Authors: Tom Grace
Quantum (22 page)
Northwest Flight 0030
Shortly after the flight lifted off from Detroit Metropolitan Airport, Kilkenny fell into a deep and much-needed sleep. Seated beside him in business class, Cooper made a series of phone calls, then nursed a Bloody Mary.
The clatter of the beverage cart awoke Kilkenny. He yawned, checked his watch, and looked out the oval window. The sky was clear and dark; the Atlantic spread out calmly beneath them, shimmering under the light of a gibbous moon.
‘How are you feeling?’ Cooper asked as he traded his empty glass for a full one.
‘Like I could use another day in the sack. How about you?’
‘I’ll sleep on the flight back.’
‘Would you like something to drink?’ the flight attendant asked.
‘An orange juice,’ Kilkenny replied, his mouth thick, as if it were packed with wet cotton.
After Kilkenny received his drink and a couple of packages of peanuts, the flight attendant moved on.
‘Bart, I’ve been meaning to ask you something.’
‘Go ahead.’
‘You mentioned that after Wolff’s body was found, you ran a background check on him. Why?’
‘Professional curiosity, mainly. Wolff worked for the Germans during the Second World War. After the war he wanted to emigrate to the States. I was with the OSS back then – I’m the guy who checked Wolff out and certified he wasn’t a Nazi. When the story about his body being found hit the papers, the computers at Langley picked it up and matched it with the report I wrote back in ’forty-six and sent me a notice. Wolff’s murder looked enough like an execution for me to wonder if I’d missed something when I vetted him, so I took another look.’
‘Did you find anything?’
Cooper stared down at the ice in his glass.
‘Yeah, I found out he was an okay guy.’
‘When Cal found out you were both looking into Wolff’s background, why didn’t you just turn over what you’d found? He had an active investigation, and no offense intended, you’re a few years past field-duty age.’
‘That’s a polite way of putting it, and you’re right, I have a quasi-retired status with the Agency. I hung on because I thought I could give Cal a hand. I know a few well-connected people in Russia, and that’s where his investigation seemed to be pointing. I thought I might be of some use.’
Kilkenny nodded, taking in what Cooper had said.
‘Bart, I don’t mean to sound like I’m suspicious of your motives, because my gut and Cal Mosley both say I can trust you. So, given that you’re on my side, all the reasons you cited still don’t add up to why you personally are doing this. You’re over seventy years old; you’ve done your bit for flag and country. It just seems to me that you have a deepseated passion for this case, something that’s stronger than I would expect, given that you first heard about any of this just two days ago.’
Cooper remained still for a moment, not responding to Kilkenny, just staring blankly ahead at the projection screen.
‘At my age, there’s this inner need to know that you’ve done some good with your life. If you have, then you’re content. If you haven’t, you try and make up for it somehow. After the war there was a lot of intel work to do. There were war criminals to track down, evidence to collect. In the OSS, we were concerned with scientific information. We wanted to find everything the Reich had been working on – rockets, jet propulsion, atomic energy – before the Soviets did. We probably got a sixty-forty split with regard to people, records, and equipment. Some of the scientists we recovered were, without a doubt, Nazis. A few should have been tried as war criminals for the things they were involved in, but they weren’t for reasons of national security. Instead, they got a free pass to America, where we put them to work on our weapons.’
‘Moral expediency.’
‘More like
immoral
expediency. I interviewed a few of these scientists, and they were proud of what they’d done. If people had died, that was acceptable in the advancement of their work. Watching these evil men go off to a pampered life in the States after what we found in the death camps made me sick. As both a human being and a Jew, I found the hypocrisy intolerable. While I was stationed in Germany during the occupation, I became involved with a group of European Jews seeking justice against their former persecutors. They were known as the Nokmim – the Avengers – and they took it upon themselves to root out every war criminal they could find. On several occasions I provided them with evidence that justified action against specific individuals; some were German scientists and engineers who’d been captured by the Western Allies.’
