Brass Monkey: A James Acton Thriller Book #2 (5 page)

“Are we jealous, darling?” Anya stepped up to him and patted him on the cheek, then gave him a quick peck on the lips. “No need. He was a boy.” She reached down and gave his crotch a squeeze. “You’re all man.”

His ego restored, Trubitsin looked at her. “Where is it?”

“Da, how did you hide it from the Americans?”

“Oh, the lengths I go to for Mother Russia, but mostly for you.” She stepped over to the mirror, and leaned in close. With her thumb and forefinger, she rolled her eyelid up, revealing a tiny string of letters and numbers tattooed underneath. Trubitsin gasped then snatched a pen and a pad of hotel paper, jotting down the numbers. She repeated the process with the other eye and he wrote down the rest.

He looked at the numbers, then at her, and smiled. “You, my dear, are a genius.”

She smiled then looked at Yakovski. “Boris, beat it. I want to make wild, passionate love to my man, and three’s a crowd.”

Yakovski looked at Trubitsin as if uncertain what to do. One glare from Trubitsin removed any doubt, sending Yakovski to the door. “I’ll go get a drink.”

Arbat Street, Moscow

Stanislav Ignatev stood in the doorway of a closed bakery, shivering from the cold of a late evening shower. At first he was excited with his assignment to tail Anya Kushchenko.
She has a great rack, as the Yankees would say!
He gave a single grunt of a laugh as he remembered the hoots in the squad room as they were briefed. He and several others were assigned to watch her, to see if she did anything unexpected. The chance she was a double agent was definite. The chance she could become one, was even greater. Most who returned to Russia and saw how terrible things were compared to the West longed to return to their former assignments.

Ignatev however had never been out of Russia. Unless you counted Chechnya, but that wasn’t exactly a pleasure trip. After completing his two years compulsory service, in which he had the misfortune to serve six months in that shithole, he had left the formerly glorious Red Army, and joined the Main Department of Internal Affairs of the city of Moscow, or more simply, the Moscow Police, an honorable profession, and something that would keep him in his home town. Tonight his detachment was part of a much larger team he was sure. No way was this given to local cops only. He was certain SKP agents they simply couldn’t see crawled all over the place. He glanced at a couple kissing on a bench across the street.
He’s kissing her neck too much. Definitely SKP.

Kushchenko had entered the Bulgakov Hotel minutes before, and Ignatev was preparing to find some place to get comfortable for the rest of his shift when he saw somebody step from the hotel that appeared familiar. The man, in his early fifties, short cropped, graying hair, didn’t stand out except for one thing—he had a deep scar running in a jagged pattern from his left eye to the corner of his lip. This he recognized at once from a briefing months earlier. He fished his radio from his pocket and called Dispatch.

“Dispatch, go ahead.”

“This is Ignatev. I’ve just spotted Boris Yakovski on Arbat Street, should I apprehend?”

“Dispatch, stand by.”

He waited impatiently, watching the man look up and down the street, then hail a cab.

“Dammit!” muttered Ignatev. He spotted a cab coming toward him and he flagged it down, climbing in the back as soon as it halted. Before the driver said a word, he yelled, “Follow that cab!” pointing at the vehicle containing Yakovski as it pulled away from the hotel.

“Da, da,” said the cabby as he glanced in his rearview mirror and pulled a U-turn, falling in behind the other cab.

“Not too close!”

“Da, da.” The cabby eased back a little.

“Dispatch to Ignatev, stand by for communication from HQ, over.”

Ignatev jumped as his phone vibrated in his pocket. He fished it out and flipped it open. “Ignatev.”

“This is Agent Dymovsky, on special assignment from the Investigations Committee of the Prosecutor-General’s Office. You spotted Boris Yakovski? Are you sure?”

“I saw the scar, sir, it’s definitely him.”

“Where are you now?”

“I’m assigned to the detail tailing Anya Kushchenko.”

“Yes, yes, I know, but where are you? Where did you spot him?”

 “He got in a cab in front of the Bulgakov Hotel.”

“Damn, do you know where he went?”

“No, but—”

“Did you notice the cab number? We might be able to track him!”

