The knife caught him just in front of the scapula; I twisted it down and in—using it as a lever to slap the sonofabitch up against the wall. I used the wall—snapped Ivan craaack up against it hard. Extracted the knife from his ribs and drove the point into his neck just below his ear, where I cut forward, which severed his carotid artery. His eyes caught mine for an instant. Then they clouded. I kept away from the blood, which was puddling rapidly now, let his body drop, wiped the Gerber on his uniform, and holstered it securely on my belt.
I took three steps and rolled the corpse Doc had shot, plucked the Bizon SMG from the steps, cycled the bolt to make sure the gun was functional, pulled a second helical cylinder magazine from the tactical sheath on the dead Ivan’s belt and stuffed it into my pocket, then retreated back up the stairs to where Doc and Colonel Rolex were waiting.
“Everything okay, Skipper?” That was Rodent’s squeak from below.
“Two Ivans down. Got us an ossifer. Sit-rep by you?”
“Big fucking welcoming committee out front, boss—we’re holding tight until you get here.”
“Okay—gimme a minute and we’ll be down.” I traded Doc the colonel for the submachine gun and spare mags, took the Russian by the throat, and backed him up against the wall.
“Doc—watch.”
Doc kept the colonel company with the muzzle of his Tokorev while I relieved him of his balaclava, and performed a rapid frisk and inventory.
Top blouse pockets were empty. Back of the neck? Clean. Duty belt—handcuffs, folding knife, and two Tokorev magazines. BDU rear trouser pockets: one wallet, filled with U.S. currency. A laminated ID card—just like the one I’d removed from the Ivan in the Beemer. That explained a lot. Front slash pocket: nasty pocket handkerchief. But just to be sure (and since I was wearing gloves) I shook it open and discovered a pair of diamond rings remarkably similar to the eight-carat marquise solitaire and platinum wedding band I’d last seen on Mrs. Yudin’s well-manicured ring finger. I slipped the rings into my own pocket—I’d turn them over to the embassy.
The greedy asshole started to say something. What—didn’t he like the fact that I’d found his souvenirs? I gave him a roguish smile and backhanded him hard enough to bring blood to the side of his mouth. “Fuck you, cockbreath.”
His right thigh bellows pocket held a Motorola cellular phone. I flipped it open to make sure it was working, listened until I heard the dial tone, shut it, then continued my frisk.
The rest of him was clean. Let me rephrase that. The rest of him did not conceal anything that might have been potentially lethal to me and my men. Once finished, I took the colonel’s handcuffs and ratcheted them tight around his wrists. Tight. Did I scratch his new Rolex? Aww, golly.
I stage-whispered down the stairwell, “Rodent—”
From below. “Yo.”
“We’re coming down.”
“Roger that.”
I put the colonel in front of me and held him firmly by the bicep. Doc covered our six with the Bizon. We stepped over the pair of corpses and made our way down to the groundfloor landing.
It didn’t take long to discover they were a small force, and they had us bottled up—at least they thought they did. I did a quick recon—made my way back up to the apartment that Colonel Rolex and his ninjas had used, and peeked out the window. OMON had done this operation in a pretty basic fashion. There were no searchlights, no barriers, and no Moscow cops to keep the street clear. All I saw were four vehicles spread out like a fan in the big courtyard, their lights shining toward the apartment house. The gate where the Beemer had been was now wide open, and the Beemer was missing. Behind the cars, I counted eight, nine, ten—eleven OMON shooters in black. I played the monocular up on the opposite roofline and picked out three snipers. There was something wrong here—the old Rogue saw something pogue.
I lowered the glass, focused, and examined the opposition a second time. The practiced eye will tell you a lot. First, I saw that none of the Ivans were carrying climbing gear—not a single rappelling harness, coil of rope, or carabiner in the bunch. That meant they weren’t going to try to climb to the roof and make their way down through the stairwell behind us. No way to run an urban op.
Second, all the cars were private. Okay, I’m no authority, but I’d seen enough of Russia and its officials to know that when I see two white Beemers, an ivory Mercedes, and a goddamn silver Chevrolet Caprice, we’re not talking POG—property of the government. Moreover, there was no SWAT truck with its equipment and backup. There was no command and control vehicle, coordinating communications and keeping civilians out of the shooters’ hair.
