The Noble Mercenary

by Patrick John Donahoe

  The drop in the dark was as uneventful as could be expected under the circumstances. Jacques released his parachute when his feet touched the ground. He gathered up the chute, stuffed it in a nylon bag, and jammed it under a nearby bush. He walked toward the spot he thought Charmaine had landed, and found her and Jon gathering up their chutes.

  Jacques assisted Charmaine with her parachute, even though she appeared to not want, or need, assistance until he spotted a pair of headlights headed toward them. If it was Russian police or military, the three of them were probably faced with many days of interrogation and torture, and years of imprisonment for illegal entry onto Russian soil.

  The vehicle lights blinked short, short, long, long, short the signal for ‘friend.’ The three gathered up their packs, slipped off their flight cammies revealing normal street clothes beneath, and waited for the Russian-made GAZ Sobol four door carryall to pull up alongside them. The driver got out, and said, “It’s a beautiful morning,” the ‘friend’ code phrase in Russian.

  Charmaine replied in Russian, “And it will be a beautiful afternoon.”

  Jacques understood enough Russian to converse, but not eloquently. Charmaine had brushed up Jacques’ Russian and taught him some Chechen during their breaks while training at the Count’s. The three entered the vehicle with their packs on their laps, and the driver sped across the field with his lights off.

  The driver drove without comment until they reached the town of Gelendzhik, a seaport on the Black Sea. “I’ll be taking you to an apartment on the outskirts of town. It’s on the second floor,” he said in Russian, and handed Charmaine a key. “Make yourselves comfortable until I come for you.”

  They clambered out of the crowded carryall and entered a small apartment house. The downstairs apartment seemed to be vacant. They climbed the interior stairs to the second floor and Charmaine unlocked the door. The apartment had a bedroom, with a pair of twin beds, and a table with a lamp without a shade between them, a bathroom, with a toilet, sink and tiled off shower area with a water stained plastic curtain to keep the water off the floor, and a kitchen with a gas stove, an electric refrigerator, a sink, and a dinette table and three chairs. An army style cot was set up in the hall outside the bedroom. The temperature in the apartment was barely warmer than outdoors, not warm, but not too cold.

  Jacques checked the refrigerator, having had no breakfast, and found some hard bread, hard cheese, and harder salami. The only beverage was five cans of local beer. He proceeded to make a sandwich and asked his two companions if they would care for sandwiches. Charmaine wrinkled up her nose at the ingredients, but since they might not eat anything else for a while, both agreed to Jacques’ sandwich preparations. Jacques trimmed the mold off the cheese and the salami, sliced the stale bread, poured the unappetizing brine off the mustard and lathered the bread with it.

  Jacques called out to Charmaine, who was using the bathroom, and Jon, who was rummaging through his backpack in the bedroom. “Breakfast is served.”

  Charmaine emerged from the bathroom, Jon came in from the bedroom, and they sat around the dinette. “This is probably the worst sandwich I’ve ever had,” Charmaine complained while trying to chew the obviously old salami.

  “I’m sorry, it’s all we have.” Jacques took a sip of his beer. “It’s not so bad with beer.”

  Jon seemed content to gnaw on and swallow bites of his sandwich, washed down with sips of beer. Jacques thought, I could like this guy, if I knew who, or what, he was.

  Charmaine opened her sandwich, inspected the contents and closed it back again. Resigned to their situation, she removed the salami from the sandwich, and took small bites of the cheese and bread with sips of her cold beer without further comment.

  “If it wouldn’t be too much trouble, now that we’re here, could you tell me again how this is going to work?” Jacques asked Charmaine.

  “Sources told Jaekel that Vladimir Putin is going to pay a visit to his palace in Praskoveevka when the Sochi Olympics are over.”

  “He has a palace . . . like a king?”

