by Ed Kovacs
Kit signaled to the group. They all saw the anticipation on his face and fell silent. He answered and put the call on speaker.
“Go ahead,” said Kit.
Silence on the other end, then …
“You are no longer needed. Your participation has ended. Should you or your friends do anything in a public way, any more killings, attacks, any action that draws attention from the authorities, I will kill your sister without hesitation. If you so much as get a parking ticket, she’s dead. Go to ground, hide, hunker down, whatever you want to call it. Stand down or she dies, and I mean she dies horribly. Do you understand?” said Viktor Popov.
“It was you who attacked me this morning, General.” Kit practically spat out the words with venom. “And you accuse me of bringing attention from the authorities? You order me to stand down?!”
“If you want to see—”
“Shut up, you pathetic old man! You call me using my sister’s phone because you think that will intimidate me, make me afraid for her safety? Sosi hui, dolboeb,” spewed Kit, with utter contempt. Suck my d***, f***head. “If anything happens to my sister, if anyone so much as touches her from this moment on, I guarantee that you and your nephew, Mikhail Travkin, Travkin’s wife, Natalie, and his children, Petra and Ivan, your wife, your children, your children’s children, all of your soldiers, all of the computer geeks working out of those big RVs, and your analysts and special operators, like the people who robbed the armored truck … all of them will be killed. You and your family will be hunted to the ends of the earth by me or by others loyal to me, and your deaths will be brutally cruel.” Kit said it with a hate, a rage, a vehemence that came from a very dark place within him.
“I know what you want, Popov. I tortured Yulana into talking before I killed her. You want me to steal an EMP device from Sandia National Labs. That would be easy for me to do. Which model do you want?” Silence on the line. “Which one?!” demanded Kit.
“An RT-Seven,” said Popov.
“I could easily get an RT-Seven, so maybe we’ll make a trade. But let me think about it. Oh, and don’t call me. I’ll call you.”
Kit hung up. He let out a big exhale, and everyone just stared at one another. No one spoke for about a minute.
“Just to clarify, I would never harm a hair on the head of any wives or family members or innocents. But he would—look what he did to my mom and to Staci. So I talked strong to get his attention, using the kind of threats he would use if he were in my position.”
“Yeah, we understand that. But, Kit … he said you were out, that he didn’t need you. That means he has an alternate plan,” said Buzz.
“Could he have one of the old Russian EMP bombs?” asked Angel.
“Or maybe,” Yulana said, “he has built one. It’s possible to do it cheaply. If Popov has a weapons scientist, he could easily construct one. But it would likely be crude, not precise, and do more damage over a wider area.”
“Kit, it sounds like Popov was dead set on using you to steal an RT-Seven e-bomb, but you became so troublesome and problematic, he decided to move ahead without you,” said Buzz.
“We still have to stop him,” said Angel.
“Someone has to stop him.” Jen looked troubled.
“What do you mean, Jen?” asked Kit.
“We’ve just flown eight hundred miles away from a guy who most likely has an e-bomb, and who could detonate it at any minute. And we don’t know the target. I hate to say it, but we need to consider getting some agencies engaged in this.”
“You’re absolutely right,” said Kit. “I’ll call Padilla and brief her on most everything that has happened, leaving your names out of it. I’ll ask her to immediately get all of the appropriate agencies involved.”
“Where does that leave us?” asked Angel.
“Out of a job,” said Kit. “Buzz, Angel, Jen, I owe you a debt that will be hard to repay. But here is where we part company. One of the reasons I flew us all here was to get you three away from a number of crime scenes and an army of Russian killers. We are all very lucky to be alive after what happened at the safe house.”
“But we’re just getting started! We need to go after Travkin,” groused Angel.
“Angel, I’m so far off the reservation, the Feds may decide to wipe me. You three can simply no longer be involved with what I’m doing. You could lose your careers, be sent to jail, or worse.
“Yulana and I have loved ones being held hostage, so the stakes are different for us. I was hoping to find Staci first.” Kit looked downward and his voice choked a bit. “But I’ll proceed under the assumption that the Russians won’t harm her any further. Popov will take my threat seriously, at least until I’m dead.”
