The President's Man

by Alex Ander

  Natasha ended the call and stashed the phone. Not having shut off the Patriot’s engine, she lowered the gearshift into ‘drive’ and re-entered the roadway. Not taking her eyes off the road, she addressed her passenger. “Settle in, we’ve got a long drive ahead of us. If the traffic isn’t too bad, we can make it in less than nine hours.”

  Hardy checked his sat phone—8:37. Not looking forward to another nine hours in confined quarters, he reached between his legs and found the lever to move the seat back. Realizing it was already back as far as it could go, he groaned under his breath.

  “Are you hungry?”

  “I’m starving.” He had eaten a bagel and cream cheese on the flight, but that was not nearly enough food.

  “I know a place on the way. It’s about an hour from here. We can get something there.”

  Chapter 11: Rudin

  Anton Rudin sat on a stool, hunched over an old wooden farm table that had seen many family dinners throughout the decades. Children would have gathered at the table, eager to see what their mother had prepared. Never in their wildest dreams would past occupants of the house have imagined the table holding the items it now held.

  Rudin pushed the bridge of his gold round eyeglasses further up his long, pointed ski-slope-shaped nose. Beads of sweat dotted his forehead. His black hair was cut short and parted on the side. He was a small man, barely five-and-a-half-feet tall, and had a thin build. Fortunately, his skills did not require him to use his brawn. No, he made his living with his mind.

  Rudin finished wiring the remote detonator to the last of four bombs. His cell phone on the table vibrated. He leaned over and sighed. It was his current employer. The man had hired him to make the four bombs. The man had also hired him to make, place and detonate the bombs that had exploded in Moscow over the last six months. Rudin did not see himself as a terrorist. In his mind, he was a businessperson, a supplier. It was a simple issue of supply and demand. There was a need for what he made and he filled that need. The man he was about to talk to, however, had wanted Rudin to be more than a supplier.

  Rudin despised the client, but the man paid very well for the bomb maker’s services. Once these four devices were in place, Rudin would receive the final installment. The money would be enough to allow him to live comfortably for the rest of his life, which was going to be a long time, since he was only forty-five years old. He had made plans to use his newfound wealth to leave Russia. He hated the cold winters, and the older he got, the more his body protested. He had his eyes set on somewhere warm, somewhere tropical. A place with beautiful sunsets and miles and miles of coastline, speckled with pretty girls in skimpy bikinis. Rudin smiled, envisioning the scene.

  Letting go of the pliers, he grabbed the mobile. “Da — Yes.”

  “Gotovy li oni yeshche — Are they ready yet?” asked the man.

  “YA tol'ko chto zakonchil — I just finished,” replied Rudin.

  “Khorosho. Grafik byl peremeshchen vverkh. Vy dolzhny poluchit' ikh na meste v nastoyashcheye vremya. Moi lyudi vstretyat vas v tochke sblizheniya. K tomu vremeni, vy poluchayete k mestu, bezopasnost' budut udaleny, i u vas ne budet nikakikh poluchat' cherez vorota. — Good. The timetable has been moved up. You need to get them in place, now. My men will meet you at the rendezvous point. By the time you get to the location, security will be removed and you’ll have no trouble getting through the gate.”

  “Chto mozhno skazat' o zhenshchine iz FSB? Ona stanovitsya vse blizhe i blizhe — What about the woman from the FSB? She is getting closer and closer.”

  “Ne bespokoytes' o ney. Ya dogovorilsya. Ona budet zabotit'sya — Don’t worry about her. I’ve made arrangements. She will be taken care of.” The man paused and added, “Ne vint eto vverkh. Vy budete shchedro zaplatili, no tol'ko yesli vam eto udastsya. Otkaz ne budet dopuskat'sya — Don’t screw this up. You’ll be paid generously, but only if you succeed. Failure will not be tolerated.” As soon as the man had finished speaking, he hung up the phone, not giving Rudin a chance to respond.

  Setting the cell on the table, Rudin began giving orders to the men. One of them, holding a spatula in his hand, tossed things into a plastic garbage bag, while another gathered large pieces of paper on a nearby table. Rudin screamed, “Ostav'te vse. My dolzhny idti! — Leave everything. We have to go now!”

