The Warren Omissions (24 page)

Flynn checked his watch. Only two hours remained until his deadline to inform Osborne of his successful mission—if was indeed successful. Despite the time crunch, Flynn refused to botch the mission by trying to play cowboy. His own life depended on his ability to correctly assess the situation before charging in—and this wasn’t an easy task. For the next ten minutes, he observed the repetitive movements of the guards. They all smoked, as if it was the only way to survive the monotony of protecting the perimeter of a building nestled deep in the Urals. It was surely an uneventful assignment. But not tonight.

In an effort to penetrate the building as stealthily as possible, Flynn chose to use his knife. He tossed a rock in the woods to turn the guard’s attention in the opposite direction before sneaking up behind him and slitting his throat. He dragged his body into the woods and rolled it behind a log. But not before he stole the guard’s earpiece so he could pick up the impending chatter that would explode if his presence was realized.

Flynn eliminated the second guard moments later by slipping up behind him and snatching his cigarette. When the confused guard turned around, Flynn stabbed him in the throat while covering the man’s mouth. He moved this guard’s body into the woods as well before approaching his most difficult target—the guard tower.

Hidden in the shadows of the tree line, Flynn watched the rhythms of the guard tower’s spotlight. At first glance, it appeared to move haphazardly, but it didn’t take Flynn long to see that the chaotic pattern was nothing close to chaotic. It moved systematically across the compound perimeter—and Flynn recognized his opportunity to strike.

Quietly climbing the tower, Flynn timed his lurch perfectly. He lunged off the top step with his knife and landed it into the back of the oblivious guard. The pattern took a short hiatus before Flynn took control of the spotlight and kept the rhythm going. Nobody on the inside suspected a thing, as no squawking blared from his radio. All was quiet, but not for long.

Flynn leapt over the guard tower and scurried down the inside of the perimeter fence. He went to the door his intel told him was the most lax when it came to guard presence. Using the security decryption device Osborne gave him, Flynn attached it to the keypad and waited while it found the right combination to gain entry. It didn’t take long before Flynn was in the building.

He crept down the dimly lit hall. It was empty. Not a soul in sight. He waited for a few seconds to see if he could detect any noise at all, any potential presence of guards. Nothing. And nothing on the radio either.

This is going to be easier than I thought.
 
Flynn turned the corner and jumped back. He saw a guard sitting outside an unidentified room. Then Flynn poked his head around the corner again only to realize the guard was asleep. He ripped open his pack and pulled out a handkerchief and some chloroform. He slipped up to the guard and shoved it forcefully under his nose. The man barely flinched, remaining in his dozed position—head down, feet stretched out in front of him.

Flynn peered inside the door but didn’t see his target. He continued down the hall a few more feet before he heard a familiar voice.

“Where do you think you’re going?”

Flynn spun around. Pointing a gun at him from twenty feet away was Ivan.

CHAPTER 57

NINETY MINUTES. COME ON, FLYNN. Give me a call.

Osborne stared at the phone on his desk. It didn’t blink or buzz or ring. He wanted to rip it out of the wall and scream. Just destroy something, anything. The waiting was killing him. It wasn’t like he had never been through something like this before with Flynn.

During a reconnaissance mission to Malaysia, Flynn got made by a Chinese spy who was selling U.S. government secrets. The directive was simple: find out who was buying the secrets. But Flynn wasn’t careful enough. Two members of the Chinese spy’s security detail apprehended Flynn and held him for the duration of the supposed time of the transaction. They blindfolded him and threw him in a holding cell near the location of the meet. For three days, Osborne waited. Not a word from Flynn. Osborne feared his best operative died somehow. Three days was an eternity in the world of espionage. Plans could be hatched, divulged, set into motion and squashed during that time. Yet, nothing from Flynn.

Finally, Flynn had called Osborne, letting him know that he was all right. His mission was a failure—sort of. He didn’t get the information he came for, but the Chinese spy and his associates were all murdered. The buyer only performed a cursory search of the building, which gave Flynn the break he needed to remain hidden. He eventually worked himself free and escaped to view the carnage.

