Five minutes later there was a knock at the door. She dabbed her eyes and said, “Come in.”
“There you are,” Bridge said.
“How are you doing, Bridge?”
“Fine. I’ve been to the roof.”
“Any more survivors?”
“No, the roof on Lexington.”
“Oh, sorry; I’m still a little shaken.”
“You should be. That was quite a time up there,” he said.
“Thank you for saving my life.”
“Me? Thank you. I was going over when you grabbed me!”
“I don’t remember that . . .”
“I’ll never forget it.”
“What about you? How are you?” Brooke asked.
“Hey, I do this job because I care. Losing twenty or so Americans to a terror attack in broad daylight, in Midtown . . . First that makes me sad. Then I get mad! You?”
“I had my little moment of damning the universe. Choking back the tears. Did you find anything over there?”
“They were definitely targeting us. From the roof, you can’t see into the offices . . .
“But from a lower level of the scaffold you can see right in . . . about the thirty-eighth floor from the window-washing platform. I tried it. Damn, I don’t know how those guys work in those things for hours on end.”
“Wait. If they knew we were on the top floor, why the need to perch?”
“They were looking for something specific . . . or someone.”
Brooke looked down at the twisted and bent broach that had been violently ejected from the office. Charlene’s pin. The same Charlene who people often mistook for her. “The Priest!”
“Makes sense. He wants to finish the job.”
“That means they are getting close to their attack or they wouldn’t have risked this.”
“Sure, and they either got really lucky or they knew we had half of New York’s agencies in there.”
.G.
“You have redeemed yourself, but do you know if the one you sought has been eliminated?” Dequa said.
“I placed the crosshairs right on her.”
“Good. Now they will be distracted long enough for us to complete.”
Dequa aimed his Canon SLR with the telephoto lens and took a few shoots of the power plant just north of them alongside the East River. He cupped his hand over the end of the lens to eliminate any unwanted reflections from the glass window of the Roosevelt Island tram car they were riding in. “The seawall appears to be at least five feet high at this time of day.”
“I am not in favor of a water approach. Too many variables.”
“As a secondary route?”
“Possibly, but I’d rather deploy at Twenty-First Street for a second wave.”
“You may be correct.” He lowered the camera and, as he was putting the lens cap on, casually said, “Before we are done here in New York, please eliminate the hostages.”
“Even the children?”
“Yes. There must be no loose ends.”
Paul let out a sigh. “Okay.”
.G.
“Bridge, I am going to set up shop in my old office at FBI New York. I want you on the next flight out to Moscow. Morgan Prescott is our only lead. It’s going to take at least a day to reestablish all the evidence and surveillance we lost this morning. And the people, she thought but did not say. “I have a SAM flight meeting you at Butler. You’ll connect to Czech Air in Warsaw. I’ll have everything we recover sent up to the Special Air Missions’ plane. You should be in Moscow by ten tonight. Good hunting.”
“All my stuff is over in Sandy Hook.”
Brooke thought for a second. “Head to the Twenty-Third Street heliport. I’ll arrange for an FBI chopper to ferry you over, wait, and then fly you over to LaGuardia.”
“First class. I like your style, Brooke.”
“Not a second to lose, Bridge. And be careful. I owe you my life from this morning.”
“Just get these guys . . .” And he was off.
Chapter 25
To Russia with Haste
Sandy Hook was now a resort island at the mouth of New York Harbor. Back in the good old days of the cold war, it had been a coastal artillery proving ground and port defense installation, which housed anti-bomber missiles. From here, and bases like it up and down the eastern seaboard, a veritable curtain of Nike surface-to-air missiles kept Leave it to Beaver and all the Mousketeers safe and sound from the bad old Russian Bear. Bear Bombers that is, the USSR’s long-range planes that could carry atomic bombs into the heartland. But they’d have to get through the Nikes first.
These days, in the age of space-based early warning satellites and mutually assured destruction by intercontinental ballistic missiles, bombers were the last things to worry about. So now the only three Nikes left on this sandy shoal were the two on Bridge’s feet and the one he jogged around every morning, which was propped up on a skid launcher, its propellant and warhead removed long ago. It now stood as a statue in commemoration of its once-proud sentinel status.
A few of the officer’s quarters on the old base were still maintained by the joint US Coast Guard and National Park Services as a kind of R&R for deserving service men and their families. If you did something really good or needed recuperation after a mission, you might find yourself designated by the Secretary of Defense as entitled to a few days or weeks at this first-class non-hotel, looking north across a sandy beach to the spectacular skyline of New York City.
Bridge grabbed his ready bag and three satchels of gear. He didn’t know how far he’d get with much of it, but he was going to try to get it all into Russia. That gave him an idea. As he lugged his gear out to the waiting Humvee for the half-minute ride to the helipad, he called Brooke.
“Brooke? Look, I got some toys in some bags. Is there any way you can have some diplomatic puke meet me in Warsaw and maybe get these into Russia under diplo immunity?”
.G.
“Got it. I’ll call State and set it up. What’s your ETA at the SAM?”
