No one would ever know the truth.
Sokolov smiled, grateful that there were still some of the old Soviet qualities about Novorossiya, New Russia. As mad as he was at his plemyannik, Sokolov was still grateful that Putin allowed this type of unrestricted wet work. It made Russia strong—just like the days of the USSR.
In the decade that followed the collapse of the Soviet Union, the Rodina had stumbled from grace. The Russian bear, once a superpower, had fallen asleep.
Slowly, Sokolov’s plemyannik had awoken that bear. Prodding her awake, returning her to glory.
Sokolov felt awake, too, as he looked down at the cauterized nubs of green and black flesh that had once been the journalist’s traitorous fingers.
The man wouldn’t survive the night without medical attention.
Sokolov ran his hand over the various syringes, his twisted fingers dancing over the multicolored liquids resting in the vials. He would take all this to the sharashka. He would torture Robert Gaines and his daughters in ways that hadn’t been seen since Lenin and Stalin.
He grabbed a syringe filled with an amphetamine derivative and plunged the needle into the man’s quadricep. Instantly, the journalist opened his eyes and screamed. Screamed at his nubby fingers, the fingers that would never write such slanderous articles again. Screamed at the holes drilled into his elbows and kneecaps.
A loud knock sounded at the door and Sokolov cursed, turning to see Dmitry step into the room holding a tablet. “General, a development with KODIAK.”
“Well, spit it out!”
“Robert Gaines has moved. KODIAK has said he is heading to Anchorage to meet with the FBI.”
“How far out are the Vympels?”
“They can make contact with a KODIAK asset named WHISKEY outside of Anchorage within hours.”
“Does KODIAK have an asset watching Gaines?”
“Yes, Gaines is currently at a hotel.”
“Good. Tell the Vympel commander he has a green light. Where is the other daughter?”
“Currently in Eagle being monitored by KODIAK himself.”
“Send Vympel Team Three to rendezvous with KODIAK in Eagle. They will take the daughter.”
“Of course.”
“Contact a member of the siloviki, one we trust; we need a jet. I don’t want the Vympels using the normal extraction methods with Gaines, it will take too long. Get a jet into Alaska now, have it waiting. They fly back to the Motherland in that.”
“What about the daughter?”
“The submarine will work just fine with her. I want a couple days with Gaines before I start on his girls.”
Dmitry bowed and made to leave.
“One more thing,” Sokolov said. “Ready my jet. As soon as we hear from the Vympels that Gaines is captured, I want to fly to the sharashka.”
Dmitry bowed and hurried out of the room. Sokolov smiled with deep satisfaction.
He had a little treat in store for Gaines and his daughters, but first he needed to take care of this scurrilous traitor. Sokolov grabbed a fresh pickax from the table and held it in front of the trembling journalist before bringing it high and swinging it into the man’s abdomen.
Chapter 33
COOK INLET, ALASKA
Tuesday, July 2nd, 2:15 a.m.
THE LADY ALAINA, a fifty-foot oceangoing power troller, swayed in the brackish waters twenty nautical miles southwest of Anchorage in the Cook Inlet. Pavel Andreev Nakov, a fifty-five-year-old Bulgarian native and the Alaina’s captain, stood on the stern of his ship and checked his watch.
He’d made sure, almost fifteen minutes prior, that the cargo netting was secured off the starboard side of the vessel, that his trolling equipment was up and stored away properly, and that he had turned off his GPS as well as all other electronics on the ship.
Nakov hadn’t told anyone about his late-night jaunt onto the ocean and he was certain he hadn’t been seen leaving the marina.
But still, he was on edge.
Nakov had come to the United States nearly fifteen years prior on a visa to work during the Alaska fishing seasons. Business had been good, and after four years of frugal spending and constant saving, he’d been able to put a down payment on the troller, naming it after his late wife.
The power troller had been purchased because of its efficiency in the Bering and its ability to sustain a crew large enough to turn a profit. But the investment had proved disastrous.
