by Brad Thor
Casey didn’t bother turning around to look at either of them. She just took two fingers, pointed at her eyes, and then turned the fingers and pointed out the windshield toward the warehouse. They got the message and the car fell silent once again.
Ten minutes later, the garage door rolled up.
“Whoa,” said Cooper as four trucks poured out and went in different directions. “This guy Abressian is taking no chances at all, is he?”
“No, he’s not,” replied Casey as they watched the trucks exit and the garage door roll down.
Minutes passed and Casey could sense anxiety out of the backseat. Before the peanut gallery could say anything, she said, “Wait for it.”
It was the longest twenty minutes of their lives, but sure enough the garage door rolled back up and out drove a silver G Class Mercedes SUV. Bianchi had been telling them the truth. He’d also been right that they would very likely run the same scam they had the first time they’d accepted a shipment from his Ljubljana warehouse.
“Those sneaky bastards,” said Rhodes.
“What a shell game,” admitted Cooper, a little awe in her voice. “Load the bombs in the SUV and load the SUV in the back of one of the semis and then keep people guessing.”
Casey waited until the Mercedes had passed them and put their car in gear. “Now let’s see where they take us.”
CHAPTER 55
ISTRIAN PENINSULA
CROATIA
As they neared the outskirts of the Croatian town of Pula, Rob Hutton told the team to back off.
“We’ve got them via satellite,” he said. “Unless they drive into a submarine, we’re going to know exactly where they are transporting their cargo.”
It had taken less than three hours to drive from Slovenia to Croatia’s Dalmatian coast, also known as the new European Riviera. It was a stunning mosaic of stone buildings and whitewashed houses with red-tiled roofs.
“So now what do we do?” asked Cooper.
“According to Hutton,” said Casey, “we sit tight here while they decide what our next move will be.”
“Where’s here?”
Rhodes was already pulling up information on her iPhone. “Pula, Croatia,” she stated, “known for its winemaking, fishing, shipbuilding, and tourism.”
“What’s it say about men with full sets of teeth?” asked Ericsson as she leaned in.
“It says Pula attracts large numbers of German, Scandinavian, Italian, and other tourists through early fall,” she replied. “This could be very good for you.”
Julie laughed. “The hell with me. I’m thinking about Coop.”
“Oh, yes,” agreed Megan. “Pula is all about Coopah!”
Cooper threw up her hands. “All I want is a hot shower and an ice bucket full of beer. Maybe some pizza if we can find it.”
“We’ll find it,” said Casey. “I don’t think the powers that be back home are going to have this thing spun up for at least another twenty-four to forty-eight hours.”
The other women nodded in agreement.
“Megs, can you pick out a hotel for us?”
“Already done,” she replied. “Tonight, Uncle Sugar will be putting us up at the Hotel Histria.”
Casey shook her head. “No way. Remember that fleabag we stayed at in Thailand, the Fallopian?”
“That’s not what it was called. It was the Phillipian.”
“And this one sounds dangerously like the Hotel Hysterectomy. Pick another.”
“Remind me again, country girl, who the snobs are in this crowd?” asked Rhodes.
“The Histria looks like a nice hotel,” stated Ericsson.
“Actually, it looks like a very nice hotel,” added Cooper as Rhodes showed her a picture of it.
“All right, all right,” Casey conceded. “The Hotel Hysterectomy it is. It better be good, Megs.”
“Frommer’s gives it five rusted Yugos,” replied Rhodes. “With that kind of endorsement, it’s gotta be good.”
The girls laughed and navigated their way to the hotel. At the front desk, they pushed Cooper into charming the manager into an upgrade, and she actually succeeded in doing it. They were given a stunning two-bedroom suite overlooking the ocean.
“This beats the hell out of Tuzla,” commented Megan when they were shown inside.
Cooper wasted no time calling down for beer and Casey drew a bath. Ericsson, ever the news junkie, flipped on the TV and found an English-language cable news station.
Rhodes stepped out onto the balcony and called back inside to Casey, “They’ve got plenty of boat slips here. You should have Scot sail up. I see a nice place near the beach with shallow water and a bunch of sharp rocks where you can drown Riley if you’d like.”
Casey walked over, slid the sliding glass door shut, and locked Megan on the balcony.
She caught Ericsson looking at her. “You want some?” she threatened with a smile.
Ericsson shrugged. “That’s okay,” she said. “I never liked her much anyway.”
“Good,” replied Casey as she walked into the bathroom and closed the door.
Ericsson went ahead and let Megan back in.
“Some people,” said Rhodes as she stepped back inside.
Cooper lay down on the couch and was asleep before her beer even got there. Rhodes, who never seemed to run out of energy, went downstairs to look around while Ericsson stayed in the room and held the fort.
When Megan came back, Cooper had awakened from her nap and Casey was done with her bath. They each pulled a beer from the bucket and shared a toast.
Gretchen was on her second sip when Hutton called. “So much for downtime,” she said as she reached over and picked up her phone from the coffee table.
“The bombs were delivered to a walled compound about twelve kilometers south of you,” said Hutton. “We believe it belongs to Armen Abressian.”
