Andrei Cherkassov had been at this business long enough to know that espionage and assassination were games of odds.
Two assassinations in one day, and a scattered history of global, unsolved crimes—all of that was sure to narrow law enforcement’s search. And, as he neared the end of a storied career, the man actually welcomed that. Otherwise, he would not have left his singular calling card at every scene. Murder would otherwise be technocratic, like the work of a sniper. Such kills were no less decisive, but they induced boredom. And one must never become bored, distracted. It wasn’t about giving an adversary a chance; this wasn’t sport, it was war. But for many in his line of work, it wasn’t enough to succeed; one must also baffle and taunt. Absent that, each mission became the same, the killer lost his edge, and that was more dangerous than dropping clues. The card he carried was for easy concealment, but it was also a constant reminder to remain sharp.
It was a different world today than when he had started, with surveillance everywhere and ordinary citizens with cell-phone cameras. It was like Nazi neighbors reporting on people stashed in attics, only more so. Everyone was a snitch, an informant, a narcissist looking for media or Internet attention.
Look what I saw! or I almost died!
Cherkassov was glad to be getting out, but only after he finished this one last assignment.
Halfway between Pearl Street and Coenties Alley were plexiglass rectangles set in the street, revealing intact old foundations and wells found in the area during construction. The Russian pretended to look at them while watching both the front and the back of 77 Pearl. In the front, he could see Flannery as he exited. In the back, he could watch anyone who was watching the front. There was nothing behind him but a modern office tower, and he had already checked that for spotters. They were always easy to see: whatever they were looking at they studied in slow motion, turning book pages, unfolding maps, or texting with an absentmindedness that indicated their attention was elsewhere. Even the best watchers slipped up. He had also scanned the surrounding windows, and was positioned in a shadow that would provide murky surveillance images in the slanting sun of dusk. He smoked a cigarette as he stood there—in New York, a way to not only justify standing outside but guarantee that people walked wide of him.
The squad car pulled up with the out-of-place quality of a snake in a swimming pool. Cherkassov had to admire the simplicity of the strategy: after his conversations with Flannery, plainclothes officers might not convince the ambassador they were authentic; shields and an official vehicle would. At the same time, those same symbols might discourage an assassin from attacking.
Or they might just cause his adrenaline to jump and his senses to heighten, Charkassov thought. He had already cased the building and knew the stupidly easiest way to get inside, something the NYPD hadn’t bothered to check because they were running an on-the-clock drill: arrive on scene and get away as fast as possible. And with only two officers, so as not to risk collateral damage or casualties by friendly fire if a wasp drifted into their midst, moving in and around and forcing them to shoot randomly.
“Simplicity, but at the cost of leaving an enormous security hole,” Cherkassov told himself. Crushing his cigarette, he moved toward the alley, through the tightly packed dinnertime crowd of Wall Streeters, tourists, and students. Cell phones were a potential enemy, but they were also his greatest friend: at least half of the people he saw were looking down at them, not noticing the lithe figure moving toward the back entrance of 77 Pearl. Though the windows back here were barred, the door to the basement of the hamburger restaurant was open. A chef stood beside it, smoking. Cherkassov chucked a fresh cigarette from the pack and poked it between his lips. He walked toward the man, waved to an imaginary someone down the stairs, and asked for a light.
The young Asian man with a hoop earring was happy to oblige.
“Hold on—this is dumb!” Cherkassov said, stopping him. “I’ll wait till I come back out!”
“Yeah, Sarah’ll have your head, bro!”
“Sarah has had my head before.” He grinned, clapping the man knowingly on the shoulder and walking in.
Cherkassov hurried down the utilitarian metal stairs, making his way through shelves loaded with nonperishables. This was all one building, one structure; there had to be a way into the York section above.
A young man wringing out a mop stood between a stairway that led to the kitchen and two doors. One was wood, and it was open; it was a closet with a sink and cleaning supplies. The other, steel-reinforced, had to be a fire exit.
