by Carr, Jack
Andrenov also liked to be close to his considerable wealth, all of which was tucked into the world’s most secure banking system, just down the road. His line of work had left him with numerous enemies, both state and nonstate, so he kept travel to an absolute minimum. When someone as wealthy as the Colonel needed to see a physician, banker, or prostitute, they came to him.
However, despite a lifetime of sin, depravity, and merciless violence, Andrenov saw himself as a devout Orthodox Christian, and the traditions of his faith did not make house calls. When he left his embassy-like walled compound in the Dalbe neighborhood, it was to visit St. Nicolas Orthodox Church on Amerbachstrasse, something he did like clockwork the one Sunday each month when services were held there.
The Colonel’s devotion to the church had not prevented him from masterminding the assassination of Catholic archbishop Óscar Romero in 1980 or the subsequent massacre at his funeral; those events served the greater good of delegitimizing the government of El Salvador, which in turn served Mother Russia. Andrenov’s religious dedication was more nationalistic than spiritual in nature. He saw the Russian Orthodox Church as the core of Russian culture, without which the nation would still be factions of warring tribes riding the steppe. Who else could have defeated the mongrels to the east, the Nazis to the west, the Japanese on the seas, and the mighty United States in the third-world battlefields of the Cold War? Inept government, rampant corruption, and an ethnic death spiral of low birth rates and short life expectancies had brought the tide of Russia’s greatness to an ebb. Andrenov’s calling was to see that greatness wash back over its banks from Istanbul to Paris.
Andrenov folded his coat collar upward to protect him from the bitter cold and nodded to Yuri Vatutin to open the door. Another man, part of the very capable security detail comprised of former members of the FSB’s Alpha Group that Yuri led, opened the back door of the armored Mercedes S600 Guard idling its 530-horsepower V-12 in the gated circular driveway. Andrenov lowered himself into the heated leather seat as the door closed behind him. Yuri took his spot in the passenger seat, his suppressed AK-9 between his knees, and spoke into the microphone at his wrist to alert the men in the lead and chase vehicles that it was time to move. The wrought-iron gates opened, the vehicle barrier was lowered, and the well-armed and armored motorcade sped toward Sunday mass.
CHAPTER 8
Aboard the Bitter Harvest
Atlantic Ocean
November
MOST CITY-DWELLERS HAVE NO concept of what the night sky really looks like, as much of the sea of stars and planets above is obscured to the point of invisibility by the lights and distractions of civilization. On a cloudless night in the middle of the Atlantic, the light show was spectacular. Reece had always been fascinated with the heavens, particularly the fact that tens of thousands of years ago, humans would have looked up with the same sense of wonder. Through centuries of change and progress, the skies were a constant. He’d told his daughter Lucy to look at the sky at night and pick out the brightest star when he was away, telling her he would be looking at the same one so they would always be together. He looked up toward Sirius, the brightest in a brilliant array of stars that spanned the sky from horizon to horizon. Daddy’s here, baby girl.
He wondered about Liz, whether she’d taken the escape plan he’d set up for her. He hoped she had but also knew that she might be stubborn enough to stick it out in the States. Liz wasn’t the running-away type. He knew Marco was fine; guys like Marco find a way to dance between the raindrops. He assumed that Katie’s status as a journalist, along with the hard evidence he’d given her, would keep her out of jail, though he was still worried about her. She had come into his life like a guardian angel sent by his father. In another time, under different circumstances, he would have liked to know her better. Too bad he was a grieving widower, too bad he was a domestic terrorist, too bad he was terminally ill.
Reece’s thoughts were broken by a set of bright lights on the horizon. The object was on an angular path that brought it closer and closer to the boat; whatever it was looked massive and was lit up like something out of a space movie. With his binoculars, Reece confirmed it was a cruise ship—hundreds of passengers enjoying a break from reality. Wonder where they are going?
Sailing solo across the open ocean was an incredibly lonely experience, only compounded by the turmoil and loss of the previous few months. In spite of the circumstances, Reece also felt an undeniable sense of freedom. In this moment, fueled by the wind and guided by the stars, he could command his own destiny. There were no schedules; there was no destination; he had no responsibilities to anyone. For the first time in as long as he could remember, there was no mission.
Though it was liberating to not have a plan of any kind, he couldn’t just bob around in the ocean forever under the specter of impending death. With the end of his life looming, he still felt compelled to keep moving forward. Frogmen don’t quit. Never ring the bell.
Well, where to then, Reece?
There was a place, though the odds of making it there were slim. It would at least give him something to do while he waited to pass over to Valhalla. Reece had never paid much attention to the odds. Why start now?
It was a destination that was about as far off the grid as a human could venture—a leftover culture, a human time capsule, from a time and place that the West had long since moved past. An embarrassing relic of what Europe used to be, excommunicated like a relative who’d committed an unspeakable crime. No one would think to search for him there.
What’s the worst that can happen? You could die. You’re already dead, Reece.
