by Leslie Wolfe
“Yeah, what’s up?”
“Smolin’s gone. Escaped, vanished.”
“Oh, crap, how the hell did that happen? When?”
“He left the Naval Medical Center in an ambulance, headed who knows where. Left two people down in this wake. “
She suddenly halted her brisk walk toward the gate and did a 180, running in the opposite direction.
“Weber, listen, I think I know exactly where he’s going.”
“Another hunch?”
“He’s going to church.”
“To pray?” Weber sounded incredulous.
“Nope . . . to seek assistance,” she said, panting a little from her jog. “I’ve been wondering how they communicate, how they organize without ever being seen or noticed. Ethnic churches are the best way possible. Even judges resent issuing surveillance warrants for churches. It’s the perfect hiding place. There’s a Russian Orthodox Church nearby; I’m going there right now. I’m only minutes away.”
“Don’t engage him until we get there. You hear me?”
“Yeah, sure,” she replied, almost chuckling, then hung up and hailed a cab.
...75
...Wednesday, June 8, 2:59PM Local Time (UTC+3:00 hours)
...ESPA Ritz Carlton Spa
...Moscow, Russia
Moscow’s Ritz Carlton spa knew how to treat its VIP guests. Dimitrov and Myatlev found there exquisite spa treatments in the safety and privacy of dedicated rooms well-guarded by Myatlev’s ex-Spetsnaz bodyguards. Rose essential oils and a carefully balanced breeze of fresh air completed a quiet, relaxing atmosphere that both of them enjoyed deeply.
Two masseuses, wearing barely there bikinis, had just completed full body massages for the two guests, then disappeared without a word, leaving their clients happy and content. The men rested naked on warm marble slabs, their skin completely covered in massage oils. They chatted quietly, subdued by deep relaxation, almost dozing off at times.
“You need a lot more massage to deal away with that flab, Vitya,” Dimitrov laughed, pointing at Myatlev’s potbelly.
“This?” Myatlev asked, pinching his overflowing belly. “This is beyond redemption, my dear friend.” They both broke down with laughter.
Myatlev signaled his adjutant, Ivan, for some Perrier water with lime. He drank a full glass, then said, “The goodies are starting to come in, just as planned.”
“What do you have?” Dimitrov asked, his interest dissipating his relaxation.
“We have the technical notes for the laser cannon installation on mobile platforms. We have enough to know what we’re missing to be able to deploy such weapon systems ourselves.”
“What do we need?”
“Power. Our power source for our laser weapon is huge, and our engineers haven’t figured out how to miniaturize it, even with the information that’s been trickling in.”
“So what do you want to do, Vitya?”
“We need to get our hands on the power source schematics, as soon as possible, what else?” Myatlev smiled and winked, making Dimitrov laugh.
“Of course,” he replied laughing. “Research takes too fucking long.”
“I’ll send Karp to the field. He’s ready.”
They remained silent for a while, as their laughter died down and they both became engulfed in their own thoughts.
“You know what else I’d like to do?” Myatlev asked after a while.
“Mmm . . . What?” Dimitrov replied.
“I’d like to pay a little attention to the American ICBM sites. Rumors have it they’re a little rusty, old, and falling apart. I think it’s doable and worth checking out.”
“We’ve cleaned ours up,” Dimitrov said. “Most of them were bad, inoperable. I wonder if theirs are just as bad.”
“Twenty-five years is twenty-five years in both countries, Mishka. That’s a lot of neglect. But I’m thinking more than just seeing which ones are operable and which ones are not.”
“What?” Dimitrov asked, intrigued, and turned on his side to face Myatlev.
“I’m thinking by now they must know you’ve cleaned and prepared ours for action, right?”
Dimitrov nodded. “Uh-huh.”
“Then they must be getting ready to clean theirs.”
“And?”
“And that means nuclear missiles moving from location to location, temporary nuclear test codes available for the right people, and so on. Tons of opportunity for us, Mishka.”
