Eves of Destruction

by Roy Berelowitz

  “Hello,” she said, and listened to the voice on the phone, her body involuntarily stiffening as she recognized it. She stepped into a nearby doorway to avoid some of the loud traffic noise.

  “No, but I think I am nearby,” she replied to a question about her location.

  “Yes,” she said and was quiet again. She listened for almost five minutes, her mind focused, paying close attention.

  “Yes,” she said again and snapped the clamshell shaped phone shut. She quickly stepped back into the station to confirm the directions to Hyde Park and then set out walking as fast as she could to get to her assignment.

  She was relieved to finally have an assignment. She had been in Europe for almost six weeks since being reactivated to field service a week before that. Her last field assignment had been almost five years previous and she really did not expect to be activated as a field agent again. Her current job at the FSB was mostly clerical, helping to translate documents from English into Russian. The work was often boring, but she was happy to have a job. Many of her peers at the former KGB had lost their jobs after the collapse of the Soviet Union, but for some reason she had been retained.

  While the phone call at her desk six weeks prior had been unexpected, the seniority of the caller had been unmistakable, his instructions very clear. She was not to report to work the next morning, but to meet him in Gorky Park. She was directed to a bench in a welltrafficked area of the park and arrived there early. She sat on the bench, doing her best to appear nonchalant, but carefully watching the people passing by. She had not been engaged in clandestine activities for a while and was quite nervous.

  A man sat down on the bench, not next to her but a few feet away. He opened up a newspaper and began to read, ignoring her. She watched him for a few moments, but did not recognize him and then turned back to look at the pedestrian traffic. After a few minutes, the man closed his paper, stood up, and walked past her. Her eyes followed him as he moved away, then she again began to watch the crowd. As she turned her head, she noticed a small blue bag on the bench almost next to her. She looked at it for a moment, peering at the nametag attached to the handle, and when she read it she was momentarily surprised to see her own name. As casually as she could, she picked up the bag, slung it over her shoulder, and walked back to her apartment.

  Inside the bag were plane tickets to Rome, twelve thousand dollars in American Express traveler’s checks, hotel reservations, and a cell phone and charger. She was directed to leave for Rome immediately and not to tell anyone, including her mother, with whom she lived, where she was going. The orders were also explicit: absolutely no communication with anyone in Rome. Her handler would contact her. She was to stay close to her hotel, and to be in her room every night by ten and to make sure the cell phone was charged and with her at all times. Her cover was similar to what she had used in the past: she was to tell anyone who asked that she was a Swedish fashion consultant spending the late summer reviewing fall fashions. Sasha’s English was perfect, and a slight accent only added to her allure.

  She spent three weeks in Rome, reading and doing a little sight seeing. She knew Rome having visited the city on assignments before but usually her job had been a small part of a larger team. Mostly she had been required to target men for furtive liaisons, typically one night affairs, occasionally a brief ‘relationship’ would last a few days and then when the target had been compromised her task was done and she left. She had never had a situation like this with no specific task, no support team and no contacts. Finally, at the end of the third week, the phone rang and she was instructed to immediately check out of the hotel and catch a ferry to London. Once in London she was to check into a hotel near Hyde Park Corner. Reservations had been made in her name. Her cover was to remain unchanged. Her stay in London became an extension of her time in Rome: no calls, no instructions: plenty of time to wander.

  Now the caller had marked a target. She hoped that meant she would be done soon and could return home. She could see the park up ahead and glanced at her watch. She guessed she would be at the Serpentine in about five minutes.

  CHAPTER 15

  CASEY AND DAVID walked along without speaking for a minute or two, David leading them to an underground passage under the busy traffic directly to the entrance to the Park. There were quite a few people in the park, adults relaxing in the sun, young children kicking soccer balls and a couple of middle-aged men sitting on a park bench. Casey enjoyed the fresh air, the sunlight on her face. She felt exhausted by the flight and by what she had seen in the morgue. She needed a decent meal and a good nights sleep.

  On the path leading them towards the Serpentine, a small lake in the middle of the park, the two special agents discussed the case, pondering their next step. They had no leads, but the information provided by Dr. Bellamy was somewhat helpful. At least they knew the source of the bombs. Given that Gordon Lewis was expecting her to call him in the evening, she was anxious to pass on the coroner’s discovery.

  “What do you think, David?” she asked turning to look at him.

  “At this point, I really have no idea,” he replied. “We are searching for the proverbial needle in a haystack. Whoever is masterminding this program has left no trail other than two dead bodies. We know it originates from somewhere inside the FSB, but that gives us little to go on.” He paused a second, then continued. “Has there been any consideration to contacting the Russian government?”

  “I don’t know,” said Casey. “That decision is above my grade level,” she continued with a quick laugh. “I do know there seems to be great sensitivity to all things Russian these days at the Agency and at State in particular. Russia’s commitment to democracy seems a bit uncertain right now but we need the Russians to help us deal with the Iranians, so my guess is the administration is going to treat them with kid gloves. Anyway, at least for now, I think we are pretending to the Russians that this has nothing to do with them.”