Osborne knew it was far too early to give up on Flynn now, but this situation was different. He could spend time handwringing over the possible death of a mission agent—and it was justified, yet part of the job. Presiding over a mission that could determine the fate of millions and set into motion a world war was beyond Osborne’s scope of familiarity. This new territory set him on edge. An acting president hell-bent on blowing up half of Russia. An extremist group determined to start a world war. And a former operative on his first mission in years to keep it all from happening. It was a recipe for angst on the highest level.

Osborne’s phone rang. It was Sandford.

“Where are we at? I’ve got missiles being loaded as we speak.”

“Nothing yet, sir. But we’ve still got ninety more minutes. Please be patient.” Osborne was telling Sandford that as much as he was telling himself.

“We’ve been far too patient with these people. It’s time to take action.”

“Just hold off, please, sir.”

“Ninety minutes—then we’re firing the missiles.”

Sandford hung up.

Osborne stared at the clock. He only had eighty-nine minutes now.

CHAPTER 58

FLYNN LAID DOWN his Glock 26 and stared at the familiar figure aiming a gun at him down the dimly lit hallway. Less than forty-eight hours ago, the two men fought in Flynn’s home—and Flynn let him live. Now they stood on Ivan’s turf, half a world away. Flynn determined he wouldn’t make the same mistake twice.

“
 
Существует
 
кто-то, кто хочет
 
тебя видеть
 
,” Ivan said in Russian.

Someone wants to see me. This should be interesting.
 
Flynn moved slowly toward Ivan, hands raised in a surrendered position. By the time Flynn reached Ivan, two guards joined them and quickly patted down Flynn. Satisfied that he was weaponless, they ushered him down a long dark hallway and through a bevy of rooms. Unfinished concrete floors and cinder block walls formed the structure for the facility’s maze-like layout. Flynn tried to ascertain where he was in the building based on the blueprints the CIA gave him. The better bearings he possessed, the better chance he could escape alive—if ever given the chance.

What the building lacked in aesthetics, it made up for with its state-of-the-art security system. Each room required a retinal scan for entry as well as an alternating code displayed on a digital fob carried by each guard. Flynn noticed a digital clock on the wall. The bright red numbers reminded him he had barely an hour to secure the facility and call Osborne. Ushered deeper into the recesses of the building in silence, Flynn wondered if perhaps the blueprints were faulty or from an early phase of construction.

After nearly five minutes, they arrived at their destination: the control room for the facility’s missile silo.

Fluorescent lights flickered and hummed in one vacant corner of the room. At the far end of the room, a team of four men pushed glowing buttons and flicked switches, calling out commands in Russian. Flynn watched as the men wheeled across the stark white floor and ran through a checklist to apparently prepare a missile launch. He understood from their chatter that a launch was scheduled to occur in sixty minutes.

“
 
Вот он
,
 
” Ivan announced as they entered the room.

Flynn froze and stared as the man sitting in the largest chair spun around. Wearing a long dark trench coat, the man stood up and walked toward Flynn. His dark skin bunched in wrinkles around his forehead and extended onto his baldhead. Using a black wooden cane, the man shuffled toward Flynn. His small brown eyes directed a piercing stare at his visitor. Once he arrived within three feet of Flynn, he stopped.

“Mr. Flynn,” the man said, speaking in a thick Russian accent. “It is a pleasure to finally meet you here on our terms. For your sake, I wish it could have been under different conditions, for this will not end well for you. You had your chance to ensure that it did, but you continued to meddle where you didn’t belong.”

Flynn furrowed his brow and stared at the man, wondering if he was supposed to know him.

“What’s the matter, Mr. Flynn? Do you not recognize me? Perhaps you might know who I was if I still had all my hair. But I lost that a long time ago—along with all my faith in humanity.”

