Hunting Season: A Rhys Adler Thriller

by Alex Carlson

  Svitlana Tereshchenko wasn’t intimidated. A member of the Ukrainian Liberal Party, Tereshchenko openly favored closer cooperation with the EU. What’s more, she she was regarded by all sides as competent, intelligent, patriotic, and authentic. She was a Ukrainian Angela Merkel—with far more charisma. In short, she was the one person who could unite all of Ukraine and put the country on a western path.

  The Kremlin couldn’t allow that.

  The first assassination attempt, which Rhys read about in the newspapers, involved TCDD, a dioxin. It was a classic Russian technique. The poisoning failed because the dioxin was sprinkled on cauliflower, which discolored the vegetable due to the vegetable’s high concentrate of isothiocyanate. It looked unappealing to Svitlana, who passed on the entire meal. Brought back to the kitchen, the plate sat and the cauliflower continued to react in such bizarre ways that it was brought to her security’s attention. They had it tested and the TCDD was identified.

  The Russians had previously used TCDD against former Ukrainian president Viktor Yushchenko, nearly killing him. Using the same dioxin against Svitlana Tereshchenko suggested the Russians wanted the world to know they were behind it. They denied it, of course, but no one seriously believed them.

  The second attempt, which Rhys only heard about through his former CIA connections, was less clear. Unauthorized individuals had been able to get near and acted strangely. If there was an attempt on her life, it was thwarted by a low-level security guard who became skeptical of the identity cards of certain individuals and, contrary to many officials in his position, was immune to bribery attempts.

  Then, about a week ago, Svitlana Tereshchenko had disappeared. Rhys didn’t think much about it—what did he care?—but now that Manny had said a Svitlana was tucked away in the CIA safe house high above them, Rhys figured he knew what had happened. The Americans got her out of Ukraine and for some reason Stirewalt got the call. It couldn’t be a coincidence. How many Svitlanas could there be?

  What it all meant was that this trip to the Alps wasn’t the boondoggle he and Manny thought it was. Rhys had figured Lucinda was doing him a favor, giving him an excuse to come to the Alps, where he’d be able to tour the mountains on his motorcycle after providing minimal outer security and helping to train Manny, a newly-minted CIA operative. Rhys, although he had left the Agency, still did jobs for her—“consulting,” they called it—from time to time, and Lucinda knew that Manny responded well to him. But Lucinda had played down the importance of the safe house’s occupants.

  The SINCGARS RT-1523F combat net radio, tucked in an open custom-made backpack that stood against the wall on the floor, beeped, indicating an incoming call. The Single Channel Ground and Airborne Radio System provided secure and reliable voice and data communications between similar radios. The only other unit in the area was in the safe house.

  Rhys rose from the bed, grabbed the handle off the cradle.

  “Adler.”

  “Rhys, we’re under attack.” It was Lucinda. She sounded breathless, scared. “Tom, one of the marines, has been shot, presumed dead. Three men are approaching the house. We can defend, but—”

  Rhys heard gunfire.

  “Lucinda, you there? Lucinda?”

  The radio was dead.

  Rhys didn’t panic. His initial question—How?—was useless and he ignored it. He had to act, and soon, but not recklessly. He needed more information. The sound of Lucinda’s voice echoed in his head. She was scared, tense, qualities that she didn’t normally show. And that the call ended with gunfire was unbearable.

  He looked at Manny, who stared back at him. Manny had heard Lucinda’s end of the conversation, or at least the gunshots, and the shock showed on his face.

  “Try to get her back on the line.” Rhys made an effort to sound calm. He didn’t raise his vice. “Find out what’s going on, Marine.” Rhys always called Manny “Marine,” which Manny had been until recently. In turn, Manny once called him “Civilian,” but the moniker fell flat. Both understood that Manny didn’t have the stature to bestow a nickname.

  Manny worked the radio. “Post to Base, you copy?” Nothing. “Post to Base, you there Lucinda?” He worked the dials, changed frequencies, checked the wiring. “Come on, Lucinda, talk to us.”