  “He claims it’s not his, but he stole the money from the Russian people to build it. When the palace was made public, he claimed he had no involvement in its purchase, or construction. It has since been sold, but we believe he secretly still owns it, and will conduct an inspection visit on his way home from Sochi. Sources think that with all the security measures that are involved in the Olympics, including support from the United States Secret Service, that Putin will relax when the Olympics are all over, and lower his guard enough for us to take him down. He doesn’t want a lot of people nosing about when he’s visiting his palace, so we expect his security guard will be minimal.

  I’ll pose as an interior designer, and ask to show him some potential work to be done in one of the bedrooms where you, and Jon, will be laying tile stolen from a demolished Chechen mosque. We’ll take out his guards, then him, then escape to a local airport where your friend, Louise, will pick us up and drop us out over Turkey.”

  “If you don’t mind, is Charmaine a cover name?”

  “It’s not necessary for you to know my real name.”

  “Touché. Sorry, I didn’t mean to intrude. We’re here together for another day, or two, and I was just curious.”

  “You know about curiosity?” Jon added, then paused for effect. “It killed the kitty.”

  There was a knock at the door. Jacques went to the door, and asked, “Who’s there.”

  “Gretzky.”

  Jacques opened the door, while Jon stood behind it.

  It was the driver, Gretzky, with two brown paper bags of food and drink. Gretzky entered, and Jacques and Jon assisted him with his bundles.

  Jacques opened a bundle on the kitchen table, and said, “Real food. I was starving and all there was in the refrigerator was stale bread, hard moldy cheese, and harder moldier salami.”

  Gretzky grinned, “Sorry, was bad Russian joke on you. Did you eat any of that stuff?”

  “Yes,” Charmaine replied, with an annoyed look on her face.

  “Sorry, sorry, I hope good Russian caviar, bread and beer make up for bad joke. For rest of today, and tomorrow, you will have kotlety, which are Russian meat balls, pelemi, which are small dumplings filled with meat and mushrooms,” Gretzky placed two dishes on the table, “our traditional Borsht beet soup, and for dessert our delicious blinis, which are like thick crepes for wrapping up caviar. This will be only food I can bring, so eat slow. . . no, I mean, make food last.

  We expect Putin to be here tomorrow evening, evening after end of the Olympics. So eat, rest, prepare, I drive you to palace after lunch tomorrow and take you through security, assign you to your work sites, then leave you on your own. This sheaf of hand written and hand drawn papers has escape plan, study well, if you wish to leave alive. . . Then destroy papers.”

  “Are you Chechen?” Jacques asked.

  “No, Ukrainian. Call me Gretzky, not real name, but name I use. I am fan of ice hockey.”

  “Why are you involved?” Jacques asked.

  “Putin would like to be Supreme Soviet Commander for life. He is product of KGB, and has maintained power for over fifteen years. Russia has history of ex-KGB operatives who think they can take over the world. He built a luxury apartment building, much like Stalin, tucked away in warren of Soviet era buildings, to reward and spy on his comrades. He lives like a Czar, and rules Russia like a dictator. He has many enemies, not just Chechens and Ukrainians.”

  The electric motor started up the compressor causing the cooling coils mounted on top of the ancient refrigerator to vibrate. Gretzky paused his talk, got down on his knees and reinserted the wedge under the front left corner of the refrigerator, and leveled out the old appliance. He stood back up, and leaned against the front of the refrigerator reducing the vibration to a low hum.

  “I’m amazed at how such poor technology can still be operating,” he continued. “You want to know why I, a Ukrainian would want Putin
dead. I’ll tell you. My people, the Ukrainians, don’t want to see him take over the Ukraine.”

  “He hasn’t done anything aggressive against the Ukraine.”

  “He will. He is friends with our President Viktor Yanukovych, another crooked politician. Putin is bribing him to align himself with Russia and not with European Union. The Ukrainian people want to align ourselves with EU and remain free. He is luring President Viktor Yanukovych with billions to keep Ukraine under his thumb. Yanukovych is passing laws to criminalize peaceful protest, restrict speech, restrict the news media, and right of assembly. If he’s not careful, he will become Putin’s puppet, and we will fall under dictator’s rule. We have worked too hard for our freedoms.”

  “Why would your President allow Putin to take over the Ukraine?”

