by Tim Tigner
A switch on the wall caught my eye. I flipped it, and a big ventilation grid rumbled to life overhead.
Grigori began to tremble in anticipation, rattling the range’s heavy grates.
I’d been tortured once, for days. That was more for sport than information. I didn’t like receiving it, and I didn’t like giving it. Despite what this man had done to my family, I wasn’t eager to go medieval on him. But I was willing to do whatever it took to save my president. And the clock wouldn’t accommodate anything but extreme measures.
Chapter 116
Nibbles
I LOOKED DOWN at the man who had killed my family, and felt my blood begin to boil. He was just a man. One man. But he’d wrought so much damage — and he was eager to inflict more.
Returning to the head of the island, I met his eye again. “I’ll start with your left bicep, Grigori. I figure it’ll take less than 5 minutes to cook all the way through. At that point I’ll be able to snap your arm off like a chicken drumstick. Let me know if you find yourself ready to answer my question before then.”
I stuffed a kitchen towel into his mouth. I figured this was the point where nine out of ten men would cave in. They’d spit out the towel and begin babbling. When Grigori didn’t respond immediately, I gave him another nudge. “This Viking is my kind of art. Function meets beauty. What do you have, a dozen burners on this thing? All capable of going from a low simmer to high boil, I bet?”
Grigori’s eyes remained panicked, but resolute. His jaw didn’t move.
The gas burner lit right up, and I cranked it back to low. A beautiful blue flame, and inch below his flesh. He lasted longer than I’d expected. A good six seconds. Spitting out the towel, he groaned, “Okay,” clearly straining to sound stoic.
“That’s not an answer.”
“Bugs. They’re using bugs.”
“What does that mean? Be clear, Grigori.”
He was sucking air and rolling his eyes. “They’re going to kill Silver using a custom bioweapon delivered by fleas.”
1:18 a.m.
There had been talk of custom bioweapons at the CIA. Last I’d heard they were still theoretical, but just over the horizon. I’d been out of the game for over a year now, however, and with high-tech that was effectively forever.
Custom bioweapons were basically smart bombs engineered to attack a sequence of DNA. They could be designed specifically enough to only impact one person on the planet. In theory, if you could attach one to a vector that would propagate like the flu, it would go around the globe without harming anyone until it infected the intended recipient. But in practice, most biologics petered out in one or two leaps. If you wanted a real shot at success, you’d be well advised to launch it with just a single degree of separation.
“What do you mean, delivered by fleas?”
The smell was already getting to me. Much worse than what you got in the dentist chair.
“They figured out how to transfer the pathogen through flea bites. One will suffice. Now get me off this thing!”
“One more question first. Who’s making the delivery?”
“Who do you think? Turn it off!”
It couldn’t be, could it? “Say the name!”
“Korovin. Korovin’s going to release the fleas personally.”
I turned off the burner beneath his bicep, but lit the one beside his head. This one didn’t expose him directly to the flame, but it was close enough to singe hair, and he’d still roast, given time. I wanted to keep him feeling the heat.
The Directorate of Operations at the CIA is essentially the military arm of the State Department. During my five years within their Special Operations Group, I’d learned to look at military matters through a diplomatic lens. I applied it now. Diplomatically, this situation was analogous to a tightrope-walking porcupine in a balloon factory. The Secret Service couldn’t strip search a foreign head of state. They couldn’t even pat him down. Nor could they confront him verbally. Even if they could find a pretext, that was no solution.
You can’t catch the head of a nuclear state red-handed in the ultimate act of war, and expect to avoid a major geopolitical crisis. You couldn’t even hint at your suspicion. The more I thought about it, the sicker I felt. If the press caught wind of this, the talking heads of 24-hour news would have the citizens of the planet’s two most heavily armed nations clamoring for military action.
I couldn’t allow that to happen under any circumstances.
Preventing it would be a challenge. With gossip this juicy, there would be no keeping it from the press. Saint Peter himself would be tempted to talk. I was going to have to work to contain the story with the same fervor I’d employ to stop the act itself.
Assuming everything Grigori had told me was true.
Time for verification.
I put my hand on the burner control inches from Grigori’s nose. “How’d you get Silver’s DNA?”
I knew a DNA sample was necessary to create a personalized bioweapon, and I knew the Secret Service actively guarded Silver’s, sweeping up behind him wherever he went like the hypervigilant mother of a newborn
“They got it early. Before he even announced his candidacy.”
That made sense. I suspected my former colleagues did the same with most global VIPs, as a precautionary measure. “Who created the weapon?” I asked.
“Bioresearchers in Kazan. Led by Dr. Mikhail Galkin.”
“Where do I find Galkin?”
“He was at the medical school, but I think he’s gone now. His contact info is on my tablet.”
I ran back to the bedroom and retrieved the iPad from Grigori’s nightstand. I held it up to his right index finger until it unlocked. The first thing I did was disable the password protection. The next thing I did was find Galkin under the contacts. Kazan State Medical University. One of the best in Eastern Europe. He appeared legit.
“When’s Korovin planning to expose Silver to the fleas?”
“On a hunting trip.”
“Be more specific.”
