by Jones, Rick
Jim Burroughs slapped an open palm against the table. “Then will somebody please tell me how in the hell those units got into Mexico? Will somebody—anybody—tell me how a team of radical insurgents were able to bypass all Interpol points and transport nuclear weapons halfway across this planet without even raising an eyebrow! Somewhere—somebody knows something!”
Wilhite did not flinch. “We’re still working on the answers for you, sir.”
“What about Yorgi Perchenko? Were you able to track him down?”
Wilhite nodded. “We’ve located Perchenko and mobilized units to secure him. However, Mr. President, there is a problem.”
Burroughs closed his eyes: Of course. Why wouldn’t there be? “Go ahead, Mr. Wilhite.”
“It appears the Russian Central Intelligence Service is swooping in to intercept him as well.”
“Can your men get to him before the SVR can?”
“If we do, then it’ll be close.”
“Use whatever means necessary to secure that man and/or the information he possesses. If you need to engage the Russian’s, do so.”
“Mr. President.” Alan Thornton’s interjection was one of discernible alarm. “Sanctioning a fire fight with officers of the SVR would definitely compromise our position there. To expose our coverts like that would have consequential results should they be captured or killed.”
“I would agree with you, Al. But from where I’m sitting I don’t see how we have much choice. Yorgi Perchenko is the key holder to what we need to know. And that information, as far as I’m concerned, is worth the jeopardy we place them in. If they succeed, great; if they don’t, then we inherit a nation that will no doubt come under the attack of nuclear weapons and its subsequent fallout. We have no choice but to take gambles from here on in.” He turned back to the viewing screen. “Mr. Wilhite?”
“Yes, Mr. President.”
“How much of a guarantee can you give me that the Company will get there before the Russian team?”
Wilhite hesitated. “I’m afraid I can’t give you a guarantee at all,” he said. “Right now it looks like a head-on collision.”
“Do the Russians know our team is converging as well?”
“No, sir.”
“Then let’s hope their complacency will become our ally.” Easing back into the chair, the president quickly reflected. Hopefully, in Minsk, where it was already dark, the American team would prevail under covert conditions. But Burroughs knew better, realizing the Russians would do anything to quash the truth about Perchenko in order to keep them from being judged by the international community as the administration who allowed such weapons to be distributed from under their watchful eye, and earn them global mistrust. They would find Perchenko, make him disappear, and deny everything. The solution for any political machine was to dig its way out of a deep hole by putting something else in its place, and then cover it over with a cairn of lies.
“Mr. Wilhite?”
“Sir.”
“How long before the team reaches the point of interception?”
“I’d say within the hour, sir.”
Burroughs checked his watch. No doubt sixty minutes would seem like a lifetime.
Even more so, there was nothing worse than the sentiment of being rendered impotent.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Minsk, Russia
Evening
Yorgi Perchenko sat on the expansive veranda of the Madison, a discotheque and nightclub in the city of Minsk which overlooked the dazzling lights of urban sprawl. The night was cool and brisk. And a bottle of Cristall Vodka stood before him at his exclusive table, which was the only table on the landing. On most evenings he liked to get away and reminisce, his recollections far from fading—his mind still crisp.
In the background the thrumming beat of a disco tune was muted through the walls and doors. But to Perchenko it sounded like a radio on low volume. Often he would close his eyes and hum to a rhythm he enjoyed.
To enjoy such a moment of solitude he paid good money, reserving the complete landing for what would be pocket change to him, but a financial windfall for the Madison.
It was money easily passed off because money was all he had.
Pouring vodka in a glass chilled by the night air, Perchenko felt at peace. Behind him two of his best soldiers stood sentinel by the door, barring anyone from entering the veranda. Other than their presence, he was alone wading in memories. Although life was good, it was not the same. He missed the times as a KGB operative, as well as his subsequent role as a leading magistrate within the branch. What he missed most were the times when he meant something to his homeland. Now he simply existed.
Raising the glass toward the nightlights of the city, he saluted his country. “To Mother Russia,” he murmured, and then drank.
From his seated position he did not hear the gunshots that were no louder than someone spitting, or see the muzzle flashes coming from the rooftop on a building across the way. The kills were quick and efficient, the two guards standing by the doorway now lying sprawled on the floor in awkward configurations.
When the door leading to the veranda opened music piped loudly through the air, only to be muted after the door closed behind the man who approached Perchenko’s table.
The man was silhouetted against the backdrop, a black mass moving with the collar of his jacket hiked up. He was cadaverously tall and thin and stooped against the cold. And his vapored breath was indication enough to Perchenko that the Grim Reaper was alive, and real, and beheld the true sustenance of flesh and bone rather than the cowl and scythe of folklore.
In the business he was in, he knew this day would come.
A few meters from the table the man stood silent and still, appraising Perchenko from the depths of his shadowy eyes.