He went below to the small bookshelf in the boat’s salon and took down a copy of World Cruising Routes, by Jimmy Cornell. Spreading the boat’s charts on the table, he began studying possible routes and grinned to himself when he read that the best time to make this journey was between May and June. It was November. So much for good timing.
According to his GPS, he was currently halfway between Bermuda and the Azores on what was listed as route AN125. At five knots it should take an average sailor just over eighteen days to reach the Azores. A professional could push the Beneteau at an ideal wind angle of eleven knots. Reece considered himself more of a wayward mariner than a sailor, but he was learning quickly. How long had he been at sea? He’d lost track in the storms and emotions after departing Fishers. Was it possible he’d only been at sea for two weeks? Depending on the weather and his ever-improving skills, he estimated he would reach landfall in ten to twelve days. The Azores would allow him to rest up, make any necessary repairs to the boat, and, in an emergency, possibly even resupply.
The dilemma was what route to take after the Azores. He could catch the winds to Gibraltar, enter the Med, and eventually head down the Suez Canal and into the Indian Ocean. That would be the most direct route, but it would leave him the most exposed to immigration and customs agencies from legitimate governments, many of which had close ties to the security apparatus of the United States. Gibraltar was covered with British intelligence assets and the U.S. enjoyed close relations with nearly every country that touched the Med, save for Libya, which was a country in name only at this point. Reece had no idea what kind of screening took place at the mouth of the Suez, but he had to assume they didn’t just wave boats through such a strategically important waterway.
No, the direct route wouldn’t do at all. He’d have to take it the long way around the continent. It was summer below the equator, which meant the winds were mostly favorable. From his reading, it was actually the ideal time of year to make that journey, but it was a long way to sail solo. It would be tough but not impossible. Besides, it would give him an objective to focus on, something that always helped him make it through hard times. The key was to keep your eye on the ball and take it one event, one day, one run at a time. Just make it to breakfast. Then to lunch. Keep moving forward.
Reece’s study of the Routes book established he had already erred by taking to
o far south a course. Though he missed out on more favorable winds by steering the course he chose, he did have better weather. The temperatures were relatively warm and the high-pressure system gave him clear skies. He found himself using the motor more than he would have liked, thanks to intermittent headwinds and calms, but he was confident that he’d have sufficient fuel to make it through this stretch of ocean.
Don’t get too comfortable, Reece. You’ll probably die en route anyway.
CHAPTER 9
Essex County
Southern England
December
WITH ITS 2ND BATTALION of the Parachute Regiment back from its most recent deployment to Afghanistan, the 16 Air Assault Brigade had nearly all its troops at Colchester Garrison in time for the Christmas holiday. Several members of 2 PARA were receiving awards for valor, and the ceremony, with all the pomp and circumstance that the British Army has to offer, had been celebrated in the local media.
The garrison was on a heightened state of alert due to the recent terrorist attack in London. Barricades slowed approaching vehicles, giving base security cameras additional time to evaluate the passengers. Scales determined if a car or truck was unusually heavy and might be loaded down with explosives. Multipurpose canine teams patrolled between vehicles as they waited patiently to show the guards their identification cards.
The entire battalion, along with numerous other units from the brigade, formed up on the asphalt parade ground off Roman Way. Dressed in MultiCam fatigues and sporting their trademark maroon berets, the Paras were the pride of the British Army. On this special occasion, the Parachute Regiment’s colonel-in-chief, His Royal Highness the Prince of Wales, would be attending the ceremony and decorating the troops.
The prince’s motorcade had been slowed by uncharacteristically bad traffic, delaying the start time, so the troops stood shivering in formation as the band played every patriotic tune they could muster to pass the time for the visiting dignitaries. To a man, the Paras were anxious to put the ceremony behind them. Their holiday leave would begin upon the conclusion of the events and, after a long overseas deployment, they were looking forward to spending time with their wives, girlfriends, mates, or favorite bartenders.
The band’s proximity to the troop formation made it impossible for the soldiers to hear anything but the music as they passed the time until His Majesty’s arrival. As the minutes ticked by, even the senior noncommissioned officers began to grow impatient.
• • •
The Al-Jaleel is an Iraqi copy of the Yugoslavian-made M69A 82mm mortar. Three of them had been placed in a triangular formation in the small backyard of a home on Wickham Road just north of Colchester Garrison. The crew was highly experienced, having fired similar weapons on hundreds of occasions on both sides of the Syrian conflict. Their leader, whom they knew only as Hayyan, had been an artillery officer in Assad’s army before switching sides and eventually migrating through Greece and into mainland Europe. He had been recruited for this job months earlier and had spent long hours training his team, supervising daily rehearsals, and reconnoitering the target once it was established.
A woman with a sweet English voice had reserved the home for the week, sight unseen, under the auspices of a golf escape for her husband and a few of his friends from London. Google Maps and a close target reconnaissance had confirmed it as an ideal location. They had moved into the rental house the evening prior and painstakingly positioned their weapons inside a shed in the backyard to conceal them from nosy neighbors and overhead surveillance. If their golf bags and luggage were heavier than normal, no one seemed to notice.