“You’re a twisted motherfucker! Genius! Let’s do that!” Dimitrov said, slapping him hard on the shoulder. “Glad you’re on our side!”
...76
...Wednesday, June 8, 3:23PM EDT (UTC-4:00 hours)
...St. Mary Russian Orthodox Church
...Virginia Beach, Virginia
“Lady, I’ve never seen anyone in such a hurry to get to church,” the cabbie said, grabbing the fifty-dollar bill offered to him. “Here we are,” he said, bringing the cab to an abrupt halt with a prolonged tire squeal.
“Wait here,” Alex said, pulling her weapon and heading for the church.
She entered the church quietly, her senses in full alert, taking in the stillness of the place, the dimmed light coning through the stained-glass windows and the strong smell of burned incense. She looked ahead and saw a man walking toward the iconostasis. The man had a slight asymmetry; he walked with his right shoulder a tad lower than the left.
“Smolin, stop right there!” she yelled, pointing her gun at the man’s back.
Out of nowhere, a priest approached and smacked her in the head with a prayer book, sending her to her knees and her gun sliding under the nearest pew. She shook her head a little, trying to dissipate the sharp pain, and rubbed her hand against her temple, where the pain was worse. Her hand touched something warm and moist, with a strong metallic smell. Blood. Her own.
She turned while still on her knees and grabbed the priest’s legs, throwing him to the floor. Then she sprung on top of him, hitting him hard in the chest with her knee, and in the side of his neck with her fisted right hand.
She reached under the pew and grabbed her weapon. Smolin was nowhere in sight. She ran toward the iconostasis, hesitated a little, then entered the sanctuary just in time to catch a glimpse of Smolin making a clumsy run for the back door.
She holstered her gun then sprinted ahead, jumped, and clasped her hands around Smolin’s neck, coming from behind. Then she let all her weight on him, kicking the back of his knees. They fell to the floor, Alex on top of Smolin, and Smolin grunting and swearing, feeling the pain in his shoulder. Her hands still held tight around his neck, squeezing as hard as she could.
“Shoot me,” Smolin managed to articulate, in a strangled voice, probably trying to get her to release her grip.
“No,” she panted, “first you talk. Then, maybe I will.”
He suddenly rolled over on his left shoulder, catching her under his weight, crushing her. She gasped for air. He was massive, and still strong, despite his shoulder wound. She started kicking blindly from underneath him, and finally hit his crotch, while her fingernails dug deep into the skin of his neck, gripping and tugging at his Adam’s apple. He yelped and curled on his side, then threw himself against her as she was trying to get up, and slammed her into the wall.
A couple of icons fell off the wall and shattered, and she fell alongside the wall, landing hard. Smolin punched her with his left hand, almost missing, yet hitting her hard.
Her vision darkened, and she felt she was about to lose consciousness. She managed to pull her gun and shoot, getting Smolin in his left shoulder. He yelled in pain and fell to the floor, crouched and writhing.
She stood with difficulty, still pointing her Walther PPK at Smolin, and wiped the blood off her face, grimacing in pain. Her entire body hurt, and a sharp pain pierced her under her ribs every time she breathed. Her head was throbbing, and she was angry as hell.
“Now let’s see who’s gonna wipe your sorry ass, motherfucker,” she sai
d, just as she heard in the distance someone yell, “Clear!”
“Ah . . . she’s got vocabulary too,” Weber said, as he entered the sanctuary with his weapon drawn and a couple of agents in tow. “Remove this piece of trash from here,” he said to the other agents, then turned to Alex.
“Are you OK?” he asked, then he replied to his own question. “No, you’re not. We need to get you to a hospital. Let’s go,” he said, putting his arm around her shoulder and helping her walk.
“Hey, Jer?”
“Yeah?”
“Did I just break the law of sanctuary?” she asked, feeling a little ridiculous for asking that question. “I chased a man and shot him in a church. I’m not sure how I feel about that.”
“And you cussed in a church too! Forgot that already?” Weber laughed. “You’ll have plenty of stories to tell your grandkids.”
