Borgdanov bobbed his head in an unseen nod, then muttered a soft, “Da.”
“Go then. I will wait half an hour before I leave.”
“Do svidaniya, little brother,” Borgdanov said softly. “Stupay s Bogom.” Go with God.
Arkady’s teeth flashed in a smile through the dim light. “Spasibo, Dyusha, but I suspect that God would prefer that I travel alone. I haven’t done much to please Him of late.”
Borgdanov smiled sadly and turned toward the gate.
“Oh, and Dyusha, I don’t know how well you know these people in the UK, but if they are friends, you should warn them. The Bratstvo plans to kill all three of them. Everything I was able to find out is in a file on the flash drive labeled UK.”
Chapter Thirty One
St. Mary’s Catholic Church
London, UK
Dugan sat next to Anna and glanced down the pew to his left at Alex and Gillian. Gillian was sobbing softly into a handkerchief as on her opposite side Mrs. Hogan was gently rubbing Gillian’s back in a vain attempt at consolation. Alex was suitably dressed and shaved for the first time in several days, but he seemed unfocused and near catatonic, staring straight ahead as a single tear leaked down his pallid cheek. Mrs. Hogan peered past the grieving couple at Dugan, and her face turned dark. He quickly looked away.
Gillian had given him a sad smile when they’d arrived, and Alex had offered his hand perfunctorily, his handshake like holding a dead fish, and Dugan caught a whiff of brandy. Ilya and Nigel sat to Dugan’s right, on the other side of Anna, the big Russian stone-faced and stoic, while Nigel was visibly struggling to keep it together. But Dugan’s discomfort was greater still, knowing that he could have relieved his friends’ suffering with a word, and he was struggling with strong second thoughts about having subjected them to this ordeal. This was shaping up to be the longest hour of his life.
The service was not only for Cassie, but also the two Russian women, and Father O’Malley had graciously invited the priest from the nearby Russian Orthodox church to assist him in the service. Dugan was impressed by O’Malley’s sensitivity and kindness, but under the circumstances, his greatest concern was that the gesture might double the length of the service and thus his discomfort.
Father O’Malley walked to the pulpit and began to speak.
Outside the Kairouz Residence
London, UK
Unsure as to the exact timing of the day’s events, Fedosov decided to take up a position early, to be prepared for any last minute complications. Thus he’d arrived and parked the van on the street in good time to watch the departure of both the Kairouzes, in the company of their driver and the Irish cook. He sat in the back of the van now, with a good view of the driveway through a concealed viewing port. He would be able to observe both the Kairouzes’ and Dugan’s return, to confirm they were all in place before he detonated the bomb. He was waiting patiently when he got some unexpected visitors.
A taxi pulled to the curb beside the drive, and a rumpled-looking black man got out. He stood a moment, glancing casually around himself. He peered at the van for a long minute and then seemed to mark it in his memory and move on, slowly making an arc as his gaze traversed a full circle around the taxi. Fedosov’s sixth sense started sounding an alarm. The man was obviously aware of his surroundings, but what was he doing here. Private security? For who?
He got his answer a short time later, and the man lowered his head and spoke into the taxi. Two dark-haired women exited the cab, and the man motioned them up the drive as he fell in behind them, his head on a swivel. They moved out of sight around the curve in the drive, and Fedosov tensed, trying to assess what impact this latest development might have on his plan. He kept his eye on the house and slipped on the headphones. A short while later, he heard the kitchen door open, and a woman’s British-accented voice.
“I’ll shut off the alarm.”
“Okay,” replied a man’s voice, undoubtedly the black man, an American by the sound of it. “Then I need to get you two upstairs and out of sight.”
“Why?” the woman asked.
“Because I think it would be too much of a shock for your folks to just walk in and find you sitting here. I need to prepare them a bit before I spring you on them,” the American said.
“I think for Uncle Ilya it will be no problem,” said a second woman, the accent Russian this time.
“Well, maybe,” the American said, “but humor me. Let’s get you both upstairs for the time being. I’ll call up when you can come down.”
Fedosov heard murmurs of agreement and then, a moment later, the sound of footsteps on the stairway and cursed the fact that he had no listening devices upstairs. Who were these people, and what were they doing in the house? Should he abort? No, the Chief had already given the green light to some collateral damage as inevitable, and besides, Fedosov had never expected that this Dugan and the Kairouz people would be completely alone.
He sat back in his chair and waited, his patience wearing thin now. He just wanted to finish the job and get the hell away.
St. Petersburg
Russian Federation
Borgdanov tried Ilya’s cell phone again, muttering a curse when the call went to voice mail. He left another message.
“Ilya, I have been trying to reach you. Call me at this number immediately.”
He didn’t want to communicate in the open, and by doing so he was compromising the strict communication protocol he’d established with Ilya. There were just too many ways communications could be compromised, especially if one end of the call was in Russia, even though both he and Ilya were using burner phones.
