Sentinel (22 page)

Will stood in the center of the tiny, barely furnished bedroom wearing a towel wrapped around his waist and nothing else. His clothes hung over radiators, drying after he had hand washed them in the bathroom’s sink and shower. There was a knock on the door. Will immediately moved to a side table and placed his fist over his pistol. The door opened. Will removed his hand from his gun as Roger entered and let the door swing shut behind him.

Roger smiled. “You’re not going to make a pass at me, are you?”

Will smiled. “Fuck off. Did you get the flight?”

Roger rubbed his fatigued face. “I did.”

“Excellent.” Will picked up his travel bag and swung it onto the bed. “What time do we depart?”

“We need to be out of here in one hour.”

“Okay.”

Roger laughed. “If we’d been able to wait another fourteen hours, we could have saved ourselves $45,000 by getting a regular commercial flight.”

Will snapped, “I can’t afford to waste any time.”

Plus they needed to avoid airport security so that they could get their guns through.

Roger nodded. “I know. How are you?”

Will frowned. “What do you mean?”

“It’s a straightforward question. How are you feeling?”

Will stared at his colleague for a moment before replying, “I’m absolutely fine.”

The tall American held his gaze and said softly, “Your plan to capture Guy was a good one. He was our most direct means to locate Razin. And you had no intention of harming Guy, just scaring him.”

Will said quietly, “True. But ultimately it was me who put a bullet in his brain.” He looked away. “I killed a British national, a senior member of MI6.”

“You put him out of his misery.” Roger was motionless. “Some people in a similar position would have just let the bastard burn to death.”

Will muttered, “Nobody’s in my bloody position.”

“I know.” The ex–DEVGRU SEAL’s voice was one of total sympathy. “That’s why I asked.”

W
ill turned on the shower, watched brown water emerge from the nozzle, and waited a moment before stepping into the cubicle when the water ran clear. Raising his face, he allowed the hot water to pour over his head and torso. He washed his grimy body with a bar of soap and tore open a small sachet of shampoo to use on his dark, cropped, greasy hair. Satisfied that he was clean, he closed his eyes and lowered his muscular physique until he was sitting on the floor with the water falling all over him.

He reflected on Roger’s words and frowned. A memory came to him, one that he hadn’t even known was in his head until just now.

Will was seated on a grass lawn. It belonged to his parents’ house in the States. It was a sunny, warm day. He was a barefoot five-year-old wearing a University of Virginia shirt and jeans. His hair was blond in those days, and he had freckles across his nose and cheeks. His American father was walking toward him, wearing a smart dark suit and crisp white shirt. To the small boy, his daddy looked like a giant, but he had a smile on his kind face. Crouching down in front of Will, he rubbed the boy’s arm and looked at the toy held in his hand. A green plastic handgun.

Will grinned and proudly held out the gun. His daddy took it, examined the pretend weapon, nodded, and gave it back to his son.

He said something that Will could not quite remember, something about toy guns being okay but real guns being bad.

The boy looked at his CIA father and giggled. He lowered his eyes and glimpsed something on his daddy’s hip, visible between his open jacket. He pointed at the real gun.

His father looked down and quickly buttoned up his jacket to hide his sidearm. He looked perturbed as he placed both hands on Will’s shoulders. His serious expression was quickly replaced by another smile. After kissing his son on the forehead, he walked away toward his car to go to work.

Later that year he was deployed by the CIA to Iran, where he was kidnapped and thereafter brutally murdered.

Will opened his eyes and swallowed hard to check the emotion he was feeling. He wished his father had been alive to watch and guide his growth into adulthood. More than anything, he wished he could have had the opportunity to share his first beer with the man and give him a promise not to lead a life filled with weapons and violence.

He pictured that little boy sitting on the grass and wondered how that innocent could have turned into a man who could calmly terrify a man in a Russian church before putting a bullet into his head.

He loathed what he sometimes had to do in his work.

No. The truth was more than that.

He loathed the person he’d become.

