Independence Day: A Dewey Andreas Novel

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Independence Day: A Dewey Andreas Novel Page 12

by Ben Coes


  “What’s the protocol?”

  “Dayton protocol,” said Polk. “We have a Level-One terror threat. Use whatever means necessary to find out the whereabouts of Cloud. Out.”

  16

  NSA

  Serena Pacheco was in line at the NSA cafeteria, buying a sandwich and a cup of coffee. Her cell phone started ringing. The ID indicated “June, J.”

  “Pacheco,” she said, answering the phone.

  “PRISM is going nuts up here,” June said.

  “Be right there.”

  Pacheco left her tray on the counter.

  Back at her workstation inside the TAO suite of offices, Pacheco found two separate hits, or matches, based on the CIA sketch of Cloud. Both were photos of a woman with dark skin and long black hair. In one photo, the woman is seen walking out of a Moscow restaurant. Standing next to her is a man with straight blond hair, dressed in a tuxedo. The other photo showed the same woman, this time climbing into a limousine. The same man is behind her, holding the door. Pacheco zoomed in on the two photos, then placed them between the CIA sketch of Cloud and the photo from the nightclub. The first photo did not look at all like the Cloud depicted in the sketch or in the photo from the nightclub; he was handsome and clean-cut, his hair neatly combed and straight. But the second photograph gave her pause. It was his eyes. They were dark and suspicious. They were the same eyes. It was unmistakable.

  Pacheco quickly ran the woman’s photo through PRISM. In less than a minute, dozens, then hundreds of photographs dominoed across her screen.

  Basaeyev, Katya

  CITIZENSHIP:

  Russia

  DOB:

  c. 09/10/1990

  Yakutsk, Sakha Republic, SIBERIA

  HIST:

  Convent of Good Shepherd, Yakutsk

  Yakutsk, SIB 1990—2002

  Bolshoi Academy for Performing Arts

  Moscow, RUS 2002-07

  Bolshoi Ballet, troupe ballerina, 2007–08

  Bolshoi Ballet, prima ballerina, 2008–

  Katya’s biography went on for twenty-seven pages. In all, PRISM was able to source more than a hundred thousand photographs of the famous Russian ballerina. Of these, only two popped Cloud’s photo.

  One of the photos on Pacheco’s screen had been taken just an hour before, then posted by someone on Pinterest. Pacheco clicked on the photo. It showed Katya’s beautiful face on a large poster above the entrance to a theater. Katya’s blue eyes were like jewels. An enigmatic smile was on her face, her pure white teeth visible and contrasted against rose red lips:

  The Kirov Ballet is proud to present Tchaikovsky’s

  Swan Lake

  with Special Guest Star

  Katya Basaeyev

  “The Siberian Diamond”

  July 4–July 28

  Mariinsky Theatre, Saint Petersburg

  “I found his girlfriend,” said Pacheco.

  17

  ABOARD THE LONELY FISHERMAN

  NEAR NADOR, MOROCCO

  MEDITERRANEAN SEA

  Faqir had the trawler running on only one engine, putting along the dark North African coast, a half mile or so offshore. Most boats in the area were moored for the night, anchors down, awaiting first light.

  The Lonely Fisherman’s running lights were extinguished. Faqir navigated by a portable state-of-the-art sonar system, which was set on the wood shelf next to the wheel.

  They were still in safe waters, but in a few hours, they would come to the Strait of Gibraltar. If they were going to get stopped, that’s where it would happen. That one of the crew left behind the explosives only added to the anxiety Faqir felt. This side trip was unnecessary. It would add several hours onto the voyage, hours that were precious.

  The front window of the wheelhouse was open. In the crow’s nest at the bow of the ship, thirty feet up in the air, two of the Chechens were standing, each holding thermal night-vision binoculars, scanning the water in front and to each side of the trawler.

  Their instructions were twofold. Warn him if they were approaching too close to a vessel. More important, look for a particular flag: Indonesia, Vietnam, Manila, Thailand, any African country.

  Faqir tried not to think about the sheer stupidity of Guzny, but he couldn’t help it. It was unbelievable. Everything they had worked for could now be gone, simply because one man had forgotten a duffel bag.

