by Carr, Jack
The front door opened and Andrenov walked toward the idling Mercedes with an extra spring in his step. They had been successful in putting the weak Zubarev in the ground, which had been their primary objective. Killing the president of the United States had always been a long shot. “Icing on the cake,” as the Americans were fond of saying. Even though he had lived, the world believed that Zubarev was assassinated by lunatic jihadis out of the Caucasus. Even NATO would have to support a Russian military response. Andrenov’s people in the Russian government were already setting the stage for the former GRU officer’s return. It was only a matter of time before he would lead Russia back to greatness.
Yuri noticed that Andrenov was wearing a gold “double-headed eagle” coat of arms on his lapel. The pin was more than one hundred years old and had belonged to one of the czar’s ministers. Russia needed a leader and Colonel Andrenov was already dressing the part.
After a final radio check, the gates opened and the three-vehicle convoy began to move. Once they made their way out of the tight confines of the residential neighborhood, their route would take them through the city and across the river on the A2, a modern highway that left few spots for likely ambushes. Yuri looked over his shoulder as they approached the on-ramp. Andrenov was reading a Russian-language news site on his iPad. The chase vehicle was right where it should be.
Their path took them past the rail depot and below a concrete scramble of highway overpasses as they exited the A2. Yuri clutched the grip of his AK-9 as they took a sharp left turn, crossed a small two-lane bridge, and steered through a roundabout on Riehenring. Their right turn took them into the narrower neighborhood streets near St. Nicolas and into a more vulnerable position.
Two more turns.
• • •
“One minute out, coming south on Hammerstrasse,” Raife said into his radio.
Reece nodded to Mo and turned to the north, his position on the six-story apartment rooftop gave him a clear view above the trees that lined the narrow road. Thirty seconds later, he saw the three black vehicles emerge. The S600 sedan was flanked fore and aft by matching black AMG sport utility vehicles.
As the lead car slowed to make the right-hand turn onto Amerbachstrasse, it did so directly beneath Reece’s position. The vertical range to the target exceeded the horizontal distance; the shot was basically straight down. He pulled the black cocking lever downward and trained the sight on the roof of the sedan below. As the sedan made the turn, he pressed his gloved thumb on the red trigger button. The solid rocket motor ignited in milliseconds, sending the fin-stabilized PG-32V 105mm anti-armor HEAT round hurtling toward the target at 140 meters per second. To Reece’s eye, it was as if the car exploded the instant he pressed the trigger.
The rocket’s shaped charge detonated upon impact with the lightly armored roof of the S600, sending a stream of liquefied metal into the passenger compartment. The overpressure from the explosion blew the roof off the Mercedes and sent fragments of window glass in every direction, along with what was left of Colonel Vasili Andrenov, his head of security, and their driver.
The remainder of the detail performed admirably, despite the traumatic brain injuries that each of them sustained in the blast. They emerged quickly from their SUVs, the windows of which had all been shattered, and set up a hasty perimeter around the mangled and burning sedan. Some of them scanned the nearby rooftops, the muzzles of their suppressed carbines trained upward.
With car alarms blaring and the sirens of emergency vehicles sounding in the distance, Mo made a show of rappelling down the face of a building at 192 Hammerstrasse, in full view of multiple surveillance cameras and onlookers filming the scene with their smartphones. In all the confusion, no one noticed the tall bearded Caucasian male climbing into the white Audi rental car driven by American citizen and Zimbabwean expat Raife Hastings a block away. As Swiss, German, and French security forces scrambled to find the Middle Eastern abseiler, the two old friends began a leisurely if circuitous drive toward the French border.
