Red Square (Noah Wolf Book 9)

by David Archer

  Each of the prisoners glanced at him and Boris suddenly began to sweat again. If any of them said anything about recognizing him, Leschinsky was bound to become curious.

  The blond-haired man turned his attention to Leschinsky, and the others did likewise. Boris forced himself to relax, but he saw no sign that the prisoners gave any indication of his earlier visit. Hopefully, the messages he had delivered to them were of enough importance that they would continue to protect him.

  “Oh,” Leschinsky said, “I almost forgot. Your telephone, you must turn it off and remove its batteries. We can take no chance that anyone might be able to trace its location.”

  Boris took out his phone and fumbled with it for a moment before he figured out how to take off the back. When he pulled the battery out, Leschinsky reached out and took it from him, dropping it into his own pocket. Boris grinned at him, then put the phone away again. For a brief second, he wondered if he should mention that he always carried a spare battery, but then he thought better of it. Considering that he had been ordered to take messages to these prisoners, it was highly likely that the tiny woman and her employer would want to know where they were taken.

  While Boris was loyal to his country, he was even more loyal to his life. He would look for an opportunity to send a message telling the puppeteer about this change in the SVR’s plans. If he failed to do so and the puppeteer ever found out, he knew, it would not be himself that would suffer. He had a wife and he had children; their safety was more important to him than anything else in the world, and the puppeteer had shown him clearly that it was impossible to protect them in any other way but by absolute obedience and cooperation.

  * * * * *

  Larry Carson was just about to leave the embassy for the day when John Wilkerson caught his attention. The janitor was pushing a broom through the ground floor main hall and turned to go into a small conference room that was used for visiting tourists. Larry followed him in and shut the door behind him.

  “What’s up, John?” Larry asked.

  “I got a message a few minutes ago that I thought you’d be interested in,” John said. “I have a double who just told me that your people are being moved. I guess they left Lefortovo about twenty minutes ago, headed for Boris Petroski’s country house at Stolbovaya.”

  Larry’s eyebrows squeezed together. “Seems like an odd place to take them,” he said. “Petroski, Petroski—who is he again?”

  “He works in the president’s office, a lawyer who used to be with the SVR. They call him a crisis advisor, he sort of tells the president what he can and can’t get away with when he’s under a lot of pressure.”

  “Maybe that explains it. I’m pretty sure they consider this a crisis, all right. Probably don’t want to take them to any of the regular safehouses, so the best bet might have been to commandeer somebody’s party pad.”

  “Maybe,” John said. “I just figured you’d want to know. Any word on the girl that disappeared on you?”

  Larry smiled. “The Dragon Lady called a while ago to tell me that she and the computer geek are working on a rescue mission. I guess the outfit is behind them on it, but she told me to stay clear. Plausible deniability, right? Make sure we can swear up and down we didn’t know anything.”

  “That’s the name of the game. Let me know if I can be of any help.”

  “Sure will,” Larry said. He left the room and started toward the front door, but then thought better of it. It was almost seven P.M., so it would be almost nine A.M. back at Neverland. He turned around and went back to his office, picked up the phone and told the operator to give him a secure line. He heard a couple of beeps and then the dial tone returned. He quickly punched in the number and sat back.

  “Brigadoon Investments,” said the receptionist. “How may I direct your call?”

  “Allison Peterson, please,” Larry said. “Larry Carson calling, from Moscow.”

  “One moment, please.”

  Music began to play, and it took Larry a moment to realize that he was listening to Barry Manilow. For just a moment, he was lost in the Copacabana, and then Allison came on the line.

  “Moscow? Report.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Larry said. “Our CIA field man just told me that our pigeons have been moved to another coop. Apparently, they’re being taken down to Stolbovaya to the country estate of one of President Feodor’s advisors, a guy named Boris Petroski. I thought you would want to know about it.”

  “You’re damned right, I do,” Allison said. “Let me know if you hear anything else.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Larry said. The line had already gone dead, so he hung up his phone and headed out the door to his car. For once, he might actually surprise his wife by getting home in time for dinner.

  * * * * *

  Allison hadn’t even bothered to hang up the phone. She had gotten the call by holding down the switch hook, then let it up again and immediately dialed Molly’s office. “Get down here,” she said, “and bring your computer. We’ve got to get a message off to Neil, ASAP.”

  She hit the switch hook again and then dialed Jefferson. “My office, right away.”

  This time she hung up the phone, but Molly was already rushing through her door by then. Allison held up a finger to tell her to wait, but it was only a few seconds later that Donald Jefferson rushed in.

  Allison told both of them what Carson had said, and Molly instantly turned to her computer.

  “Boris Petroski is the crisis advisor to President Feodor,” she said after a few seconds. “I’m cross-checking for property records at Stobolnaya. There's nothing under his name exactly, but there's something under Nikita Petroski. Checking, checking—looks like an extremely impressive estate. Over a thousand acres, and the house was built during the time of Czar Nicholas. Neoclassical, more than a dozen bedrooms, an honest-to-goodness ballroom—quite a place. Let me check one more thing—yes, Boris Petroski is the son of Nikita Petroski. Nikita, incidentally, is a man, Boris’ father.”

