The Kremlin Phoenix

  “Yes. You took money. You give it back for file on Colonel Jack Balard, US Air Force,” Zhurav mumbled nervously. “But, why would we have such a file?”

  “You’ve got it. Now give me your direct phone number?”

  “My number?” Zhurav stammered. “I don’t know anything about this. I’m not a field agent, I’m just an administrator.”

  “Good, I picked the right man.” Craig had been watching the Russian Embassy, looking for the meekest bureaucrat to contact for several hours before Zhurav had appeared. “Today’s your lucky day. I deal with you only, no one else. Give me your card. Now!”

  “In my pocket,” Zhurav said fragilely, then slowly pulled his wallet out and retrieved a small white embossed card, which he passed over his shoulder to Craig. The attaché’s name and number were written in English on one side and Cyrillic on the other.

  “Veniamin Zhurav,” Craig said, sounding out the name. “I’ll call you tomorrow. If you don’t have what I want, I’ll disappear, and no one will ever find me – or the money – again! Do you understand?”

  “Yes.”

  “Call them tonight. Tell them.” Craig took a step toward the door. “I’m leaving now. Count to a hundred before you move.”

  Zhurav swallowed, then took a breath. “Adin . . . dva . . . tri . . . chitiri . . . pyat . . .”

  Craig slipped out of the front door, slid the carving knife into his coat, and hurried off into the dark toward the train station.

  * * * *

  The Russian embassy car idled in The Mall, parked alongside St James Park with its indicator light blinking. Zhurav sat nervously in the back seat with his brief case on his knees. He’d immediately passed on Craig’s message to the appropriate Embassy authorities, triggering a flood of signals between Moscow and London that continued late into the night. Nogorev had taken control of Zhurav shortly before dawn, monitoring his calls and telling him what to say when Craig had called to set up a meeting. Craig had chosen to make the exchange in front of Buckingham Palace because it was one of the most highly guarded locations in Britain, and if the exchange went badly, he could call for help from an army of security people.

  Nogorev sat in the front seat of the car nursing the small metal case Viktor Kaskhov, the SVR’s London Resident, had given him at the start of the operation.

  Kaskhov, a tall well groomed man, sat in the driver’s seat. He picked up the mike and radioed his team, “We’re ready. Report any sign of him.”

  “He was a fool to choose this place!” Nogorev said. “It’s easy to hide our team amongst so many people!” He turned to Zhurav. “Just walk to the end of the road and wait. He will come to you.”

  Zhurav nodded nervously. He’d barely slept the previous night. Memories of the knife against his throat had jarred him awake every time he dozed off. Now, tiredness and fear were blending into a toxic mix that made him increasingly unreliable.

  The radio crackled to life. “I’m in position,” Azyev, one of the SVR team members, reported from the second vehicle. He was parked in Buckingham Gate Road, barely two minutes drive from the meeting point.

  “I have visual contact with the target,” a woman’s voice sounded over the radio. “He’s in Green Park, heading for the Victoria Memorial.”

  She appeared to be a kindly, grandmotherly type, out walking her small dog. She wore a tiny microphone embedded in a broach and a hearing aid that doubled as a short range radio receiver. In her purse, she carried a copy of Craig’s driver’s license photograph being used by the US media and a small pistol for which she had instructor level proficiency. Other operatives patrolling both sides of the road began moving towards the section of Constitution Hill road that Craig would have to cross to reach the monument.

  “Remember,” Nogorev said to Zhurav, “don’t look at him. He knows you haven’t seen his face. If you show recognition, he’ll run.”

  Zhurav’s fingers tapped nervously on his case as he nodded, silently rehearsing his orders. Nogorev and Kaskhov exchanged worried looks. Zhurav was not the sort of man either would have chosen to work with, but that was why Craig had selected him.

  “Go now. We’ll be watching you all the way,” Nogorev said.

