The Complete Donavan Adventure Series

by Tom Haase

  * * *

  The three watched as the figure in the down anorak and navy beanie got into the BMW and left the SPAT office. They easily trailed the car, as the vehicle in front of them didn’t seem to take any precautions against surveillance.

  "Not much of a pro, is he?" Claude said. "Doesn’t take any action to see if he’s being followed. I thought this guy was some super counterterrorist man. Maybe he feels completely safe in America."

  They reached the house with the BMW parked in the driveway and continued past it. They stopped at the corner.

  "How do you want to handle this?" Nodira inquired.

  "We have him in a house in a suburban area. It’s too cold for anyone to be out walking, so we’ll drive right up to the house, break down the door, and kill him in the house. That way we know we have the target. We know he’s in the house now. If someone else is there, just shoot first. Let’s go around the block, come back, and do it," said Ahmad.

  The driver didn’t obey the instructions, but instead executed a U-turn to stay in sight of the house. As he positioned the car to go toward the house, they saw a car pulling out of the driveway with a woman and a child in it. The BMW remained in the driveway.

  "Great, he’s still in the house," Ahmad said.

  They waited until the departing car turned the corner and disappeared from sight. Claude rolled the car up into the driveway beside Matt’s BMW, and the two attackers jumped out, ran to the front door and smashed it open.

  As they entered the house, a woman came around the corner into the entrance hall and Ahmad fired his pistol into her chest. The man was supposed to be alone, she had taken him by surprise and he fired without thinking. The woman’s body flew backwards and banged against a hallway table, toppling it. A loud shattering noise occurred when the lamp careened from the table onto the floor. Her body landed on top of a photograph that portrayed a happy couple on the beach.

  Sounds of movement came from another room. They rushed forward and scanned down the hallway to their left. A man stuck his head around the corner. They only saw the top of his head as he pulled back when he saw them. He disappeared into the room after slamming the door behind him as they opened fire.

  They ran down the hall to the door and kicked it open. They entered and saw a man in his shorts attempting to escape through the window. He dove toward the window he’d flung open, but his leg snagged on the sill. He twisted around in an attempt to free himself and to fall forward out of the room. They fired rounds into the man and emptied their magazines at the target. Blood splattered all over the windowsill, bullets shattered the glass, and the body, with the foot still caught on the sill, toppled toward the ground.

  "Come on. Let’s go. He’s dead," Ahmad said.

  They ran back and got into the car. Claude reversed out of the driveway and headed for the airport. "Did you get him?"

  "Yes. He’s dead," Nodira said.

  "Did you check to see that it was the target?" Claude said.

  "He took two magazines of bullets, no one survives that," Ahmad offered assuming that would satisfy the question.

  "Okay, leave the guns in the car when I drop you at the airport. You’ll be on your plane to Seattle in less than two hours. Good work. Allah akbar!"

  In unison they all shouted, "Allah akbar."

  13

  Six Days Ago —Early Morning — Savannah, GA

  No one looked closely at their stolen papers when Yuri and Basam presented them to immigration and customs. Yuri took a deep breath and tried to relax after they made it ashore at the Port of Savannah without incident. He guessed that getting out of a port was easier than getting back in, since all the seamen arriving were getting off ships. At most ports, the custom existed to allow seamen to have passes to go ashore. They would all be back in time to sail on their respective ships.

  The port authorities hardly ever experienced any trouble from crewmen trying to stay in Savannah. Maybe one a year. In general, the overstaying resulted from drunkenness, and the local police handled it. Whenever the wayward seaman turned up, he was sent to rejoin the ship at the company’s expense.

  "We have to find a place to rest,” said Basam. They walked to the road at the port exit, with Yuri occasionally having to assist Basam.

  "I’ll get us a taxi," Yuri said, and he went off to hail one.

  Basam walked at a turtle’s pace, rolling the case beside him until he reached the corner. Yuri put their duffle bags and the case in the taxi and helped Basam get in.

  "I told the driver to take us to an area where we can rent a small house or a duplex. He says he knows a place. I told him we wanted to be close to downtown."

  "Good, there will be a pharmacy somewhere nearby," Basam said.

  "I think you look awful. Maybe we should find a doctor for you."

  "No. As soon as I get some medicine, I’ll be fine," Basam insisted.

  The taxi arrived at the Custom House complex, made up of individual small houses for rent. Yuri negotiated the rental and the owner led them to the house. Inside, they found the place to be a small two-bedroom dwelling of only nine hundred square feet. Basam rolled the case in and Yuri got the two duffle bags, and then went out and paid the taxi driver. After the landlord and the taxi departed, Yuri walked to the corner convenience store where he used an ATM and bought some supplies and some medicine for Basam.

  * * *

  At that moment, on board the container ship, Captain Grigori Orloff dialed his triband phone, calling an old friend who served at the Russian embassy in Washington.

  "Andrei Andrei, it’s a delight to hear your voice. Too long, my friend," Grigori said.

  "Yes. We must get together, if you ever get off that ship of yours. Whatever happened to the Spetznaz-trained killer I worked with in Afghanistan? You were something else then, my friend."

