by Saul Herzog
Sergey approached the address cautiously, circling, making note of the layout of the surrounding streets. The neighborhood was affluent. Colonial. Everything, from the cast-iron lampposts to the cobbled streets, exuded American civic virtue.
His fastest escape route would be to cross the Potomac and get on the parkway, but the bridge worried him. The alternative was to get on the Whitehurst Freeway at Canal Road and drive back into the city.
By the time he turned onto Wisconsin Avenue, he had a good sense of how any potential car chase might go. He pulled into a parking spot a few houses down from the address and watched.
The house was handsome, a colonial townhouse, well-lit with a narrow footprint. He had no doubt there was a state of the art security system in place.
He sat and watched it for a few minutes, and when the flashing lights of two black government-issue Cadillacs came around the corner, he got out of his car and went to the trunk.
Everything could have been so simple, but the boss wanted the women alive. That depended on whether or not they allowed themselves to be arrested.
In the trunk of the car, he had a US military model M-32, 6-shot, forty-millimeter grenade launcher. The weapon could be used with a variety of ammunition types, and he’d already loaded it with high explosive grenades. He now removed the first four grenades from the revolver and replaced them with CS gas canisters. The final two remained high-explosive.
He watched as the agents entered the house. There were two more in the vehicles.
As well as the grenade launcher, he took two handguns, checked that they were loaded, and two Axon Taser 7 devices, which were the most advanced conducted electrical weapon available, used exclusively by law enforcement agencies. He checked the tasers carefully. They had a shooting range of thirty-five feet and were able to fire two separate spools that punctured the skin with barbed darts that remained connected to the device by insulated copper wires.
He also had a spray bottle containing the same mixture of carfentanil and remifentanil he’d used on Sandra Shrader and her daughter.
He brought the weapons and a gas mask back into the car and put on the mask.
When the agents came back out of the house, Everlane and Aleksandrova were handcuffed and compliant.
Sergey opened the window and hoisted the grenade launcher. Switching off the safety, he fired off the four CS gas canisters. He lobbed them into the yard at the front of the house and then, without hesitating, fired the two live grenades at the Cadillacs parked on the street.
The first bounced off the roof and exploded a few yards behind the car, shattering the back windshield. The second went through the windshield and exploded inside the car, raising it a yard into the air with the force of the explosion.
Sergey pulled a gun from his coat and put the car into drive. He jammed on the brakes between the vehicles and the house and shot the agent still in the first car.
The agents who’d gone into the house opened fire, but they were firing blindly and suffering from the effects of the gas.
Sergey got out of the car on the opposite side from them and, squinting through the gas, took them both out with a few well-aimed shots, the roof of the car serving to steady his aim.
He knew Tatyana and Laurel were well-trained, but with their wrists cuffed behind their backs, and both of them choking on the gas to the point they were in real danger of asphyxiation, they put up weak resistance.
He pulled a taser from his pocket and walked into the gas toward them. The first woman ran toward him, and he pointed the taser at her and fired. The darts flew out at her at 180 feet per second. They spread out over her chest, completing a circuit that channeled a modulated electric current through her body, disrupting all voluntary muscle control.
He dropped the taser and pulled the other from his coat, firing it at the second woman. She was already on the ground, choking on the gas, and was immediately incapacitated.
With both women down, he sprayed them with the narcotic mixture and was about to carry them to his car when a Cadillac Escalade jammed to a halt, skidding on the cobbled street and crashing into the back of his rental.
It was Roth’s driver.
Sergey looked at him.
The driver looked back, confused. He opened the door, and Sergey put two bullets in his head before his foot touched the ground.
Sergey then walked over to him, as calmly as if he was out for a stroll, and put a third bullet between the eyes.
56
Hidden deep beneath the Kremlin’s Sobornaya Square was one of the largest underground complexes in the world. Stalin successfully kept its construction secret, no small feat given the scale of the project, by disguising the work as part of the Moscow Metro System’s Arbatskaya to Kropotkinskaya line extension. Over half a million cubic yards of concrete, and a quarter-million tons of steel, were secretly moved to the site, while even more soil and rock was ferreted out under the guise of ordinary construction waste. The project took twenty-two years to complete, and by the time it was finished, contained more elevators and high-powered ventilation fans than any other building in the USSR.
Deep within this complex was an oval-shaped chamber, large enough to hold about fifty people.
Around a table at its center sat the top military leadership of both Russia and China.
The meeting was so secretive that those present had passed through an underground medical facility prior to their arrival, where they were not only subjected to an x-ray, but to a modified MRI scan, before being allowed to proceed.
At intervals ranging from between thirty and sixty seconds, the entire chamber was subjected to a low-level electromagnetic pulse designed to make electronic surveillance or recording impossible.
It also meant the electric lights flickered in a way that gave the already cavernous room the feeling of being illuminated by candlelight.
