Coercion

by Tigner, Tim

  “Is the door secure?” Andrey asked, breaking the verbal silence as he repocketed his knife. He leaned inward toward Alex so he could hear his response over the sixteen close-quarter pistol blasts that still rang in his ears.

  “I blocked it as best I could,” Alex shouted, “but I don’t know how long it will hold. Let’s hope we can get out of here before they learn what happened.”

  A murderous clamor erupted from the direction of the cockpit before Andrey could concur. He looked over at the vibrating door and pictured a red-faced Yarik fuming on the other side.

  It was not the best time for such a ceremony, but something about the warrior’s code made Andrey pause and extend his hand. “Andrey Demerko.”

  Alex looked at him for a moment before reciprocating, “Alex Ferris.” Then he added “Thank you,” indicating the pile of bodies with a sweep of his head.

  Andrey brushed off the latter remark and said “Suit up” as he turned to appraise landscape now visible far below. It looked as cold as a glacier, and no less desolate.

  “Out of the frying pan and into the freezer,” Alex said, capturing his thoughts.

  “You are going to be very glad you kept those Asolo boots, my friend.”

  “You have got a lot of explaining to do.”

  “When we’re on the ground, Alex, when we’re on the ground.”

  Yarik’s pounding intensified and then ceased altogether as the two donned their parachutes with practiced speed. Finishing first, Andrey withdrew two hand grenades from his belt and wedged them in the tailgate’s hydraulics. He said, “Compliments of the Chulin Air Base arsenal,” and then pulled the pins.

  Alex gave him an understanding nod. When the pilot closed the gate, the grenades would release, and it would be bye-bye-birdie.

  “Grab an AK. I don’t have any more ammunition for my Makarovs.”

  Alex complied with a mock salute and then leapt out into space. He had obviously endured all the Yarik he cared to take.

  With a somber smile and a silent prayer Andrey dove after his charge. It was his first flight as a guardian angel. He hoped it would also be his last.

  Their altitude was somewhere in the range of six to seven thousand meters, so once they established eye contact, each assumed a diving pose. The increased speed made it harder for them to stick together, but the thin air demanded the quickest possible descent. This was no place to pass out.

  As they rocketed toward the white expanse below, Andrey caught sight of the airplane above. It was circling back. They were not yet out of the woods. A long sixty seconds later they leveled out, preparing to deploy. The two unlikely comrades looked each other in the eye for a moment, then nodded.

  Andrey had to shift his AK from his right hand to his left in order to pull his ripcord. As he did so, he saw Alex’s canopy fail to inflate. His parachute had deployed, but the harness that connected the risers on the right side was severed and the silk just streamed out uselessly above him like the luminous trail of a plummeting meteorite. The Armenian had probably slashed it with his hunting knife during Andrey’s swing for the bleachers. Would he get the last laugh?

  Andrey discarded his AK and assumed the soaring-eagle position to slow his descent, grateful that he had not yet deployed. Then he looked over at the man he had chosen to save his country. Alex seemed to have his wits about him. The two men locked eyes as Alex released his useless chute.

  Paratroopers were not skydivers, and thus unaccustomed to freefall acrobatics. They made one unsuccessful pass, and then another, attempting with increasing desperation to converge in three dimensions as they fell to Earth. How many more tries did they have?

  On the third pass, Alex caught Andrey by the ankle. Then the two veterans began to work the drill they had studied decades apart with different forces on separate continents. Working face to face, they attached the clips on the front of Alex’s harness to the D-rings on the front of Andrey’s. Andrey gave them a quick test and then pulled his own ripcord. A second later his parachute bellowed open and both men began to breathe again.

  Their descent slowed, but it soon became clear that it had not slowed nearly enough. Looking up Andrey saw the problem; it was an extra-light chute. All military parachutes were lightweight compared to sport parachutes, and this one was at the small end of that spectrum. It was designed for lightly equipped troops descending under fire. How one of those had gotten packed into a regular harness, Andrey did not know, but whatever the reason, the outcome was indisputable. They were both going to break their legs and probably their backs unless one of them found a way to substantially lighten the load. There were not many options available, and the rocketing ground left little time to experiment.

