“Can’t we complain to their government?” Harriman asked.
“We could try, but this doesn’t look like a regular Russian Intel op. None of our usual sources know anything about it, and all the killing that’s gone on . . .” Rogers winced. “It’s just too messy for our opposite numbers.”
“Indeed,” Corman agreed. “The people behind this are bypassing the usual chain of command.”
“So who’s calling the shots?”
“We’re not sure,” Corman said, “But it looks like one hand doesn’t know what the other is doing inside the Kremlin.”
“Jesus!” Rogers said. “There are always rumors about hard liners wanting to wind the clock back, but most of the time, it’s just talk. You think this is the real deal?”
Corman shrugged. “Organized crime virtually runs the economy, millions of people are in poverty and corruption is out of control. Russia’s on a knife edge, and someone wants to push her off. Our job is to make sure that doesn’t happen.”
“I see,” Rogers said somberly. “Do you have approval for a covert op?”
“I have approval for anything short of thermo nuclear war.”
“We’ve got a good team here. What did you have in mind?”
“Find Craig Balard before he spills his guts,” Corman said. “Get him out, or get him dead.”
* * * *
Nogorev lightly slapped Craig’s face. “Wake up!”
Craig’s eyelids half opened as his head sagged limply forward.
“What’s the matter?” Dr Tatska asked.
“The bank details he gave us are wrong!” Nogorev announced furiously. “He lied!”
“I assure you, he cannot lie. His mind is completely open to your questions.”
“Something is wrong! The information he gave us is meaningless,” Nogorev declared, waving the sheet of paper they’d written Craig’s account details on. “There’s no such account!”
Dr Tatska flashed Craig’s eyes with a small pen light, testing his retinal response. “He may need another injection.”
“Give it to him. All of it!”
Dr Tatska gave Craig a booster shot, then waited while the drug went to work. “Mr Balard, can you hear me?”
“Hmm?”
“What is the number of your Swiss bank account?”
Craig recited a series of numbers, none of which agreed to those on the paper.
“Repeat the numbers.”
Craig recited another series of numbers, different to the previous set.
“It’s unconscious substitution,” Dr Tatska said. “The drug is forcing him to invent an answer he doesn’t know. It’s the weakness of a serum this powerful. He would tell you the account number, if he knew it, but he doesn’t.”
“He must know it!” Nogorev exclaimed. “How else was he going to use the money?”
“Maybe he wasn’t going to use it.” The doctor turned back to Craig. “Mr Balard, do you know the number of your Swiss account?”
“No,” Craig slurred out the words. “Don’t remember . . .”
Nogorev pushed Tatska aside. “Did you write it down anywhere?”
“Huh?”
“Be specific,” Dr Tatska said.
“Did you write down your Swiss account number?” Nogorev demanded.
Craig’s head bobbed uselessly back and forth. “Yeah.”
“Where did you write it down?”
“In my . . . hotel.”
“Not where . . .” Nogorev shouted in frustration. “What did you do with the number, once you wrote it down?”
Craig’s eyes blinked slowly, unfocused. “Posted it.”
“To who?”
Craig had the strangest notion that he shouldn’t tell the truth, but it was too distant a thought to have any effect.
“Mom.”
Nogorev relaxed, surprised. “Your mother has your Swiss bank account number?”
“Yeah. Sent it to her.”
Without another word, Nogorev stormed out of the room. Dr Tatska turned to Craig, whose head hung forward limply, certain his now unconscious patient had just sentenced his mother to death.
* * * *
Hal Woods tried unsuccessfully to sleep on Joan Balard’s sofa. He rolled onto his side and pulled the blanket over his shoulders, wincing as the strap from the gas mask he wore pinched his skin. Sleeping with a gas mask on was a near impossible feat but he was determined to put up a better fight than Powell’s guards had. He rubbed the sore spot on his cheek as a scraping noise sounded from the front window. Woods lifted his head slightly to look toward the sound, blinking himself awake. Two men in black clothes stood outside the window, silhouetted by the street lights. One began cutting a hole in the window with a diamond tipped glass cutter.
