by Alex Shaw
Worryingly for Li Tam, this hadn’t included the ambassador. Li Tam counted the staff in and he counted them out again. Yes, he was sure. The British Ambassador had not been in the building. It was time to let the Russians know that the mission had a kink.
*
‘Da?’ Maksim Oleniuk said, through a mouthful of filet mignon.
‘We do not have the ambassador.’
‘What?’ Oleniuk spluttered and reached for his wine.
‘He did not come to the embassy, and he is not at his residence.’
‘Suka!’ Oleniuk cursed in Russian. ‘He must be found; we have a matter of hours left before the event!’
‘I am aware of that.’
‘I have new orders for you. Collect my man and take him to this location.’
Li Tam listened as Oleniuk dictated a Georgetown address. ‘Understood.’
Oleniuk ended the call. He clicked his fingers for the cheque. A Hispanic server quickly handed him a piece of paper inside a leather wallet. Without examining the amount, Oleniuk thrust three hundred-dollar bills inside and left. Years of planning had been put into this project and now it all seemed to be unravelling. Someone would pay, and it would not be him. He stepped onto the sidewalk and the rear passenger door of the limousine was opened by one of his men. Oleniuk paused to take in the view of the boulevard, lit up and humming with nightlife, before he clambered inside and they pulled away.
Through the tinted, ballistic glass he watched late-night Washington go about its business. Let them live tonight, he mused, as tomorrow they will have nothing to enjoy. He checked his wristwatch and corrected himself; tomorrow was already here in Moscow.
It was Oleniuk’s belief that for too long Russia had been the butt of jokes, the once powerful nation made pauper by the collective actions of the international community. They had meddled with her affairs, unfairly attacking her trade and business links all because she had liberated lands that had rightfully been hers. Crimea was Russian land! It never was and never should have been part of Ukraine, yet the international community could not see this. They had sided with Ukraine, which in his opinion was a made-up place, not a sovereign country, and because of this would forever be his enemy and an enemy of Mother Russia.
But he, like Russia, had bided his time. Pretending to fawn over canapés at innumerable society events, laughing at jokes told by buffoons with wives like baboons. One aspect of the operation irked him; the world and his homeland would never know that it was he – a true Russian patriot – who had eliminated Russia’s enemies and masterminded the attack that had brought the United States to its knees.
Oleniuk had been a GRU officer, a soldier, a planner but believed most of all that he would be remembered as a leader. After leaving the Russian military he had continued to follow the development of military technology, and with extensive funding from his Chinese billionaire partner, had privately taken over certain research programs, which the long-standing Russian president had insisted be scrapped. Whilst the Russian state concentrated on bankrupting itself by producing quicker tanks, larger submarines and stealthier fast jets, Oleniuk had restarted the electromagnetic pulse (EMP) program. Unburdened from the shackles of the moribund post-Soviet state, five years of continuing research and Chinese cooperation had resulted in an operational weapon. A unit that could be delivered by an airframe and detonated unseen a mile above its target.
But Oleniuk had not shared his breakthrough with Russia. He knew the Russian military and intelligence apparatus inside out. The officers and men on the ground were hardworking, trustworthy, but the higher up the ranks you went the higher the frequency of imbecility was to be found. In short those in power would squander his weapon, his technology and his chance to make a difference. It was his weapon now, not theirs, and he alone would decide how it was used. And as a patriot, he had made the decision that it would be used to get his motherland out from under the yoke of the United States of America.
Oleniuk knew the technology was limited. An EMP weapon was a single-use force multiplier. He had been assured that the technology could not be copied, or reverse engineered but within months its effects could be counteracted. Nation states would rush to create their own shielding, rendering all but the poorest adversaries susceptible to an EMP attack. Perhaps he should order another unit be detonated over Afghanistan as payback for all the Soviet lives lost in the 1980s?
But no. Such thoughts were corrosive. The EMP strike was a one-off event, with a fall guy and a concrete strategy to ensure no blowback. Meticulously detailed fake intelligence was in place to paint North Korea as the aggressor.
His billionaire Chinese partner, a woman well respected by “the party” would persuade China that it must come to the aid of its strategic trading partner – the US – and rebuild their now defunct industries and infrastructure. Trillions were to be made. In the meantime, China, with the tacit agreement of the international community, and before the US was in a position to do so, would invade North Korea and once and for all bring to heel the embarrassing Third World dictatorship on their doorstep. Overnight the regional paradigm would shift, as would the balance of global power.
The vast sum of money to be made and the will to bloody the nose of the US was enough for his Chinese partner, but Oleniuk had a far loftier goal. Oleniuk knew that the ailing health and popularity of the Russian president may be enough to see him win one more term in office but after that the strongman would be a spent force. Oleniuk had been out of the military for five years, in public life for that five and in five more would have enough wealth and political capital to take the Kremlin. He would be leader of a new, resurgent Russia.
The EMP technology, and the resulting power plays derived from it would kick-start his new Russia but it would be his mind and eventually the work of his men that would bolster this. In any endeavour what was bigger than the game were the rules, and he who controlled the rules decided who played the game and how.