• • •
That evening, they boarded a Global Express jet at Nice–Côte d’Azur Airport with a final destination of Billings, Montana. There would be a brief stop at Ronald Reagan Washington National Airport for fuel, and to allow one passenger to deplane. As much as he’d love to get off the grid and decompress at Raife’s ranch, Reece had a reporter to see. As the aircraft reached its cruising altitude and passed above the Bay of Biscay, Reece pulled a bottle of Basil Hayden’s bourbon, Freddy Strain’s favorite, from the bar and poured two triple shots over rocks. Handing one to Raife, Reece raised his glass in tribute to their fallen brother, repeating the words immortalized by legendary SEAL Brad Cavner:
“To those before us, to those amongst us, to those we’ll see on the other side. Lord let me not prove unworthy of my brothers.”
“Until Valhalla, Freddy.”
CHAPTER 93
Naples, Florida
6:00 a.m., Christmas Eve
CHRISTMAS WAS ALWAYS AN extravagant affair for the McGovern family, and their new winter home had enough bedrooms to house three generations comfortably. Despite Andrenov’s untimely demise, Stewart McGovern still had a powerful client list and much to celebrate. The previous night’s bar tab had been a hefty one at the Country Club of Naples, so only the youngest grandchildren were awake when the battering ram shattered the paneled cypress front door of the multimillion-dollar home.
McGovern was awakened from his scotch-induced slumber by the screams of his wife as the black-clad helmeted agents entered their expansive bedroom with M4s at the ready; the home was cleared within minutes. Shocked and bleary-eyed family members were gathered in the living room as one of the members of the joint BATFE/FBI Task Force read the search warrant aloud. The elaborately decorated fourteen-foot Douglas fir surrounded by wrapped presents made for a tragic backdrop as adults, teenagers, and small children knelt on a Persian rug with their hands on top of their heads. All eyes were on the family’s patriarch, still clad in his silk pajamas, as he was led past his children and grandchildren in handcuffs. The reactions of the family members ranged from horror to disbelief and, in the case of Mrs. McGovern, righteous indignation.
Though there were no reporters at the residence to film McGovern’s uncharacteristically disheveled appearance during his “perp walk,” plenty of camera crews were present outside his D.C. office, where agents in lettered windbreakers carried box after box of documents and hard drives into waiting cargo vans. The ninety-six-page indictment included a range of charges and, thanks to the sworn statements of two U.S. senators who had flipped on him in order to escape prison time, the Department of Justice’s case was a solid one. Senator Lisa Ann Bolls was extremely helpful in providing information on her former friend, admitting she had directed her staff to facilitate the transfer of sniper rifles in violation of ITAR restrictions, one of which had fired the bullet that had killed the Russian president. Though the congressional ethics committee already had her in their sights, she was more than willing to cooperate with the U.S. attorney’s office to avoid federal prison.
The investigation into McGovern resulted in collateral damage for Wisconsin senator Phillip Stanton when it was discovered that the veterans’ charity he spent so much of his time promoting and fund-raising for was a slush fund used to support his family vacations and multiple not-so-successful business ventures. Investigators determined that he had diverted funds from the foundation to pay the ghostwriters of his books that exaggerated his wartime exploits to advance his political career. In addition, foundation dollars had been used to buy large quantities of his books in order to game the system and ensure they were purchased in a way that guaranteed they made the New York Times bestseller list. Added to that indignity, email traffic exposed his affair with the highly compensated executive director of the foundation, a fact that didn’t align with his “family values” conservative façade. He quickly turned against McGovern and, like Bolls, would stay out of jail but was
forced to resign his Senate seat due to the outcry from his constituents and media back home.
The results of the search warrants executed on McGovern’s home and office would no doubt add to the list of charges, but law enforcement officials felt it necessary to move ahead with his immediate arrest for national security reasons. His bank accounts were frozen and most of his assets were seized, a move that would make his costly legal defense a challenge. The timing of the Christmas Eve arrest was, according to law enforcement officials, a mere coincidence.
Deputies of the Collier County sheriff’s office had formed a cordon to seal off the cul-de-sac where McGovern’s home was located. Among the contingent of federal and local law enforcement officers was a man with dark features and short hair. He was given a courtesy call earlier the day before and had made the drive down from Tampa along with agents from that FBI field office. He walked with a limp.