“No, but—”

“You didn’t get the number?” Ignatev could tell Dymovsky was angry.
Let me get a damned word in!

“Sir! I’m following him in another cab.”

A pause.

“You left your detail?”

Ignatev gulped. “Y-yes, sir. I assumed since there were three others watching the hotel, it would be better to follow this target.”

Again silence.

“Vodka is on me when your shift ends. You call me as soon as he gets to his destination.”

Ignatev smiled. “Yes, sir!”

Unknown Location

November 19, 1256 AD

Faisal shyly covered his now raging shame and stepped into the pool of hot water, the steam rising gently into the cooler air above the surface, the scent from the hundreds of rose petals and perfumes filling his nostrils. He breathed a sigh of relief as his waist broke the water’s surface, out of sight under the opaque mixture of soap and creams floating on the surface. He looked around him, his beat red face revealing his shame, unable to mask the lust forming in his eyes as several women undressed each other, each keeping their eyes on him the entire time.

Faisal was a good Muslim. He had never been with a woman, he had never even seen a woman naked before. His heart pounded in his chest as these beautiful creatures revealed their treasures to him, treasures he alone would get to enjoy for the rest of eternity.

Allah be praised!

The one who he had awoken to smiled at him, her entire magnificence now revealed. As she took each step into the pool to join him, her eyes remained on him. It was everything he could do to keep her gaze, his eyes desperate to look upon the rest of her body.

“Does what you see please you?” she asked as she made the final step into the pool.

This was his excuse. He slowly lowered his eyes as she pushed through the water toward him. He dropped his eyes down her face, past her full, painted lips, to her tiny chin, past her slim neck and rounded her shoulder, down her outstretched arm as she neared. He finally dared to look, a quick, momentary glance at her breasts. He gasped. She smiled.

“I guess you do!”

Several other women giggled as they too stepped into the pool. She inched toward him, rolling her shoulders forward, which to his amazement made her breasts appear even bigger, the dark nipples hard, which he had heard was a good thing. He gulped.

“My name is Fatima,” she whispered, her voice low, hoarse, seductive. “And I am here to serve Allah’s warrior.” She pressed herself against him. He looked back to find some place to retreat to, but found himself pushed against the side of the pool, her warm, naked flesh pressed against his, her soft breasts squeezed against his chest as she reached and took his head in her hands, then kissed him passionately on the lips. Her left hand slowly traced his face as she drew her finger down the center of his chest, over his navel, and then, with a smirk, reached under the water.

He moaned and closed his eyes as she gently kissed his neck, slowly working her way down his chest.
This is truly paradise! Allah be praised.
He looked down as her head slowly went below the water, and a momentary flash of concern over how she would breathe entered his mind.

Shouting from behind him erupted. He spun his head as a large set of wooden doors burst open and his trainer, Master Hasni, charged through.

He died too?

Titanik Club, Moscow

Present Day

It had taken Alexey Dymovsky almost a year for his first break. Within several weeks he had enough information to formulate a theory. The July 23, 1985 incident was documented in the Soviet Army archives. The report detailed a successful TACAN spoofing, the downing of a NATO FB-111A and the successful retrieval of much of the technology. The report from Major Grigori Trubitsin of the 641st Fighter Aviation Regiment was quite thorough. Except for one thing. No mention was made of a recovered nuclear missile. And considering the forest was swept for every scrap of metal that could be retrieved, it was inconceivable that a tactical nuclear missile could be missed.

Which led him to postulate that Trubitsin and his men had stolen the missile for themselves, most likely with plans to sell it on the black market. But something like that on the black market would have been detected years ago, so for some reason it hadn’t been sold yet. The plutonium was valuable in itself, worth millions, but a functioning nuclear device, would be worth tens of millions, if not more.

And that required codes.

A call to the Americans had confirmed the compromised launch codes, which is what had prompted the admission in Geneva to the Broken Arrow. Now both the Americans, and the Russians, knew a tactical nuclear weapon was in play, with launch codes, and no one knew where it was. The unit that had brought the plane down had disappeared after the cold war ended. It had taken months, but he at last had caught a break. Corporal Konstantin Lukin, Trubitsin’s driver in 1985, was monitored leaving Montreal on a fake Canadian passport, his photo and that of his comrades given to the Americans to see if they could have any luck finding them.

