by Dave Edlund
[Rostov] There can be no mistakes this time. They are too far along; their work must be ended.
[Ramirez] Have I ever let you down? The American professor and his Japanese colleague will not complete their work …
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Transcription of encrypted call
from Rostov to Ramirez on August 11
[Ramirez]… are planning a field excursion to an island in the North Pacific.
[Rostov] Get me the details. I want your best team to handle this. Are we clear?
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Transcription of encrypted call
from Rostov to Ramirez on August 16
[Rostov]… have confirmed the date?
[Ramirez] Yes. They will arrive on Chernabura Island on September 24; the two professors plus their research teams. We will eliminate all of them and effectively put an end to their research program.
[Rostov] You are certain?
[Ramirez] My brother is personally leading the team. Just make sure your friends in the Kremlin have all of the assets in place …
Jim had seen all he needed. In time, the remainder of the communications would be decrypted, but he had no doubt about Rostov’s role in orchestrating the massacre in Caracas as well as the failed attack on Ian Savage and his research team.
“Good work, Lieutenant. Let me know when we have more. Send these partials to the colonel ASAP.”
As Lieutenant Lacey turned and left his office, Jim popped two antacids in his mouth and quickly chewed them. Peter remained standing in front of the desk, his body tense.
“You can’t tell me you don’t see the connection to the president or prime minister.”
Jim sighed. “The message refers to connections at the highest levels, is that what you mean?”
“That’s right, what else could it mean?”
“It could mean an admiral. It could mean a low-level party member willing to take a risk for a million dollars. Peter, it could mean a lot of things.”
“You don’t really believe that, do you?”
“It’s not conclusive. At best it could be construed as suggestive. We blew it once. That’s not gonna happen again.”
Now it was Peter’s turn to sigh as he tilted his head to the floor, contemplating the next move. “I understand,” he said finally. “And after you talk to your boss, let’s finish this.”
As Peter left the office, Jim picked up the secure phone and pressed the number one. Colonel Pierson’s secure office number rang immediately.
“Pierson.”
“Sir, Commander Nicolaou. I’m sending a collection of partial transcripts to you… phone conversations between a Grigory Rostov and Vasquez Ramirez made between June 7 and August 16. You’ll want to read these, sir.”
“Care to clue me in, Commander?” Pierson didn’t like mysteries.
“Yes, sir. President Garza wasn’t the ringleader. It was Grigory Rostov, Chairman of Rostov Oil.”
Chapter 39
October 18
Over the North Atlantic
It took less than 30 minutes for Commander Nicolaou to receive his orders. He pressed the intercom button on his desk phone, paging his assistant.
“Mr. Ryerson, please find Peter Savage. He’s probably in the lab. Escort him to my office immediately.”
“Yes, sir.”
Ten minutes later Peter entered Jim’s office. “I presume you spoke with Colonel Pierson,” said Peter.
“Yes. He approved the mission, and I need your help.”
Peter nodded. “Whatever I can do.”
Jim handed a photo to Peter. It was medium quality and appeared to have been printed using the office ink jet machine. “That’s Grigory Rostov.”
Peter held the photo, staring at the image. Rostov had dark brown, almost black, hair—cut short and combed straight back. In this photo he was wearing a medium gray suit with green tie and white shirt. His face was clean-shaven, and he appeared to be about the same age as Peter.
“I need that MI pistol again, the Mk-9 single shot model. You and I are going to Moscow. We’ll be traveling under aliases. Our cover will be that we’re executives on a government sponsored trade mission—metals or something like that.”
“How will we find Rostov?”
“Leave that to me. I’ve got my team researching his habits, patterns of movement. I need you because we can’t run the risk that Russian customs agents will identify the MI gun for its real purpose. That’s why I want the Mk-9. A revolver cylinder, even from an MI gun, is too easily recognized. You’ll disassemble the gun prior to landing. After we clear customs, you’ll put it back together and ensure proper functionality.”
