Cthulhu Unbound 3

by Brian M. Sammons (ed. )

  Jordan wasn’t happy about that, but with all the work he’d been doing in the Middle East and South America over the last few years it had been some time since he’d updated his Russian cover. Luckily, the ‘Yegor’ persona was much like Jordan himself, a sort of freelance agent that would disappear for long periods of time on some assignment or another. Jordan hoped that whomever he was talking to recognized that the first three numbers of the code he had given was an old KGB prefix for just such an agent. After he had given the code, he was asked to repeat it, and after he did so the line had gone dead.

  Jordan hadn’t called back since. He knew he wasn’t supposed to. Now he just had to wait and hope that someone over there still remembered Yegor and was willing to talk to him. That meant waiting.

  With nothing to do he killed time by looking out the window. His boredom paid off when he saw the unmarked CIA Learjet come rolling out of the hanger some four hundred yards away from his ramshackle room.

  That had been almost an hour ago and since then Jordan had used binoculars to study the plane, those that prepped it for flight, and what equipment was being loaded inside. While the information he was gathering was mundane, he couldn’t help himself from doing it. Old habits died hard, and besides, it helped him keep his mind off the phone.

  As if on cue, the Soviet sat phone rang. Jordan snapped it up without looking and immediately started to speak flawless Russian.

  “Yes?”

  “Yegor?” a man asked, the voice was recognizable to Jordan, but he couldn’t place the name.

  “Yes.”

  “June, nineteen-ninety, where were you?”

  Jordan had to think for a second and then remembered the bitterly cold mountains and all the blood. “Afghanistan,” he answered.

  “No, the Afghan War was over in eighty-nine.”

  “Not for us,” Jordan said and smiled for the first time in a long time. “Matvei, is that you?”

  “Yes my friend, it is good to hear from you. I had heard you were dead.”

  Jordan could hear the smile in the other man’s voice and knew it was genuine. The two were old Spetsnaz comrades. Of course Matvei was a real one and Jordan was simply trained to behave like one, but their friendship had seemed real enough. So much so that Jordan had always dreaded the possibility that he would one day have to kill the man. Happily that day had never come.

  “No, not dead,” Jordan had to think of a cover fast, “Just in Chechnya, which is worse.”

  “Ah yes, I heard that one about you too. I’ve heard so many things about you, Yegor.”

  Was that a hint of something in his voice? Jordan thought to himself. Hoping that he hadn’t heard what he thought he had, he pressed on quickly.

  “So how come you call me? You were the last person I expected to be on this phone. When did you join up with the SVR?”

  “Well you know what they say,” Matvei then spoke the rest in perfect English, “Meet the new boss, same as the old boss.”

  They shared a laugh that seemed real enough.

  “So, why do you call now? No one has heard from you in so long.” Matvei asked.

  “I know things and I need to speak to others that know more.”

  “But where have you been, really?”

  Once again, Jordan could hear doubt in the voice of his old drinking buddy. He had to play his part out perfectly.

  “I was making rent.”

  “Ah…” was all that Matvei said and then left a bulging, nine-month-long pregnant pause hanging between them.

  Since the collapse of Soviet Union many Russians had fallen on hard times, including the men and woman of it’s largely bankrupt military and intelligence services. More than a few ex-patriots of the Motherland had taken outside jobs to make ends meet. Weapons dealing, organized crime, mercenary work, these were the top three choices for men like Matvei and Yegor. Such things were actually expected of them. As long as they never did anything to harm Russia, or if they did, as long as they hid it well, such freelancers could still find work if Mother Russia needed them, or if they had something to offer her.

  “Yes, we all have to make rent now and then.” Matvei broke the long silence at last. “So, what do you know?”

  “Something that the Americans are doing in the Pacific, something I’m sure that others would want to know about, and probably stop.”

  “How good is your info?”

  “Dovgan,” Jordan answered with the name of a vodka brand the two had always loved.

  Matvei softly chucked before replying, “Well, I’ll pass it along. Can’t say when, or if you’ll get an answer, but keep the phone with you just in case.”

  “I will, and Matvei, thanks for calling back.”

  There was a soft sigh then, “What are old comrades for?” before the line went dead.

  Jordan closed the case, placed it on the floor, and was about to get up from the window to make himself something to eat when he spied someone familiar down by the plane that caused him to grin again.

  It was Harrison Peel, walking and talking briskly with Ms. Isles of the CIA. Jordan picked up the binoculars to study them.

  “Well Peel, where are you off to? Not after me, I haven’t done anything yet.” Jordan whispered to himself.

  He then noticed the casual way the American woman placed a hand on the Australian’s arm.

  Peel, what have you gotten yourself into? He thought as he watched the two boarded the jet.

  A fast, dark movement on the airfield then caught his eye. A black sedan sped up to the plane, out of which a very serious looking man came, striding towards the jet. Jordan also recognized this man and that caused him to take his eyes from the binoculars to glance at the sniper rifle he had sitting in the corner of this room.