As soon as he had heard Lukin was on a flight from Montreal, tracking him was easy. They had watched him for several months, in the hopes of him leading them to his accomplices, but instead he had spent almost his entire time visiting his mother during the day, then drinking and screwing hookers at night. He was booked on a flight the next day, making it clear he was meeting no one. He had yet to decide whether or not to grab him before leaving, and risk tipping Trubitsin off.

But Yakovski was a different story. Where he was, Trubitsin couldn’t be far.

Dymovsky’s men took up position outside the bar on Leningradskiy Prospekt, the pounding beats of competing clubs filled the air, drunken patrons stumbled from bar to bar, others leaned against walls as they puked their night’s drinks and bar snacks onto the sidewalk, while others tried to convince hookers to offer free samples.
This is a true shithole!
Dymovsky frowned at the sight as one luxury vehicle after another pulled up and whisked young ladies away.
What has this country become?
He agreed with capitalism, and certainly didn’t want to return to the old communist days of his youth, but crime was out of control. And now with the puppet master in control in Moscow, he feared it would be used as an excuse to bring back the old ways. Already freedom of the press and freedom of assembly were jokes. Freedom of speech was next. In fact, considering it was almost impossible to organize an opposition party now due to the draconian rules brought in by Moscow’s ruling party, freedom of speech might as well not exist. They had brought back the dictatorship, without anyone realizing they had done it.
Well done, Vlad. I hope too many don’t die when the proletariat awakens to the realization of what you have done.

“Everyone is in position, sir,” said his second in command over the earpiece.

Dymovsky touched his ear, activating the comm. “I’m going in now.”

He climbed from his car and crossed the cobbled street, the stones glistening from the light rain blanketing the area. He stepped up to the door and glanced around, spotting a few of his men about a block away. He raised his hand, pausing for a moment, then dropped it on the door handle and pulled the door open.

The roar of the music was deafening.
Certainly no casual conversation happening here.
He descended the curving flight of stairs into the basement club, pushing his way past couples making out, others far beyond that. As he rounded the final bend he was grabbed by the sleeve of his jacket. He spun to see a girl, bent over as her partner mauled her from behind, staring at him, her lust filled eyes focused on him.

“Join us!” she yelled.

Dymovsky yanked his arm away, breaking her grip, and continued down the steps. He heard her and her partner laughing, their comments soon lost to the din that greeted him as the steps widened and deposited him into the club. He surveyed the crowd of several hundred, most on the dance floor, others lounging in a series of booths bordering the club. A second level above had more booths with a view of the dance floor five meters below. Strobe and neon lights illuminated the dance floor, augmented with a laser show that splayed out over the dancers’ heads. The bar area was the exception, fairly well lit so the throngs, about five deep trying to shout their orders, Rubles waving in the air, could see the selection of mostly cheap vodkas displayed across the mirrored shelves.

Dymovsky slowly rounded the booths, searching for the man whose image he had burned into his mind. It might be easier to wait for him to leave the club at the end of the night, but the risk was too great they might miss him, and Dymovsky had a plan that needed Yakovski, tonight.

He glanced up at the second level, and there, staring down at him, was Yakovski.
Did he make me?
Dymovsky spotted a drunken girl standing nearby, head flopping on her shoulders, knees threatening to give out, the alcohol long since having done its work. He gripped her hair and pulled her against him, then kissed her neck. She moaned, offering no resistance, her arms simply rags hanging by her sides. The support his hand provided as he held her by the neck, her hair tangled around his fingers, was the cue her knees needed to finally give out. Dymovsky wrapped his free hand around her waist, grabbing her ass and grinding his hips into hers. He slowly turned her around, continuing to grind their hips together to the beat, as he stared through her hair, up at his target. Yakovski kept his eyes on them for a moment, then looked away, losing interest. Dymovsky guided the girl toward a booth with an empty spot, and deposited her there, much to the surprise of the three men occupying it.