Sentinel

by Matthew Dunn

  “Yes, my word. I’ve spent thirty years in this business. I can tell you with certainty that I wouldn’t have survived that long unless my word meant something.”

  Will shook his head. “Other men have said the same thing to me. I was proven right not to trust them.”

  Schiller looked shocked. “I don’t have to earn your trust.”

  When Will spoke, all traces of fear were now absent from his voice. “Yes, you do. Last year my company made eight million dollars profit. All of it came from business associates whom I trust. In the same year, I lost five million dollars to people who turned out to be completely untrustworthy. Trust equals money. It’s as damn simple as that.”

  Schiller smiled again, but this time the look was less cold.

  Will rubbed a hand over his face and flicked sweat from it onto the plastic floor. “All right. Blueprints of prototype suitcase nuclear bombs.”

  Schiller narrowed his eyes. “I’ve seen similar in the past.”

  “No, you haven’t. These are different. The bombs’ range far exceed anything developed before. They weigh less, and so far trials with them have been one hundred percent successful. They’re perfect for special forces, commandos, or paramilitary units.”

  “But the bombs can only be manufactured by people who have access to weapons-grade uranium.”

  Will nodded. “That’s my problem, because I lack the contacts in that world. Most of my business is in conventional military matters. I tried the Iranians but got knocked back, and it quickly became clear to me that I needed another route in to potential buyers. I’ve heard that you have access to such people.”

  “And where did you hear that?”

  “From someone I not only trust but to whom I also gave my word that I would never reveal his identity.”

  The German stared at him. When he spoke, his voice was quiet. “If your specialty is in conventional matters, how’ve you come by these blueprints?”

  “By chance.”

  “Who’s the supplier?”

  Will shook his head. “I can’t give you that information.”

  “Then I can’t give you a buyer.”

  The room was silent.

  Will knew that he couldn’t be the first one to speak.

  More silence.

  Finally Schiller said, “I can’t approach a potential buyer unless I can persuade him that the blueprints are authentic. To do that, I must be able to say where they come from.”

  Will looked frustrated. “I have to protect my supplier, including his identity.”

  “And I have to protect my clients and my reputation.”

  “Then it seems we are at an impasse.”

  “I agree.”

  Will thought through the problem. “How likely is it that you can get an interested buyer?”

  “Providing the blueprints are authentic and accurate, it’s certain.”

  Will was silent.

  Schiller said, “If you could satisfy me that the supplier is authentic, that will be enough. I can tell my client that the source’s identity must remain a secret but that I can vouch for his credentials.”

  Will looked unsure.

  Schiller looked at one of the bodyguards and nodded. The guards left the room. He faced Will. “We’re going to have to exchange something. You need my client and money; I need a name and the blueprints.”

  Will was hesitant. “I have your word?”

  “I can give you that if you can give me your trust.”

  Will lowered his head and stared at the floor. Finally he nodded and said, “Okay.”

  He fixed his attention on the SVR agent. “He’s a Russian colonel named Taras Khmelnytsky.”

  Part III

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Razin looked at the twenty-four men who were busy making preparations in the disused warehouse. They were his Spetsnaz Alpha troops, all handpicked by him for the training exercise. Tonight, their task was to infiltrate the base of the 104th Parachute Regiment in the ancient northwestern city of Pskov. It would be tough, though he wasn’t concerned, as he knew they’d succeed. What did concern him was that time was running out, because the exercise could be terminated at any time. If that happened before everything was in place, his plan would have failed.

  He moved away from the men, their vehicles, and the equipment and sat on a wooden crate. Withdrawing his custom-made military knife, he looked at the long blade for several seconds before carefully sharpening it with a stone.

  All of the MI6 officer’s agents had to die, but it was taking too long. That was why he needed to change tactics. The traitor had given him the names and the time and location of the next meeting, but this time he’d not only kill his target, he’d also capture his former agent handler—the man he’d recently found out carried the code name Sentinel. That would speed things up. Sentinel would be forced to summon all of his remaining agents to one location. Razin would slaughter them.