Cherkassov smiled at the kid, who had the guarded, skittish look of an illegal worker. The Russian raised a finger and shhed him as he pushed the pressure bar on the door. He didn’t really care if an alarm went off; alarms went off all the time in New York, and it was still far enough from the front of the building that the police might not be too concerned.
Even if they are, what can they do? he thought. Flannery can be removed only so fast.
There was no alarm, but there was the smell of old smoke.
Cigarettes in the winter, he thought. That’s why the alarm had been disabled. He raced up the metal stairs. They turned at a landing and headed up to both a skylight and a fire door on the third floor. The smell of cigarette smoke was fresh here. Someone, possibly several someones, had used it recently. He opened the door. Again, there was no alarm.
Cherkassov found himself in a long, dark, narrow corridor lined with shelves full of books, magazines, and pamphlets. He turned sideways and hurried toward the end, one ear outward, listening to a voice—
“… here to escort you to One Police Plaza.”
Cherkassov withdrew his cell phone, typed a word, but didn’t yet send. He didn’t know if anyone else was on the premises. He assumed so, though there wouldn’t be many. It was past midnight in Eastern Europe, so there was no one to hector at journals, news outlets, or in government, and intellectuals in think tanks liked to intellectualize over libations, such as those being served in Coenties Alley.
The bookshelves ended in a common corridor that opened onto offices and ran the length of the top floor. At the far end, he saw a receptionist behind a desk and, beyond her, a police officer standing inside as Flannery moved past him.
Cherkassov crouched as he neared the receptionist’s station. He pressed Send on his cell phone and then vaulted onto and over the desk.
The receptionist turned toward him and screamed. The policeman on the steps stopped and spun, his hand on his weapon. He was unable to draw it before Cherkassov crashed into him, sending the captain and Flannery both down the stairs. Cherkassov had grabbed the jambs on either side to steady himself, and scurried after them. As he did, he palmed his sharpened credit card, holding it now so that the sharp edge jutted between his index and third fingers. That would enable him to slash with a backhand sweep, but also to stab with a lunge.
The lieutenant at the bottom looked back and drew his weapon, but wasn’t watching the street as Olga stepped into view, yanked open the door, and stuck a six-inch blade into the side of his throat. He fell in a spray of blood, and she stepped over his body as the captain and Flannery landed at the foot of the stairs.
Flannery was groaning from the impact, and Captain Jacoby tried to both shield him and draw his weapon. Cherkassov was on him with a deep, severing slash to his carotid artery before the firearm could clear the holster. The officer continued to make the effort but, holding the handrail, Cherkassov brought his heel down hard on the man’s wrist, snapping bone.
Olga pulled the quailing Flannery out from under the dying officer and laid him on top of the lieutenant like a virgin sacrifice. Cherkassov straddled the captain and crouched beside Flannery.
“You are my last,” he said in English as he moved the edge of the card toward the man’s throat, savoring this last kill.
“Cherkassov!”
The Russian snapped around involuntarily, surprised to hear his name, his real name, from the top of the stairs
. There was a man in office attire rushing toward him. Maybe he worked here; most likely he didn’t. The assassin didn’t know who he was, how he knew what he knew, and didn’t care. The man couldn’t stop him in time, and he would not leave behind a blemished record. Cherkassov turned back toward Flannery and, with an uncharacteristically feral expression, shot his hand forward—
A crack sounded from the street as a thin man with a thin gun holding a thin laptop case put a single bullet into the Russian’s forehead. Cherkassov flopped back as, above him, Brian Dawson used the handrail to swing over his body. He came down between Flannery and Olga. The woman raised her knife to finish the mission, but the combat veteran grabbed her wrist in two powerful hands. He forced her to her knees and twisted until she dropped the weapon. Mike Volner assumed a wide stance, pressed the muzzle of his still-smoking handgun to her temple, and made sure she didn’t get up again.