His voice turned a little more serious, as he added, “The law of sanctuary was abolished centuries ago, and all it really stated was that the fugitive seeking sanctuary in a church couldn’t be killed, but would still have to be held accountable for his criminal acts.”
“Oh . . .” she said, suddenly feeling drained, as the adrenaline washed away.
“The churches weren’t meant to be havens for killers and rapists, you know,” he continued, speaking as if he spoke to a wounded, vulnerable child. “They were protecting people from political prosecution mainly, like running from an irate king, jealous of one’s land, or choice of fiancée. Plus, you didn’t even kill him, so you’re good.”
She looked at him with thankful eyes.
“How come you know so much about this?”
He cleared his throat before speaking and smiled briefly.
“Oh well . . . I chased and arrested someone in a church one time, and my mom gave me grief about it for weeks.”
“No Thanksgiving dinner for you that year, huh?”
“Something like that, yeah . . .” he laughed.
“OK, I feel a little better, thanks. I still feel weird about it, that’s all. You know, being in there with my gun drawn and all that.”
He helped her sit down on the rear bumper of the ambulance, as an EMT worked on her head wound.
“You wanna know what the punishment was for whoever broke the law of sanctuary in the 1500s?”
“What?” She smiled, wincing from the disinfectant applied to her cut temple.
“They had to pay 120 shillings. That’s about fifteen pound sterling, or twenty-three dollars. With inflation and all, maybe a couple hundred bucks would take care of it?”
“That much I can manage,” she replied, and they laughed together.
...77
...Thursday, June 9, 1:27PM EDT (UTC-4:00 hours)
...FBI Case # 174-NR-24578—Norfolk Division
...Norfolk, Virginia
Case # 174-NR-24578
Transcription Excerpt, Interrogation Session #5
[begin excerpt]
Interviewer: “Tell me, what kind of information have you been collecting?”
Evgheni Smolin: “I don’t have to say anything to you.”
Interviewer: “You risked your life to serve your country; don’t you want us to know why?”
Evgheni Smolin: “Whether you know or not, that is irrelevant. Everything I did and do is for my country, for Russia.”
[…]
Interviewer: “Who sent you? Who gave you your mission?”
Evgheni Smolin: “Are you actually expecting me to roll and start spilling everything to you, like the lowest of cowards? Then you’re bigger idiots than we thought.”
Interviewer: “Who’s a bigger idiot?”
Evgheni Smolin: “You. All of you, Americans.”
Interviewer: “Ahh . . . I see. Well, you might be right; we might be idiots. Why don’t you prove it to me?”
Evgheni Smolin: “Ha! Not worth my time.”
Interviewer: “You got plenty of time. You’re not going to get out of this alive, you know. We don’t trade spies anymore; that’s long gone.”
Evgheni Smolin: “I took my chances when I came here. I’m proud of what I did.”
[47 seconds of silence]
Interviewer: “Here’s what I think. I think you work for a bunch of old-timers, still nostalgic after the glorious times of Cold War and communism, some old farts with no idea what the future looks like. I think your country has become weak and cowardly, without its overabundance of slave republics you lost. I think you lost everything you could have been when the KGB fell apart. Guess what? We’re not afraid of you Russians anymore!” [brief laughter]
Evgheni Smolin: “Fucking idiots . . . Is that what you think? Good, keep thinking that, so you won’t see us coming!”
Interviewer: “Yeah, that’s what I think. And I think you are a little piece of leftover trash, still clinging to the idea that Russia could do any real intelligence work. Well, not anymore! We caught you on the double, didn’t we? And that’s because you work for some lame old farts who can’t conceive a half-decent intelligence strategy, that’s why.”
Evgheni Smolin: “I work for two of the smartest people to ever set military and intelligence strategy. What they’re planning for you, you’ll never see coming. Soon . . . soon you’ll remember my words. So what if you caught me? I’m just a small cog in the great Russian intelligence machine that we’ve resurrected back to life, and you didn’t even know about it! That’s how ignorant you are!”
