The Kremlin Phoenix

by Renneberg, Stephen

  Siyansky handed Craig his binoculars without a word. On closer inspection, Craig discovered a single, chain link fence completely enclosing the grounds near the tree line. Flood lights were mounted at regular intervals along the inner perimeter fence, illuminating the outer grounds at night. Outside the fence, several pairs of guards patrolled the tree line casually, smoking and chatting. If not for their weapons, they might have been gardeners, rather than guards.

  Close to the main building, a handful of old men sat reading newspapers and books or just dozing in the cool summer sun. They were attended by a few white coated orderlies who appeared to be more like nurses than guards. On one tennis court, two old men feebly stroked a ball, while the pool’s glassy surfaced indicated it was unused.

  Craig wondered which of the old men was his father, then realized whoever those men were, they were someone’s father, husband or brother. “Ask Siyansky how much help we can expect from the air force.”

  Valentina translated the question.

  Siyansky looked puzzled. “Me and Yashin are to help you. What else do you want?”

  When Valentina relayed his response, Craig shook his head. “No. How much help from the air force?”

  Siyansky listened to her translation then shrugged. “I do not understand, what kind of help?”

  Craig peered through the binoculars again, as his plan solidified. “Tell him I want a plane. A big plane. And I want those guards gone!”

  * * * *

  “You can’t be serious! ” Corman exploded, then caught himself, “Excuse me, Mr Prime Minister, but if word gets out about that place, think what it’ll do to relations between our two countries.”

  Prime Minister Maxim Gundarovsky stood with his back to Corman, gazing out of the window of his makeshift headquarters across the sea of people camped outside. “Think what will happen to relations between our two countries, if the hardliners get control of Russia – again.”

  “You have to keep Craig Balard in Siberia, sir,” Corman said. “You can’t let him out now, not with what he knows.”

  “It’s hard to build a lasting peace without trust,” Gundarovsky said thoughtfully. “Perhaps it’s time old secrets were revealed.”

  “Not that particular secret. If it’s the money, we can provide you with loans for whatever you need.”

  “America is already deeply in debt. Where will you find the money to lend to us? Besides, I don’t want more loans. I want what rightfully belongs to my people.”

  “Sometimes it’s better to let sleeping dogs lie, sir. You run the risk of losing everything we’ve worked so hard for.”

  Gundarovsky motioned to the chaotic scene on the road outside. “See those people out there, Mr Corman. Thousands of them. Unarmed factory workers, miners, office clerks, students, mothers, children. If not for them, I’d be rotting in prison right now, or dead. They’re all that stand between us and the abyss. I owe them.” He turned to Corman. “You owe them and hundreds of thousands like them, in dozens of cities.” Gundarovsky moved slowly around his desk. “I called them out of their homes. I asked them to put their bodies in front of tanks, and you want me to reward their courage with more lies?”

  The CIA officer swallowed his irritation. “I understand, Mr Prime Minister. But if you agree to Balard’s demands, once the news of Zamok Branka gets out, no one in the West will help you. Russia will become a pariah. You can’t risk that, not now. You’ll be playing right into the hands of the hard liners.”

  “If I hide Zamok Branka’s existence, am I no better than the hard liners?” He sighed. “Your U2 planes, your spy satellites, they watched Camp 497 for years, then Zamok Branka. We’re both guilty of keeping a convenient secret from a darker time, a secret that may have been justified once, but not now.”

  Oh no! He’s a god damned idealist! Corman thought.

  Gundarovsky paced slowly in front of the desk, wrestling with his heart. “If leaders of good conscience can’t take and hold the moral high ground in moments of supreme crisis, what future will any of us have? And if we tell the truth, and ask for forgiveness in the name of peace, might that not be a better foundation for the future than more lies?”

  “I appreciate the sentiment, sir. It’s a noble sentiment – it is – but right now, we need to get control of this situation. If you really want to solve the Zamok Branka problem, please, do it after this crisis is resolved.”