  Zhurav took a deep breath, then climbed out of the car and headed west along The Mall towards Buckingham Palace and the marble and gold Victoria Memorial standing in front of the gates.

  “I see Zhurav,” a male operative whispered over the radio.

  “He’s too tense,” Nogorev observed as he drew a small gun-like object from the metal case on his lap.

  “Balard will expect him to be afraid,” Kaskhov said. “Zhurav’s fear might make Balard overconfident.”

  “He’s got a weapon,” a young female voice crackled over the radio. “It’s under his left arm.”

  “It’s probably the knife,” Kaskhov said. “He couldn’t get a gun without help.”

  Nogorev absently balanced the unusual weapon in his right hand. “He won’t get a chance to use it, whatever it is.”

  “The target has seen Zhurav,” the young woman reported. “He’s moving towards the road. Start your run now.”

  Kaskhov edged the car around into The Mall, giving Nogorev his first glimpse of Craig walking quickly out of the park.

  “Faster, don’t let him get across the road!” Nogorev snapped.

  * * * *

  Craig crossed the sidewalk and darted to the middle of the road near the corner of the fence surrounding Buckingham Palace. The sight of uniformed guards inside the palace grounds, and police officers strolling outside the high fence, reassured him. He watched the approaching traffic, deciding to cross after the next fast moving car had passed. On the other side of the road, Zhurav had almost reached the circular Memorial. He was staring robotically at the base of the statue of Queen Victoria, arms straight by his side, too frightened to raise his eyes.

  Craig saw the frozen Zhurav, then glanced down the street, checking the traffic. The speeding car crossed into the middle of the road, heading straight for him. Craig shifted uneasily, then the car hit its brakes and slewed sideways until the open passenger window was facing him. A moment later, Craig locked eyes on Nogorev, who was aiming a strange metallic weapon at him.

  It’s a trap! Craig realized.

  The car skidded to a halt almost on top of him as Nogorev fired. A square, two pronged electrode caught Craig in the chest before he could run. The taser pulsed electricity through his body, triggering muscle spasms that forced him to collapse onto the road.

  Nogorev jumped out the car and stabbed him in the side of the neck with a small syringe. When the injection was complete, he pocketed the needle and gave Craig a second jolt with the taser to keep him paralyzed while the sleep drug went to work. He pinned Craig to the ground with his right hand, ready to electrocute him again if he tried to call for help.

  Craig’s vision blurred. His arms and legs grew numb, then his head settled on the road and he lost consciousness. On both sides of the street, pedestrians gathered, wondering what had happened. Kashkov’s team infiltrated the crowd, saying the car had hit a man crossing the road. A siren sounded nearby, as a middle aged woman rushed across the sidewalk, intent on helping.

  A young man stepped in front of her and put his arm up, barring her from crossing the road. “Give the laddie some air, darling,” the SVR operative said in pure, fake Cockney.

  “Let me through, I’m a nurse!”

  “He’s OK. Stay where you are.”

  “I can help him,” she said with genuine concern, “Get out of my way!”

  Several other people tried to walk out into the middle of the road. Each one was intercepted by SVR operatives who prevented them approaching. Nogorev made a show of placing his coat over Craig’s chest comfortingly as he caught Zhurav’s eye and nodded for him to leave. A relieved Zhurav turned quickly, and hurried away towards Victoria Station.

  An ambulance came racing out of Buckingham Gate Road, siren blasting, lights flashing, an
d swung quickly around the Victoria Memorial. It stopped close to where Craig lay, then Azyev and another SVR officer jumped out wearing ambulance officer uniforms. They slid a stretcher out and roughly placed Craig on it.

  “Careful!” the nurse called out. “That’s not how you handle a man with a neck injury!” She pushed the operative’s arm down and took a step toward the middle of the road.

  The operative threw a sharp punch into the nurse’s abdomen, then guided her away from the road as she gasped for air. “Don’t make a sound!” the operative ordered as he pressed a small pistol into her side.

