Another Man's Freedom Fighter

by Joseph Carter

  The still steaming bigos in his mess kit was light on meat. His father used to call this poor man’s variant hunter’s bigos because the meat was still out in the woods. It was always a good laugh for the family, Michał could not help but smile a little smile. Perishable goods were scarce in this war, just like in any other war before it. The cooked cabbage with mushrooms carried a faint aroma of kiełbasa and bacon. Heck, it’s warm and full of vitamins. No need to complain, Michał thought.

  ✽✽✽

  The bedsheets were fresh. Svetlana loved the smell of fresh sheets. Anja, whom she had been seeing for a few weeks now, lay next to her. The young woman’s firm, naked breasts moved up and down below the thin fabric of the sheets. Svetlana watched her wrinkle-free face framed by blond hair. The hacker could not sleep. While the vegetarian lasagna had been great and the after-dinner sex spectacular, they did not help her clear her mind.

  She had to constantly think about what she and Mark were getting into. Together with Dernov, who was probably at the top of the FSB’s most wanted list, they would try to bring down the most powerful and most murderous men on the planet. These men had hundreds of billions of reasons to want the unlikely trio of freedom fighters dead and silent.

  And they would not be the first to be silenced or killed in retaliation. Dubov, Politovskaya, Domnikov, Kholodov, Slabynko, Litvinenko, Magnitsky, Berezovsky, Nemtsov, Skripal, the list goes on and on. It was absolutely possible that it would be elongated with Dernov, Belyakova, and Sanders.

  ✽✽✽

  “Mlada, it’s got to be Mlada,” Bravlin whispered. “Holy shit. I’m going to bust the infamous Mlada.”

  Bravlin went to work. He knew it would take a while. Mlada was no amateur, her almost brilliant intrusion into one of the best-protected systems in the world was proof of that.

  Purposeful footsteps closed in on Smagin from behind. He turned around and saw Colonel Popov storm toward him. At first, he was slightly scared. Then Popov raised his hand with a piece of paper in it.

  “Change of plans. You will focus on finding this subject before you resume your other tasks,” he said and slammed the paper on the desk.

  “Pyotr Alekseyevich Dernov? He is in Berlin?” Smagin asked surprised.

  Popov nodded and waved his index finger at the paper. “He is. FSB in Saint Petersburg have arrested any and all known contacts of Dernov’s. This piece of information came from his former roommate. After a day and half a night of tender loving care, he confessed to having spoken to Dernov and that he had hinted at being in Berlin. He’s together with a woman. This man called her Mlada. Maybe a girlfriend.”

  “No, not a girlfriend. I know the name. She is a ghost but a very prominent ghost in the hacker world,” Smagin explained. “She is something like the Flying Dutchman of hackers. Some claim to have seen her and worked with her or against her. But others claim she doesn’t exist because no woman could be that good. And she’s good.”

  “Find them both and any possible collaborators. We are tasked to eliminate any threat to the Russian Federation, and this man and this TLKS app have made the top of the list.”

  “Yes, Comrade Colonel,” Smagin said conveniently forgetting to tell Popov about his earlier discovery. Admitting to the Vpoiskakh being compromised would bring himself and the admins into serious trouble. Him for lying about the way the Polish insurgents had been warned about the imminent raids, the admins for their negligent work.

  He wrote a short update into the chat group telling the others what the problem was and how to eliminate it. He was sure that there was no need for more forensic work as his new orders nicely coincided with the need to identify and find the intruder.

  Then he went to work. He started with the file on Dernov and this roommate’s interrogation protocol.

  “Dernov, Mlada, and any possible collaborators,” he mumbled. “Khorosho, Comrade Colonel.”

  ✽✽✽

  The lights went out on the top floor of Motzstraße number 1 sometime after 3 a.m., Pyotr Dernov had just committed a last bug fix to the TLKS Git repository and was now content with his work. In the morning, he would take his integration team into confidence, and they would launch the most unusual update to TLKS ever.