  Gundarovsky looked thoughtful. “Has it occurred to you, Mr Corman, that solving one problem, might solve both problems, especially when we’re fighting for the hearts and minds of an entire people?” He gave Corman a crooked smile. “I never was much of a politician.” Before Corman could argue, Prime Minister Gundarovsky hurried out of his office and climbed the stairs to the roof, with Corman close on his heels.

  “Connect me with Marshal Vochenko,” he said to the police officer manning the satellite phone sitting on the table where Rogers had set it up. The officer did as he was told then passed the headset to the Prime Minister when the Chief of the Air Force answered “Hello Nikolay. I’ve been thinking about this Zamok Branka affair. It’s time we cleaned up that mess . . . Yes . . . Make the necessary arrangements.”

  * * * *

  A flight attendant wheeled Harriman through the airport to where Hal Woods waited. Harriman was wheel chair bound for lengthy journeys, but was growing proficient with his walking stick for short distances. His leg was improving rapidly, and in a few more days, he wouldn’t need the wheel chair at all.

  Woods offered his good hand in greeting as Harriman gave the sling hanging from his partner’s neck an appraising look.

  “We make quite a pair,” Harriman joked as they shook hands.

  “I’ll be out of this thing in a week or two,” Woods said, as he relieved the flight attendant of wheel chair duty and guided Harriman toward the carpark with his one good hand.

  “Sorry about the short notice,” Harriman said. “I called you as soon as I knew I was coming home.”

  “Did Corman decide you were no use to him on one leg?”

  “I never saw him after I was shot. Just got a note and a plane ticket. I guess I’d passed my use by date.”

  When they reached the car, Woods moved to help Harriman into the passenger seat, but the older detective waved him away, reaching for his cane. Stiffly, Harriman limped the short distance from the wheel chair to the car and lowered himself into the passenger seat. Woods awkwardly folded the wheel chair one handed and shoved it in the trunk. When he climbed in behind the wheel, Harriman made a show of looking worried.

  “You were a bad enough driver with two hands,” Harriman said, “are you sure you can handle this thing with one?”

  “What do you care? You’re already in a wheel chair.”

  Harriman chuckled as they drove out of the airport and onto the freeway. “Any more attempts on Mrs Balard?”

  Woods shook his head. “Not by their side.”

  “By ours?”

  “All the three letter agencies are convinced she knows something, otherwise why else would those goons hit her house. My guess is her house is so full of bugs by now, it needs fumigating twice over.”

  Harriman looked thoughtful. “They have a point.”

  “No arguments from me.”

  “So you think she’s hiding something?”

  “It doesn’t matter what I think,” Woods said. When Harriman gave him a curious look, he added, “I’d be keeping company with a pine box if it wasn’t for her, so I don’t care what the hell she knows. I’m going to keep an eye on her until this is over.”

  “Why are you telling me this?”

  “You’re my partner. I don’t want to go to jail without you.” Woods grinned.

  “So what did you have in mind?” Harriman asked.

  “Considering we’re both,” he glanced at their injuries, “incapacitated, I think we should convalesce together. In the country.”

  “I see . . . in the Catskills?”

  “Exac
tly.”

  “Anything else?”

  Woods nodded. “Bring a shotgun.”

  * * * *

  Craig and his companions spent the night in a small guest house while they waited for a response to the request for a plane. When Craig was fast asleep, Fenenko, whom he shared a room with, dressed quietly and crept into the hallway.

  He eased the door shut, placed the radio ear piece in his ear and whispered into the mike, “This is Fenenko, are you reading me?”

  There was a crackle of static as Nogorev answered. “Yes. Where are you?”

  “At the Zimoy Snega Guest House, south of the Angara River,” Fenenko replied in a hushed tone.

  “We’ll find it. Have you been able to recover your weapon?” Nogorev’s voice sounded hollowly in his ear.

  “Yes I have. Where are you?”

  “East of Zamok Branka. What are their plans?”

