by Brad Taylor
The man said, “Turn out the fuckin’ light.”
Which was enough to push Mikhail over the edge. He walked slowly toward the couple, and his approach was enough to indicate to the man that he’d made a mistake. Mikhail squatted down, getting eye to eye with him, ignoring the woman.
Speaking in a low tone, he brandished a folding knife, flicking the blade out. “You say one more word and I’ll cut your fucking tongue out.” He used his index finger to punctuate the last four words, jabbing it into the man’s forehead after each one.
The man’s eyes were so large, it was comical. He nodded, but remained mute, afraid to test the threat. The girl began to tremble underneath him, hiding her face in the pillow as if that would prevent the bogeyman from finding her.
Mikhail rose, then left the room, not even bothering to look back.
58
I was awakened in our vehicle by Jennifer poking me in the shoulder. It was her turn on watch, but if she was waking me, something had happened.
She said, “Veep’s got him. Leaving the hostel right now.”
I looked at my watch. Five in the morning. Early to leave for no reason. This must be it.
We were all running on about two hours of sleep, because it had taken quite a bit of time to find the phone associated with Mikhail. People thought the evil NSA could listen in on every phone call on earth, but that was woefully untrue. They needed a focus. A target. And then they needed time.
I’d fed the entire database of Shoshana’s phone to Kurt, and he’d had to get the data washed through the CIA and into the NSA system because we, as the Taskforce, had been restricted from duplicating NSA capability. It was a conscious decision by President Warren and Kurt to prevent us from becoming an overarching Gestapo that everyone in America believed was alive and well anyway. Because of it, we now had to trickle our information into the beast and hope that someone had the power to redirect assets to act on our information.
Luckily, we also had the commander in chief in our corner.
The NSA, without having a clue why, had analyzed the recent call logs of the Russian phone, then necked down the numbers to four based on metadata. Through a process of elimination, the Taskforce intel cell had discarded three and had told them to focus on one single number. Like the machine they were, they did. People had a fantasy that the NSA actually made decisions on what to do and whom to target, but that was largely false. Others on the ground made that decision. They only executed what they were told.
The analysts had taken a look at the numbers, and using our input on what we knew about Mikhail’s historical locations—in Slovakia, on the train, and at the Castle—had determined which number was his. From there, the NSA, using what was, in fact, a breathtaking capability to parse data once they had a target, had located the phone in Warsaw. They could only get it down to a cell provider in the city, but that was close enough, because we now had the Rock Star bird, and that thing could pinpoint the phone to four meters. All we had needed was a plot of ground small enough to start looking, and the NSA had found it.
By the time the rest of the team had landed, Kurt had sent the NSA information on the Warsaw location. We’d unloaded the bird with whatever kit I thought we could use—along with some lethal tools, finally—and I’d launched it into the air again, using its ISR capability to pinpoint the phone. It had finally done so at one in the morning, tracking the phone to a block of buildings in the ancient downtown section of Warsaw. From there, we’d done Internet research and had found a youth hostel, the only place anywhere near the target grid where Mikhail could be staying. And we had started the surveillance, running on fumes and coffee.
It had been a frenzied amount of work, and I was proud of the intelligence community’s ability to actually accomplish what we needed—for once not getting bogged down in food fights. Then again, from Kurt’s last call, I knew this was about much more than stopping a single attack. That was our mandate, but this time, Kurt had seemed genuinely worried.
Veep came on the radio, sounding bored, which I knew was a front. His real name was Nick Seacrest, and he was the vice president’s son—make that the president’s son. He’d only done one mission with us, and I’d called him forward not because of his skill, but because he was an unknown for Mikhail, and I knew he was nervous as hell about screwing up.
Well, that’s not exactly true. He was pretty good. Just relatively untested, unlike Retro, the other member of the team. Someone I’d done many, many operations with.
“I got him. He’s walking toward the main square. He’s showing no tradecraft.”
Perfect.
Sitting in the minivan at one of the few exits from the area, I said, “No vehicles?”
“None. He’s walking. No luggage. No support. He’s got a day’s growth of beard, and I think he slept in his clothes. He looks pretty ragged.”
I thought, Seeing Shoshana turn into the dark angel will do that to a man.
I said, “Roger all. Keep tracking. Bumper one, Bumper two, you copy?”
Aaron came on, saying, “Bumper one, roger all. I’m up and waiting.”
Knuckles followed, “Bumper two. Got it.”
Retro came on, saying, “I got Veep’s backup on foot.”
And now we would see if my call was correct.
We’d had the chance to take him down inside the hostel, penetrating with a device called Growler that would allow us to lock his phone and pinpoint his room, but I’d opted not to. For one thing, while we could find his room, we couldn’t determine who else was staying with him, and the last thing we needed was to subdue a couple of civilians, then have them talking afterward. For another, I couldn’t get the fidelity for an assault plan inside the hostel without risking burning the last two clean team members I had. But that was always a hard choice.
It was a question I’d experienced many times before. Something that the counterterrorism architecture had tussled with since 9/11: develop or strike?