Grigori managed to smile through his tears. “Sunrise this morning.”
Chapter 117
Russian Brillyanc
SUNRISE THIS MORNING! If that really was Korovin’s plan, it might already be too late to save the president. I didn’t have Silver on speed dial. I couldn’t warn him.
What were my options?
Calling the Secret Service tip line wouldn’t be fast enough. They were fielding over three thousand threats a day. ‘Weaponized fleas’ probably wouldn’t sound like the most credible among them. By the time I got anyone to believe me, the president would be infected. Even if speed weren’t a concern, I couldn’t risk dumping information as sensitive and juicy as this into such a big bureaucracy. It would inevitably leak.
My own thoughts echoed in my head. If that was true. How did I know? “What will the flea bite do to Silver?”
I saw indecision cross Grigori’s face, so I twisted the burner control.
“It’s going to make him blind. He’s genetically susceptible. It won’t appear suspicious.”
I believed him.
I had what I needed. I had what I’d come to Russia and risked my freedom and Katya’s life for. Now I just had to deliver the news, quickly, and without instigating a nuclear war.
“Would you like me to leave?”
Grigori turned his head to study my face.
I supposed it was a loaded question.
“Yes.”
“Call your pilot.”
“My hands are tied.”
“Walk me through it.”
I turned off the burner, and he did. We called right there from his tablet. ETA twenty minutes. It would be 1:40 in the morning. Adding five minutes for the Ansat to be flight ready took the clock to 1:45.
Grigori told the pilot to go straight to the helicopter. Said he’d come out once the rotor was spinning.
I dialed Katya and Max, although there was no way I could reveal what I’d learn
ed over the phone. Every major intelligence service in the world was dialed into Moscow’s cellular networks. And with President Silver in town, they’d all be tuned in. My update could snowball into Armageddon. “The good news is that the mission is accomplished. The bad news is that we have another emergency. I need you to red-light and siren the ambulance over to the American Embassy. Let the Marine guard know that former CIA operative Kyle Achilles is about to arrive by helicopter with ‘information critical and urgent to US national defense.’ Use that exact language. Make it clear that the helicopter is a civilian Ansat, with no explosives or armaments aboard.”
“What’s going on? Are you okay?” Katya asked.
“What if they don’t believe us?” Max asked.
“I’m fine. If there’s an issue, have them contact CIA Director Wiley in Langley. He doesn’t like me, but he’ll definitely remember me.” I gave them my agency identification number, then I hung up. My brevity was cruel, but there would be time for kindness later.
Running to the bedroom, I killed the lights and pulled the corpse out of the doorway and out of sight. I used the butcher block to prop open the door so I’d hear the helicopter turbine come to life.
Grigori’s moans and groans were gaining volume. His self-control had been depleted.
I hit the bathroom next and inspected myself in the mirror. I was a mess. I’d worn the black suit over the blue spandex for extra protection from the breaking glass, but had suffered dozens of tiny glass cuts nonetheless. They covered my front side, including the parts of my face not shielded by my elbow. A Marine security guard wouldn’t get much flack if he shot me first and asked questions later.
Grigori’s suits weren’t a viable alternative. Much too small. I’d have to go with something less fresh.
I swapped clothes with the first guard I’d shot. His only had a single bullet hole, and the black fabric hid the blood. In the back of my mind I wondered if that was the reason for the color selection.
I used the kitchen’s main sink to quickly scrub my face, hair, and hands. Not perfect, but hopefully sufficient to avoid a bullet between the eyes.
The sound of a rotor revving-up reached my ears.
Time to bid farewell to Grigori.
I returned to the crouch that allowed me to meet his eyes. I studied the man who had ruined hundreds of lives, and was attempting to impact millions more. “One last question. Why did you keep the clinical trial going after Vitalis folded?”
Grigori’s eyes lit up, and he managed a twisted smile. “Americans.” He spit the word out. “You may have power, but you certainly lack cunning. The trial was for the next phase of the plan, of course.”
“The next phase?” I couldn’t help but ask, as worry seized my heart.
His smile grew. “The Russian phase. Brillyanc without side effects.”
I thought about that for a moment. What he said made sense. Perfect sense. Yet he’d ultimately cancelled the trial. “But you failed. Seems to me, you’re lacking American ingenuity.”
His smile faded.
“You killed Martha Achilles, and John Achilles, and Colin Achilles. You killed Saba Mamaladze, and Tanya Tarasova, and her husband. No doubt you’ve killed many others. I’m going to light a candle now, one in each of their memories.”
While I ignited the first of the Viking’s six burners, Grigori began bellowing like no man ever had before. He roared and he moaned, he wailed and he screamed. By the time I’d set the sixth burner aflame, I was wondering if his cries would shatter the pyramid.
I made it halfway to the door.
As much as I hated this man, as much as Grigori deserved to roast in the flames of hell, I wasn’t that guy. I spun around and shot a bullet through the flaming tip of his crooked nose.
Chapter 118
Tough Old Bird
DRESSED AS I WAS in a GasEx guard’s uniform, I didn’t raise the pilot’s defenses until I was in the copilot’s chair with my weapon trained on his heart.