The Lady Alaina ended up being difficult to maintain—a fifty-foot power troller needed constant repairs. It proved even more difficult to find a hardworking, reliable crew.
Soon, Nakov realized he was mounting up serious debt. He’d sold his small house, rented a dumpy apartment, and sold his truck and some of his most valuable possessions. But the bills kept stacking up. He even tried selling the Alaina, but her value had plummeted in the recession.
At his wits’ end, Nakov found himself frequenting every dive bar in town, trying to drink his misgivings away, until one night, seven years before, he was approached by a man who would change his life forever.
The man was an affable sort, a Canadian who owned a hotel and bar up in the Yukon and had spent the better part of his life in the Royal Canadian Navy trolling the Bering Sea. They’d connected over the shared interests in fishing and boats—so much so that the Canadian had insisted on buying the captain’s drinks for the rest of the night.
As two beers turned into eight, the captain told the stranger of his financial woes.
The stranger listened intently. As beer turned to liquor, the stranger became more and more interested in the Lady Alaina, and he had insisted on seeing the boat for himself that very night.
Nakov, piss drunk, agreed.
After buying a bottle of whiskey from the bartender, they walked down to the marina and onto the Alaina. As they drank into the night, Nakov showed the stranger all that needed repair: the nets, the outrigger, even the engine.
As the night grew older and the last drops of whiskey had been consumed, the pleasant Canadian offered the captain an opportunity of a lifetime.
At first, Nakov couldn’t believe his ears.
“I work in the export business,” the Canadian said. “The export of valuable cargo, and I need someone of your skill set and resources to help me.”
“What do you export?”
“It would be better if you didn’t know.”
“Could you tell me who you export to?”
Again, the Canadian couldn’t give him an answer. “Listen. Your job will be simple. Every week or so in the summer months, a package will be delivered to your ship. You will be a carrier, an intermediary to get that package from point A to point B.”
The Canadian detailed how he would give Nakov a set of coordinates in the Bering.
“Once you reach point B, another carrier will pick up the package from you.”
Nakov had been skeptical, but that was until he heard what he’d be given in return.
“You will receive ten thousand dollars in cash for each delivery.”
Nakov had been shocked, even more shocked as the Canadian pulled out a stack of hundred-dollar bills and said, “This is a ten-thousand-dollar advance to show my good faith.”
Nakov stared down at the money in disbelief and took the cash. Over the next hour, the Canadian laid out the rest of the rules.
“You will work alone, always. You will never tell anybody about the job. As for the cargo boxes, you will never look inside. If you break any of those rules, your position in my enterprise will be terminated. Do you understand?”
The Bulgarian agreed fervently.
Next, the Canadian gave him a BlackBerry. “This is how I will contact you. You will receive the dates and coordinates for each of your drops. This phone is secure, but still, you will never use my name. Nor discuss operational dealings over the phone. I will never call, only text.” He detailed the code words and phrases to use instead. “I will go by KODIAK, and you will go by WHISKEY.”
As the sun started to rise, KODIAK rose from his seat and shook WHISKEY’s hand. “Expect a text soon.”
Two days later, a message came over the BlackBerry with a set of coordinates and a time.
That night, Nakov walked onto the Alaina to find a coffin-sized black box in the hull of his ship. Remembering KODIAK’s words, he left the box alone and drove to the designated coordinates given to him. Nakov had been both terrified and excited as he dropped anchor and threw the cargo netting over the starboard side of the ship as he’d been instructed.
Ten minutes after his arrival, bubbles erupted from the sea next to the Alaina and a submersible the size of a small whale broke the surface. A hatch opened from the top of the submarine. Two figures wearing shiny black rubber diving suits materialized from the craft, jumped into the water, climbed the cargo netting, and boarded the Alaina.
Without so much as a word, the men walked belowdecks, grabbed the coffinlike box, wrapped it in a black neoprene sleeve, took it back to the submersible, and disappeared.