The agreed procedure was to leave a draft email message in a dummy Gmail account, to which both men had the user ID and password. Each would log into the account twice a day — Ilya at eleven AM and PM and Borgdanov at noon and midnight — and read any draft message left. Additionally, either could log on at any time with an urgent message, though the sender would know it was unlikely to be received until his correspondent’s regular check-in time. Since the messages were never actually sent, they were less likely to attract scrutiny. But despite the low probability of being compromised, the Russians were still circumspect regarding message frequency and content. The only message from Ilya to date, which Borgdanov assumed was sent after the rescue mission, was as heartrending as it was brief. “Regret we failed.”
Borgdanov’s only message was sent at one in the morning London time, as soon as he’d been able to get to a computer and check the content of the UK file on Arkady’s flash drive. His message was equally concise. “Imperative you call me. No. 4.” The number four indicated Ilya was to call the fourth number on a list of a dozen numbers Borgdanov had given him, each to a different burner phone that would be discarded immediately after the call.
Ilya should have gotten the message a half hour earlier, and the lack of a call indicated something was seriously wrong, prompting Borgdanov to abandon communications protocol in favor of a direct approach. When Ilya hadn’t answered, he’d tried Dugan and then Anna, but both calls went to voice mail. He didn’t have numbers for the Kairouzes;, but as a last resort he’d tried Anna’s colleagues Lou and Harry, with similar results. Where the hell was everyone?
Borgdanov stood and paced the worn carpet of the shabby hotel room and prayed for Ilya to return his call.
Chapter Thirty Two
St. Mary’s Catholic Church
London, UK
If anything, the conclusion of the service was the most stressful part. Father O’Malley gave a benediction and, along with the Russian Orthodox priest, moved down the aisle to bid the mourners farewell as they exited the church. The rest of the attendees waited respectfully for the family to file out first, but when they all stood, Alex collapsed. He sank back into the pew, tears streaming down his cheeks and shoulders heaving, as if physically unable to stand. Dugan and Ilya helped him to his feet and along the aisle to the waiting car.
With the family
so obviously indisposed, it had fallen to Dugan to return to accept the condolences and well wishes from the exiting mourners — a feat made considerably easier by the presence of both Father O’Malley and the Russian Orthodox priest (whose name he couldn’t remember or pronounce) at his side, gently hurrying folks along if they lingered. When the last attendee had shaken hands and moved on, Dugan hurried away before either of the priests could suggest visiting the house to comfort the grieving family.
He glanced at his watch as he rushed to the car park, where Anna waited with Ilya and Nigel. Gillian and Alex would undoubtedly be home by now, and he didn’t have a clue as to what was transpiring. Other than bringing the girls to the house, he and Ward didn’t have a plan, and Dugan was starting to realize they should have given it a great deal more thought. What exactly were they going to do, say, “Surprise! Your daughter’s not dead!” and have her jump out of a fucking cake?
Anna and the others saw him coming and were already sitting in the car by the time he slid behind the wheel, Anna in the front passenger seat, and the two men in the back. Dugan reached for the ignition, then stopped and sat back in his seat. Maybe it was better to break the news to everyone separately. Then maybe Anna could help him figure out the best way to tell Gillian and Alex. Presuming, of course, Ilya and Nigel didn’t beat him to death here in the church car park.
“Tom?” Anna asked. “Is something wrong?”
Dugan shook his head and half-turned in his seat so he could see all of them.
“No. But I have something to tell you all. It’s going to sound crazy, but I need you to trust me, and you’ll understand in a very few minutes.” He paused. “Cassie and Karina aren’t dead.”
No one said anything for a long moment; then Ilya broke the silence.
“Da, Dyed. I know. I listened to the sermon. They are with God in Heaven. And maybe is true, and maybe is not. I do not know, but I am not such a strong believer. But… but I like to think the priest is right.”
“That’s not what I mean. I mean they’re both ALIVE. Not in Heaven, but right here in London. I saw them myself yesterday morning, and right now they should be at Alex and Gillian’s house.”
“What sort of rubbish is that?” Nigel demanded. “We all saw them die. I… I touched her, or one of them, anyway. If this is some sort of cruel Yank funeral humor, it’s not amusing.”
Dugan shook his head. “The guys on the ship opened the container before they dumped it and rescued Cassie and Karina. Tanya was already dead, and they left her body in the container — that’s who you saw, Nigel.”
“Why are we just finding this out,” Ilya demanded. “Why did the girls not come forward when ship docked?”
“Because they were protecting the guys who saved them. They had no clue we were close by, and the guys on the ship were ordered to dump the container, so the Russian mob would have probably killed their families if they knew any of the girls were rescued—”
“Dugan!” Anna said.“Just drive! You can give us the details on the way.”
“Da,” Ilya said, followed by a ‘bloody right’ from Nigel.
“I guess that makes it unanimous.” Dugan started the car.
Outside the Kairouz Residence
London, UK
Fedosov watched the car turn up the drive with the cook and chauffeur in front and the Kairouz couple in the back. So far, so good. Now if this Dugan would just show up, he could finish the job and get out of here — presuming the arrival of the black American and the women didn’t complicate matters. He slipped the headphones back on to check out the action inside the house. He heard the back door open and then a surprised gasp.
“Jesse?” he heard the Kairouz woman say. “You startled me. What are you doing here?”