  "That was a long time ago. I’m calling you because I believe there is a real danger that you must know about. I think a Russian and an Arab have an atomic device and have brought it into the United States."

  "You’re kidding," Andrei said, raising his voice.

  "No, my friend. Two weeks ago they got on my ship at Yemen and the one stayed in his cabin the entire trip. He was healthy when he got on board, but now I know, almost for sure, that he has radiation sickness. Believe me, I know what it is and how one looks if one has it, as I watched my parents die of it in Chernobyl. The weapon must have a small leak and the steel of the cabin kept him in its deadly focus for the entire voyage. He never left his space. I have faith from his looks that he could have gotten a lethal dose."

  "Okay. I believe you would know. Go ahead."

  Grigori relayed to Major General Marshankin the story of the Russian, Yuri, and his pal, Basam, ending with, "I’ll have more on them for you when my first officer gets back. I sent him to trail them and learn where they were going."

  "As always, you remember your training. You should have never left the army. You would be a general by now."

  "I am the admiral of my ship and very happy about it. But those two, Andrei, are trouble for the Americans and maybe for us."

  "Thank you again and I hope to see you soon. Call me with additional information from your first officer."

  Grigori disconnected and waited for his man to return.

  14

  Six Days Ago — Russian Embassy — Washington, D.C

  Major General Andrei Marshankin, a decorated combat veteran, put the phone back in the cradle and ran his hand over his receding salt-and-pepper hairline. He paced his office, as he liked physical exercise and this was all the workout he would likely get today. His slim body and muscular shoulders attested to his devotion to constant workouts.

  His mind raced with the information he’d received. It held major significance to his post in Washington. It also fit in with the intelligence on the atomic attack in Saudi Arabia he’d recently shared with the director of operations and organizations at the DIA, Brigadier General Mary Jean Bergermeyer.

  He
decided on his immediate course of action. First, he called the director of counterterrorism in Moscow. In that conversation, he told him what he knew, relaying the information over a secure line. Second, he requested approval to speak to the Americans. After talking to Moscow, he received approval to inform his counterpart at the DIA.

  "Hello," he said when he heard Mary Jean’s voice on the phone.

  "Good morning, General. To what do I owe the pleasure of this call?"

  "I was feeling a little peckish," he said in perfect unaccented English, "and wondered if you were up to a midmorning pastry?"

  "I think you read my mind. I thought about having a coffee. It would be a pleasure," she said as the game continued.

  "Could you make it to the top of the Marriott at, let’s say, a ten thirty?"

  "I’ll be delighted. See you there." She waited for him to hang up before putting the phone back in the cradle.

  * * *

  Mary Jean sat back and wondered what the hell the Russian was up to. In a few meetings over the last month, they’d occasionally exchanged data concerning the atomic explosion in Saudi Arabia, and she’d revealed that the American intelligence community thought a Russian could be involved. A call out of the blue for a quick meeting meant that something important must have occurred. She went to her closet, where she kept a change of civilian clothes, and changed out of her uniform. She completed her transformation, did a cursory check of her makeup in the mirror, and finally checked her watch to ensure she would be there on time.

  In the car, Mary Jean dialed Admiral Kidd at the NSA. He had played an instrumental role in stopping the bomb in Saudi by using some of the sophisticated interception devices available to that agency. Recently she’d learned that he’d managed to disrupt cell phone usage in the area for a specific period, preventing the detonation of the atomic device by the terrorists. He controlled that unique equipment plus many other super-secret intelligence collection means at his disposal as the director of the agency.

  "Good morning," she heard the admiral’s booming voice over her cell phone.

  "Morning, sir. Just got a call from the Russian attaché. Going to meet him now. Thought I’d ask if you have any increased activity in my area of concern."

  “Wait a minute.” She listened as the admiral gave an order. “I’ll see,” he said when he came back.

  “I’ll keep you posted on what the rendezvous is about. He gave no indication over the phone,” Mary Jean said.

  “To answer your question, yes. There has been some in the ministry that you are concerned with. Hopefully, the Russian will tell you what’s going on.”

  "Thanks, Admiral. We’ll talk later," she said as he hung up.

  Mary Jean arrived at 10:30 and saw Andrei Marshankin sitting at a table overlooking the Potomac. He put on glasses but Mary Jean suspected only to read the menu. The general rose as she approached, placing the specs in the pocket of his starched white shirt. He stood five feet eleven and possessed a handsome face, with striking blue eyes and a full head of salt and pepper hair. He wore an expensive tailor-made dark blue single-breasted suit.

  "It’s always a pleasure to see you, General."

  "And you, General."

  "Please, in this informal situation, call me Andrei."

  "I’m Mary Jean."

  "I took the opportunity to order coffee and a few sweets. I hope you don’t mind."

  "I shouldn’t be eating those things, but I’m addicted to sweets," she said.

  "I’m glad I’m not the only one, because at home, my wife forbids sweets. So I indulge whenever I’m out." He held the chair for her and then sat, opening the button on his suit.