“Everything I need is at my shop in Bend.” Peter was already constructing a mental list of the tools, spare parts, and other supplies he’d need.
“I anticipated that. We’re leaving here in the Gulfstream and will fly north to Bend, stopping long enough for you to get everything you need.”
“It won’t take long, fifteen, maybe twenty minutes.” Peter paused, his mind addressing a new concern. “You’re going to kill Rostov.”
“It’s what we do.”
Eight hours later Peter, Jim, and two members of the U.S. diplomatic core were crossing the Atlantic at 37,000 feet, having fueled the Gulfstream 650 in Washington, D.C. Their cover—members of the board for Allegiance Specialty Metals— had been developed during the previous flight segments.
Since this was supposed to be a trade mission to help U.S. companies secure additional long-term purchase contracts for strategically important metals, the State Department employees lent credibility to the cover. They also provided justification to enter Russia with minimal scrutiny.
If all went well, the Russian authorities would accept the cover story, but there was some risk since trade missions were normally organized months in advance.
The plan was simple and relied on speed and daring to succeed. It was known that Rostov was a true workaholic, seldom leaving his office before 10:00 P.M. That is when Jim would strike.
The Gulfstream landed at Sheremetyevo 2 International Airport and taxied to a secure hangar leased by the U.S. Department of State. As soon as the engines were shut down, the aircraft door opened. Standing on the concrete floor facing the private jet were two Russian customs officers. One remained at the base of the stairs, while the other boarded the aircraft to check personal documents.
The official seemed to be familiar with the State Department employees. “Back again so soon?” he commented and then stamped their passports. He also stamped the documents for the pilots and cabin attendant as if it were just another routine task.
He turned his attention to Peter. “We have not met before,” he said.
“No,” said Peter.
The official looked carefully at Peter’s passport and then studied his face, making sure the photo matched the man standing before him. He took his time, and Peter willed himself to remain calm. To show signs of anxiety would only trigger further investigation. He felt his heart rate slow, and concentrated on controlling his breathing. The customs official raised his eyes again from the passport photo to Peter, only to be greeted by a smile. He stamped Peter’s passport, officially marking his entry into Russia. “I hope your business is successful,” he said as he returned the document.
Next, the customs official approached Jim and received his passport. Unlike Peter, the official hardly gave more than a moment’s consideration to Jim’s documents before stamping a blank page in the passport.
The official stopped at the cabin door, turning back to face the American passengers. “Does anyone have anything to declare?”
Jim and Peter replied in unison. “No.”
“Of course not.” He squeezed a disingenuous smile. “Enjoy your visit.”
Peter breathed a sigh of relief as the official departed, but not before watching him exit the hanger with a second customs official.
It was near
ly 6:00 P.M. and Peter went to work. Needing only two screwdrivers, he assembled the Mk-9 magnetic impulse pistol in five minutes. Inserting a fully-charged battery in the grip, Peter pushed the power switch to the on position. A small red LED illuminated just below the rear sight indicating the electrical system of the weapon was active.
Next, Peter retrieved a large piece of ballistic fabric from his suitcase. The fabric was used in bullet-proof vests. He folded it over until he had a square eight layers thick and about the size of a Kindle.
Jim asked, “What’s that for?”
“I want to do a live fire, and I presume you don’t want any holes in your aircraft.”
The flight crew had been watching Peter, fascinated by what he assembled from an odd assortment of parts.
“Hey, you can’t discharge a weapon inside the cabin!” said the pilot.
“Don’t worry. This pad of fabric,” Peter held it to show the pilot, “will stop a 9mm round.”
“You’d better be right. If there’s any damage to this plane it’s your ass, not mine.”
“I signed for this aircraft, captain, not you,” said Jim. Then he nodded to Peter. “Let’s get on with it. I’ve got a job to do.”