“The red-haired negro,” Flynn muttered to himself. But it was loud enough that the man heard him.

“That’s probably my favorite alias, though a more formal introduction is required in this instance. My name is Marcos Buscape.”

Flynn stared, unaware that the name should mean anything. It certainly wasn’t a name he ever heard while working at the agency.

The man continued.

“I understand if you’ve never heard of me—most people haven’t. And quite frankly, I prefer to keep it that way. The less people of your ilk know about me, the better. I don’t even like it when our committed organization here gets mentioned in the press. We like to work behind the scenes. Our work isn’t about glory—it’s about an end game that will better this world, far more than I can say for your American imperialism.”

Flynn wanted to lash out at the man, dispute his claims. But he chose not to. The more his enemy talked, the more he would know how to defeat him.

“But you ruined all that for us when you went on television and alerted the world to our presence. The Kuklovod is a long-standing order that seeks to influence people and world events, not grandstand. Yet we can’t do anything now without people seeing us as an evil group. If your President Bush were still blathering on about terrorism, we’d be part of his axis of evil, I’m sure.”

Flynn, who bit his tongue while scanning the room, couldn’t resist the urge to stay silent any longer. He had a few questions of his own and needed to do some probing.

“So, now you’re just going to start a world war?” Flynn asked.

“Oh, we aren’t starting anything—we’re merely ensuring that it happens. For far too long, Russia and the United States have played nice, acting like two comrades instead of mortal enemies. Both countries have lacked the leadership with the fortitude to attack the other. And we didn’t mind since we have no interest in seeing your failed imperialistic ideas spread here and beyond. But as your weak-kneed government has dwindled its military, Russia has been advancing its technology and strengthening its army in ways you never dreamed possible. Now with the upper hand, Russia only needs an excuse to strike. Unlike you Americans, Russia would never strike first in an unprovoked act. But get the right American leader in power—and everything goes boom!”

Buscape stamped his cane on the floor for emphasis. He then leaked a wry smile, apparently proud of the plan he conceived to stoke the embers of war.

Seeking a deeper grasp of his enemy, Flynn went fishing with his next statement.

“You certainly don’t look like a Russian,” Flynn said.

Buscape glared at Flynn a moment before speaking.

“That is the problem with you Americans—it’s always about appearances. How one looks determines a person’s value. Are they beautiful? Successful? Rich? Powerful? And look where it’s gotten you—a depraved country lacking in discipline, leadership and compassion. The land of opportunity is now a cesspool of narcissism. If you think I’m doing this because I have ties to Russia, you are wrong. My passion is to see the world consumed by true communism—where we share what we have, despising those who clamor over others to get their way. It’s about seeing a collective good emerge from a world currently devoid of compassion.”

“So you kill millions of innocent people to achieve this brand of communism, forcing them into this ideal?”

Buscape looked at the floor, dragging his cane around in circles as he thought. He finally looked up at Flynn.

“Yes,” he said, nodding his head. “If I must, I will. Their lives are meaningless now anyway. Better that they die sooner than later to save them from a vacant existence. The result will be a better world—the kind of world my father dreamed of.”

“Your father?”

“Yes, my father—a real father. Father Buscape. You’ve likely never heard of him as he toiled away in Luanda, Angola, wasting away in the final years of his life without ever seeing his dream realized. He offered me up as a sacrifice to Ilya Makarova, the founder of the Kuklovod. In exchange for my service to Ilya, my father would receive all the funding he needed to help establish a Communist party in Angola. My father may have failed to see true communism spread like he hoped, but I won’t. Today will mark the dawn of a new day in the earth’s history.”

Flynn grew tired of the old man spouting his misguided idealism. Despite all of the awful things Flynn had to do in the name of protecting the freedom of the American people, he knew people don’t change by force. Strangely enough, he shared some of Buscape’s sentiments, but starting a war was no way to accomplish it—nor would it ever accomplish anything in the end other than more war. He wasn’t about to let the codger take millions of innocent lives.