In invitation, Perchenko kicked a resin chair hard enough for it to skate about a meter away from The Man, but close enough to the table’s edge. “Please,” he said. “Sit.”
The Man took the chair, the features of his face barely perceptible in the darkness.
Perchenko held up the bottle. “Drink?”
The Man nodded.
“Then what do you want?”
The Man reached into the inner lining of his pocket and produced a single photo, held it up in display, then tossed it before Perchenko.
Grabbing it—and with enough lighting provided by the fixtures over the veranda’s entrance doors—he immediately recognized the man in the photo, gave it a quick onceover, then tossed it back without betraying his emotions. “You have two of my best men killed to show me this?” he said. “And for what? Because you think I know who this is?”
The Man leaned forward. “Yorgi—”
“Do I know you?”
“No. But I know you.”
Perchenko worked the muscles in the back of his jaw before speaking in a calm manner. “You kill two of my men and then deny yourself the opportunity to drink with me. At least give me the respect of not calling me by the name my friends would.”
The Man nodded. “Granted.” And then he pushed the photo back toward Perchenko. “His name is al-Khatib Hakam. He is a terrorist for al-Qaeda.”
Perchenko shrugged. “So.”
“Six months ago you sold this man some very special weapons on the black market. The weapons I’m talking about, Mr. Perchenko, are weapons of mass destruction that, if the truth be known, would jeopardize our standing in the world community.”
“You’re wasting your breath. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
The Man never wavered. “If it was known that Russia is willing to sell nuclear weapons to insurgent groups, we will lose face and fall to worldwide condemnation and sanctions, which will kill us as a nation.”
“Mother Russia died when Communism fell.”
“Mother Russia still lives, but is moving towards a new and bolder direction. You failed to see that. Mother Russia will be greater than she ever was.”
“Mother Russia has become a weak bitch
that has allowed the United States to win.”
The Man slowly fell back in his seat, his shoulder slumping in defeat.
In the darkness Perchenko could see The Man shaking his head in dismay. “What?”
“You were a god to me,” he said. “You were a god to all of us.”
“Were?”
“Everyone looked at Yorgi Perchenko as the man nobody challenged; a true man within the ranks of the establishment.”
“True.”
“And until yesterday you continued to be held in high regard for your commitment to the organization and for your service to your country.”
Perchenko creased his brow, which was a mistake on his part. The facial read now gave The Man leverage.
“Now you are known as the man who will single-handedly destroy Russia and make her the pariah of the world. Every nation will cast a stone against us.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Economic sanctions placed on us will no doubt destroy whatever progress we have made over the last decade, financial surpluses will be lost, every semblance that once made Russia a proud nation will be gone and we will be hurled back into third-world status.”
Perchenko appeared dumbfounded. “I’m not a traitor. For what I have done for this country . . . How could anybody believe I was a traitor?”
“Do you not see the position you have placed us in?”
“What position are you talking about?”
“Those weapons you sold to al-Khatib Hakam have made their way onto American soil. And they are holding this country indirectly responsible for allowing this to happen.”
“It’s something that should have happened a long time ago.”
“America is no longer our enemy! Times have changed, Perchenko.”
Perchenko leaned forward. “I assume you are SVR?”
The Man said nothing.
“Now you listen to me,” said Perchenko. “I am a big reason why Russia was a major power.” He fell back into his chair and pumped his fist high in the air. “A powerhouse! I have never betrayed my country!”
Over The Man’s earpiece, which Perchenko could not see, came an audible warning: “It looks like you got company. Either take him and move, or get what you need. But hurry.”
The Man spoke with more insistence. “That’s not the way the SVR sees it,” he told him. “Because of what’s happening, your picture has been removed from The Hall of Heroes.”
This was almost too much for Perchenko to bear. He had loved Russia more than his own family. In fact, Russia was more of his bloodline than the actual blood that ran through the veins of his children.
He shook his head. His voice was no longer strong or confident, but detached and distant as his eyes slowly scanned the landscape of Minsk, one of his country’s truly great cities. “But I’m not a traitor,” he whispered.
“Do you want to be a hero again? Do you want your picture in its rightful spot?”
Perchenko just stared. The Man was losing him. He had pushed Perchenko too far.
“Hurry! A team just entered the Madison”
“Do the right thing,” said The Man. “Tell us how many units you sold, so we can contact our sources to stop this. Become that hero for Russia once again.”
The old agent’s lips moved, but nothing came forth.
“Perchenko! How many units?”
“Three,” he finally said. And then more boldly, “Three.”
The Man immediately lifted the sleeve of his coat in spoke English into a mike with noted urgency. Once the information was duly received and copied, The Man stood up and produced a firearm bearing a suppressor that was as long as the barrel.
Perchenko looked at the man. “You spoke English.”
The Man said nothing.
“You’re not SVR, are you?”
The Man nodded. “CIA.”
Perchenko clenched his teeth, the muscles in the back of his jaw working furiously. He had lost that ‘special sense,’ that intuitive feeling that had once made him an elitist in his field. “At least I’m still a hero,” he said.