  “They’ve asked the air force for a plane. Balard wants to–” Fenenko stopped as a floor board creaked behind him. He turned, attempting to hide the wire mike as Sergeant Siyansky struck him on the forehead with the butt of his gun. Fenenko crumpled to the floor unconscious, then Siyansky retrieved the earpiece and listened without speaking.

  “… Fenenko? What happened?” Nogorev asked. “What does Balard want to do?”

  Siyansky switched the radio off, took Fenenko’s gun and woke Yashin. “Get dressed, quickly!” He said, then hurried to Valentina’s room and rapped loudly on the door.

  Presently, Valentina inched the door open, still half asleep. “What is it?”

  “Your friend is a double agent,” Siyansky said.

  Valentina blinked, confused. “Who is?”

  “Fenenko. We have to leave immediately.”

  Siyansky held out his hand, showing her the radio transmitter. “Good thing I’m a light sleeper.”

  Valentina glanced at Fenenko’s body at the end of the hall with a sinking heart. “Is he alive?”

  “Yes. He reported our location. Internal security forces are on the way.”

  “What about him?” she asked, nodding towards Fenenko.

  “We can’t leave him here. He knows too much about tomorrow’s operation.”

  Valentina went back into her room and dressed as Siyansky roused Craig. A few minutes later, Siyansky and Craig put Fenenko, gagged and bound, in the car’s trunk. Yashin then drove them away from the guest house while Valentina tried to piece together clues she’d missed, where investigations had been betrayed because Fenenko had leaked confidential information.

  Siyansky read the look on her face. “It’s painful to discover a friend is a traitor.”

  She nodded, wishing she could talk to Karmanov, but knowing she dare not ring him. He would be furious when he found out, but also relieved to know who the mole was. While she wrestled with her thoughts, a large white refrigeration truck approached from the other direction. Craig recognized it first.

  “That’s them!” He said, turning his face away from the window.

  Valentina covered her face with her hand, as the truck passed them at high speed. The driver didn’t pay any particular attention to their car. He’d never seen it or the two air force non commissioned officers before. In the back seat, Craig and Valentina turned to watch the truck speed towards the guest house.

  “That proves it,” Craig said, Fenenko had indeed betrayed them.

  Yashin drove on for another ten minutes, then turned off onto a dirt track, drove a short distance until they were out of sight from the main road and parked. It was two AM.

  “We sleep here, until morning.” Siyansky said.

  “What about Fenenko?” Valentina asked.

  “He sleeps in the car too,” Siyansky said with a grin. “Just not with us.”

  * * * *

  An hour after sunrise, they drove to an abandoned airfield used to train Soviet Air Force pilots during the second world war. They parked the car and dragged Fenenko out of the trunk. He was fully conscious, but didn’t struggle.

  Valentina stared coldly at him, motioning for Siyansky to remove his gag. “Did you have Yegor killed?”

  “No,” Fenenko replied. “I had no idea there was a second investigation.”

  “Who is following us?”

  Fenenko remained silent.

  “What do they know?” she demanded.

  “Everything,” Fenenko said with a trace of contempt.

  “Maybe we should shoot him,” Valentina said, triggering a look of fear on Fenenko’s face, then she and Craig, who now carried the Zamok Branka KGB file under his arm, walked together towards the old air strip while Siyansky watched him.

  When it was a few minutes to seven, an aging Mi-26 Halo helicopter came in low over the trees and landed at the edge of the air strip. The chopper had barely touched down when the side door slid open and air force General Karol Sorokin jumped out beneath the spinning eight bladed rotor. He was short, slightly rotund, dressed in dappled camouflage fatigues and wore a large pistol at his hip. Sorokin was a regional commander, a former bomber pilot with no love of the army, he’d served under Marshal Vochenko in the past. At Vochenko’s request, he’d flown through much of the night to pick up his special cargo, and oversee the coming extraction operation. Sorokin was flanked by four soldiers from the elite air force defense detachment. The soldiers, armed with assault rifles, watched the dirt road while General Sorokin waved for Craig and the others to come to him.