‘Was Johann Wolff one of these German scientists?’ Kilkenny asked, sensing where this story was leading.
‘Yes. In 1947 some documents were found that implicated Johann Wolff in war crimes. The evidence was thin, but enough for the Nokmim to put a death sentence on Wolff’s head. By this time, Wolff was already in the U.S.’
‘So they sent an assassin here to kill him?’
‘Not an assassin, an executioner. A Nokmim tribunal found Wolff guilty in absentia of crimes against humanity. Justice needed to be served. I was the one sent to administer Wolff’s sentence.’
‘You killed Johann Wolff?’ Nolan moved up in his seat, his face now only a few inches from Cooper’s.
Cooper nodded, a lump swelling in his throat. He closed his eyes for a moment to quell his emotions.
‘I’ve killed a few men over the course of my life, Nolan, but none haunt me like Johann Wolff. As I said, the evidence against Wolff was thin and I did not feel it was conclusive. Regardless, a sentence of death was pronounced. When the time came for me to return to the States, I was given the task of bringing justice to Johann Wolff. Through my new job in the fledgling CIA, I was able to locate Wolff in Ann Arbor. In watching Wolff, I could not imagine how this man could have been the monster described in the documents that led to his conviction. He was living a quiet life. He was in love. I struggled with myself over these contradictions, but in the end my sense of duty overrode my desire for the truth. On the tenth of December 1948, I attacked Wolff just outside his office, murdered him, and concealed his body.’
Cooper flagged down the flight attendant for another drink. He waited until she was gone before resuming his story.
‘After that, I went on with my life. I had a wife, children – all the things that I’d deprived Johann Wolff of. I was haunted by him, because I wasn’t sure that I’d done the right thing. This uncertain guilt was something I thought I’d take to my grave. When Wolff’s body was found, I decided that for the sake of my soul, I needed to know the truth about him.’
‘What did you find?’
‘I found that Wolff wasn’t what the Nokmim thought he was. I learned that he was a decent man, a brilliant scientist who had a great deal to offer. I found a man who put himself at great risk to prevent Germany from developing the atomic bomb. Wolff may have been the greatest hero of the war. And’ – Cooper’s voice cracked – ‘I found that I had murdered this innocent man, in cold blood. Wolff wasn’t guilty of any crimes against humanity, but by depriving the world of Wolff’s potential genius, I am.’
Cooper sobbed quietly for a few minutes. Kilkenny was thankful that the darkened cabin provided at least some measure of privacy. In hearing this story, Kilkenny felt like a priest in a confessional, though there was no absolution he could give to ease Cooper’s guilt.
‘The debt I owe Wolff I can never repay.’
‘Then why are you doing this?’ Kilkenny asked.
‘Because after more than fifty years, I have been given the opportunity to set a small part of this right. Wolff was a scientist, not a Nazi. He worked for the Germans because he simply had no choice in the matter. Lara Avvakum is in precisely the same position; she’s working for Orlov because he has a gun to her head. The Allies freed Wolff, but who is going to free Avvakum if we don’t do it? People like her and Sandstrom are Wolff’s heirs; they seek the truths that can change the world.’
Kilkenny nodded as the link between Cooper’s past and the present became clear.
‘I’m also doing this because I want to recover Wolff’s notebooks. They are a record of this man’s lifework, his legacy. If Wolff was as brilliant as you have come to believe, then these notebooks are proof of his genius and must be brought out into the open. In Orlov’s hands, they might as well still be buried in the ground. That’s why we have to get them back. I can’t undo what I did to the man, but maybe I can do something for his memory.’
Saginaw Bay, Michigan
The
Sharon S
cruised effortlessly over the glassy waters of Saginaw Bay, the twin Detroit Diesel engines pulsing within the fifty-seven-foot Chris-Craft Constellation. The boat belonged to Harsen Smith, a shipbuilder from Algonac and a close friend of Martin Kilkenny’s since the 1930s. While it appeared that the two friends were alone on board, Jack Dawson’s SEALs were preparing for battle on the enclosed stern deck.
