Independence Day: A Dewey Andreas Novel

by Ben Coes

  37

  MISSION THEATER TARGA

  LANGLEY

  The mission room was eerily quiet. No one said a word. Calibrisi stood silently at the front of the room, arms crossed. Like everyone else, he looked dazed.

  On the screen, a live satellite feed showed the chaos in Saint Petersburg in real time, captured by a thermal-imaging camera that was attached to a satellite several miles above the earth’s surface. The images were very grainy and rendered in black, white, and gray. Heat from human beings and cars showed up as white exoskeletons. People looked like ghosts. But after observing hundreds of night operations, everyone inside the command center knew how to parse the video and, for the most part, understood what was happening.

  They knew which vehicle the Mercedes was. They knew precisely where Bond and Oliveri were. They watched the collision with the girl, Bond’s movement to her, then her intrusion into the Mercedes. The flash of the assassin’s muzzle inside the vehicle looked like silent fireworks. They all watched as the thermal outlines of Bond and Oliveri went dim.

  In less than fifteen minutes, the CIA had suffered its worst one-day casualty loss in the history of the Agency. Yet nobody was thinking about the loss of a group of operators. Rather, it was the human loss that hurt them all. Every person in the room knew the five dead agents.

  It was Polk who brought everyone back. He stepped to the rear wall, where a whiteboard, unused in months or perhaps years, sat blank. He took a pen and started writing:

  Cut all signals outside this room.

  We are contaminated.

  A case officer near the front of the room held his thumb up, indicating he understood the order. He typed furiously into his computer, then hit Enter.

  “We are now a closed loop,” he announced. “Targa is quarantined. All commo is off-line.”

  “Now play the video again,” said Polk. “I want to watch from the moment the limo starts moving again.”

  The screen replayed the limo lurching away, fleeing the scene, the bodies of the two assassins white apparitions against the dark street. As the limo barreled down and was about to strike a pedestrian, Polk snapped his fingers.

  “Freeze it there,” he said. “Slow-frame it.”

  In painstakingly slow motion, the next few moments of the video played frame by frame. A pedestrian about to get run over. Stepping to the side to avoid the limo. Arm extending. The muzzle flash of automatic weapon fire outside the limo. The driver kicked violently to the right. The limo careening out of control and crashing. The gunman charging toward the back of the limo, disappearing underneath it, then reemerging at the passenger door, going inside, and killing the last remaining occupant of the limousine.

  “What the hell just happened?” asked Calibrisi.

  Polk turned to him.

  “I don’t know.”

  38

  FOUR SEASONS LION PALACE

  SAINT PETERSBURG

  Dewey entered the lobby of the Four Seasons Lion Palace. His heart was thumping fast. It felt like it was in his throat.

  Calm down.

  The .45 was inside his jacket, and so was his hand, on the gun’s grip, ready to swing it out at the smallest provocation.

  The lobby’s walls shimmered as light from the chandeliers refracted off walls and floors of polished marble. It was crowded: a couple on a sofa at the center of the lobby; three businessmen in suits to the left, talking loudly; a family of four, two adults and two girls, at the front desk checking in. Several uniformed bellmen stood nearby. Straight ahead, a tall woman was waiting behind the front desk. Dewey crossed the black-and-white-checked marble floor and approached her.

  He needed time to think, to plan. Everything had backfired and was destroyed, and now he needed time to plan what would be a very ad hoc operation. What just happened?

  “Dobro pozhalovat’v Four Seasons—”

  “I don’t speak Russian,” Dewey interrupted quietly.

  “My apologies,” she said. “Welcome to the Four Seasons. How may I be of service to you?”

  Dewey checked his watch. It was 9:45 P.M.

  “I need a room,” he said.

  “Yes, of course,” she said, typing into the computer. “A royal suite overlooking Saint Isaac’s Cathedral? I’m afraid it’s all we have left.”

  “That’s fine.”

  He handed her an alias credit card tied to his CIA cover before he was taken off the operation. It would set off alarm bells back at Langley, but that didn’t matter now. A moment later, after swiping it, she handed Dewey a small folder with keys.

  “Is the restaurant still open?” he asked.