The assembled military leaders, eight from each nation, were awaiting the arrival of Mikhail Medvedev and Liu Ying, who at that very moment were standing next to each other in the facility’s high-speed elevator.
The atmosphere in the elevator was tense.
“I trust your daughter was returned safely,” Medvedev said just before the doors opened.
Liu Ying gave him only the briefest of nods to acknowledge he’d heard, and then they left the elevator and walked down the corridor to the oval chamber.
“Gentlemen,” Medvedev said, as they entered the room, “remain seated, please.”
He was speaking in Russian, and his words were being translated by an eighty-year-old, blind Mongolian man who’s terms of service prohibited him from ever leaving the Kremlin.
The words Medvedev was about to share had never been written down.
They would not be recorded.
No one from either country’s legislative or judicial branch would ever know they’d been uttered.
The assembled men were generals, admirals, and intelligence directors. Not one of them was below the age of sixty.
The mood was stiff, formal, but some attempt had been made to make it celebratory. At Medvedev’s direction, a box of Cohiba cigars and expensive bottles of scotch and vodka had been placed on the table.
A cloud of cigar smoke now hung over the table like smog over an industrial zone.
There were no laptops, no cell phones, no pens, no paper. The only electrical devices in the room were the flickering lights and the fans in the ventilation shafts. Heat came from gas radiators affixed to the walls. They glowed orange, giving the room an even more ethereal feel.
On the wall was a large map of the world, and at Medvedev’s direction, red stars had been placed over Moscow and Beijing.
Liu Ying took a seat next to Medvedev and nodded at the Chinese members present.
Medvedev looked at the assembled faces.
Together, these men commanded over three million active service personnel and seven thousand nuclear warheads.
The day when they were capable of standing
up to the United States was fast approaching, and the events of the past few hours had thrown down a gauntlet that the entire world could see.
“Gentlemen,” he began, “I have called you here today to tell you that the global strategic landscape has been altered dramatically in the last twenty-four hours.”
The translator repeated what he’d said, and the generals from both sides of the table nodded their heads in agreement.
“The attacks on the US embassies in Moscow and Beijing were the most overt acts of provocation against the United States in a generation.”
More nodding.
“Hundreds of Americans were slaughtered in plain sight, in attacks that were clearly orchestrated by the military forces of the Russian Federation and the People’s Liberation Army of China. We know it. The Americans know it. And the people of the world know it.”
Medvedev looked at Liu Ying, who refused to look back at him.
“Not even during the darkest depths of the Cold War, did we dare carry out such a brazen attack on American pride, or target such potent symbols of American global power.”
As his speech continued, Medvedev observed the impact his words were having on the generals. They were enjoying it. More were taking up his kind offer of cigars. Some had begun to open the crystal decanters and pour the liquor into the crystal glasses he’d had brought down.
“If the American’s fail to respond to this attack, the era of their global hegemonic dominance will have come to an end.”
He reached for a bottle and began pouring himself a generous measure of vodka.
“If the American president persists in his feeble, pathetic claim that these attacks were the work of one lone rogue agent, the entire world will see that he has backed down from a fight.”
He raised his glass.
“Please join me in a toast,” he said, “as we celebrate the day that Russia and China regain their rightful places on the global stage, as military superpowers, capable of acting with absolute sovereignty in their spheres, without the constant fear of American interference.”
To a man, they raised their glasses.
“From now on,” Medvedev said, “there are three players in the grand game. America, China, and Russia. And we just showed the world that the Americans are no longer willing to stand up to the other two.”
57
Lance and Larissa washed, packed up, and got out of the hotel in a matter of minutes. On the street, there were police everywhere, medics, firefighters. There’d been hundreds of casualties, and the authorities would be digging bodies out of the rubble for weeks.
They had to walk a few blocks before they could catch a cab, and when they did, Lance told the driver to take them to the Kursky railway station. It was located on the other side of the city center and, at this time, would be the busiest station in the city. The crowds would provide cover.
“Keep your face covered,” Lance said as they entered the station.
They hurried through the enormous concourse, past the waiting areas, and down two sets of escalators. Below grade, the passageways gave access to the station’s seventeen platforms, the metro system, and a warren of shops and eateries that rented space from the station.
They kept going until they found a dirty-looking bar with neon lights in front advertising slot machines.
The place was dark, quiet. It had multiple escape routes and a television in the corner showing pop music videos.
Lance chose a table where he could watch the entrance, and the bartender hauled himself over.
He was an unhealthy-looking guy, mid-forties, and didn’t seem to take his work too seriously.
“What’ll it be?” he said.
“Coffee,” Lance said.
“Same,” Larissa said, then looking up, “You want to eat?”
Lance knew she was hungry. He nodded.
They ordered the spaghetti and a pizza. Neither of them had high hopes, but when the food arrived, they devoured it.