“Do you think the equipment from the Kammler facility could be there too?” she asked.
“That’s what we need you to find out.”
“How’s his security?”
Hutton paused before replying. “Just the little bit we’ve been able to pick up from the satellites, it’s pretty sophisticated—cameras, laser motion detectors, even a dog team working the perimeter. Overall, we estimate that the compound has a twenty- to thirty-man security force that’s heavily armed, probably with paramilitary training.”
“Is that all?” Casey asked. “What happened? Was the moat-diggers union on strike the day they installed their security?”
“Gretchen, listen,” said Hutton. “We figure we could help you get around some of the intrusion measures, but not all of them. Not without more time. But based on all of the activity we’re seeing, we think they’re getting ready to launch those bombs. We need to move on them right away. Tonight.”
“You want us to hit a walled compound with twenty to thirty heavily armed men, dogs, and electronic sensors and do it tonight?” she replied.
“Yes.”
“Even if we had weeks to surveil the place and piece together how we were getting in, we’d still need to come up with one hell of a diversion.”
“Tell your team to get ready,” replied Hutton. “I think we may be able to get you your diversion.”
CHAPTER 56
When Casey and Rhodes arrived at the run-down apartment building, they saw several high-end luxury vehicles already parked in front.
“There’s nothing better than blending in, is there?” asked Megan.
Gretchen shook her head. “Russian mafia. What do you expect?”
Two large men in cheap suits with fake Rolexes took entirely too much time patting the ladies down. “You know, I normally get dinner first,” quipped Rhodes.
Casey had had enough as well. Turning, she gave the man behind her a surprisingly good shove, forcing him back on his heels. “Party’s over. Where’s your boss?”
The men got the message.
Casey and Rhodes stood on the cracked tiles of the
foul-smelling lobby as one of the Russians spoke into his radio. When a response came back, he looked at Casey and said, “You upstairs now.”
The women walked up to the fourth floor where two more men, cradling shotguns, were sitting outside an apartment door.
As the ladies approached, the men stood up, walked over to them, and indicated that they would be frisked again.
“Too bad Cooper didn’t come,” Megan whispered. “This is more action than she’s seen all year.”
Gretchen was starting to get angry. “Nyet,” she said, holding up her hand. “This is business. Go get Luka. Now.”
Whether the men understood English didn’t matter. They definitely understood her tone. One of the Russians stepped back and knocked on the apartment door. There was a grunt from the other side and it was opened. The Russian then stepped back and gestured for the women to enter.
The interior was just as decrepit as the rest of the building. Paint was peeling from the walls and a sour odor pervaded the entire apartment. Neither Casey nor Cooper could tell if it was coming from something that had overstayed its welcome in the fridge or from the twenty-five Russian men crammed into the tiny flat.
The Russians were in various states of undress. Some wore undershirts, some no shirts at all. Many had tattoos, and they were all in exceptional shape. Weapons of all sizes and calibers were scattered around the apartment. There were several metallic briefcases along the wall, which were probably crammed full of cash. Sitting at a table in the kitchen, the ladies were introduced to the man they had come to see, Luka Mikhailov—heir to his uncle Viktor Mikhailov’s crime syndicate.
They shook hands and Mikhailov barked at two of his men to get up from the table so that Casey and Rhodes could sit down.
“We’re sorry for your loss,” said Casey.
Luka was younger than they had expected; somewhere in his late twenties. He appeared more polished than his colleagues and came off as more management than mobster.
“Thank you,” he replied, as he studied his guests. Leaning back in his chair he flipped open the refrigerator door. “Would you like something to drink?”
“No thank you,” said Casey.
Mikhailov allowed the door to swing shut and brought his chair legs back to the floor. “Apparently, we both have powerful people we answer to,” he said.
Gretchen understood what he meant. According to Hutton, Jack Walsh had quietly reached out to some of his colleagues in the Russian intelligence world. Through some subtle pressure, Luka Mikhailov had been persuaded to agree to this meeting.
“We also have a common enemy,” replied Casey. “Armen Abressian.”
The name obviously meant something to the Russian, as the expression on his face instantly changed. It was only a flash, but Casey had caught it.
“Why would you think that Armen Abressian is my enemy?” he asked.
“Because if he had killed my uncle, that’s exactly what he would be to me.”
“How do you know he killed Viktor? Do you have proof?”
Now came the hard part. Everything would depend on how badly Luka Mikhailov wanted to believe the story she was about to tell him. “Shortly before your uncle was killed, the Central Intelligence Agency intercepted a phone call between the men responsible for his murder and a man named Thomas Sanders.”
There was another flash of recognition on the Russian’s face.
“I take it you know this man?” asked Casey.
Luka nodded.
“The CIA also intercepted an earlier call from Armen Abressian to Sanders, during which he authorized the murder of your uncle.”
She could see the Russian’s anger building.
“I would like to hear this phone call,” he said.
Casey shook her head. “I’m sorry. The call has been classified by my government.”
“Why?”
