by Unknown
Valeria felt a sudden panic and bolted upright, trying to figure out where she was. The room was dark. She hyperventilated and forced herself to be calm. Whenever she panicked she always felt nauseous, and she didn’t want that.
Gradually, she got her bearings. The room was too dark to see anything except for a small, gray square set in the wall across the room. It was a window. The night outside was less dark than the room. A low rumble frightened her, until she realized it was thunder, which meant the tapping sound was rain.
She was on a bed in a dark room, it was night, and raining.
But where was the room? She could be anywhere in the world.
She had to know.
She got out of the bed and felt around in the darkness, stumbling over a chair before she felt it. Trying to be as quiet as she could, she moved the chair to the far wall, just beneath the small window, and climbed on it.
There was not much to see. Beyond a tall fence topped with barbed wire, a forest of trees stood like silent soldiers in a formation, enduring a downpour. A dim glow came from somewhere, 236
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providing enough light to see only a few of the closer trees, which did not tell her much. She only knew where she wasn’t: she wasn’t in a desert, she wasn’t in a jungle. What good was that? How would she find out where she was and how would she let Yuri know?
She heard heavy footsteps and turned to face the direction from which they came. A thin sliver of yellow light appeared through the gap at the bottom of a door by the head of the bed, then the door opened. Valeria shielded her eyes against the light, trying to make out the identity of the large silhouetted figure.
A light flicked on and she squeezed her eyes shut, then opened them a fraction to see the person. It was Mironov, standing in the doorway, regarding her with amusement.
“It has rained for two days,” he said in his deep, gravelly voice.
Valeria stared at him without speaking. He was the last person she wanted to see and the one person she feared she was most likely to meet in this place.
“Where am I?” she said, suppressing her fear.
Mironov grinned, looked down at the floor as if unsure whether to tell her the truth, then looked back up at her.
“We call it the warehouse. It’s a little place the Party owns.”
“But where?” Valeria insisted.
Mironov started to speak, caught himself, then said it anyway.
“Moscow. Near the train yards of south Moscow, actually.
You can’t see the city from that window. It’s in the other direction.” He came into the room and closed the door. Valeria noticed another man who stayed outside. “Now sit here on the bed and we’ll talk.”
Valeria climbed down from the chair and went to the bed, staying away from Mironov. He took the chair away from the wall and sat on it, facing her.
“Ironic, isn’t it?” he began. “You’ve had an amazing adventure and here you are back in Moscow, so close to home, and yet Change of Heart
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a prisoner once again.”
He chuckled. Valeria said nothing. It was just like Mironov to say something so vicious. He found humor in humiliating people around him. In the past, she had felt sorry for his daughter, until the one time she met her and found she was just as mean.
Mironov’s grin faded. “I wish to commend you for performing your part so well for the Party.”
“I’ve done nothing for the Party,” Valeria muttered, although inside she was not so sure what he meant.
“I’m sorry to have to contradict you, but you have. Simply because you are here you have reinforced the position of the Party within the Kremlin itself. Even in the west there are whispers that the new Democracy has lost credibility.” His grin returned. He was enjoying this. Valeria shuddered.
“I have just one more assignment for you,” he continued. “It won’t be a difficult one. You won’t have to fuck anyone for me, yet.”
He paused, looking into her eyes without blinking. Valeria tried to mask her fear.
“In a few days, when the time is right, you and I will march into the Kremlin, right onto the Parliament floor, where I will introduce you to the President of the Russian Republic and all the members of his cabinet. You will be the proof of their ineffectiveness as a ruling body and overwhelming evidence of the National Soviet Party’s supreme power over the people. Then we will simply demand a vote. The impotent Democratic Republic will be kicked out in shame and Vassily Nedved will be reinstated as the new Supreme Soviet. All you have to do is stand there and look beautiful. That won’t be too hard, will it?” Valeria was horrified. This was the worst possible ending she could have imagined. Mironov had an entire career ahead of him again and it was all because of her. All she wanted was to live a peaceful, insignificant life with Yuri, and now she was going to go down in history as the hero of the new Soviet Union, the whore who brought down the Russian Democratic Republic. And the 238
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worst part was it could all happen just as he said, if he led her onto the Parliament floor.
“I won’t do anything for you,” Valeria said.
Mironov laughed. “You have no choice. You’re as good to me dead as you are alive. I’m offering to let you keep your life.
You should take it. I’m not always so generous.” He got up and went to the door. “Think about it,” he said as he knocked and the door was opened. “Or don’t. I don’t care.” He laughed and went out. The man who stood guard sneered at her and locked the door. Valeria hugged her legs to her chest, suddenly feeling very cold.
Mironov swelled with confidence as he strode into the office area of the large warehouse building. He was determined, but impatient. Everything was rapidly falling into place. They had overcome several snags already, and now all they had to do was wait for Nedved to return to Moscow. If he stayed away too long, the opportunity to act might pass and they would have to force the vote without his presence. Mironov was so anxious to get on with it he wanted to go down to Odessa himself and drag Nedved back to Moscow himself.
