Long Shot

by Sgt. Jack Coughlin

  “What about Afghanistan?” suggested Stew Willenson, a burly middle-aged man who once had ridden mules on dangerous missions in those unforgiving mountains. Atkins shook him off. “None of the ’Stans,” he ruled. The Russians would laugh. They had left nothing of interest behind after their own ill-fated Afghan adventure back in the 1980s. Moscow was pleased that the U.S. remained bogged down there.

  Agatha Brice, an expert in European affairs, spoke, her glasses low on her nose. “Maybe give some TV time to that Russian defector, like Moscow did with Edward Snowden. Embarrass them in public?”

  “That’s not a bad idea, Aggie. Something we should plan on doing at some point. Not strong enough for this. The problem was military in nature, so we need something military as a response. A small but painful reminder that we’re watching them.” Atkins’s eyes scrolled across the map. Finland was just above Estonia, and the Russians were making those same kinds of pesky overflights along the borders throughout that region, only without any direct attacks. To the south, Lithuania and Latvia were tantalizing plums for Russia. He sat down at his desk and steepled his fingers and was soon lost in thought.

  Agatha’s comment about the defector formed the nugget of an idea. Calico and Kyle Swanson were in Brussels doing the interviews with Colonel Strakov, which were not yielding the ground-shaking revelations that everyone had hoped. They could change gears on the Russian without a problem, slow that down long enough for his two valuable agents to do the sort of work they did best. Calico knew Estonia like the back of her hand, and Swanson knew the military. Plus, Atkins thought, Swanson was perhaps the most dangerous man on a payroll filled with talented operatives.

  “OK, people, I’ve got it.” Marty Atkins smiled like a wolf. “We’re going to send Kyle Swanson out on a hunt. He’s sitting around Brussels right now with the defector.”

  “Swanson? Sir, that man is a bull in a china shop!” protested Agatha Brice. “You’ve seen his report? He thinks Strakov is worthless.”

  “Kyle is a clumsy bull only when he wants to be, Aggie. Most times, he is a snake in the weeds. I’ll talk to him, and meanwhile, you lot get cracking on a range of options.”

  KOEKELBERG, BELGIUM

  Swanson took the video call in a secure communications suite at the safe house, with Jan Hollings crowded next to him at the table. Despite their tendency to grate on one another, Kyle and Calico had settled into a good working team, primarily because she would not be cowed by him, and he would not be pushed around by her. The relationship rotated between stormy and smooth.

  They listened seriously as Marty Atkins briefed them over the encrypted link. It was a significant mission change. They were to do an as-yet undefined black op as a balance for a Russian jet that had crossed the Finnish border and destroyed a missile battery.

  “What about our defector, Colonel Strakov?” asked Jan. She had been the case officer for the initial interrogation, and was almost as unhappy as Swanson with the early results.

  “Don’t give me your damned problems, Calico. Give me a solution.” Atkins actually had no idea of the next step for Strakov.

  Swanson bit back a smile as he saw Hollings flush at the reprimand. “This could be a good break, Marty. I think the asshole is playing us. For someone who wanted to talk to me so badly, we have gotten very little in return. No actionable intelligence at all. Interesting material that we would have found sooner or later anyway.”

  “I agree,” Calico said, almost gritting her teeth, as if saying those words were difficult. “Suppose we change the rules. I know just the guy to give him a try—my husband, army colonel Tom Markey.”

  Atkins had to recall that name. “He’s a computer wizard or something, right?”

  Swanson broke in. “Hell, yeah. Great idea. Markey is the big dog in NATO cyber-warfare and is based over here in Tallinn. He once told me that his and Strakov’s careers almost were identical. Let’s get me out of the way and put the Russian in the room with someone who actually speaks geek, and he won’t be able to dodge the questions. Strakov will understand the logic of us giving it a try.”

  “Will he clam up because you are absent?”

  “He did not like it the first time, so he might bitch a bit when I go away again, Marty. Who cares? Strakov is playing a game. I think the only reason he wanted me was so he could give up the Armatas and establish that he was the real deal.”