Then Lance looked at his watch and ordered more coffee.
“How long are we going to stay here?” Larissa said.
Lance looked around again. The place was about as good as any they were going to find.
He went to the bar and asked the bartender if he could use the phone.
“There are payphones in the station,” the bartender told him.
Lance pulled some cash from his wallet and put it on the bar. “I don’t want to wait out there,” he said.
The bartender looked at him carefully. The cash amounted to about fifty dollars. His instincts told him not to take it.
“I’m just going to leave someone a message,” Lance said. “Then wait for them to call me back.”
The bartender was still hesitant, and Lance doubled the cash.
The man nodded toward the curtain at the end of the bar. “Make it quick,” he said.
Lance went through the curtain to a filthy little staff area. There was a desk covered in newspapers, a half-eaten container of takeout noodles, and an ashtray with about two packs worth of cigarette butts stubbed into it.
There was a landline on the desk, and Lance picked it up and dialed Laurel’s secure line. The call failed to connect, and an automated voice gave back a compromised security code.
That was odd. Ominous even. It was an internal CIA flag indicating that Laurel was not to be communicated with.
He tried Roth’s line and received the same compromised flag.
Roth was the CIA Director. For his line to be flagged, something serious was going down in Washington.
Whatever it was, it would have to wait. The albino was behind this attack, and Lance needed to know how to find him. Any delay and the man could disappear forever.
He hung up the phone and sighed. It was time to take a risk. He picked back up the receiver and dialed a CIA automated phone exchange located outside the city. The exchange had been operating in secret since the seventies and worked on antiquated AT&T vertical switch codes.
Lance dialed the exchange, flagged his call as level three priority, enabled full tracing, and had it forwarded to both Roth’s and Laurel’s central lines at Langley.
Anyone who intercepted it would be able to trace his location. But it was a risk he had to take. Whatever was going on in DC, someone at the CIA had to be willing to put the political rivalries aside in order to get the man behind this bombing.
He went back to the table where Larissa had ordered some local pastries. They had a sugar dusting and were filled with sweetened whipped cream.
“I don’t know how you can eat those,” Lance said.
She put one in her mouth and smiled. “Try them.”
He sipped his coffee. “We need to wait here a while,” he said. “I couldn’t get in touch with Roth or Laurel.”
Larissa nodded. “Is that normal?”
“No,” he said. “It’s not. But we need to wait here in case someone calls us back.”
“From the CIA?”
He nodded.
“Is that safe?”
“No,” he said.
She nodded and popped another pastry in her mouth. “Guess I don’t need to worry about my figure then,” she said.
Lance smiled. “You don’t need to worry about a thing,” he said and put one of the pastries in his mouth. It tasted like a chemical approximation of sugar and cream.
“Good, right,” Larissa said.
Lance drained his coffee and asked for more from the bartender. The bartender came over and said, “You’re finished with the phone now?”
Lance fixed the man in his gaze. “Someone’s calling me back,” he said. “You let me know when they do.”
The man nodded.
Lance looked up at the television. “Would you mind putting on the news?” he said.
“The bombings,” the man said. “That’s all they’re covering.”
“Bombings?” Lance said.
The man nodded.
Lance looked at Larissa. She shook her head
.
“Would you mind passing me the controller?” Lance said to the bartender.
The man shrugged and came back with it.
Lance flicked to the local news channel expecting to see images of Moscow. What he saw on the screen, he instantly recognized as the skyline of Beijing.
“Bombings,” he said again as the helicopter footage zoomed in on the site of another massive explosion.
“What happened?” he said to the bartender.
“The embassies,” the man said. “Both of them.”
“What embassies?”
“American embassies in China and Russia,” the man said, and made a gesture with his hand like something going up in smoke. “Poof,” he said.
“Both of them?” Lance said, while his eyes locked on the television screen.
The bombing in Beijing looked to be at least as big as the one in Moscow, hundreds of casualties, if not thousands.
“When did this happen?” Lance said.
“Same time as the bombing in Moscow,” the man said.
“Same time?”
The man nodded.
Lance picked up the TV controller and flicked through all the news channels. Everyone was talking about the bombings, comparing them, speculating on who was behind them, what they meant. There was footage being aired of people dying in the debris, bodies being pulled from the rubble, children crying.
One strongly pro-Kremlin channel was showing side by side images of the US flag burning simultaneously in Moscow and Beijing, saying it was the end of American superpower status.
The bartender went back to his work, and Lance sunk into his seat. He felt as if he’d just been punched in the gut.
“This could have been stopped,” he said to Larissa under his breath. “We warned them. We tried to.”
She nodded.
“This is going to be war,” Lance said. “The Kremlin and Beijing, they went too far. The United States is going to fucking end them.”
The footage switched to a televised statement from the US president. It looked to Lance like he was broadcasting from the secure studio in the White House bunker.