Customs was the usual circus she had come to hate about the country, taking three times longer than anywhere else in the world, a throwback to the lightning efficiency that had made the Soviet Union a triumph of modern ingenuity. When she finally made it through to the arrivals area she was ready to turn around and fly back out – the only thing that kept her walking towards the exits was the errand she needed to take care of to keep her daughter safe.
She decided to stay at the Metropol, liking the central location as well as the grandeur of the hotel, and the fact that it wasn’t that far from Grigenko’s home and offices. She’d made mental notes the last time she was in Moscow and had decided that an attempt on the villa again wouldn’t work. Armies were always ready for the last war, not the next one, and she knew that if there had ever been a chance getting to him by rappelling down the side of the adjacent building and entering through a window, that train had left the station. Which left her with only a few choices: try to hit him while in transit, or somehow penetrate his office building.
Her room was ornate but worn, which suited her mood as she looked out the window at the cold gray sky. She traced a design in the fog on the inside panes, absently pondering the origin of the melancholy that had enveloped her since she’d set out on this trip. Perhaps it was being away from Hannah, or the feeling that she’d never be able to settle down in one place without enemies from her past coming for her, or...it could have been that for all her tough exterior, there was a part of her that was lonely. She had never minded being alone, but what she was feeling was something else – a vacuum that she’d somehow suppressed awareness of before she’d gotten her daughter back, when she thought it would always just be her, by herself. But now she had Hannah, and something inside of her wanted more.
Her thoughts wandered to Alan as she unpacked her few belongings and hung her clothes up. What did she feel about him? She had gotten past the hurdle that he was David’s brother – that past seemed a lifetime away now, after Thailand and Uruguay and the healing distance of time. He was definitely attractive, and was interested, and there had been a spark when they’d kissed – but mostly, she liked holding his hand and bantering with him, and the way he smelled when he was close. She felt secure when she was with him, even if security was an illusion. Mirage or not, it felt good, and made her feel somehow...complete.
Jet rarely felt regret over the life she’d chosen. She’d done well by her country, honoring it with selfless service, doing what needed to be done even as she sacrificed everything. But now, she was conflicted between not daring to hope for a better future, and imagining one, perhaps even as part of a fragile family, remote as that had seemed only a few short months ago. Was it possible to wash away the sins of the past and start anew, or was that some sort of romance novel tripe that never happened in the real world?
She threw herself down on the bed and stared at the molded ceiling.
Could everything be different after this final operation? Was there a way to find that elusive dream she thought of as a normal life, where the only concerns were doctor visits and grocery shopping and playground cuts and scrapes...and yes, the feel of a strong man by her side?
When her Russian disposable cell phone rang it jarred her from her thoughts, and she stabbed the call on button as she raised it to her ear.
“Yes?”
“Sorry. I’m not going to make it out. Too many loose ends to tie up. I’ll be traveling tomorrow, so I’ll either see you tomorrow night, or the following morning. You make it okay?” Alan asked, sounding contrite.
“I’m here in one piece. It’s pouring down rain, but maybe you’ll bring some sun with you when you fly in.”
“I hope so. Let me know if you need anything in the meantime.”
She thought about that. What did she need? Besides this nightmare ordeal to be over, and her daughter in her arms?
“I’m good. I’ll be waiting for you to get here. Everything okay on that end?”
“Yes. Nothing to worry about. But apparently it’s not like the old days, where I could walk in, blow the town up, and walk out. Management sucks,” he groused.
She laughed. “Yes. But you get free pencils.”
“Some incentive.”
“Nobody said life is fair.”
“I have to read my warranty. I want a refund.”
They signed off after agreeing to meet for dinner the following night at the Hilton, and Jet realized that she felt better after the exchange.
Maybe that was a sign. Even if there were no fireworks going off like with Matt, maybe the fact that talking to Alan made her feel good was enough.
Maybe that was the secret to happiness that had been eluding her.
She definitely had a lot to mull over, she thought, as the rain drummed against the glass, a reminder that things could always be worse. A few hours ago she had been out in the downpour, and now she was warm and dry in her suite.
Waiting for the storm to pass.
And for Alan.
Chapter 33
Sonora Desert, Mexico
The desert heat was broiling, even inside the van, the meager air-conditioning inadequate to keep the interior cool in the best of circumstances, much less with ten passengers seated on the floor, their bundles of belongings and bags clutched tightly to their chests. The van’s springs strained as they rocked down the dirt road into the wilds of the Sonoran desert, nightfall approaching rapidly as they moved north from Mexico towards the U.S. border.
Everyone in the van had paid top dollar for this trip, which meant at least two thousand dollars, and in some cases considerably more. The ‘coyotes’ that trafficked in humans, leading them from Mexico across the border, were a ruthless but pragmatic bunch. This gang was one of the most expensive, and reliable; meaning that if they thought they could put a bullet in your back and steal your valuables, they still might, but not if there was a chance of any retaliation – like if you were connected to the cartels or some other criminal syndicate. Others were more murderous – they charged more in the range of five hundred to a thousand dollars, but would occasionally abandon truckloads of unfortunates to cook in the desert when they had a mechanical problem and couldn’t fulfill their contract.