  Suddenly, one of the men in the crow’s nest started waving his arms and pointing to the right.

  Faqir stepped from the wheelhouse and crossed the deck.

  “What is it?” he yelled.

  “Flag,” he answered. “Vietnam.”

  “Get ready,” he ordered. “Every man.”

  Faqir walked back to the wheelhouse and turned the ship toward the distant lights of a boat. It took twenty minutes to reach it. Faqir navigated to the smaller ship’s starboard side. It was a beat-up old thing, a double-ended fishing scow that sat low in the water. A few lights were on, but there was no movement. Atop an aft stanchion, a flag dangled. It was a rectangle of red with a yellow star in the middle.

  Faqir had spent three years aboard a similar fishing scow. Most of the fish were caught legally, but when times were slow, his captain was not above dropping explosives into the water and seeing what came up. It was highly illegal, and Faqir quickly learned the countries that engaged in the practice. Of all of them, Vietnam was the worst.

  As the Lonely Fisherman chugged closer, a swarm of Chechens stood on the port deck, weapons raised. Faqir cut the engine just as a crew member aboard the other boat appeared on the deck, carrying a flashlight. When he saw the approaching ship, his eyes bulged, then he screamed and turned to run. One of the Chechens fired. The staccato of automatic weapons fire interrupted the relative quiet. A burst of slugs hit the man as he ran, knocking him down, the flashlight tumbling onto the wooden deck.

  The Lonely Fisherman drifted closer and closer until, finally, it slammed into the Vietnamese boat’s side. As two Chechens lashed the vessels together, the others leapt aboard the quiet scow.

  “No witnesses!” yelled Faqir as his men sprinted across the deck toward the stairs that led below, to where the screw was sleeping.

  Faqir stepped to the wheelhouse. As he entered the empty room, he heard screams, then the peal of submachine gun fire coming from directly below.

  He ransacked the wheelhouse, ripping open cabinets, searching for explosives. Finding nothing, his eyes moved to the door. Above it was a steel box. He pulled the box down and opened it. Inside were several dozen sticks of gelatin dynamite along with a pile of blasting caps. He grabbed six of the sticks and all of the caps, then walked quickly to the door. As he climbed back onto the Lonely Fisherman, the first of the crew who’d gone below appeared back on deck, trailed by the others.

  Faqir waved them over.

  “Hurry!” he snapped.

  The gunmen ran in a loose line back to the trawler, climbing aboard as Faqir started the engine.

  One of the men stepped into the wheelhouse.

  “It’s done. There were fourteen men in all.”

  “You searched for anyone who might be hiding?”

  “There’s no one. They’re all dead. Should we sink it?”

  “With what, idiot? Explosives?”

  “What about setting it on fire?”

  “No,” said Faqir. “That will only draw attention. Cut the boat’s anchor line. Perhaps it will drift into the rocks and sink on its own.”

  Faqir revved the trawler’s engine and put the boat into gear.

  “Untie the boat,” he yelled through the window. “Two men, back in the crow’s nest. We need to hurry.”

  18

  VERNACULAR HOUSE

  MOSCOW

  Al-Medi looked up at Maybank as he struggled to catch his breath. He was drenched, pale, and barely alive.

  “Where is he?” asked Maybank.

  Maybank had been at it for an hour now. He was in a soundproof, windowless basement room, with Bra
ga watching from the door, as he tried to get Al-Medi to break.

  “I told you, I don’t know who you’re talking about,” said Al-Medi, his Chechen accent thick. “I stole the phone.”

  “We ran your prints. We know who you are. Stop fucking with me.”

  Maybank slammed Al-Medi’s head down into the water. He looked calmly at his watch as he held him under. After a full minute, he lifted him back out.

  Al-Medi was soaking wet. He stared lifelessly up at Maybank. Suddenly, his eyes rolled back in his head. He leaned left as he began to fall from the steel chair.

  “Oh, no you don’t, motherfucker,” said Maybank.

  Maybank lurched out and grabbed his arm, then lifted the now unconscious terrorist from the chair. Water and sweat from Al-Medi rained down on Maybank as he hoisted him up and hurled him as far as he could. Al-Medi slammed into the concrete wall, then dropped to the floor, grunting in pain. Maybank stepped toward him and kicked him in the knee. He let out a horrendous scream.