  Chapter 12: Popovich

  General Popovich hung up the phone and leaned back in his chair. He swiped the tip of a wooden match across the matchbox. Sparks flew and a small flame grew. He brought the match to the cigar he was biting. After a few puffs, he shook the match and tossed it—and the matchbox—onto his desk. He put his feet up, his combat boots landing on the desk near a coffee cup. The surface of the black liquid inside vibrated. Thick smoke from the cigar hung in the air above his head.

  General Popovich was fifty-seven years old. His gray hair had receded to the top of his head. A thick, gray mustache covered his upper lip. Above the lip was a large and bulbous nose, heavily pockmarked. His dark eyes were deeply set. Bushy eyebrows hung over them, almost coming together to form one brow. He was of average height, but he had gained much weight in the last ten years. His neck spilled over the collar of his uniform, while the buttons strained to keep the lapels together.

  General Popovich was the head of the Premier’s security team. Prior to accepting the job, he had been a high-ranking member of the KGB, Russia’s intelligence agency, until its breakup in 1991. He continued to serve in the intelligence arena as an FSB agent, until his departure five years ago. Two years ago, the Premier had asked him to come out of retirement and lead the Premier’s security team.

  The General was a hardliner. He longed for the old days, when Russia was a superpower. His country had been feared and respected by other nations. Its citizens had been proud and could hold their heads high.

  Russia had become weak, however. Western culture had invaded its borders, bringing with it decadence and decay. Young people wanted freedom, chanting in the streets, protesting against the government. Using technology, they took to the Internet to broadcast their message to others like them. What those fools did not understand was that freedom was not free. Freedom came at the cost of security. But, those immature idealists thought they could have both. Popovich needed to change their way of thinking before beautiful Mother Russia was lost forever.

  General Popovich took the cigar from his mouth and tapped it on the lip of the ashtray. He returned the cigar to his mouth, clasped his thick, pudgy fingers together and put his hands behind his head. Plans had been set in motion that would bring about the change his country required. The Russian people were already living in a state of fear, teetering on the brink of surrender. Popovich’s next move would show his fellow citizens that no one was safe from terror. The only thing that would save them was to give the government more power and more control. In this way, Russia would become great again.

  Chapter 13: Farmhouse

  5:16 p.m.; thirty-five minutes southeast of St. Petersburg, Russia

  At one time, the old single-story farmhouse would have been attractive. Centered on several acres of rich farmland, the house would have sheltered families from the brutal Russian winters, while the land would have provided food. The dwelling was situated at the base of a sloping hill. There was a grove of trees at the top of the hill; oaks and pines, among others, standing guard for more than a century.

  The structure was in a state of disrepair. The chimney was missing so many bricks that light passed through it. The wooden siding was rotted and many pieces had been blown away. Even the wraparound porch had not escaped the effects of the elements. The handrail was loose; large sections were missing. The floorboards were in place, but they were splintered and rough. Having long been abandoned, the farmhouse had stood its ground in silence, until three days ago when several men showed up.

  On the other side of the hill, just past the stand of trees, a small SUV was parked near the edge of the tree line. Natasha gazed through the windshield of her P
atriot. “The house is just over that hill.” She checked the time on her cell phone. “Victor will be here soon.” Exiting the SUV, she closed the door and climbed into the backseat. Once the door was shut, she drove her knees into the seat cushion and leaned into the luggage compartment.

  With her back to him, Hardy saw her hauling items from the compartment and tossing them onto the seat; some fell onto the floor. He looked closer and noticed a bulletproof vest, a pair of black tactical pants and a pair of six-inch boots. He did not recognize the name on the items—everything was in Russian—but he could see they were of similar quality to the gear he used. Hardy flicked his eyes to the right; they opened wider.

  Still on her knees and facing away from him, Natasha had removed her long blazer, kicked off her shoes and pushed her jeans to her knees. Only a couple of feet away from Hardy’s face, a pair of white lace-trimmed bikini underwear separated him from her butt. She spun around, plopped onto the seat and wiggled out of the jeans. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Hardy whip his head away from her.