  Everything depended on timing. The agents had to be dead before the three American cruise missile–bearing submarines sailed toward Russia. And the training exercise had to still be live when that happened so that he could plant the bomb.

  He smiled as he looked at his faithful colleagues. They had no idea what they were really doing for him. It didn’t matter, because if they survived the war, he’d honor them for their role in preventing Russia from being crippled. But he’d never tell them the truth about the bomb. Instead he’d say that he’d removed its beacon and detonated it at sea or in one of Russia’s vast wastelands to prevent it from falling into American hands. By then no one would be asking questions. They’d be focused on far more pressing matters.

  He thought about the big MI6 man he’d confronted outside the Saint Petersburg safe house. He could be a problem, for he was unlike anyone Razin had confronted before. No doubt he’d be with Sentinel at the meeting with General Barkov.

  That’s where he’d kill him.

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Roger Koenig shook Will’s hand. “We’re a long way away from that drink in D.C.”

  Will smiled at the CIA SOG officer. “Indeed we are.” He looked at the other men. Laith Dia was one of them. He was the only other SOG paramilitary specialist to have survived Will’s last brutal mission to capture the Iranian mastermind Megiddo. Will was overjoyed that Patrick had sent the two CIA men. He asked Laith, “How’s your stomach?”

  The tall, black-haired American shrugged. “I’ve got a scar right across it. Makes me look like I’ve had a darn hysterectomy.” The ex–Delta Force man laughed, shook Will’s hand, then nodded toward the third man. “Ross Tark. SAS Increment.”

  Ross was slightly shorter than the two CIA men but was still six feet tall. He was an athletic, handsome man with close-cropped blond hair. When he looked at Will, his brown eyes looked dead, a common appearance among special forces men who had seen sustained action. The SAS soldier shook Will’s hand and spoke to him with a Scottish lilt. “Nice to meet you. Now, if you don’t mind, we need to check through the kit.”

  Roger, Laith, and Ross silently removed items from diplomatic bags and laid them out on the large dining room floor. Sentinel was standing in one corner of the room beneath a cut-glass chandelier, talking to one of his assets on his cell phone. Will stood watching them, his arms folded across his chest.

  They were in a beautiful fourteen-bedroom seventeenth-century house set in the middle of sixty acres of gardens containing whitebeam trees, manicured lawns, wild heathland, stone paths, red and musk deer, and kennels for big Caucasian Ovcharka guard dogs. The house and its grounds were thirty miles south of the Russian city of Kursk.

  An elderly lady with white shoulder-length hair and wearing an expensive-looking skirt and jacket walked slowly into the room holding a tray containing five bone china cups and saucers and an ornate teapot. She placed the tray on a twelve-seat oak dining table, frowned, moved across the room, stepped over a Chinese QBZ-95G assault rifle placed on the floor by Laith, and walked to th
e opposite wall, where many gold-framed paintings of landscapes and stallions were hanging. After straightening one of the paintings, she turned and walked back across the room, this time stepping over magazine clips, and began pouring tea into the cups. Squeezing lemon into the drinks, she looked at Sentinel and spoke a few words in Russian.

  Sentinel snapped his phone shut, walked up to her, gently kissed her on both cheeks, and smiled. The woman hugged him, holding the MI6 officer for a long time, then released him and walked out of the room. Roger, Laith, and Ross finished extracting all of their kit. The floor now contained four QBZ-95Gs, five QSZ-92 handguns, spare magazine clips, military communication systems, binoculars, cell phones, battlefield medical kits, plastic waterproof envelopes containing wads of cash, piles of white arctic warfare clothes, stun grenades, and one Chinese AMR-2 12.7 mm sniper rifle.

  A silver-haired man came in, carrying a plate of cakes. He was in his seventies and dressed in a three-piece suit and tie. He nodded at the men and said in a soft Russian accent, “Gentlemen, this food is all we have, but my wife and I are honored to give it to you.”