Revenge was Oleniuk’s salient motive. The hit list encapsulated this. Curated by Oleniuk, it contained a list of enemies of the Russian state. Several had been taken care of in Maine, one already eliminated in Washington and two more to go. But there was another name on the list. A third man to kill. A personal enemy. A man whose actions had wounded him, twice. His name was etched into his very being. His direct actions had come very close to destroying Oleniuk, turning him to drink, to despair, to the edge of suicide. Two of the men still to kill were serving diplomats at the British Embassy in Washington, DC; one of them was his nemesis.
Oleniuk rubbed his neck and felt for the scar he’d received in Mariupol. It was the result of the second time the man had wronged him.
Chapter 9
British Embassy, Washington, DC
The mood was subdued as the embassy staff ambled out of the meeting room. Filler had pushed the briefing back twice – once as he awaited more details from the police and then again as he awaited the arrival of Detective Jon Chang from the DC Metro Police. Chang had insisted on talking to the embassy staff in person, in his capacity of liaison officer. He gave the basic facts as he saw them – Smith had been shot by a gunman while visiting a friend’s apartment. Chang stated that a two-man DC team would return to the embassy in the morning to interview all staff.
‘We need to talk,’ Chang announced.
‘We can go to my office,’ Filler replied and led the way.
Once all three men were seated, Chang addressed Filler and Hunter. ‘I didn’t want to say this in front of the rest of your staff. We now believe this was a professional hit.’
‘What makes you think that, Detective?’ Filler asked, barely suppressing his surprise.
‘The shooter used a high-calibre round from a silenced weapon,’ Chang stated bluntly. ‘He wasn’t a gangbanger, and this wasn’t a home invasion or a crime of passion. This was a serious weapon, used in a professional manner. This was an assassination.’
Hunter’s mind raced. Diplomats had died in a
ccidents or been murdered in robberies, but this was the first time for decades a British diplomat had been assassinated. It was unthinkable. ‘If this was a “hit”, the killer knew where to find Smith.’
‘Exactly,’ Chang said.
Hunter understood the implications. ‘Smith must have been under surveillance. Which means a team, not a lone gunman. Which hints at who? A terrorist group or a foreign intelligence service?’
‘I hope it was terrorists.’ Filler blew out his cheeks. ‘The last thing we need is a shooting war with anyone!’
‘But we have to look into all possibilities,’ Chang confirmed. ‘Now, can you tell me where your ambassador is?’
Filler shook his head. ‘I can’t.’
Chang quizzically raised a heavy eyebrow. ‘You can’t or you won’t?’
Filler shot Hunter a glance before he replied. ‘We can’t. We have not been able to contact Ambassador Tudor since yesterday.’
‘What?’ Chang was incredulous.
‘We don’t keep him on a lead.’
‘But you have protocols?’
‘Yes, we do.’ Filler folded his arms. ‘The ambassador always has both a mobile and a satellite phone with him. He informs us when and where he is going. On this occasion he said he was going away for the weekend. The issue is that we can’t raise him on either of his phones.’
‘He’s a high-value target if there ever was one,’ Chang stated, flatly.
‘Which is why,’ Hunter declared, ‘I wish to officially request that your department help us find him.’
‘You want to file a missing person report, now?’
‘Yes.’ It was something he and Filler had discussed; it was not like Anthony Tudor to be incognito for so long. Not only were his phones unanswered but the name of the guesthouse he was apparently staying at did not exist.
‘Of course.’ The detective tried to hide his irritation with a thin smile. ‘Let me go back to my car. I think I have the relevant form in my briefcase. If not, I’ll run along and get one.’
College Park Airport, Washington, DC
Li Tam had never met the huge Russian before, but the man had presented himself at the correct address. He had hefted a heavy-looking, man-sized package into the trunk of Tam’s taxi. It was obvious to Li Tam what the bag contained, but he made no comment as it meant nothing to him.
The pair had not spoken at all during the journey across the city. The Russian had used Tam like a taxi driver, which he ironically did not like. Tam reversed the taxi into a space directly outside a hangar. The Russian clambered out of his seat, popped the trunk, collected his heavy cargo, and left without saying a word. Tam watched in the rear-view mirror as the Russian was let inside and the door quickly shut behind him.
Tam knew that the hangar, and the adjoining one, were leased by a Chinese-owned company. It was one of many such places that dotted the United States to be used, when required, by his real employer. He knew neither why he had gotten in bed with the Russians nor why he had been loaned to them. He only understood that his orders were to follow all instructions from his Russian contact, or risk being recalled to Beijing. The life he had adopted in the US was far more comfortable than any he could expect in his native China, so he complied. In the US, he was treated by many as just another immigrant in a cosmopolitan nation of immigrants, and although he knew he was being watched by his own people, he felt a sense of freedom in his actions and activities. At least he had until his current orders had arrived.
Tam yawned; he was old and exhausted. Checking his watch he realised he’d been working now for twenty hours straight. If he did not rest soon, he’d be a danger behind the wheel; he had to protect his cover as a taxi driver. Tam chuckled to himself and rubbed his face with his hands. No, he actually no longer had to protect his charade. Come daybreak, no one would care if he was a real taxi driver or not. No one would pay any attention to how he drove, just that he had a vehicle that could be driven.