  Mlada had called the information they had compiled on the Russian kleptocracy a bomb. That’s a fitting name, Dernov contemplated. If they could make every ordinary Russian, no matter what his politics, station in life, age or gender, see the full extent of the robbery that had been going on in their country since 1991, that would make the Russian soul explode with rage. The Orange Revolution in Ukraine, the Arab Spring, Syria, and the Euro-Maidan flashed through Dernov’s mind. This greatest leak of all times would change the history of his country, maybe the world. It was a dangerous bet they were making. They bet against all odds that the most dangerous robber barons, the Russian mob, ex-KGB assassins, former and active military leaders, FSB, SVR, and GRU nomenklatura would be brought to their knees by factory workers, administrative assistants, students, pensioners, peasants, and other folks that only wanted to make a decent living and be free to speak their mind.

  The last thought on Dernov’s mind before he fell asleep was dedicated to the thumb drive that dangled from a necklace around Svetlana’s slim neck and the delicious cleavage that it rested in.

  ✽✽✽

  Svetlana’s right hand was tightly wrapped around the silver pendant on her necklace. It had the shape and look of a lipstick, but it was slightly smaller. She did not manage to shut off her brain. Her mind ran calculations of what would happen within the next twenty-four hours, what would happen to her country, and the world after they had dropped the bomb. Syria, Arab Spring, Maidan? No, this will be much bigger, she thought.

  “Fuck, I need to do something,” she whispered to herself. She got up. Anja turned around in her sleep but did not awake.

  ✽✽✽

  “Where are you with Dernov, Comrade Captain?” Popov asked. Smagin turned around in his chair to face the approaching colonel.

  “I’ve found him, Comrade Colonel. Also, one suspected collaborator and I have a good lead on the girl. In ten minutes I can upload the target profiles into Vpoiskakh.”

  “Why not right now?”

  “An, an, an unscheduled maintenance, Comrade,” Smagin stuttered.

  Popov gave him a look.

  “Khorosho, prepare everything. I will wake Shashka and the raid crews. We will apprehend these people before breakfast,” Popov said and left. He turned around in the middle of the room and shouted over to Smagin. “Well done, Comrade. You will brief our operators in five minutes.”

  ✽✽✽

  Svetlana carefully closed the kitchen door. She took the electric kettle from its cradle and filled it with water. She always thought better with some tea in her system, Russian Caravan chay preferably. Unfortunately, she had not yet educated Anja to always have this blend in the house, let alone having a samovar to properly prepare it.

  She opened her MacBook while the kettle did its simple job. Her phone lay next to the laptop, and before the kettle clicked off, it chirped, and an app opened up. Her health check of their life insurance had sounded its alarm. Her hack into the Vpoiskakh had been detected and taken offline.

  ✽✽✽

  Smagin cleared his throat. Standing in front of over twenty mean-looking, bulky Spetsnaz was not a comfortable situation for the short, skinny man.

  “We have identified three targets,” he started his presentation and pointed at the screen that had three passport photos on it. He clicked on the first.

  “Pyotr Alekseyevich Dernov, founder of the TLKS messenger and a so-called civil rights activist. Suspected of supporting the Polish insurgents and enemies of the state in the rodina. I could determine his location to be at Motzstraße, there is only one apartment for short-term rent in this building, the top-floor one.”

  “How high,” one of the Spetsnaz asked.

  “Fifth floor,” Smagin said. He then went back to the
page with the three photos and clicked on the second.

  “Svetlana Ivanovna Belyakova,” Smagin said. Wolf whistles went through the crowd.

  “Yes, she is stunning,” Smagin could not help to comment. “A Russian national, she started collaborating with so-called civil rights leaders while she was still a trainee at the Moscow State Academy of Choreography. She quit ballet at some point and became a hacker. Her handle, her codename, is Mlada. My personal opinion is she collaborates with Dernov against the rodina. FSB could identify her during an interrogation of a known associate of Dernov’s. I am still closing in on her location at this time, it is somewhere in West Berlin.”

  He clicked on the third and final photo.