  Jefferson shrugged. “Nikita wasn’t always a woman’s name. Ever heard of Nikita Khrushchev?”

  “Okay, okay,” Allison said. “I’m not that concerned about the history of Russian names. Molly, get a message off to Neil right away, let him know about them being moved and about the estate. Tell him I suggest they send the soldiers to start watching the place.” She looked at Jefferson. “Donald, I don’t know what it is, but something about this makes me nervous.”

  Jefferson frowned. “I don’t know,” he said. “To me, it seems like a bit of a logical move. With all the international uproar over who they're supposed to be, I can imagine that the Kremlin wants them kept safe, somewhere.”

  “Yes, but why? Why are they safer in some country mansion than they would be in one of the most impregnable prisons in the world?”

  * * * * *

  Sarah, Monica and Neil were sitting at the little kitchen table. They had just finished eating dinner, which consisted of Ramen noodle soups and tea. They had spent most of the afternoon trying to work out a plan, but the best they could come up with was to have the mercenaries continue to stand by. Sooner or later, Neil was certain, there would be an announcement on the news that would give them an idea of when the rescue mission had its best chance of success.

  Neil’s computer chimed and he glanced at the screen. “Um, guys? I just got an email from Molly. Take a look.” He turned the computer so that they could see the screen.

  Neil,

  Noah and the rest have been moved. They are on the way to the Petroski Estate near Stolbovaya, about forty miles south of Moscow on the M2. The estate is about four miles west, halfway between Stolbovaya and Chernetskoye. Latitude 55.2565 longitude 37.3429. AP suggests sending troops to observe.

  Molly

  “Damn,” Monica said. “There’s something fishy about this. Petroski is my man in the president’s office. Why in the world is he involved in this?”

  “I don’t know,” Sarah said. “Is this something bad?�
��

  Monica stared at the screen for a moment, then shook her head. “Probably not. Most likely, they were just looking for somewhere to hold these guys and wanted something off the grid. Something that isn’t connected directly to the government, you know what I mean? Boris has this estate, it belongs to his family. I’m sure the president is fully aware of it, and probably asked him if they could use it. Let’s face it, it’s definitely out of the way.”

  “It is that,” Neil said. “I’m calling the soldiers.” He picked up his phone and dialed the number Molly had given him before, and Yury’s voice answered.

  “Orders?”

  Neil gave him the coordinates of the estate and told him to take his men and carefully put the place under observation. They were not to take any action until they heard from Neil. The soldier replied that they would leave immediately and report once they had a chance to reconnoiter the place, and the line went dead.

  Neil looked to Sarah. “I’m beginning to understand why the Dragon Lady gets the big bucks. I don’t want to sit here and plan this out and give orders, I want to be out there. When this goes down, I want to be in the middle of it.”

  Sarah shook her head. “I know what you mean,” she said, “but you and I aren’t soldiers, Neil. We are not the combat type. It comes down to having to raid the place, I think it’s best that we let the trained professionals handle it.”

  “She’s right,” Monica said. “Neil, they’ve probably got Russian commandos guarding them down there. If it comes down to a gun battle, you want the most experienced professionals possible handling it. It’s going to be bad enough already, trying to get them out in the middle of a firefight, but if it has to go down that way…”

  Neil shoved his computer away. “I know, I know,” he said. “You just got to understand one thing. Noah always came back for one of us. Always. That’s kind of our thing, we never leave anyone behind.”

  “And we won’t. But this time, Noah isn’t here to lead the rescue. I think it’s definitely better to have these people on board and ready to move.”

  * * * * *

  Catherine had filled Peterson in while they were on the way back to the embassy. He had listened without interrupting, only nodding now and then. When she finished, she simply looked at him for a moment. “Well? Is she right?”

  “She’s not only almost certainly right,” Peterson said, “she’s absolutely brilliant. She managed to figure all this out on her own, while laying in a hospital room with broken ribs and a collapsed lung. That’s pretty damned impressive.”

  “You agree, then? They probably are planning to kill the Americans?”

  “Oh, that was pretty much a certainty already. Either way it goes, those particular individuals are a liability. If it’s determined that they genuinely are American spies and assassins, then the government absolutely has to make an example of them. They will be publicly executed, and the Russian state media will continue blasting that they were American agents, no matter how much the Yanks deny it. On the other hand, should it turn out that they were some kind of Russian deep cover agents who pulled off this assassination just to try to bring back the Soviet Union, that could be a disaster. The way this girl worked it out is just about the only possible option the Kremlin would have. The president and the prime minister would have to stand solidly together on it, and they would have to have someone loyal enough to ensure that every person who has seen these people is eliminated. Every guard, every clerk, anyone who ever saw them clearly becomes a potential liability. When they finally parade their well-rehearsed captured agents before the media, they must be absolutely certain that no one who has ever seen them is alive.” He turned to Catherine. “Unfortunately, that means that the young lady you just spoke to will probably not live out the night.”

  Catherine shook her head. “That poor girl. And what sodding kills me is that there’s absolutely nothing we can do about it.”