“Chopper pilot says fourteen minutes to the private aviation side of LaGuardia.”
“I’ll have ATC allow the chopper to land on the tarmac. That should save ten minutes.”
“Good catch.”
“Talk to me once you’re settled in on the SAM.”
“Will do.”
Brooke ended the call. “George, call the home office. Get Sec Tres to get the FAA to allow Air Traffic Control LaGuardia to let Bridge’s helo land on the apron next his Special Air Missions’ flight.”
“For when?”
“You got ten minutes.”
“Tight, but we might just make it.”
Brooke’s phone rang. “Director Burrell? Hold for POTUS.”
Brooke heard switching noises and then a familiar voice. “Brooke, Bill here. I am with the president.”
“Hi, Brooke, are you okay?” the president said.
“Yes, sir, thank you for your concern. Sir, we lost a lot of good agents, civil servants, and staff today. Please keep them and their families in your prayers.”
“Brooke, the president and I were wondering: Is there anything we should know before he speaks to the world?”
“Sir, we believe the attack was carried out with a shoulder-fired missile by a member of the SOM37 cell.”
“Does the press have this?”
“Not so far. We’ve held it tight. Only a few here know.”
“Brooke, are you sure there aren’t any eyewitnesses talking to CNN right now, or somebody isn’t selling the video of the missile streaking across the Manhattan skyline in broad daylight?” the president asked.
“Sir, in Midtown Manhattan, in broad daylight, everyone is looking down at their phones; no one looks up anymore. They tell me the missile travels a
t Mach 1.7, almost twice the speed of sound. It wasn’t in the air for more than a split second between buildings that were three blocks apart. In fact, they tell me that by the time the sound of the second stage launch of the rocket hit the street thirty-eight floors below, the rocket had already slammed into my offices. So the sound would just bring people to the impact, not the launch. But we are canvassing the area for any security cameras and feeds that might have caught it. Also, every NYPD watch commander in the city has orders to send any and all people who thought they saw something to the FBI. We have a good chance of keeping a lid on this. Overall, we are using the FDNY investigation as cover, but to answer your question directly, sir, no we don’t know if this is about to go to viral.”
“Brooke, what is the FDNY saying?” Bill said.
“They are not ruling out a natural gas explosion. And I think we should stick to that.”
“Why’s that?” the president said.
“We won’t be tipping our hand to the cell.”
“I see. If they think they are still invisible then they might get sloppy?” The president followed her logic.
“It’s the best I got right now, sir.”
“I already have a press conference scheduled in twenty minutes. I will ask all Americans to pray in light of this unfortunate accident.”
“Any leads, Brooke?” Bill said.
“We got a solid hit on one of their button men. He may be the one who orchestrated the missile attack this morning.”
“How’s Bridgestone?” Bill said.
Brooke was about to answer when the president jumped in. “Who? You mean that fellow I gave blanket immunity to once?”
“Yes, sir. He’s up there in New York helping Brooke,” Bill said.
“Helping? That’s an understatement, Bill. He saved my life this morning.”
“Where’s he now?” the president wanted to know.
“Sir, if you don’t mind, can Bill pick up and get me off speaker?”
“Hey, it’s my phone. My office. My country, when you think about it, Brooke.”
“When you put it that way, sir . . . Okay, but I was attempting to create a wall of plausible deniability, sir.”
“Okay, now I’m nervous, but even more interested.”
“Sergeant Bridgestone is on his way to Russia.”
“Run that one by me again,” POTUS said.
“Sir, we have good reason to believe Mr. Prescott is being protected in Russia.”
“Protected by who? Don’t get me in a diplomatic pissing contest with the politburo, Brooke.”
“Sir, I don’t know.”
“What’s his mission?” Bill said.
“Simple, find Morgan Prescott and bring him back here for questioning, hopefully in the next two days.”
“Is Bridgestone going undercover?” the president asked.
“Bill?” Brooke said.
“Sir, Bridgestone is always undercover. He’s a ghost.”
“Anybody gets killed, and the feces are going to hit the air circulating device,” the president said.
“Duly noted, sir,” Brooke said.
“Brooke, why in the next two days?”
“Because, Mr. President, we believe we are in a forty-eight to seventy-two hour window before SOM37 launches their main attack.”
“Based on what you just said, should we get the FBI or CIA into this? Hell, the Tenth Mountain Division?”
“I put my cards in Bridge’s hand, Mr. President. He makes the smallest hole, first.”
“Small and efficient rather than big and messy . . . I see your point,” the president said.
“Still no idea what form the attack will take, Brooke?” Bill asked.
“No, we are trying to suss that out from the members we know of and what their core competencies are, but whatever it will be it doesn’t look like it will be a minor affair, Bill.”
“Brooke, no reflection on you, but I am going to order the Pentagon and Homeland to put some assets into place. Pre-position them, in case you need support on a multi-prong raid or, God forbid, recovery.”
“Can’t argue with that, sir.”