He snickered. Nedved would love that. He would deserve it, too. All he did down there was boast about his imaginary accomplishments and sleep with women half his age. The man was no different than the corrupt czars who rose to power in this nation’s past strictly through their inheritance of the title. None of them in his mind were ever worthy of ruling such a powerful nation, and Mironov believed they were ultimately responsible for the mess the motherland found itself in during his lifetime.
He saw it sinking further into an abyss under the current Democratic administration, and if it took a man like Nedved to turn it around, then so be it. Mironov’s eyes gleamed. No one, however, would be better suited for the chair of the Supreme Soviet than he himself. He would whip the nation into shape, turn it back into a machine of production.
During the day the office had bustled with activity, as always, Change of Heart
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but probably more than normal today. Mironov had returned and everyone knew the judgement day would soon be at hand. Such power thrilled him.
But now it was late in the evening and the office area was quiet. Mironov stopped. Someone was in his office, sitting in the chair in front of his desk. He could make out the back of the man’s head through the open door, and it looked familiar. As he went closer he saw it was Potapemkin, probably there to take the credit for himself. Let him try. He’d bring him down, too.
“This is an honor,” Mironov said as he entered his office.
Potapemkin rose to shake his hand, but Mironov pretended not to notice and went around his desk to sit down. Potapemkin sat back in the seat. He had been in the game too long to let some small act of disrespect bother him.
“You are to be congratulated for your accomplishment,” Potapemkin said. “I think it’s fair to say you have resurrected our hopes for success. The Party owes you a great deal.” Mironov was caught off guard by Potapemkin’s
generosity.
It was uncharacteristic. “Thank you,” he said.
If the compliment was intended to mislead him, he was unable to see through it.
Potapemkin went on. “I have notified Nedved of your success. He is returning from Odessa immediately. He, too, wishes to thank you for your efforts.”
Mironov smelled a trap. He studied his superior across the desk. What could the man be up to? He was tempted to come right out and ask, but if Potapemkin was not up to anything he would be insulted and that might damage Mironov’s position, and if he was setting a trap he would simply deny it, then pretend to be insulted and Mironov would be in the same position. Therefore, he decided he could do nothing but go along with the situation for now.
“When will he arrive?” Mironov asked, as if he was not the least bit suspicious.
“Tomorrow or the next day, but that’s not the reason I came to see you. An hour ago I received a communication from my 240
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operative inside the Kurchenko family, Aleksandr Baretsky.” Mironov nodded. “I know him. I recruited him.”
“And he has done excellent work. His message was to inform us that Kurchenko knows we have the girl and they are planning a raid to liberate her tonight.”
Mironov sat forward, his fists clenched.
“They could ruin everything. I’ll get her out of here immediately.”
“Relax,” Potapemkin said with his hand up. “They’re not coming here. They think we have her in the Nikolai Hotel in the center of Moscow. We will have a rude welcome for them instead.”
Mironov sat back, confused. A minute ago he seemed in complete control of his destiny. Now it seemed his life was in the hands of others.
“How is it they know we have her, and that she is in Moscow?” Mironov said, trying to keep from sounding bewildered.
Potapemkin shrugged. “I think it’s safe to assume the girl’s lover, Yuri Kurchenko, you know about him, had a meeting with Joshua McGowan before he returned.” Merely the mention of the name made Mironov’s blood boil.
He felt his face grow warm.
“There is a man I would like to see dead. I have had several chances in the past to kill McGowan and none have been successful.”
“You may get another chance,” Potapemkin said.
“What do you mean?”
“He’s coming to Moscow. At least according to Baretsky.” Mironov’s eyes lit up. “When?”
“We don’t know, but soon.”
Mironov sat back, folding his arms on his chest.
“He will be coming here for the Doctor. That was the entire purpose for their involvement in this mission in the first place.” Potapemkin nodded. “Should we move the Doctor?”
“That won’t be necessary. He needs to continue his work.
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several months.”
Potapemkin looked concerned. “Are we going to let McGowan just walk in here?”
Mironov laughed at the deviousness of his plan. “We’ll be ready for him.”
* * * *
Josh had been to Israel four times before this trip, but had never been to Mossad headquarters. Tel-Aviv was a unique city. The buildings were a mixture of contemporary, early fifties and ancient designs, sometimes divided into sectors within the city and sometimes in a conglomerate within a single block.
Mossad headquarters was a building that seemed caught between eras. Most was the original construction from the early fifties. Even the pastel green paint on the walls looked original.
Other parts of the building were being converted to contemporary, even futuristic design for air conditioned computer rooms and offices.
The room in which Josh met Walt reminded him of the old house he spent time living in when he was a child: postwar, pre-art deco and just plain ugly.
Walt was sitting at a small table with a man smoking a cigar who looked to be in his sixties with a narrow nose and gray hair, eyebrows and moustache. Walt introduced him as Herbert Cohen, Assistant Director of the Mossad. Josh shook his hand. Cohen was from New York originally and Josh got the impression he was nervous about something, unless he was just always nervous.
