The Sword of Cyrus: A Thriller (A Rossler Foundation Mystery Book 4)

by JC Ryan

  Twelve hours after he commandeered one of Air Force One’s backups, Sam stood face-to-face with Aleksandr Chustikov, a man he’d recognize anywhere from his pictures. Far from the stereotype of a beefy, vodka-drinking middle-aged Russian man with grizzled hair and a beard, Chustikov was trim, almost ascetic-looking. His receding hairline and piercing blue eyes gave him the look of a college professor of religious studies perhaps, until his grin softened it into a mass of crow’s feet at the corners of his eyes, and deep smile lines framing his thin lips and a glimpse of teeth. Lewis liked him immediately, despite years of professional discord. He held out his hand to shake the hand of his old enemy.

  “Aleksandr,” he said, leaving off the patronymic after the man’s taunt on the phone.

  “Sam, welcome to Mother Russia,” Chustikov said, displaying again the grin that humanized his otherwise grim face. Lewis’s eyes were drawn in spite of himself to a large mole on Chustikov’s left cheek. Why wouldn’t he have had that removed? Recalling his urgent errand, Lewis forced himself to look Chustikov in the eyes.

  “I have urgent news, and a favor to ask,” he said. Chustikov raised one eyebrow at the word favor, nodded, and gestured for Sam to enter his car.

  “I have made arrangements to discuss it in the office of Prime Minister Shvernik’s offices,” he said. “You did not inform me that you also had official business with the Prime Minister.”

  “I apologize, Aleksandr. I learned of it only after I spoke with you.”

  Inclining his head in acceptance of the apology, Chustikov said, “Security, I assume, is of importance?”

  “The utmost,” Lewis replied. On the way, they discussed his unmarried state and the fact that he had no children, in contrast to Chustikov, who had been happily married for thirty years and had two children.

  “We felt no need for more, after a son and then a daughter,” Chustikov explained.

  Polite questions about what age his children were and what they studied occupied the rest of the short journey to Shvernik’s office. As soon as they entered his doors, Chustikov’s banter stopped.

  “All right, Director Lewis. To what do we owe this visit?” Sam noticed he left out the usual ‘the pleasure of’ in the phrase, and that Chustikov had assumed the role of an interrogator, while the Prime Minister, after a few words of introduction, remained silent. Sam handed Shvernik an envelope holding the pictures of the Russian targets as he answered Chustikov.

  “You know of the Rossler Foundation, of course,” Sam began. At Chustikov’s nod, he continued. “Nine days ago, Foundation staff found disturbing references to future pictures. They followed the references and were able to decode data in the 10th Cycle library that looked like pictures when they were processed by computers. Those pictures showed most of the major cities in the Western Hemisphere in ruins. They were date stamped July 29th of this year.” Lewis paused as he took in the startle reaction Chustikov displayed at the mention of the date. “Do you have a question?”

  “I take it that you have verified the authenticity of these pictures? How long have you known that our cities were targeted?” Surprisingly, Chustikov had taken in the information and accepted it, pending Sam’s assurance that it was real. He glanced at Shvernik, who appeared engrossed in the contents of the envelope Sam had handed him.

  “Verified and re-verified. It happens that the Rosslers recently discovered spies among them, plants from the Middle East, mainly Iran. The pictures were discovered in a separate incident at about the same time. It has taken up until just yesterday, when President Harper phoned Prime Minister Shvernik about them, to search out all such pictures. We informed you as soon as we knew,” Sam said. Or, as soon as we deemed it necessary, he added mentally. “We assume that these pictures confirm a threat from that quarter. Just yesterday, we also discovered the name of the man who put together the network, and we’d like your help in tracking him down. He’s one of yours.”

  “Oleg Zlatovski,” Chustikov supplied. There could have been no other reason for Lewis to bring up the name yesterday, he realized. “I told you what we know of him. He is dead.”

  “He isn’t dead,” Lewis said, handing Chustikov a copy of the sketch artist’s work. “He goes by Andreas Dimitriou, now, and he was last seen in Bulgaria, by members of the network that he personally trained. We have a reliable eyewitness who knows him by both names and who helped develop this drawing. I understand he has changed his appearance dramatically.”