Woods slid silently onto the floor and crept behind the sofa, while a click marked the extraction of a neatly cut circle of glass from the window. One of the men reached in through the hole, released the lock and quietly slid the window open. Both men wore bulky black masks and carried short barreled, silenced automatic weapons. Thinking the room was filled with gas, Woods pulled the gas mask’s strap tight, drew his thirty eight police special and watched as the first man climbed in through the open window.
The intruder stepped lightly onto the carpet, boosted the image enhancer on his night vision goggles and swept the big lens back and forth across the room. Not noticing Woods face peering out of the deep shadows behind the sofa at floor level, he crept toward the open doorway to his left and peered into the kitchen.
The second man climbed through the window and moved silently to the right of the stairs, toward the dining room. He confirmed it was empty, then climbed the polished wooden stairs, expecting Joan Balard to be asleep in one of the upstairs bedrooms. His companion turned and followed him up the stairs as the detective crawled out from behind the sofa.
Woods brought his gun up to fire, but found the two men had already reached the top of the stairs and had passed out of sight. He jumped to his feet and hurried after them, climbing the stairs two at a time in his socks.
* * * *
Unable to sleep, Joan Balard slipped out of bed to get a glass of water from her en suite. She glanced out of the window, startled to see a stealthy form sneaking towards the rear of the house. He wore night vision goggles and carried a mid-sized weapon fitted with an oversized silencer.
He’s here for me! she realized with a cold chill.
When the man reached the back corner, he stopped where he could see the back and side of the house.
What’s he waiting for? she wondered, then decided to alert Woods
She turned towards her bedroom door, discovering it was inching slowly open. With her heart pounding, she crawled under the bed to where her freshly oiled Model 40 shotgun lay. The old Mossberg had cost her grandfather thirteen dollars back in the nineteen thirties, and was in as good a condition today as when he’d bought it. Her father had kept it for sentimental reasons, and she’d done the same, but after the two men in the Lincoln had come to the house, she’d retrieved it from the attic and loaded it for the first time in decades. She rested a hand on it as the door swung open and two pairs of black boots stole soundlessly into her bedroom.
One of the men placed his hand on the bed sheets.
“Yeshche teplyye,” he whispered in Russian, still warm.
Where’s Detective Woods? She wondered. Is he dead?
Joan pulled the cold steel of the venerable Mossberg toward her. Her shaking hand slid along the gunstock until her forefinger settled upon the trigger. Silently, she angled the barrel toward the two intruders as the second man’s boots hurried to the en suite. He pushed the door open, expecting to catch her inside. When he signaled the en suite was empty, the first man planted a knee on the carpet and a short barreled sub machine gun came into view as he knelt down.
Joan stared at the menacing black weapon, then the man’s eyes met hers with a satisfied look. She pulled the trigger and the old Mossberg
twenty two roared for the first time in a quarter of a century. The impact at close range blew the man’s knee apart. He screamed as he spun around and crashed onto the carpet. Joan started to swivel the barrel of the antique shotgun toward the second man, but a pair of socked feet appeared in the doorway before she could bring the weapon around.
Woods fired twice at the man at Joan’s en suite door, then spun and fired a single shot at his companion who was writhing on the floor, scrambling to lift his weapon.
“Joan, where are you?” he yelled.
“Under the bed,” she called as she crawled out with the Mossberg twenty two still firmly clasped in her hands.
“Are you hurt?”
“No,” she said, trying not to look at the two bodies lying beside her bed.
Woods noticed she was not affected by gas. “Can you smell anything?”
“The air’s fine.”
Woods pulled the night vision goggles off the face of the dead man near the en suite, and realized his mistake. He peeled his gas mask off and dropped it on the floor.
“There’s another one outside,” she said, trying to stay calm.