  Rhys didn’t like the fear in Manny’s voice. Manny had proven an ability to stay calm under pressure and the slight tick in his throat didn’t go unnoticed.

  Manny shook his head. Nothing.

  “Keep trying. In the meantime, connect with Langley. Find out who’s up there, even though I got a pretty good idea.”

  Manny held the handle to his ear with his shoulder and at the same time pulled out what all operatives referred to as the suitcase, a briefcase containing a laptop and a secure telephone unit. He entered his code, which enabled the dial tone. He dialed a number from memory and when the desk clerk answered he coded in with a second code. Upon confirmation, he was able to ask for the appropriate desk.

  Meanwhile, Rhys pulled out his BlackBerry and dialed Sophia Venegas, the deputy chief of mission at the U.S. Embassy in Berlin. He didn’t bother with the ambassador. The ambassador didn’t know shit.

  Venegas answered immediately and Rhys explained the situation as best he could.

  “Sophia, we need live SIGINT coming from the area.” He gave her the coordinates. “NSA should be able to get a read. Tell them to try Russian means and frequencies. Just try to determine if there are any communications signals coming from the area. Details would be appreciated, but just knowing if Russians are in the area would help. If possible, check the last couple of hours. NSA probably won’t tell you shit, but have them liaison with Langley and they’ll get in touch with Manny.”

  Rhys and Manny disconnected their calls at roughly the same time. Neither had much to report.

  They were both worked up with nowhere to go. Rhys was tempted to drive up the mountain and see what was going on himself. The road was out, but motorcycles can go places cars can’t. But not always. Hitting a dead end would be a waste of precious time. And what’s more, riding up would take an hour along slick switchbacks and mountain roads and would be a major breach of protocol. You don’t arrive unannounced at a heavily-armed CIA safe house, even if you were serving as its outer security.

  They studied the maps. It helped give them a sense of their options, but really it just kept them busy.

  Then Sophia Venegas called from Berlin, faster then he had expected. She had information.

  C

  HAPTER FOUR

  THE SATPHONE, WHEN it finally rang, was warm and sweaty. Colonel Alexei Scharkov had been gripping it as he waited for the call. He answered, listened, grunted in understanding, and narrowed his dark eyes, focusing on nothing in front of him. He was processing the implications and the future course of action. He told the speaker to hold.

  Scharkov lowered the phone and turned his head to Valery Shuvalov, who sat across the center aisle in the stuffy airplane. Scharkov shook his head in movements so small they were barely perceptible.

  Shuvalov smiled, the bastard. If he had had reservations, he should have spoken them more forcefully rather than raise his eyebrows and sigh.

  Scharkov computed a dozen variables and arrived quickly at a decision. He gave explicit directions and demanded confirmation before ending the call. There was dispassionate displeasure in his voice.

  He rose from his seat at the front of the aircraft and turned to face the rear of the plane. His head, covered with gray stubble, overdue for another shave, was just low enough that he could stand upright under the cabin’s low ceilings. He placed his hands on the tops of the seat backs on either side of the aisle and waited for undivided attention. It didn’t take long.

  “Be prepared to move,” was all he said. He didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t need to.

  He turned and walked to the open cabin door and descended the few steps to the wet tarmac. The cool air and the raindrops on his face provided no small amount of comfort. />
  Lengberg Airfield barely accommodated the Fokker F27 Friendship. The modified twenty-eight passenger plane had touched down at the very start of the single runway and had to brake aggressively in order to come to a stop before it ran out of pavement. Taking off would be another challenge, but the pilot assured Scharkov that he had successfully lifted off of shorter runways.

  Scharkov splashed across the tarmac to the airfield’s office, located in a small structure with large windows that allowed the lone air traffic controller to watch the activity outside.