The choices and circumstances were rotten, and the looks on the faces of Buzz, Angel, and Jen reflected that.
“Regardless of what the Feds will do, Yulana and I are going to steal an RT-Seven from Sandia. I’ll set up a trade with Popov, except it won’t be a trade, it’ll be a trap.”
Kit’s team exchanged concerned, skeptical glances; they clearly disagreed with him on this point.
“You’re going to ask the secretary of state’s permission to steal a device?” asked Buzz.
“No. I won’t even beg forgiveness after I steal it.”
“Boss, that kind of crime gets someone locked up forever, regardless of how good the intentions might have been,” said Angel.
“Stealing an EMP weapon would be crossing a whole different kind of line. Even if you got Staci back, the SECSTATE couldn’t protect you. You’d never see another day of freedom,” said Jen.
“And if I don’t try, neither will Staci.”
CHAPTER 25
Mikhail Travkin stood with his uncle Viktor Popov on a corner terrace of Mikhail’s penthouse apartment, above the tantalizing backdrop of billions of dollars’ worth of West Los Angeles real estate. Traffic on the streets below had shifted into gridlock afternoon rush-hour mode.
“All of my fears about how this could go wrong have been realized,” carped Mikhail, pacing on the expensive outdoor carpeting. He internally berated himself for a series of blunders, and almost all of the mistakes had to do with his not standing up to his uncle on key decisions.
“All of your fears? What do you know of fear?”
“He knows about our entire organization. The hackers, the analysts.” In Travkin’s analytical mind, the percentage for success had taken a hit.
“He doesn’t know locations,” said Viktor.
“He’ll find out! He mentioned killing my wife and children and he knows their names! He knows that you wanted him to steal an EMP device! How has he learned so much so quickly?”
“Calm down and forget about him for now. Don’t answer if he calls. When we’re ready, we’ll talk to him. We can contract out his murder to the Haitians or a biker gang or—”
“Uncle, if he alerts the police or the FBI, the whole deception is not worth pursuing.”
“With what proof, what evidence can he give them? And he has no credibility; he’s a wanted man! Perhaps we can plant a large amount of cocaine at the aviation company in Chino. The police will easily convince themselves these killings were about a drug feud and that Bennings is more dirty than they already suspected.”
“He doesn’t need proof. Can’t you see that? All of the fingers would point to us if an e-bomb is detonated, and the full weight of the American system will crush us!”
“No, because we’ll be in Russia by then. When Bennings calls back, we set up a trade—his sister for the RT-Seven. After we have it, they will both be killed.”
“Please forget about the American bomb!”
“I can’t! If you’re going to fly over the Alps, do you want to do it in a Gulfstream Five, or in an ultralight plane you built in your backyard? Dennis will soon be in Las Vegas. After he certifies the operation there, send him to Albuquerque with his best men.”
“Have you lost your mind? Everything you propose is high risk
, high profile.”
“Everything I propose?! Was it me who ordered thirty men to kill Bennings this morning?! It was your idea, your order, and you failed in the worst possible fashion! Don’t make me do something unpleasant, Nephew. I take your counsel from time to time. I don’t take your orders. I am the don, this is my maskirovka, and we will proceed as I say.”
Mikhail looked for a long time at his uncle and then blinked. Mikhail was smart and ruthless, but he’d known too much privilege. He knew very well that he’d never had to fight for what was his; not really. And was he really going to have to fight his uncle? Because … had Viktor forgotten? This elaborate deception, potentially the greatest theft the world will have ever seen, had been his idea. Mikhail Travkin’s brainchild! The largest theft, monetarily, in the history of mankind, was within easy grasp. And the most elegant heists are those where the victim doesn’t even know they’ve been robbed!
My God, they stood on the threshold of a staggering criminal achievement, a crowning glory to Viktor Popov’s career that Mikhail had gifted to his uncle, the man who, in spite of his callous, imperious nature, had been amazingly good to him, had made him who he was today.
