Covert One 6 - The Moscow Vector (49 page)

Standing at Brandt’s side, Konstantin Malkovic frowned. “How much delay would that cause in reopening your lab?”

“Perhaps as much as several weeks,” Renke told him.

The billionaire shook his head firmly. “I have promised Moscow that HYDRA will be back in operation by the time their armies go into action.

Even with Castilla already marked for death, our Russian allies want the abil-itv to act directly against others in Washington if the new president is also stubborn and refuses to accept their fait accompli.”

“Dudarev will still deal with you?” Renke asked curiously.

Now it was Malkovic’s turn to shrug. “What choice does he have? The secrets of the HYDRA weapon are mine, not his. Besides, I’ve promised him that our security problems are being resolved. Once your equipment and scientists are safely out of Italy, what proof can Washington possibly find in time —especially with its agents in Moscow already dead? Anyway, once the shooting starts, it will be far too late for the Americans to intervene.”

The financier’s secure cell phone beeped suddenly. He flipped it open.

“Malkovic here. Go ahead.” He glanced at Brandt. “It’s Titov, reporting from Moscow.”

Brandt nodded. Malkovic had left the manager behind to monitor developments in the Russian capital.

Malkovic listened intently to his subordinate’s report. Slowly, his face tightened to a rigid, expressionless mask. “Very well,” he said at last. “Keep me informed.”

He flipped the phone closed and turned back to Brandt. “It seems that the Moscow militia have found two bodies outside that old, ruined monastery you use for vour dirty work.”

“Alas for poor Colonel Smith and Ms. Devin,” the former Stasi officer quipped, with grim amusement.

“Save your sympathy for them,” Malkovic snapped icily. “Smith and Devin are still alive. The dead men were yours.”

Brandt stared back at his employer in shock. Smith and Devin had escaped? How could that possibly be true? For a moment, he felt a shiver of superstitious dread course down his spine. Who were these two Americans?

Near Orvieto

With its rotors churning, the Pave Low helicopter swept low over a steep, wooded ridge and dove into the broader valley beyond. Treetops flashed by only meters below. Bathed in moonlight, a narrow river, the Paglia, snaked south, roughly paralleling the wide autostrada and the railway. Vineyards, groves of gnarled olive trees, and rows of tall, shapely cypresses spread across the gently rolling landscape. Patches of square black shadow marked the location of old stone farmhouses. Lights that seemed to float in the sky ahead outlined the towers and spires of Orvieto, set high on its volcanic plateau. More lights gleamed on a shallow ridge west of the city.

“ECPR in sight,” one of the pilots commented. “Two minutes out from in-filtration point.”

Gradually, the MH-53J began decelerating, slowing as it began its approach to the designated landing zone. Occasionally, the nose of the helicopter flared higher as the pilots climbed sharply to avoid colliding with taller trees or the telephone and power lines crisscrossing the Paglia valley.

Jon Smith hung on tight to a strap dangling from the ceiling. His stomach lurched.

“Hell of a ride, isn’t it, Colonel?” one of the crewmen commented, flashing a quick grin over his shoulder. “Beats the best roller coaster in the whole wide world!”

Smith forced himself to smile back. “I was always more partial to the bumper cars myself.”

“That’s a sure sign you were meant to be a ground-pounder, Army-type, sir,” the same crewman said with a laugh, again craning his head out through the open hatch to keep a careful eye on their flight path. “Begging your pardon, of course.”

“Guilty as charged, Sergeant,” Smith said, smiling more genuinely now.

He hung his head in mock surrender.

Fiona Devin, sitting across from Jon, offered a sympathetic shrug. Beside her, Oleg Kirov appeared to be deeply asleep, leaning back against the bulk-head with his eyes closed.

The Pave Low slowed further, turning more to the west as it crossed the ridge well to the north of the ECPR compound. It slid lower, flying over a spur of forest spilling down across the slope. Tree branches swayed and rocked behind the large helicopter, pummeled by its powerful rotor wash.

“LZ dead ahead. One hundred feet, fifty knots,” the flight engineer drawled out.

Smith let go of the strap and sat up straighter. His right foot nudged the bag wedged under his seat, making sure that it was still in easy reach. It contained an assortment of clothing, weapons, and other equipment drawn from U.S.