  They walked in silence for a few minutes and Casey noticed that David had begun to increase his pace. She kept up with him, not saying anything, but wishing he would slow down. She was really tired.

  David abruptly stopped. “I have to tie my laces,” he said, bending down and fiddling with his shoes, then slowly stood up. He began to walk again, now very slowly.

  “We are being followed,” he said to Casey, his voice even, calm. “I noticed him about ten minutes ago.”

  Casey’s fatigue quickly disappeared. “Are you sure?” she asked, voice pitched slightly higher than usual.

  “Yes,” said David. “Actually, he is being so obvious, it seems he wants us to know he is there. When we walked faster, he sped up and when I stopped to tie my shoes, he stopped also. Not very professional, whoever he is.”

  “He didn’t look familiar?”

  “No, but I didn’t get a good look at him,” said David.

  “Let’s turn around and walk back towards him. If we recognize him, we can decide what to do.

  “Okay,” said David, “but let’s do it in such a way that he knows we are on to him. I don’t think he is more than twenty feet away from us right now. All right, ready—turn now!”

  The two agents quickly turned and began retracing their steps. Vladimir stopped. He was momentarily surprised by their actions, but of course it was exactly what he wanted. His eyes met Casey’s and he saw immediately that she recognized him.

  “That’s Vladimir Kosnar,” Casey hissed.

  “You’re right,” David exclaimed. “What do you want to do?”

  By way of response, Casey stepped forward, moving directly towards Vladimir. She knew his reputation, instinctively understood that if he allowed himself to be identified so easily, it was because he wanted it to be so.

  She stopped about five feet away from Vladimir, who was standing still, hands by his side, doing his best to look non-threatening. David Green took up a position to Casey’s far right, keeping himself far enough away from her to create two distinct targets for Vl
adimir. Neither FBI agent was armed, as required by British law, and Green did not really anticipate that Kosnar was armed either, but it was better to be careful.

  Vladimir’s eyes were locked onto Casey’s face.

  “Vladimir Kosnar?” said Casey, responding to his stare.

  “Yes,” he replied. “I am Kosnar.”

  The meeting in the park in London between two FBI agents and one former, and now reactivated Russian agent was certainly bizarre. In past times, during the Cold War, both sides would have been very reluctant to make such contact; it would call into question the loyalty of both sets of agents. But now, circumstances had changed. The enemy was common. Vladimir and Casey needed each other to solve the problem. He knew who was controlling the killers and how many there were; she had access to the resources that could stop it.

  Their first words were awkward, both sides loath to appear too anxious. Vladimir focused on Casey, instantly recognizing her as the FBI agent who had survived the ambush in Afghanistan.

  “My name is Vladimir Kosnar,” he repeated. “I am currently on special assignment for the Russian Federal Security Services. I need to talk to an authorized American agent.” He paused. “Are you Casey Jennings?”

  “Yes,” Casey replied, a little nonplussed to be so easily recognized. “I am Casey Jennings and this is David Green. We are special agents with the Federal Bureau of Investigation. Why do you need to talk to us?” She was not going to give any information unless sure they were working towards the same end.

  “Perhaps we can find a more comfortable place to talk,” said Vladimir, looking around as a young woman roller-bladed past them. “I have important information to give you, but it will take some time to discuss.”

  “We can go back to our local headquarters in the embassy,” said David, anxious to move this meeting out of the public. “That way you will be secure and we will be alone.”

  Vladimir was not ready to get so close to the FBI. At this point, he was only assuming Casey and David were investigating the use of the women to assassinate the general and the unfortunate American businessman. If he went to the American embassy and he was wrong, they might detain him or have the British police deport him. He needed to establish some kind of relationship with these agents first before he could trust them and, perhaps, convince them to trust him. But he did not have a lot of time.

  “Why don’t we find a coffee shop where we can talk? I will explain to you why I need to speak with you.”

  Casey understood Vladimir’s reluctance. She too preferred to stay out of the office for now. Taking Vladimir in would create a bureaucratic nightmare as special agents and supervisors argued about who should conduct the interrogation. She could get a lot more information from him directly.

  Before David could respond, she quickly said, “Good idea. David, can you suggest a place around here somewhere?”

  “Yes,” said David slowly, his voice and face conveying reluctance. He paused a second, then said, “We can continue across the park. There are a number of places near Kensington Palace.”

  The threesome began to walk, Vladimir in the middle, Casey to his immediate left and David to his right, although David maintained his defensive posture, hanging back a couple of feet behind Vladimir. No-one spoke as they walked in awkward silence.

  They reached the coffee shop in less than ten minutes. It had a small outdoor section that was part of the sidewalk in the French café style. Separating the customers from pedestrians were a series of large flower boxes standing on waist-high metal frames. The café was a tribute to British optimism that the rain would hold off long enough during the summer to allow guests to eat a meal outdoors without getting wet. David directed Vladimir to an outside table away from the other patrons; he wanted the group out in the open, preferably where they could be seen but not heard. They chose a table right next to one of the flowerpots, Casey in the middle, David and Vladimir on either side.