‘I think we’re getting pretty close,’ Martin said.
‘Almost,’ Smith confirmed as he glanced down at the GPS receiver mounted next to the boat’s compass.
Far overhead, a constellation of global positioning satellites girded the earth, each transmitting its signal down toward the surface. By receiving signals from at least three of the satellites, the GPS receiver was able to calculate, within a few inches, the boat’s location anywhere on the surface of the planet.
Smith eased back on the throttles, and the
Sharon S
glided to a stop. The coordinates displayed on the GPS matched those given to Smith by Dawson.
‘We’re right where you wanted to be, Admiral,’ Smith announced as he switched off the engines.
‘Thank you, Mr Smith,’ Dawson replied. Then he stepped over to the doorway between the bridge and the stern deck.
As Harsen Smith watched the SEALs prep for their mission, Martin walked over to his friend and draped an arm across his shoulder. ‘With a little luck and some prayers, everyone might just get out of this mess unharmed.’
Smith had brought the
Sharon S
to a stop about a mile from shore, with her bow aimed at the point where the Rifle River emptied into the bay. From shore, the stern of the boat was hidden from view. The waters were calm, and they’d made good time cruising up the Saint Clair River from Algonac, into Lake Huron, around Michigan’s Thumb, and into Saginaw Bay. It was now 8:30 in the morning on what promised to be a hot, sunny day.
On the way up from Algonac, the seven-man squad had reviewed specific segments of their mission plan. They had covered what they could expect during their underwater approach to the target area, including water conditions, currents, and underwater topography. Lieutenant Edwards had briefed the squad on the mission plan and each man’s task assignments. Once the ideal plan was laid out, they had reviewed the contingency plan to deal with unknowns that might leave the ideal plan in ruins. Lastly, the SEALs had completed their check of weapons and equipment.
As this was a hostage-rescue mission, Dawson designated the squad Angel. The
Sharon S
, Dawson’s flagship and base of operations, became Heaven. The hostages, Kelsey and Elli, were identified as Halos One and Two, respectively. By tradition, the hostage-takers were known as Tangos, and the SEAL sniper team as God.
The earpiece on Dawson’s headset crackled with an incoming transmission. ‘God to Heaven. Over.’
Dawson reached down to the unit clipped to his belt and flipped the
SEND
switch, allowing two-way communication. ‘This is Heaven, God. Say status.’
‘God is on station.’
‘We read you, God. Heaven out.’
Dawson flipped the radio back into receive mode. ‘Edwards, you copy that?’
‘Aye, sir. God has found a perch near the target and is ready if we need him.’
‘All right, men,’ Gates boomed out, ‘it’s time to saddle up.’
The SEALs zipped into their formfitting, black Neotex wet suits to protect them from exposure during the mile-long swim to shore. Over their chests, the SEALs donned Draeger LAR V oxygen rebreathers – a type of closed-circuit scuba gear that left no telltale bubbles on the surface to give away their position. They then attached a variety of weapons and equipment to their backs, waists, and thighs, transforming each SEAL into a mobile arsenal.
Once the squad was suited up and equipped, Gates, the dive supervisor, checked each man to ensure that the dive gear was right and that the weapons and other equipment were secure. The squad then performed the predive purge, ridding their bodies of built-up nitrogen before switching to pure oxygen for the dive. This last step was done for safety, reducing the possibility that one of the divers might suffer from oxygen deprivation should exhaled nitrogen pass through the CO2-absorbing crystals in the Draeger rebreather and take the place of life-sustaining oxygen.
Edwards checked his dive watch; it was time to go.
‘Admiral, Angel will be on station at oh-nine-thirty and awaiting your signal.’
‘Good hunting, Angel,’ Dawson replied, loud enough for the entire squad to hear.