Josh sat. Walt dwarfed the table, and looked tired, like he could barely keep his eyes open. Josh guessed he hadn’t slept well these last few days. He wasn’t the only one. Josh himself hadn’t had a good night’s sleep in about a week.
“Our situation is a little more difficult than we expected,” Walt began. He appeared calm, but Josh assumed that was because of fatigue. “Mironov pulled a fast one on us. We kind of took him for granted. Now I’ve got a bad feeling about what he’s got 242
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in mind.”
“He’s working with the Communist Party to restore the Soviet Union,” Cohen said in his Brooklyn accent.
“Can he do that?” Josh said.
Cohen nodded. “Definitely. The Russian Republic is not as strong as it should be by now and there is the beginnings of a political vacuum. All the Communists need is a catalyst and they will fill that vacuum. The girl is that catalyst.” Josh sat back in his chair, overwhelmed by the implications of his actions on this mission. For the sake of that beautiful young woman he fell in love with, the world could slip back into the Cold War, or worse, and all because he failed to protect her.
“They almost had you as well,” Walt said. “That would have been all the better for them, and that much worse for us.”
“What about the original purpose of this mission? Weren’t we supposed to get some information from Valeria?”
“We were, but that’s not going to be possible now,” Walt said.
He opened his briefcase and took out an envelope, which he passed to Josh. Josh opened it and took out a set of photographs.
“Those are satellite photos taken two days ago over the Grushtuli mountains,” Walt said.
The photographs were not clear, but Josh could make out the fuzzy white shapes of horses on a black background, infrared images of a horse train.
“Apparently, our estimates were a little off,” Walt continued.
“The Communists have already begun production of the explosives. They’re using it as a product to fund their return to power.
This is their first shipment. We’re guessing it’s six tons going into Iraq. From there it can be used anywhere.” Cohen sat forward and Josh looked at him. His forehead was creased with lines of worry.
“I’m sure you understand, we don’t want them to use it at all.”
Josh could certainly sympathize. Israel would probably be Change of Heart
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the main target, and they already had enough trouble with bombs.
He tossed the photos on the table.
“Tell me more about this explosive.” He and Cohen both looked at Walt.
“It’s pretty simple. Dr. Otto Jones invented the stuff. He used a new process for making plastic explosives that renders the stuff virtually undetectable. It’s not perfect, of course, but it’s certainly good enough to get through the best airport security systems. We know because he made a test batch before the Communists made him an offer. You might remember it. Several of our people were killed in the process.”
Josh remembered. He remembered it well. Three of the people were good friends of his. One was a woman Josh had been attracted to for years. It wasn’t one of Mironov’s jobs then, but he had his hands in it now. Josh would love to pay him back for it.
Josh shook his head. “And we’re the ones who told this doctor it was important to make something like that, right?” Walt had no answer; he just stared back at Josh. “Let me guess the rest. You want me to go in and take out Dr. Jones, and for good measure waste the factory, and we needed Valeria to tell us where to find Dr. Jones.”
“Something like that,” Walt said with burning sarcasm.
Josh could sense his contempt. He was aw
are he had been assigned to this job specifically for the purpose of bringing Valeria in, and he failed. Nevertheless, it made him angry that he was the one who should take the heat when no one anticipated the extent of Mironov’s deception. If it hadn’t been for the Communist warship blowing the Monticello out of the water, or Valeria’s reluctance to being captured, or the ambush by Mironov’s men in Tokyo, this mission would have been a piece of cake. Josh stared back at Walt, his own anger turning to contempt.
Cohen cut in, ignoring the tension between them. “Before you do that, we have asked that your people help us with our ...
problem.”
Josh could see he was trying to be as diplomatic as possible.
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He sat forward with his hands clasped on the table.
“I take it we’re going in?”
Walt briefed Josh on the drive to the airfield, a small military base just inside Israel’s eastern border with Iraq. He had assembled Josh’s team and they would combine efforts with an Israeli team.
Mossad agents inside Iraq confirmed that all of the explosives were at a terrorist training camp at Al Hadithah, in the center of the Syrian desert, about halfway between Baghdad and the Israel border. The combined teams would be air dropped some distance from the camp by helicopter, take out everyone in the camp and confirm the destruction of the explosives, then get out.
Josh looked at Walt’s maps and paid complete attention to the briefing, but none of it was anything he didn’t already know.
He’d been on a hundred missions like this, many with the same members of this team.
The sun was still up when they arrived at the airbase. Flight time to the drop point would not be more than sixty minutes and they did not want to arrive before two a.m., so there would be a wait.
As they got out of the car, Josh saw a pair of black helicopters sitting side by side in front of a hangar. Beyond them was a pair of A-10 Thunderbolts, U.S. Air Force jets with long, slender green bodies, straight, narrow wings and a pair of fat, round jet engines mounted high on the tail on either side of the fuselage, a feature which gave the planes the nickname “Warthog”.