Ah—I see your hand waving, gentle reader. Yes, Colonel Rolex had all that ancillary stuff supporting him when he’d hit the dacha two nights ago—including the goddamn climbing equipment, even though his men didn’t need it. But he sure as hell didn’t have any of it tonight. Verdict: these assholes were operating on their own.
I double-timed back to the ground floor, plucked the cellular phone from Wonder’s hand, and punched zero, nine, five, two, five, two, two, four, five, one into it.
Bring-bring. Bring-bring. Bring-bring. You get the idea. It went on like that for about thirty seconds. Then, finally, a sleepy, surly, Russian-accented voice answered, “American Embassy. Can I help you please?”
“This is Captain Richard Marcinko, commander of the United States Navy Naval Security Mobile Training Team,” I said. “This is an emergency. Put me through immediately to the deputy chief of mission’s quarters.”
Chapter 8
OUR FRIENDLY DEPUTY CHIEF OF MISSION (AND ACTING AMBASSAdor plenipotentiary and extraordinary) Bartlett Austin Wyeth the BAW arrived on-scene sixty-eight minutes later, in an embassy limo, driven by the RSO—State’s Regional Security Officer—and sandwiched between a pair of Silverado war wagons—huge, Chevy four-by-fours—holding half a dozen DSS gumshoes armed to the teeth. All the vehicles flew the Stars and Bars from their fenders, and all arrived with their red-and-blue flasher lights working. Just after the Americans pulled into the illuminated courtyard, three more cars arrived: first, a huge black stretch Zil limo sporting half a dozen different kinds of antennas pulled into the courtyard. It was driven by a black-bereted OMON driver who, I saw, kept a 410-gauge, automatic, AK-47 shotgun bolted muzzle-up next to him, and half a dozen of AK’s big box magazines strewn on the bench seat. The Zil was followed by two small black Zhigulis, stuffed so full of humongous hoodskis that they looked like those tiny circus cars filled with clowns. It occurred to me—one of the more pleasant thoughts I’d had tonight—that my analogy wasn’t too far from the truth.
The DSS agents emerged from their war wagons, MP5s and cut-down Benelli M1 entry shotguns ready, and surrounded the Caddie, facing outward. Then Bart climbed out. He’d taken the time to dress for the occasion: double-breasted diplomatic blue pinstripe suit, white shirt, polka-dot tie. Polished cap-toes. But you could almost sense the sleep in his eyes, and his body language gave away the stress he was under. The RSO instructed his men to give Bart some room, and they expanded the cordon sanitaire around the Caddie by three yards on each side. Bart began to parade like a cellbound prisoner next to the car door—three paces, then an abrupt, soldierly about-face, three more paces, and another abrupt reverse.
Now it was the Russians’ turn. Viktor Grinkov rode alone in the Zil—I knew that because he had the interior light on and I could see his slovenly profile. He waited until four of the hoodskis in the ugly Zhigulis disembarked, surrounded his car, and opened the rear door for him. He emerged, holding a black leather portfolio, shot his cuffs, and sniffed the air like the old, mean Russian bear he was.
Then he nodded imperceptibly, the hoodskis surrounded him, and walked him in the diamond over to Bart’s car. The diamond, in case you’re not familiar with such shorthand, is the shape of the protective shell favored by Secret Service agents when surrounding POTUS. And, just like the Russkies have copied everything from our weapons systems to our TV stud
ios (and not paid a penny in licensing fees for ’em), they’ve appropriated our executive protection techniques as well.
Now, the first of the Russian bodyguards drew nose to nose with one of Bart Wyeth’s DSS agents. The Ivan pressed ahead, as if to move him aside. But the DSS man didn’t budge. The Ivan stopped, then, inexplicably, he backed up, causing the diamond to collapse inward.
Bad move. You never, ever give up ground. The DSS agent simply took two steps forward, and occupied the vacuum left by the Russian. Now the Russian hoodski was really confused. He turned, as if to ask his boss, Grinkov, a question. Instead of an answer, he received a resounding slap across the face. Chalk up the first points for the Americans.