  “They are cut from same cloth. Perhaps, Putin promised to allow Yanukovych to remain in power ad infinitum as Russian satellite. By the way, Yanukovych has own palace he built with People’s funds just like Putin. Absolute power corrupts absolutely.”

  “I see. So you think it’s just a matter of time before Putin will build another Soviet Empire?”

  “Yes, he’s an egocentric dictator. He has to start realizing his ambitions soon. He’s not getting any younger. He will not be able to pose with his shirt off much longer,” Gretzky laughed. “Leaders of free world do not understand Russian KGB mentality. The President of the United States, Mr. Obama, for example, thinks he can work with Putin.”

  Gretzky leaned forward and placed his forefinger on Jacques’ chest. “No one can have gentlemen’s agreement, honest exchange, with Putin. Only way to deal with Putin is keep him at bay with lose-lose scenarios. The American actor, Ronald Reagan seems to have been only American President who understood Russian diplomacy. An actor.” Gretzky laughed as though he told a joke that only he understood.

  Jacques looked at Gretzky, then to Jon and Charmaine. They didn’t comment.

  “Mark my word, where ever Putin has opportunity to inflict aggression, he will. He’s already cowed Russian people to knuckle under his control. He recently dumped his wife of 30 years, Lyudmila. Some claimed he had affair with leggy Olympic gymnast, Alevia Kabayena. Russian people are like this sixty-year-old refrigerator. They are somber and controllable bunch who would rather enjoy misery, shoddy products, and poverty level existence than fight back. Anyone who does fight back will end up in Russian prison.” Gretzky paused as if collecting his thoughts, then continued, “Richest man in Russia, Mikhail Khodorkovsky, a multibillionaire, who ran oil company, Yukos, was put in prison for ten years for standing up to Putin.”

  “But wasn’t he an oligarch, a get rich businessman, who took advantage of the oil industry with the breakup of the Soviet Union?” asked Jacques.

  “He was controversial character, no doubt, but his arrest and imprisonment was meant to give Russia control of oil company. Khodorkovsky was quoted in papers, saying he was ashamed for his country. He claimed the reprisals against Yukos should make any entrepreneur wanting to run business in Russia pause, and consider what their fate will be if they became too successful. He said no person who conflicts with system has any rights whatsoever. Rights are not protected by courts, and there is no right of private property.”

  “So Khodorkovsky went from ruthless businessman to freedom fighter during his incarceration,” added Jacques.

  “You could say that. Putin pardoned Khodorkovsky in December of 2013, claiming ten years was significant punishment for misdeeds, plus Khodorkovsky’s mother was ill. Some opposition leaders think he freed Khodorkovsky to show benevolence prior to Winter Olympics in Sochi.”

  “So you think Putin should die because he imprisoned a questionable businessman . . . because he managed to remain in power for 15 years, or for some future aggression he may impose on his unsuspecting neighbors? There are many terrible dictators in the world. Do we kill them all?”

  “You do not see handwriting on wall. I think that within year, free world will wish we had completed mission, if we don’t. How different would world be today if someone would have assassinated Hitler in 1939, instead of allowing him to take control of Germany, and plunging world into World War II?”

  “Hindsight is always 20/20.”

  “Are you implying you wish not to follow through with assignment?” Gretzky moved his right hand to the pistol in his waistband.

  “No, I’ll follow through for whatever reasons justify our actions.” Jacques hoped he wouldn’t have to kill Gretsky.

  “Good. You I like. I would not like to have to kill you.” Gretsky relaxed his right hand back to his side.

  “I like you, too,” Jacques replied, and relaxed from his poise to attack. “Will you stay and eat some of your food with us?”

  “No, I have been here too long. Talked too much. Must go.” Gretsky left without saying goodbye.

  Jacques, Jon and Charmaine ate their fill, and placed the leftovers in the refrigerator. The local brewed Russian beer had no labels, but the three agreed it didn’t need them.

