Igor looked inquiringly at Rolf. “Would you like to go to the hotel and get a night’s sleep after your long trip?”
“No. Take me to see it.”
Building 92A-50 occupied a spot on the cosmodrome’s northwest corner, the Proton rocket preparation and payload mating facility positioned adjacent to Launch Pads 24 and 39. Bigger than two football fields, the building currently housed two pieces of equipment that Rolf cared about deeply. By the time the car pulled up near the entrance that would grant him access to that staging area, only the twin floodlights above the door pushed back the darkness.
Although he knew exactly where the XLRMV-1 payload rested while his engineers performed final checks, Rolf let Igor lead the way. The Russian hardly looked the part of Russia’s most brilliant rocket scientist. He could have played the stereotypical Soviet era general in a remake of an old Cold War movie. But beneath that gruff exterior beat the heart of a man in love with his work. He had known that Rolf had no interest in freshening up at the hotel because Igor himself would have had no such interest.
Any spacecraft launch was exciting stuff, but this one would be special. A previous launch had carried aloft the other half of this mission, the lander that would gently set this payload on the surface of the moon. Once released, Rolf’s module would dock with that lander and the mated pair would begin their history-making journey. After landing, the Experimental Lunar Robotic Mining Vehicle dubbed XLRMV-1 would embark on its four-year mission to prove the viability of remotely mining rare earth metals and staging them for transport back to earth. The duration and required power for this mission mandated the most sophisticated nuclear power generator ever created for a space vehicle.
Getting prepped for the clean room took time, but Rolf had done it so often over the years it had become routine. Once suited up and inside, he walked directly to the nuclear generator that sat on its own cradle, not scheduled for mounting on the Proton launch vehicle until the six plutonium power cells were attached, and that wouldn’t happen until shortly before launch. The man that strode to meet him was Heinrich Glatch, his lead engineer in charge of the night shift.
“Herr Koenig. It’s good to see you got in okay. How was your flight?”
“Long.”
No need for small talk or briefings. His team had learned long ago that Rolf despised these corporate wastes of time. He already knew that things were progressing precisely on schedule.
Moving up beside the generator, Rolf placed a gloved hand atop it. It was Rolf’s design from top to bottom, a design that would provide all the power the XLRMV-1 would require. He walked around the gleaming engineering marvel, his familiar presence ignored by his team. Comparing what he was seeing to his clear mental image of the design specifications, Rolf felt a slow smile lift the corners of his mouth.
There was no doubt in his mind that this power package would enable the most advanced mining robot ever constructed to prove that companies could make money mining the moon—vast hordes of it. He would be the modern Queen Isabella, launching Columbus on the first of many missions to funnel riches back from a new world.
Unfortunately, neither this power package nor this mining robot was going to get the opportunity to accomplish that mission.
Despite how exquisitely the power package had been designed and constructed, it had been primarily designed for rapid replacement by its doppelganger. That replacement package was currently undergoing final assembly and testing inside a warehouse in Kyzylorda, two hundred and fifty kilometers to the southeast, a warehouse owned and operated by Vladimir Roskov. And that package was going to pave the way for all the extraterrestrial claims Rolf and others would stake.
The raft of international treaties that currently restricted extraterrestrial body claimant rights prevented profitable exploitation. So, before he proved just how incredibly profitable it could be for corporations to stake claim to huge sections of the moon, asteroids, and planets, those rules had to be rewritten. And that meant casting aside their shortsighted author, the United States of America. In the end, all advances sprouted from the seeds of exploitation these shortsighted, politically-correct rules were designed to poison.
As Rolf stepped back to gaze proudly at his creation, he knew that it and each of the engineering marvels that would follow owed their future existence to the evil twin that was about to be born in Kyzylorda. Without a doubt, that beautiful-ugly baby would change the world. And just like in Isabella’s day, the spread of mankind across vast, dark seas was about to commence, to the greater glory of all.
CHAPTER 5
“Tell me what you’ve got.”
