'Advance to Contact' (Armageddon's Song)

by Andy Farman

  “Whoa there, honey!” a laughing Patricia exclaimed as the Russian bent over to adjust the fit of her boots, and reached into the trunk to extract a g string which she tossed to Svetlana.

  “You are showing way too much territory, if you know what I mean…you’ll catch your death!” The tiny item was wiggled into before a very short skirt was passed over to Caroline.

  “These are all mine, my…former tools of the trade. I left a lot of stuff in storage when I left, and as I’m still the same size, and you’re a ten as well, so we should make a convincingly hot pair.”

  Caroline first held it at arm’s length, and then against her hips. The filmy silk skirt barely covered her buttocks and was also see-through.

  “No way ‘lana!”

  “It will be curfew by the time we get to where we are going, and that is to the dacha’s owned by very important people. The only people who go there at night are people on urgent official business…and very expensive hookers. Although most of the owners are conspicuously absent, the area is patrolled by the militia and we could be stopped at a mobile checkpoint.”

  Both Americans had been supplied with Swiss passports and visas in Scotland, which described them rather vaguely as being in the entertainment business, and both spoke some German from their frequent postings to that country.

  “If we are stopped, leaving the talking to me, don’t say anything, don’t even acknowledge their existence…in fact your whole attitude should be arrogant and one of you can’t afford me, ok?”

  Caroline felt butterflies start playing bumper cars with her stomach lining.

  “Er, I’m not a spy, I fly advanced aircraft to far flung exotic climes, often populated by strange, yet interesting peoples, and I bomb the shit out of them with pinpoint accuracy…but Lara Croft I ain’t!”

  “I need you because the old lady’s bum would look big in that skirt I just gave you…Caroline, your job will be to stay with the car and watch the clock, if I’m not back within ninety minutes you drive back here, collect Patricia, get to the Nighthawk, and get the hell back to the West.”

  “Do you know who it is you are going to meet?”

  Svetlana levelled with her, telling as much as would be safe for the American to know.

  “I know who the meeting is for the benefit of, but there is a chance that they cannot be there and a proxy will be waiting instead. The proxy will be someone in a position to know the information we need, and in a position to deal.”

  Patricia picked up on that last word.

  “Deal?” Her own profession dealt with more black and white issues, cloak and dagger wasn’t the norm for aircrew. “So this isn’t one of our guys working undercover, or a CIA mole then?”

  “No, this is someone who has always worked for the state, and has now reached lofty heights…” Pat’s mouth opened to protest, but Svetlana continued.

  “You won’t know this, but there is currently a high turnover of people filling the top slots of the new Soviet Union, and they have to be feeling pretty damned worried that they don’t screw up. Giving one of them the option to cut and run could seem extremely attractive about now.”

  Patricia mulled it over in her head for a moment.

  “You know these guys personally, like on friendly terms?”

  “Yes, I know the one the contact was made with; I doubt we could exactly be termed as friends though.”

  Caroline was as much unhappy with the situation as Patricia, and she shook her head.

  “So if there is bad history there, then why you…I mean why not send Constantine, or even one of our spooks?”

  Svetlana couldn’t tell her it was because they wanted something from her personally; she certainly couldn’t state that an element of revenge was possibly a motive, so she told a half-truth. “They know me from before, and I made the initial contact…so when I’m talking immunity and several million in cash, to see out their days in comfort, it will come across better than from a totally unknown face.”

  “Are they trustworthy though?” Caroline’s butterflies were not getting any better with what Svetlana had told her up to now.

  The Russian almost pulled a face. Trustworthy? It wasn’t the first word that jumped to mind. Ruthless, controlling, perverse and morally corrupt were certainly the lasting impression she had, but before, once quid pro quo had taken place to the satisfaction of all parties, they’d kept their word.

  “Providing they get what they want…yeah, they’ll do their part.”

  But despite the emphatic nod she gave as she spoke, Svetlana felt a knot of fear squeeze her insides.

  She allowed Caroline to sort through the trunk and grinned at Patricia.

  “Your turn next time, if there is one.” But the bombardier looked merely uncomfortable, worrying about their safety. The pilot turned and went downstairs, absenting herself from the giggling pair, electing to take a walk in the woods instead.

  An hour later, Svetlana had made up her own face and then Caroline’s, and the pilot had to admit that she looked chic, elegant and in fact pretty damn sensational, in revealing clothing bearing designer labels. However, had her Mother been present she would have a stroke to she could see her daughter attired as if expecting to collect an award at a porn industry ceremony.

  The last item Svetlana put on was a thin gold belt, and after checking the batteries of the Walkman given her by Scott, she clipped it to the belt.

  Pat didn’t know how he was summoned, but their CIA contact arrived outside in his old but reliable van, keeping the engine running whilst the heater attempted to produce something resembling warmth.