Peter set the square of black ballistic fabric against a seat cushion, loaded the Mk-9, aimed, and fired. Other than a metallic click, the only other sound was a dull thud, like someone had forcefully punched the cushion.
“It works,” said Peter amid amazed stares from his audience. Jim took the pistol, stuffed it in his backpack, and then descended the aircraft stairs. No sooner had he stepped onto the hangar floor than a black GAZ model 3115 four-door sedan pulled to a stop near the parked aircraft. The driver left the door open as she exited, keys still in the ignition.
The car bore diplomatic plates and was one of three in the U.S. embassy motor pool. Chosen for its mundane appearance, the car was anything but ordinary. Originally manufactured by the Russian Gorkovsky Avtomobilny Zavod (Gorky Automobile Factory), the sedan had been modified by the State Department. The engine control microprocessor had been reprogrammed for high performance, and a super charger had been added, along with racing suspension and high-performance, run-flat tires. Although the car still looked like a stock GAZ sedan, it could do a standing quarter mile in under eleven seconds.
Jim tossed his backpack onto the passenger seat just as Peter came dashing toward the car. “Hold up!”
Jim cocked his head to the side as he looked to Peter.
“What is it?”
Rather than answer, Peter opened the back door and tossed in a small black bag and climbed in. Jim grabbed the door, preventing it from closing.
“What are you doing? You can’t come along.”
“The hell I can’t. You have minimal training with a single shot weapon. I’m your technical expert, your geek.”
“I know what I’m doing. You’re not trained for this type of mission.”
“The only way I’m getting out of this car is if you drag me out.”
Jim knew he could do just that. But he also understood Peter’s need to see this through, to bring closure and certainty that the person responsible for nearly murdering his father, and himself, was dead. He thought for a moment, teetering between giving in and hauling his childhood friend from the back seat. Then he made up his mind. If this goes bad, Pierson’s gonna court martial me.
Jim settled in behind the wheel. He turned on the in-dash GPS system—another custom modification—and input his destination, 26/1 Sofiyskaya Embankment, before casually driving out of the hangar.
The traffic into Moscow was heavy, and it took almost a full hour to reach the headquarters of Rostov Oil along the banks of the Moscow River. Since it was still early evening, there was no street parking available, but he had planned for this. Driving slowly in the right-most lane, Jim cruised past a green Audi A4 parked only four car lengths away from the front entrance to the Rostov Oil building. The driver of the A4, a driver for the U.S. State Department, glanced at Jim as he passed and gave a discrete nod of acknowledgment.
Jim turned the block and circled around for another pass. As he approached, the green A4 abruptly pulled out of its parking spot, and Jim claimed it. It would be an ideal location for watching those coming and going from the large stone building with its distinctive green metal roof.
Immediately after turning off the engine, Jim pressed a button beneath the driver’s seat, and the license plate quickly rotated to a standard, non-descript plate rather than the diplomatic plate that had been displayed. He pressed a second button that activated the electrochromic windows, including the windshield. This feature worked on the basis of an applied voltage that caused the windows to darken, making it virtually impossible to see inside the car, while still allowing visibility out.
“I hope you have a book or some music in that bag of yours; we’re gonna be here for a while,” said Jim.
“I planned this—I’m set,” answered Peter.
Settling in for what was expected to be a long stakeout, Jim plugged in his Bose ear buds and turned on his iPod while Peter just slid down in the back seat, closed his eyes and drifted off, lost in thought. It was still much too early to expect Rostov to leave the building.
Jim removed a compact laser range finder from his backpack and discretely ranged the distance to prominent landmarks near the building entrance: 45 yards to the front door, 39 yards to the water hydrant. Then he checked the distance to the sidewalk on the opposite side of the busy street: 21 yards. Satisfied, Jim returned the range finder to his backpack.
A cool drizzle came and went as the evening progressed, but the number of pedestrians walking by did not diminish. Most were dressed fashionably for an evening out, and no one paid any attention to the man dozing in the black GAZ sedan, ball cap pulled low over his eyes.