  Sitting on the seat, wearing only her underwear and a short sleeve camisole, she smiled and realized he must have gotten an eyeful. Her mind had been so focused on getting into her tactical clothing she had forgotten there was another person in the vehicle. She buttoned her pants and shirt. “It’s all right. We’re both adults. I don’t have anything you haven’t already seen.”

  “I’m sorry. I was just admiring your,” Hardy shut his eyes and winced—bad choice of words—“looking at your tactical gear.”

  Pulling on her boots and slipping into the bulletproof vest, she grinned. “Tactical gear, huh? Is that what a butt’s called in America? Is that slang?” She grabbed her SR-3M Vikhr rifle and placed it on the floor. “I’m dressed now.”

  Pivoting in the seat, his cheeks crimson, Hardy saw the playful grin on Natasha’s face. “You know what I meant.” The awkward situation had morphed into a moment of lightheartedness. It was good to see this woman had a sense of humor. He pointed at her with his chin. “I think I’m a bit underdressed for the occasion.”

  Wearing full tactical clothing from head to toe, including a bulletproof vest, Natasha removed the magazine from the weapon, checked to make sure it was full and re-inserted it. She pulled back on rifle’s bolt and saw a round in the chamber. Hearing a vehicle behind her, she glanced over her shoulder. A black SUV had rolled up to the right of the Patriot. Opening the door, she got out and leaned back inside. “Not for much longer. Come on.”

  Hardy stepped out of the vehicle and stretched his arms before putting his hands on his lower back and bending side to side. He watched three large men exit the black SUV. Dressed similar to Natasha, each of the men greeted her with a broad smile, kissed her on each cheek and proceeded to talk to her in Russian. Even though Hardy could not understand what they were saying, he could tell from the facial expressions that Natasha meant a great deal to these men. Hardy waited patiently for them to finish their reunion. One of the men, the tallest and oldest of the three, stopped talking and noticed Hardy. The other two men followed suit. Natasha made the introductions.

  “This is Aaron Hardy. He’s assisting me in tracking down Rudin.” She pointed to the man furthest away from her. “Aaron, meet Nikolai Pushkin and Ivan Strovsky. They don’t speak any English.” Both men were similar in appearance; short blonde hair, square jaw, six-feet, two inches tall and weighing at least two hundred and twenty pounds. The only discerning feature between them was Nikolai’s cleft chin. Both men nodded their heads and shook Hardy’s hand.

  “And, this big ox is Victor.” She put her hand on the man’s shoulder, which was almost higher than the top of her head. Victor Yedemsky smiled at Natasha before stepping forward and extending his hand toward Hardy.

  Victor was easily six-feet, five inches in height and weighed thirty pounds more than either Nikolai or Ivan. Victor had dark hair, cut short, but not in a military-style crew cut. His green eyes were set far apart, beneath his sparse eyebrows. A well-manicured mustache rested below a wide nose with flaring nostrils. Even though he was in his mid-forties, his skin was weathered and displayed light pockmarks, especially the cheeks.

  All members of the Russian Spetsnaz knew the name, Victor Yedemsky. He was a living legend in the Spetsnaz community. During his twenty years of service, he had seen action in many of the terrorist attacks that had taken place in his country, including the Moscow Theater Hostage Crisis in October 2002. In that incident, 40 terrorists took 916 guests hostage. The three-day standoff ended when security forces, which Victor was among, stormed the theater and stopped the terrorists from triggering bombs that would have brought down the building.

  Victor had also been assigned to combat the worst act of terrorism in Russian history, the September 2004 hostage crisis at a school in Beslan, North Ossentia. One thousand, one hundred, twenty-eight people were taken hostage; 333 of them were killed, including 186 children. That had been a difficult day for Victor. Months later, he was still mentally recovering from Beslan. To this day, images from that attack haunt him in his sleep.

  “It’s nice to meet you, Mr. Hardy.” Victor had a strong Russian accent.

  Hardy shook Victor’s hand, feeling the strength of the man’s grip. “The pleasure is mine.”