Then, having made its point, the solid wall of armed Americans parted, and Viktor Grinkov—alone—was allowed to proceed to the DCM, who received him with a single, formal handshake.
I descended from my observation point on the second floor and peered through the cracked front door to get a groundlevel view of the negotiations. The two of them were looking over a thick sheaf of papers in Grinkov’s folder.
The Russian was growling. Bart obviously answered him in kind, because he stuck his nose in the DCM’s face and said something to which Bart obviously took offense.
Bart’s shoulders hunched, and his arms flapped wide, palms upward, as if to say, Well, what the hell can I do about it? The Russian didn’t like what he’d heard—he shook his head vigorously—but Bart wasn’t having any of it. His arms crossed, he shook his head in the negatory fashion, and told Grinkov, “Nyet.”
The Russian didn’t take it well. He slammed the folder on the roof of the Caddie, stuck his finger under Bart’s nose, and mouthed off. Bart uncrossed his arms and pouted. The Russian sneered, turned on his heel, grabbed his folder, and strode back toward his Zil limo, proceeding down a gauntlet of Russian and American bodyguards.
Bart followed him, entreating as he walked. The Russian was not happy. Then Grinkov stopped in his tracks.
He asked Bart a question. Bart answered. The Russian nodded in agreement, and began to follow the DCM back up the gauntlet toward the Caddie.
Bart took Grinkov’s right elbow with his left hand. They walked, their heads inclined together, whispering.
They stopped. Bart stuck his free hand in Grinkov’s direction, and the Russian took it. They nodded at each other.
God, how I love to see true diplomacy at work.
Obviously, it hadn’t been easy. You see, I’d made things tough for both of them. The Russkies and I were in what they call in France, “Le Mexican standoff.” I had Colonel Rolex. He—his men actually—had me and my guys bottled up.
Now, I knew damn well that neither the United States nor the Russkies wanted any publicity about this here incident. It was an embarrassment to both of ’em. Which is why I’d told Bart the BAW that if he didn’t get his diplomatic butt out of bed and deal with it, I’d call ABC, CBS, NBC, CNN—and any other news organization I could think of, and invite them to come down here with their cameras rolling and sort out the good guys from the bad guys.
Talk about your nasty wake-up calls.
Oh, Bart had bitched and Bart had moaned. But he’d pleaded with me not to do anything rash—“No publicity at all—none—”—and promised that if I kept silent he’d have the matter solved within the hour. From the look of things, he’d been almost as good as his word.
Now, obviously the problem had been compounded because this stalemate had occurred while both Colonel Rolex and I were engaged in slightly, ah, irregular activities. But that is where all similarity stopped. Colonel Rolex and his men had been at Andrei’s because they’d been ordered to neutralize him. He’d become a liability to a business venture that was making a lot of money for somebody. Andrei’s execution was what they call zapodlo in Russian—seemple beeziness.
I, on the other hand, had been protecting my country’s interests when this-all happened. Sure, it may have been something of a rogue operation, but I hadn’t been out playing games, or because I wanted glory, or more medals; I hadn’t been at Andrei’s just because I like to shoot & loot & sneak & peek & hop & pop, I happened to have the evening free, and there was no convenient Russkie pusskie at hand.
I was at Andrei’s because I had perceived what I considered to be a palpable, credible, genuine threat against the United States of America, and against the Republic for which it stands. It has always been my job, as I understand it, to uncover and then promptly neutralize threats to our nation. It is a diplomat’s job to make talk. It is a warrior’s job to make war. I was doing my fucking job.
Bart and Viktor Grinkov were walking back to the Caddie like old friends. I didn’t like that at all.
“I’m going to see WTF,” I said to Wonder, handing him the cellular phone. “You guys keep an eye on the colonel.”
I cracked the door open. “Bart,” I called, “I’m coming out for a sit-rep.”
The look on his face told me that he didn’t like that idea at all. He tried to wave me off. I ignored him. I strode toward the limo. One of Grinkov’s hoodskis got in my way. I took him by the throat—my right thumb and forefinger pinched his windpipe until his eye popped—and moved him aside. The roguish expression on my face dissuaded him from any further protest. The DSS agents let me pass through their line without incident—I even got a friendly wink from one of ’em.