Sergeant Major Jeff Otaktay’s eyes didn’t betray a thing as one of Washington’s most powerful lobbyists was ushered into the backseat of a black Chevy Tahoe by armed federal agents. It was the first time he’d circumvented the chain of command, going around his boss in the SOCOM Acquisition Office. With results like this he might have to do it more often.
CHAPTER 94
Beaufort, South Carolina
10:00 p.m., Christmas Day
JOANIE STRAIN WAS SEATED at the kitchen counter surrounded by vestiges of the holiday; stray wrapping paper was scattered among small stacks of presents and the dishes that didn’t make the first washer load were stacked in the sink. She was spoonfeeding Sam plain oatmeal, one of the few foods he could eat, as she watched cable news coverage of the shocking arrest of political lobbyist and former senator Stewart McGovern. Sam couldn’t share in the Christmas dinner earlier with the rest of the family; he required one-on-one care and needed every bit of her attention. Her two other children had gone to bed an hour ago, and her parents had long since left after an exhausting day that required them all to wear forced smiles for the sake of the kids.
Like most moms, Joanie was an expert multitasker, feeding Sam with one hand while she went through a stack of mail with the other, anything to postpone the depressing task of cleaning up what was left of Christmas dinner by herself. It wasn’t like they had never spent Christmas alone. Freddy had been deployed for many a holiday, leaving Joanie to push the dangers of his chosen profession to the back of her mind. That’s how women like Joanie survived. They focused on the kids. They focused on running the household. They focused on living. Every now and then the fear they worked so hard to lock away would find its way out, roused from the recesses of the mind by a news broadcast announcing the deaths of U.S. servicemen in a HMMWV, a helicopter, or on a raid. In those moments, Joanie had always glanced toward the door, wondering if Freddy was among the dead and if at any moment she would hear the dreaded knock. That knock had come for Joanie and her children. Freddy would never again bound through the door to scoop his kids into his arms or sweep Joanie off her feet. She shook her head and fought back the urge to cry. She had to be strong for her kids. She had to be strong for little Sam and she attempted to persuade him to eat just a bit more oatmeal before glancing back at the TV.
A young female reporter was making a connection between the McGovern fiasco and a recent car bombing in Switzerland that had left a former Russian intelligence official turned global philanthropist named Vasili Andrenov dead. According to the broadcast, Andrenov had long utilized McGovern’s services for access to the Washington, D.C., power establishment and may have coordinated transfer of the ITAR-restricted weapons used in the Russian president’s assassination. A terrorist and former Iraqi commando named Mohammed Farooq was wanted in connection with Andrenov’s death but had thus far evaded capture. The weapon used in the attack was suspected to be a Russian-designed RPG-32 that had been supplied by Russian intelligence assets to pro-Assad forces in Syria. A launch tube had been recovered from a rooftop above the scene. Joanie smiled to herself as she imagined her late husband giving her five minutes on technical details on the RPG-32, had he been sitting there.
Joanie hadn’t brought herself to open the condolence cards in the ever-growing stack of mail. She would get to them eventually, after the holidays when the kids were back in school. As she sifted through the letters, sorting the personal ones from the bills, she saw an envelope from a local law firm she didn’t recognize.
Wonder what this is?
Joanie tore the end of the envelope open with her teeth and fished the letter out with her left hand. As she began to read, she dropped the spoon.
Dear Mrs. Strain:
This letter will serve as confirmation of establishment of the Samuel Strain Special Needs Trust which was established by our firm on behalf of an anonymous donor. The balance of the trust is $4,171,830.00. Please call our office at your earliest convenience and we can discuss the details of this account. We are at your service.
Sincerely,
T. Sullivan, IV Esq.
Joanie looked back at her son and began to cry.