  “Mark Sanders, no patronymic on file,” Smagin continued. “Lives off Senefelderplatz in a pretty nice condominium. A failed entrepreneur in digital security. He was removed from his company by his co-founders for unknown reasons. German national. We do not know his role or the nature of his affiliation with Belyakova and Dernov, but he came up during an analysis of the geo-profiles of the first two subjects. He has spent considerable time with Belyakova and also on two occasions with Dernov.”

  “The captain is done now,” Popov ended Smagin’s briefing for him. “Three targets, all civilian, no known training or firearms. Anna, Boris, Vasily squad will move out, all others will remain here as backup. I want frequent updates by radio in addition to SemFoNi.”

  Shashka confirmed.

  The men all got up and dispersed to the other rooms on the floor. Anna, Boris, and Vasily squad went down the stairs to their cars.

  “The profiles are uploaded now,” Smagin said. He had just received confirmation by the admins that they had eliminated the malicious code from the system. The upload was only a matter of a few clicks.

  ✽✽✽

  It was pure coincidence that Mark Sanders was awake. He had woken up at 3:43 a.m. and when he had not managed to go back to sleep within twenty minutes, he decided to quietly check on Xandi. He looked into the nursery from the door and heard his son breathe.

  Then the phone’s ringtone ripped through the silent night. Mark went to fetch it from the sideboard. He swiped to accept Svetlana’s call.

  “We’re fucked, get out,” she half-shouted.

  “What do you mean?” he asked dumbfoundedly. This was a call in the night but not the automated one that was supposed to be their tripwire, their life insurance.

  “They voided our insurance policy. I have no way of knowing what they know and what they’re going to do next.”

  “I’ll wake Ofelia and we’ll GTFO. Better safe than sorry.”

  “Exactly my line of thinking. I’ll get moving as well, meet you at Point Alpha,” Svetlana said as she put her AirPods into her ears, and packed up the computer.

  “You need to get Dernov, you’re closer,” she added and ended the call before Mark could debate this idea.

  Mark jogged toward the bedroom. Ofelia was already awake and on her feet.

  “I only heard GTFO,” she said. “Is it what I think it is?”

  “Not exactly, kochanie. Svetlana is just worried because her hack has been detected. But with all the things going on we need to play it safe and get moving. Best case, we’ll be back tomorrow night or Sunday. Worst case, well you know.”

  “Actually, I don’t know, but this is not the time. You get dressed, I’ll get Xandi and his backpack. You take the go-bag and we’re leaving in five,” she shot out orders like a general.

  Mark stood there for a second, stupefied by his wife’s focus and determination then put on his jeans.

  ✽✽✽

  “Tsentr for Boris, standby for location of target Belyakova. Tsentr for Vasily, report,” Shashka mumbled into his handset while he watched the dot on the map close in to Senefelderplatz.

  “Tsentr, this is Vasily. Reaching the object in two minutes, Comrade Sergeant Major,” the voice on the other end reported.

  “Tsentr for Anna squad, report,” he asked the squad tasked with Dernov’s capture.

  “We had to take a detour because a street was closed for construction,” the voice said apologetically. “We were lost for a few minutes before the navigation found us a new route. Estimated time of arrival fifteen minutes.”

  “Fucking Berlin streets, full of potholes and pop-up road repairs. So much for German efficiency,” Popov grunted.

  ✽✽✽

  The Sanders family were all set to go in under five minutes. Xandi was a little upset to be awoken and stuffed into a slack, tan-colored onesie. Ofelia carried him on her arm and his go bag on her back.

  Mark grabbed the black canvas bag and made a mental run-through of their escape. Get out, get in the car, pop on the fake plates, and drive like hell. The only deviation from their rehearsed exfiltration was to go fetch Dernov from Motzstraße first. Mark hated the thought of going south instead of going north. Hamburg was Svetlana’s and his pre-arranged meeting point, Point Alpha.