  “Fear not,” Peterson said. “Back home, we might get away with going to the press, but here it wouldn’t matter. Either the press would ignore the story completely, or they would check with the Kremlin to see how it should be handled. Either way, nobody learns anything about her or the risks she has taken.”

  They pulled into the embassy parking lot and Catherine got out of the car. As soon as she got inside and to her office, she picked up the telephone and asked for a secure line. Once she got it, she dialed a special London telephone number and waited. She heard a lot of strange noises as the call was switched from one router to another, but finally it began to ring and was answered.

  “Brigadoon investments. How may I direct your call?”

  “Allison Peterson, please. London calling via Moscow.”

  “One moment, please.”

  Music began to play, but it was cut off almost instantly. Allison’s voice came on the line. “London, report.”

  “Her Majesty was told by somebody that a certain hero of the Royal Family was involved in the Moscow fiasco,” Catherine said. “She sent me over here as Queen’s Royal Ambassador, to be her eyes and ears. As soon as I arrived, I stumbled across a bit of information that I considered important and decided to check it out. I just spent a fascinating twenty minutes with a brilliant young woman, and I felt it necessary to report to you what I’ve learned.”

  Catherine spent the next thirty minutes repeating everything Anya had told her, adding in the things that Ronald Peterson—who was no relation to Allison, incidentally—had contributed.

  “Well, this isn’t good,” Allison said. “London, are you restricted there in any way? Can you move about the city freely, on your own?”

  “Of course,” Catherine said. “Her Majesty is fully aware of my affiliation with your organization, and understands that there are times when my duty to you must come first. What would you have me do?”

  “Hang on a moment.” Allison put her on hold and the music began again. Catherine listened to Ray Stevens singing about a squirrel getting loose in a church for a moment, and then Allison returned. “We’ve got a couple of people on site, there, working on extraction. I’m going to ask you to go and meet with them, tell them everything you just told me. Get a pen, so I can give you the address.”

  “Got it, I’m ready.” She jotted down the address Allison gave her, then listened as Allison told her about the prisoners being moved to the country estate. They talked for another minute about how that move might fit right into the information she had just reported, and then said goodbye. As she stepped out of her office, she spotted Jared Ogilvie, the special attaché who had met her at the airport.

  “Jared? Could I see you for a moment?”

  Jared smiled and followed her into her office again. “What can I do for the pretty lady from back home?”

  “Well, first, stop trying to chat me up, I already said I’m too old for you. Now, I need a way to get around the city without using Alexei. Any notions?”

  The smile had disappeared with her admonishment, but it suddenly returned. “Bloody hell,” he said in a stage whisper, “are you a bloody secret agent? Need to give our snoop driver a bit of the slip?”

  Catherine rolled her eyes. “Jared, grow up. How did you manage to get assigned here, anyway?”

  The young man looked like he was at least slightly crushed. “My dad’s in parliament,” he said. “He thought this would be good for me, look good on my CV, right? Any road, you want a car. We got a few of them, and it just happens that one of the duties of a special attaché is to see that they’re taken care of. Now, do you want something fast, or something that won’t be noticed?”

  “I think something discreet,” she said. “I’m not much of one to draw attention to myself.”

  “Right, then,” Jared said. “Got just the thing for you. BMW X6 hybrid. Nearly 500 horsepower, all-wheel-drive, it’ll go anywhere you want to go and get you there in a hurry. Lots of them around the city, so nobody will pay much attention. It’s right out back, come along and I’ll fetch you the k
ey.”

  Catherine smiled, then reached out and grabbed the young man by clamping his face between both of her hands. Before he knew what was happening, she pulled him close and kissed him on the lips, then let him go quickly. “Okay, show me,” she said. “Oh, and one more thing. Can you get me a gun?”

  He stared at her for a moment, then broke out into a huge smile. “I knew it, I bloody knew it. You’re a bloody secret agent! I’ve a Glock 17, will that do?” He reached up under the back of his jacket and pulled it out.

  Catherine took it from him, pulled the slide back enough to verify that there was a round in the chamber, then dropped it into her purse. “Absolutely perfect,” she said. “Now where’s the bloody car?”

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  The van had turned off the highway sometime earlier and the road underneath it had become rather rough. The seven prisoners bounced around in the hard plastic seats, but they didn’t complain. No one had told them how long the ride would be, but it wasn’t like they had any choice in the matter.

  Then the van turned again, this time on to what sounded like gravel. They rolled along slowly for about five minutes, weaving around as if it was dodging obstacles, and then it came to a stop. They heard the front doors open, and a moment later, the side door slid back.

  Leschinsky and Boris climbed out, but the guards made no move to indicate that the prisoners should get up. They sat where they were for several minutes more, but then Leschinsky came back to the van. He said something in Russian to the guards, then looked at the prisoners.

  “All right,” he said. “You can come out now. We’re going to take you inside the house and show you to your rooms, and then we’ll take those chains off. We’ve brought along some clothing for each of you, so that you can shower and change when you wish. You might want to do so quickly, though, because the cook is preparing to make your dinner.”