He lifted his iPhone and called his Russian contact again. It rang out without affording him the opportunity to leave a voicemail. It was a quarter to ten in the evening. Tam wet his lips as he pondered his situation. So be it; if he had no further instructions, he would sleep in the car until he was needed. It would not be the first time and the back seat was surprisingly voluminous. Tam started the engine. He’d find somewhere nearby to park, out of the glare of potential passers-by or surveillance cameras. He didn’t want to draw any further attention to the hangar.
Chapter 10
Camden, Maine
Tate had decided to take the day to explore Camden. He’d hit a restaurant on the waterfront, called The Waterfront, before finding Laite Memorial Beach and then finally hiking up and down the Mount Battie Trail. Pushing his empty plate away, he reflected that the food at the inn was better than it had any right to be. He took a long pull on his beer. The place was emptier than the night before and the Russians had not yet returned. He’d eaten at the bar. Sara wasn’t around and Joe hadn’t told him to take a table.
‘Another?’ Joe nodded at the almost empty pint glass, his second so far.
Tate flashed Joe a thumbs up. ‘Why not.’
The door opened and a large figure entered. Donoghue. He was out of uniform and joined Tate at the bar. ‘I’ll have the same.’
Neither man spoke until both draught beers were pulled, placed in front of them and they’d both had a swig. Joe drifted to the other end of the bar and busied himself polishing a glass. Tate asked, ‘What’s the latest?’
Donoghue nodded and took a second larger pull before he spoke. ‘We caught up with the Russians. Checked the cars – like you said ballistic plates. We checked their documents, checked their ID’s. All genuine, all in order. No laws broken, not even a speeding ticket.’
‘I see,’ Tate said, and drank some more.
‘But I dug a little deeper. No law against having armour plating or “pimping your ride”, but I’ll admit it’s a little strange that the lease company has ten – all the same colour.’
‘And when you questioned the pair, what were they like?’
Donoghue cast Tate a look. ‘Hell, why not. I can tell you. The big one had a smile on his face, like he found the situation amusing, and the older guy was talkative but a little timid. Both were polite and non-confrontational.’
‘And did you search the Tahoes?’
‘We did; they invited us to. Apart from an empty custom storage box in the trunk of each, nothing unusual, nothing amiss.’ Donoghue drank again. ‘So nothing whatsoever to link the pair of them, or their vehicles, to the shooter. And before you ask, we don’t have the plate number of his SUV, and we have no evidence that it either was or wasn’t armour-plated.’
‘It was.’
‘We’ll see.’
‘Any news on the shooter?’
‘None at all. It’s like both he and his vehicle were beamed up by Scotty.’ The police chief finished his pint with one long pull. ‘Tate, thanks for your input this morning. Now I’m finally going to go home and get some sleep. Oh and thanks for the beer – it’s on you.’
‘Glad to be of service,’ Tate said to Donoghue’s back as he headed to the door.
Without asking, Joe placed a new pint in front of Tate. ‘And that one’s from me.’
‘Thanks, but what for?’
‘Entertainment purposes. I couldn’t help but overhear what you two were talking about.’
‘A-ha.’ Tate drank.
‘I’m not going to say anything, but I don’t trust those Russian fellas.’
Tate didn’t reply. He finished his pint and decided four was enough. He checked his Rolex, almost ten. Time to turn in. He wanted to hit the road by mid-morning. After that, the events of Camden, Maine, however odd, would be behind him.
The cloying odour of cigarette smoke carried on the breeze and he heard a voice. ‘What are you doing?’
‘Going to bed.’ Tate turned as Sara appeared from the shadow of the rear door. ‘Your ni
ght off?’
‘I needed some head space – know what I mean?’
Tate smirked. He supposed he did. ‘I’m leaving tomorrow.’
‘And?’
‘I just wanted to say goodbye, oh and report a blown bulb in my bathroom.’
Sara sighed. ‘Sorry. The wiring here can be an issue.’
‘Look, I need a favour.’
Sara took a step closer and the light hit her face. ‘What?’
Tate became serious. ‘Those Russians, what do you know about them?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Nothing at all?’
‘Well, we have their credit card details and photocopies of their passports.’
‘When did they arrive?’
‘Two days ago; I checked them in.’
‘You don’t just work in the bar then?’
‘I’m the owner, didn’t you know?’
‘No. But I do now. Can I see the stuff you have on them?’
‘Why? Are you a policeman, or a private dick?’
Tate smirked. ‘I’m a dick but just a concerned citizen.’
‘First Donoghue, and now you asking has got me curious. Tell me who you really are and I’ll think about opening up the reception computer and having a look. You don’t look like any HR consultant I’ve ever met.’
‘How many have you met?’
‘I’m waiting.’
‘Look. I’m with the British Foreign Office, and they may be of interest to us. And that’s really all I can say. Either you trust me or you don’t.’
Sara sighed again. ‘Well that makes as much sense as anything. And I do know you’re British.’