“The odd-looking key opens the main door of the cargo car,” Kreesat said to Hislak. “The rest are numbered accordingly, but you should only need the fourth one. Call me as soon as you see that she is exactly where we left her.”
“Yes, sir.” Hislak shoved the keys in the pocket of his sheepskin vest.
“Are you armed, Vlado?” Kreesat asked.
“Only with my blade. Do you think I need more than that?”
“You never have before.”
Hislak grinned, an expression reminiscent of a bearded Jack-O-Lantern, then slid the door closed with a slam that rattled the berth window.
He started off for the forward sections of the train. For a man of his size he moved with a certain grace, although some might have described his gait as a thundering stagger that appeared to be fueled by vodka. He wore a pair of Cossack boots over thick woolen trousers, with an open neck flannel shirt revealing a hedgerow of chest curls. His sheepskin vest completed the throwback image of a villain from Rasputin the Mad Monk.
Vlado Hislak was happiest when tasked with some sort of mission, and his horse-like strides matched his enthusiasm. In just three minutes he had reached the door of the cargo car, nearly yanked it off its steel hinges, and was deep inside the long swaying box, with a black Maglite flashlight wedged into the right side of his mouth—between his broken teeth and steel fillings. He used the beam to find the correct padlock key, and opened the lock on cargo berth Number Four.
He hung the heavy padlock from his trouser pocket, grabbed the door handle and wrenched it to the left, where it squealed along its tracks before banging open hard. The berth was completely dark inside.
Vlado stepped in, slid the door closed behind him—just in case some other passenger decided to come fiddle with his or her housewares—and reached up to twist the Maglite’s head into high-beam. And there was the woman, right in front of him, trussed to her chair and gagged—exactly as they’d left her after her last piss and feeding four hours before.
Vlado shrugged. “Pacovi,” he mumbled in Serbian, deciding that scurrying rats had no doubt triggered the major’s digital tripwire. But then he looked again at the scientist’s daughter. Before this, whenever they came to attend to her, her head had been hanging down as if she were sleeping. This time, however, she was staring directly at him, her eyes looked somewhat wild, and she appeared to be breathing very quickly. He cocked his massive head to the right as he placed his melon size fists to his hips and wondered …
The top of Alex’s right foot whipped through the air at ninety miles per hour in a flashing roundhouse that impacted perfectly with the lens of Hislak’s Maglite. And given that the steel flashlight was tucked in his teeth like a six-inch long toothpick, the impact speared it directly back into his throat.
His eyes flew open in shock and his brain registered nothing but the searing agony of metal crushing his glottis. He staggered backward and slammed into the berth door as his hands flew up to his throat.
But almost immediately came a new sensation, as Alex stomped down on the floor with her right foot that she’d just used as a flying sledgehammer, and whipped her body around in a spinning back kick that buried her heel into Vlado’s gonads—and he wasn’t wearing a protective cup.
As the huge man’s hands flipped down from his throat and scrambled for his wounded groin, Alex had the fleeting thought that her dad was right about learning all the very best techniques of various martial arts and plucking from that menu whatever the occasion warranted—in this case Kyokushin Karate.
And then, as the Serbian giant dropped to his knees and the flashlight buried in his mouth still flicked enough light around the berth so that she could see, Alex spotted the heavy padlock still swaying from his trouser pocket.
This next move’s not from any dojo I’ve ever seen, she thought as she snatched up the heavy lock by its gleaming “U,” whipped it over her head like a lasso, and rang the steel casing off Hislak’s skull right where his bushy red eyebrows met. His eyes rolled back, showing nothing but white, and he crashed facedown on the floor.
That last blow had caused him to retch out the flashlight. Alex picked it up and frowned as she wiped the slime off on her jeans and scanned him to be certain he was really out. She kicked him once in the temple just to make sure, but his head only lolled like a rag doll’s. Then she turned the light on Svetlana to check that she was still all right, and found the Russian woman slowly shaking her still gagged head in wonder at what she’d just witnessed. Alex smiled.
