by Ward Larsen
On reaching the outcropping, he removed his skis and walked across rocks to the shadowed ledge. The most substantial overhang covered twenty feet from side to side, and was high enough for a man to stand beneath. He studied the ground carefully, and saw a spot where strands of summer grass, gone brown and stiff, had been flattened. He inspected the area closely, and noted the muted impressions of boots on wet ground. There was no trash, and of course no fifty-cal casing. It didn’t matter. He was convinced this was the place. Roughly twenty-six hours ago, the shooter had been here. Lining up Alexei Romanov in his sight.
He looked down along the slope of the mountain, and his conviction was further strengthened—not only was Romanov’s final resting place in clear view, but from that reference point Slaton could see clearly five hundred feet uphill. A long enough interval for tracking and aiming, followed by a thoughtful pull on the trigger.
Yet satisfying as it all was, the mechanics once again failed. He estimated the range to be between twelve and thirteen hundred yards. A long shot under ideal circumstances. Probably manageable with one condition—a stationary target. Yet Romanov had been moving fast. By all accounts, he was a highly accomplished skier, and the section of hill where he’d been hit was steep. Depending on his aggressiveness at that moment, he would have been traveling in the vicinity of forty miles an hour. That combination of range and target speed had but one sum: an utterly impossible shot.
Just as in Capri, Slaton stood stumped. Whoever this shooter was, he’d now succeeded twice. In each instance, a single shot taken under unthinkable geometry.
So how did he do it?
His eyes went back to the shadows of the hide. He was ruminating on the twin unlikelihoods of distance and target movement when something new caught his eye. Roughly ten feet from where the shooter had likely lain prone, he noticed two small indentations in the soft ground. He went closer, bent down, and saw a pair of identical impressions, each the size of a playing card. They were perfectly rectangular, roughly a quarter inch deep. On closer inspection, Slaton saw a third imprint in the matted grass. The spacing was perfect. A tripod.
But to support what? The fifty cal?
He kept looking, but saw nothing to give an answer. Then the oblique thought he’d discarded in Capri returned. He pulled the backpack from his shoulder and removed his binoculars—the same make and model the assassin had bought and used from this very place.
Slaton trained them downhill and focused on the spot where Romanov had come to rest. He tried to estimate how far the Russian would have tumbled after his near-instantaneous death. Accounting for a variety of speeds, Slaton reckoned between thirty and fifty feet. He walked his circular field of view uphill accordingly, and studied beyond that point, imagining a straight line from his present position to the snow bank beyond. He saw what looked like a broken tree branch nearby, and ten yards to the right of that an aluminum snow-making pole rose from the forest’s edge like some great robotic arm. Slaton recorded a half dozen other reference points, including the police-taped accident scene itself. He consolidated all of it into a single mental diagram.
He didn’t know if what he was contemplating was even possible. But there might be a way to find out.
Slaton spent another ten minutes going over the sniper’s den. He found nothing more of interest. With the sun nearing its apex, he packed his gear and donned his skis. A climb that had taken most of the morning would be reversed in a matter of minutes. He downed the last of his water, kicked into the snow, and in a flurry of shallow turns he accelerated downhill.
The speed put a breeze across his face, biting and cool. The only sound was the coarse grating of his skis through powder, rhythmic and smooth. It was the smallest taste of freedom, and Slaton enjoyed it while it lasted.
He knew it would end abruptly halfway down the mountain.
* * *
Argos’ anchor splashed into the shimmering sea fifty miles south of Sharm El-Sheikh. It sank nearly a hundred feet before hitting bottom. To the east, easily seen under the bright midday sun, were the high slopes of Tihamah, Arabia’s wide coastal plain that shelved unremittingly down to the Red Sea. To the south and west, lost in the marine haze, were the sun-infused shores of Egypt.
“Now what?” asked Captain Zakaryan.
