Covert One 6 - The Moscow Vector (42 page)

Once they were snuffed out, she scrambled back to her feet and ran on, racing down the stairs at full speed, leaping down them two and three at a time. Behind her, the fire spread rapidly, growing ever stronger and hotter as it fed on Ulrich Kessler’s expensive antique furniture, his precious books, and all of his priceless works of art.

Coughing harder now, Randi reached the ground floor, found the front door, and staggered outside, into the infinitely welcome cold, fresh air.

Wearily, she turned and looked back. The whole second floor of the villa was on fire. Orange, red, and white tongues of flames leaped and danced madly, exploding out through shattered windows and erupting toward the heavens through holes torn in the steep slate roof.

Feeling strangely numb, Randi stared at the inferno for a few moments more. She was trembling in reaction, shaking hard as the shock of her narrow escape set in. She had come way too close to dying in there, she realized suddenly. Her right hand closed slowly on the cell phone and papers she had retrieved. It scarcely seemed possible that these bits and pieces of scorched debris contained any information that was worth the risks she had just run. Or the lives of three good men and women, the members of her slaughtered surveillance team.

She sighed. If nothing else, she owed it to them to find out.

Slowly and painfully, Randi turned away from the burning villa and limped off into the darkness.

Outside Moscow

Vladik F’adayev followed the road all the wav up to the top of the little hill and

pulled over to the shoulder. He killed the headlights and shut off the engine of his small, Russian-made Lada, listening carefully as it coughed and sputtered to a stop. He had earned enough money in his years with the Brandt Group to afford a better car, but the lean, hollow-cheeked sniper preferred his rusting, often-dented Lada, for all its many faults. Newer vehicles stood out, especially the expensive Western makes, and Fadayev liked to be able to blend anonymously with his surroundings.

He pulled a long, heavy flashlight out of the glove box, pushed the door open, and then stepped lightly out onto the hard-packed, frozen dirt. For a minute, he stayed where he was, shining the beam around the road and into the woods on either side. To his trained eye, it was easy enough to see what had happened here. Tire marks showed where Brandt’s big vehicles had stopped suddenly. Spent shell casings glittered in the bright light, half-buried in the trampled snow under the trees where the Group’s gunmen had opened fire from ambush.

Fadayev snorted in disgust. Leaving those casings behind for anyone to find was sloppy. Real professionals prided themselves on making a hit and then moving on without leaving any telltales behind that could link them to their work. But he supposed Brandt and the others had been in too much of a hum to police the area properly.

The sniper shook his head slowly. He did not much care for this new contract Brandt had accepted. Urged on by their mysterious employer, the big, gray-eyed German was always pushing for speed, taking risks with the lives of his men to produce quick results. Fadayev frowned. This constant haste was not safe. It was not sound. He preferred the old days, back when the Brandt Group did most of its well-paid work discreetly and without so much fuss, eliminating a political dissident here, and kidnapping and murdering a business rival there.

He turned in the other direction, noting the deep gouges in the snow and dirt leading straight down the slope. That was where the GAZ jeep he had spotted earlier had plunged to its doom. Broken branches and pieces of torn metal and shattered glass strewn across the slope painted a trail of destruction that ended at the lip of a steep-sided gully.

Fadayev reached into his car and grabbed his pistol off the seat, a heavy old 7.62mm Tokarev. Though he preferred killing at a distance, the pistol was a better choice of weapon to take down that slope. It was handier at close range than his SVD rifle, and more suited to finishing off a wounded man—which was the most he expected to do in the circumstances. He shoved the Tokarev into the pocket of his winter camouflage smock.

Slowly at first, and then with increasing confidence, Fadayev made his way down the slope, picking his way through the trees until he drew near to the edge of the ravine. He paused briefly, pulled the pistol out of his pocket, and went forward with the flashlight in one hand and the Tokarev ready in the other.

Cautiously, he peered down into the gully.

The wreckage of the GAZ jeep lay tilted on its side about ten meters below, sitting at an odd angle in the middle of a pile of large boulders.