  “Of course, Mr. Sullivan,” she said, pointing to a door across the lobby. “The veal is excellent, by the way. Can I let the maître d’ know you’ll be coming?”

  “Please,” said Dewey. “A booth. Out of the way.”

  Dewey went to the lobby restroom. Looking for the first time at his coat, he saw a patch of blood streaking the sleeve. He wiped it off, washed his hands, then looked in the mirror. Other than a slight blush to his cheeks, he appeared calm, even normal. The area above his eye was healing. The remnant blackness had dissipated, though there was still enough to hint at the violence from which it had come.

  Dewey stared into the mirror, trying to collect his thoughts, contemplating his next move. He pictured Dowling, one of the commandos who’d been on Phase Line One, Moscow. Dowling had saved Dewey’s life in Portugal the year before. Now he was dead. Or maybe he wasn’t. Maybe Cloud just wasn’t at the dacha? Yet somehow Dewey felt a cold chill deep inside. It was in Polk’s voice over commo. It had about it a hint of desperation.

  It seemed clear to Dewey. The fact that Cloud knew about Saint Petersburg meant that he probably also knew about Moscow. He’d probably done the exact same thing: lured them in, then murdered them in cold blood.

  It was obvious that Cloud had known about Saint Petersburg long before Bond and Oliveri stepped foot in-country. The girls were operatives, most likely government trained. The strike itself had been masterful. Bond and Oliveri had stepped right into a well-choreographed play.

  “He ratfucked us,” whispered Dewey, to no one.

  How did Cloud know? That was the question. Had he been listening in? Watching? The only other explanation was that someone inside Langley had tipped him off; Dewey dismissed that possibility out of hand.

  The hit on Pete and Joe had been architected. Like a play, it had its acts, its stars. If Dewey had an advantage, it was that he’d arrived in Saint Petersburg off the grid. He’d punctured the phase line midstream. The subterfuge with the stumbling girls was planned out, but their deaths were not, and now Dewey was inside, rewriting Cloud’s play. Cloud thought the final curtain had been lowered, but Dewey had slipped beneath it.

  Now he needed to act.

  If Cloud didn’t already know about the dead women, he would soon enough. When he did, he’d remove Katya from the city. Dewey needed to act quickly. He needed to find Katya and extract her before Cloud himself did it.

  Suddenly, the restroom door opened and a tall man stepped in. Dewey turned. He was older, a businessman, and he nodded hello at Dewey. Dewey moved past him, heading for the restaurant.

  The restaurant was softly lit, intimate, and warm, its walls a beautiful deep crimson, four crystal chandeliers hanging from a low, louvered ceiling decorated in ornately patterned green-and-white toile paper.

  Dewey looked quickly about the room; most of the tables were occupied. A pretty red-haired hostess led him to a booth on the right. A minute later, a waiter approached and handed him a thick leather-bound menu across the table.

  “Chto-nibud’ vypit’, ser?” he asked.

  “I—”

  “Something to drink, sir?”

  “Whiskey, neat. Bourbon if you have it.”

  “Anything to eat?”

  Dewey glanced around, trying to be calm.

  “A steak, please. Rare. A bottle of wine, something red and expensive.”r />
  “Very good.”

  A small rectangle of high-backed red-leather booths framed half a dozen four-tops in the middle of the room. The lighting was dim.

  A minute later, the waiter returned with a glass of bourbon.

  Dewey took a large gulp and let it burn the back of his throat. He knew he shouldn’t be drinking, but right now, his priority was calming his nerves.

  He pulled out the disposable cell phone and punched in a six-digit number. It was a number that could be dialed from anywhere in the world. He hit Send. A half minute of silence followed, than it rang for several seconds, before being interrupted by a high-pitch monotone beeping noise. Dewey punched in a code. The soft, sultry voice of a woman came on the line.

  “Name?”

  “Andreas, Dewey.”

  “Flag?”

  “NOC 2294-6.”

  “Go.”

  “Requesting encrypted bridge to NCS one, no commo. This needs to be routed over landline.”

  “Hold.”

  He listened to a series of clicks as his call was put through to Polk. It took almost two minutes for him to come on the line.