  Craig, Valentina and Yashin hurried toward the giant Halo, while Siyansky produced a small military style knife and cut the cord binding Fenenko’s legs, leaving his hands tied behind his back.

  Fenenko looked puzzled. “You’re letting me go?”

  “You’re not coming with us, but you will be arrested – eventually.”

  “What about my hands?”

  Siyansky lightly scratched Fenenko’s arm with the knife, enough to draw a trickle of blood. “If I were you, I’d start running. The forest is full of wolves, and they can smell blood from far away.” Siyansky sheathed his knife, then jogged after the others.

  When they reached the chopper, Valentina introduced herself and Craig to the General, who sized them up with a look. “You’re a long way from home, Mr Balard,” he said in heavily accented English, “and I hear you have powerful enemies.”

  “So it seems,” Craig said as he climbed aboard the helicopter, finding several dozen well armed air force soldiers sitting along bench seats either side of the fuselage. The large cargo hold, capable of transporting one hundred and fifty troops, looked almost empty, even with so many soldiers aboard.

  Yashin saluted the General as he climbed aboard. When Siyansky ran up, Sorokin glanced curiously at Fenenko who was struggling to his feet. “Is that man not coming with us?”

  “No sir. He’s walking – maybe running,” Siyansky replied dryly, then clambered aboard.

  Sorokin and his four man escort boarded the chopper, then it lumbered back into the air and headed west. Ten minutes later, it passed over the chain link fence of the Zamok Branka Detention Center and landed on the grassy area flanked by the accommodation buildings and the tennis courts. Almost immediately, two Air Force SU-25 close air support aircraft appeared and began circling the Detention Center in a show of force.

  The air field defense soldiers poured out of the chopper and charged the buildings, with assault weapons leveled at anyone who moved. They quickly secured the facility, disarming the confused camp guards, who surrendered without a fight. An inmate out for a morning constitutional and several more emerging from the pool building, looked on with rising trepidation, wondering if after all these years, they were finally going to be executed.

  Siyansky handed Fenenko’s pistol to Craig as they stepped off the chopper. “Just in case there’s resistance.”

  “Thanks,” Craig said, pocketing the weapon.

  General Sorokin, accompanied by his escort, strode quickly toward the main building while the disarmed camp guards were herded to the
grassy area beside the pool. The faces of old men appeared in the windows of the accommodation quarters, roused from their beds by the cacophony of yelling outside and the roar of jets overhead. They watched with growing anxiety as the frightened guards, many of whom they knew on a first name basis, were corralled by heavily armed troops, and control of the facility passed into new, unknown hands.

  Outside the perimeter fence, a pair of guards with dogs slipped away into the forest to avoid capture, while several others simply dropped their guns and came in with raised hands. The guards were there to keep unarmed prisoners in, not fight pitched battles with regular soldiers. The camp commander soon appeared, escorted by an air force soldier, sullenly aware that one of the most secret facilities in all of the Russian Federation had been captured without a shot being fired.

  General Sorokin stood in front of the captured guards and announced in a loud voice, “By order of Maxim Gundarovsky, Prime Minister of the Federation, this facility is now under the control of the Air Force.” He turned to the camp commander. “You are relieved of command. I want a list of all the prisoners you are holding.”

  The commander swallowed. “I have not been advised of this change of command, General.”

  “I just advised you. Now get me that list.” General Sorokin nodded to one of his soldiers, who raised his weapon threateningly.

  The commander hesitated, then motioned to his adjutant. “Get the list.”

  “Yes sir,” the adjutant replied smartly, then hurried toward the admin building, followed by an air force soldier.

  Near the entrance to the accommodation block, a small group of old men gathered. Most were in their sixties and seventies, although one frail old man in a wheel chair was in his eighties. Craig studied the confused faces of the men, wondering if, after all this time he would even recognize his father. A few of the men exchanged whispers, although most just watched, suspecting Moscow had finally decided they were too much of an embarrassment to keep alive. Soon the adjutant ran back from the main building, holding a document folder, which he handed to the general.