The Man raised the weapon and shot Perchenko twice, once in the forehead and once in the center of body mass.
The Man quickly moved across the landing with the agility of a cat, swift and graceful, to the concrete banister of the Madison, which overlooked the city’s busy traffic. To his right was a fire escape ladder, a requirement for the nightclub in case a fire trapped patrons on the veranda. Just as The Man took the rungs and began his descent, members of the SVR rushed through the doors, the music blaring, and took shots at the escaping man, the bullets taking out chunks of concrete from the banister around him but missing.
From a rooftop across the street, muzzle flashes flared and two SVR agents immediately went down as boneless heaps, forcing the other agents to pull back for the cover of the club.
By the time they made it down to street level, The Man was gone.
They had been taken totally by surprised.
#
Raven Rock (Presidential Bunker)
Early Evening
The president was quickly informed of the mission’s status. Perchenko was dispatched and his black marketing empire, at least for the moment, gone. More importantly, however, operatives were able to ascertain the number of units sold.
“So that leaves two available targets,” said the president. “So we can assume one of the targets is Washington D.C.”
“And the other most likely New York City,” added Thornton.
After agreeing, the president continued. “OK, people, listen up. I want all available resources including military, law enforcement, even kids with bad attitudes, posted at every possible way into cities of strategic value such as D.C. and New York. Also look into Los Angeles. Although it’s not really a city of strategic value, it does have the second highest population in the country, and the closest point where the first weapon was found.”
“I would think they would try to take out the highest political seat in the land with Washington,” said Thornton. “And the financial district of New York. I really don’t see them deviating from their plans of 9/11, especially now since they’re highly equipped to finalize the job.”
“I agree,” said Burroughs. “But let’s not get complacent either. If we have to violate certain inalienable rights to achieve the means, then do so. Our optimum goal is to find Hakam and his team before they’re able to achieve their agenda.” He turned to Craner. “Doug, you got anything from the security end?”
“As you already know, Mr. President, every airport is on the highest alert. All chartered aircrafts have been grounded nationwide, and every terminal in the nation is under the microscopic eye of TSA. There is no way a package the size and shape of the unit we appropriated at the border is getting on any plane.”
“Which leaves ground transportation,” said Hamilton. “I have agents from California to the Florida panhandle checking into all car rental agencies for those of Middle-East persuasion, who have rented a vehicle within the past thirty days.”
“Any leads thus far?”
“None that fit anybody in Hakam’s known team. But we’re still looking into the matter of those who rented vehicles in case there are coverts working under Hakam’s commands that are not yet named or listed in Homeland Security’s data base.”
“Good.”
Although pleased that the situation was moving forward, even if it was by the inches, it made the president feel less ineffective. Nevertheless, it still was not enough.
Somewhere, whether it be some Podunk town or major cosmopolitan city, two weapons of mass destruction with half the yield that took out Hiroshima were making their way to their assigned stationary points.
If not Washington or New York City, then it would be somewhere else.
No matter what, the president saw no upside at all.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Los Angeles, California
1837 Hours Pacific Standard Time
Al-Khatib Hakam was in the moment of prayer within his hotel suite. The room was simple and far from luxurious. In fact, it wasn’t rated much higher than the room of a franchised motel. But Hakam wanted to keep a low profile.
In the room’s center, Hakam knelt on a prayer rug with his forehead resting against the fabric, and then sat up with his eyes closed and his hands held in homage. He repeated this motion for twenty minutes—bowing and rising, his meditation so deep everything around him did not seem to exist.
When he completed his session he rolled up the rug and placed it on top of the bureau, treating it with reverence by passing his hand over the fabric the way most people would stroke the fur of a loved pet. It was the first rug he ever possessed, since joining the ranks as a Muslim. And it would be the last rug he would ever own since he had less than thirty-six hours to live. Although he would not live to see the outcome of his mission, he knew the Muslim world would revel in the success of his team once the assignment was completed.
Al-Khatib Hakam, American born citizen from Dearborn, Michigan and an honorary graduate from Columbia University, was about to cripple a nation.
In the aftermath of his session he still spoke to Allah, asking Him to see this through. And he did so with a preamble of a smile on his lips. There was no doubt in his mind his team was fully capable of performing their assigned tasks, since they were the best in their field as seasoned soldiers. They had fought wars up front, close, and personal. And they had served as well-traveled journeyman fighting from Afghan to Baghdad with venom in their hearts and devotion in their spirits before finding a place by his side.
He was certain nothing could stop them or save the enemy.
And for the moment he felt something tremendously wonderful.
He felt . . .
. . . invincible.
Looking at his watch, Hakam ordered the final commencement. Right now his team was moving into position. And if all went well, then by this time tomorrow Hakam and his team would be airborne with an incredible arsenal. All he had to do was sit back, be patient, and rely on his team to get the job done.