EPILOGUE
Athens, Greece
Kolonaki District
January
GENERAL QUSIM YEDID ADMIRED the young lithe body of his Russian “escort” for the evening, maybe more than a few evenings, if she was as good as he’d been promised. He’d requested a redhead and instead this blond Russian had been delivered. No matter, there were plenty of young Russian girls to keep him busy, and his future looked brighter than it had in quite some time. If this girl didn’t work out, he could order another tomorrow. He’d be sure to confirm they understood he wanted a redhead.
Just northeast of the Acropolis, the Kolonaki district was the place to shop for those with means in Athens. Bars, restaurants, and art galleries were spaced between high-end boutiques where jewelry, clothes, and shoes cost a small fortune. General Yedid noticed he wasn’t the only older gentlemen with arm candy looking young enough to be the daughter or, in some cases, the granddaughter of those they accompanied.
The shopkeepers didn’t seem to mind the tight black dress she wore that made her look more or less like what she actually was. If they did, the serious-looking man in sunglasses who followed the couple at a respectful distance kept them on their best behavior.
Yedid was able to afford the exorbitant prices for the clothes she admired, but he’d rather let her just look, to warm her up for what was to come. Some lingerie and shoes from Kalogirou should do the trick. He had already reserved a table at Cinderella nightclub, one of the trendiest clubs in the city, where patrons could dance to music from the seventies and eighties into the early hours of the morning. It was just down the street from their next stop in the ancient city heralded as the birthplace of democracy. He’d decided on seafood tonight and steered his companion toward the world-renowned Papadakis restaurant. He favored the kakavia soup to start, while finishing his vodka before switching to a nice bottle of Marquis de la Guiche–Le Montrachet to go with his main course, probably a grouper with truffles. Too bad the exquisite wine would be entirely lost on the young girl by his side.
It didn’t quite compare to the meals prepared by his private chef on the Shore Thing, but it would have to do for now. The yacht he usually rented was still impounded, but his American benefactors should have him back on the high seas soon enough; appearances had to be kept up, after all. In exchange for information, the CIA was allowing him to continue working in his past profession and even keep the money he earned from brokering teams of Syrian mercenaries around the globe to those willing to pay. In exchange, he was expected to feed the Agency information on all transactions. The Americans were even compensating him, albeit a small pittance, for his troubles. If the time came when he could pass them information that helped thwart a 9/11-style attack on their homeland that resulted in a blown cover, then they had a nice property waiting on him in horse country outside Washington, D.C., for his “retirement.” He wondered, how hard would it be to find Russian hooke
rs in Northern Virginia?
All in all, his was not a bad deal for someone who had hired the team that had successfully assassinated the Russian president and almost killed the American one. This was a high-stakes game, and Yedid knew that if he was discovered to be working for the Americans, he could expect to be skinned alive before his beheading as a warning to others who might be tempted to side with what the Iranians called the Great Satan. He felt fortunate he hadn’t ended up like his associate Vasili Andrenov, blown to bits by perpetrators yet unknown. He knew he was lucky to escape with his life after the American commandos had stormed his boat, and even luckier to have made a deal with that CIA doctor. He shuddered at the thought of the small academic-looking man with the Pelican cases, and he was smart enough to know not to press his luck.
The Agency had set up surveillance on Yedid for a month to establish his pattern of life, run countersurveillance and ensure that his tradecraft was polished enough to communicate with his case officer working out of the American embassy. Once they felt comfortable, they had backed off to allow him to continue to build his business while gathering intelligence for his new masters.
• • •
Mohammed Farooq waited patiently outside and just down the street from the Syrian general’s flat, the 1988 Mercedes G230 wagon blending in perfectly with the night’s light traffic going two and from the more popular night spots in Athens. The general had retired earlier than usual, just shy of 2 a.m. and had even opened the gate for his companion; this one looked to be about twenty. The large bodyguard followed, scanned the street, eyes coming to rest on Mo’s vehicle, before closing the gate, ensuring it was securely locked and walking up the steps to the front door.
Twenty minutes later the G-wagon’s passenger side door opened and a tall westerner in dark clothes slid inside.