  “Who is this?” asked Polk.

  “It’s Dewey.”

  There was a short pause.

  “What the hell are you doing calling me through control?” asked Polk. “We’re downrange here in the middle of an operation—”

  “I’m in Saint Petersburg.”

  Polk was silent.

  “Was that you?” he asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Who were they?”

  “I don’t know,” said Dewey. “It was a skill job. They’re both dead. I did find out where Katya is.”

  “How did you get to Saint Petersburg?”

  “It doesn’t matter,” said Dewey. “I’m here and I need direction.”

  There was a long silence.

  “Bill?”

  “What the fuck you are doing in Saint Petersburg is what I can’t get over.”

  “Look, Bill,” said Dewey, “I understand why you took me off the operation. The thing is, I’m not about to go lie on some fucking couch in Arizona while my country’s under attack. This is what I was trained to do. Can you understand that?”

  Polk was silent for several moments.

  “Yeah, I can,” he said. “Where are you?”

  “I’m at the Four Seasons, where she’s staying.”

  “What do you need?”

  “An encrypted patch to whoever’s running the SEAL team.”

  “Sure, let me take care of that.”

  “They had details of the operation,” said Dewey.

  “Langley is contaminated,” said Polk. “Commo is shut down.”

  Dewey’s eyes shot left. One of Katya’s bodyguards entered the restaurant. He was big, at least six-four or -five. He had a military-style crew cut, wide-set eyes, and a thick forehead that protruded slightly. He walked bowlegged, arms out to the sides. He had on jeans with a gray sweater that hugged his chest, shoulders, and torso. He looked ex-military. An operator. He scanned the room, unsmiling.

  “I gotta go,” said Dewey.

  “One more thing,” said Polk.

  The bodyguard’s eyes roamed the restaurant, focusing first on the couples at the table in front of Dewey, a glance that lasted less than a second. Then he found Dewey. For several moments, the Russian stared across the dimly lit restaurant at him.

  “What I warned you about before,” said Polk.

  “What?”

  “You can’t get captured, Dewey. You need to be on that SEAL Delivery Vehicle. I can’t emphasize that enough.”

  “Don’t worry,” said Dewey, shifting uncomfortably under the watchful gaze of the Russian thug. “I’ll be on it.”

  39

  FOUR SEASONS LION PALACE

  SAINT PETERSBURG

  Roman, Katya’s bodyguard, sat down at the table and took out his cell phone. He started typing:

  Roman:

  Possible situation

  Cloud:

  Explain

  Roman:

  CIA is here

  Cloud:

  Take photo

  Roman stood and walked to the wall, out of the line of sight of the man. He took the cell and moved the very end of the wall, where the camera lens was, just past the ornate wooden pillar, and snapped several photos without looking. He examined the photos, finding one that caught the man as he sipped a drink. Roman texted it to Cloud.

  He went back to the table, where Katya was eating.

  “What were you doing?” she asked.

  “Nothing,” he said, placing his cell on the table as he awaited further instructions from Cloud.

  40

  ELEKTROSTAL

  Cloud stared at the grainy photograph of the stranger in the restaurant. The restaurant was dark and the image was not good. He uploaded the photo into a facial recognition program. The computer screen scrolled rapidly through thousands of photos. After more than a minute, the words appeared:

  No matches found

  “Come here,” he said.

  Sascha walked from his computer and looked at the photo.

  “Who is it?”

  “I don’t know. See if you can find anything at the hotel. A list of guests. We need to know more.”

  Sascha returned to his computer.

  A news flash abruptly cut across one of Cloud’s screens. It was a report from one of the Moscow television stations. At the bottom of the screen, the words:

  LIVE—RUBLEVKA

  Behind a news reporter, flames from the dacha lit up the distant sky. A police cordon was visible, as well as fire trucks, ambulances, and police cruisers.

  Cloud stared, mesmerized, at the horrible scene he’d created. The faintest hint of sadness flashed across his eyes.

  Then Sascha whistled. Cloud stood and moved quickly to him. A black-and-white photo was frozen on one of Sascha’s screens. It was the man from the restaurant. The image was much crisper.