That voice, even if only through the phone, always gave Rita Chavez a cold thrill, like the man had just slipped a sweating ice cube along the small of her bare back, arching her body at precisely the right moment. It was a bright Riviera memory, courtesy of a hot summer evening, the InterContinental Carlton Cannes, and the fascinating CIA killer known as Jack Gregory.
But even though he clearly wasn’t as DECEASED as his official file labeled him, Jack wasn’t CIA anymore. And Rita shouldn’t be giving him shit. Then again, a girl had to make a living. And through a series of offshore bank accounts, Jack was paying her very, very well. That was okay. She was worth every euro.
“Klaus Diebert, a.k.a. Karl Weiden, a.k.a. James Reirdon. A record as long as your arm, but never more than two consecutive years in the slammer. Interesting thing, that. All those prosecuting attorneys suddenly losing their courtroom mojo when they went after Klaus.”
“Why is that?”
“Nothing to do with him. He works for an organization that reports to Vladimir Roskov.”
“Ahh.”
“You know him?”
“I know his dossier.”
“His CIA dossier?”
“Yes.”
“Interested in his complete Interpol file?”
“That’s what I’m paying you for.”
“And if I could provide his FSB file?”
“That’d be worth a little extra.”
“Define a little.”
“Worth your while.”
A smile spread across Rita’s face. She just wished he was in Paris right now so she could deliver the package in person.
“Jack. You know you’ll always be my only love.”
“That won’t get you more.”
Rita laughed her deep, throaty laugh and then clicked the button on her MacBook Pro.
“Okay, Jack. Here it comes.”
CHAPTER 6
Vladimir “Vlad” Roskov had little tolerance for failure. Little as in none. As he stared at the big man strapped to the chair in the center of the warehouse, anger pulsed through the veins that lined the sides of his forehead, making them writhe like tiny purple snakes. Normally he left failure’s punishment to his lieutenants, but not today. Today he would make a very public example of what lay in store for one of his people should they choose to violate his specific orders and go off mission.
To his right, Gregor Lins angled his video camera to frame the scene to max effect, so that the glare from the high windows lining the west wall provided optimal lighting. Most of the time, cell-phone video was good enough, but not today. Today Vlad wanted the video quality only an expensive camera could provide.
When Vlad shoved the Sig Sauer’s muzzle into Klaus Diebert’s mouth, the man’s pleading came to a gagging end, his eyes rolling in wild terror. Grabbing a handful of Klaus’s blond hair, Vlad turned his head to the right, facing directly toward the camera, twisted the Sig, and pulled the trigger. The bullet carried several teeth and part of Klaus’s jawbone out through the ragged hole in his left cheek, spraying blood in an arc that would look spectacular on the internet. Klaus’s screams mingled with the gunshot’s dying echo to add just the right acoustic touch.
Releasing his hold on Klaus’s hair, Vlad stepped back to admire his handiwork. To his credit, unlike many others who had been the subject of Vladimir Roskov’s art, Klaus didn�
��t pass out. That was good. Maybe they could get through this in one clean take, instead of having to pause every few minutes to revive his star performer.
Due to the bullet taking a large part of Klaus’s tongue out through his cheek, the man’s noises had devolved into a gargling, bestial keening. Setting the Sig on the metal table to his rear, Vlad picked up the five-pound, ball-peen hammer and turned back toward the man whose face had become a horrible parody of an evil clown’s.
Placing a hand on Klaus’s head, Vlad stared into the gargling man’s eyes before dropping to a knee to remove Klaus’s shoes and socks. Then, with the grace of a London Symphony Orchestra conductor alerting his musicians, he raised the hammer above his head. Whereas the opening act had been strictly for show, the main act was all about the sound.
By the time the video recording stopped, the sun had sunk below the horizon, sunset’s red glow bathing the scene in a fitting, bloody light. Vladimir laid the slippery hammer back on the table, stripped off his clothes and walked across the concrete floor to the industrial shower on the north wall, feeling the satisfaction that only a good day’s work could bring. Without waiting for the water to warm up, Vlad stepped beneath the sprinkler showerhead, grabbed the half-used yellow soap bar and lathered up, letting the red swirls carry the blood and flesh away from his body and down the drain.