My conscript was probably around sixty in calendar years, but a hundred experientially. He was what most would call a tough old bird, with thick gray hair kept close-cropped, a weather-beaten face, and eyes that told you they’d seen it all. The no-nonsense type.
I got right to it. “The US Embassy. Land inside the fence.”
He looked from my gun to my face. “I can’t do that. The American Embassy is just a block from the prime minister’s office. It’s restricted air space. We’ll be shot down.”
“What’s your name?”
“Erik.”
“You fly Hinds in Afghanistan, Erik?” I asked, referring to the iconic beefy Soviet attack helicopter.
“I did.”
“Then figure it out. Fast and low.”
“That may get us to the compound, but we’ll be shredded by ground fire if we try to land inside. Marines don’t mess around.”
“I’ve arranged for clearance.”
Erik didn’t appear convinced. I couldn’t blame him. Unlike Hinds, I was pretty sure the undersides of Ansats weren’t armor-plated. “And if I say no?”
“I’ll shoot you, and steal a car.”
His eyes drifted toward the base of his chair.
“I emptied the clip. Nonetheless, I’d appreciate your keeping your hands on the controls.”
Something flashed across Erik’s eyes. Might have been admiration. Might have been hope. “What about Grigori?”
“He’s tied up in the kitchen. Won’t be joining us.”
Erik turned to the windshield. “Flight time is about four minutes.” He lifted the collective and pushed the cyclic toward the moonlit silver snake that was the Moscow River.
“I’ve got no beef with you, Erik. Take care of me, and you’ll be fine. Cross me, and I’ll add you to the list.”
He didn’t ask what list. Afghan vets had instincts.
I pointed my Glock at his crotch, and called Katya. “Are you there yet?”
I had to struggle to hear her reply over the rotor noise, even with my earbuds placed under the helicopter’s headphones. “We’re at the front gate.”
“They still haven’t let you in?”
“We’re still talking over the intercom.”
“Dammit! Do you know who’s on the other side?”
“I think it’s still the duty sergeant. It is two o’clock in the morning.”
“Tell him the helicopter is three minutes out. Tell him to get the ambassador out of bed. Repeat the words, ‘information critical and urgent to US national defense.’ ”
“I told him all that, Achilles. I don’t think he believes me. I may have authority in the classroom, but I’m just a Russian girl to this Marine.”
“He’ll believe you when he hears the rotors. Tell him to open the window.”
“Okay. Also, Casey called to remind you that we need to get to the airport.”
“I’ll see you soon.”
Erik flew us north over the Sparrow Hills, then down to the middle of the Moscow river, low and fast. Low enough that I could have yanked fish from the water with a hand net. Fast enough that the net would have snapped like a twig in a hurricane.
We flew under the third-ring road, wetting the skids. Then we splashed them again beneath the Borodinskiy Bridge. Just before the metro bridge, we cut inland and skimmed over side streets like an experienced cab driver.
This vet knew his stuff.
The US Embassy compound occupies an entire city block at the nine o’clock position on Moscow’s Garden Ring Road. The public face is a famous white and yellow building of the same grand old architectural style used on most of Moscow’s classic buildings. This was where the ambassador had his formal office, and where Russian visa applicants and Americans requiring consular assistance were serviced. But this building wasn’t where matters of critical import were discussed. To see sexy foreign-policy action, you had to go deeper into the compound, to a cube-shaped edifice of sandstone and reflective glass.
Approaching at a heigh
t lower than many of the surrounding buildings, I was pleased to see floodlights covering the parking lot before the cube. As we swooped in, I also saw a familiar ambulance parked outside the gate.
Lights began to swarm around us from every direction, like TIE fighters defending the Death Star. Even more directed were the red dots of laser sights shining from dozens of M4 carbines.
Erik set us down center circle, killed the rotor, and raised his hands.
Chapter 119
All the Fuss
I LOOKED OVER at the pilot as the Marine embassy guards surrounded our helicopter. “Thank you, Erik. You’re dismissed.”
He didn’t reply.
I exited the Ansat with my hands behind my head, and walked slowly toward the building’s entrance. Marines in full battle gear materialized on my left and right. They grabbed my wrists and shoulders and marched me clear of the decelerating rotors.
We stopped before a third Marine who searched me while two more stood ready with M9 Berettas directed rock-steady at my head. Within seconds, my Glock and lock blade were gone, as was my cell phone and Grigori’s tablet. A metal detector followed, and an explosive-sniffing German Shepherd did its thing. Finally, the Berettas backed off and a familiar freckled face appeared. “Hello, Achilles.”
Michael McArthur and I had gone through the advanced field-operative course in the same six-man cohort. The experience hadn’t been entirely pleasant. Granger had put me through an individual training program in lieu of the CIA’s basic course — on account of my atypical background. Therefore, at the advanced-course, I was the new guy.
Initially, they all resented my special status, considering the Olympics a cake walk compared to what the five of them had been through. But between my marksmanship and stamina, I eventually earned their respect, and there was no bad blood at graduation.
Five years had passed since then.
I hadn’t seen or heard of Mac since.