“We’re pursuing Abressian on another matter that I’m not free to discuss.” As she let that sink in, she said, “Our Treasury Department is also now tracing a large sum of money we believe Abressian moved in order to pay your uncle’s killers.”
Luka Mikhailov remained silent.
“We also believe the AK47s and the RPG used in the attack were provided by a known arms dealer connected to Abressian, named Nino Bianchi.”
Casey felt no remorse in lying to the man. He was a scumbag underworld figure who had probably brought more misery to more people than she would ever know. If he could be manipulated into doing something useful, then so be it. With the water sufficiently chummed, she then sat back, kept her mouth shut, and watched to see if he’d bite.
Another man, who appeared to be a consigliere of sorts, bent over and whispered in Mikhailov’s ear.
Luka listened and, after several moments of reflection, looked at Casey and said, “Tell me what you would like us to do.”
CHAPTER 57
Rob Hutton had made sure the women had all the equipment they needed. He had also chosen quite an interesting delivery method. All they had needed to pick it up was a boat, which Luka Mikhailov had been more than happy to provide.
They piloted the vessel several miles out into the sea, where Casey used a flashlight to signal the aircraft Hutton had sent in. The gear was then thrown out the plane’s door and dropped into the water a quarter of a mile away. The women fished the big, floating bag out of the sea and headed back to port.
Back in the hotel room, they sorted through the equipment and went over the details of the operation one final time.
According to the satellite imagery, the compound consisted of nine buildings. Neither Luka nor any of his men had ever been inside, so they couldn’t provide any additional insight. The team would have to move fast.
Hutton had made their rules of engagement perfectly clear. Any and all persons encountered at the compound were to be considered hostile and the team was authorized to deal with them accordingly.
Their objective was also made perfectly clear. If the Kammler Device was anywhere in the compound, the United States wanted it. They also wanted any documentation, research, data, or personnel associated with it. If possible, they were to take the men known as Thomas Sanders and Armen Abressian alive. Finally, they were to secure the EMP bombs.
It was a tall order, not the kind of clear-cut, get-in-and-get-out assignments they liked to be given, but Athena was part of Delta, and this was the type of mission Delta was often given. If it was easy, the saying went, there’d be no need to give it to Delta.
Standing by, the team had two F-16 fighters from Aviano Air Base aloft over the Adriatic to lend support. As a last resort, Casey and Company were authorized to call in airstrikes to level the entire compound. Only the United States would be allowed to leave with the Kammler technology. Should the F-16s have to violate Croatian airspace and engage targets on Croatian soil, the Defense Department would figure out a way to pick up the diplomatic pieces later.
At 3:00 A.M., the Athena Team left their hotel and drove toward the tip of the Istrian peninsula.
In a copse of trees, just south of the compound, they hid the car and unpacked their gear.
It was a clear night with a bright moon. The women used camouflage paint sticks, or combat Maybelline, as they liked to call it, to mute their faces.
When they were all suited up and had checked their radios and weapons, Casey gave the command for them to move out.
The team crept silently through the darkness and approached the compound from the southwest. It was perched on a high hill and they had picked the most difficult spot for their breach. The southern edge of the former monastery sat on a craggy, almost sheer rock face sixty feet high.
Because this side of the compound was so inaccessible, Hutton and the team back at Bragg believed that it would have the fewest security resources devoted to it. Because of its dramatic view, it was also where the monastery’s church had been built. From the huge generators arrayed outside to the amount of activity they saw coming and going, it appeared to be
the nexus of everything that was happening at the compound.
Cooper was the best climber on the team, so she was in charge of picking out the course they’d take up to the top. After identifying the easiest and fastest routes, she immediately discounted them. Had she been in charge of security for the compound, that’s exactly where she would have planted intrusion sensors, or worse, antipersonnel devices.
Selecting her first handhold, she grasped a small outcropping of rock, dug her boot into a narrow fissure, and led her team toward their objective.
The women moved like demons in some medieval nightmare scaling a castle wall. Hand over hand they climbed, never slipping, never slowing down. While things often went bad in operations, sometimes they went well, and this was one of those times. It was as if they had climbed this piece of rock a thousand times before.
Though none of them was foolish enough to jinx the operation by saying so, they all felt that it was a good indicator of how their assignment was going to go. That was until they had almost reached the top and they heard the explosion.
Luka Mikhailov and his men had jumped the gun.
CHAPTER 58
DENVER
Dean Pence put his hand on his partner’s shoulder. “Okay,” he said. “Are you ready for this?”
Ben nodded. “Yeah, I’m ready.”
“I’ll see you up there, then.”
Ben looked down at the map Vicki had drawn for him. He’d only been to Arapaho National Forrest a handful of times and definitely never to the area where she was leading him.
Shouldering his pack, he began walking. The fact that he wasn’t looking forward to what was about to happen probably had a lot to do with his slower-than-normal pace.
He’d made the biggest mistake of his career, but now he was going to try to make it right. Once the arrest happened, he knew that what he had done might be used as a way to embarrass the FBI, but those chips would have to fall wherever they fell. He had an opportunity to do the right thing, the professional thing, and that was what he was going to do.