  “Come,” said Victor. “I have something for you.” Everyone moved to the back of the black SUV. Victor opened the back door, dragged a duffle bag closer and unzipped it. “I think they’ll fit.” Inside the bag was the exact same black tactical clothing all of them were wearing, including a bulletproof vest, helmet and goggles. “Finally, this is for you, too.” He picked up the same type of rifle that Natasha had been holding earlier and handed it to Hardy. “If you need a crash course in operating it, Nikolai or Ivan can help with that.”

  “Thanks, but I’ve handled one before.” Hardy dropped the magazine, slid the bolt back and forth a few times, re-inserted the magazine and operated the bolt to chamber a round.

  Victor was impressed. Not many people outside of Russia were familiar with a Vikhr. “Very good,” he said, before pointing toward the hill and giving his men instructions. The two men checked their weapons and took off toward the hill, each in a different direction. When they had gone, he turned back to Natasha. “I heard you were involved in a shooting in Moscow that killed four FSB agents. Is that true?”

  Natasha glanced at Hardy, who was in the process of emptying the duffle bag. He stopped and the two of them exchanged glances.

  Victor’s eyes shifted from Natasha to Hardy before coming back to Natasha. He saw the body language. “It’s true, isn’t it?”

  “Yes,” said Natasha, who described the incident at the café.

  Victor put his hand on her shoulder. After she had recanted the story, he faced Hardy, who was buttoning the black shirt. He put his meaty hands on Hardy, one on each shoulder.

  Hardy’s muscles contracted and he clenched his fists, a kneejerk reaction.

  Victor drew Hardy closer and kissed him, once on each cheek. “Thank you, Mr. Hardy, for saving Natasha’s life. I am in your debt, sir.”

  Hardy relaxed. He thought he was going to have to fight this mountain of a man. He smiled. “We can start by dropping the ‘sir’ and ‘mister.’ Call me, Hardy.”

  Victor smiled and slapped Hardy on the back.

  Hardy showed no emotion, but Victor’s slap reminded Hardy of his high school days, specifically, being hit with a wet towel in the locker room. That’s going to leave a mark.

  Hardy put on the rest of the tactical clothing. The shirt and pants were a good fit, but the boots were too big. He opted to wear his own boots. He gazed at Victor and Natasha. They had walked several feet away and were talking in Russian. The discussion grew more intense. Natasha was animated, moving her hands and arms, while Victor remained calm. Her behavior was similar to when she was upset with Hardy back in Moscow. There was one major difference, though. At this moment, she was twice as upset. Hardy finished attaching the straps on
his bulletproof vest before joining them.

  Re-positioning the vest to get more comfortable, he stood next to the Russians. “Is everything okay?”

  “What do you think?” Natasha tilted her head toward Victor. “Do we go in now or should we wait until dark?”

  Hardy could tell from her tone she was in favor of raiding the house before dark. Victor’s facial expression displayed a different opinion. Hardy felt as if he was caught between two friends, being asked to choose one over the other.

  Tactically, it was better to go in under the cover of darkness. If they went now, there was a chance they could be spotted before they made it to the house; however, there was no telling how long the target would be inside. If they waited too long, they could lose their window of opportunity.

  Victor raised a huge paw. “All I’m saying is that we need to stay focused. We don’t want another incident like…” his voice trailed off, when he realized the implications of his words.

  Natasha’s eyes narrowed and she glared at Victor. “Go ahead and finish—like the one that got Sergei killed. You think it’s my fault he’s dead, don’t you?”

  “I didn’t say that.” Victor was smoothing over his words. “I know he would have—”

  Natasha interrupted him. “No, you didn’t say it, but it was on your mind. You think Sergei might still be alive, if I hadn’t been there, distracting him from his job.”

  “Natasha—”

  “Go to hell, Victor.” She stormed off toward the trees.

  Hardy faced the big man. “What was that all about?”

  Victor jerked his head toward Natasha, as if to say ‘ask her.’

  Chapter 14: Guilt

  Hardy caught up with Natasha at the tree line. He took hold of her elbow. She spun around, her long hair flying over her shoulder. She glanced at Hardy’s hand—still clamped onto her arm—and locked eyes with him.