Kill Switch (9780062135285)

by Rollins, James; Blackwood, Grant

  “Specifically? I don’t know. They’re too crafty for that.”

  Tucker stared across, sizing the other up. Was this guy suffering from a paranoid delusion? A persecution complex? Tucker fingered the healing bullet graze in his neck. That certainly was real enough.

  “Then tell me about Anya,” he said.

  “Ah . . .” Bukolov’s face softened, holding back a ghost of a smile. “She’s wonderful. She’s means everything to me. We’ve been working in tandem, the two of us—at a distance of course, and in secret.”

  “I thought Stanimir was your chief assistant.”

  “Him? Hah! He’s adequate, I suppose, but he doesn’t have the mind for it. Not for what I’m doing. Few people do really. That’s why I must do this myself.”

  With that, Bukolov kicked off his shoes, sprawled back on the bed, and closed his eyes.

  Tucker shook his head and settled into the chair for the night.

  Bukolov whispered, his eyes still shut. “I’m not crazy, you know.”

  “If you say so.”

  “Just so you know.”

  Tucker crossed his arms, beginning to realize how little he actually knew about any of this.

  March 13, 6:15 A.M.

  Kungur, Russia

  Despite the discomfort of the chair, Tucker slept for a solid five hours. He woke to find both of his charges still sleeping.

  Taking advantage of the quiet moment, he took Kane out for a walk, let the dog stretch his legs and relieve himself. While they were still outside, Harper called.

  “Anya’s real,” she said as introduction.

  “I don’t know if that’s good news or bad.”

  If Anya were a figment of the good doctor’s imagination, they could get out of Dodge immediately.

  Harper continued. “We were able to confirm there’s an Anya Malinov working at the Kazan Institute of Biochemistry and Biophysics, but not much else. A good portion of her file is redacted. Kazan’s not as bad as the old Soviet-era naukograds, their closed science cities, but large swaths of the place do fall under the jurisdiction of the Ministry of Defense.”

  “So not only do we need to go to Kazan, but I have to extract this woman out from under the military’s nose.”

  “Is that a problem?”

  “I’ll have to make it work. Not like I have a whole lot of choice. You asked me to get him out of Russia, and that’s what I intend to do—him and now his daughter apparently. Which presents a problem. I’ve only got new passports for Bukolov. Not for Anya. And what about Utkin, for that matter? He wouldn’t survive a day after we’re gone. I won’t leave him behind.”

  He flashed to Abel, panting, tongue lolling, tail wagging.

  He wasn’t about to abandon another teammate behind enemy lines.

  Harper was silent for a few seconds. Even from halfway around the world, Tucker imagined he could hear the gears in the woman’s head turning, recalibrating to accommodate the change in the situation.

  “Okay. Like you, I’ll make it happen. When do you plan to go for Anya?”

  “Within twenty-four hours. More than that and we’re pushing our luck.”

  “That won’t work. I can’t get new passports for Anya and Utkin over to you that fast. But if you gave me your route from there—”

  “I don’t know it yet. Considering all that’s happened, it’s hard to plan more than a step in advance. All I know for sure is the next step: free Anya.”

  “Then hold on for a minute.” The line went silent, then she was back. “After you fetch Anya, can you get to Volgograd? As the crow flies, it’s six hundred miles south of Kazan.”

  Tucker pulled a laminated map from his back pocket and studied it for a few seconds. “The distance is manageable.”

  “Good. If you can get to Volgograd, I can get you all out. No problem.”

  Out sounded good. So did no problem.

  But after all that had happened, he had no faith about the outcome of either proposition.

  14

  March 13, 2:13 P.M.

  Kazan, Russia

  By that midafternoon, Tucker stood on a sidewalk in central Kazan, staring up at a bronze monolith topped by the bust of a dour-faced man. Predictably, the plaque was written in Cyrillic.

  But at least I came with my own tour guide.

  “Behold the birthplace of modern organic chemistry,” Abram Bukolov announced, his arms spread. “Kazan is home to the greats. Butlerov, Markovnikov, Arbuzov. The list is endless. And this fine gentleman depicted here, you surely know who he is, yes?”