When Nakov returned to land later that night, he docked the Alaina and walked home to find ten thousand dollars of crisp one-hundred-dollar bills sitting on his kitchen table.
For the next seven summers, the Bulgarian had worked with KODIAK the same way.
Every time, except tonight.
Early that evening, Nakov’s BlackBerry rang for the first time ever.
Startled, he answered the phone, hearing KODIAK’s voice on the other line telling him that he had an urgent request for that very night. It would be double the rate—and the captain would be picking up instead of delivering.
Nakov had been ecstatic—growing accustomed to his newfound wealth, he knew he couldn’t say no to another twenty grand.
He agreed without reluctance, but as he took the Alaina out that night, he began to regret the decision.
The pickup point was farther out than usual: nearly twenty miles. And as he anchored at the preselected coordinates, dropped the cargo netting, and waited, he couldn’t help but wonder what he was picking up.
As twenty minutes turned into thirty, Nakov shifted nervously and gazed down at the water trying to glimpse the familiar convex hump of the submersible breaking the surface—but it never came.
Instead, something odd happened.
As Nakov was about to raise anchor, he saw a small black balloon breach the water and bob to the surface.
Followed by another.
Soon, a dozen of these black balloons bobbed in the water and the captain realized that they weren’t balloons after all.
They were heads.
Black diver masks and rebreathers concealed the faces. The figures swam for the cargo netting draped over the ship.
As they broke free of the water and climbed aboard, hoisting large waterproof duffels with them, one of the figures took off his mask and hood and asked in a thick Russian accent, “Are you WHISKEY?”
The man asking the question had a shaved head and a large scar extending down the left side of his face.
“I am.”
“How unfortunate.”
Before Nakov could react, the man with the scar took a pistol from his waistband, aimed it at the Bulgarian’s forehead, and pulled the trigger.
Chapter 34
ANCHORAGE, ALASKA
Tuesday, July 2nd
JAMES GALE SIPPED on gas station coffee and checked his phone as he climbed into the taxi outside his hotel. It was 8:55 a.m., and his head was throbbing from too much caffeine and too little sleep.
As Gale gave the driver the address to the Anchorage FBI building, he relaxed into his seat and thought back to the evening before when Trooper Vance had flown him to Anchorage and driven him to the hotel in the city. Vance had said it was decently priced considering it was located in the middle of downtown and had even checked himself into a room, not wanting to burden his grandparents, whom he had flown down to spend time with.
The flight in Vance’s Cessna went by without a hitch and Gale learned a bit more about the young law enforcement officer. Vance was one year shy of thirty and had been working for the Alaskan State Troopers for more than five years. He’d explained to Gale that getting his pilot’s license had made sense given the thousands of square miles in his jurisdiction. Gale liked the kid and had almost been sad when the plane landed in Anchorage.
Vance promised he’d try to drop by after Gale visited with the FBI and wished him luck.
As the cab pulled onto one of Anchorage’s main drags, Gale sent Petit and Emily a text asking them for any updates, then pocketed his phone and sighed, his eyes instinctually checking the cab’s rearview and side mirrors.
Gale saw them instantly.
Two black vans.
Vans he could have sworn he saw parked across the street from his hotel were now three and six cars behind him. Gale watched them as they kept their distance.
Maybe he was just paranoid due to his lack of sleep. But, for five minutes, he kept his eye on them until the cab turned off the busy street and parked in front of the FBI building.
The vans didn’t follow.
Gale relaxed, paid his fare, stepped out in front of the building, and checked his surroundings. Chain-owned restaurants and some mom-and-pop stores were opening their businesses across the street. A few cars were parked on the street in front of them—all normal.
He entered the FBI building and spoke to the receptionist, who escorted him into a corner office belonging to Special Agent Burke, the FBI agent Sergeant Plant had gotten him in touch with.
