Scorpion: A Covert Ops Novel (Second Edition) (18 page)

The van was now
right behind them and close, Avery noted.

“Get off at the
next exit,” Dagar commanded.

The turn
approached.

Half a mile, a
thousand feet, three hundred feet, then they passed it.

“What are you
doing?” the Tajik shouted.

“Take a deep
breath and relax, Dagar,” Avery said. “We’re doing fifty-five. Pull that trigger,
you’ll waste me, but my foot is on the gas and I’ve got the wheel. What the
hell do you think will happen to you? This piece of shit doesn’t have airbags.”

Dagar considered
this and accepted the logic. He regained his composure.  “Slow down, please,
and pull over to the side of the highway.”

In response,
Avery pressed the gas a little harder and picked up speed as he steered the car
out of the lane, overtaking another vehicle, and moved over to the shoulder.
Horns blared behind him. Before Dagar could protest or make any threats, Avery
abruptly applied pressure to the brakes and threw the Lada into a fast and hard
full stop.

Dagar jolted
forward. He didn’t wear a seatbelt, and his ass lifted off the seat as he was
propelled forward against the dashboard. He lost hold of the CZ-999 when his
head smacked against the windshield, his forehead putting a crack in the glass.
The pistol fluttered out of his fingers and went across the top of the dash.

Behind them, the
 brakes on the pursuing van screeched as the driver pulled over, halfway off
the lane onto the shoulder, no more than twenty feet behind the Lada. Three
more cars veered around the stopped vehicles, horns blaring, and continued down
the highway, making way for Poacher’s Datsun.

The ex-Delta NCO
saw the stopped vehicles ahead. Not knowing what was going on, he braked hard
and stopped ten feet behind the van and reached for the SOCOM pistol resting on
the passenger seat, while keying his mike to ask Avery for a SitRep. He
received no response.  

Glancing in the
rearview mirror, Avery was aware of this activity and the positions of the
other players.  Beside him, Dagar, dazed, bled from his forehead and broken
nose. Then his eyes lifted and locked onto the CZ-999 on the dash.

Avery followed
Dagar’s line of sight to the gun and saw the Tajik’s hand shoot out.  Avery
reached past Dagar and swept the pistol off the dashboard. He pulled back the
slide to eject the chambered bullet and pressed the magazine release. Then,
adjusting his grip so that he held the pistol by the barrel, he raised it in
the air and hammered the butt against Dagar’s head, once, twice, three times.
Dagar groaned and slumped forward.  

Drawing his Glock
from beneath his jacket, Avery opened his door, got out of the car, and hurled
the CZ-999 off the side of the highway. He spun around on his heels and raised
the Glock, holding it two-handed in the weaver stance, pointing it at the van.  

Doors on each side
of the van were already open, and the three occupants stormed out. They carried
AKS-74Us—the compact 7.62mm carbine version the AKM; essentially a cross
between an assault rifle and a submachine gun. The two men who had been in the
back of the van turned at once around to cover the tailing Datsun, where
Poacher had just sprung up from behind the open driver side door, while the
van’s driver set his sights on Avery.

Avery’s reaction
time was faster.

The IMU driver
barely got the AK to his shoulder before Avery sighted his Glock, aligning the
white dot between the aiming aperture and over his target. His finger broke the
trigger with three and a half pounds of pressure. Instantly, recovering from
the recoil, he reacquired his aim and fired again.  

Both shots
struck the IMU in the chest. The Uzbek’s body jerked, and he sluggishly took
another step forward. His arms sagged with the AK carbine, as if it suddenly
weighed a ton, and he staggered back a couple steps. Avery’s third shot took
the Uzbek straight through the face and dropped him.

Sixteen feet
away, before Avery fired his kill shot, another IMU directed a stream of fire
across the hood and through the windshield of Poacher’s Datsun. Poacher,
positioned behind the open driver’s door, got off a couple rounds from his Mk
23 SOCOM pistol. The Uzbek took the hit below his ribs. He stayed on his feet,
but he fell back for cover.

Hollywood movies
aside, cars are easily perforated by bullets and made for terrible cover.
Doubled over and keeping his head low, both hands on the SOCOM pistol, Poacher
maneuvered back toward the rear of the car, AK fire following him.  

With the Glock
angled toward the ground in front of him, Avery advanced along the shoulder of
the highway, the van coming up on his left as he closed the gap toward the
Datsun.

The van obscured
his view, and now he didn’t have eyes on either of the IMU pair, but he heard
the familiar crack of AK fire and the return of an unsuppressed SOCOM pistol
and two voices calling out in frantic Uzbek.

 Avery took wide
deliberate steps, covering as much ground as he could with each step, while
scanning and maintaining situational awareness. He swept his eyes over the
interior of the van, through the windshield and open door, as he passed it. It
was empty.

 As he stepped
up alongside the van toward its rear, offering him a view of the Datsun now,
Avery heard a new burst of AK fire.

Seven feet away,
the pair of IMU presented their backs to him. They approached the Datsun from
either side, their AK-74Us shouldered and pointed toward the rear of the car,
ready for Poacher to pop up and present a target when he tried to come up to
get another shot off. Avery put three rounds between the right-side Uzbek’s
shoulder blades. The man grunted and fell over.

The remaining
IMU immediately snapped around before his partner even hit the ground, his
AK-74U held in the ready position, his eyes on Avery. Avery snapped off a quick
 shot—too far to the left—and retreated back alongside the side of the van as
the IMU sent a stream of 5.56mm in his direction.