Interviewer: “I’m sure your family would love to hear you’re just a cog in a machine when you simply disappear, never to be heard from again.”
Evgheni Smolin: “I have no other family than Mother Russia. She will mourn my loss and call me a hero. She’ll give me a hero’s funeral when I’m gone.”
Interviewer: “Russia is nothing these days . . . you should have picked a better employer. This one’s in rags and starving.”
Evgheni Smolin: “You—you don’t know what you’re talking about! How dare you talk about Russia like that? You bastard! Russia will rise again and shove your faces in your own smallness and insignificance. Russia has the greatest leaders it’s had in decades, united, ready to fight, ready to wipe you off the face of the Earth. There’s no greater mission that I’d rather sacrifice my life for, than the glorious future of my country. Nothing else matters.”
Interviewer: “You’re just one little cog in a machine, you know? What difference could you possibly make?”
Evgheni Smolin: There are hundreds just like me, already here, working to restore Russia’s greatness in ways you can’t even comprehend. There are hundreds of thousands more back home, getting ready to strike at a moment’s notice. You, and the rest of the arrogant Western assholes who insulted our president, are doomed. Say your prayers and get ready to die.”
[end transcript]
...78
...Friday, June 17, 11:21AM EDT (UTC-4:00 hours)
...Starbucks Coffee Store
...McLean, Virginia
Alex checked the time nervously. Her appointment was late, and she wasn’t even sure if she was going to show. She went back to reading her notes to refresh her memory, getting ready for a conversation that might not even happen.
“You have some nerve, Ms. . . . Hoffmann,” a woman’s voice articulated coldly right behind her. She turned and saw a tall woman dressed in a brown business suit, wearing her hair tied in an unpretentious ponytail.
“Ms. Marino?” she offered and extended her hand. The woman ignored it.
“My first instinct was to blow the whistle on you and have you picked up,” the woman continued, the coldness in her voice feeling like a slap to Alex’s face.
Alex felt her anger take over.
“So why didn’t you?” she asked. “After all, someone like you lives their life under the rule of logic and procedure, right?”
“Don’t be presumptuous with me. Yes, I could’ve had you arrested for a number of things, but that wouldn’t have gained me easy access to the in
formation you said you could provide. Your note, although unusual, was quite intriguing.”
“Then . . . can we start over?” Alex said and smiled, offering her hand again. “I’m Alex Hoffmann.”
“Henrietta Marino.”
“Want some coffee or anything?”
“I’m good, thanks. So, what do you have?” Marino pressed on.
“I read your report. It was very interesting, yet incomplete,” Alex said, dropping her voice almost to a whisper.
Marino frowned, then asked quietly, “What do you mean?”
“Your analysis covers the strategic level really well, describing President Abramovich’s intentions, and profiling him in detail. Then you analyze the Russians actions and speculate about potential plans of attack. I can give you a glimpse into the type of plans they could be weaving, and an idea about the second layer of command. Well, at least partially.”
“What do you mean, partially? What second layer?”
“Have you wondered who helps Abramovich reach his goals?”
“He has a government,” Marino said a little hesitantly. “Why? What do you know?”
“There are two other men. One is Mikhail Dimitrov, the minister of defense. He and Abramovich are very close.”
“I was wondering about that, seeing that Dimitrov was first ‘resigned’ by Abramovich, then brought back. The bastard actually spoke the truth for once when he announced Dimitrov’s resignation for health reasons.”
“Yes and no. Well . . . maybe,” Alex said.
“Could you make any less sense?” Marino asked sarcastically.
“I have another theory. Dimitrov’s resignation coincided with the American elections, and the result of those elections was what caused Dimitrov to have his heart attack and temporarily fall out of grace.”
“You’re saying he did fall out of grace with Abramovich? Why?”
“Well, let’s say, hypothetically, that there could have been a conspiracy to thwart the elections, and that failed.”