  “Swanson can always go back at him later for more questioning, if necessary.” Hollings also had other business that needed her attention. The Narva election was right around the corner, and she had to be there to monitor it.

  Atkins approved. “Okay. Done. I will have temporary duty orders cut today that will get Markey in there as soon as possible. Calico, you go back to Tallinn tonight and get your mind back on Narva.”

  “Wait a minute. If I go back to Tallinn and Tom comes here to Koekelberg, we won’t even get to see each other. That isn’t fair.”

  “Sorry, Jan. I wasn’t thinking about your personal life. Please take time to share a cup of coffee at the airport, then get your butt back into Estonia. Are we clear on that?” Marty Atkins put an edge to his voice. “Now Kyle, you obviously can’t do this thing alone. So while the analysts are finding a target, you go ahead and pick out a strike team, anybody you want, and we’ll arrange to have them…”

  Swanson put up a palm to signal him to stop. “I’ve already got my team.”

  “Who?”

  “I’m not going to tell you that, Marty. I think there is a leak in this pipeline and this is going to be a high-risk job. Trust me. Keep a really tight need-to-know lid on everything.”

  “Well, in any case, it is going to take a couple of days to move some operatives into position.…”

  “We’re already here, Marty. I can stage in twenty-four hours.”

  “You can get the needed hardware from NATO.…”

  “I have everything we need, except, maybe, for transport. Give us a target and we can roll.”

  ABOARD THE VAGABOND

  Brokk was dead. There was not a shred of proof for that conclusion, but Anneli Kallasti knew in her heart that it was true. The Disappeareds never came back, and Brokk’s rising stature as an anti-Russian political firebrand had sealed his fate. She was bundled in a heavy coat, and stood alone near the bow of the big yacht, her forearms on the rail as an icy wind flecked her face with spray from the waves, mixing with her tears. He was gone. The municipal election in Narva, on which they had placed so much hope, would be held this Sunday and the pro-Russian candidates would likely win. With Brokk gone, no one had stepped forward to replace him, and there was no organized opposition to the big, heavy claw that pressed down on the city to keep it firmly in line for Moscow. Pushkin’s handpicked man would become the mayor, Konstantin Pran of the Workers’ Party would take over next week, and the future of her country and home city would be up in the air.

  The Vagabond had been sailing gently for hours through the swells. It did not matter to her, for her entire life was vanishing. Only a week ago, she had been a waitress, a student, a lover, a political activist and a young woman with a long, bright life ahead of her. Estonia needed her, but she could not return there, for she was a fugitive wanted on a trumped-up murder charge. Her only crime had been the mild and flirty kidnapping of a young Russian soldier for less than a day and setting him free unharmed. He probably had never mentioned it to anyone.

  Her only female friend now was Jan Hollings of the CIA, the beautiful and smart but volatile woman who would play a big role from here on. It was too early to determine what that might be, although Anneli had spent a long time trying to guess. On the male side, she was in the magnetic field of Kyle Swanson, which was both a comfortable and frightening place to be. His decisions would have just as large an impact on her as would those of Calico. Anneli felt as though she was being pulled in a dozen different ways. If trust was the final issue, then she would go with Kyle.

  She inhaled the salty air. The lights of
other ships were in plain view as they sailed through the North Sea beneath the midnight sky. The weather had cleared, but dark clouds still hid the stars. She had never been to sea before and was surprised that the waters were such busy traffic lanes. There were thousands of people around her, separated by a broad apron of water, and yet she had never felt so alone in her life.

  Two shadows met on the bridge wing as Sarn’t Stan Baldwin relieved Corporal Grayson Perry for the next watch. Except when she was in her cabin, the girl was always within sight of one of the British snipers. “What’s happening, Gray?” Baldwin asked in a quiet voice.

  “Nothing at all. She has been standing there for two hours now. That story about what happened with her boyfriend would be enough to shake anyone.”

  “It is a difficult time for her.”

  “Yes. Any word from Swanson?”

  “He will meet us tomorrow. Also coming aboard, flying in from London, is Sir Jeff Cornwell himself. Maybe even a NATO general. Big doings are afoot.”