  Alex dropped his AK, but that was like bailing a boat with a thimble. Then Alex lifted a leg to undo a boot, but Andrey stopped him. He knew what he had to do. These past months had just been borrowed time. He had used them well.

  He grabbed Alex on both sides of his head, looked him in the eye and shouted, “Don’t you fail me Alex! Don’t you let my children down!” Then, before his charge could respond, Andrey Demerko, veteran of Afghanistan, Chief of Staff for the Russian Minister of Foreign Affairs, and architect of the plan that would save his beloved nation from the clutches of criminals, cut himself free.

  At one time or another, everyone wonders what he would think about if he knew he only had a moment to live. This was the second time Andrey learned the answer. He saw the smiles of his wife and children and those of the grandchildren to come, and he knew that he had done the right thing.

  Chapter 36

  Academic City, Siberia

  Vasily sat meditatively before the antique chess table that dominated the middle of his home office. This was a longstanding tradition, and his favorite part of the week. Saturday afternoons he would clear his mind with a long run and then nestle in behind the board with the lights on low and a fine Scotch in hand. He would picture the Russian grand masters sitting across from him and run through their classic matches from memory. His goal was to feel their strategies, to taste their techniques, to absorb their genius and make it his own. There was always something more to learn.

  Vasily found orchestrating the revival of Russia to be similar to playing a master’s tournament of chess, albeit with live pieces and an evolving board. Proper positioning, anticipation, and timing were everything. After three decades of play, it would soon be time for the end game.

  Unfortunately, he would be moving toward checkmate without one of his best pieces. Igor’s death had not yet hit Vasily at the personal level—that would come later he was sure, once the tension let up enough to allow for the softer emotions. In the mean time, the loss was burning him at a professional level. Although Vasily had made a number of sacrifices over the years, Igor was the first piece to be taken. At least Igor had captured the Chief Justice first. With the court neutralized, Vasily could start the sequence to capture the king.

  The key to that move would not be the deed itself, the assassination sequence had been flawlessly scripted—and re-scripted. The trick was getting away with it. Since Vasily would be the man rising to power in Gorbachev’s wake, he would be the usual suspect if they were looking for one. So he had to keep them from looking. To accomplish that, he would do the same thing he did all those years ago at Pioneer camp: frame someone else. Life was a series of circles.

  Vasily would hand the people of Russia an assassin they would love to hate, somebody no elected official or appointed commission would dare to defend. He would give them CIA Agent Alex Ferris.

  It was as satisfying a solution as any he had studied or devised, and should prove to be a much easier sell than Anton Lebed had been: Alex had no father. Furthermore, by framing an American government agent for the assassination of the President of the Soviet Union, Vasily would also be immunizing his companies from MicroComp’s and United Electronics’ charges of patent violation. American companies could hardly choose to quibble before the world court over pro
perty rights after an American agent fired a couple bullets through the Russian Head of State.

  Vasily took another sip of Scotch. Like the satisfying end of a fine novel, the elements of his plan were all coming together. It felt good. Just last week he had solved the surprise problem posed by Igor while his friend’s words still electrified the air. Igor had said “queen” and Vasily had thought “Anna.” She wasn’t a fresh solution, but she was the right one.

  Vasily had experienced an unexpectedly hostile response to Igor’s suggestion. At the time, he neither understood his reaction, nor expressed his anger. Later that evening he reasoned it out.

  Vasily had given his whole life to the cause of making his country great again, to shifting Russia’s focus from military might to economic strength. He had made sacrifice after sacrifice. Nothing had been off limits. Marriage, Vasily realized, was where the remnants of his soul drew the line his heroic sense of duty dared not cross. Vasily would not marry a woman he did not love. He would not deliver Russia’s heirs-to-the-throne from the womb of a mother he did not respect. He would not spend his nights in the bed of a woman he did not enjoy. To Vasily’s knowledge, there was only one woman alive who satisfied both his needs and the needs of Russia, and that woman was Anna Zaitseva.