Ivan, who was standing next to him on the bridge, said, “Now? Nothing—we wait. You should broadcast a message on the VHF radio. Tell whoever is listening that you’ve anchored to make minor repairs. If anyone asks, assure them no technical assistance is required—your chief engineer has things well in hand.”
“We are in international waters,” Zakaryan said. He pointed to the distant tan shore. “The coastlines here are among the most remotely populated in the Middle East. I doubt anyone will hear us, let alone offer help.”
“All the better.”
“How long will we be anchored?”
Ivan shrugged. “Our repairs should be done by tomorrow morning, I think. But tonight we will be busy. Expect a welcoming party—a few boats.”
“We will offload our cargo?”
“A good portion of it.”
“And where do we sail next?”
“That I will keep until the morning,” Ivan replied. “Now … have your crane operator meet me on deck. He and I have a few things to discuss.”
The Russian disappeared, and in an increasingly familiar response, Zakaryan’s irritation went to relief. He found himself revisiting his original decision—difficult job market or not, it might be time to find a new employer.
As he looked out toward the distant arid shores, he could not know that at that same moment two other captains were looking in the opposite direction, one south and one west across the Arabian Peninsula. Nor could he know that the masters of Cirrus and Tasman Sea were having very much the same thoughts.
* * *
The hangar Zhukov approached wasn’t particularly large, at least as such structures went. It would never have held a widebody airliner, although a midsize commercial transport might have fit inside. The half dozen MiG-21 fighters sheltered at that moment? Those were no problem at all.
He entered the hangar through a gap in the massive main doors, and right away saw the old jets. If they’d ever been state-of-the-art machines it was long before he had entered the army. Even so, he knew a handful were still flying above the world’s second-tier stages. It was an iconic airframe, stout and cylindrical, with a tail and wings that were heavily swept. The nose was little more than a massive air intake upon which was centered its signature nosecone. The MiG-21 was simple, robust, and plentiful—indeed, it was the most-produced supersonic aircraft ever built. It was also a design nearing the end of its service life. As if to validate the point, all six of the jets before him were painted dull gray with orange tails. The bright fin flashes signified that they’d been adapted for test work—much like a facsimile gun with an orange plastic tip.
The hangar wasn’t air conditioned, but large floor fans worked hard to stir the thin desert air. One of the MiGs was unbuttoned from front to back, various panels hanging open for servicing and maintenance. Another was surrounded by test equipment, everything umbilicaled like life-support equipment to a critically ill patient in a hospital. This was where Zhukov found the man he was after.
He was seated behind a test stand, typing on a laptop computer. His name was Boris Tikhonov, and for three years he had served as the lead engineer on RosAvia’s pioneering project. Zhukov was intimately familiar with the engineer’s background. His brilliance had been recognized early on—it was one of the few positives of the plodding Soviet era that mathematically gifted children were systematically identified. Unfortunately, recognition in itself was not enough. The chosen few were separated into schools that would drill them relentlessly on rote memorization of theorems and spewing back equations. Left unaddressed was academic adventure, the risk-taking and innovation so essential to scientific breakthrough. More recently, the ruling kleptocracy had hampered things furth
er, viewing research and entrepreneurship as little more than a threat to their wholly owned, if noncompetitive, industrial establishment. Altogether, it created an intractable and burdensome atmosphere for Russia’s most promising minds. A ball and chain on creativity from which few escaped.
Young Tikhonov, however, had refused to be so bound. As a teen he’d been shunted through a series of special schools, and in quick succession was expelled from no fewer than three of Russia’s top engineering universities. His professors used terms like “brilliant” and “impossible” in equal measure, but there was no denying his potential. Unable to conform long enough to obtain an advanced degree, and wholly unsuited to life in academia, Tikhonov gravitated to a series of entry-level engineering jobs. That was where Zhukov had found him: frustrated, underpaid, and by Russian standards, a middling-grade abuser of alcohol. Most important of all—Boris Tikhonov was a man eager to prove his genius to the world.