The names Popov and Travkin would be regarded as demigods by their fellow vor v zakone. They’d become … untouchable.
But here Viktor was now claiming the deception was his idea and not Mikhail’s. Why? Why would he do that? So he could justify not having to listen to anyone else? Holy Jesus, Viktor had become so blinded to an outcome that he couldn’t see he’d taken a wrong turn.
Perhaps his uncle had made him what he was today, but as Travkin looked at the old man, he realized it would be up to himself to make whatever it was he would become tomorrow. Decisions faced him, decisions that could not be made with a calculator or by constructing an elegant algorithm.
Mikhail’s mouth felt dry and he swallowed, but the taste was not good.
“It has always been my plan to permanently relocate back to Russia after we explode the device,” said Popov. “That won’t be so bad, considering the billions we’ll make.”
Mikhail didn’t look so sure about anything anymore. “You often cautioned me, Uncle, not to spend my money before I made it.”
Mikhail watched as Viktor stopped short and regarded him with a penetrating glare. “Perhaps your tone of caution is wise, Mikhail.” There was a long silence as the two men stared at each other. “Let us be cautious: send all of the technical people—the analysts, the hackers—on flights to Moscow immediately. Immediately! And you, your wife and children too.”
Travkin looked at Popov for a long beat. This was not the time to fight. Perhaps there was another way. “Yes, Uncle.”
* * *
Buzz squinted into the late-afternoon sun as he piloted the twin Cessna 401A on the flight toward California. Angel dozed in the right seat, while Jen sat in the back checking out the contents of her backpack.
Kit had asked them to leave the plane at a friend’s hangar at Montgomery Field in San Diego, then fly back to their homes before more trouble ensued. Instead, the three of them, once they were airborne, had decided to fly to Van Nuys Airport in L.A.’s San Fernando Valley and look into how they could track Viktor Popov through Mikhail Travkin.
As Jen inventoried her backpack, she found two of Kit’s cell phones: the one given to him in Moscow by Popov’s men (the one she had hoped to put a trace on) and Kit’s old U.S. cell phone. The batteries and SIM cards had been taken out of both phones so they couldn’t be triangulated and used to locate Kit. Bennings still had one of the new sterile phones they were all using, and he had his encrypted sat phone.
Jen, Buzz, and Angel all wore headsets so they could talk to one another in the noisy compartment.
“Buzz, what’s our approximate location?”
“Coming up on Prescott, Arizona, why?”
“I’ve got Kit’s old cell phone. If I turn it back on, maybe we could lead anyone trying to find him in the wrong direction. Then toss it out of the plane before we get to L.A.”
“Good idea.”
The intercom had awoken Angel, and he turned around and watched from the front as Jen slipped the battery into Kit’s phone and booted it up. A window popped up showing there were several new text messages, so Jen clicked to view them. The very first message she checked was the one sent from Staci Bennings in Las Vegas.
Jen’s eyes went wide as she read. “Holy cow!”
“What is it?” asked Angel.
“A text message to Kit that you’re not going to believe,” she said, handing him the phone.
Angel read the text carefully: “Vegas S of Rio/Plms nr Strip 3fl 2Russ hrry Stci. dnt rspnd.” He looked at Jen in disbelief, then read his interpretation of the text aloud. “Las Vegas, south of the Rio and Palms Casinos. Near the Strip. Third floor. Two Russians. Hurry. Staci. Don’t respond.” He handed the phone to Buzz, who quickly scanned the text.
“Ladies and gentlemen, this is the captain,” said Buzz. “Brace for a change of course.”
Buzz banked the plane sharply to the north and increased air speed to maximum.
* * *
The call to Secretary of State Margarite Padilla could have gone worse. Bennings sold her on his version of events, leaving out key facts and any mention of the participation of Buzz, Angel, Jen, or the navy SEALs. He glossed over the smoke-bomb diversion at LAX saying that no one had been hurt. He parsed his words carefully and truthfully insisted that he had nothing to do with the explosion in El Monte and that he was running for his life when the building blew. He admitted killing the men at the morgue in self-defense.