Splintered

saplings and crushed underbrush showed where it had rolled over and over down the side of the ravine before smashing into those rough-edged rocks.

The beam from Fadayev’s flashlight picked out more than a dozen bullet holes along the vehicle’s torn and dented chassis. A few shards of glass stood in its windows, but otherwise they were only dark openings into the ravaged interior.

The sniper sighed.

Climbing down into that ravine in the dark was not a job he relished. It would make more sense to wait for daylight. After all, the dead man inside that jeep was not going anywhere, nor were any of the identity documents or other papers he might be carrying. But orders were orders, and Brandt was not a patient or forgiving man these days. No, it was better to get this job over quickly, Fadayev thought. Then, at least, he could turn around and drive back to the comfort of his apartment in Moscow.

It took him several minutes to reach the bottom.

Probing the rough ground ahead with his flashlight, the sniper moved confidently toward the wrecked jeep. He climbed over a pair of boulders and dropped easily into a little hollow, and then leaned carefully against the side of the vehicle, craning his neck to peer inside.

His eyes widened.

There was no one there. A shoulder safety belt dangled empty in the driver’s seat. Which meant…

Fadayev froze suddenly as he felt the ice-cold muzzle of a pistol press firmly against the back of his neck.

“Drop your weapon,” a stern voice commanded.

Numbly, the sniper obeyed. The Tokarev clattered against the rocks.

“Very good,” the voice said coolly. “And now, get rid of the flashlight.”

Again, Fadayev did as he was told, still completely bewildered by his failure. No enemy had ever managed to take him by surprise before. He was always the hunter, never the hunted. The flashlight fell to the ground at his feet and rolled away. It ended up shining off into the tangle of boulders and underbrush in front of him. He swallowed hard. His mouth had gone complete!)’ dry.

“Excellent,” the voice said, with a hint of bleak humor. “You may live through this night after all.”

“What do you want with me?” Fadayev croaked.

“A great many things,” the man behind him said flatly. “We will start with a few basic, easy-to-answer, questions. Remember, though, that this is a game with two simple rules. Rule Number One: If you tell me the truth, I will not Kill you. Rule Number Two: If you lie to me, I will blow your spine right out through the front of your throat. Is that clear?”

Fadayev nodded nervously. “Yes, that is very clear,” he stammered.

“Good,” the other man told him. The muzzle of the pistol pressed even harder against the back of his neck. “Then let ns begin — “

Air Defense Force Headquarters, Kiev

Deep in a command bunker beneath the Defense Ministry building, the senior officers responsible for defending Ukraine against air and missile attack sat around a horseshoe-shaped table, listening closely while a middle-aged colonel briefed them on recent developments. Together, they commanded an array of MiG-29 and Su-27 fighter regiments, long-range surface-to-air missile batteries, and early warning radar sites.

“We have evidence of increasing activity at fighter and bomber bases within easy striking range of our country,” the briefer said seriously. “We have intercepted air-to-ground transmissions and ground controller replies that may show new aviation regiments deploying to airfields around Bryansk, Kursk, Rostov, and others.”

One of the officers sat forward. “But these transmissions are not conclusive?” he asked sharply.

“No, sir. They are not,” the briefer admitted. “But in several cases, we have overheard pilots identifying themselves from new air units and requesting landing instructions at these bases. In each case, the controllers have sharply reminded them to maintain strict radio silence and to follow the visual cues they were given earlier, before leaving their original bases.”

“That is certainly suggestive,” another Air Defense force major general said grimly. He commanded one of the MiG-29 regiments stationed near Kiev. “No rational commander asks his pilots to fly into a new base on radio silence for training purposes. Not in the winter! Not unless he is willing to lose aircraft and pilots in otherwise avoidable accidents. Why should the Russians do that unless they are trying to hide their movements from us?”

The colonel conducting the briefing nodded. “Yes, sir. And in fact, all Russian military transmissions have fallen off dramatically over the past twenty-four hours, those involving air, ground, and missile forces… the lot of them.”