  Azyev and his accomplice strapped Craig firmly into the stretcher before loading him into the ambulance. He exchanged curt nods with Nogorev, then Azyev and the second officer climbed into the ambulance and drove away. Nogorev and Kaskhov returned to their car and followed the ambulance at a sedate pace. A moment later, the operatives who had been managing the crowd of onlookers, melted away.

  The officer restraining the nurse whispered into her ear, “You saw nothing,” then he released her and walked brusquely away across the park.

  Holding her stomach the nurse turned back to the road, trying to understand what had happened. The pedestrian who’d been run over, the car that had hit him and the ambulance that had picked him up, had all vanished.

  * * * *

  When the ambulance was out of sight of Buckingham Palace, Azyev turned the siren off and slowed to the speed limit. Nogorev and Kaskhov followed close behind through crowded, twisting streets all the way to the docks on the south bank of the River Thames. They skirted an old brick building that had once served as a bond store, before driving onto a wharf where an aging cargo ship, the Krasnii Dama out of Murmansk, was tied up. She was streaked with rust, flew the pennant of the Russian Merchant Marine from her mast head and mounted a small derrick amidships.

  The ship’s schedule had called for it to leave port the previous day, but the captain had received an instruction to delay his departure so he could take on a special cargo. In order to avoid attracting attention, the captain reported engine trouble to the port authorities and occasionally released short bursts of thick black smoke from the funnel to validate the ruse. When the ambulance was sighted from the bridge, the derrick unloaded an empty container onto the wharf. Deck hands opened the container door, then Azyev drove the ambulance inside the container and parked. He checked Craig’s condition, ensuring his captive was firmly strapped down before he and his companion reported to Nogorev waiting outside.

  “He’s sleeping like a baby,” Azyev said.

  “Good,” Nogorev said. “Close it up.”

  The seaman locked the container’s metal door, then the derrick hauled it up onto the ship where other deck hands secured it in place.

  Nogorev turned to the leading seamen. “Tell the Captain to get under way immediately.” The seaman hurried off toward the metal gangway while Nogorev turned to Kaskhov. “Do not file a report on this operation.”

  Kaskhov suppressed his surprise, remembering the instruction to follow Nogorev’s orders came from the head of Military Intelligence himself. Technically, the SVR reported directly to the President, but a request from the Director of the GRU carried undeniable authority. “Very well.”

  Nogorev headed for the gangway while Azyev and Kaskhov watched. When Nogorev disappeared into the ship, Azyev asked, “What will happen to the prisoner?”

  “That is not our concern,” Kaskhov replied, certain Nogorev’s captive would never be seen again.

  * * * *

  The drive out from New York City, through the Catskill Mountains to Prattsville, had been a pleasant one, although when Hal Woods reached the town he had difficulty locating Joan Balard’s house. The people in town were reluctant to give directions due to the horde of reporters who’d besieged the house since Captain Ridley’s announcement linking her son to the murders. When Woods arrived, he skirted around the handful of TV news crews still lingering in front of the house and made his way to the rear.

  “Hello?” he called out as he approached the back door, hearing a deadbolt lock. “Open up ma’am, it’s the police.”

  A curtain over a window beside the back door was pulled aside and a woman peered out. Woods held up his badge in front of the window so she could see it.

  “Do you have a warrant?” The voice was half confrontational, half frightened.

  “No,” Woods replied in his most soothing tone. “I just want to talk.”

  A woman, near sixty, reluctantly opened the door. “What do you want?”

  “Are you Joan Balard?”

  “Yes,” she replied cautiously. “I’ve already spoken to the police. Several times.”

  “I know your son was set up,” Woods said, cutting to the chase.

  “How?”

  “Could I come in and discuss it?”

  “No point standing out there in the sun,” she said opening the door and leading him into the living room, motioning Woods towards the sofa.

  “Do you know where Craig’s father is,” Woods asked when he was comfortable.