“The bigger they are …”
She didn’t bother to finish.
* * * *
When Vlado failed to signal Kreesat that all was well with the Kozlov woman—and also failed to return—the Ghost realized that the game had changed. Control was something he cherished above all other operational advantages, and he no longer had it.
Whatever had triggered his digital tripwire, it was clearly no mouse, cockroach, or moth. And given Vlado’s size and strength, the opposition was a force to be reckoned with, and could well be multiple unknown persons.
Still, he reasoned, Vlado Hislak wasn’t the brightest bulb in the box. He might have forgotten to charge his cell phone or been distracted by some seductive snack in a dining car. Perhaps all was still well up forward. Kreesat doubted that was the case, but there was only one way to find out.
At precisely the half hour mark after Hislak had departed from the berth, Kreesat rose from his couch, checked the Zastava CZ99 9mm pistol tucked in his leather shoulder holster, and called out to Amina as he pulled on his black leather jacket.
“I am going up to the cargo car to see what happened with Vlado. Stay here and keep watch over our guest.”
“Yes, sir,” Amina called back from the sleeping compartment. “Are you going alone?”
“No. I’ll take Karl with me. Are you armed?”
“I have my knife,” she said.
“Arm yourself better,” Kreesat ordered. “And prepare for combat. Vlado should have returned by now.”
“I will,” she said. Kreesat heard her unzipping her Kevlar lined backpack where she secreted her more serious tools of the trade.
Kreesat stepped into the corridor and looked around before moving to the adjoining berth. He summoned Karl, a short ex-commando with ginger hair who resembled a fire plug. Karl, who whenever on leave from special forces, had engaged in cage fighting as a hobby, asked no questions of his commander, and simply followed along. Kreesat didn’t bother to ask if Karl was armed—he always carried at least one handgun and two knives.
In short order, they reached the coupling to the cargo car. Finding the steel entrance door unlocked, Kreesat drew his CZ99, as well as a powerful tactical Streamlight, and Karl followed suit, gripping a heavy .45 caliber PPZ. They rushed the entrance simultaneously, then split from each other to both flanks, then crouched, ready to fire.
But nothing threatened them inside the rocking, dusty car. Kreesat then moved carefully forward, shining his beam to inspect every cargo berth lock—until he found the last door slightly ajar, the padlock gone from its hasp.
He wrenched the berth door open on its rails. Both men braced the open doorway, and stared. Svetlana Kozlov was gone from her chair. In her place sat Vlado Hislak, with the sodden scarf that had been used to gag the Russian journalist stuffed in his drooling mouth. His hands were tied behind his back, his Cossack boots gone, and his beefy ankles were roped together below the chair seat. But the chair wasn’t resting fully on the floor.
It was tilted precariously backward, and the only thing supporting Vlado’s girth was his own slim black flashlight, which had somehow been jammed as a support between the train car floor and the bottom of one front chair leg. From the slat ceiling above, and an ancient rusty cargo hook, a taut length of hemp led down to Vlado’s bulging neck. It was knotted tightly under his beard, which glistened with his
saliva.
Although Vlado’s bear brown eyes were wide, he was barely breathing or moving. All it would take was a cough or even a wheeze to dislodge the flashlight brace, and Vlado would’ve choked to death after several agonizing minutes.
Kreesat lowered his gun, and regarded his sergeant major like some fascinating insect pinned to a display box. He was furious, but intensely curious as well. How the hell had anyone been able to haul this monster into that chair? And then he spotted the trickle of blood crawling down Hislak’s flannel shirt from directly under his beard.
Ah, that was it. He had first been knocked silly—the evidence being a swollen egg in the middle of his forehead. Then he’d been trussed, in such a way that he could still maneuver his own body. Then, the point of a knife had been twisted up into his throat, with the implications clear: “Get yourself into this chair, or die right here.”
“Should I cut him down, Major?” Karl asked Kreesat as he regarded his helpless comrade.