The passengers had climbed aboard in Caborca, Mexico, sixty-six miles south of the Arizona border, at ten-thirty at night, and under cover of darkness had traversed the dirt roads through the mountain desert, averaging barely twenty miles per hour. Nobody spoke during the trip – there wasn’t anything to say. They were a hardscrabble lot; for most, this dangerous trek was their last resort to escape to a better future, usually after paying their life savings, or the savings of their family, to get them into the States. Although since the financial crisis, for the first time in decades, outflows of illegal aliens returning to Mexico outpaced inflows to the U.S., there was still an allure to making the trip north, and for many, this was their final chance.
The coyotes had explained everything before they got under way. The area of the border they were going to was desolate, nothing within thirty miles except scrub and cactus, sometimes manned by the border patrol, though more often not. Arizona didn’t have the resources to police every foot of border, and even with a fence in place, large tracts were porous, with traffic in both directions uninhibited despite the best efforts of the border patrol.
A well-known reality in Mexico was that if you had the money, getting across the border was relatively easy, although it had gotten more difficult over the last week due to the terrorism hysteria. But that seemed distant in the sweltering night, the temperature still over a hundred degrees hours after the sun had set.
The man in the passenger seat, swarthy, with a poorly trimmed moustache and several prominent steel teeth in his reptilian smile, turned to face his human cargo.
“There are rattlesnakes in the bushes and anywhere off the road, so once you’re across, stay out of the brush unless you see cars coming. Every now and then the Americans might have a helicopter in
the area, but that’s not often, so your chances are very good of making it. Some of you have paid for a guide on the other side, who will take you to Nogales. It’s a rough journey, and you’ll have to be brave – it can take many hours. At least most of it will be in darkness. When the sun comes up, it gets hotter than hell.” He lowered the window and spat, the blast of hot air like a furnace, then hurriedly rolled it back up. “Those with a guide, go right along the fence once you’re through. Those without, don’t try to follow them. You’re on your own, and you can’t tag along. Make your own way.”
The passengers rocked back and forth, staring at him wordlessly. Everyone knew the arrangement. Some had paid the extra to be taken into Nogales, some were going to chance it on their own. One had made different arrangements, and so was unconcerned by the dire warnings.
They continued bouncing along, and then twenty minutes later the old van ground to a halt, its headlights off, guided by the slim light of the gibbous moon. Both of the coyotes got out of the car, and the driver moved to the rear cargo door and swung it open.
“All right. This is it. Hopefully you all brought water as I recommended. If not, I can sell you some for twenty dollars a bottle. You’ll be walking thirty to fifty miles across some of the most difficult desert and mountain terrain you can imagine, in extreme heat, and that can be the difference between life, and death. Don’t be cheap and stupid.”
One woman looked panicked, and dug in her pockets for the last of her money – only a ten-dollar bill. The coyote grinned murderously and shook his head. Not good enough. She fumbled in her pockets, searching for more, but had nothing. The rest of the group pushed past her and climbed out of the van, anxious to be on their way.
“Over there. Two hundred yards. You can see the fence. There are at least three spots you can get through. Just push along the base until an area gives, then push it back in place once you’re through. And don’t make any noise. Be quiet,” the driver whispered.
The woman had found three more one dollar bills, and looked at the driver imploringly. He shrugged and his partner walked back to the cab and got a one-and-a-half-liter bottle of water and handed it to her.
“It’s your lucky day. If you were better looking, I’d make you work off that seven dollars, but it’s not dark enough out here to make that appealing. Now get out of here. Go.”
The passengers moved towards the fence, and the driver grabbed the arm of an older man who hadn’t moved.
“Your guide will be on the other side, five hundred yards up the road. He’ll have an ATV. Tip him well once you’re in Nogales,” the driver murmured, eyes scanning the gloom for any signs of the border patrol. “Let them get through, and they’ll go to the right. Just start walking up the road and my man will find you.”
The man nodded, then moved off after the rest of the group.
Once across, two of the travelers moved to the right of the fence, looking for their guide, and the rest followed them, more out of instinct than anything. The man waited until they were out of sight and then began walking up the road, his dark blue jeans and shirt acting as natural camouflage in the night. After five minutes of walking, a voice whispered from fifty yards off the road.
“Yo. Jefe. Taxi?”
The man turned to face the guide, his backpack bulging, and said nothing.
“I’m José. Your ride to freedom. Here’s how this will work. We can make it to Nogales before dawn, and then you’re on your own, unless you have some extra cash – in which case I can get you to Tucson. I’ll drive, you hang on. Ready?”
The man nodded.
“Not very talkative, are you?” José shrugged at the lack of response, climbed onto the waiting ATV’s seat, and motioned to the man to climb on behind him. The engine started with a purr, and then they were racing down a trail towards civilization, navigating by the light of the moon and stars.