  “Jack?” Joan’s eyes widened in surprise. “He was killed, many years ago.”

  Woods gave her a puzzled look. “His girlfriend believes your son has gone to England looking for his father.”

  “That’s impossible. Jack was shot down over Serbia in 1999.” She glanced at the mantle where photos of a smiling air force pilot were lovingly preserved. “I didn’t keep the telegram from the air force, but it’s official.”

  Woods followed her gaze, puzzled. “Do you have any idea where your son is now? Has he been in contact with you at all?”

  “No, I haven’t heard from him.” Joan said, blinking back tears. “Why are those people saying all such terrible things about him on television, if you know he’s innocent?”

  “It’s complicated. All I can say is, we’re working as hard as we can to clear him.” Woods ran his eye around the room. It was impeccably maintained and spotlessly clean. “Did Craig ever mention anything unusual about the company he worked for? Anything illegal?”

  “No, never.”

  Woods handed his card to her. “This is my name and number, in case you hear from your son, or if you think of something.”

  She took his number without committing herself and walked him to the door.

  “The media will leave you alone in a day or two, once the story dies down,” Woods said, then walked to his car while Joan watched through the curtains.

  Woods drove off as a courier pulled up in front of the house, walked past the TV crews, up the driveway to the entry. He slid a single letter under the front door, then returned to his van.

  Joan scooped the letter up off the polished wooden floor, noting it bore an English postmark. She tore open the envelope to discover two sheets of paper inside, one with a row of numbers on it, the other with a brief note written in Craig’s handwriting.

  Hi Mom,

  I’m OK. Don’t worry. Everything they’re saying about me on TV is untrue.

  Please hide the other page in a safe place. No matter what happens, don’t tell anyone about it. I’ll call you soon.

  Love

  Craig

  Joan read the note with a mixture of relief and confusion. She never considered calling Hal Woods. Instead, she climbed the stairs to the attic. Against one wall was an old wooden chest filled with dusty aging books. She placed the envelope inside the third volume from the top, then dusted the books lightly, removing all trace of her finger prints, ensuring anyone looking inside wouldn’t discover she’d recently touched them.

  Satisfied the page containing Craig’s Swiss account number was well hidden, she locked the chest.

  Chapter 6

  April 16, 2277

  “I’ve ran the scan three times,” Zikky explained. “There’s no trace of Craig Balard in any historical record – not since his English death certificate vanished.”

  “But there are still birth records, right?” Captain W
ilkins asked.

  “Yeah, we haven’t erased him from history!” Zikky declared. “But we have no record of how he dies. Nothing!”

  “And there have been no more resets?” Wilkins asked.

  “There won’t be any resets, unless we trigger them.” Mariena said. “The current timeline is what happened, and it will stay as it is, unless we find a way to change it.”

  “That means finding Craig Balard,” Zikky said, “Where ever he is.”

  “What countries did the Montreal data center cover?”

  “North America, Western Europe, and partial feeds from a few other regions,” Zikky replied.

  “English language feeds, right?” she asked.

  “And local French.”

  “We need to check non-English language data exchanges.”

  Zikky rolled his eyes. “How are we going to do that? We don’t even know if other data exchanges survived the war, and even if they did, we don’t have the access codes.”

  “Then we have a lot of work to do!” Wilkins said.

  “Most data exchanges have organic power, and satellite uplinks,” Mariena said. “If they didn’t take a direct hit, they should still be down there, just waiting to talk to us.”

  “Sounds easy,” Zikky said, “But you haven’t seen the encryption on those things. You know how paranoid everyone was about getting hacked before the war.”

  Mariena waved towards the sparkling white walls adorned with blank display screens. “This station is the most advanced piece of technology ever devised, with the most powerful computers ever built. It’s also got some of the smartest people ever born operating it. We’ll get them to test every data-link, in every country. If we find any that are still working, we’ll program the station’s computers to crack them open.”