  “Where is he?” Maybank asked calmly.

  “Fuck you,” whispered Al-Medi. He coughed, and water poured from his mouth to the floor.

  Maybank booted him in the other knee, harder this time. Al-Medi screamed and moaned, then coughed out more water.

  Braga stepped to Maybank, who was growing increasingly frustrated.

  “Can I try?” she asked.

  Maybank towered above the diminutive Braga. He nodded.

  “Sure.”

  Braga walked to Al-Medi and stood above him.

  “When did he give you the phone?” she asked matter-of-factly. “I mean, it is rather odd he would arrange for the purchase of a nuclear bomb with it, then pass it on to someone else versus, for example, disposing of it. Don’t you think that’s odd?”

  Al-Medi said nothing. He panted, then vomited more water.

  “Have you been asking yourself that question?” Braga continued. “I thought he was a famous computer hacker. Surely he’d know that anyone possessing that phone could be discovered?”

  Braga paused, looked down at Al-Medi, then knelt to the ground next to his head. The terrorist looked dazed; it was difficult to tell if he was even listening.

  “Alexei Malnikov paid Cloud one hundred million dollars to take the bomb off his hands,” said Braga. “Did you know that?”

  She saw Al-Medi clench his fingers, the first sign of anger or emotion he’d displayed.

  “We were trying to guess how much he shared with you,” continued Braga. “Johnny thought ten million. I guessed higher. I thought at least thirty million. Which one of us was right?”

  Al-Medi shut his eyes.

  “Oh, my God,” she said. “He didn’t share it with you, did he? He hands you a phone that he knows will get you either killed or locked up for the rest of your life, and he doesn’t give you a nickel.”

  Al-Medi stared lifelessly at the ground.

  Braga tapped her ear, triggering commo with Polk back inside Targa.

  “Can I negotiate?” she whispered.

  “Offer him whatever you have to.”

  Braga took a can of Coca-Cola from the table and opened it. She leaned down in front of Al-Medi, put her hand beneath his head, then propped him up. She tipped the can of soda toward his mouth, pouring it slowly in. Al-Medi chugged it like a dog gulping water on a hot summer afternoon.

  “You help us find him,” said Braga, “and we’ll set you free. No strings attached. We’ll also give you some money.”

  “How much?”

  “A few million.”

  Al-Medi slugged down the rest of the soda until it was gone.

  “I don’t believe you,” he whispered.

  “But it needs to happen right now,” continued Braga, ignoring him. “You know it and I know it. Don’t be an idiot. Freedom and money or a concrete cell in a prison most people don’t even know exists. And if you’re one of these martyr types who think death comes quickly at the black sites, you’re wrong. We don’t let you die. You’ll live to be a hundred, chained to a wall, inside a dark room, alone. From what I hear, it’s not much fun.”

  “How do I know you’re not lying?”

  “You don’t.”

  Braga tapped her ear, getting ready to relay the information she knew Al-Medi was about to give up.

  “What do you want to know?”

  “What kind of boat is it?”

  “A fishing trawler. Two hundred feet long.”

  “What about Cloud?” she asked. “Where is he?”

  “I don’t know. But I know where he’ll be.”

  19

  NATIONAL CLANDESTINE SERVICE

  OFFICE OF THE DIRECTOR

  LANGLEY

  Bond stepped into a small glass-walled office within the suite of offices reserved for the National Clandestine Service. Polk was standing inside, arms crossed, reading a sheet of paper. He looked up at Bond.

  “You’re going to Saint Petersburg,” said Polk. “I know you haven’t been to Russia in a while, but I need you running second phase line.”

  In NCS lingo, phase lines referred to stages of an operation. Often, one stage was predicated on the one before it either succeeding or failing. Second phase line meant Bond’s part of the operation would kick in only if the first stage—Phase Line One—failed or was aborted.

  “I’m ready,” said Bond. “Why the phase lines?”