Everyone wants the simple answer—the one Hollywood feeds you—but it rarely ever happens. Each time you hunt a terrorist, you’re forced to make a choice: take that guy out, or track him, developing the situation. All terrorists are tied into cells, and the longer you watch them, the more cells you end up exposing. Unfortunately, while you’re watching a target, he’s planning further attacks. He’s working. I sometimes lie awake at night wondering, If I’d taken out Terrorist X earlier, could I have prevented further deaths? But then I think about the guy he led us to, someone who wasn’t a cog, but ran the entire terrorist wheel.
I’d decided to develop here. I wasn’t sure Mikhail was a single point of failure, and didn’t know if the plan was already in motion. Taking him out might not stop it.
I didn’t know yet if I’d made the right decision, but at least we had him in our sights.
59
Mikhail retraced his steps, walking by the square with the bell and plaque, now deserted at the early hour. It was just after five in the morning and the sun had already started to crack the horizon, but had yet to provide any summer heat. The air was brisk and smelled faintly of smoke. He took that as a good sign. Someone was baking breakfast pierogi for the early risers, which meant coffee.
He took a right, went through a small tunnel, and popped out onto a new street, right next to a large cathedral. He saw a neighborhood bakery and walked toward it, then did a double take when he recognized the cathedral.
It was St. John the Baptist. The location of his meeting. From the map, he thought it would be down the street a block or so.
Perfect.
The meeting wasn’t until seven fifteen, right after the morning mass started, but he wanted to watch early. Wanted a chance to determine what he was up against, and the bakery offered the perfect spot to simply sit and do that.
He pulled the door and found it locked. He peeked through the window, see
ing a man in a stained apron working a large brick oven. He knocked, and the man shouted something at him in Polish, pointing at his watch, then holding up six fingers.
Thirty minutes away.
He wandered past the cathedral, looking for another spot, when he saw someone come out of the large double doors. The cathedral was open, which meant he could conduct reconnaissance of the meeting site.
He forgot about finding a coffee shop and went straight to the church, cracking open the doors and peeking inside. He saw it was empty, but not completely so. He could get in without arousing questions.
When Simon had initially asked him where he wished to meet the Russians, Mikhail’s mind had gone to two things: protection and escape. He’d initially wanted to use an airport, as that would definitely prevent any weapons from coming into play, but it would also prove problematic for transferring the radioactive material. He’d researched restaurants, hotels, and bars, knowing he needed someplace crowded, but had come up with nothing satisfactory. And then he’d hit on a church.
The Poles were overwhelmingly Catholic, and each church held mass several times a day. If he could find a cathedral with the correct characteristics, it would work, because there was no way that the Russians would attempt anything inside a church, for one simple reason: The Poles despised Russians, in a visceral way. If they tried anything in a house of God, they’d be ripped limb from limb by the churchgoers attending mass.
The problem with his scheme was precisely that the protection would hinder the transfer. It wasn’t like they could do it in the pews. He’d searched for a church with something unique, and had found it in St. John’s. It had been demolished in World War II, but the destruction hadn’t reached the crypts. When it was rebuilt, the crypts were left in place. Or at least Mikhail’s research had said so. Now he’d know for sure.
Mikhail pushed through the doors, entering a foyer where a gray-haired lady stood smiling at him. He smiled back and walked into the nave. He glanced to his left and saw the stairs to the crypt. No gate, nothing stopping his entrance.
He glanced at the sanctuary on the far end, seeing someone lighting candles and a few scattered souls in the pews. He entered the stairs, winding down below the church. He hit a landing and saw several sarcophagi arrayed in a row, the lighting muted, the brick clearly old, unlike the church above. He stalked down the tunnel, listening for anyone following. He heard nothing.
He explored the depths of the crypt, seeing a staircase at the end. He took it, and found himself at the altar in the front of the church, a cleric looking at him curiously.
He waved and smiled, retreating back down the steps. In seconds, he was outside.
He walked to the bakery, finding the owner willing to let him in even though it was still some minutes before opening. He bought a cup of coffee and took a seat, watching the doors to the church through the windows.
He sat for forty minutes, studying the growing traffic. He felt his phone vibrate with a text. A short note from Simon, and an attachment. He opened it and found a picture of a captain in a US Air Force uniform, then a listing of biographical data, including an address in Lodz, Poland.
He called Simon, surprised when he answered on the first ring.
“You get the attachment?”
“Yes. He’s the target?”
“Correct. He runs the security for the American side of the base. Get him under control, and you can guarantee access.”
“Is he married?”
“He is.”
“Okay. I’ll handle the prep with the Night Wolves, but I’m not going on the base with them. If they screw it up, it’s on them. I’m headed straight to Vienna.”
“Good enough. Are you prepared for the transfer?”
“I’m here, but I’m not so sure about being prepared. You have anything on the team tracking me? How they found out about the train?”
“No. My contacts in Israel could turn up nothing. They have no idea why a composite American/Israeli team would be hunting us.”
