Enemy In the Room

by Parker Hudson

“Then check out and I’ll meet you with our driver by the side door in ten minutes. It’s the least I can do to help you and your daughter.”

  “OK. Thank you. Believe me, no one will ever know about RTI. I’ll forget all about it.”

  Knox smiled. “We trust you, David. Have a good flight, and take care of your family.”

  As he turned and walked to the door, David said, “It will be a change, but I’m going to try.”

  Ten minutes later David walked out the side door of the hotel with his large travel bag and briefcase. A Russian driver appeared from a black Mercedes double-parked in the street. “Mr. Sawyer?” he asked. When David nodded, he said, “Mr. Kamali is waiting for you inside the car. Please let me have your bags, and we’ll leave for the airport.”

  “Yes, thank you,” David said, handing him the bags and walking around to the back right passenger door.

  When he opened it, Kamali smiled from the other side of the backseat and motioned to him. “Please, get in.”

  “Thanks. I really appreciate this.”

  “We’re glad to help.”

  The driver got in and they pulled away.

  At that moment, precisely 10:00 a.m., 800 kilometers to the southeast, one of the Russian launch team members pushed a button on his hand-held radio. From the small, secluded valley in which their transport had stopped earlier that morning, a short burst traveled up to an orbiting satellite and back to earth a moment later.

  The signal was read by Simon North at NovySvet and automatically relayed to Victor Mustafin at the command console in the USNet corporate jet. It was their preplanned hourly check confirming that the missile was fully armed and operational.

  Mustafin smiled and was about to get up from the console to stretch. But then he received an urgent encrypted email from Trevor Knox.

  The car with David and Akbar drove along the south side of the Kremlin, between its high red brick wall and the Moscow River. The two men didn’t say much, and David found it a little uncomfortable. Kamali spoke in some language with their driver, who occasionally looked at David in the rearview mirror. I probably shouldn’t have come with Akbar. But I guess I need to keep some sort of decent relationship with him, given what I heard about RTI—assuming that Todd was telling the truth. I just want to disappear from all of this and get back to my family.

  David knew central Moscow reasonably well from his days of searching for office space with Andrei. He expected them to circle around the Kremlin and head northwest up Tverskaya Street toward Sheremetevo Airport. Instead, they went across the bridge and out Bolshaya Yakimaka to the southwest.

  David turned to Akbar. “Why are we going this way to the airport?”

  “From here it’s actually quicker to go out to the Ring Road on Leninsky Prospekt and then around to the north on the Ring.”

  David knew that the Ring Road was a fast expressway. They drove southwest out of the city center on the broad avenue, past block after block of Soviet area mid- and high-rise apartments, occasionally broken by a park or a cluster of new retail buildings. Twenty minutes later they drove directly under the Ring Road and kept going. David twisted to the right as they went under the bridge. “Hey, wasn’t that the Ring Road?” he asked as he turned back to Akbar.

  “Yes, it was.” Kamali reached inside his coat and pulled out a black automatic pistol, which he leveled at David’s chest.

  David looked from the barrel of the gun to Akbar’s smile. “What are you doing?”

  “We’re driving out to dispose of USNet’s former real estate group leader.”

  “What?”

  “You’ve elected to leave us. And you even despise us because of stupid choices your children have made. Unfortunately, thanks to Todd Phelps, you know too much to remain alive. So we’re going to have to kill you. And Todd.”

  “Kill me?”

  “Yes.” He said it in an offhand way. “It’s bad for you, and a great waste for USNet. The fact that we missed your daughter’s connection is particularly troubling to us. Mr. Knox and I are initiating a more thorough background search on the families of all our people.”

  “Wait a minute.” David turned slightly. “Does Knox know you’re doing this?”

  “He ordered it.”

  David’s heart began to race, and he felt light-headed. “So you’re just going to take me out into the country and kill me?”