  “We have a real problem,” said Polk. “A Russian terrorist is downrange with an operation to detonate a nuclear device on U.S. soil. We’re going to try and capture him in Moscow. If that part of the mission fails, you go live. This guy’s girlfriend is in Saint Petersburg. Phase Line Two is a hostile extract. It’s a two-man team, you’re running the in-theater.”

  “Why are you being so cryptic?”

  “The bomb is on its way to the United States.”

  “Can’t we blockade?”

  Polk shook his head.

  “The coast is too big. Navy could maybe shut down two or three cities, but they’ll know that. We have one shot here. We have to catch him.”

  “Who is he?”

  Polk looked at Bond, then through the glass.

  “Cloud? Who is he? That’s the scariest part of all. We don’t know.”

  Bond was silent. He glanced around the office, looking out through the glass. Across the hallway, he saw Dewey talking with someone, holding a bag of ice to his eye.

  “I need to know who you want with you.”

  Bond looked at Polk, pausing for a few moments.

  “Dewey,” said Bond.

  Polk was motionless. He waited, thinking about his response.

  “Dewey can be very charismatic, Pete,” said Polk. “A lot of guys have asked to be teamed with him. But in Iguala he froze up on a relatively minor project. He shouldn’t be running ops right now.”

  “He froze in Mexico, but six hours later he almost killed the top-ranked amateur MMA fighter in the U.S. He’s ready. Trust me.”

  “You cannot afford a second of doubt if Moscow somehow goes south and Saint Pete goes live,” said Polk. “At that point, the extraction of his girlfriend is all we have left before this nuclear bomb hits our shores. They’re calling this thing nine/twelve if we don’t stop it. Books will be written about the decisions we make this day. Do you understand that?”

  “You asked me who I want,” said Bond. “I’ll work with whoever you put me with, but I want Dewey. Either put him with me or don’t. But don’t lecture me about what’s going to happen if things get fucked up. I’ve been there, and if it’s my choice, I want him next to me. You’re the one who taught me ‘trust your gut.’”

  Polk smiled.

  “Sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to imply that I am as close to the ground as you. But I’ve seen an operation or two. Your loyalty is admirable, but I think it’s going to be Joe I send over with you.”

  “Why the fuck did you even ask me?” asked Bond.

  Polk was silent.

  “All right, fin
e,” said Polk, glancing at his watch. “You’re an argumentative son of a bitch, you know that? I’ll think about it.”

  20

  BUTIKOVSKY PEREULOK

  KHAMOVNIKI DISTRICT

  MOSCOW

  The lobby of the apartment building was minimalist, elegant, and quiet. Its walls were paneled in walnut, with large, abstract geometric works of art. There was a pair of chandeliers in leaded crystal and a floor of rare white marble streaked with turquoise.

  Two big men dressed in dark suits stood behind a security desk. They were both active-duty GRU, highly trained agents adept at close-quarters combat, face-to-face self-defense, and human intelligence. Russia protected its important citizens, especially the famous ones.

  A soft chime told the guards that someone was at the steel-gated front entrance. On a video monitor behind the desk, one of the guards studied the man’s face.

  “It is Mr. Vargarin,” he said.

  The other guard pressed a button, unlatching the gate and allowing the visitor to come inside the building.

  Cloud stepped through the front door. In one hand he held a bouquet of red chrysanthemums wrapped in silver foil and tied with a white ribbon. In the other was a small wooden box. Cloud smiled politely as he approached the security desk.

  “Hello, Jonas, Mikhail,” he said. “How are you?”

  “Very well, Mr. Vargarin,” said one of the men, grinning. “Are those flowers for us?”

  “I’m afraid not,” said Cloud, laughing.

  The transformation in his appearance was shocking. Other than the sharpness of his eyes, he was an entirely different person from the creature who strong-armed the most powerful mobster in Russia into handing him a nuclear bomb. Cloud’s hair was no longer a mop of blond curls. Rather, it was straight, combed neatly down the middle, and slicked back. He had on a white button-down shirt beneath a plaid blazer, khakis, and brown wingtips. He looked stylish, immaculate, and worldly.

  Cloud had learned long ago how to use his appearance to his advantage. It was the fulcrum upon which his outward identity pivoted; one day a gentle-looking, exotically handsome man of culture, the next a scrawny outcast with hints of drug addiction and dark powers.

 

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