  “Sounds interesting. Well, I turn her over to you now, Sar’nt, and I will hit my mattress.”

  “I have her. Get some sleep.” Baldwin brought some binoculars to his eyes. The girl was just standing there at the rail, watching nothing. He wished she would go back inside. He would give her a little more time, then go and fetch her before she caught pneumonia.

  19

  THE KREMLIN

  MOSCOW

  COLONEL GENERAL VALERY IVANOVICH Levchenko, the commander of Russia’s Western Military District, was ushered into the office of President Vladimir Pushkin at mid-morning on Wednesday, April 13. There were whispers within the upper echelon of Moscow’s military hierarchy that the flamboyant Levchenko had finally overstepped his authority and that the president intended to deal harshly with him. Reassignment away from the palatial headquarters in St. Petersburg to some staff assignment was a strong possibility, perhaps even a demotion to some job that would be so insulting that it would force a resignation. Levchenko came across the carpet in his tailored uniform and stood at stiff attention, without a word being said until the door closed.

  President Pushkin came around the desk, gave a warm chortle and shook his hand. “How was your flight, Valery?” He moved to a samovar on the credenza and prepared cups of hot tea while his guest collapsed into a chair, all formality gone.

  “It was good. I left clouds of doubt in St. Petersburg by dropping hints that I may not return.” Levchenko laughed again and accepted the tea. “I gather that similar rumors are circulating around here. Everyone avoided my eyes on the way in, like I was a leper.”

  The president took a seat. “Yes. Pavel Sergeyev has done everything but broadcast the news of your imminent demise, so you must look appropriately chastised and saddened when you leave. Now bring me up to date. How goes the Strakov plan?”

  Yevchenko drank some tea, put the cup down and opened his hands. “As expected. The man has been almost clairvoyant. NATO intelligence services are hanging on his every word, although he has given them nothing of substance. Meanwhile, the attack by one of the overflights worked out brilliantly. The MiG going down in Finland—being shot down, no less—was a statistical guarantee. Sooner or later, it had to happen. Like a clash of swords before a duel. This time, someone was cut. Strakov arranged the attack order before he left.”

  The president opened a gold cigarette case and offered one to Levchenko, who declined the smoke. Pushkin took his time flicking open a lighter and inhaling, then carefully blowing a smoke ring that hung in the air. “We have received the expected protests, and have denied that the plane was on any hostile mission. The pilot simply did not know where he was because the Finns jammed his communication. When attacked, he defended himself. I have instructed our people to file a protest of our own, claiming the so-called neutral Finns should have helped rather than luring him in and opening fire without cause. The boy will get a nice posthumous medal.”

  “He did an excellent job. Sacrifices have to be made at times.” The general took out his personal electronic tablet and scanned some sites before speaking again. “Now the Ivonov scheme projects that NATO will retaliate somewhere in the region.”

  Pushkin agreed. “Yes. From what I know of President Thompson, he will do something. The fact that it happened in Finland was a wonderful touch, because NATO cannot claim that any of its members were attacked.”

  “The more fog and confusion we sow, the better,” the general said. “I expect the response will be something in proportion to the flea bite in Finland. But it will open the door for us to respond even harder. According to Strakov, everything should be ready in time for Sunday’s election in Narva.”

  “Good, good, good.” The president was enjoying this. The Western democracies were terrified that a situation similar to the Ukraine would bloom in April like a noxious weed, and Russian troops would once again be on the move. They were right, but didn’t yet know it. “How is Ivanov himself?”

  “According to our sources in Brussels, he is living very well. They even let him go shopping. American newspapers and television are covering him.”

  “And he really thinks he will be able to escape when the time comes?”

  “Mr. President, the man is a dare-devil and understands the risks. The plan is for the FSB to kidnap a high-ranking American of some sort, maybe a businessman or even a diplomat, this weekend and hold him to create a prisoner-swap scenario for Ivanov’s freedom at the proper time.”

  Pushkin liked that plan. He had used the strategy before.

