. He clipped four short pieces and, using duct tape from his rucksack, sculpted the pieces into a crude equivalent of a teenager’s orthodontic mouth guard. He slipped the construction between his lower lip and gum, packing it in tightly. He checked himself in the room’s grungy mirror, fingering his face.

  To the casual eye, it would appear Nerchinsk’s latest visitor had a badly broken jaw. It would give him an easy excuse not to talk.

  “Time to see a man about a plane ride,” Tucker said, testing out his contraption. The sound he emitted was barely intelligible.

  Perfect.

  Next, he donned the dusty greatcoat from the wardrobe and tugged his ushanka cap back on. He pulled its brim lower over his eyebrows.

  “You stay here,” he ordered Kane. “Out of sight.”

  The shepherd, fed and warm, didn’t argue.

  Tucker climbed back down and slipped out the church’s front door. With his shoulders hunched, he shuffled toward Nerchinsk along a road of slush and mud. He adopted what he hoped was the posture of a man who’d spent his life in the gray, frozen expanse of Siberia. The weather made that easier. The temperature had plummeted another twenty degrees. His breath billowed thickly in the air, and the icy mud squelched under his boots.

  By now, the streets were empty. The yellow glow of life shone through a few dirty windows, along with the occasional flicker of neon signs, but nothing else. He made his way to the corner where the soldier had been smoking earlier. He did his best to trace the man’s steps until he was a block from the helicopter.

  He studied its bulk surreptitiously.

  It was certainly a military aircraft: an Mi-28 Havoc attack helicopter. He knew such a craft’s specs by heart. It had racks and pods enough to carry forty rockets, along with a mounted 30 mm chain gun.

  But this Havoc’s exterior bore no Russian roundels or emblems. Instead, it had been painted in a jagged gray/black pattern. He didn’t recognize the markings. It could be the FSB—formerly known as the KGB. But what would such a unit be doing out here, in the back end of nowhere?

  Tucker knew the most likely answer.

  Looking for me.

  Two figures stepped out from behind the chopper’s tail rotor. One was dressed in a uniform, the other in civilian clothes.

  Tucker retreated out of sight—but not before noting the shoulder emblems on the uniform. A red starburst against a black shield.

  He had been wrong.

  These men weren’t FSB, but rather GRU. Glavnoye Razvedyvatel’noye Upravleniye served as the intelligence arm of the Russian Ministry of Defense. For covert operations, the GRU relied almost solely on Spetsnaz soldiers—the Thoroughbreds of the already-impressive Russian Special Forces stable.

  If they’re after me . . .

  He hurried down the street, knowing his departure from this region was even more urgent—as was his overdue call to Ruth Harper.

  7:55 P.M.

  Tucker wandered the streets until he found a lively tavern. The neon sign above the door was in Cyrillic, but the raucous laughter and smell of beer was advertisement enough for the establishment.

  This was as good a place as any to start.

  He took a moment to make sure his mouth prosthetic was in place, then took a deep breath and pushed through the door.

  A wall of heat, cigarette smoke, and body odor struck him like a fist to the face. A babble of country Russian—punctuated by loud guffaws and scattered curses—greeted him. Not that anyone paid attention to his arrival.

  Tucker hunched his shoulders and wove his way through the mass of bodies toward what he assumed was the bar. With a bit of jostling and occasional grunting through his prosthetic, he found himself standing at a long, knotty pine counter.

  Miraculously, the bartender noted his newest customer immediately and walked over. He barked something that Tucker assumed was a request for his order.

  As answer, Tucker grunted vaguely.

  “Eh?”

  He cleared his throat and mumbled again.

  The bartender leaned forward, cocking an ear.

  Tucker opened his lips a little wider, exposing his mouth guard, then pantomimed a fist striking his jaw, ending it with a tired shrug.

  The bartender nodded his understanding.

  Tucker jerked his thumb toward a neighboring mug of beer. A moment later, a glass was pounded down in front of him, sloshing froth over the rim. He passed over a wad of rubles and pocketed the change.

  Tucker felt a wave of relief. Providing no one else demanded a higher level of exchange, this might just work.

  Clumsily sipping beer through his mouthpiece, he began scanning the bar for soldiers. There were a dozen or more, all army, but from the state of their clothes, none of these were active duty. In Russia, many veterans kept and wore their uniforms after leaving service, partly for necessity and partly for economic leverage. It was common practice for citizens to slip a former soldier a coin or pay for a drink or a meal. This was as much for charity as it was for insurance. Having impoverished or starving killers roaming the streets was best avoided.