  To start with, Anna was not part of the current apparatus, the Communist apparatus. That was crucial, for Vasily would position himself as the opposition party, which of course he was. Furthermore, Vasily’s support base would be the common people, and therefore his bride had to be one of them, although an extraordinary one. Again, Anna fit Vasily like a pink cashmere glove.

  With her natural beauty and honest intellect, she would personify the image that would form the heart of his campaign: a proud new Russia. Once her image was plastered throughout the international press, Russians would be proud again to be Russian, whether they were walking into Harrods of London, or working in their Siberian garden. They would thank him for that.

  Then there was the personal attraction. From the moment he laid eyes on her, Vasily had connected with Anna at a subatomic level. His reaction was chemical. Her auburn hair and enchanting smile pulled at his loins, while her quick mind and feisty wit enthralled his heart. Anna was a gem with many facets and only one flaw: she did not yet feel the same about him. Or did she …

  Their first date had been unlike any before, and not at all what he had expected. She had been sharp and opinionated and had fenced with him like an equal. Nobody ever did that. He was smitten, but she seemed unmoved. Vasily did not let this get him down. He reasoned that it wasn’t personal. Anna had never been seriously involved with a man, and the way he figured it, she did not know how. He would teach her.

  The only thing about Anna that gave Vasily pause was their connection through the death of her brother—and Anna’s dogged determination to learn the truth. It would be virtually impossible for Anna to uncover the details of that day—nobody who knew what really happened would ever speak of it—but it would be uncomfortable to have her asking questions publicly, especially as Russia’s First Lady. It would be uncomfortable in private too. Those faces still haunted Vasily in his dreams. He would just have to deal with that problem when he came to it. Meanwhile, it was going to take some fancy footwork to get that far.

  His next meeting with Anna would be pivotal. He knew he had engaged her mind in an unexpected way, and now the timing was right to engage her heart.

  That would have to be done right away. They were writing the first chapter in a romance that had the potential to enthrall a nation for generations to come. Vasily wanted to script it with all the passion and excitement of the best romance novels. Given the right moves, their courtship would also capture the hearts of all Russian women. The trick was figuring out how to do it. That answer, he feared, could not be found on a chessboard…

  Vasily raised his glass and finished his Scotch. As a rule, he limited himself to just one drink, but Vasily had the feeling that he was on the verge of a solution, so he didn’t resist the impulse to enjoy a refill.

  As the ice cubes clinked into his glass, he felt the tumblers in his mind begin to fall into place. Perhaps he was too accustomed to taking a long-term strategic approach. Perhaps his strength was his weakness in matters of love. The more Vasily thought about it, the more he became convinced. It was the spontaneity of youth that he appeared to lack. He was, after all, twenty years older than she. And there it was. The solution was right there in front of him. Vasily would skip the codgery hullabaloo and allow impulse to move him. He would ask her to marry him—today.

  Although Anna was still somewhat of a mystery, Vasily knew himself. He had made up his mind; there was no need to wait. He would put on his dress uniform, gather a photographer and the biggest bunch of roses in Siberia, and go to her. Now.

  A knocking at the front door superseded the pounding of his heart.

  Those who knew where Vasily lived also knew not to disturb The General on a Saturday unless it was urgent. Urgent news was bad news. He put down his drink.

  Major Maximov was at the door.

  “Come in, Major.”

  “Thank you, General. Sorry to disturb you.”

  Maximov had that look on his face, the look Vasily had seen for the first time just a few days earlier. There was only a short moment of silence, but during that span Vasily was powerless to breathe.

  Maximov squared his shoulders. “I’ll get right to the point. The plane that was flying General Yarik back from Irkutsk exploded in mid-air early this morning. The cause is still unknown. I’m sorry, Sir.”