Dawson recovered the knife and handed it to Irina, who had come down behind him. He motioned for her to stay where she was and knelt beside Flannery.
“I’m Brian Dawson from Op-Center,” he said. “Don’t try to move, Mr. Ambassador. That was quite a fall.”
The man looked up at Dawson with terrified eyes, but in them was still the intrepid diplomat who said, “That … was quite … an introduction.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Kiev, Ukraine
June 3, 12:10 AM
ASSAULT MISSION PROTOCOL: A1
It was another drill that presumed the hidden ordnance was not where it should be. With it, damage was assured. Without it, damage would have to be inflicted in close quarters.
The Ukrainian Special Forces team was crouched within the high grasses outside the Russian complex. In most forest regions, the Russian military permitted the grasses to remain high. While it offered concealment to potential attackers, it also provided cover for nocturnal predators like the Eurasian wolf or the brown bear, animals that would be afoot during nighttime assaults. Their howls from the field were the best early-warning system the Russians could want. The only animals represented in the program were Vesper bats, there to prevent the soldiers from crying out when the creatures flew low overhead.
The brush served another purpose, too, one that Major Josyp Romanenko hoped to use to his advantage.
A ten-foot-high chain-link fence surrounded the base, with another four feet of razor wire strung along the top between each of the fifty-three steel fence posts. Beyond it was an above-ground bunker that served as a sentry post; beyond that were a dozen canvas-topped military trucks; and beyond those was a four-story cinder-block complex painted gray that consisted of an armory, an administration and command structure, and barracks. In the distance was an airfield. Between the barracks and the airfield—invisible from their current position—were state-of-the-art Russian armored vehicles. Chief among these was the T-72B1 main battle tank, equipped with a 2A46M main gun, thick composite armor, and the capacity to fire anti-tank missiles. These had been added as a result of the humiliating defeat they had suffered in a tank battle with Ukraine’s Captain Taras Klimovich. Also in the Russian arsenal were BTR-82A BTR-82 armored personnel carriers, with greater speed and more efficient plating to protect the troops. Searchlights mounted on top of a pair of fifty-foot towers scanned the ground in lazy circles. There were wide, heavily fortified TASs over each—tactical avoidance shields, which were elaborate umbrellas to help protect the towers from precise targeting by unmanned aircraft. The Russians didn’t expect a squadron of bombers, even from NATO.
The arms carried by the team preparing to attack the base were the same that they had used earlier in the day, Vepr assault rifles. The word meant “wild boar,” and it was a 5.45 × 39-mm., gas-operated, rotating-bolt weapon capable of firing 600–650 rounds per minute, with a magazine capacity of thirty rounds. The difference between earlier and now was that the men had spent one hour in the real-world shooting range built beneath one of Bionic Hill’s weapons-research labs. The power of the weapon—and the confidence it bestowed—was still very much in their minds and in their hands.
Crouched on one knee before his team, Major Romanenko looked as if he were in prayer. In a sense, he was. He prayed for victory and, to that end, his instructions were simple: “Concentrate your fire on the targets marked ‘X,’ and do not retreat.”
The stocky officer rose and turned while, at one end of the Long Barracks, Havrylo Koval used a virtual drop-down screen to drag the markings to areas on the perimeter of the complex that Romanenko had identified earlier. It troubled him more than a little that details of the new Russian base were still extremely sketchy. With the loss of now two of their operatives in New York, the opportunity of getting accurate data via American intelligence channels was problematic. They could not count on the Kiev-Washington connection for help in an off-the-books operation like this.
Romanenko raised a hand. “On my signal, Team A go! Team B will cover until positions are secured!”
The hand came down and the four men moved as they had drilled. Belly-walking was a skill they had acquired during night training in a dry, cool 8.2 hectares of barley just outside the city; they had also become accustomed, there, to the night-vision goggles: the unfamiliar presence of the awkward, forward-weighted units; the ability to discern targets, especially moving targets, in the slightly fuzzy, monochromatic image; and the lack of extreme peripheral vision, which forced the head to turn frequently.