When he stepped out to take the towel Gregor held for him, he took his time, making sure his body and hair were completely dry before putting on the new Armani suit that hung from a rack along the near wall. By the time he stepped out of the warehouse and into the black Mercedes, he looked like he’d just walked out of the Berlin Opera.
He had no worries. With Gregor directing the cleanup team, the warehouse would soon be returned to its normal state. Vlad took the camera from Gregor’s outstretched hand and, with the push of a button, raised the rear window. Then with a one-handed signal to his driver, he launched the powerful automobile into the night.
CHAPTER 7
He was ten minutes late. He wasn’t trying to make a statement; it was just how this day had started.
Deputy Director Nolan Trent’s steps took him directly across the sixteen-foot diameter of the Central Intelligence Agency seal, over its eagle bearing the familiar spiked gray compass rose, between the gunpowder gray and off-white columns, and across the gray and off-white tiles toward this morning’s meeting. The many shades of gray found in the lobby of the original CIA headquarters entered his eyes, the ghost of a forthright past, a haunting reminder of his agency’s glory years.
The new, adjacent CIA headquarters, with its artistic lines, colors, and airy courtyard, wept false openness and civility. It made Nolan’s skin crawl. It was one of the reasons he was using the old 233C conference room for this morning’s meeting. But there were more important reasons he didn’t want this meeting conducted in his executive conference room.
Stepping off the elevator, Nolan turned down a hallway lit by the same white lights that illuminated the ground-floor lobby, his leather shoes extracting small squeaks of outrage from the immaculately clean tiles. Opening the door to the small conference room, the deputy director stepped inside, closed the door, and moved to take his seat at the head of the table. Seeing that the other three participants were present, Nolan touched a button on his console, activating the room’s electronic lock, an action that also illuminated the CLASSIFIED MEETING IN PROGRESS sign outside the room.
Raising his blue eyes, Nolan scanned the faces of those around the six-foot conference table. Christie Parson sat immediately to his left, her taut face and throat elegantly framed by her shoulder-length brown hair, her pinstriped gray pantsuit more expensive than anything Nolan owned, except for his car and house. At thirty-four, Christie looked as good as she had at twenty-eight. Better, actually. There was something to be said for the twin C’s of confidence and competence that only came through repeated success.
Next to her, a balding Craig Faragut, broad of shoulder and waist, had failed to manage the transition from field operative to desk jockey with anything approaching elegance, something his rumpled, black, off-the-rack suit screamed to the rafters, or in this case, to the hidden steel beams supporting the building’s upper levels. But what Faragut lacked in the public graces, he more than made up for in intelligence and loyalty. That combination of qualities made him Nolan’s go-to guy.
On the right side of the rectangular oak table, as isolated from the others as he was from humanity in general, Jacob Knox leaned back in the Herman Miller chair until it appeared ready to tip over, his eyes as dark as his short, cropped black hair, seemingly all pupil. Those eyes stared directly at Nolan, as inscrutable as the man himself.
Together, this group formed his core team.
Nolan nodded at Craig and the big man rose from his chair, extracted a small handheld electronic device from his satchel, turned it on, and made a pass around the room. After a glance at the display, Craig nodded in satisfaction and returned to his seat.
“We’re good.”
Although the CIA regularly swept all offices for transmitting devices, Nolan believed in taking his own precautions, especially when it came to meetings like this, where lines of political correctness were certain to be crossed and where the restraining bands of legality would be stretched, if not broken.
Nolan leaned forward so that his elbows rested on the table, his fingers intertwined. He didn’t yet know the subject of this meeting and that bothered him. The fact that Craig had requested it without telling him didn’t bode well. Yet it emphasized the sensitivity of the information to be conveyed and the importance of the decisions required.
“Okay, Craig. What’ve you got?”