Special Operations Command caches stored at Aviano. He glanced up and saw Kirov and Fiona making their own preparations for landing. The silver-haired Russian gave him a quick thumbs-up.

Guided by constant chatter from his crew, the Pave Low pilot edged slowly forward and brought his big helicopter safely into their landing zone, a wide clearing in the woods. The ridge running south toward the ECPR compound rose off on the left, a dark mass against the paler, moonlit sky. The wheels thumped down. Immediately, the engine noise began fading, descending rapidly from a shrill, howling roar, to a deepening whine, and then to absolute dead silence. The rotors slowed and stopped turning.

The helicopter crew had orders to wait here until Smith or one of the others called for a pickup. But the six Air Force officers and enlisted men aboard the big MH-53J were also under strict orders to sit tight and do nothing else. Once their feet touched the ground, the improvised Covert-One team would be completely on its own. If they met with disaster while breaking into the ECPR

labs, this mission had to be completely deniable by the U.S. government.

Smith unbuckled his seat belt with a feeling of intense relief. It wasn’t that he minded hazardous, nap-of-the-earth flying so much, he told himself, it was just that he preferred having his fate in his own hands. He bent down and tugged the heavy duffel bag out onto the metal deck. Fiona Devin and Kirov followed suit. Together, they slung the bags over their shoulders, trotted down the ramp, and moved off to the east, heading straight across the clearing and into the deeper darkness among the trees.

Jon led the way, pushing up the gentle slope at a fast walk until they were well away from the helicopter. Near the top of the ridge, they entered another clearing, this one much smaller. A little heap of roughly hewn stones, mostly covered by moss and bracken, lay in the center of the clearing. Were those tumbled stones all that remained of an ancient shrine? he wondered. This was an old, old land, fought over for thousands of years by the Umbrians, Etruscans, Romans, Goths, Lombards, and other peoples. Their ruins and tombs dotted the landscape, buried in some places by new towns and cities, swallowed up by forests and ivy in others. Seen by moonlight, the small open space glowed eerily.

“This will do,” Smith whispered to the others. “We’ll change into our gear here, before moving closer to the Center.” He lowered his duffel bag to the ground and knelt to unzip it. Swiftly, he started tugging out articles of clothing and equipment and handing them out to his companions.

Shivering in the cold night air, the three shifted out of the ordinary street clothes and shoes they had been wearing, rapidly donning dark-colored sweaters and jeans. Camouflage sticks blackened their faces and foreheads.

Comfortable hiking boots and thick leather gloves gave better protection and traction for their feet and hands. Night-vision goggles offered them the ability to see in the dark once the moon went down. Padded cases stuffed inside the duffel bags contained a collection of high-tech digital cameras, lightweight tactical radios, laser-surveillance equipment, bolt-cutters, and other tools.

“No body armor?” Kirov asked, pulling an assault vest studded with equipment pouches out of his duffel. He slipped both arms through the vest and zipped it up, checking the fit.

Smith shook his head. “Nope. Armor’s too heavy and too bulky for what we’re supposed to do. If possible, we want to get inside the Center, find out what the hell’s going on in there, and then get out without being spotted. But if we have to run, we’re going to want to run fast.”

“And if someone starts shooting at us?” Kirov asked drily. “What then?”

“Try very hard not to get hit,” Jon advised, with a quick grin. He handed the Russian a 9mm Makarov pistol and three spare magazines, then took a SIG-Sauer sidearm for himself, along with extra ammunition. Both men slung Heckler & Koch MP5 submachine guns across their backs. Spare thirty-round clips went into pouches on their vests.

Fiona Devin slid a lightweight Glock 19 pistol into the holster belted around her waist and then stood back, watching the two men finish checking their weapons. “That’s quite an arsenal you requested from Fred Klein, Colonel,” she said with a slight, impish smile. “Didn’t you just tell Oleg we were here to walk softly?”

Smith nodded. “Yep.” He patted the pistol at his side. “But frankly, I’m getting tired of being outgunned. This time, if someone starts shooting at us, I want enough firepower along to hit back hard and fast.”