  Levchenko continued, “One thing you should also know is that he obtained the presence of the American sniper that he wanted, a psychotic criminal named Kyle Swanson, to begin the interviews. He gave Swanson the Armata systems at bait. Ivanov now has them all dancing to his tune.”

  “And how go the election preparations? Is that all in place?”

  “Under tight control, sir. We will have a mayor and a majority of the council in our pockets after the vote. Democracy will rule in Narva, and we will be permitted to do whatever we wish!” He relished the irony of using the freedom of the vote to lead a revolution.

  “That’s it, then?”

  “Everything is there for now, sir. The plan is on schedule. My army is returning to the barracks after Phase One of Operation Hermitage and getting ready to launch Phase Two right after the election. I should be getting back to St. Petersburg now before they start thinking I’ve been imprisoned in the Lubyanka or sent off to some corrective colony for my sins. General Pavel Sergeyev will be disappointed that I have not.”

  President Pushkin rose along with General Levchenko and this time, the two men awkwardly hugged. “Please stay on top of this, Valery Ivanovich. We want Estonia, Latvia and Lithuania back, and the Ivanov plan gives us the best chance to bring them home without starting the incident. For diplomatic reasons, we must not fire the first shot. But once someone else shoots, be ready to strike hard and get across that border in such force as to make NATO think twice about responding. Now, go.” He motioned toward the door, and the colonel general departed, masking his satisfaction with a dour look of gloom.

  LANGLEY, VIRGINIA

  The hardest thing for the CIA’s deputy director of clandestine operations to do was nothing. Marty Atkins had set in motion the immense intelligence-gathering resources of the United States government and his main task now was not to meddle. Thousands of the smartest people on the planet were shaking the trees to see what might fall out.

  They did not know exactly what they were looking for, but they were specialists. The Russians had screwed up an airspace invasion over Finland and orders had come down to examine anything out of the ordinary in their respective sectors. Not only was NATO fully involved, but so were assets in Asia, Latin America and even the Middle East. It was time to make a statement to Moscow. The messenger had been chosen. All that was needed was an appropriate target.

  Every shred they could find was considered, the Internet clouds were com
bed, the NSA monitoring was scanned, and that harvested mass of human and signals intelligence was then winnowed, either trashed or funneled up to the next level. Step by step, the best of the possibilities crept up the ladder until it was on the CIA desks of Atkins’s two top assistants. Stew Willenson, the square-shouldered military veteran, and prim and precise Agatha Brice watched like a pair of hawks, sometimes asking for more information on a topic, but discarding most of it out of hand. Nothing fit.

  With his machine humming, Marty Atkins took advantage of a rare opportunity to escort his wife out to dinner at a nice seafood restaurant in Baltimore. They spent Wednesday night enjoying themselves with lobster and white wine and an excellent, romantic hotel. Marty had left orders that he was not to be contacted unless the White House was under direct assault by at least a regiment of enemy ground forces. He would be back on the clock tomorrow morning.

  Stew and Aggie labored all night and lashed their troops to get this thing done. There had to be something out there that fit the established parameters. They did not know what it was, but would when they saw it. And they revealed no details to the others who were supporting them, mindful of the final instruction from Atkins that the word “secret” in this case meant exactly that. There was a suspected leak somewhere, and the fewer people who knew what was going on, the better. Within the Central Intelligence Agency, that included only Atkins, Brice and Willenson. The director himself, a political appointee, was not in the loop.

  Aggie had gone to the cafeteria for a sugar-and-caffeine fix about dawn, and when she returned to her office, Stew was waiting for her with a big grin on his face. “What?” she said, placing her warm onion bagel smeared with cream cheese on her desk.

  “I think our boys and girls have nailed it.” He was drumming his fingers on his big knee.

  “Where?” She slid into her chair and put on her glasses when he handed her the note.

  “It’s in Russia, but not the big, real Russia. The target is just across the southwestern border of Lithuania, in the Kaliningrad Oblast.” He pushed over a printout of the region. Kaliningrad was a small country of less than a million people, sandwiched in a triangle between Lithuania to the east and Poland to the south. To the north lay the Baltic Sea. “Easier for our team to get in and out.”