  The three spent the rest of the afternoon and evening studying the notes Gretsky provided, including the hand drawn layout of the palace, the grounds, and the surrounding countryside. They took turns using the bathroom. Jacques wished Jon and Charmaine good night. Jon and Charmaine took the twin beds in the bedroom, and Jacques retired to the cot in the hallway.

  Thirty Eight

  Desiree leaned back in her chair, rubbed her eyes, and heaved a deep sigh of fatigue. She closed the analysis app she was using to trace the path of a particular email she was investigating, got up from her chair, and walked out of Alicia’s office to the analyst’s open bay. Only a few workers were still at their consoles at 7 P.M. Most had secured their consoles, notebooks, and classified documents, and gone home for the evening. Desiree walked down the hallway to the break room where Alicia was having a snack. “What are you eating?” she asked Alicia.

  Alicia opened her sandwich and showed the contents to Desiree, “You tell me. I’m guessing some form of cheese product and mystery meat between two slices of bread with some stale mustard from the vending machine.” She closed the sandwich, shrugged, took another bite and said, “I must be pretty desperate.”

  “Let’s go, I have something to tell you. I’ll buy, if you’ll throw away that disgusting inedible.”

  “You’ve got a deal.” Alicia tossed the partially eaten sandwich into the trash receptacle.

  Desiree and Alicia gathered up their purses and jackets and headed out to Desiree’s car. “Where are we going?” Alicia asked.

  “Applebee’s in Gambrils.”

  “What, we have to leave so sudden with something earth shaking, and all I get is Applebee’s?”

  “Don’t complain, or it’ll be McDonald’s, which would have been orders of magnitude better than that vending machine sandwich you were trying to eat.”

  “Alright, I get it. I’ll zip it.”

  They were seated right away in a booth Desiree requested far from any other customers. The early crowd had departed, and the late crowd hadn’t arrived. Desiree ordered Cedar Salmon and lemonade, and offered to split a Fiesta Chicken Chopped Salad with Alicia, who accepted, and ordered Blackened Tilapia and Sangria.

  After the waiter left, Alicia leaned forward and asked, “Now what’s so important that you wanted to leave my office and tell me here?”

  “I’ve been tracing the originators and receivers of key Select email. I’ve come to the conclusion they are getting the best Intel, because they have a Select member working within the NSA, redirecting key email traffic.”

  “Do you have any idea who might be the mole?” Alicia asked.

  “No, but by comparing and backtracking the large number of data accesses I’ve discovered, and comparing the rosters of those who’ve logged onto our primary servers, I can narrow down our array of suspects to a handful. Lie detector tests, sudden resignations, and other clues could flush out your in-house spies, assuming there may be more t
han one.”

  Alicia stared at Desiree for a moment, reeling with the unthinkable revelation. “Are you sure about all this?”

  “I am.”

  “Do you think it might be one of my analysts?”

  “I’m sorry to have to tell you this, but yes. The Select may be wealthy and connected, but they couldn’t have the huge manpower you have at the NSA. They might have a few really good hackers, but they’re relying on a mole within your organization to make their job easier.”

  “Do you think there’s more than one?”

  “There may be. One hacker would be easier to trace, but, if more than one is involved, their tracks would be harder to follow as they decrypt sensitive email, break it into pieces, encrypt, and pass it along to one or more receivers. Whoever is invading your system is using every trick in the book to evade detection and tracking.”

  “What do you suggest I do?”

  “Pick one, and only one, of your analysts that you would trust with your life and let him, or her, work with me to build a tracking app for a very special email we can use to identify who is intercepting our email, and passing it on to the Select. You can arrest them, or shoot them, or whatever you do with spies within your own organization.”

  “I’ll call Crackerjack back in. She’s The Onion Router [TOR] app wizard.” Alicia pulled out her cell phone and called Crackerjack. “Hi, this is Alicia. I’m sorry, but we need you back in at the office.”

  Alicia paused to hear the response, then continued, “Yes, I’ll owe you, big time, but I think you’ll find this effort fun.” Another pause. “OK, we’ll be back at the office about the same time as you. Bye.”