  “Where did you get this?”

  “I took it off the hotel security cameras,” said Sascha.

  He wore a light tan leather motorcycle jacket, BELSTAFF emblazoned across the chest. He had a mop of brown hair, parted down the middle, but roughly, as if by hand. The edges of his hair were dark with sweat. His hair went down past his ears, a slight, natural feather to it. He had a thick beard and mustache. He was handsome in a rugged way. He looked tough, even brutal, someone to be avoided. He was tan. His eyes revealed little; it was a blank expression, and yet there was no question. The way they looked forward into the camera, almost knowing the photo would be found and examined in the very manner it was being examined at this moment.

  Cloud leaned closer, studying the photo. The jacket was unzipped. A thin strap was visible near the man’s neck.

  “Shoulder holster,” said Cloud.

  Sascha pointed at the man’s arm. A large patch of dark covered the bottom inside section of the jacket, near the wrist. The hand was dark with blood.

  “Who is he?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Was there any intelligence involving a third man from the CIA?” asked Cloud.

  “Nothing I could find,” said Sascha. “After the explosion at the dacha, the feed went dark.”

  Cloud took over the keyboard and started typing.

  “What are you doing?” asked Sascha.

  “Running the photo against the GRU database,” said Cloud, referring to Russia’s foreign intelligence service. “There’s a chance he’s on their radar screen.”

  Cloud uploaded the photo of Dewey into the same facial recognition program. Again, the screen scrolled rapidly through thousands of photos. After half a minute, the screen froze. A photo appeared of a much younger individual, with short-cropped hair, standing on an airport tarmac. A large-caliber carbine was in his right hand, trained at the ground. He was walking point in front of a small entourage that included the former president of Afghanistan.


  Cloud clicked the attached bio:

  GRU CASE FILE 112-A-77

  USA DIRECTORATE

  SUBJECT: ANDREAS, DEWEY

  INACTIVE FILE

  STATISTICS:

  Citizenship: USA

  b. Castine, ME (c. 1973)

  U.S. ARMY 1993–4

  * US ARMY RANGERS 1994

  Winter School

  Rank #1 out of 188

  *** 1st SFOD—DELTA FORCE

  OPERATIONS (known):

  + Lisbon, POR: Jan–Mar 96 (mission unknown)

  + San Isidro de El General, COS: Oct 96–Jan 97: Anti-narcotic: NIC, COL, VEN

  + Munich, GER: April 97: Exfiltration Milos Abramovich (wanted by GUR-RUS) (mission success)

  + Buenos Aires, ARG: Sep–Dec 97: Anti-narcotic: ARG, COL, CHI, and BOL

  + Montreal, CAN: Jan 98: Assassination Milos Abramovich (mission success)

  + London, ENG: Apr 98: Assassination (attempted) Subhi al-Tufayli/Hezbollah (mission aborted)

  + Lisbon, POR: Mar 98: Assassination Frances Vibohr (Siemens VIP suspect in sale of TS info to SAU) (mission success)

  + Bali, IND: Aug 98: Assassination of Rumallah Khomeini (mission success)

  * * *

  NOTES:

  ANDREAS is a Combat Applications Group (formerly Delta Force) officer with extensive international mission experience. GRU INTEL was asked to open a file on him following the death of LEONID PARSKY, GRU COMMANDER (1988–1997).

  ANDREAS has executed at least three covert penetrations of Russia. The first (April 1997) was a fact-finding mission and field setting, in which ANDREAS spent four days in Moscow preparing various elements associated with his second penetration. ANDREAS’s second visit was shorter, two days, and coincided with PARSKY’s assassination (September 1997).

  Though no evidence was found implicating ANDREAS in PARSKY’s death, ANDREAS met with MILOS ABRAMOVICH during his first visit to Moscow. ABRAMOVICH, who was later found to be working for the CIA, was under a GRU Task Force Investigation, so ordered by PARSKY. It is GRU INTEL’s assessment that the US Government had PARSKY killed in order to preserve ABRAMOVICH. ABRAMOVICH most likely provided ANDREAS with information enabling him to kill PARSKY.