  There was no activity today, though, except for the Fokker 27, which, according to the pilot, had been diverted from Klagenfurt. Lengberg, nestled in a valley between two long rows of steep foothills, normally served recreational aircraft: single engine props, gliders, ultralights. The airfield also provided a landing zone for paragliders that had taken off from the bluffs above. But today, in this weather? The airfield was all but closed, save for the controller, who had to be there in case of unexpected landings, such as the Fokker’s.

  The controller saw Scharkov approaching from the parked plane and opened the office door in order to quicken his guest’s entry from the rain. It was a thoughtful gesture.

  “Are you sure your pilot does not want to come in?” the man said. “It could be a while before conditions improve. I can make coffee.”

  “My pilot is fine, thank you.”

  “Maybe stretch his legs? Even in the rain it might be a relief.”

  “No.”

  Scharkov undoubtedly made the controller uncomfortable. He had that affect on people who were not used to his military bearing, and the man before him—maybe fifty, overweight with a bushy mustache and friendly eyes—clearly had never had any association with the military.

  “Do you have maps?” Scharkov asked.

  “What types of maps? Pilots’ charts?”

  “No, ground maps. Preferably topographical. Something that shows the mountains.”

  “I’m sure we have a couple lying around somewhere here,” the local said. “They’re probably quite old.”

  “No matter. The mountains haven’t changed.”

  “You’d be surprised,” the man said as he rifled through a drawer. “There are mudslides every couple of years. There have been a few over the past few weeks. Washed out some roads.”

  “Unimportant.” Scharkov watched the man. He looked nervous, as though he would prefer Scharkov return to his plane. “Has hunting season started?” Scharkov asked.

  “The mouflon season started May 1. Mouflon are wild sheep. You know, rams. But rams are just the males. And wild boars you can hunt all year. But the real hunting season starts tomorrow, when you can hunt roe deer and chamois. You’d need a permit, of course, but that’s easy to get. Just go down to the police station after you have arranged with a guide or hunting lodge.”

  “Quite.”

  Scharkov went to the window and looked out, scanning in all directions. He then turned and returned to the desk. “Thank you. You have been very helpful.”

  Scharkov’s next moves weren’t even rushed. He simply walked around the desk and behind the man, who turned in his chair to keep the stranger in front of him. Only now was he becoming suspicious, a moment far too late for it to do him any good. Scharkov turned the man forcefully, wrapped his arm around the surprised man’s neck, and jerked, snapping the cervical vertebrae. The controller’s head lolled to the side and his body fell forward. His head hit the desk and the significant weight of the man’s midsection pulled his body to the floor as the wheeled chair skidded off to the side.

  Scharkov gathered the newly found maps and carefully put them in the cargo pocket of his pants.

  He turned and opened the doors of a cabinet that stood behind the desk. He removed the standing binders from the two shelves and stacked them on the desk. Once clear, he dislodged and removed the center shelf and leaned it against the wall. He then bent and weaved his arms under the dead man’s armpits and dragged the body to and into the cabinet. It took some folding and twisting, but he was able to get the body positioned just so in order to close the cabinet doors.

  NO ONE INSIDE the plane complained of the hot, stuffy air. They had experienced far more extreme temperatures, both high and low, as well as hails of bullets, thrown grenades, and hand-to-hand combat. They could handle indefinite waiting in a Fokker F27, even if the seats were too damn small. They could shit in a toilet and eat from the galley. It was luxury.

  Scharkov bounded up the stairs and stood at the front of the cabin. The men quickly ended their bullshitting and gave him their attention.

  “Gray Scout failed,” Scharkov said. “One man captured or dead, the other two are laying siege. The element of surprise is gone and Gray Scout now has insufficient firepower to storm the hut. The good news is that no signals in their radio frequency range were detected after contact. They were unable to call in support. They are alone. They are trapped. We will join Gray Scout and finish the job. All of us.”

  Valery Shuvalov rolled his eyes at the colonel’s decision, but the others accepted the new conditions without objection. They knew what was at stake.

  “Get moving,” commanded Scharkov.