Fedosov heard the hesitation in the man’s voice.
“I… I just came to pay my respects,” the man said. “I’m so sorry for your loss.”
“Thank you,” the woman said, “but why didn’t you come to the church … and how did you get in? The door was locked and the alarm set.”
“I… I just arrived and knew I’d be too late for the service. I called Tom earlier and he told me where the spare key was and gave me the alarm code—”
“I NEED A BLOODY DRINK,” said a male British voice, the speech slurred and accompanied by the abrupt sound of chair legs sliding across a tile floor.
“ALEX! Careful! You’ll fall,” the Kairouz woman again.
“Never you mind,” said a woman with an Irish brogue. “I’ll get himself sat in the study. Come along, Mr. Kairouz. There’s a good fellow.” Fedosov heard the sound of stumbling footsteps retreating, then silence.
“Tom said he was taking it hard,” the black American’s voice again.
“Yes, well, it’s difficult for all of us,” said the Kairouz woman. “Now about your—”
“Where is Tom?” the black American asked. “I expected him to be with you.”
“He’ll be along,” the Kairouz woman said. “He was detained at the church. And I’m sorry, but we weren’t expecting anyone. Can I offer you something? Coffee perhaps? I’ll ask Mrs. Hogan to brew a pot.”
Fedosov looked up to see a car turning onto the street. As it sped past him, he saw Dugan at the wheel and a red-haired woman in the front passenger seat, along with two men in the back he couldn’t see well. The car whipped into the Kairouz drive and disappeared from sight around the curve. Seconds later he heard car doors slamming and then the back door to the kitchen banging open.
“KARINA?” bellowed a deep Russian-accented voice, and then — bedlam.
Kairouz Residence
London, UK
Dugan explained the situation as the car raced toward the Kairouz house, his attempts at soliciting ideas for the best way to break the news to Alex and Gillian overwhelmed by the voices of Nigel and Ilya demanding details of the girls’ survival. By the time he pulled into the Kairouzes’ drive, he still had no clear idea what to do, and his two back-seat passengers were already opening their doors before he’d brought the car to a complete stop in front of the garage.
“Wait,” said Dugan to no avail as the men leaped from the car. He shot a worried look at Anna as she wrestled her crutches from between the seats.
“Go on,” Anna said. “Go ahead. You probably need to get in there as soon as possible. I can manage the few steps to the back door on my own.”
“You sure—”
Anna smiled. “GO!”
Dugan nodded and jumped out. He entered the kitchen to a scene of chaos. Jesse Ward and Gillian Kairouz stood stock still in the kitchen, puzzled looks on their faces. At the end of the hall, Alex stood in the door to the study, leaning against the door jamb, a glass in his hand. He could see Mrs. Hogan behind Alex, standing ready to offer support. Ilya and Nigel were in the hall, calling the girls’ names at the top of their lungs.
Dugan heard answering shouts from up the stairway, and the two men thundered up the steps, while everyone else looked on, obviously confused. And then he heard the unmistakable sound of Cassie’s happy laughter, and everything happened at once.
There was the sound of glass breaking on hardwood as Alex dropped the brandy snifter and steadied himself on the door jamb. And then the girls were down the stairs, and the hall was crowded as everyone rushed to them, hugging and kissing and clinging together, consumed with the joy of the return of their loved ones, without regard to the WHY of their particular miracle.
Dugan stood in the kitchen doorway with Ward, hoping some of that goodwill would carry over when they realized he’d delayed the moment of joy. He heard the back door rattle and hurried over to help Anna inside. She grinned at him and thumped down the hall on her crutches toward the happy reunion.
As it turned out, it wasn’t much different than having them jump out of a cake, now was it?
Outside the Kairouz Residence
London, UK
Fedosov listened to the melee in his earphones and cursed at the unexpected comp
lication. The noise was general and of sufficient volume to be coming from several of his bugs at once, so he couldn’t pinpoint exactly where the targets were in the house. That was a problem.
Despite the fact the Chief had given him discretion in the area of collateral damage, Fedosov was no fool. This was a posh neighborhood, populated with wealthy people who wielded considerable political clout — a Member of Parliament lived only one door down the tree-lined street. A charge large enough to guarantee the complete and utter destruction of the Kairouz residence might also deal death and destruction to influential neighbors, so Fedosov had been selective in his placement of the charges in the basement. He’d placed the heaviest explosives beneath the living room and kitchen, where he might reasonably expect his three targets to congregate at some point. Smaller incendiary charges were spaced throughout the rest of the house and along the perimeter, to ensure the wreckage from the larger blasts was consumed in a raging conflagration. On the off chance any of his targets survived the initial blast, they would surely perish in the fire that followed it. It was a sound plan, all in all, but one predicated on his ability to determine when his three targets were collected together in either the living room or kitchen.
Fedosov scowled as he listened to the confusion coming from his bugs. The addition of additional voices raised in animated conversation completely overwhelmed his ability to tell who was where, and he cursed himself for not having the foresight to plant video cameras. But then again, he’d wanted to keep his footprint as small as possible, and more bugs meant more possibility of discovery.
Deadly Crossing (Tom Dugan 2) Page 27