Chapter 26
The Tsarina
Bridgestone entered the crisp Moscow night after a fourteen-hour trip that had him touching down in Casablanca for barely six minutes then continuing on via an old Royal Air Maroc L10-11 into Sheremetyevo International Airport. He was sure the ancient Lockheed plane had its last airworthiness inspection in the US when it was an Eastern Airlines jet, back in the 70s. Every time the old fuselage complained with a cranky rattle or disgruntled creak, he was reminded that the L10-11 held the distinction of the first wide-body airliner to ever crash.
Terminal D at Sheremetyevo Airport was all glass and steel. At first glance it looked like any other modern international airport. But the stony faces and ice-cold gaze of passport control officers immediately sobered you up with the kind of paralyzing “hospitality” only Soviet-weaned Russians were capable of.
The airport express train brought Bridgestone to the Belorussky train station. Its pompous gates opened to the bustling square revealing the typical Moscovian cityscape of glassy business centers crowding out the past, or in this case a small white church, as the heavy Staline époque buildings just across the road loomed forebodingly. He entered the Soviet-style metro building with his “ears,” a piece of tradecraft he employed to tweak his own Russian speech pattern so he wouldn’t call undo attention to himself by brandishing an “out of town” accent. Also, it helped him glean what the locals were talking about—the small talk that could slide him in or out of any situation without raising any suspicions.
He arrived near the Kitai Gorod Mini Hotel twenty minutes before his contact. He liked to be early so he could see if anyone had planned a little welcoming party. The neighborhood was what locals called the Old Moscow. Small, ramshackle mansions dotted her winding streets along with an uncountable number of churches. One was right next to the hotel. It was ornate, with white stucco and Wedgewood-blue trim. He looked up on the light pole and there it was, a camera. Russian authorities always liked to know who was going to church.
He sidled along, staying out of the range of the camera until he reached the hotel’s entrance. This was a real cheapo hotel but clean. He got a room for forty-five dollars a night under the name Gennady Romanov. One of the windows had a spectacular view of the 1930s skyscraper on Kotelnicheskaya embankment. For a keen-eyed sniper it was a perfect position, he thought as he closed the drapes. He dropped his bag in the room and splashed some water on his face. There was a knock at the door.
Alisa Spirina was tall, thin, and erudite. The perpetual up angle of her celestial nose was part of her success as an operative in a class-conscious society where strains of nobility, even sixteen times and generations removed, could get you a tank of petrol while everyone else walked. Whether confronted by the old KGB or suspicious border guards, Alisa’s “airs” were rarely challenged. The cold hard stare she could deliver on someone who thought they had authority over her got her access and egress to and from many tight squeezes. In the Russian parlance, most just assumed she was a tzaritsa or “tsarina” in English.
Bridge took in the sophisticated, poised, regal woman standing on the other side of his cheap hotel room door.
Then she spoke. “Well, fuck. Aren’t you going to invite me in, you dick?” she said placing her hand on her hip.
“Nice to see you too, kid.”
She walked in and gave him a peck on the cheek. “Long time.”
“Alisa, you don’t age. You look just the same as when I met you twenty years ago.”
“No, I weighed less then.”
“Baloney.”
“No, I weighed less because you had just relieved me of my .45 automatic.”
“The M1911A1 is too big a gun
for such a dainty woman. You were better off.”
“Screw you. But now I keep my weight down with a Mustang .380.” She patted her inner thigh.
“Excellent choice, madam.” He gestured towards the couch and they both sat. “Well, Alisa, what have you got for me?”
.G.
An hour later they were standing on a road overlooking a large private compound of Vitaly Borishenko on the Nikoline Hill, the posh area outside of Moscow where all the members of the Russian elite lived.
Through binoculars, Bridge scoped out the defenses. “This isn’t going to be easy. Perimeter patrols, three watchtowers, cameras, and what looks like infrared mirror beams. And probably some of the servants within are packing.”
“If we were going in that way,” Alisa said.
“You got another way?” he said with a sigh.
“You got a tux?”
.G.
Alisa still had it. The poor schmuck at the limousine company office was turned inside out trying to make her happy. She must have said four times, “No, I am sorry, this just won’t do,” as the schlub kept bringing out bigger and bigger limos for her approval.
They were sitting in the backseat of the one that was “just right” for the Russian Goldilocks as they approached the compound. Alisa took out the gold-leafed invitation she had wangled from a society matron who was convinced she was secretly a Romamov incognito.
“Did you lift that?”
“Don’t be absurd. Madam Bolotnikova thinks I will make the perfect accoutrement on the arm of her son, the unremarkable lieutenant.”
“Whoa, so you’ve already got a date? Then that makes me chopped liver in this monkey suit,” Bridge said pulling at the lapel of his hastily rented tux.
“Nonsense. This is the aristocracy, you Cossack. One doesn’t just blind date their way to the matrimonial bed.”
“Excuse me, tzaritsa.”
“You have my forgiveness.” She held out her hand to be kissed.
“Nice nail polish . . .” was all she got from Bridge.
At the entrance to the compound, Alisa lowered the limousine’s soundproof privacy divider and handed the invite to the driver to hand to the guards at the gate. The guard peered into the side window with a flashlight and, not seeing whatever he was looking for, waved them through.
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