  C

  HAPTER FIVE

  TIME PASSED AND their breathing returned to normal, but they were still tense. Too afraid to talk, they stood in the small space of the safe room, looking up at the ceiling, waiting for something to happen. Eventually, they heard the rug swept to the side and the latch fingered. The hatch opened and Colin’s non-threatening face peered down at them.

  “We’re okay for the moment,” he said expressionlessly. “Lucinda, you need to come up.”

  Stirewalt climbed the ladder and Colin assured the Tereshchenkos that they’d be able to come out soon. He then lowered the hatch on them.

  The first thing Lucinda saw was a body lying in the center of the room. A blanket had been hastily thrown over it, but it wasn’t quite large enough and the man’s legs extended beyond its reach. A pool of blood had formed beneath the body and had begun to trickle out along the uneven wooden floor.

  “Bad news,” said Colin. “The radio’s been hit.” Colin, forty-five, wore glasses and had a mop of wavy brown hair. When he delivered bad news it contrasted with his boyish innocence. “The thing is tough, but its one vulnerability is the keypad. That’s exactly where the bullet struck.”

  Lucinda now understood why her call to Rhys had been cut off. She tried to remember what information she had been able to convey and in order to predict what Rhys’ reaction would be. He’d know to call in help, though everyone would know it wouldn’t get there in time.

  They were on their own.

  “Alright. Here’s one,” she said, flicking her head toward the body on the floor. “The others?”

  “Outside. They scurried off and are undoubtedly repositioning.”

  Tyler moved about, alternating between windows on three sides of the hut. The back side, which faced a wall of rock, had no windows. By switching locations every few seconds, he’d be able to see anyone approaching the hut before they got close.

  “Are there more?” Lucinda’s voice was calm.

  Colin shrugged his shoulders. He had no idea.

  “Lance Corporal, let Colin take watch for a second.”

  Tyler looked as though he was reluctant to leave the window, but did so when Colin took up the post. Lucinda understood. Tyler was a marine and he knew better than anyone how to respond to a threat. Lucinda couldn’t judge how close Tyler and Tom had been, but she knew that Tyler was trying to do his duty while processing the loss. She spoke to him directly, demanding his full attention.

  “These guys are Russian, I have no doubt about that. That means two possibilities: either this guy here is SVR, Russian intelligence, or he’s GRU Spetsnaz. Can you determine which one he is?

  If Tyler had never handled a dead body before, he didn’t show it. He squatted next to it and pulled the blanket back. The expression on t
he dead Russian’s face, if anything, expressed concern. He had been a big, beefy guy with short dark hair. He would have been a linebacker if he had played American football. Tyler went straight to the backpack, which remained in place on the corpse’s back. He opened it up and pulled out a water bottle, some German energy bars, a topographical map of the region, five clips of ammunition, and a cell phone. He turned the phone on, was met with a prompt for a code, and immediately turned it off again, dropping it on the floor. He turned the body so that it flattened the now empty backpack and pushed aside the open blood-soaked jacket. From a shoulder holster he pulled out a pistol, which he examined before laying it on the floor with the rest of the stuff. He checked the belt and found a scabbard, from which he pulled a dangerous looking knife.

  “The gun’s a Heckler & Koch,” he said after a brief moment of thought. “It’s German, but that doesn’t mean anything. I’m guessing both SVR and Spetsnaz can use whatever handgun they want. But what tells me this guy is Spetsnaz is the knife. It’s a Kizlyar Voron-3, very common with Russian Special Purpose Forces. Also, he’s well prepared for the mission without a lot of extraneous crap. Professional soldier, not professional spook.”

  Stirewalt took that in. “If he’s Spetsnaz, what are the chances these guys were alone?”

  Tyler, still squatting next to the corpse, shook his head, realizing where she was going. “They’re not alone. The smallest Spetsnaz units are groups. There could be as many as two dozen out there.”

  IN TIME, CALM had settled in the hut. Both Tyler and Colin looked out the windows, but clouds had engulfed the hut, hiding even the meadow—the Alm—in which the hut sat. At 1,800 meters, the hut could be under or over the clouds. Now, it was in them.