  Jordan’s first thought was to grab the Dragunov rifle and give the latecomer a 7.62 lobotomy. At just over four hundred yards he was confident that he could bull’s-eye the target, but doing so would undoubtedly set off a chain event of very bad things. First it would tell his hunters not only that he was still in Lima, but his general distance and direction. More importantly, if that man was there to do what Jordan feared he was there for, then shooting him would erase any lingering doubts the CIA might have had about Peel’s and Jordan’s loyalty to each other. In which case taking out an immediate threat would do nothing to save the Aussie.

  Jordan went over his options as he watched the man get onto the jet, the boarding stairs rise up, and the door close. He could leave Peel a message on the website they used to communicate, but there was no telling when Harrison would check it. Direct computer to computer or phone contact was out of the question because Jordan was sure the CIA were monitoring everything coming in to or out of that jet. Besides, if they even got a hint that Jordan and Peel were working together, say by him getting an unexpected call from someone in Lima, then it would have the same consequences as if Jordan had used the sniper rifle.

  Jordan looked down at the Russian satellite phone. He could use that and any trace the CIA would run would show that the call came from a Russian satellite and not from Peru. Doing so would mean having to lose the sat phone or risk having the Langley wiz kids being able to track him with it. Jordan couldn’t risk that right now, the phone was his only link to the Russians.

  Then it came to him, Jordan had a contact in the NSA that owed him. If he could get in touch with her, she could bounce his call to any location he wished. Australia, for example, so perhaps Big Brother might believe it was a family emergency call or some such thing. If they bought that just for a little while it might be enough.

  With no other options, Jordan picked up his cell phone and dialed the United States.

  * * *

  Once the seat-belt lights went off, Harrison’s phone began to ring. Retrieving it from his pocket and checking the Caller ID, he saw an unfamiliar number from Sydney, Australia. Flipping the phone open, Peel said hello without any trace of surprise. Hiding his feelings was second nature in his profession
, especially when being scrutinized by someone he didn’t trust completely, as was sadly now the case with Zoe Isles who sat across from him.

  “I’m someone you know. This is an emergency call. You have to take it.” A voice recognizable as Jordan’s said on the other end.

  “Ok, just a second,” Peel said into the phone before turning to Zoe, “Family call. There’s been some sort of problem and I have to take this real quick.”

  The CIA agent sat motionless for a second doing her best statue impression before pointing towards the back of the jet. “Sure, you can take the call in the conference room if you like.”

  Peel offered a quick smile as he rose to his feet. Once he was moving down the jet’s aisle he said back into the phone, “Okay, I’m back. What’s the trouble?”

  “Can you talk freely?” Jordan asked.

  “Almost,” Harrison said as he stepped into the conference room and closed its door behind him. “So what is this about?”

  “Did you notice a new face on the jet with you now, someone you haven’t seen around before?”

  Peel thought about it, running through a checklist of everyone he had taken note of when the jet had taken off.

  “About one hundred and ninety centimeters, early forties, thinning blond hair, right-handed, wearing a nice gray suite, well tailored to hide the gun under his left arm.” Peel said as much to himself as he did to Jordan as he plucked the man from his memory.

  “That’s him.” Jordan confirmed. “Now listen, he’s black ops, like me. Very black. I’ve run into him on occasion. Name’s Carter. My kind always travels alone, never with the company. It helps with the whole plausible deniability thing. If he’s on your plane now there’s a reason for it. Now Peel, did you give anyone cause to make you that reason?”

  “I confronted Henbest. It was the only way I could think of to get information quickly. Tell me, do you know anything about a book called The R’lyeh Text?”

  “No, how do you spell it?”

  Peel told him.

  “I’ll check it out. You should also follow up this with your contact in North Africa. If anyone knows anything about it, I suspect he will.”

  Peel knew to whom Jordan referred immediately, although neither would say his name over a line that could potentially be compromised. “Good point. I’ll contact him when I can.”

  “Getting back to our current situation, did you tip your hand about us?” Jordan asked.

  “No. Henbest offered to show me what his company is doing out on the oil platform. I was hoping he was sizing me up for a job offer, to pay for my silence, you know what these corporate types are like.”

  “Well the kind of specialty man Carter is, he’s not there for extra security or muscle. He’s there to eliminate someone and you’re the prime target. I would guess that Henbest decided your assistance wasn’t worth the extra liability.”

  Peel looked over his shoulder, half expecting the assassin to be sneaking upon him already. “I agree. How will this likely go down?”

  “If you land in an area they control it’ll happen there or soon after. Or if they want to get creative they can do you in the plane and drop you in the ocean. That way you just vanish.”

  “Jordan, you can’t open the doors of a jet while it’s in flight.”

  “Yes you can if the plane comes down low enough and the crew depressurize the cabin. Afterwards you close everything up, pressurize the plane again, and climb back up to cruising altitude.”

  “Why would anyone go to all that trouble?” Peel asked and felt the first pangs of nerves starting to hit him. “Okay, maybe I’m starting to get it now. Sloppy tradecraft on my behalf.”