  Satisfied the bar was free of GRU operatives, he returned his attention to his primary interest: getting out of this place and reaching Perm. He searched for anyone who might be connected to the neighboring air base, but he spotted nothing overt. He might have to do this the hard way and—

  “Your dog is beautiful,” a gruff voice said at his shoulder. He spoke passable English, but heavily accented. “German shepherd?”

  Tucker turned to find a short man in his sixties, with long white hair and a grizzled
beard. His eyes shone a sharp ice-blue.

  “Eh?” Tucker grunted.

  “Oh, I see,” the stranger said. “Let me guess, you are a traveling prizefighter.”

  Tucker’s heart pounded as he glanced around. None of the other patrons seemed to be paying attention.

  The man crooked his finger at Tucker and leaned closer.

  “I know you are not Russian, my friend. I heard you talking to your dog at the church. You’d best follow me.”

  The older man turned and picked his way through the crowd, which seemed to part before him, the patrons nodding deferentially at him.

  Nervous, but with no other choice, Tucker followed after him, ending up at a table in the bar’s far corner, beside a stone-hearth fireplace.

  With the table to themselves, the man stared at Tucker through narrow eyes. “A good disguise, actually. You have mastered the Siberian stoop—you know, the hunched shoulders, the lowered chin. The cold grinds it into you up here, bends you. So much so, if you live here long enough, it becomes one’s posture.”

  Tucker said nothing.

  “A cautious man. Good, very good. You have seen the soldiers, I assume? The Moscow boys, I mean, with the commandos and the fancy helicopter. It’s the first time in years we’ve seen anyone like them here. And it’s the only time an American with a giant dog has set up camp in my home. Not a coincidence, I am guessing.”

  Tucker said nothing.

  “If I were going to turn you in, I would have already done so.”

  He considered this, recognized the truth of it, and decided it was time to take a chance. Covertly he removed his mouthpiece, then took a sip of beer.

  “Belgian Malinois,” Tucker said.

  “Pardon me?”

  “He’s not a German. He’s Belgian. And for your sake, he better be safe and sound where I left him.”

  “He is,” the stranger said with a smile, holding out a hand. “I am Dimitry.”

  “I’m—”

  “Do not tell me your name. The less I know, the better. I am Nerchinsk’s bishop. Well, for this town and a few other villages nearby. Mine is a small flock, but I love them all the same.”

  The old man glanced affectionately across the crowded bar.

  Tucker remembered how the others had deferred to the man, stepping out of his way. “Your English is very good.”

  “Satellite dish. I watch American television. And the Internet, of course. As for your Russian, well, it is—”

  “Crap,” Tucker finished with a smile. “But how did you know about me and my dog?”

  “I was out hunting and spotted your tracks outside of town. I followed them back to my church.”

  “Sorry for the intrusion.”

  “Think nothing of it. Orthodox churches are intended as sanctuaries. The heat is always on, so to speak. And speaking of heat . . .” The man nodded to the bar’s front door. “It seems you’ve drawn a fair share of your own heat.”

  Tucker shrugged. “I’m not sure if the soldiers are in town because of me, but I’m not a big fan of coincidences either.”

  “The last time we saw such a group in the area was before the wall came down. They were looking for a foreigner, an Englishman.”

  “What happened to him?”

  “They found him two miles out of town. Shot him and buried him on the spot. I do not know any of the details, but he was on the run, like you and your dog.”

  Tucker must have paled.

  Dimitry patted his arm. “Ah, but you have an advantage the Englishman lacked.”

  “Which is?”

  “You have a friend in town.”

  Tucker still felt ill at ease and expressed his concern. “Do you know the phrase look a gift horse in the mouth?”

  “As in being suspicious of good luck?”

  “More or less.”

  “I understand your concern. So let me dispense with the formalities and settle things. Have you or do you intend to wreak havoc on Mother Russia?”

  “No.”

  “Will you harm my flock?”

  “Not unless they try to harm me.”

  “Nyet, of course not.” Dimitry waved his hand dismissively. “So with that business dispensed of, I am going to assume you are simply a lost traveler, and those Moscow thugs were chasing you for stealing soap from your last hotel.”

  “Fair enough.”

  “I had my fill of the government back in the eighties, when I served as a paratrooper in Afghanistan. I killed a lot of jihadists, and the army gave me a lot of shiny ribbons. But now I am forgotten, like most of us from that war—at least the ones who truly got our knives dirty. I love my country, but not so much my government. Does that make sense to you?”

  “More than you’d imagine.”

  “Good. Then that, my wayward friend, is why I am going to help you. I assume you and your keen-eyed partner spotted the air base?”

  “We did.”

  “Do you know how to fly a plane?”

  “No.”

  “Neither do I. But I have a friend who does. In fact—” Dimitry looked around the bar, half standing, before spotting what he was looking for. “There he is.”