  ✽✽✽

  “Tsentr, this is Vasily. We are outside the target object, preparing to go in,” the man in the passenger seat of the black SUV spoke into his handset. He looked over to the driver who held up an electric lock pick. Both nodded at each other and got out of the car.

  Forty-Seven

  Mark Sanders opened the big black bag sitting on the tiny bench, pulled out the Glock 17 that rested on top of the two document pouches. He released the magazine, checked its contents, it was fully loaded. He slid it back in and pulled the slide. The distinctive click announced a round being pushed into the chamber.

  Ofelia looked at him as he put the gun back into the bag.

  “You go first, straight to the car. You don’t stop for nothing and nobody. If you reach the car before me, you take the driver’s seat. If I don’t follow, you drive away,” Mark went through their rehearsed exfiltration contingencies.

  She nodded, and they left their home.

  Five floors down, the elevator doors opened with a loud swoosh. The Sanders family crossed the courtyard of their building and entered the elegant Vorderhaus hallway with its marble and oak décor and large mirrors. The double doors facing the courtyard were heavy. Mark pulled one open with his left hand and let Ofelia and Xandi pass through.

  A split-second later, the opposing streetside door, ten paces away, slowly creaked open. Two large men in black suits with shaved heads and a mean look on their faces entered the hallway.

  Ofelia immediately sped up, cradled Xandi closer to her chest, and brushed past the two meatloaves through the still open front door. Nothing and nobody stops a Polish mother.

  Carrying the canvas bag in his right hand, Mark tried to follow his wife and get away with it like her. He could not.

  “Sanders, Mark?” One of the goons asked stopping him with the left hand against his chest. The beefy man stood at Mark’s ten o’clock with his frying pan of a hand on Mark’s chest.

  “Excuse me?” Mark asked with a firm voice and made a half-step backward.

  “Are you Sanders, Mark?” the man asked again with a noticeable Russian accent. The other goon stayed at the front door blocking the way out.

  “I am,” Mark said. “What’s it to you? I need to take my wife and son to baby swimming.”

  “At four in the morning? With big bag like that?” the goon raised his eyebrows.

  “Crazy, I know,” Mark said shaking his head. He turned slightly and juggled the bag over into his left hand. He held it in front of his body while number one was now on his eleven o’clock and number two on his two o’clock. The zipper of the bag was open. “You won’t believe what my wife gets me into all the time. Prenzlmoms, I’m telling you.”

  While he was making a scene with his voice, his eyes, and his shaking head he reached into the bag.

  Pop, pop. The canvas exploded outward. Two bullets ripped into number one’s chest from less than a yard away. His white shirt and the black suit jacket both now had holes in them. He stumbled backward, coughed, and
steadied himself against the wall.

  Number two, the one at the door, immediately made a step forward and reached into his jacket. Mark spun his whole body clockwise.

  Pop, pop. The holes in the bag merged into one big rip. Number two stumbled backward like his comrade. With his right arm in the way, the first 9x19 mm had ripped through his radius. The second had hit him in the chest. He screamed and held his forearm with his left hand, the pain brought him to his knees. But he was conscious, he was not dead, he tried to pull his pistol from the shoulder holster.

  Mark dropped the bag, made one sideways step, and revealed the silenced Glock. He pulled the trigger.

  Pop, pop. Number two’s head spun back and hit the front door. A splat of blood and brains sprayed against the glass and the dark wood.

  Mark turned back counterclockwise and realized that number one was still standing. He reached into his jacket.

  Pop, pop. Mark sent another double-tap in the goon’s general direction. One went past his right ear and shattered one of the four large mirrors. The other hit him in the neck. The large man spun around a quarter turn and back, then looked at Sanders incredulously. Blood spattered from his carotid with every remaining pump of his heart. He sank to his knees, then fell on his face. The pool of blood widened around his head.

  Mark stood there with a similarly incredulous look on his face. He picked up the black bag now lightly sprinkled dark-red and made for the door. Then he turned around and looked at the building’s security camera, which he himself had advocated to install. Considering all the problems he had just created for himself by shooting two men with an unregistered gun live on camera, he dropped the bag again.