  Kamali reached into a coat pocket and, still pointing the pistol at Sawyer, screwed on a silencer. He smiled again. “No. That’s not the plan, unless you do something stupid. Actually we are on the way to the airport. It’s just that our corporate jet is at Vnukovo, not Sheremetevo. We want you to see the Presidential reception that you’ve worked so hard for and the special events that will follow it. Then, while the rest of us are on the way home, we’ll let some of our local people take care of you. We will tell them to make it quick. No torture. Your body will be found tomorrow, or maybe the next day. It will appear to have been another chapter in the long-running media hype of how bad the Russian mafia has become.”

  David felt his stomach filling with acid. Kamali continued. “But I imagine that so much will be going on in Moscow after today’s events that few people will notice the death of one American businessman. And if they do,” he said and smiled, “maybe the extra bad news will help keep out more Western competition.”

  “Akbar, people don’t kill people over business.”

  “Our RTI intelligence system is more than business! Knox had to eliminate his own brother twenty years ago. And we killed that Porter fellow a couple of months ago because you told Knox he would cost us fifty million dollars. So why wouldn’t we kill you? You know much more than either of them ever knew.”

  “You killed Bill Porter?”

  “Of course. What did you think? Now USNet has that building under contract. I’d say it worked out well.”

  “You killed Porter,” he repeated, almost to himself.

  In a few minutes they entered the Vnukovo Airport area. Before reaching the terminal they turned to the right down an unmarked road and drove up to a gate where a guard stopped them. The driver partially rolled down his window, leaving up the tinted rear windows, and Kamali held the pistol pushed into David’s side while the driver showed a special pass to gain entrance to the corporate aviation ramp. Once inside the gate they drove past several hangars and about a dozen corporate jets, most in Moscow for the afternoon’s events. They continued toward a single large jet parked by itself at the end of the ramp. Next to it was a stand of trees that created a wide buffer inside the perimeter security fence.

  As they approached the jet David saw a single armed guard standing by the closed door at the back of the fuselage on its left side. Before they reached the plane, the door opened and a portable staircase automatically deployed. As they parked next to the stairs, David could see another man, dressed in a blue jeans and a Western shirt, starting down. When he reached the ground he pulled a pistol, also carrying a silencer, from inside his coat and opened David’s door.

  “Get out,” he said and stepped back slightly.

  As David turned to exit, he heard Kamali open his own door, and he knew that he had two guns trained on him. He stood up and looked at the new man, who was expressionless. Kamali came around the car, and said, “David, meet Victor Mustafin. He’s going to take very good care of you.”

  “I got an email from Knox,” Mustafin said. Turning to David, he said, “So stupid!”

  Kamali led the way. “I’ll go in first, and then you follow our guest up the stairs.”

  Still light-headed, David climbed the stairs and ducked to enter the jet. Aft of the door was a single row of seats, one on each side of the fuselage, as well as a galley and a head. Forward, to the left, were more seats, all plush leather, one on each side. About two-thirds of the way forward the aisle shifted to the left, and there was a conference table on the right, with four seats around it. Then there were two more seats and, finally, the command console with its
own chair, work station and computer monitors. Kamali was standing up by the console and waved David forward with his pistol. Behind him he heard Mustafin retract the stairs and close the door. It was eerily quiet inside; the only sound was that of the air conditioning running in the background.

  “Here. Take off your coat, then sit down.” He motioned to the single seat to David’s right, facing forward, between the conference table group and the command console. Kamali nodded to Mustafin.

  David slowly removed his coat and sat in the single seat. While Kamali held his pistol near David’s face, Mustafin took out a pair of handcuffs. “Give me your cell phone, David.” He put the phone in his pants pocket and then locked one cuff around David’s left wrist and the other through an opening in the metal frame of the left armrest. He put the key in his other pocket, pulled forcefully on the cuffs, and said to Kamali, “He won’t be going anywhere.”

  Kamali lowered his gun. “David, you’re a fool. You had it made. Soon you’ll be dead. I hope you have lots of insurance for those kids you suddenly care so much about.”