Zhukov approached across the broomed concrete floor, and not for the first time wondered if he’d made the right choice. Having spent a career in the military, he was accustomed to dealing with men and women who kept a certain standard of appearance. Tikhonov was, to say the least, cut from a different vein. He was grossly overweight with unkempt dark hair, the style of which seemed inspired by a lightning strike. He wore a bushy beard, either because he was too lazy to shave, or to hide an excessively florid complexion. Zhukov knew the man was a heavy drinker, not to mention a heavy eater and smoker. In sum, a man who had little use for the word “moderation” in any arena. Yet he also knew that on the days when Boris Tikhonov was sober, he was among the most pioneering minds in Russia.
Tikhonov hovered over his keyboard, parked on a stool that looked far too small for his massive frame. When he saw Zhukov coming, he forced a smile.
“Boris!” said Zhukov brightly.
Tikhonov stepped away from his computer and the two exchanged a handshake. Neither carried forward to an embrace, which would have implied true friendship.
“I was not expecting you so soon,” Tikhonov said.
“My schedule has been unpredictable lately.”
“Thanks to you, mine has been completely predictable—nothing but work.”
“Good! And how goes our project?”
“Well enough. I have isolated the reason for our recent setback.” Three weeks ago the seventh MiG in the hangar had crashed on a proving flight.
“Did the problem relate to the guidance system?” Zhukov asked.
“Definitely not. Our telemetry was solid all the way to the ground. It was nothing more than an engine failure—the first stage turbine, as far as we can tell.”
“Is that not a problem?”
“No more than it ever was,” Tikhonov replied. “There is a reason the MiG-21 was built in such great numbers—to account for attrition. And I’m sure the designers never expected they would still be flying after fifty years. These aircraft in our little squadron are not maintained to the usual Air Force standards. If I had more money, more personnel…” He let his complaint trail off.
Zhukov had heard it all before. His expression fell serious, his tone certainty itself. “As I told you from the beginning, our project is very important. Staffing must be kept to a minimum to maintain secrecy.”
“Secrecy? Is that why my private design bureau has been exiled to the steppes of the Sahara?”
“You are being paid handsomely to bring success.”
Tikhonov opened his mouth, a rude comment rising, but Zhukov cut him off with, “You’ve done well, Boris. But only when the concept is proven can we expand to a larger scale. Finish things here, and I guarantee RosAvia will be given another contract soon.”
“With increased funding?”
“Without a doubt. I see countless applications for your work—not only in the training environment, but on the front line as well. What you are creating represents the very future of tactical aviation.” He watched the engineer’s wide frame straighten ever so slightly. “When is the next test flight scheduled?” Zhukov asked.
“Tomorrow. Can you stay for it?”
“I wouldn’t miss it. I very much want to see the system in action.”
“Then you shall.”
Tikhonov went back to his workstation.
Zhukov looked through the hangar and saw a half dozen workers. Only a few were Russian, and there were no soldiers among them. He himself had been responsible for that—some vestige of honor that seemed almost nostalgic. His attention was caught by a parachute hanging near the ceiling, one of the red-and-white “drag chutes” used to slow the fighters after landing. It billowed in the wake of the circulation fans, reminding him of the flowing bedside curtains at Hotel Le Doge. Zhukov blinked away the distraction.
What curious intersections my thoughts find these days.
He turned his eyes back to the jet in front of them. It seemed bizarre that his country’s future depended on such an obsolete airframe. The Russian Air Force had retired its squadrons of MiG-21s at the end of the Cold War. For a time, thousands had sat derelict on bases around the country. It was that inventory from which the jets had been drawn—scrap metal until the day Tikhonov had presented a paper to RosAvia executives on how they might be resurrected. His idea was not unique—indeed, the Americans had been doing something similar for decades. But Tikhonov’s twist to the old concept was inspired—or so thought a certain army colonel who’d been sitting in the back row.