F
orty-five minutes later, Will stood outside the shabby hotel dressed in a dark blue heavy wool suit, white shirt with French cuffs and silver cuff links, Royal Navy silk tie that he had bound into a Windsor knot, gleaming black brogues, leather gloves, and a smart overcoat. He was clean-shaven and had applied Chanel men’s lotions and Platinum Égoïste eau de toilette to his body and face. In one hand he gripped his expensive leather travel bag containing his other hand-washed and dry clothes. Tucked into his belt, hidden against the small of his back, was his handgun.

Beside him were Roger and Laith. Both men were also immaculately dressed and carried their own bags. Roger hailed a taxi, and soon they were en route to Moscow’s Vnukovo Airport.

T
hey entered Terminal D, the place used for the airport’s domestic flights. Roger led the way, walking quickly past ticket desks, passengers, flight crews, check-in desks, retail outlets, and approximately four hundred soldiers who were clearly about to embark on a military flight, until they were by a desk marked
PLATINUM BUSINESS JETS
. Will and Laith held back as Roger walked up to the man behind the desk, spoke inaudible words to him, nodded at his colleagues, and looked back at the official. The man beamed, jumped down from his stool, and walked around the desk holding a clipboard. Will and Laith moved up to Roger, carrying their bags.

The man shook their hands, muttered a few Russian words to Roger, then asked in English, “What business takes you to Vladivostok?”

Laith looked at him sternly. “Oil.”

The man’s smile widened. “My best customers are those in the oil industry.” He beckoned toward a door marked
VIP LOUNGE
. “I’ll take you through. We have a fast-track process for our guests which avoids the airport’s security and baggage checks. You’ll have a very comfortable flight with us. Men like you deserve only the very best in luxury travel.”

O
ne hour later, they were onboard a super-midsize Falcon 2000EX jet, traveling at an altitude of 37,000 feet. Will, Roger, and Laith were facing each other in sumptuous leather seats. Coffee and caviar were on the table between them. The seven other luxury seats in the plane were empty. A tall blond female attendant was the only other person in the passenger area; her duty was to ensure that they were given anything they wanted during the eight-hour flight across Russia to the eastern coastal city of Vladivostok.

Roger leaned forward to pick up some toast and caviar and took a mouthful of the food. “This is the most expensive civilian flight I’ve ever taken.”

“I’m not complaining.” Laith lit a Cuban Cohiba cigar, supplied to him by the hostess, examined its burning embers, and blew a thin stream of smoke from his lips. “I can’t remember the last time I could smoke on a flight.”

Will drummed his fingers on an armrest. “Don’t get too comfortable. We’ll soon be living in shit again.”

Roger smiled, taking another bite of his food. “Do you ever relax?”

Laith studied Will through narrow eyes. “Are you sure this trip is worth it? Is your plan going to work?”

“I think I can outsmart Razin and have him suspended or dismissed.” Will rubbed his face. “But that doesn’t mean I’ll succeed in rescuing Sentinel.”

“Then why the hell wouldn’t you listen to me when I told you to call it in with the Agency and let them decide what to do now?” Laith shook his head; his expression was hostile.

Will frowned. “You’ve never struck me as a man who follows rules. On the contrary, aside from Roger, I can’t think of any intelligence paramilitary officer who dislikes orders more than you.”

Laith crushed his cigar in the ashtray. “Don’t patronize me.”

Roger quickly placed an arm on Laith’s forearm, leaned toward Will, and said in a hushed, urgent voice, “I’m not sure I’ve ever seen a rule book for what we do. But right now I’m in agreement with my colleague. I don’t think we should be doing this alone.”

Will looked at both CIA SOG operatives. He said nothing for a while, deep in thought, but when he spoke his voice was measured and calm. “The Agency could send us a hundred operatives, but it wouldn’t make a difference. So we need to turn this on its head and work with people who can help.”

Laith frowned, then laughed. “You’re crazy.”

Will thought that Laith had a point. But he was still adamant that working with the Russians was the only way forward.

Chapter Thirty

W
ill and Roger were stationary in an Audi A8 sedan, lent to them for a week by Platinum Business Jets, on Ulitsa Korabelnaya Naberezhnaya in Vladivostok. It was nine
P.M.
, and the area around them was relatively quiet, with few cars passing by. Streetlamps were sporadic, snowfall was heavy, and visibility was poor. But five hundred feet behind them was the port, and moored within it were four easily visible and brightly illuminated Udaloy I destroyers.