  David felt a wave of nausea overtake him. He was weak and lay back in the seat.

  Kamali returned his gun inside his coat and smiled, stepping aside to let Mustafin move forward to sit in the chair at the command console. “We called the airline and cancelled his reservation. We even told the lady that some pressing business meetings had come up. Hopefully she’ll remember that.

  “Victor, it’s all yours now for the last act. I’ll join Knox after his lunch with the other business leaders and President Harper. We’ll go over to the office early. The missile team is reporting in by satellite every hour. North and Beleborodov are ready to monitor the flight for the first thirty minutes, when control passes to you, here. I’ll call you when the Presidents leave the reception, in case it’s not on the live news. Then Knox and I will drive back here as quickly as we can, and we’ll depart—after leaving our former colleague here with your friends. Except for Sawyer’s stupid move, everything seems to be going as planned.”

  Mustafin nodded. “Yes. But he’s just a small bump. Do you have the GPS repeater?”

  Kamali touched his coat pocket. “Yes. All set.”

  “Then have a good reception. Say hello to both Presidents for me.”

  Kamali moved down the aisle, pulled the lever that opened the door and departed the plane. Mustafin followed him and closed the door while Kamali sped off in the same car that had brought them out.

  It was late in California, but Kristen and Callie spent over an hour on the phone with Elizabeth, who was still in Rob’s hospital room. In between asking about Rob’s latest tests, Callie told her mother everything, from the videos with Alex to her call that evening with her father. Kristen passed on to Elizabeth the terrible news from David about Omid, and Elizabeth asked them both many questions. There were tears and smiles on the call, and Kristen finished by telling Elizabeth that they hoped to be home the next afternoon.

  While Callie got ready for bed, Kristen called the airline to book two seats out of LAX in the morning.

  As Kamali drove off to meet Knox, Mustafin walked past David, who had not moved, and sat at the console. He depressed some buttons, and USNet’s live news came up on one of the smaller monitors to the left of the console.

  Mustafin swiveled around so that he was facing David. “Can you see that monitor? European version of our news. Looks like they’re outside the lunch meeting, which will soon start at the U.S. Embassy. You’ll want to watch the news closely later today.” He smiled.

  David’s nausea had subsided, and he’d tried to follow what Kamali and Mustafin had been talking about, but he wasn’t sure. He looked at Mustafin, about six feet in front of him. “Missile? What missile were you and Kamali talking about?”

  Mustafin smiled. “Good, David. I wasn’t sure you were listening. You look a little ill. It’s the missile we’re going to use to take out both Presidents. You see, that move to Mexico for your daughter probably won’t have to take place after all, and the news of your death in Moscow will be small potatoes because this afternoon, after the reception, President Harper will cease to exist. For someone in our businesses, that’s great news, don’t you think?”

  “Are you serious?”

  “Absolutely! Why do you think we wanted to get Harper over here, and to our reception?”

  “But…she’s so well guarded.”

  “Yes, she is. But not from an enemy you can’t see until it’s too late. A cruise missile in its final homing stage. Pretty ingenious, don’t you think? And, most importantly, we’ll rid the world of two crusaders, two enemies of Allah!”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “What Mr. Knox, Akbar and I do with RTI. Making money is only a small part. It’s true that we don’t influence outcomes, unless they advance Allah’s kingdom on earth. Then we are glad to.” Mustafin smiled.

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Since no one else will ever talk with you and you have a front row seat, I’ll tell you. We share our RTI intelligence, when appropriate, with patriots, mullahs and jihadists around the world. With this capability, the West and Christendom will fall, destroyed from within and without. What a glorious moment it will be when the first European government votes to install Sharia Law!”

  “You share RTI with Islamic terrorists?”

  “Not terrorists, David. Allah’s holy warriors.”

  “Where?”

  “Wherever it can be useful, and we can mask the actual source. London, Detroit, Iran, Somalia, Yemen…anywhere, really.”