The man exhaled a sigh of relief as the hot air blew across his brow. He’d thought this might be worse. This was nothing. The Mexicans thought this was hot? Any respect he’d had for them as hardy quickly faded. They were whiney children, like their neighbors to the north.
Once they were within sight of Nogales, he’d stop the driver on a pretense and then break his neck before he was off the seat. He’d find his own way from there. He’d already arranged for a car to transport him to his ultimate destination – Los Angeles.
He’d never been to the U.S. before, but he wasn’t worried. His English was more than passable, and there would be plenty of support once he was in LA to ensure he assimilated for his brief stay without any issues.
The ATV cut across a ravine and skittered along the edge until they came to another trail leading east.
Border security was a joke. A baby could have gotten through.
He watched the scrub rush by and grinned to himself.
So far, so good.
Chapter 34
Jet sat at a small table on the sidewalk a block from Grigenko’s building, squinting up at the towering thirty-story edifice in the new light of a clear morning. She liked what she saw – some buildings were harder than others, but this looked like it had been built fifteen or so years ago, in a style that was well-suited for her purposes.
She was drinking coffee, watching the garage area next to the front entrance where underground parking sheltered the building occupants’ vehicles, and sat up when a stretch Mercedes limousine pulled to the curb in front and several muscular goons in suits trotted from the building entrance to be joined by eight more from the two SUVs that trailed the limo.
She pulled a pair of small binoculars from her purse and peered through them, leaning back into the shadows as she did so. She recognized Grigenko from the photos. He strode into the building like a peacock, his men forming a protective entourage. She checked the time. Precisely nine a.m.. The intelligence Alan’s contacts had provided was golden – she knew from the reports that he went to work at nine in the morning and stayed until nine every night. She also knew that he had a gym, steam room, and hospitality suite as part of the three floors that housed his empire.
The reports had been clear: The building’s security was impenetrable. Access to Grigenko’s two private top floors was only available via his private elevator. The floor below it that housed his public offices was no good for her purposes – there was no way to get from those offices to his private floors above them.
Shooting her way through the lobby security wouldn’t achieve anything. The private elevator had security cameras inside that could be controlled from the top floor and stopped by Grigenko, and also required a security code for access that changed daily. When he purchased the building after his father’s death, he’d immediately had the top security firm in Sweden fly in and work with local contractors to turn his realm into a fortress, and they’d spared no expense. A brute force entry from the street level was out of the question.
Cursory research from her last Moscow adventure had yielded no encouragement from the air. Airspace was tightly monitored, so a helicopter wasn’t an option, and neither was a high-altitude parachute drop – the roof was equipped with motion sensors designed to alert both security and Grigenko if anything larger than a bird got within a hundred feet, creating a sonar envelope in the airspace over the building from ten to a hundred feet above the roof.
Security precautions in Moscow among oligarchs was akin to Patek Philippe or Rolex watches among Hollywood producers – the stuff of bragging rights. When you had billions, a Ferrari or new Bentley didn’t move the needle, and the number of sixty-million-dollar Gulfstreams at the airport was silly. But spend a hundred million on equipping your lair with the very latest and best to keep your enemies from killing you...now that was something worth tossing out at the club.
A rocket strike was an option, but not a terribly good one, as Grigenko had reinforced the exterior walls with two feet of high-density concrete and rebar, with the windows double-pane bulletproof glass, and his private office walls were constru
cted of half-foot-thick steel – making him safe from everything but a large guided missile. Never mind the difficulty of obtaining one, unless she wanted to try to buy one from him. The irony appealed to her, but she wasn’t feeling particularly patient, and wanted this over with within a few days, not weeks or months of subterfuge to set up a dummy corporation and get operatives to pose as buyers. Even then, with that amount of reinforcement, it would be hit or miss. The man had created a bunker – a contingency born of paranoia, which in this case was entirely justified.
She’d debated a rocket attack on the limo, but that was even more problematic – according to the surveillance, he took different routes each day, and the heavy car was armored to the point where it resembled more a tank than a luxury cruiser. While it was possible she could hit him once he pulled up to the building, she had the same problem as using a rifle and taking him out with a sniper round – no convenient place to fire from with decent line of sight, no buildings in the immediate vicinity that were high enough to make a guaranteed shot.
The sewers were out. Even if they were stupid enough to leave an opening there, which she doubted, the area was a newer system without the sorts of access that the area around his residence had.
Shutting off the power would do nothing – the facility was equipped with fail-safe backup generators.
Which left only a few options. An explosive on the car, which was inspected for precisely that before it picked him up every morning and evening. A fire somewhere else in the building to drive him out – but he would likely just call a helicopter if he was trapped in his suite. Gas was out of the question – she’d need to be able to access the maintenance areas to use it, and they benefitted from the same Swedish company’s thoroughness as the rest of the building.
Jet 03: Vengeance Page 21