  “Why don’t you remind us, Doctor,” said Tucker.

  “He is Nikolai Lobachevsky. The Russian pioneer in hyperbolic geometry. Ring any bells?”

  Maybe warning bells.

  Tucker was beginning to suspect Bukolov suffered from bipolar disorder. Since leaving the hotel at dawn Bukolov had cycled from barely contained excitement to sullenness. But upon reaching Kazan’s outskirts a short time ago, the doctor had perked up enough to demand that they go on a walking tour of the Kazan Institute of Biochemistry and Biophysics.

  Tucker had agreed for several reasons.

  One: To shut Bukolov up.

  Two: To scout the campus.

  Three: To see if he could detect a general alert for any of them. If they were being pursued, their hunters had chosen a more discreet approach.

  But most of all, he needed to find out where on this research campus Anya Malinov resided or worked. He hoped to sneak her out under the cover of night.

  Utkin followed behind with Kane. He had a phone at his ear, trying to reach Anya. He spoke in low tones. Matters would have been easier if her father, Bukolov, knew where she lived or where her office was located.

  I’ve never been here was his answer, almost tearful, clearly fraught with worry for his daughter.

  Not trusting Bukolov to be civil, Tucker had thought it best for Utkin to make an inquiry with the institution.

  Utkin finally lowered the phone and drew them all together. “We have a problem.”

  Of course we do.

  Bukolov clutched Utkin’s sleeve. “Has something happened to Anya?”

  “No, she’s fine, but she’s not here.”

  “What do you mean?” Tucker asked. “Where is she?”

  “She’s at the Kremlin.”

  Tucker took a calming breath before speaking. “She’s in Moscow?”

  Utkin waved his hands. “No, no. Kazan has a Kremlin also. It lies a kilometer from here, overlooking the Volga.”

  He pointed in the general direction of the river that bordered Kazan.

  “Why is she there?” Tucker asked, sighing out his relief.

  Bukolov stirred. “Of course, because of the archives!”

  His voice was sharp, loud enough to draw the eye of a passing campus guard. Not wanting any undue attention, Tucker drew the group along, getting them moving back toward their hotel in town.

  Bukolov continued. “She mentioned finding something.” He shook his head as if trying to knock a loose gear back into place. “I forgot about it until now. Something she was going to retrieve for me. Something very important.”

  “What?” Tucker asked.

  The doctor looked up with a twinkle in his eye. “The journal of the late, great Paulos de Klerk.”

  “Who is that?”

  “All in good time. But De Klerk may have the last piece of the puzzle I need.”

  Tucker decided not to press the issue and returned his attention to Utkin. “How long until she returns to the institute?”

  “Three or four days.”

  “We can’t wait that long!” Bukolov demanded.

  For once, Tucker agreed.

  Utkin also nodded. “According to what I learned, security is actually tighter here on the campus than at the local Kremlin. Over where Anya lives and works at the institute, there are guards at every entrance, magnetic key card access, and closed-circuit television cameras.”

  Tucker blew out a discou
raged breath.

  Then it looks like we’re breaking Anya out of the Kremlin.

  3:23 P.M.

  An hour later, Tucker followed a tour group onto the grounds of the Kazan Kremlin. He and a handful of others had been separated out and handed over to an English-speaking guide, a five-foot-tall blond woman who smiled a lot but tended to bark.

  “Now stay close!” she called, waving them all forward. “We are passing through the south entrance of the Kremlin. As you can guess from the massive wall we are crossing under, the structure was designed to be a fortress. Some of these structures you’ll see are over six hundred years old.”

  Tucker searched around him. He had already done an intensive study of the Kazan Kremlin: scouring various websites, cross-referencing with Google Earth, and scanning travel blogs. A plan had begun to take shape, but he wanted to see the place firsthand.

  “Here we are on Sheynkman Street,” the guide expounded, “the Kremlin’s main thoroughfare. Above you stands the Spasskaya Tower, known as the Savior’s Tower. It is one of thirteen towers. Going clockwise, their names are . . .”