  The coffee and a tray of croissants and cinnamon rolls arrived. The waiter filled their cups and they waited for him to depart. Andrei leaned forward a little and spoke in a soft voice. "I have something to tell you. I learned it this morning."

  "I’m anxious to hear it," Mary Jean said in a lowered voice and quickly did a clearance check of their immediate surroundings by turning and observing around them. Then she nodded to Andrei to continue.

  Andrei relayed the story from the ship’s captain. "In addition to all that, I have an old picture of a Russian nuclear engineer who is no longer in Russia. He left the country a few months ago and we don’t know where he is. His name is Yuri Borisov. I will get you the biographical data as soon as Moscow sends it to me. There is a good possibility, according to my people, that he may be the same man I am telling you about."

  He passed the picture over to her. Mary Jean viewed the face of a young man on it and realized that she would have to have something to trade for this information. Even in the counterterrorist business nothing came for free.

  "Andrei, I will get you the intel we have on what is going on in Savannah as soon as we have anything. If your captain friend tells you any more, or any specific details on the two suspects, we’ll act on it immediately. In the meantime, I have to get this to the right people." She grabbed her handbag and stood up.

  "Thank you," she said sincerely. "I owe you one."

  "Please forgive me for not escorting you out, but these cinnamon rolls are still calling me," Andrei said, giving her a wide smile.

  Mary Jean headed for the White House and made some phone calls to alert the appropriate people. She learned they would all be present in the Situation Room when she arrived. On entering the room, she showed no surprise on seeing the President already seated.

  "Well, Mary Jean, what have you got for us?” President Brennan asked.

  “We have a problem.”

  15

  Five Days Ago — Afternoon

  Office of the Director of Security Operations, Moscow

  Nikolai Vasilev, the director of security operations, swore out loud to no one in his empty office. His day resembled an airplane crash for him. The initiation of this current state of mind had begun first thing that morning, with a call from his mistress to say she would be gone for a few days to visit her mother. Then, to compound his problems, his wife had informed him that they had accepted a dinner invitation with her society group that night. He would be bored to death, and besides, he had forgotten about that social arrangement, hoping something would come up to save him from it.

  Now came the call from Andrei Marshankin. He replaced the receiver in the cradle afterward. At last, redemption, as the information from the attaché in Washington would suffice to get him out of the dreadful evening with boring people. Perhaps the day wouldn’t be a complete loss.

  He picked up the phone that connected him by direct line with the minister of defense. "I’m sorry to disturb you, Minister. There is a situation that I think you need to know about."

  "Damnit, Nikolai, can’t it wait till morning? I’m already late for the state dinner with the Chinese."

  "No, Minister. You remember the recent incident with the atomic detonation in Saudi Arabia. The one the world doesn’t know about."

  Nikolai fidgeted in his seat as he waited to ensure the minister remembered.

  "Yes, of course. So what?"

  Nikolai clenched the phone tightly. “Well, we may have another incident brewing from the same source. The Russian who got away is apparently in the United States with an atomic devise."

  "Gavno!" (shit, in Russian) was all the minister uttered. There followed a moment of silence before the man said, “Tell me what you have, Director," addressing Nikolai by his title to put whatever followed on a formal level.

  After relating the information provided by the attaché in Washington, Nikolai went on to remind the minister of the shared intelligence with the Americans following the incident in Saudi Arabia. Then he concluded with, "The methodology to construct the weapon was definitely Russian, and the device is now on American soil. We must assume the Russian also constructed this weapon."

  "I’ll have to go to President Grinko on this. I’ll get back to you shortly." The minister hung up.

  Nikolai figured the politician would without doub
t order him to do something, but what? He needed to think. To help in this difficult task, he went to the sideboard, got out his private vodka, and poured himself a large shot. In one quick motion, he gulped it down. There, much better. Now he could think.

  What would he do if he were in charge? Of course . . . he would need to stop that Russian. We can’t allow an atomic explosion in America with a Russian-made weapon. Not good. He needed to get a team together to prevent this, and he knew of only one man he could trust to act in time. If the thing ever reached America, it would be used soon or risk being discovered. So he must act fast and be ahead of his masters in the Kremlin.

  "Tasya," he called to his secretary. A plump elderly woman dressed in solid black entered his office. "Get me Colonel Anton Petrovich Ivanov."

  "Yes, Director," she said over her shoulder as she exited the room.

  No wonder I need a mistress before going home to my wife. He put up with that fat old bitch of a secretary all day every day. Why can’t I get a beautiful young thing? He knew the answer—the bureaucracy of tenure. You can’t make them work and you can’t fire them. I bet it’s the same all over the world, he thought.

  His direct line to the minister rang as he refilled his glass with a second shot of vodka. He slammed it down on the sideboard, splashing most of the vodka out of the glass, and rushed to pick up the phone. "Yes, Minister."

  "The president is extremely worried about this development. He has directed that you are to do everything possible so that Russia will not be blamed or implicated for any event that happens on American soil with a weapon built with Russian technology. The West, or maybe the entire world could blame us for this attack. They might see it as a Russian plot to get back in as a major superpower by crippling America with an atomic explosion on their territory. Am I making this clear?"