  Dimitry pointed toward a pine table near the window where two men were sitting.

  “Which one?”

  “No, no, underneath.”

  Tucker peered closer until he could make out a figure under the table. His legs were splayed out, and his head sharply canted to accommodate for the tabletop pressing against his skull. A ribbon of dribble ran from the corner of his mouth to his coat sleeve.

  “That is Fedor,” Dimitry said as introduction. “Our postman. He flies in our mail.”

  “He’s drunk.”

  “Massively,” Dimitry agreed. “It is night, after all. In the morning, though, Fedor will be sober. Of course, that does not entirely solve your problem, does it? The Moscow thugs will be patrolling the skies during the day. Your departure must wait until tomorrow night, which means we must keep Fedor sober for, well, longer than he is accustomed.” He paused with a frown. “Now I begin to see a flaw in our plan. No matter. This is a bridge we will cross later.”

  “Let’s cross it now,” Tucker said. “Fedor can’t be your only pilot.”

  “Nyet, but he is the most experienced. And he is a first-rate smuggler. Nerchinsk does not live on bread alone, you see. For the right amount of money, he will get you out, right under the noses of these government men, and never tell a soul. And, as it happens, he loves dogs very much.”

  Tucker wasn’t reassured one bit.

  Dimitry downed his drink and stood up. “Come, let us collect him!”

  10

  March 10, 6:45 A.M.

  Nerchinsk, Siberia

  Tucker woke just before dawn—a soldier’s habit. With a groan from his back and a twinge of pain from his grazed neck, he pushed up from the church’s attic cot and swung his bare feet to the floor.

  The prior night, he and Dimitry had hauled the drunken postman across town to the church. On the way here, they had run into a trio of Spetsnaz soldiers, but none of them paid any heed, save for a few laughing gibes at the inebriated state of their companion. At the church, Dimitry offered Tucker and Kane his cot and rolled out a pair of hay-filled bedrolls for him and Fedor.

  Tucker searched the attic space now, realizing he was alone.

  Fedor and Dimitry were gone, along with Kane.

  Quashing his panic, he went downstairs to find a naked Fedor sitting before the blazing woodstove, seated in a puddle of his own sweat. Beside him stood a plastic milk jug half filled with a clear liquid. Sober now, the man looked younger, more midthirties than forties, with dark lanky hair and a wrestler’s build, most of it covered in a mat of fur, a true Russian bear.

  A few feet away, Kane sat on his haunches, watching curiously. He acknowledged Tucker’s arrival with a wag of his tail.

  Fedor lifted the jug, tipped it to his mouth, and took a long gulp.

  Bleary eyed, Fedor slos
hed the container in Tucker’s direction and croaked, “Vaduh. Naturalnaya vaduh.”

  Tucker pieced together the words.

  Natural water.

  This must be part of Fedor’s sobering ritual: extreme heat and copious amounts of water.

  “Priest tells me fly,” Fedor added in badly broken English. “Fly you tonight.”

  Tucker nodded. “Spasiba.”

  “Da. Your Russian bad.” He held his head between his palms. “Make my head hurt.”

  I don’t think it’s from my bad accent.

  “Your dog beautiful. I love. May buy him, yes, please?”

  “No, please.”

  Fedor shrugged and guzzled more water. “Trade fly for dog, da?”

  “Nyet. Money.”

  Dimitry arrived, carrying in some firewood. “You see, he is already much better. Let us discuss arrangements. I will translate. It will go much faster.” Dimitry spoke to his friend in rapid-fire Russian, then said to Tucker, “He will fly you tonight, but there will be surcharges.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “It does not translate well, but first you must pay him extra for missing his drinking tonight. Next, you must pay him extra because you are foreign. Finally, you must pay him extra because the Moscow men are looking for you.”

  “Did you tell him they were looking for me?”

  “Of course not. Fedor is a drunk, not an idiot.”

  “Next?”

  “He likes your dog—”

  “Forget it. Next.”

  Dimitry said something to Fedor, listened, then replied to Tucker, “Where do you wish to go?”

  He had already considered this. They’d likely never reach Perm in Fedor’s plane. It was too far. Besides, he wasn’t inclined to give away his final destination. The best hope was to reach a closer major city, one that offered plenty of options for his final leg to Perm.

  “I need to reach Novosibirsk,” he said.

  “Very far,” Dimitry translated. “It will take a lot of fuel.”

  Tucker waited while Fedor continued to mutter, making a big show of counting on his fingers and screwing up his face. Finally he said, in English, “Nine thousand ruble.”

  Tucker did the rough conversion in his head: 275 U.S. dollars. A bargain. Struggling to keep the smile off his face, he considered this for a bit, then shrugged. “Deal.”