The chain link parted audibly as one of the avatars cut a vertical opening. In the Long Barracks, that man was on his belly, limning the actions of the computer-generated image. Another man came forward, and the two held the flaps open while the other troops wriggled through on their bellies, Romanenko leading the way. The men waiting their turns stood ready behind their Veprs. Each man who went through rolled left or right to make way for Team B, and also to train his weapon ahead. They formed two forward-facing columns, one for each team. The men would not break ranks unless in retreat. Sweeping, side-to-side fire might be necessary at times, and the visual restrictions imposed by the goggles could result in friendly-fire casualties.
When everyone was through, they made their way to where the “X”s were clustered. Computer-generated troops ran out and were savagely cut down. Team A would lay down cover fire by lying on their bellies, shooting, pencil-rolling to a new position, and resuming fire. Team B would advance, then perform the same covering action as Team A came forward. The only time the entire unit stopped moving was when one of the searchlights passed close by. Their movements had been timed and coordinated to avoid any direct crisscrossing of movement.
No one spoke. Everyone moved according to Romanenko’s hand signals, and the sergeant himself moved according to the plan that was branded in his brain.
There were unexpected gopher holes, generated by the program—mole hills—and the bats. The men adjusted ably, as they had practiced. They were now close enough to see men in the nearer of the two towers, roughly three hundred meters away. At this distance, the Ukrainians could also be seen.
Koval heard several men inhale, sucking in their bellies as if deflating a few millimeters would help. Perhaps it did, though; the actions of troops under duress were outside his purview, but he had heard Romanenko’s admonition: “Be very present in your body, and your mind will not wander.”
A sentry came from the bunker, which was at a two o’clock position from the team. He emerged to relieve himself under the moonless sky.
Romanenko’s team stopped moving … and breathing. That was a new, randomly generated addition to the program. So was the wind that stirred the grasses. The sentry looked out across the field.
Koval had never seen men lying so still. They were not like mannequins that possessed the veneer of life but like the stone figures from Pompeii, all animation suddenly stopped.
The sentry finished his business, sauntered back to the bunker—and sounded an alarm. The pitch and cadence of the claxon told the tower just where to turn their lig
hts.
“Attack!” Romanenko cried, bolting upright and charging forward in the same move.
The seven men moved forward in two columns, with the major on point. They ran toward the cover of the sentry post, firing to keep the men inside. Two men in Team B dropped under fire, peppering the field from twin RPK light machine guns in the tower. They were not seen to, not now; if possible, they would be recovered on the way out.
Romanenko reached the bunker and flipped an anti-personnel, fragmentation hand grenade into the concrete structure. Everyone inside died. He did not motion the men inside: regrouping would only give the enemy more time to marshal a defense. He simply didn’t want Russians at his back.
Motioning the remaining members of Team B to use the bunker to keep the tower occupied, Romanenko led Team A toward their target, the structure whose ground-floor doors and windows were marked with “X”s: the command center. He wanted the blood of Russian leadership.
There was no time now for belly movement. At his sign, the men had jumped forward in straight-line formation. One man fell, hit in the leg. The shots had come from a window, and he returned fire, driving the shooter back. Romanenko continued ahead, his men trailing like a mechanical thing, a torpedo, their constant fire targeting the windows and doors—which would not have been possible in a safer, zigzagging serpentine approach.
The armory and the command center were some five hundred meters distant. Romanenko snarled without meaning to, wanting to be there now, wanting to pounce. They were going to make it—
An explosion nearer to them than the structures rocked the Ukrainians back. There had been a low whumping sound and a faint whistle, so it wasn’t a land mine.
Romanenko was done, along with all but two of his men. The real sergeant, not his avatar, continued to look ahead.
Tanks. There were two coming from behind the command center, like Hannibal’s elephants descending upon Italy. A second burst, and the last two men were torn to pieces.
Tom Clancy's Op-Center--Dark Zone Page 11