  As soon as they were seated, Vladimir began to tell them his story.

  CHAPTER 16

  SPECIAL AGENT DAVID GREEN sat rigid in his chair, eyes locked on the Russian, his face barely concealing his discomfort. Casey sat on Vladimir’s right, her expression mostly impassive, her attention focused.

  “What is it you wish to discuss with us, Mr. Kosnar?” she asked.

  “Am I correct in assuming you are here in London investigating the murder of the American in the Dorchester Hotel?” When neither agent responded, he continued, speaking deliberately. “I also believe you are investigating the death of an American General in Paris.” He stopped again, looking at them, creating an awkward moment, waiting, and trying to force one of the Americans to confirm his statements. After a brief pause, Casey responded.

  “Mr. Kosnar, you can understand that we cannot discuss our assignments with you. However, if you have some information on these murders, then we would be very appreciative.”

  “All right,” said Vladimir, shrugging his shoulders. This was the part of his old job he did not miss, the instinct not to trust anyone, the circuitous approach to everything. He had no time for this type of gamesmanship anymore. He would just tell them what he knew and hope for the best. Ultimately, it was all he could do.

  “I cannot tell you the precise reasons for the killings because I do not have that information, but I can tell you how they are being carried out and who the perpetrator is.” He took a deep breath and continued.

  “The two women who died with the General and the American civilian are part of an old, officially discontinued, assassination team. In fact, the whole program was cancelled before it could become operational. The bombs that killed these women and their victims were surrounded by titanium, something you probably already know. More specifically, they were located in artificial hips in the women’s bodies. The bombs were set off by a remote transmitter located no more than a few hundred feet away.”

  “How many women were set up like this?” David asked.

  “Five hundred.”

  The words hung in the air for a second as the FBI agents glanced at each wide eyed.

  “Five hundred women?” Casey asked, turning back to Kosnar, her voice incredulous.

  “Mostly women,” the Russian answered. They tested the system on a couple men, political prisoners probably.”

  “Mr. Kosnar, are you saying the Soviet government took five hundred healthy women and turned them into living bombs?” Casey’s voice was harsh, indignant in its tone.

  “Not exactly, Ms. Jennings,” said Vladimir, with a quick shake of his head. “These women all needed to have their hip joints replaced. That was going to happen anyway.”

  “I don’t understand-” Casey began, stopping in mid sentence as a waitress approached their table.

  “Would you like to order?” she asked.

  “Yes,” Casey replied quickly. “Just three coffees, please.”

  “Is that all you want?”

  “Yes, thank you,” Casey replied, anxious for her to go away. The waitress turned on her heel and walked away.

  “You see,” Vladimir continued, “these women were part of the Soviet athletic elite. They had been specially selected at very young ages from all over the country for their athletic ability. Since very early childhood they had been groomed and trained to participate in the Olympic Games. The focus was the 1980 and the 1984 Olympic Games, which, you will remember were held first in Moscow and then in Los Angeles. Of course in the end you boycotted ours and we boycotted yours but the Soviet government had decided to spend every effort to make sure our athletes won the most medals. No effort was spared, no expense was too great.”

  “I think I know where this is heading,” said Casey, her lips pursed in disgust. “Steroids, right?”

  “Yes,” said Vladimir with a look of mild surprise, “correct. How did you make that connection?”

  Casey shook her head. “It’s no big leap. The Russians and East Germans were infamous for their use of anabolic steroids to improve a
thletic performance. They were quite successful at it, but at enormous expense to some of their athletes.”

  “I’m afraid you’ve lost me,” said David Green. “How does the use of steroids require these women to have their hips joints replaced?”

  “Among other ugly side effects of steroids is decay in the hip joints, which results in a loss of mobility and severe pain,” Casey answered. “I know because I’ve seen it. In college, a couple of football players I knew got into steroids in a big way. One of them was almost crippled by the side effects of the drugs. He was the lucky one. The other one committed suicide.”

  “But surely if these women had their hips replaced, they would not be able to perform as assassins,” David Green responded.

  “Not so,” said Casey. “Do you remember Bo Jackson, the famous football and baseball player? He had a hip joint replaced, then played two more years of professional baseball.” Casey turned her gaze back to the Russian. “So now we have five hundred women, unknowingly walking around with these bombs in their bodies. My God, this is unbelievable

  “Yes, well, I’m afraid in that regard I have good news and bad news,” said Vladimir without any hint of humor. “Of the five hundred original women in the assassination program, only about half are still alive, and of those-”

  Casey cut him off. “But you said the program was never operational, that it was cancelled.”

  “Yes, Ms. Jennings. However, for reasons not provided to me, during the past four years, a lot of these women have died.”

  “Why, from what?” David Green asked, his voice insistent.

  “As I said, I don’t know,” Vladimir responded, shaking his head. “These women were all athletes whose dreams were destroyed and then they found themselves often coerced into new careers not always suited to their abilities. I am sure some died by natural causes, some by accident, some by suicide. All I do know is they were not operational. Of that I am certain.”