Now, three years later, Zhukov was astonished at how far they’d come. More incredible yet: the way in which it would all soon be brought to bear.
TWENTY-FOUR
Slaton set a hard turn to break his descent down the mountain. He coasted to a stop in the trees on the northern side of the main run, a recess with a commanding view of the spot where Romanov had gone down.
A man and a woman, both in ski gear, were taking measurements at the scene. The woman stood near the small cordoned area, while the man had climbed forty yards uphill and was standing next to a flag that had been planted in the snow. Using some kind of optical measuring device, he took readings and called them out to his partner, who dutifully recorded them in a book. It was all very organized. All very Swiss.
Unknowingly, they were doing much of Slaton’s job for him. The two were clearly calculating where Romanov had first been hit. It was likely a guess based on where he’d fallen, referencing the first tumbling gouges in the snow, although it was possible they’d obtained some kind of camera footage of the event—Slaton supposed ski resorts maintained surveillance to fend off liability. Whatever the source, he allowed that the position of the uphill flag was based on known facts.
Soon the man and woman, who could only be police, packed up their gear and disappeared downhill. There was no one else in sight. Unsure how long that would remain the case, Slaton seized the moment and kicked off toward the higher of the two points.
Slowing as he approached the flag, he rounded the spot and then continued downhill. His speed and direction were governed by the mental diagram he’d created at the granite ledge far above. Slaton skidded to a stop and looked uphill. He assumed the police had plotted the pertinent details of the crime—where Romanov had been shot, and where he had come to rest—with a reasonable degree of accuracy. He alone, however, knew the most critical point: where the shot had originated.
He lined up the high ledge to the point where Romanov had been hit, and from there drew a line straight downhill. He extrapolated the path the bullet would have taken after passing through its target. Because the police had no starting point, they would be relegated to searching acres of snow-covered mountain for the bullet. Slaton hoped he could narrow things down to something far more manageable.
He glanced briefly at the base of the mountain. If his pause near the accident scene had drawn any interest, he saw no sign of it. A few staff and ski patrol members were milling about, and a police evidence van was parked nearby with its rear doors ajar. There was no sign of the
man and woman who’d just departed with their measurements. All the same, Slaton knew his time was limited. He had no good reason to be here, and sooner or later he would be confronted.
Along the trajectory he’d calculated, he eased very slowly downhill. With his skis carving wide, slow turns, he plowed ever so cautiously in search of the telltale mark.
* * *
The images arrived early that afternoon, and Sorensen was alerted by Mike.
“Two of the three have anchored,” he said, shuffling satellite pictures between two monitors in the embassy comm room.
Sorensen studied the God’s-eye views, and was not surprised by their clarity. The CIA kept its best birds over the Middle East. She saw anchor lines angled off the bow of each ship. Argos was distinguishable by her uniquely situated deck crane, Cirrus by a pair of large lifeboats mounted astern.
“What about the third ship?”
“Tasman Sea is still moving. She’s in the Persian Gulf, nearing the Straits of Hormuz.”
“Can you give me a map that shows all three?”
Mike typed, the screen flickered, and soon a map was presented with Saudi Arabia at the center. The three data points were clearly marked. Argos was stationary off a remote section of the Saudi coast in the northern Red Sea. Cirrus lay in the Gulf of Aden, off the shores of Yemen near the Omani border. Tasman Sea was skirting the narrowest channel in the Persian Gulf, and a small vector arrow showed her heading.
“The two that are anchored,” she said. “Can we tell if they’re in international waters?”
In a decidedly untechnical maneuver, Mike pulled the swizzle stick from his coffee cup, set it over the scale on the electronic map, and used a fingertip to mark off twelve miles. He gauged the positions of the two anchored ships to the nearest coastline. “Looks like both are just outside the limit. You think that’s important?”
Sorensen thought about it. “If it was only one of them, maybe not. But both having taken up identical positions, and at the same time … it’s too much of a coincidence.”