Faces around the table frowned. Transitioning to radio silence was a security measure sometimes employed to conceal forces massing for combat. In peacetime, it was faster, easier, and safer for aviation, tanks, artillery, and infantry units to communicate with each other and with their headquarters using radio signals.

“Are there any other signs of possible imminent action?” one of the missile complex commanders asked quietly.

“The Russians are flying significantly more sorties very near and along our common frontier,” the colonel told him. “In several cases, they have ‘accidentally’ penetrated our airspace—sometimes by as much as twenty or thirty kilometers.”

“They’re testing us,” another of the generals said bluntly. Thick-necked and in his early fifties, he commanded a key radar site near the eastern Ukrainian town of Konotop. “They’re probing our defenses to evaluate our detection capabilities and to find out how fast we can react to hostile aircraft crossing into our territory. In all probability, they have electronic intelligence

aircraft flying close by during these ‘accidents,’ monitoring our radar frequencies, communications, and intercept patterns.”

He turned toward the head of the table, where the gray-haired commander-in-chief of the Air Defense Force, Lieutenant General Rustern Lissenko, sat with his head down, apparently listening to their discussion while intently examining the notes prepared by his staff. “What is your impression, General?”

Lissenko said nothing.

“General?”

One of the officers sitting next to him reached over and gently touched Lissenko on the shoulder. The gray-haired man fell forward onto his notes. Tufts of his hair fell out, revealing a virulent rash across his scalp. He began shaking, clearly wracked by a skyrocketing fever.

There were astonished gasps around the room.

The colonel who had touched Lissenko stared down at his hand in horror.

Then he grabbed for the nearest command phone. “Connect me to the medial center! This is an emergency!”

An hour later, a short, nondescript Air Defense Force captain stood at the window of his small office. He looked down into the Ministry’s inner courtyard, watching the panicked activity below in undisguised satisfaction. Doctors and medical technicians wearing biohazard suits were busy shepherding a long line of worried-looking generals into waiting ambulances. So many high-ranking soldiers and political leaders had fallen ill over the past week that no one still in authority in Kiev was taking any more chances. Everyone present at the command conference had been ordered into strict quarantine.

He smiled. Three days ago, he had added the contents of a vial to General Lissenko’s customary breakfast, a bowl of kasha, or seasoned porridge. Now, the results of this one, simple act far exceeded his expectations. In effect, the

Ukrainian Air Defense Force had just been decapitated, stripped of its most senior and experienced officers at the worst possible moment.

The captain, Ukrainian by law but a Russian by ethnicity and loyalty, turned away from the window and picked up a phone. He dialed the secret number he had been given weeks before.

“Yes?” a quiet voice asked.

“This is Rybakov,” the captain said calmly. “I have good news to report.”

The Kremlin

Russian President Viktor Dudarev looked across his desk at the stocky, gray-haired man standing before him. He frowned. “Castilla is organizing a meeting of his allies to discuss ways to confront us? A secret meeting? You are sure about this?”

Alexei Ivanov nodded coolly. “The report from our special asset in the White House is quite detailed. And reliable sources inside the other invited governments confirm this report.”

“When?”

“In less than two days,” the head of the Thirteenth Directorate answered.

Dudarev rose from behind his desk and stalked over to one of the windows of his private office. For a moment, he stood peering down into the floodlit courtyard below. Then he glanced back at Ivanov. “How much do the Americans know?”

“Not enough,” Ivanov assured him. “At most, they have rumors and speculation.” He shrugged. “But we know that they are probing ever more desperately, seeking the answers they lack.”

The Russian president nodded curtly. He glowered. “Your courier with the HYDRA variant has arrived in the United States?”

“Yes,” Ivanov confirmed. “He is in New York now, en route to Washington, D.C.”

“Good.” Dudarev turned back to look out the window. His own distorted reflection stared back at him from the glass. His scowl deepened. “Signal our mole. I want Castilla out of the way at the earliest possible moment. I want him dead or dying before he can conduct this secret conference of America’s allies.” He swung back to Ivanov. “Is that clearly understood?”