Roger placed his cell phone on the dashboard and set it to speakerphone. “Laith, I’m moving in a few minutes.”

Laith’s response was instant. “Understood.”

Laith was in a BMW 3 Series, also gifted to him for a few days, parked close by on Ulitsa Svetlanskaya.

Roger withdrew a pen, a single sheet of paper, and an envelope from an inner jacket pocket. Placing them next to the phone on the dashboard, he wrote a person’s name and the words
URGENT AND PRIVATE
on the envelope using the Russian Cyrillic alphabet. He looked at Will. “Should I leave the sheet blank?”

Will shook his head. “That would look suspicious.” He thought for a moment. “Write, ‘My normal communications are compromised. I’ll call you from a pay phone at ten
A.M
. tomorrow morning. You must be available to receive that call. Your friend.’ ”

Roger nodded as he wrote the words on the piece of paper. He folded the sheet and inserted it into the envelope, sealed it, and placed the letter into a pocket. After donning a fur hat, a scarf that he wrapped around his lower face, and thick-rimmed glasses with false lenses, he glanced at Will. “Okay?”

Will smiled. “You look barely recognizable but normal. In this weather, everyone’s going to be covered up.”

The CIA operative was quiet for a moment before asking, “You’re sure I won’t be grabbed by the guards?”

Will shrugged. “I can’t be sure about anything.”

But he hoped that at this hour there’d be only two or three low-ranking sailors at the reception desk who wouldn’t dare to do anything to disrupt what should appear to them to be an emergency crash communication between a covert agent and his Russian handler.

Roger opened the door, allowing icy wind to enter the car. “See you soon.” He stepped out of the vehicle, thrust his hands into his overcoat pockets, and walked off with his head bent low and shoulders hunched. Within seconds, he had disappeared into the night.

Will spoke loudly. “He’s on his way.”

Laith’s voice responded, “Okay, I’m moving to get visibility of the building’s main entrance.” After forty seconds he spoke again. “I’m in position. I can see Roger walking to the building. He’s stopped. He’s checking his watch. He’s looking around. He enters the building.”

Will shivered, a mixture of fear and cold. Roger had entered the headquarters of the Russian navy’s Pacific Fleet. It was adjacent to the naval docks but not part of a military base. Instead, it looked like any other important administrative building in the city. Roger would be handing the letter to one of the guards at the reception. Will hoped that the guard would instantly recognize the act as highly unusual and therefore would not challenge Roger. But if he did, Will had told his Russian-speaking CIA colleague how to respond.

This is an intelligence matter. If you compromise me, you’ll be put in a military prison for the rest of your life.

The letter was addressed to a specific Russian intelligence officer. Will had no idea if that officer operated from the Pacific Fleet HQ, and even if he did, Will hoped that the late hour would mean that he had left for home some time before. Irrespective, he was convinced that the naval personnel receiving the letter would have protocols in place to immediately locate and call the officer and that in turn the officer would have no other choice than to go straight to the HQ to collect the message. The officer would then privately read the letter, be confused by its contents, but believe that an agent had tried to make contact and would conclude that nothing could be done until the anonymous agent made the telephone call the following morning.

That call would never happen. The letter’s only significance was to try to draw out the intelligence officer this evening so that Will and his team could identify and follow their target.

Laith spoke. “Roger’s leaving the HQ. No one’s behind him. He’s thirty feet away. He’s fifty feet away.” The line went silent. Will narrowed his eyes, totally focused on the phone. “He’s a hundred feet away. Now he’s out of my sight.”

Will looked quickly away from the cell phone, toward the direction from which Roger should be approaching the car. He saw nothing at first, only driving snowfall. Then light from one of the streetlamps briefly shone over a man before that person just as quickly disappeared into more shadows. Will knew the man was almost certainly Roger, but he pulled out his handgun just in case he was wrong. He looked around, searching for the man. The figure appeared again under a different streetlamp and disappeared again as Will tightened his grip on his QSZ-92. Will held his breath, then swung his gun rapidly toward the car door as it opened. Roger was there, bending low to enter the vehicle.