  Genuine sable coats and hats, the badges of office of the high class Muscovite call girl, kept out the cold on the journey to the northern outskirts of the city. They travelled by the back roads into the suburbs where their contact dropped them outside a warehouse used for vehicle storage. Caroline listened to Svetlana sweet talk the night watchman, without understanding a word, into opening up for them, adding a ten dollar US bill for his trouble, along with some papers. Despite the war the dollar still held more clout in Russia than the rouble; it disappeared into the man’s pocket as he led them into the depths of the building. Eventually they came to the long-term storage area and the watchman checked the bay number on the paperwork handed over by the Russian against those painted on the walls behind the bays. On reaching the correct space, the watchman pulled off a dustcover from a Mercedes sports car, and checked the registration plates tallied with those on the forms.

  “It has been maintained as agreed Miss, the oil changed once a year, the engine run every week…every week for six years Miss, have you been away?”

  “Yes, in St Petersburg.” She delved in a pocket of the expensive fur and extracted her set of keys as she walked around the car, running a hand over the red paintwork in a caress before coming around to the driver’s side.

  The night watchman stepped forward quickly to open the door for her, and Pat watched the Russian girl give him a beatific smile, slide elegantly behind the wheel, whilst adding a wink as she allowed the coat to fall open briefly, permitting a view of white lace gusset framed by silky thighs.

  Christ on crutches, thought the American, she is terminally incorrigible!

  As her own door was held open for her, she kept the coat close about her legs.

  “Lana, was it really necessary to give the guy a hard-on?”

  Svetlana grinned back.

  “Well what can I say, the gal’s a slut, and besides, I’m getting into character.” She turned her attention back to the car, inhaled the scent of leather upholstery, and turned the ignition key.

  The engine fired first time and she goosed the accelerator, allowing the car to roar. Svetlana ran her fingers over the wheel and patted the top of the dash, purring aloud to herself like a contented cat.

  “Hi baby, mommy’s home!”

  In the annex to Derjinsky Square the time was just before 9 pm as a pop-up appeared on the screen before Timoskova,
alerting him to the fact that someone was home at a target address. The sound activated microphones came to life, and the cameras that had been in hibernation, the battery saving mode, took in the scene in each room.

  Although it was virtually impossible for him, or anyone else, to erase the information beyond a point where an audit could not ferret it out, he took up a pen and recorded the event in a log.

  Despite over fifty premises being under electronic surveillance, and only himself pulling the night shift, he did not expect to be overwhelmed with work. Most of the occupants had left the city, leaving only maids to tend to the houses. The apartments held a greater number of their principle inhabitants, whereas the dachas were virtually empty. It was the same old way of things, houses for wife and family, city apartments for mistresses and dacha’s for clandestine plotting, plus entertainment by whores, of course.

  Anyone who could have got away from the city, but a few of the mistress’s remained, as had a small proportion of the high-class call girls.

  Although Timoskova would have been annoyed had he been accused of voyeurism, it was that very vice that night duty on the special surveillance detail bearable.

  Up until now the evening and been pretty humdrum, tiny peccadilloes of the serving classes and a mistress engaging in phone sex with a man other than the one who paid the bills.

  He checked the address of the new location, it was another dacha, and that made two that were being occupied after long absences. The general of air defence forces for the capital and its surrounds owned this latest one, and the state security man felt a sense of anticipation, the general was a randy old goat with a taste for expensive ladies. He doubted a peep show would occur at the first dacha, the only passion ever expended there was in the owners’ enjoyment of traditional Ukrainian folk music.

  Double clicking on the pop-up, a window appeared on screen, giving him access to the cameras in every room of the general’s country retreat. He allowed the live feed from the living room and bedroom to occupy a window apiece, because the general was hurrying back and forth between both, lighting the log fires in each, and laying out supplies. Champagne, vodka, caviar, and some dildos that would have been impressive on a small horse, had they been the real thing. Company in the form of the oldest profession was obviously expected, so the evening would not be one of utter boredom in the annex.

  Drunkenness on duty was a breach of discipline that would be punished by a bullet, but a single beer to while away the night, well that was a different kettle of fish, and one that a blind eye would be turned to, if discovered. Timoskova had a bottle secreted away, and he checked that the general’s companion had not yet arrived, before he left his post to retrieve it, he’d have himself a cold one whilst enjoying the upcoming display of carnal talents.

  Opening the bottle he took a sip as he returned to his workstation, where he saw a further pop-up was flashing a warning, and he cursed aloud because the general had finished his preparations and was looking expectant. Placing the beer atop the monitor he got busy with his mouse, grunting to himself when he identified the source as being another dacha. The fresh location was a place rarely visited, and then he whistled when he identified the owner, about as high as you could go in the service of the state.

  Opening windows to the visual feeds he saw not just the owner, but three others there too, all four were in uniform, the shoulder boards and insignia of the KGB, Navy, Air force and Army were present.

  What the hell was going on? By all rights the person wearing that KGB uniform should be at the Premiers side, not out in the woods with officers from the fighting services.

  He double-checked that the hard drive was collecting the data, and created a separate file for this last address, before inserting a blank CD into the writer, he would err on the side of safety and ‘burn’ a back-up copy.