  Chapter 37

  Siberian Outback, Russia

  Yarik snapped out of his daydream to the blinking of a dashboard light: the tailgate was open. This could only mean problems, problems caused by the incompetence of others—again. First Sergey had lost Alex, a fact the receptionist at the Hotel Irkutsk made him aware of—Sergey was paying dearly for that—and now, now was it possible that seven armed guards had been so incompetent that Alex, bound, gagged, blinded and deafened had managed to overcome them? No. It was not possible. Yet his instinct begged to differ…

  Yarik got up to check and found the door to the cargo hold blocked from the other side. Until that moment, he had assumed that either an electrical problem or the antics of an undisciplined soldier were behind the blinking light. Now with the door also blocked Yarik knew there was a serious problem. One or more of his men must be a traitor.

  But why? Who was this American? Victor had clearly underestimated Alex, and then Sergey had done the same. Now, Yarik realized with infuriating clarity, he too had not given Alex Ferris his due.

  Yarik ordered the pilot to circle back and then turned to throw his 120 kilograms against the iron door. After a few tries he could tell that there was a blockage wedged between the overlap at the hinged end of the door and the bulkhead. His blows were flexing the metal, but only slightly. Fortunately a few millimeters of permanent deformation in either the door or the blockage would likely release the tension and allow the blockage to drop free.

  To create those millimeters, Yarik sat on the ground with his back against the copilot’s chair and pressed legs the size of tree trunks into the door with the force of a hydraulic press. He knew from experience in the gym that he could apply over a thousand kilograms of pressure that way. The question was, which would give first, the door, the chair, or his back.

  Thirty-seconds later the red and sweaty giant relaxed his legs, stood up and pulled the door fully closed. Then he kicked the spot where the bulkhead had bulged and was rewarded with the sound of the blockage dropping free.

  Carnage greeted Yarik’s eyes when he opened the door. Normally it would have brought a smile to his face, but this was a victory for the other team. Team? Yes, team. Someone must have helped Alex. He could not have done this alone.

  Yarik counted bodies and found only six. He checked their faces and deduced that the missing man was Bagrat. Could the Armenian be in cahoots with Ferris? No w
ay. Bagrat had a large family, three sisters and four brothers. If he turned traitor it would be a death sentence for them all. But then who? How?

  Yarik checked the cargo benches to see if Ferris had stuffed Bagrat’s corpse inside, and found the bullet holes that told the tragic tale. Someone had stowed aboard and come blasting out of the bench. Had one of the Peitho victims learned something about the Knyaz and sent a mercenary to dispatch them? Did Alex have a partner that neither Victor nor Sergey had spotted? No matter, he would catch up with this mercenary soon enough. Then Alex’s secret partner would become a silent partner, but only after Yarik made him talk.

  Once again, Yarik would have to see the mission through personally. He knew this should infuriate him, but he just found himself anticipating the hunt. He withdrew a parachute from the untouched cargo bench and walked back into the cabin, donning it as he went.

  As soon as he entered the cockpit the pilot shouted, “There they are,” and pointed toward the eastern horizon.

  Using aviator’s binoculars, Yarik watched with unblinking fascination as the two fugitives dealt with the nightmare that haunted every paratrooper at one time or another. Then he gasped in unison with the pilot when one of them cut himself free and broke into a terminal plunge.

  “I’m jumping after them,” Yarik barked. “You land as close to that corpse as you can and wait for me.” Then, without a pause or second glance, Yarik ran and dove out the back of the plane.

  The airplane’s altitude was less than half of what it had been when Alex and the mercenary had jumped, so Yarik deployed his parachute after the standard three-one-thousand count. Once it snapped open he checked his canopy, twice, and then began a sweeping search of the ground for his prey. If Yarik could spot him fast enough, and the wind worked in his favor, he would be able to crash down on the survivor like a bowling ball from heaven. Unfortunately, he was not destined to be a holy roller. The wind worked so strongly against him that he couldn’t even catch sight of his quarry. It was all he could do to steer toward the martyr’s crash zone.