A crash from downstairs echoed through the house as the back door was smashed in. The unsilenced shots from Woods’ gun and the old Mossberg had signaled the mission was not going as planned.
“Aim that cannon at the door and blast anything that comes through it,” Woods said as he slipped back out into the hall, reloading his gun.
He crept back down the hall, crouching at the top of the stairs and listening for movement. Woods flicked on the light switch, hoping to blind anyone wearing night vision goggles, but the living room remained shrouded in darkness.
Realizing they’d cut the power, he lowered his hand as a single muffled shot shattered the light switch. Woods jumped up, ran halfway down the stairs and leapt over the banister. As he dropped to the floor several more silenced shots sounded, one striking the wall behind him, the other chipping splinters from the stair case.
Woods saw the muzzle flash in the corner, momentarily illuminating a man wearing night vision goggles. He rolled as he landed, diving into the dining room in a single fluid motion. Guessing the third intruder didn’t know the kitchen could be reached from both the dining room and the lounge room, he scrambled under the dining table as automatic fire raked the table and chairs, showering splinters all about him. Woods fired two quick shots to keep his attacker’s head down, then crawled into the laundry. He got to his feet, crept forward and peered into the kitchen. The back door was hanging at a crazy angle from a single hinge where it had been kicked it in.
Woods slipped into the kitchen, picked up a plate, and hurled it like a Frisbee into the living room. The plate smashed against the far wall, then two muzzle flashes lit up the room, one close on his left, the other in the far corner, revealing two men, not one!
Woods fired twice at the nearest target, his muzzle flash illuminating the man, who quickly crumpled to the floor. He turned toward the far corner and fired again, but the flash of his gun revealed the corner was already deserted. Knowing he stood exposed, he dived to the right as the air filled with a stream of whispered flashes from the stairs. His left shoulder exploded with searing pain as he rolled to his knees, fired blindly and dived to the floor. Automatic fire shredded two lounge chairs he used for cover and blew out the window behind him as he crawled to the far wall.
Got to end this soon! he thought as his injured arm went numb.
Rapid footsteps sounded as a shadowy blur moved across the room. Woods raised his thirty eight and fired, but the hammer clicked hollowly onto an empty chamber. The last of the intruders heard the click, and immediately charged across the room for the kill shot. Woods lowered the thirty eight and relaxed against the wall, certain he was about to die.
A dark form appeared, staring at him through night vision goggles. Woods appeared to his attacker as a green, electronically enhanced image lying helplessly against the wall. The man aimed his weapon at Woods’s head.
This wouldn’t have happened if Harriman was here! Woods thought.
There was a thunderous crack as an old gun fired. Warm, dark fluid sprayed across Woods’ face, then the body hit him. He blinked the blood from his eyes as he pushed the dead man away. The large single lens of the man’s night vision goggles’ was cracked, and as the corpse rolled to the floor, Woods saw a glistening mass of blood and exposed tissue at the back of the his head.
“Detective, are you down there?” a frightened voice called from the dark.
Joan Balard stood atop the stairs in her night gown, the old Mossberg twenty two cradled in her arms, still smoking.
Chapter 7
Valentina reached out her hand through the fog of sleep and picked up the receiver.”Hello?” she yawned, still tired after her night flight from London to Moscow.
“Turn on the TV!” Alexander Karmanov, the head of her SK criminal investigation unit, ordered excitedly.
“Alexander? Do you know how bad Moscow TV is on a Sunday morning?”
“I know,” Karmanov said urgently. “Turn it on!”
Grudgingly, she slipped out of bed and switched on the TV. Ballerina’s from the Bolshoi were performing Swan Lake. She looked at it bemused. “What channel?”
“All of them!”
Valentina rubbed her eyes as she switched channels. One had men and women in historic Russian folk dress playing three stringed balalaikas, several others had orchestral performances and ballets, including another rendition of Swan Lake.
“Two Swan Lakes?” she wondered aloud. She knew Russians loved ballet and folk music, but this was ridiculous. “Is it Tchaikovsky’s birthday?”