  “Iran? Have you been sharing my phone calls to my cousin Omid with the mullahs?”

  “Yes, but probably not for too long. Ever since you told Akbar about helping your cousin. Since then we’ve been using his calls to follow and gain information on his whole group. Thank you for the tip.”

  “You killed him.”

  Mustafin shrugged. “A traitor to Iran, Islam and Allah. And, again, thanks for your help.”

  When David didn’t answer, Mustafin continued. “And, by the way, this will not be the only missile today. A couple of hours after the Presidents and their advisors are killed, we have two martyrs, one on each coast, who will bring down two commercial airline flights, also using missiles. At JFK in New York, and in Los Angeles. Lots of fireworks for the Fourth, don’t you think? The coverage should be quite good, but I’m afraid that by then we’ll be on the way, and you’ll be in the hands of our friends. We’ll probably have to divert to Canada, but I guess our discomfort will be less than yours.”

  He smiled and swiveled back to face the console and brought up the main menu, then punched in some numbers and brought up a map of Europe, which he slowly focused until it showed only Moscow inside the Ring Road. With the push of another button, the box that tracked their USNet ID card repeaters appeared in the top right corner of the screen. It had six blank boxes, and Mustafin scrolled in 654321. As David watched from his seat behind Mustafin, a small white blip appeared in the lower left hand corner, moving northeast.

  “Kamali is inside the Ring Road, headed toward the center. See? The repeater he’s carrying is working perfectly. We decided to use a missile countdown for its code.”

  He swiveled back to face David. “And now you know that we have to kill you. You’ve seen too much in the last hour to let you live. You should have left well enough alone.” Then he turned back and continued to increase the resolution on the map read-out.

  David’s initial weakness and nausea were wearing off, and he no longer felt so light-headed. He looked around. I’m cuffed to a chair with madmen bent on killing our President, and me.

  I’ll never see my family again. Never hold Elizabeth. All the things I wanted to do. To make a difference. Now I won’t. I wish I could talk to the kids. I wonder what it will be like to die. Will there be a ‘boom’? Pain? Where will my soul go? I wish I’d had more time with Kristen so she could explain that. I think I should try to pray.<
br />
  God, I’m trying to believe in your power because of what I’ve seen in Kristen’s life—and now in Callie’s. You must be real, as Kristen says you are. Thank you for Callie forgiving me…and for her willingness to come home. And for Rob. Please, God, I don’t want to die like this. I want to know more about you and your son, as Kristen explained to me. I don’t know exactly what to say—but I want you in my life—to save my soul. Because of what you’ve done, I do believe in you. Please forgive me for all the things I’ve done. To Elizabeth, our children, others. Please change me. Save our President. And those people on the airplanes. Save our family. Save Todd.

  Several hours went by. Over Mustafin’s shoulder, David watched USNet’s European edition, which included occasional live coverage of the historic Moscow Presidential visit. And every hour on the hour there was a short message on the main screen about the operational readiness of the missile.

  At one point David convinced Mustafin that he had to go to the bathroom. The Kazakh blanked the monitors, called in the armed guard from outside and stationed him at the back of the plane. Then he handed David the handcuff key and told him to unlock his wrist, all the while holding the gun at his chest. David then walked to the head, both guns on him, and was allowed to relieve himself without privacy. As soon as he was reseated, Mustafin locked the cuff around his now chafed wrist, repocketed the key, and stationed the guard outside again.

  After the four o’clock readiness check, Mustafin made a video call to what appeared to be two men in a command center. They talked about the weather, which was clear over Moscow, and the missile team, which David eventually decided were Russians.

  While they talked, David again looked around. I have to get free! I can’t just let them kill the Presidents, so many others, and me without trying to do something. But I’m a real estate guy, not a commando. What do I know about escape and fighting? God, please help me. If I die, I want it to count for something—to save others. Are they going to blow up the reception? But nothing, no plan, formed in his mind, as he pulled again on the handcuff that fixed him to his chair, and the time wound down.