I didn’t bother with formalities. “What’s the score?” I asked Bart.
He looked at me with the sort of expression that maharajas reserve for untouchables. “You have caused a great embarrassment to the Government of the United States,” Bart began. He turned away from me, and spoke in rapid Russian to Viktor Grinkov.
The Ivan grunted, then opened the thick leather portfolio while Bart extracted his three-hundred-dollar bureaucrat’s fountain pen from an inside pocket so he could sign the thick wad of papers that sat inside.
I put my hand on the DCM’s shoulder.
He turned, and actually lifted my fingers off his bespokeclad shoulder. “What is it?” he snapped.
“I want to know what the fuck is going on.”
“Minister Grinkov and I have negotiated an agreement acceptable to both of our governments,” Bart said slowly, as if talking to an idiot. “You and your men are being PNG’d—which is to say the six of you are being declared personae non grata by the Government of the Russian Federation.”
“That’s horse shit.”
“Perhaps. But it is a fact,” the DCM said. “It has been further agreed that you and your men will be expelled from the Russian Federation directly.”
“But I still have work to—”
He cut me off. “You have no say in this, Captain. It is a diplomatic matter, not a military affair. I have already been in touch with your superiors in Washington—Rear Admiral Prescott to be precise. He has assured me that whatever I choose to do, he will support. Now, if you please …”
Bart turned his back to me, slipped on a pair of tortoise shell-framed half glasses and examined the fistful of Cyrillic pages, which had embossed seals and ribbons and other diplomatic garbage attached to them. He read each document in the wad with painstaking concentration, signed and/or initialed where indicated, then handed them back page by page to the Grinkov as soon as he’d finished his autographing.
The Ivan examined each signature closely, wrinkling his nose as if the ink smelled like sour manure. When Bart had finished, he countersigned three of the papers, and handed them back to Bart. The rest were stored in the leather folder, which Grinkov snapped shut with a flourish. The Russian held his left hand out. The Zil’s driver produced a worn, brown leather briefcase, which he handed to the Internal Affairs minister. The folder was slipped inside and returned to the chauffeur, who stashed it on the limo’s backseat.
Grinkov turned toward me. He did not look happy. “You have caused me great problems,” he said in English. “I will not forget.”
“It’s been nice meeting you, too,” I said.<
br />
The Ivan put two fat fingers into his mouth and whistled, as if he were calling a cab. The OMON shooters stood down. I ran my night-vision monocular over the roofline. The snipers had disappeared
I turned toward the doorway where Wonder and Gator had Colonel Rolex by the collar.
“Let him go.” I said “And let’s get the fuck outta here—despite what these assholes say, we still have some work to do.”
Viktor Grinkov and his hoodskis escorted us back to the embassy. We surprised them when I had the Silverado in which I was riding stop by our hotel, so we could grab our luggage and pick up our steel lockbox.
When Viktor saw the box, he went bananas, screaming at Bart that it was obviously evidence that belonged to the Russian Federation, and he wanted it—now. Frankly, if it hadn’t been for the regional security officer and the DSS shooters, I think Bart would have tried to force me to hand the fucking thing over (fat chance of that, friends). But the RSO protested—loudly—to Viktor that, as anyone could see, the box had been sealed with a pair of stamped lead POGUS—that’s Property of the Government of the United States—security seals, and that it was, therefore, official U.S. government property, and that any attempt to appropriate it would result in physical, not diplomatic action.
That hurdle passed, we continued on to the embassy gates. Once there, the Zil and the Zhigulis stopped well short of the entrance. I turned just in time to see Viktor’s tinted window slide down and, a dour expression on his face, watch as our American convoy drove safely inside.
Safe, of course, is a relative term. We pulled up in front of the main chancery entryway. I climbed out of the Silverado and headed for the doors, watching Viktor and his ugly Zhiguli crew watch me. Bart jumped out of his Caddie and actually sprinted, so he’d get to the doorway before me. But his hand brushed me as he passed, and he screeched to a stop, then recoiled physically as if he’d touched a leper.
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