  “Let’s say there was once a Brit on loan to us from MI6. He was an expert on the cults that worshiped the things from the other side. He was also working for the Chinese, not for money, but to gain access to their Code-89-type projects. I guess the old guy became obsessed with chasing monsters, it happens. Anyway the powers that be decided he knew too many of our secrets to allow him to share any more with anyone else. Problem was he was a foreign national, not to mention MI6’s property and we try to play nice with them when we can. So on a CIA controlled flight from New York to London he just vanished, and as you know, in our world if something can’t be verified then nothing ever happened.”

  “And you know this how?”

  “I made him vanish,” Jordan said frankly. “Now I just wanted to impress on you the very real and immediate danger you could be in. Have I made that impression?”

  “Quite.”

  “Good, are you packing any of the guns I gave you?”

  Peel patted his abdomen, feeling the slightly uncomfortable bulge. “One, I’ve got the Walther.”

  “Is it too much to hope for that it’s loaded with hollow points?”

  “No it’s not. I didn’t have time to secure specialized ammo, and not in Peru where I have no contacts. South America is your backyard, not mine.”

  “Okay. Keep it close and if something goes down, aim for center mass and chose your shots carefully. If a round goes through a target, or if you miss you could put a hole in the fuselage and if you’re still high up—”

  “Yes, I was just thinking about that.” Harrison interrupted him as he looked out of one of the jet’s windows. The clouds were far beneath them, so they were very high up indeed. That meant the cabin would be highly pressurized and the chaos caused by a sudden leak would be extreme.

  Peel waited for Jordan to say something more, but after a long moment of silence he looked at his phone and saw that he was no longer connected. He had zero signal. He wondered if his phone had just dropped the call, or had the CIA techs cut the call short for some reason. In this game technical faults were rarely random occurrences.

  Placing the phone back in his pocket he unbuttoned his shirt. Beneath it was a long, puckered scare where years ago extra-dimensional beings had removed his stomach to force him to do their bidding. When everything was over, he received a new alien made stomach and an extra, disgusting bonus. The scar that held Peel’s guts together could be opened if squeezed in just the right way. Once opened, it allowed easy access to his re-attached stomach, as well as a meaty pouch off to the side that could be used to store small objects. Whatever the aliens had done to him it had been neat and clean, with a transparent and impenetrable skin over his other organs so the wound never bled when opened and he never got an infection. While his belly pouch was admittedly repulsive, it allowed Peel to smuggle items in a way that no one could find, save for x-raying him.

  Into that abdomen cavity Peel reached and felt two foreign objects. He grabbed the larger of the two and pulled out the Walther PPK that Jordan gave him. As he checked the weapon he remembered Jordan making several kangaroo jokes at his expense during their long hike out of the jungles of Venezuela. He had said that of all the people in the world to get a pouch in their belly, it just had to be an Aussie.

  Smiling despite the situation, Harrison pocked the pistol, closed up his stomach flap, buttoned up his shirt, and left the conference room to go back to his seat.

  What happened next happened fast.

  The man called Carter was every bit as lethal as Jordan suggested. He came from behind and off Peel’s left as quiet and quick as a panther and before Harrison could react, the man was behind him. The killer’s left arm snaked around Peel’s neck while his right waited to hook it up and apply pressure.

  Peel recognized the move as a chokehold called ‘the sleeper’ because it could knock a man unconscious in seconds. His instincts told him to tuck his chin down fast, and he did so, but the assassin was well trained. He locked up the hold and instantly started trying to worm his forearm under Peel’s chin to complete move that would cut the flow of blood to the brain and cause a black out in moments.

  “Keep Isles with the techs ‘til I’m done with him.” Carter said to a CIA agent that stood in the aisle watching the struggle. The agent nodded and quickly made his way to the front of t
he jet as the assassin walked backwards, back into the open conference room, dragging Peel along with him.

  Peel kept his chin down. He didn’t bother to claw at his attacker’s arm; he knew it would do no good. Instead he tried for the automatic in his front pocket, but because the killer had him from behind and was now lifting him nearly off his feet, Peel’s pants were pulled so tight that he could only get a few fingertips into the pocket’s opening. He knew that with time he could probably pull the gun, but he didn’t time to spare.

  He did, however, have one more desperate option.

  Harrison tore at his shirt and then at the scar on his belly beneath it. In doing so, he scratched himself bad enough to bleed, but after a few frantic moments the alien pouch opened. Shoving his hand inside he felt his stomach, slick and bulging, and then what he was after; the other foreign object he had smuggled away inside himself. Pulling it out, Peel smashed it against the face of his attacker.

  Carter muttered a curse the first time Peel hit him with the slimy, hard thing in his hand. He tucked his own head down best he could in an attempt to shield his face from further blows, but his constrictor-like arms never let up.

  It had been only moments since the attack began, but Peel’s vision was already starting to go fuzzy and he could hear the trapped blood boom like thunder in his ears with the echo of his racing heart. While he had faced death many times before it was never as close or intimate as it was now. He had no delusions of what Carter would do to him once he blacked out, so with a snarl he brought his hand back up with all his remaining strength. He felt the object in his hand strike solidly against Carter’s face, then it shattered and his palm was suddenly in pain.