But Jim wasn’t sleeping. His senses remained sharp despite the hours he had spent sitting in the car watching, waiting for Grigory Rostov to leave the office building that bore his family name. Jim was in no rush—in fact he hoped that Rostov would leave work late to allow time for the foot traffic to thin out. He inserted his right hand into the backpack and again checked that the Mk-9 impulse gun was loaded, with its safety on.
Another twenty minutes passed, then the double glass doors to the Rostov Oil Headquarters building opened, and three men in dark suits exited. They stood under the large glass awning in front of the main entrance for a few minutes. Jim raised a pair of compact binoculars and quickly scanned the faces. A taxi pulled to the curb, and as all three men climbed in, he was certain none were Grigory Rostov.
On the flight to Moscow he had spent hours studying a thick folder on the man who was the chairman of Russia’s largest state-owned oil company. Grigory’s great-grandfather had founded the company, but it was not until his father took control following the defeat of Germany in 1945 that the company began to grow rapidly. Still, Rostov Oil would be only a minor oil company had it not been for the alliance that was forged with Vladimir Pushkin and the Russian Federation a decade earlier, shortly after Grigory inherited control from his aging father. Although the Russian government owned more than 70 percent of the company, the Rostov family owned the remainder, making Grigory Rostov an extremely wealthy man, indeed.
Jim had studied the mix of color and black-and-white photos of Rostov until he could visualize the man’s face from any angle. He glanced at his watch—10:12 P.M. As every minute passed, Jim became more expectant that Rostov would exit the building, and with every passing minute that Rostov did not show, Jim feared that he had somehow missed him.
“Maybe we missed him,” said Peter. He had been quiet for hours, so Jim was almost startled to hear his voice from the back seat.
“No, we didn’t miss him.”
“How can you be sure? Maybe he never came to work today.”
“He’s here. I just know.”
Silence returned to the car.
Although he had been sitting in the car and waiting
for almost four hours, Jim did not feel tired. He was the hunter, and this is what he was trained to do. His attention was focused. The ear buds had long-since been returned to a pocket of his backpack, and the car windows were rolled down despite the cool autumn temperature so that he could hear as well as see more clearly in the dark of night.
By 10:30 P.M. the street traffic had become very light; the sidewalk was no longer crowded—most had gone home for the night. Jim had no way of knowing when Rostov would leave the building, and he was not about to quit. He was in an excellent location to take out his mark, and he was a patient man.
Two young women with long blond hair approached, walking arm in arm. They wore short, tight dresses with low-cut tops and high heels despite the chilly temperature. Jim assumed they were working girls, and he slid lower behind the wheel, remaining still and trying hard not to be seen. The women walked past, talking and laughing, oblivious to his presence.
As the sound of their voices faded away, a silver Bentley stopped in the no-parking zone immediately in front of the entrance to Rostov Oil. The glass door opened, and a lone business man stepped out. The door closed behind him, and he stopped, waiting for the driver to walk around and open the rear door.
The business man stretched his arms, taking in a deep breath of fresh air. His tie was loose, and the top button of his white shirt was open. In no hurry to enter the Bentley, he reached into his coat pocket and retrieved his cell phone, seeming to scroll through a list of messages. As he did so, Jim scrutinized the face with his binoculars.
“Gotcha,” he whispered to himself. Jim quickly scanned the street for witnesses. There was the driver standing beside the Bentley, otherwise the street was practically deserted. With the skill and deliberation of a professional, Jim removed the Mk-9 pistol from his backpack and leaned onto the passenger seat. The muzzle of the gun swung clear of the windshield as he took aim. The man continued to check his cell phone, and then abruptly, as if he sensed danger, he stopped and looked around, surveying the street. Soon his eyes stopped on the black GAZ sedan and for a fleeting instant his face registered recognition that he was staring at a gun.