  This was the third-to-last tour of the day. Tucker had Utkin working on a project back at the hotel, assisted by Bukolov. He left Kane to watch over them both.

  As the group continued across the grounds, he tuned out the guide’s ongoing monologue, concentrating instead on fixing a mental picture of the grounds in his head. He’d seen the Moscow Kremlin twice, and while that had been impressive, the Kazan version seemed somehow more majestic.

  Enclosed by tall snow-white walls and turrets, the interior of the Kazan Kremlin was a mix of architectural and period styles: from the brute practicality of medieval barracks to the showy majesty of an Eastern Orthodox cathedral. Even more impressive was a massive blue-domed mosque with sky-scraping tiled towers.

  Gawking all around, Tucker followed their guide for the next forty-five minutes, discovering a maze of tidy cobblestone streets, hidden courtyards, and tree-lined boulevards. He did his best to appreciate the ancient beauty, while also viewing it with the eye of a soldier. He noted guard locations, blind spots, and escape routes.

  As the tour wrapped up, the group was allowed to roam relatively free in the public areas, even to take pictures for the next half hour. He sat in various places, counting the number of times he was passed by guards and visitors.

  It might just work, he thought.

  His phone finally rang. It was Utkin. His message was terse.

  “We’re ready here.”

  He stood and headed back to the hotel, hoping everything was in order. They had to move swiftly. One mistake and it could all come crashing down.

  4:14 P.M.

  Tucker studied Kane approvingly.

  The shepherd stood atop the hotel bed, wearing his K9 Storm jacket, but over it, covering it completely and snugly, was a new canvas vest, midnight blue, bearing Cyrillic lettering. It spelled out KAZAN KREMLIN K9.

  “Good job, Utkin,” Tucker said. “You could have a new career as a seamstress.”

  “Actually I bought the vest at a local pet store and the letters are ironed on.”

  Looking closer, Tucker spotted one of the Cyrillic letters peeling off.

  “I will fix that,” Utkin said, stripping off the false vest.

  It wasn’t a great disguise, but considering Utkin had been working with Internet photos of the security personnel at the Kazan Kremlin, he had done a pretty damned good job. Besides, the disguise would only have to pass muster for a short time—and then mostly in the dark.

  As Utkin finished his final touch-ups—both on the vest and on the winter parka Tucker had stripped off the dead Spetsnaz soldier—Tucker turned to Bukolov.

  “Were you able to reach Anya?” he asked.

  “Finally. But yes, and she will be ready as you directed.”

  “Good.”

  He noted how pale Bukolov looked and the glassy glaze to his eyes. He was plainly fearful for his daughter. It seemed hearing her voice had only stoked his anxiety.

  Tucker sat down next to him on the bed, figuring the doctor could use a distraction. “Tell me more about those papers Anya was searching for. Did she find them?”

  He brightened, ever the proud father. “She did!”

  “And this De Klerk person, why are his journals so important?”

  “If you’re trying to wheedle something out of me—”

  “Not at all. Just curious.”

  This seemed to satisfy him. “What do you know about the Boer Wars?”

  “In South Africa?” Tucker frowned, taken aback by the turn of the conversation. “Just the basics.”

  “Then here’s a primer so you’ll understand the context. Essentially the British Empire wanted to keep its thumb on South Africa, and the Boer farmers disagreed, so they went to war. It was bloody and ugly and replete with atrocities on both sides, including mass executions and concentration camps. But Paulos de Klerk was not only a soldier, but a doctor as well. Quite a complex man. But that’s not why I found him so fascinating—and certainly not why his diary is so critical to my work.”

  Bukolov paused and glanced around as though looking for eavesdroppers. He leaned forward and gestured for Tucker to come closer.

  “Paulos de Klerk was also a botanist.” Bukolov winked. “Do you see?”

  Tucker didn’t reply.

  “In his spare time, in between plying his dual trades, he studied South Africa’s flora. He took copious notes and made hundreds of detailed drawings. You can find his work in research libraries, universities, and even natural history museums around the world.”

  “And here, too, in the archives at the Kremlin?” Tucker said.