  Chustikov gazed at the picture of a youthful-looking Greek man, blonde, green-eyed and physically fit. “Indeed. I knew Zlatovski well. If this is he, I’d like to know who his plastic surgeon was. I wouldn’t mind sending my wife to him,” he joked.”

  “We need to find him urgently,” Lewis said again. “He put the network together that stole the technology we believe to be responsible for the state of the cities in those pictures.” He shuffled through his own stack of them, looking for one in particular.

  “Listen Lewis, we have managed to stay out of your wars with the Arabs for many years,” Chustikov said, beginning to chuckle. “We don’t want to become part of them now. I can’t help you.” Shvernik looked up at that, but remained silent. Chustikov hadn’t seen the pictures yet. He’d come around.

  Lewis glanced up from the picture he’d found. “No? You’ve had your disputes with the region yourself, as I recall. Not to mention your country’s persecution of Muslims for centuries. I think you’d better take a look at this picture, and this,” he said. Chustikov took the proffered prints and looked more closely, turning pale as he examined them. Meanwhile, Shvernik, who had yet to say a word, pulled a bottle of Kors vodka and three glasses out of his top drawer. The first picture was of the famous onion-domes of St. Basil’s Cathedral, recognizable in spite of the black-and-white image that failed to display the colorful and fanciful architecture at its finest. It didn’t matter, however. The domes and the spire in the center of them were horrifically damaged, as was the entire surrounding area of the Kremlin and Red Square.

  If this hadn’t been enough to convince him, he turned to the next picture, showing an equally fabulous cityscape of St. Petersburg, equally in ruins.

  “You are certain these photos aren’t a hoax,” he said to Lewis, in a surprisingly firm voice. Shvernik poured the three glasses to the brim and pushed one glass to Lewis across the table without asking if he wanted it. Chustikov picked up another without invitation.

  Lewis answered, “Absolutely certain. The weapons that will create this destruction are already in the hands of an Iranian militant group, known as the Sword of Cyrus and we suspect the bombs are actually already in or at the very least on their way to the target countries including of course your Mother Russia. The technology comes from the 10th Cycle, and knowledge of it was stolen over the past several months by a dozen or so translators at the Rossler Foundation. If you have anyone who can help track down Zlatovski, we believe he may be able to locate the leadership of the Sword of Cyrus for us.”

  Lewis’s cards were all on the table. If Chustikov refused, he had no other recourse but to attempt to locate Zlatovski on his own. However, he suspected that Chustikov was playing his cards close to his vest. Lewis found it almost impossible to believe that the FSB had lost one of its own under suspicious circumstances and failed to follow up. Maybe they were worried that if they chased him he would run to the CIA for protection and tell them a few stories in exchange, so they allowed him his “retirement” He hoped with all his heart that there was a lead, somewhere, that could be exploited quickly.

  Chustikov spent several more seconds tossing back the vodka and pouring another stiff one, while gazing from one picture to the other. “There is someone. I will assign her to your operation, but every other asset we have needs to be tracking down this network in our country. Do you have someone to work with her?”

  Lewis didn’t understand the dynamic between the two Russians. It was almost as if Chustikov were running the show, and Shvernik merely a paw
n. “I’ll find someone. I’d like to take her back to DC with me, show her our operation and let her interview our witness for herself. Can she be ready to go by tomorrow?”

  “She’ll be ready within two hours and will meet you at the airport. We must waste no time, my friend.” Chustikov said, downing the last bit of vodka.

  ~~~

  “Director Lewis, hello. My name is Tamara.” Her cool hand felt delicate in his, but her grip was firm. When he stood to greet her, Sam was surprised to see that she was almost as tall as he, maybe 5’10” or so. She had the slim body of an athlete, too, he noticed. Realizing he still had her hand captured in his, he hurriedly released it.

  “Call me Sam,” he said. “We don’t have time for titles in this project. Did Aleksandr tell you about your assignment?”

  “Briefly,” she answered. “He told me to make you aware of why he has assigned me. I am acquainted with Oleg Zlatovski. He may be able to change his appearance, but I will know his voice when we find him.” The cool assurance in her manner was enough to give Sam confidence in her. He wondered why Chustikov hadn’t mentioned the connection himself, but decided it didn’t matter.

  “Excellent. Did he mention why we want him?”

  “I understand I’ll be accompanying you to your capital,” she responded. “Perhaps you can brief me more thoroughly on the way.”