“You mean hunting me.”
Simon laughed and said, “Yes. I suppose that’s true. Their assessment is it’s something like you—not official.”
“Simon, the tracking concerns me. They put a lot of effort into it, and it wasn’t because of some gold.”
“Yes, it concerns me as well, but the answer to the problem is the same one as before. Only now it involves you as well as me. Get the sample and meet the Night Wolves. Cause enough chaos and they’ll choose to leave instead of follow.”
Mikhail saw people beginning to enter the church, the crowd for mass beginning. He said, “I’m not so sure I want to follow through. I’ve lost my security team. Now I have to meet these guys alone.”
Simon said, “It’ll be good. I talked to him yesterday. He wants to deal and is afraid of Putin trying to stop him. He’s scared Putin is going to turn on him much like he did me.”
“Did you pay?”
“No, of course not. He’s bringing you a sample of Cesium-137. He’ll show it to you, and you say you need to check it out with our capability. Tell him you want to make sure it’s pure. He’ll set up another meeting for the transfer of the total load, and we won’t be there. Done deal.”
Mikhail said, “Cesium? I thought I was getting uranium?”
“No, I was mistaken. It’s something called Cesium-137. A castoff from nuclear waste in Russia. It’s very deadly, but not useful for anything other than a dirty bomb. He’ll have a quarter kilo of it. That’s not enough to do any real damage, and he’ll expect you to meet him for the rest. We won’t be doing that.”
“What’s the problem with Cesium? Is it going to hurt me?”
“No. It’ll be shielded, but it’s very, very dangerous when exposed. It’s not like you could build a nuclear bomb with it, but you can certainly spread it around with some explosives, which will cause a serious panic. The fingerprints of the Cesium will point back to Russia, and it’ll give us the result we want, I promise.”
Mikhail watched the church doors swing wide, the people streaming in, mass close to beginning. He said, “But it’s on my back if the meeting goes wrong.”
Simon said, “It won’t, Mikhail. Just get it done.”
“I’m looking at the front of the church, and thinking hard about that refund.”
Watching the crowd, Mikhail saw three men who stood out. Two had crew cuts and overcoats, burly guys. One was older, wearing a fedora and carrying a briefcase. He had no doubt who they were. The man with the briefcase was an ex-KGB Russian known only as the Colonel, and he’d been attempting to sell radioactive material since at least 2010. His activities in Moldova had been broken up by the American FBI on four separate occasions, and yet he’d walked free each time.
Mikhail thought, Three men. He could handle that. He thought about the crypts, and the way out from the stairwell he’d found.
He said, “They’re here. I just saw them go in.”
Simon said nothing for a moment, then came back. “Mikhail, we are a team. If the refund means so much to you, I’ll let it go. I need this attack, or I’ll be hunted forever. Go meet them.”
“Have you seen the news? The Americans are stirring things up all on their own.”
“Yes, they are, but they always back down when push comes to shove. Tensions are heating up in Poland. Putin is stacking forces close to Kaliningrad, and the Poles are growing fearful. Unlike America, they cannot retreat with the wolf at their door, and your attack will guarantee American involvement as well.”
Mikhail looked at his watch, seeing he had three minutes. Resigned, he said, “Okay. I’m going in.”
“Get it done, and the money from the Torah is yours. Remember, all we need is a spark.”
“I can’t help but wonder if the United States won’t give us what we want without all this bullshit risk.”
“They aren’t willing to fight. All they do is rattle sabers and threaten.”
“You forget: It takes two to fight a war. Those threats might be enough.”
60
Lieutenant Colonel Quinton Straight watched the refueling operation, and wondered if they’d have enough gas to complete the mission. As the battalion commander of the 2nd Tank Battalion, 2nd MARDIV, he’d been told—and had planned accordingly—to be self-sustaining for four days, but then had been ordered to hold up in Kiev, where he’d burned fuel sitting around waiting to move forward.
He understood the political dimensions of his advance, and would follow whatever orders he’d been given, but seriously, didn’t the National Command Authority understand how much fuel these beasts used?
The M1A1 Abrams tanks he’d pulled out of stocks burned an enormous amount of JP-8 AVGAS, literally getting a half mile to the gallon, a sum so paltry that fuel usage was determined not by miles, but by hours. The average M1 used about three hundred gallons every eight hours—and he’d computed what he’d need for the mission based on the OPORDER he’d been given. Now he wondered if this two-day stay counted against that. Did he have four more days to go? And what if he had to fight at the end of it?
The two tank companies he’d brought with him, comprising thirty steel-clad weapons that were the most deadly armor ever to enter the battlefield, had spent the last two days in a tactical perimeter, the men half on and half off security, all wondering why the holdup had occurred. They’d secured a perimeter, living on their awful field rations and plying their limited skills on the women who came to watch the show, never thinking the operation they were on had any consequences greater than the training mission they’d left.
Kiev was peaceful, and the population appreciated them coming, showing enough gratitude that it should have penetrated there was something in front of them they should fear, if only because the natives that lived there did.