One by one, the SEALs stepped off the stern jump deck and into the water. Smith and Martin Kilkenny looked on. When all seven were in the water, Edwards flashed a thumbs-up at Dawson and the two elderly men. Then the SEALs disappeared into the lake.
Moscow, Russia
‘
Zdrávstvuyte
, Bartholomew Georgievich,’ a squat thickset man said as Kilkenny and Cooper entered their suite at the Metropol. ‘How was your flight?’
‘Fine, Iggy,’ Cooper replied warmly. The two men embraced in a Russian bear hug. ‘It’s good to see you again.’
‘
Da.
Like old times, but better.’
‘Iggy, I’d like you to meet Nolan Kilkenny. He’s the guy I told you about, the one who’s helping me out on this. Nolan, this is Igor Sergeevich Fydorov of the FSB.’
‘A pleasure,’ Kilkenny said, offering his hand.
Fydorov grasped it firmly with his thick-fingered paw and squeezed, all the while grinning and looking Nolan in the eye. Kilkenny smiled and returned an equal amount of pressure in what was obviously a test of strength. The bushy mass of hair that formed a single brow over Fydorov’s brown eyes furled as he bore down on Kilkenny’s hand. Kilkenny matched him and returned a tense smile.
‘Enough, you two,’ Cooper said, amused by the spectacle. ‘Call it a draw.’
Fydorov and Kilkenny released simultaneously, both relieved that it was over.
‘Your friend has quite a grip,’ Fydorov said as he massaged the blood back into his reddened fingers.
‘The same could be said for you, Mr Fydorov.’
In a friendly gesture, Fydorov slapped Kilkenny hard on the back. ‘Call me Iggy.’
‘Is everything set for our meeting with Orlov?’ Cooper asked.
‘
Da
, everything is as we discussed. When I get your signal, Alpha will move in.’ ‘Alpha?’ Kilkenny asked.
‘Alpha is a Special Forces unit, like your SEALs or Deltas. The KGB developed the Alphas for use in Afghanistan. I was part of the unit that attacked the presidential palace in Kabul,’ Fydorov said proudly. ‘We spearheaded the Russian invasion in 1979. When that first mission began to go badly and we came under heavy fire, Brezhnev ordered that we be abandoned and left to die.’
‘Couldn’t stomach the disappointment?’ Kilkenny asked.
‘Politicians,’ Fydorov replied with disgust. ‘We escaped from that betrayal and became the KGB’s elite Special Forces unit. During the Battle for the Russian White House, when Yeltsin launched an eleven-day siege against Rutskoi and the Russian parliament, two Alphas entered the White House under a flag of truce and informed the rebels that they had thirty minutes to surrender, or Alpha would attack. The rebels surrendered immediately.’
‘Politicians,’ Kilkenny said.
‘When the KGB was broken up,’ Fydorov continued, ‘the FSB inherited Alpha, and we use them as a counter-terrorism assault unit. In their role as the government’s enforcer, Alpha recently took it upon themselves to remove a Mafiya chieftain who boasted of being
untouchable
by the government. As he walked from the steambath to his armorplated Mercedes 600, surrounded by bodyguards, a sniper nestled in a fifth-story window put two bullets in his head and one in his heart.’
‘Given that Orlov has surrounded himself with operators like Leskov,’ Kilkenny remarked, ‘it’s nice to know the cavalry will be there when we need them.’
‘Cavalry?’ Fydorov questioned, not understanding Kilkenny’s comment. ‘Oh, like in cowboy movies. Yes, we are the cavalry. Is there anything you require?’
Kilkenny shook his head.
‘No,’ Cooper replied. ‘I think we’re all set here. Nolan and I just need to get ready for our meeting with Orlov.’
Fydorov checked his watch. ‘It’s time for me to go as well. I have a taxi waiting for you – one of our drivers. He’ll make sure you get there. Good luck, to the both of you.’
‘Thanks, Iggy,’ Cooper replied.
‘We’ll see you when all of this is over,’ Nolan promised.