  ~~~

  June 30; D-day minus 30, Washington, DC

  On the long flight back to DC, Lewis filled in Tamara on what they knew, what they surmised and what they assumed at his headquarters, before finally falling into a fitful sleep a few hours before their arrival. Tamara, like her boss, was at least pretending to be stoic about it, insisting that until they could find Zlatovski and verify it the assumptions were not to be believed. Nevertheless, she told Lewis that she was fully committed to finding Zlatovski. For the first time, he heard the real reason that the FSB would take this so seriously despite being skeptical about the pictures. Zlatovski had constructed all of their networks, at home and abroad, for twenty years before he disappeared. Recognized as a genius in his field immediately after matriculation at Moscow State University, he’d been groomed for the FSB since the KGB days. He knew every node on every spy network that Russia operated. If he was indeed alive, they wanted to find him before someone else did.

  Tamara was frank with Lewis about her brief. She was to work with him and his outfit until they located Zlatovski, stand by as they extracted the information from him that they needed to stop this presumed attack, and then take custody of him without further ado and transport him to Russia. This she would do with or without Lewis’s consent.

  Sam was entranced by the woman’s confidence even though he had her pegged as young, probably no older than her mid-twenties. He had no doubt she intended to do exactly as she’d been instructed, and that she may indeed be capable of taking a prisoner from him without his consent. Still, such a dedicated focus was valuable. He’d go along with it for now.

  The discussion gave him some insight into the type of agent he’d need to partner with her, though, and he had the man in mind. Jack Johnson, an eight-year veteran CIA agent was big, tough, smart and had the looks to match the woman’s, which would serve them well if they had to pose as a couple. Lewis had seen him at JOCC headquarters only yesterday, or was it the day before? He was losing track of time, and that wasn’t a good thing. He needed to know just how much time was left on any given day.

  Among other things they needed to know as soon as humanly possible was the exact location of the lab that had received the stolen technology. IP addresses that they had sniffed out put it somewhere in central Iran, but they’d yet to pinpoint it. How much of the nanonuclear fuel had they manufactured, and was it in place in the target countries already? And where could they lay hands on Dalir Jahandar? Presumably he was in Tehran, carrying out his duties, but it would be very tricky to snatch him there. A better plan was to find him at an obscure place, maybe even the lab, and pick him up. Lewis knew enough history to understand that it wouldn’t be that simple. After all, it had taken more than ten years to get Osama bin Laden.

  As soon as Tamara had been given a chance to freshen up, Lewis accompanied her into the JOCC, where she immediately got the impression of a beehive. One that had been attacked by a cricket bat. On one wall was an enormous world map, with pins of different colors stuck in many cities of the US, and strings of different colors stretched across the map to other pins, all red, in Iran and a few other Middle Eastern countries. Lewis noticed her looking at it and explained that they were painstakingly searching out operatives in the US, and some of them had been found to have communications with locations in the Middle East recorded in their computer history. All innocent communications, those to family that had been thoroughly checked for potential coded messages, were eliminated from the map to avoid the clutter. Part of her assignment would be to get information from Zlatovski to help them identify what sort of assets were located where the red pins indicated.

  “How are you doing that?” she asked.

  “As soon as we get an email address, we send a message that the person we got it from needs to meet. An agent arrests whoever shows up, and then we get all their email addresses.”

  “That’s a slow way to do it,” Tamara observed.