Picking up the remote control from the table in front of him, Craig powered on the monitor that took up a significant portion of the wall opposite Nolan. The face that stared out of the photograph exuded power and malice, a scarred, angular visage that could only belong to one man. Vladimir Roskov. The man headed one of the world’s most violent crime syndicates, the infamous Russian Mafia. He was also one of the CIA’s most important sources of intelligence, a man referred to in top secret communications as Asset Zulu.
“This morning I received a message from our man in Kazakhstan. It seems that someone has placed a contract on Roskov.”
Nolan laughed. “What an idiot.”
“That’s what I thought. Then I got a look at the attached documents.”
Craig thumbed a button on the remote and Roskov’s image was replaced by an assortment of documents spread across a gray steel desktop. As Craig cycled through the pictures that followed, Nolan found himself staring at identification documents, credit cards, and passport pages, all apparently belonging to a man named Klaus Diebert.
“Who is he? The hitter or the idiot who placed the contract?”
“Neither. He was one of Roskov’s men, someone who got himself rousted by our hitter. Roskov was displeased enough to post a video of Diebert’s punishment on the web.”
“Then why am I looking at his documents?”
Craig advanced to the next image, a tight zoom of a Visa card showing the swirl of several fingerprints. As the display moved from one image to the next, each document continued to show a number of fingerprints, but the picture page from Klaus’s passport slapped Nolan in the face. There, so clearly defined that they seemed to be acid etched into the document, a complete set of right-hand fingerprints. There could be no doubt. The page had been turned sideways. Then the man had pressed all four fingers firmly down on the right three quarters and followed up by rolling his right thumb across the space just to the left of those prints. Nolan had seen the pattern too often, having performed the action after placing his fingers on an ink blotter. This wasn’t an announcement of the man’s identity, it was a threat. The meaning could not be clearer.
I’m coming for you.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Nolan said. “Someone has the balls to call out Roskov?”
“
More interesting than that, Roskov passed this along to us.”
Nolan rose from his chair and walked around the conference table to stare at the image on the screen from a foot away, reaching out to trace those prints with his own fingers, as if that act could grant him some psychic insight into their owner’s mind.
“So who is it?”
The photograph that appeared on the screen so surprised Nolan that he stepped back, his left hip bumping roughly into the conference table’s sharp corner.
“Impossible!”
“I’ve confirmed the identification.” Christie Parson’s smooth voice brought Nolan’s head around. “Those are Jack Gregory’s prints.”
Nolan turned to stare at the monitor once more. The photograph showed Jack Gregory’s naked body stretched out on a bloody table, his upper torso covered in crudely stitched wounds. Beneath the table, between the footprints made by the doctor and the old nun who had assisted him, pools of blood reflected the camera flash. On the screen beside the photograph was a signed and witnessed copy of Gregory’s Calcutta death certificate, the text printed in both Hindi and English, India’s official and semi-official languages.
As Nolan stared at the screen, his mind worked to reconcile this new information. Jack Gregory had been dead for a year now. Nolan had never liked anyone who failed to follow procedure and Gregory had set the standard for ignoring operational protocols. After the death of his brother, Robert, the agent had become impossible to control. Even though he had maintained his fan club within the agency, the time had come to pull the plug. Given the opportunity to offer up Priest Williams, the man Gregory blamed for his brother’s death, Nolan had acted. There, on the monitor, lay the proof of that operation’s success. One less rogue agent polluting his agency.
“How was Gregory’s death verified?” asked Christie.
Craig shrugged. “After taking the photograph and filling out the death certificate, the doctor left the old nun to finish cleaning up. Our people got to the clinic the next morning. Place was still a mess. The nun had lost it. Apparently she had some sort of stroke or something, because she never finished the cleanup. They found her sitting, huddled in a corner, rocking back and forth, muttering rubbish. Gregory’s body was gone, but there was plenty of his blood on the floor. Nobody could have survived that kind of blood loss. And yes, we verified it was Gregory’s blood.”
Once Dead Page 3