Bennings argued that facts suggested Popov intended to use a Russian-made e-bomb for some unknown purpose on an unknown target.
He urged her to convince the FBI to apprehend Mikhail Travkin at his Wilshire Boulevard condo and to raid all businesses known to be owned or controlled by Popov. Lastly, he maintained that Yulana Petkova was not a spy and that he wouldn’t be turning her or himself in, just yet, in spite of the secretary’s insistence.
He knew his revelations constituted mostly bad news and put Padilla into a tougher position than he’d already put her in. But at least armed thugs weren’t trying to shoot her dead. Padilla was a smart lady and a seasoned D.C. insider. She’d survive. He wasn’t so sure about himself. The nagging notion that he’d finally bit off more than he could chew and was on something of a suicide mission had become a thought that he couldn’t shake.
* * *
Detective Bobby Chan and a uniformed sheriff’s deputy stood in the bottom of a deeply shaded arroyo just off Carbon Canyon Road. Small pieces of wreckage from Gina Bennings’s car lay strewn around the slope.
“The front end was wedged right here,” said the deputy, pointing to an indentation in the soil.
Chan took short steps, walking slowing, scanning carefully. He used a SureFire LED flashlight like a searchlight over the dirt.
After watching Chan for over ten minutes, the deputy finally spoke up. “What is it you’re looking for?”
“Whatever doesn’t belong,” said Chan.
Chan stopped and looked up. He scanned the steep bank of the arroyo leading up to the road. A patch of white caught his eye.
The deputy saw it, too. “Plastic grocery bag?”
“I don’t think so,” said Chan.
Chan climbed the grade, not the easiest thing for a heavy guy with bad knees to do. He stood over the object, then carefully used tweezers to pick up a white cotton glove. The deputy climbed up next to him.
“Would any of the first responders have been wearing cotton gloves? Or the coroner’s staff or anybody?”
“Hell, Detective, you know the answer to that is ‘negative.’ Not cotton gloves.”
“Just wanted to hear someone else say it.” Chan placed the glove into a plastic evidence bag and winced from the pain in his knees—college football injuries—as he climbed out of the arroyo into the soft light of late afternoon. Traffic ran hea
vy as commuters made their way home.
Chan got to his unmarked vehicle just as Ron Franklin pulled up and bailed out of his unit.
“Bobby, get this. That big explosion in El Monte this morning? The Feds are covering something up. Word is there was a big shoot-out and a bunch of Russians got blown to pieces.”
“Well, well. But no word on Bennings?”
“Nothing.” Franklin noticed the evidence bag Chan held. “Find something down there?”
“I remain ever hopeful. The crime scene techs found long blond hairs in the Bennings house. And this is a small glove, maybe for a female. I’ll bet whoever wore this did some sweating. Check the DNA in this against those blond hairs.”
“Sounds like a long shot.”
“At least it’s a shot.” Chan looked over at the traffic-choked Carbon Canyon S turn. “You know, since we’re so close, let’s take one more look at the house.”
* * *
Chan and Franklin spotted two men in a sedan on stakeout near the Bennings house. The detectives boxed in the car with their own units and ordered the men out of their car, even though the pair in dark suits had shown their CID ID. All four men stood in the street.
“Where are your two buddies from Quantico—Flood and Bates?”
“Las Vegas,” said the shorter CID agent, without thinking. His partner gave him a “shut up” stare.
“Why’d they go to Vegas?”
Both CID men remained silent. Off Chan’s sly gesture, Franklin began playing the role of the good cop. “Look, we’ve turned up some new intelligence. We’re willing to share, if you’ll give us something in return.”
The CID guys both smirked. “You don’t have anything we need,” said the shorter one with the loose mouth.
Chan got a funny feeling from the remark and their attitude in general. He pulled out his phone like he was going to make a call, then peered through the open driver’s window. A manila folder thick with files sat on the seat. A printed report on top of the folder caught Chan’s eye. He leaned in through the open window and read a few lines of copy … and recognized the words.