  Whilst all this was going on, loud music was turned on at the KGB officer’s dacha, and the officer had a hand held scanner in play, sweeping for hidden recording devices. Timoskova smiled when he saw, and heard, the lengths being gone to in order to provide secrecy. In this day and age it took more than retiring to the bathroom and turning on the taps to prevent every word being listened to, eventually anyway. He didn’t worry about the scanner performing as advertised either, because he had personally installed the tiny cameras and microphones in that building just a few days before.

  Once satisfied the CD was also gathering the information he took the time to observe. The group were obviously satisfied because they had gone upstairs to the room at the top of the stairs, where they sat on hard back chairs against the walls. It appeared as if they were waiting for someone else to arrive, but there was not chitchat, and no banter-taking place. The first thing that struck him was the ranks of the fighting men, a captain and two light colonels, not even Staff rank! The war was obviously improving prospects for promotion, because they seemed a little on the young side to be of those ranks. But then again, he thought, talented young officers often hold more advanced rank, if serving with elite units.

  Things were looking decidedly sinister, he finally decided with a sigh.

  They hadn’t driven far from the storage site when Svetlana had stopped and changed the cars registration plates with another set from the trunk, before moving off again.

  The curfew came into force at 9pm, and there were many people still rushing home after that time had passed. Whilst there were other people out and about they were relatively safe, but the roads were virtually clear apart from themselves by the time the suburbs of Pushkino had fallen behind.

  If the Russian girl was concerned about her ability to talk her way past any police or militia attentions they might receive, she did not show it. Caroline on the other hand was trying to keep her anxiety under control, not wanting to let the side down. She had already made the mistake of asking about weapons, but Svetlana had shaken her head.

  “If we get into something where we need a gun, a pistol, or even two won’t be enough to help us..….if we are searched and they find a gun, then its game over Caroline.”

  The American felt the outline of the pistol in the coat pocket, given her by Constantine before leaving Scotland after he had made her promise to look out for Svetlana, without the other girl’s knowledge. She now wondered if she would have time to open the window and throw it out, if they saw a checkpoint ahead. However she said nothing about the pistol to the Russian, and just hoped that the journey remained uneventful.

  They reached the pine forests within which the rich and powerful had their retreats, the Russian girl turned off the M8, the main route onto a utility road, which she followed for several minutes before leaving the surfaced road. Caroline wasn’t sure what was going on when the car stopped, and then reversed, leaving the road at an angle before disappearing beneath the trees, the frozen ground below the inch or so covering of snow, crackled and snapped under the cars weight.

  “Any car travelling the same way we did along the road would see straight away that a someone had left the road back there if I had simply pulled off under here.” The pilot wasn’t a woodsman, and she had to admit to herself that she wouldn’t have thought of that.

  “Okay, we are out of site here, and I want you to stay in the car while I’m gone. Just watch the time, and if I am not back before ten forty-five, just leave. Don’t go giving me an extra few minutes, just drive.” She reached up to the visor, and took down a road map, showing the American where they were and where ‘home’ was. She checked her watch and then opened the door. “I’ve got to hustle now…don’t worry, it’ll be fine.” Giving a brief smile she climbed out, closing the door behind her and vanished into the forest darkness.

  Moving with confidence the Russian reached the clearing after a few minutes’ walk, little had changed in that aspect since she had last made the same journey years before, perhaps the meeting itself would be though.

  Rather than walk right in to a possible ambush she took a few basic precautions, because both she and
Constantine had to have accumulated quite a bounty on their scalps.

  The woods about the clearing were empty of anyone lying in wait, although a car sat close to the dacha’s covered porch, unoccupied but the engine was still warm. She checked that a power light was showing on her Walkman but left the earpiece draped over her shoulders, and then studied the ground around the car. Not one, but four sets of footprints led out across the snow from the car to the buildings door, and Svetlana felt a thrill run through her as she too headed for the dacha.

  Timoskova’s patience was rewarded when the general answered his door, smiling in greeting to the young lady who stepped across the freshold, kissing her hand and offering something to take away the chill of the night. As he brought her over to the fireplace she removed her fur hat, and a glorious mass of hair tumbled free. She exchanged the headwear for a shot glass proffered by her host, which she knocked back in one go before returning it, and then removed the sable coat she wore, and Timoskova let out an appreciative whistle. She was without doubt a rare beauty, and what she wore beneath the fur left little to the imagination.

  She knelt before the burning logs, holding out her hands to soak in the warmth whilst the general put on some music to set the mood, and ruining the audio reception arriving at the annex in central Moscow.

  Timoskova was not greatly concerned; he had programs that could identify and isolate any frequency, allowing conversations to be listened to with clarity, but something odd was happening at the other dacha.

  The previously clear images in the open windows upon his screen were being affected by some kind of interference. It started on the hallway monitor and then seemed to spread outwards from there, the audio reception was being glitched too. Timoskova ran a fault finding program for his own system, not expecting to find anything though because the general’s windows still held clear images. That would leave the cause as being either pretty sophisticated jamming, or a line fault somewhere between his console and the receiver, which picked up the short-range transmissions from the dacha and sent them down the landline.