Groves of age-bent olive trees and ancient vineyards surrounded the European Center for Population Research, running right up to the edge of the fifty-meter-wide clear space maintained all the way around its chain-link perimeter fence. Most of the compound’s modern steel-and-glass buildings were totally dark this late at night. The sole exception was a large laboratory set apart from

the rest. Lights glowed behind the blinds on every window. And bright white arc lights and television cameras mounted on its flat roof covered every square centimeter of the approaches to the lab. Between the cameras and the complete absence of any cover, no one could hope to get across the fence and up close without being spotted first.

About one hundred meters from the lab, a slender woman wearing black from head-to-foot lay prone in a shallow drainage ditch bordering one of the old vineyards. Camouflage netting studded with leaves and twigs broke up her silhouette and concealed the pair of image-intensifer binoculars she focused on the building. Even in the silver moonlight, she was effectively invisible from more than a few meters away. Once the moon slid behind the horizon, the only wax anyone else would ever spot her was by walking right through her camouflaged hide.

Suddenly the black-clad woman stiffened, alerted by soft, dry, rustling sounds coming from somewhere behind her. Moving with extreme caution to avoid making any noise herself, she swung around and propped up her binoculars on the edge of the ditch, intently surveying the shadow-filled vineyard for

anv signs of movement. She held her breath, waiting.

There. One of the shadows changed shape, gradually becoming a man crouching near a row of bare and gray vines that had been pruned back to lie dormant for the winter. Seconds later, another man flitted across the vineyard and joined the first. Then a third figure appeared. This one was a woman.

She focused the binoculars, first on one man’s face and then on the other.

One of her eyebrows rose in utter disbelief. “Well, well, well … look who the cat dragged in,” Randi Russell murmured coolly to herself.

Sighing, she put down the binoculars and then slowly and carefully stood up, abandoning her concealed position. She kept her hands away from her sides, palms out. Startled by her sudden appearance, the three people crouching among the vines swiveled in her direction. The two men drew their pistols with lightning-speed.

“Please try not to kill me, Jon,” she said quietly. “It’s not like you have a surplus of friends as it is.”

Stunned, Smith eased off the trigger. “Randi?” he said in amazement.

“What the hell are you doing here?’

The slender CIA officer came closer, emerging from the darkness. She crouched down beside them with a grimly amused expression on her smooth, good-looking face. “Since I was here first, it seems to me that should be my question … not yours.”

Almost against his will, Jon grinned back at her. She had a point. He shrugged. “Fair enough.”

He thought fast, trying to come up with a plausible story, one that Randi could choose to believe. She was the sister of his dead fiancee, and an old friend to whom he owed his life several times over, but she also worked for the CIA—which meant she was not privy to the closely held Covert-One secret.

Until that changed, he was forced to find ever more inventive ways to dodge her awkward questions.

“Some people high up in the Pentagon have asked me to track down the origin of this mysterious disease,” Jon said at last. “The one that’s been killing our intelligence analysts and key leaders in the former Soviet republics. We’re sure now that the illness is man-made, a sort of genetically targeted assassination weapon.”

“But why you exactly?” Randi demanded.

“Because I was the one first approached by a Russian scientist, a colleague of mine, at a medical conference in Prague,” Smith told her. Quicklv, he briefed her on Valentin Petrenko’s claims and the murderous attack used to silence him. “When I passed the word back to Washington, they sent me to Moscow to check out his story, figuring that I had the contacts and the expertise to nail down the facts.”

Randi nodded reluctantlv. “That almost makes sense, Jon,” she admitted.

She looked skeptically at Kirov, whom she had gotten to know years before while working as a field officer in Moscow. “I assume this is where Major General Kirov of the Russian Federal Security Service comes in?”

The big, silver-haired man shook his head with a smile. “It’s just plain Oleg Kirov these days, Ms. Russell. I’m retired.”

Randi snorted. “Yeah, I just bet you are.” She waved a hand at the submachine gun slung across his back. “Most pensioners don’t go wandering around the Italian countryside at night while armed to the teeth.”

“Oleg has been working with me,” Smith explained. “As a sort of private consultant.”

“So who is this?” Randi asked pointedly, nodding toward Fiona Devin.

“Your secretary?”