Now it was time to execute the mission for which they had so carefully trained. The flimsy corrugated tin roof of the shed was pushed aside, having been detached from its screws the night before, sight blocks were double- and triple-checked, and ammunition was laid out for fast access. Hayyan told the men to take their positions and watched the minute hand on his watch tick toward the time they’d been given by their handler.
“Thalaatha, Ithnaan, Wahid . . . Nar!” The men responded instantly to his command, releasing the high-explosive rounds into the tubes before ducking out of the way as each weapon fired.
Because the target was far closer than the maximum range of 4,900 meters, the tubes were placed at a high angle, which meant that the second and third volleys had been fired before the first rounds impacted.
The first three rounds landed simultaneously, with each round carrying a kilogram of explosive and accompanying shrapnel. Two of the rounds impacted within the close ranks of the troop formation, obliterating those in the immediate blast area and maiming dozens nearby. The third round impacted the parade deck in front of the troops and actually caused more wounded, the shrapnel dispersing over a wider spectrum. Those men not killed or wounded by the first volley were saved by the instincts that were still sharp from their time overseas. They hit the deck, almost in unison, the call of “Incoming!” echoing across the parade ground. The members of the band had no such survival instincts and stood in shock as the second volley landed in and around their formation.
As the second volley found its mark, the regimental sergeant major took action.
“Three o’clock, three hundred meters!” yelled the veteran of three wars, dating back to his first taste of combat at Goose Green in the Falkland Islands.
The troops responded without hesitation, sprinting from the kill zone and doing their best to drag their wounded comrades with them. Dignitaries dove under the bleachers and band members scattered in every direction as the third and fourth volleys landed. The Paras grabbed every piece of cover that they could find and immediately began treating the wounded. Belts became tourniquets and uniform jackets became pressure dressings as they fought to save their dying mates. While the men lay bleeding and screaming, the final volley impacted the parade ground. Second Battalion, which had survived the rigors of nine months in Afghanistan without losing a soul, had just been decimated on home soil. By the time the echoes from the explosions faded, the mortar crew had already piled into vans and were driving toward London.
CHAPTER 10
Basel, Switzerland
December
THE LONDON FINANCIAL MARKETS, barely recovering from the sell-off that followed the attack at Kingston Market, plunged deeper into recession on the news of the second terrorist attack in the span of a few days. The hysteria of fear affected holiday shopping across Europe and even in the United States, with nearly every Western market plunging deeper into the red.
Vasili Andrenov had learned early in his career that access to information meant access to wealth and he parlayed the strategic information at his fingertips into financial power. When a Marxist revolution was planned in a key oil-producing nation, he had surreptitiously invested in oil futures, knowing that the price of crude would soon spike. As he rose in rank and influence, he moved on to crafting specific intelligence operations for their potential market impact. The Colonel had built a fortune creating chaos, prolonging conflicts, and disrupting regional commerce. If the world economy demanded lithium, Andrenov would use his men to stoke the flames of hatred among the tribes that occupied areas rich in that resource. Drop in some Soviet-made weapons on either side and sit back and watch the prices rise.
Commodities and currencies were his focus in those days, but now, unable to manipulate the strategic assets of a superpower, he’d shifted his focus to more basic events. Nothing spooked investors like terrorism and, after the fall of the Soviet Union, it had become his bread and butter. The Islamists were easy to influence and, with an investment of a few hundred thousand dollars and a few martyrs, he could move markets single-handedly. The latest string of attacks in Great Britain had earned him hundreds of millions of pounds, euros, and dollars while serving the greater purpose of keeping the Western leaders and their budgets focused on chasing Muslim ghosts at home instead of pursuing worthwhile strategic goals abroad.
At age sixty-seven, Andrenov had a le
vel of prosperity that ensured his fortune would outlive him, and without a wife or children to inherit the fruits of his labor or a business that would move forward bearing his name, he would be a mere footnote outside classified channels. That wasn’t entirely true. He did have one illegitimate son in Russia that he knew of and probably a few more from postings around the globe that he didn’t. He kept tabs on his son, more for the security implications to Andrenov’s organization than out of any real concern for his well-being. His legacy wasn’t flesh and blood, though; it was Russia. The moderates were killing his homeland and he was finally in a position to do something about it. It was time to start investing in Russia, investing in her people. He would continue to profit, of course, as that gave him freedom, but he would use his puppet strings to move his motherland back to its rightful place in history. Just as he’d single-handedly built and destroyed nations and economies, he would now rebuild imperial Russia.
CHAPTER 11
Langley, Virginia
December
OLIVER GREY GLANCED AT the battered 1960s-vintage Rolex Submariner on his wrist for the fifth time in as many minutes. Almost 5:00 p.m. Time to go. He removed his access card from the card reader on his desk, leaving the computer on so it could automatically update with any security patches overnight. It was a far cry from the old days of locking paper files in safes, or the more recent days of pulling hard drives and locking those in the same safes that once held the paper files. He did miss those paper files, though. So many more precautions were required now that it almost took the fun out of it. Almost.