“Yes, but carefully.” Kreesat pulled out his smart phone, and tapped on Amina’s icon.
“Yes, sir?” she answered.
“It was a rat after all,” Kreesat said. “But a large one, and clever. Our guest is gone.”
“Govno,” Amina grunted, using the Serbian’s favorite five-letter word meaning excrement.
“No matter. Bring me Kozlov, quickly. And feel free to break his arm if he resists. I only need his brain.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
Dmitry Kozlov’s fingers trembled as he sat at the slim metal table inside cargo berth Number Four.
His hands were poised above a Bluetooth keyboard that Kreesat had pulled from a metal drawer, and directly in front of him, atop the single side band transceiver, a glowing computer monitor displayed a spider web of satellite tracks—twisting and criss-crossing above a slowly spinning image of the globe.
Work lights glowed from above, where Karl had clipped them to the same rusty cargo hook that had nearly been the end of Vlado—their corkscrew wires running down to the blimp-encased generator that droned along, tainting the space with nauseating fumes.
Over in the right corner before the complex comm tower, Vlado Hislak sat in the same steel chair as before, but now he was un-trussed and rather subdued. He leaned his head back and held a large plastic bag of ice to his pounding forehead—a salve that Amina had kindly fetched from one of the dining cars.
Karl, his .45 PPZ still gripped in his hand, stood to the right of Kozlov’s chair, watching the old scientist’s every move. The trembling ancient could hardly be much of a threat, and yet, someone had taken down Vlado—a phenomenon that no one had ever seen before, so all bets were off.
Kreesat, arms folded, stood to the left of Kozlov’s position, maintaining his full composure in tones of “advice and consent.” He very much wanted to know who had freed the scientist’s daughter and beaten his sergeant major, but the giant was clearly concussed and taking some time to recover. No rush. Kreesat had Kozlov, the disks, and the old man’s terror in the palm of his hand.
“Are the disks reading well?” Kreesat asked Kozlov.
The old man glanced at the blinking multiple disk trays just to the right of the monitor. “Yes, they are functional.”
“Good. Then you may go ahead and produce an uplink to Laika II.”
Kozlov looked up at Kreesat, and raised a palm toward the comm tower to his right. “That is only a satcom antenna, Mr. Kreesat. As I explained to you before, we would need specialized equipment to do this. The range is far beyond what …”
“There is a microwave dish mounted on the roof of this car, Doctor.” Kreesat looked at Karl, who smiled. “My men actually assembled it up there while the train was in motion. They are quite good with their hands.”
Kozlov’s bony shoulders slumped. “I see.”
“Talk to your satellite, Doctor. And no more stalling. Tell me its current location.”
Kozlov pointed a jittery old finger at the monitor. “It is there, above Newfoundland.”
“Good. Now fire its thrusters, take it out of orbit, and re-task it for a track over Washington, D.C. Do I need to give you the coordinates? Or do you think you can figure that out yourself?”
“Of course I can,” Kozlov mumbled as he began to tap the keyboard. Behind him, on the comm tower, a row of green lights began oscillating somewhat like a small Christmas tree, and shortly thereafter one of the satellite icons on the monitor began glowing in kind, with lime-colored pulses. “You realize, Mr. Kreesat,” Kozlov said, “that the Americans will be able to trace the origin of this transmission.”
“Actually, they won’t. It is masked. Thanks to the Russian government, my team is also well-versed in encryption codes and fills.”
After another minute, Kozlov sat back in his chair and dropped his hands to his sides. “There, it has turned and is proceeding south. What do you wish me to do now?”
“Nothing,” Kreesat said as he turned to Karl. “Hand me that satphone.”
Karl pulled a satphone from a charger atop the comm tower and handed it over to his commander. Kreesat powered it up and dialed a U.S. telephone number.
“This is the White House,” a female voice answered. “Good morning and how can we help you today?”
“Good morning!” Kreesat said brightly. “You can help me by giving me the National Security Advisor.”
“Who may I ask is calling, sir?”