“What did the communists do every time they deposed a leader?” he asked. “They played folk music and ballets! No news. No bulletins. Nothing that could rouse people’s emotions. All the regular programs are cancelled and the internet across Russia is down! It’s got to be a coup!”
“A coup! Not now, not after everything we’ve been through,” she said, trying to convince herself it couldn’t be true.
“The phones into the Kremlin are all down,” Karmanov said. “I can’t contact anyone.”
“What are you going to do?”
“Try to find where Max is! If they’ve arrested him, it might already be over. If not, we have to protect him.”
She knew Karmanov was right. While Maxim Gundarovsky, the Prime Minister of the Federation, was free, there would still be a chance to resist. “Are you going now?”
“Yes. I’ll pick you up in fifteen minutes.”
* * * *
Corman and Harriman took their seats in the small conference room at the US Embassy after breakfast. There were three large screens on one side of the table, for global teleconferencing, but on this occasion the screens were blank.
Louis Rogers, the Embassy security chief, opened a folder and glanced at the report it contained. “There are five safe houses we know of in Moscow. Two appear to be used by protection teams guarding witnesses against organized crime gangs. We don’t know what’s going on inside the other three, although one has noise makers and other electronic defenses fitted, so it’s likely to be a state security facility.”
“Monitor them all,” Corman said. “The witness protection teams might be a cover story. The other building with electronic counter measures might be too high profile a facility.”
“We can cover all five,” Rogers said, “if I pull our teams off other surveillance jobs.”
“Do it. This is our highest priority.”
“OK. We’ll photograph everyone who goes in and out of each house. Detective Harriman can review the photos, in case he can identify the assassin you’re looking for.”
“And if I do make an ID?” Harriman asked. “Then what?”
Corman rubbed his weary eyes. He’d slept little since London. “Do you have a team that could terminate their op?”
Rogers looked uncomfortable. “Yes, but it would burn our be
st resources. We’d have to get them out of the country the same day. And there’d be reprisals.”
“Reprisals?” Harriman said shocked. “What are we talking about?”
“Killing everyone in the building.” Corman said.
Harriman’s eyes widened surprised. “Including Balard?”
“The people who have Balard,” Corman replied, “will put a bullet in his brain rather than let us get our hands on him, especially as he hasn’t given them the money yet. We’ve been watching for the transfers – nothing’s gone through. Balard’s held out longer than I expected. He’s a tough little shit.”
“He’s a US citizen. We should try to help him.”
Corman and Rogers exchanged doubtful looks. The expressions on their faces told Harriman neither man thought there was any chance of rescuing Craig Balard.
* * * *
Alexander Karmanov, Chief Investigator of the SK’s Criminal Investigation Department’s state crime’s unit, drove towards Maxim Gundarovsky’s house. Karmanov was in his late thirties, with grey eyes, a prominent nose and gaunt appearance. He was careful not to show too much interest in the black van and two cars parked outside the Prime Minister’s house as they drove past, or the four men who guarded the vehicles.
“They’re not wasting any time,” Karmanov said as he turned the corner and parked out of sight.
Karmanov, Valentina and a third SK officer, Kindansky, got out. Moroshkin, the fourth member of their team who’d flown back from London with Valentina, stayed in the car, replacing Karmanov behind the wheel. Karmanov had selected his three companions based on having known them for years. He suspected the Criminal Investigations Department had been infiltrated, but was certain it wasn’t one of them.
Karmanov spoke to Moroshkin through the car’s window. “We’re only going to get one shot at this.”
“I’ll be there when you need me,” Moroshkin assured him.
Karmanov nodded, then led the other two to the corner. He put his arm over Valentina’s shoulders and they started laughing and talking like lovers. Kindansky strolled alongside Karmanov, just a friend of the couple tagging along for an early morning walk. All three wore long dark overcoats, heavy clothes for that time of year, but needed to conceal their weapons. When they turned the corner, they were careful not to look at the four men outside the house.
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