  Sentinel immediately grabbed two of the plastic envelopes of cash, took the plate, and gave him the money. The man looked hesitant and said something in Russian. Sentinel replied with something inaudible. A slight smile emerged on the Russian’s face, and he clicked his heels together, gave a sharp nod of his head, turned, and walked out of the room. Placing the cakes next to the teapot, Sentinel spoke quietly to Will. “They come from previous generations of tsarist Russian aristocracy. Most of their relatives were wiped out in the 1917 revolution; the few that survived were imprisoned or managed to go into hiding, penniless and homeless.” He looked around the room. “The couple you’ve just seen are the grandchildren of some of those survivors. They spent their lives trying to accrue enough money to purchase this house, which was seized by revolutionaries from the husband’s grandfather. It belonged to his family line for three hundred years, but in buying the property, the couple used up their entire savings.” He looked at Will. “They live in splendor and poverty, waiting here with the vain hope that one day Russia may once again be ruled by nobility.”

  Roger called across the room, “We’re ready.”

  Will and Sentinel joined the men. Roger stood on the other side of the military hardware, holding a cup of tea in one fist. Ross was sitting on a chair, munching a cake. Laith was sitting on the floor, leaning against a wall, smoking a cigarette.

  Sentinel looked at them all. “Gentlemen, Barkov must be protected at all costs, because if we fail to kill Razin he’s our last remaining hope to pin down Taras’s location.” He looked at Will. “Unless my friend’s private operation has any legs.”

  Will smiled.

  Laith asked, “You’re sure he won’t use his Spetsnaz men in the assault?”

  “He’ll be alone.”

  Ross shrugged. “Then we’ll easily take him down.”

  Sentinel looked sharply at the SAS man. “Don’t think that way.”

  Roger set his cup on the table. “When’s the meeting?”

  “I’m waiting for Barkov to call me.” Sentinel looked at the weapons. “How do you want to play this?”

  Roger answered, “Laith and I will be in the house.” The former DEVGRU SEAL nodded at Ross. “Tark will be our sniper.”

  “All right. Well, there’s nothing we can do now but wait.”

  Sentinel walked out of the room.

  Roger picked up his cup and saucer and moved to the window. Will joined him.

  Speaking quietly while looking at the garden, the CIA officer said, “My grandfather fought in Russia as a paratrooper in the Wehrmacht’s Fallschirmjäger Division in ’41. He nearly died here. When I was a kid, I remember him telling me about the Second World War, his battles in Denmark, Norway, the Netherlands, Greece, Crete, Sicily, and Italy and how he earned the Iron Cross.” He shook his head. “He reckoned that none of them was as bad as what he experienced in Russia.” He leaned against the window frame and looked at Will. “We might have a bigger and better-equipped army, but this ain’t a place for American soldiers.”

  Will stood in the vast grounds of the seventeenth-century house, several hundred yards away from the property. Sprouting through the snow were many pink Luculia flowers.

  He folded his arms, deep in thought. He was glad that the paramilitary men were here, but he still felt deeply uneasy about Sentinel’s plan to kill Razin. Not for the first time, he wondered if Sentinel was intending to sacrifice his life to take his revenge on Razin.

  Movement in the woods. A large brown shape, now gone. In a flash, he withdrew a QSZ-92 handgun and pointed it at the place where he had last seen the movement. His eyes darted left and right, searching the areas of open land between the trees. Big flakes of snow began to fall slowly through the windless air. He heard bird calls, nothing else. His heart pounded, but his hands and gun were steady. He saw the shape again, in a narrow gap between two trees, and swung his weapon toward it, but just as quickly the shape disappeared. Keeping his gun at eye level and held with both hands, he braced his body, ready to shoot.

  He saw it again; his finger instinctively started pulling back the trigger, but after a few millimeters the finger released its grip. His body relaxed.