“Major Maxim Kreesat, formerly Serbian special forces. It is a matter of some urgency.”
“One moment, please.”
Kreesat waited, and then a more officious female voice came on the line.
“Lara Longren, here. How can I help you, Major Kreesat?”
“Good morning, Ms. Longren. What is your position, please?”
“Deputy NSA to General Socroft.”
“Very good,” Kreesat said, and since he was bent on savoring the next part, he took a moment to light up a Sobranie. “Ms. Longren, I am going to dispense with the niceties and get right to the point. I am a terrorist.”
“Excuse me?” The Deputy National Security Advisor tried to suppress a laugh.
Kreesat smiled himself. “Yes, I know it is not the normal, formal way of introduction. However, I used to be a government servant like yourself, but I discovered that the pay and appreciation were minimal. Today, I have control of a Russian nuclear launch platform disguised as a communications satellite—its NATO moniker is Laika II. I also happen to be holding its developer, Doctor Dmitry Kozlov, as my hostage, along with the satellite operational codes and frequencies. Are you following me so far, Ms. Longren?”
“Yes. I am transcribing every word.”
“That seems redundant, since you record all incoming calls. But no matter. Rather than trying to convince you of the veracity of my claims, I would like you to call the Pentagon and ask them for a real-time track of Laika II, via the National Reconnaissance Office. You will find that I have taken Laika II off of its longitudinal track above Newfoundland—which happens to be minus five seven point six six oh four three six four, decimal degrees—and have repositioned it to a latitudinal track of plus three eight point nine zero seven one nine two three, decimal degrees, which splices Washington, D.C. It is currently moving south at an altitude of one hundred and twenty-three miles, and a speed of six thousand meters per second, as it is no longer geosynchronous.” Kreesat waited for Longren’s response, but all he heard was her breathing. “Ms. Longren?”
“Yes, Major,” she said. “I’m still here. What do you want?”
“We’ll discuss that in half an hour when I call back, Ms. Longren. I imagine that it will take half of that time simply to convince the NRO that this isn’t some sort of April Fools joke, even though spring has long passed. Oh, and by the way, please emphasize that Laika II is a Trojan horse. It is actually a MIRV platform with five nuclear warhea
ds aboard. You might want to also advise Treasury that they’ll soon be moving large sums of money.”
Kreesat tapped the satphone keypad, ending the call, and then he also powered the transceiver off—no sense in tempting a missile strike that might ride down the waves of his transmissions and spoil everyone’s night. He turned to Karl and pointed at Kozlov’s back.
“Watch him, Karl. If he touches anything without permission, smash his fingers. And keep an eye on Vlado here as well …”
“It was a girl,” Vlado croaked from under his ice bag.
“Excuse me?” Kreesat said as he turned.
“A girl. She hit me with something, maybe a sledge hammer, and then she used the lock on my face. That was when I saw her. A girl, slim, strong, short brown hair.”
“A girl?” Kreesat almost laughed. “Well, Vlado, if that’s true, when we find her I’ll let you dismember her.”
“Yes, thank you, Major.”
“My pleasure.” Kreesat pulled out his smart phone again, tapped a contact icon and called another of his men back at their onboard headquarters suite.
“Da, majore,” a heavy voice answered.
“Bojan, go find the train’s chief conductor, as well as the onboard policeman, and escort them up here to the cargo car. But wait with them in the coupling and call me. Clear?”
“Yes, Major.”
Kreesat cocked his head at Amina, and they left the berth together, sliding the door closed behind them. Kreesat had the ring of keys in his hand. He dropped his Sobranie on the floor and cranked it out with a boot as he walked to the first cargo berth, opened the lock, and swept Amina inside with a gracious hand.
She pulled a small chemlight from her pocket and bent it in half until it glowed green, then set it down on a suitcase while she backed up and hiked herself up onto the large crate of books that Sasha and Alex had inspected before. She smiled at Kreesat as she reached down and pulled off her turtleneck. He smiled back, opened his belt buckle and unzipped his leather pants.
Dark Territory Page 6