Burke was a tall man of roughly forty. He sported a crew cut of salt-and-pepper hair and wore a cheap black suit. Burke didn’t stand when Gale entered the room, but instead looked at his watch and said, “The ABI sent over their report. Earl has it—he deals with the missing person cases here.”
Burke spoke as if he thought Gale knew what he was talking about.
“Earl?” Gale asked.
“Earl Marks, I’ll take you to him.”
Burke led Gale to an elevator, and when the doors shut and they began to descend, Burke said, “Earl’s a bit of an eccentric. Been around forever. Technically, he retired a decade ago, but like a lot of career feds, he has a narrow scope of interest and found sitting at home watching The Price Is Right to be a bore.”
“He’s still an agent?”
“Still on FBI payroll, but more of a paid volunteer with high-level security access.”
“What does he do, exactly?”
“I’m sure he’ll tell you all about it.”
The elevator dinged and Burke led Gale down a dim hallway to a nondescript door. Burke put his hand on the handle.
“When you’re done, have Earl escort you back upstairs.”
“You’re not going in?”
“No time. You want to talk to the FBI’s expert on missing persons in Alaska, you talk to Earl Marks.” Burke opened the door, motioned for Gale to step through, and shut the door behind him.
Loud classical music assaulted Gale’s ears. The room was lit with bright fluorescents, exposing stacks upon stacks of filing cabinets, documents, and boxes.
A narrow path presented itself through the clutter. Gale moved cautiously forward. The music reached a deafening crescendo as the pathway spilled out into a larger, open area where Gale stopped and took in a strange sight.
An enormous topographic map of Alaska nearly twenty-feet high and at least thirty feet wide covered the back wall directly in front of him. Tens of thousands of colored tacks were stuck to the map, most of them clustered in and around a large triangle made of red string.
Floor-to-ceiling bookcases covered the adjacent walls. On the right-hand side, a sliding library ladder hung from a track that went around the room. In the middle of the open space was a long metal desk, nearly twelve feet in length, covered in a haphazard array of computer monitors, empty coffee mugs, papers, binders, and folders. Another small table rested under an antique turntable, amplifier, and two speaker
s. A record spun under a worn stylus.
A door next to the small kitchenette opened. A hefty, bespectacled man with a white beard and a shiny bald head shuffled into the room. His belly threatened to spill out between red suspenders and a stained white shirt.
Earl Marks put most of his weight on a wooden cane as he limped toward the turntable and lifted the stylus from the record. Then, as if he hadn’t noticed Gale standing in the room, he plopped down heavily in his desk chair, adjusted his glasses, and studied his computer monitor with a squint.
Gale cleared his throat. “Excuse me, I’m—”
“I know who you are, Mr. Gale.”
“Sergeant Meredith Plant said she sent over my daughter’s MPR?”
“She’s sixteen hundred and forty-six.”
“Come again?”
“She’s the sixteen hundred and forty-sixth person to have gone missing this year. That’s up nineteen-point-three percent from this time last year and I’m only counting the MPRs that were filed. All of those missing have been in the triangle.”
Gale was caught off guard by the bluntness this man was affording him. “The triangle?”
Earl looked at Gale, then at the map, before raising his cane and pointing at the high tip of the red-string triangle. “From Alaska’s most northern township, up there in Barrow and all the way south to Anchorage and over east to Juneau, is a landmass nearly the size of Texas that accounts for more missing persons than anywhere else in the United States, nearly three thousand a year. These tacks symbolize each person missing since I started keeping track in eighty-eight.”
Earl explained that the colors corresponded to the decade the person went missing. Green was the eighties, blue the nineties, yellow the two thousands, and finally orange, the two thousand tens.
He used a laser pointer to point north of Eagle along the Yukon River. “These two tacks represent your daughter and William French. Both in the triangle, both within a landscape so large and vast it’s easy to disappear.”
“How many of these people were found?”
“These are the ones that weren’t. Those gone above the sixtieth parallel north latitudinal line have a way of never being found; they just seem to disappear without a trace.”
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