  Fifty feet away from him, standing between trees and easily visible, was a huge stag. The antlers of the red deer towered over its magnificent physique. The stag stared at Will, keeping very still. Will lowered his weapon and stared back at the beast. They stayed like that for thirty seconds before the stag moved a few feet toward him and stopped again. Will expected the deer to turn and bolt into the woods, but it remained in front of him, and then it walked even closer, its breath visible out of its large nostrils. The stag lowered its head and moved a hoof back and forth over the snow. For the briefest moment, Will wondered if it was going to charge at him. But then the animal looked up, again fixing his large eyes on Will, came forward, stopped, and tossed his head.

  The deer’s ears twitched. It stepped back, turned, and darted off into the woods.

  “Remarkable.” The elderly Russian man who owned the house was walking toward him. “The stag came to my grounds a year ago, most likely from the nearby forests. He’s wild and has a doe and two fawns to protect.” The man reached Will. “They’re very shy creatures, and we rarely ever see them. And I’ve never seen a wild stag walk that close to a human being.” He turned to Will. “He’s received the call. You’re all to leave.”

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Two days later, the team was a thousand miles east of Moscow, in a lodge nestled high up in the Ural Mountains. A hundred miles farther to the east was the city of Yekaterinburg, the location of the headquarters of Central Operational Strategic Command. The early-morning sun was rising and cast its light over a large lake a half mile below the building and the surrounding mountains overlaid by snow-covered forest. A solitary road snaked alongside the lake until it followed a route up the mountainside, ending at the property.

  They had arrived the night before, stowing their vehicle in a garage so that it was out of sight, keeping the lodge’s lights off, and maintaining an all-night vigil even though Sentinel had never used the lodge before and was convinced that it was not compromised. The place belonged to one of his assets, who had moved out of the home to stay temporarily with relatives in Yekaterinburg within twelve hours of Sentinel contacting him. The asset had left ample food in the lodge for the team, although none of them had touched it. They were too focused and tense to be hungry.

  Will moved through the property, passing through a kitchen, a small open-plan dining room and lounge where Laith was waiting and holding a QBZ-95G assault rifle, up bare wooden stairs, through one bedroom containing a single bed and nothing else, and into a second room containing Roger and Sentinel.

  Sentinel glanced at Will, checked his watch, and nodded. “Barkov should be here in approximately two hours.” He moved next to Roger. “What do you think?�
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  Roger spoke while looking out a window through the sight of his assault weapon. “I think it’s okay. Good lines of sight, almost continuous coverage of the road, very high ground, and thirty miles from the nearest civilization, so minimal risk of interference from locals.” The CIA SOG officer nodded. “It’s a darn good defensive position, but my God, there’s a lot of land and tree cover around us. Razin could come at us from any direction. And unless Ross spots him with the sniper rifle or Razin’s stupid and takes the road, our target could get very close before we see him.”

  Sentinel looked at Will. “Have you spoken to Ross?”

  Will nodded. “He’s ready.”

  Ross was a mile away on another mountain on the other side of the lake. He had been there for an hour in temperatures that were now nearly minus twenty degrees Celsius.

  Will rubbed his face. “Even with Ross watching over us, Razin could do what he did last time: take us with a high-powered sniper rifle and thermal imagery. Maybe he doesn’t need to come close.”

  Roger spoke without removing his gaze from the window. “He can’t do that from the rear of the house because the incline of the mountain behind us is too severe and the angles are all wrong to give him a meaningful shot. But if he chooses to adopt that tactic from the area in front of the house, he’ll be in for a hell of a surprise. In the garage, I found enough gasoline to drive a truck for a year. I’ve put some of the fuel into canisters, and then I took smokeless powder from bullets, rags, and whatever else I could lay my hands on to turn those canisters into crude incendiary devices. I have them strapped high up in trees one hundred and fifty feet from the house, and I doused the trees with the rest of the fuel. The canisters have been positioned very precisely so that Ross has a clear shot at all of them. If Razin uses thermal imagery, Ross will shoot every canister and create a ring of fire around us. Our enemy will be blind.”

  Sentinel walked up to Will, speaking quietly. “You need to stay very close to Barkov.”