  “True, but the network is so dispersed that it’s the only way. None of the people we’ve arrested so far have but one or two connections. It’s been a nightmare, too. Sometimes it’s just a kid that shows up, and maybe his parents have no idea what he’s doing. A lot of the time, the person has no idea what he or she is a part of. Some of them aren’t even Muslim, or Middle Eastern. Crazy.”

  Jack Johnson was waiting in a small conference room, having received a message that the head of the CIA had a special assignment for him. Glad to be taken for the moment out of the tedious task of arresting and interrogating one mostly ignorant conspirator after another, he jumped to his feet when he saw the doorknob turning. He expected to see Sam Lewis as the door opened. The vision that he beheld instead nearly took his breath away. Consequently, when Lewis appeared behind her, Jack was caught with his mouth open and his eyes wide. Lewis had an inner chuckle at the sight. At least he wasn’t the only one to be affected by Tamara’s beauty.

  “Jack Johnson,” Lewis said, “meet Tamara…” He turned in confusion to Tamara, realizing for the first time that he didn’t know her last name.

  “Don’t worry about my last name,” she said, accurately guessing the reason for his hesitation. “It’s unpronounceable anyway. I’m Tamara,” she said to Jack, holding out her hand. “May I call you Jack?”

  “Please do,” he said, taking her hand and nearly deciding to kiss it rather than shake it. Unless you’d like to call me lover, he added mentally. This assignment was going to be fun, whatever it was.

  Lewis briefed Jack quickly, knowing that he was already privy to the reason for locating Zlatovski as well as the urgency. Handing him a black credit card with silver letters and numbers and no logo, he said, “Get going. Your first stop is Athens, and if you can’t get a line on him there, try Sofia, where he trained the translators. I trust your passports are in order?” he asked, looking back and forth at both of them.

  Jack nodded as Tamara said yes. Lewis handed the case folder to Jack. It contained all the information they’d been able to collect on Zlatovski.

  “Alica Cindric is available for you to interview before you leave. Let me know if you need anything else from me.” With that, he strode out of the room to check on the data mining operation and get an update from Luke Clarke.

  ~~~

  June 30; D-day minus 30, Tehran

  Dalir Jahandar paced the floor as he waited for his twelve lieutenants to arrive. The twelfth was someone he didn’t know personally, only by reputation. He was to replace Reza Mokri, martyr to the cause. It was the reason for Reza’s death that brought the Sword of Cyrus together in one room again, a circumstance they had avoided since the la
st meeting with Oleg Zlatovski. One by one, the Sword lieutenants filed in, silent in the presence of their leader. None would speak until Dalir spoke.

  “My brothers,” he began. “You have been made aware of the death of one of us, our brother Reza Mokri. Reza died bravely rather than be questioned by those we seek to destroy. He will long be remembered as one of the first martyrs in our jihad.” Dalir looked at his folded hands, observing a moment of silence for his friend and co-conspirator. Reza had done a great job of fending off suspicion at the Rossler Foundation until a mishap revealed others to the foundation’s security team.

  “It is no secret that we lost the entire team at the Rossler Foundation. Our plan goes forward, however. We have now reached the point of no return. Whatever happens now, nothing can stop it or change it. The operators will receive their final instructions in the next few days. All communications will then be broken and they will not be contacted again. There WILL be no changes, this WILL happen as planned. Our scientists have been able to create small, portable nanonuclear bombs to be assembled in place in our target cities. They will be inserted into innocuous objects, some larger than others, in a pattern that is already determined. Our materials are already in place, except for some parts that are readily available in the target cities and will not excite comment when they are purchased by our agents. Only a few dozen cores still await assembly. All is in readiness, my friends. Our plan will see fruition at the appointed time.”

  Dalir looked around the table as he finished speaking, inviting questions or comments with an open face and raised eyebrows. One hand went up, the new man’s.

  “Our leader, I do not question your information. However, I am curious. I understand that the Americans, in particular, have found a way to flush out some of our assets and arrest them. Does this not leave us vulnerable to a break in communications before we are ready for it? Do the assemblers know what to do?” Dalir regarded him steadily for a moment, and then decided that it was a fair question.