  “Yes, even before the institute in Kazan was founded, this region was considered a place of great learning. Russian czars, going back to Ivan the Terrible, who built the Kremlin here, gathered volumes of knowledge and stored them in its vaults. Vast libraries and archives, much of it poorly cataloged. It took many years to track down the various references to De Klerk, bits and pieces scattered across Russia and Europe. And the most valuable clue was found here, right under our enemies’ noses. So you understand now why it’s so important?”

  “No, not entirely.”

  More like not at all, but he kept silent.

  Bukolov leaned back, snorted, and waved him off.

  That was all he would get out of the man for now.

  Utkin called over to him, fitting the vest back onto Kane. “That should do it.”

  Tucker checked his watch.

  Just enough time to catch the last tour of the day.

  He quickly donned the military winter suit and tugged on a pair of black boots and a midnight-blue brigade cap. The latter items had been purchased by Utkin at a local army surplus store. He had Utkin compare the look to the photos he had taken of the guards at the Kremlin.

  “It should pass,” the lab tech confirmed, but he didn’t sound entirely convinced.

  No matter. They were out of time.

  Tucker turned to his partner, who wagged his tail. “Looks like it’s showtime, Comrade Kane.”

  15

  March 13, 5:45 P.M.

  Kazan, Russia

  “And this concludes the day’s tour,” the guide told the group clustered in the cold. “Feel free to wander the grounds on your own for another fifteen minutes, then the gates will be closing promptly at six P.M.”

  Tucker stood with the others in a red baseball cap and knockoff Ray-Ban sunglasses, just another tourist. The disguise was in place in case he had the same blond tour guide as before. In the end, it turned out to be a man, so maybe such a level of caution was unnecessary.

  At his side, Kane had initially attracted some curious glances, but as he had hoped, the service animal documents passed muster at the ticket office. It also helped that Kane could be a charmer when allowed, wriggling happily and wagging his tail. He also wore a doggie backpack with I LOVE KAZAN printed in Cyrillic on it. The bored teenagers at
the gate only gave Kane’s pack a cursory exam, as they did with his own small bag.

  Now free to roam, Tucker wasted little time. As casually as possible, he strode with Kane down Sheynkman Street until he reached the green-roofed barracks of the old Cadets’ Quarters. He walked under its archway and into a courtyard. He ambled around and took a few pictures of a fountain and a nineteenth-century cannon display. Once done, he sat down on a nearby stone bench to wait. Beyond the arch, tourists headed back down Sheynkman toward the main exit.

  No one glanced his way. No guards came into view.

  Taking advantage of the moment, he led Kane across the courtyard and through a door in the southwest corner. The corridor beyond was dimly lit, lined by barrack doors. He crossed along it, noting the polished walnut floors and the boot heel impressions in the wood outside each barrack. According to the guidebook, cadets of yore stood at attention for four hours each day as their barracks underwent inspection. Tucker had thought the claim a yarn, but apparently it was true.

  He came to a flight of stairs at the end of the hall and stepped over a “no access” rope. He quickly climbed to the second floor, found it empty, and searched until he located a good hiding place: an unused and derelict storage room off one of the cadets’ classrooms.

  He stepped inside with Kane and shut the door behind him.

  Standing there, he took a breath and let it out.

  Phase One . . . done.

  In the darkness, he settled with Kane against one wall.

  “Nap time, if you feel like it, buddy,” he whispered.

  Kane dropped down and rested his head on Tucker’s lap.

  He used the next two hours to review his plan backward, forward, and sideways. The biggest unknown was Anya. He knew little about the woman or how she would behave in a pressure situation. Nor did he know much about the escorts who guarded her here on the Kremlin premises, except for what Bukolov had learned from her.

  According to him, two men—both plainclothes GRU operatives—guarded her day and night. He had a plan to deal with them, but there remained some sketchy parts to it, especially in regard to the Kremlin’s K9 patrol detachment.

  Over the course of the day’s two tours, Tucker had counted eight dog-and-handler pairs, mostly consisting of German shepherds—which Kane could pass for. But he’d also spotted a few Russian Ovcharkas, a type of mop-coated sheepdog used by Russian military and police units.