Poacher saw his
opening. He broke cover and drilled the IMU through the side of his chest and
arm with multiple .45 hollow points. The Uzbek still clung to his rifle as he
went down, his right arm now disabled and dangling uselessly at his side. He
dropped onto one knee and then fell over onto his side, moaning and breathing
hard. Avery stepped out from his cover and put a round through the Uzbek’s head
to finish him off.

Not sure how
many men the van had carried, Avery kept moving, stepping over the dead body
and kicking the rifle away from its hands, and moved cautiously around to the
other side of the van and stopped his search for more targets after Poacher
shouted “clear” and announced that only three tangos had gotten out of the van.

Avery proceeded
back along the length of the shoulder to the Lada. His eyes flicked constantly
onto the highway, paranoid about going the way of Raymond Davis, the CIA
contractor who was arrested by Pakistani police after killing two bandits in
Lahore. Unlike Davis, Avery knew he couldn’t expect the president to appeal to
the Tajiks for his release. Traffic continued to whir by along the highway. Motorists
stared as they passed, but no one stopped. There were no police cars, no sounds
of sirens, yet.  

As he walked
toward him, Avery met Poacher’s gaze and saw his eyes shift and react to
something, and Poacher threw up his SOCOM pistol once more, two handed, and
yelled at Avery to get down.

Avery reacted
immediately. He dropped to the ground out of Poacher’s line of fire, and rolled
onto his back to see Dagar standing twelve feet away scooping an AK off the
ground.

Poacher fired
first and hit Dagar in the chest. Dagar dropped the rifle, staggered forward,
and tripped onto the highway directly into the path of an oncoming truck. It
smashed through him doing sixty, and Dagar went beneath the tires and
undercarriage and was split open. As the truck braked and grinded to a halt
some fifty feet away, it dragged with it the tattered, crushed body and left a
trail of blood and pulped organs on the highway.

“Let’s get the
fuck out of here,” Avery told Poacher.

They returned to
the Lada and slipped inside. Avery put the car into gear and accelerated.

The total
duration of time spent on the side of the highway was fifty-seven seconds. The
firefight, starting with Avery’s first shot, took twelve of those seconds.

Only with the
adrenaline wearing off now did Poacher notice the blood dripping down his left
arm from beneath the sleeve of his t-shirt. He examined the source and found a
hole in the fabric and saw that he’d taken a hit, likely just a ricochet that
had grazed across his arm, but still bad enough.

Avery got off at
the next exit, knowing that there had been no shortage of witnesses and that
Tajik police and GKNB would be on the scene soon and likely looking out for the
Lada.

Poacher
contacted Mockingbird and Reaper. Avery and Poacher met them in Dushanbe seven
minutes later and transferred into their vehicle. They left the Lada behind,
abandoned.

Bordering
Latvia, Lithuania, Poland, Russia, and Ukraine, Belarus is a tiny, landlocked,
heavily forested former Soviet republic with a population of ten million, with
the capital city Minsk located roughly in the center of the country. President
Aleksander Lukashenko’s authoritarian government is referred to as the last
dictatorship of Europe or the North Korea of Europe. Like North Korea, this
country is a lingering despot of communism clinging to power, regarded as an
international pariah, and often the subject of controversy and sanctions
amongst the United Nations and the European Union. The latter banned the travel
of Lukashenko and a hundred sixty of his top advisers, cabinet officers, and
officials to their countries. Lukashenko has been in power since 1994, and most
of his political opponents are in prison. Belarus’ state-controlled, Soviet
style economy is dependent entirely on Russia for financial assistance,
importation of raw materials and natural resources, and exportation of
domestically produced goods.

Aside from the government’s rampant human rights
violations and un-democratic practices, Belarus is also a notorious exporter of
weapons, selling over two billion dollars worth of small arms, technical
components, and military vehicles each year. Most of this money goes directly
into a special fund for the president and his closest advisers. The president
personally oversees every arms transaction through state-owned export
companies.

In the late 1990s, Genex ltd, the Belarusian cargo
carrier, delivered to Afghanistan weapons and equipment that Usama bin Laden
purchased from Serbia. In 2004, Veronika Cherkasova, a journalist investigating
Belarusian arms sales to Iran, was murdered outside her apartment. Belarus
armed Ghadaffi as he struggled to maintain power during the Libyan civil war,
and the UN secretary general personally called out Belarus for shipping military
helicopters to the Ivory Coast’s internationally condemned regime. Most
recently, Minsk armed Syria in its war against the Islamic uprising. Private
jets from rogue regimes and outlaw groups have been caught landing in Minsk,
delivering gold and diamonds to senior officials of Lukashenko’s government.
The West is especially concerned by Belarus’s
negotiations with Tehran to sell Russian-made S-300 missiles to Iran.

In addition to
selling military hardware directly, Belarus is also a safe haven from which
Kremlin-sanctioned arms merchants can store and export their merchandise, most
of which originates from nearby Bulgarian or Czech factories. The Kremlin
itself frequently uses Belarus as a proxy to provide arms to clients that the
Russian Federation cannot do business with directly for political reasons, like
Sudan or, previously, Saddam Hussein. Many Western diplomats believed that
Belarus did very little in its foreign relations without the approval, if not
outright backing, of Moscow.

Most recently,
in response to American and European Union economic sanctions, Belarus has
threatened to withdraw from the Treaty on the Non-Proliferation of Nuclear
Weapons and reacquire its status as a nuclear power. In the first two years
after Belarus became an independent country in 1991, like Ukraine and
Kazakhstan, it was briefly in possession of nuclear missiles from the Soviet
Union, but Belarus eventually turned the warheads over to Russia in exchange
for security guarantees. In August 2013, Moscow and Minsk finalized plans to
begin construction of a permanent base on Belarusian soil that will host
Russian nuclear bombers. In November of the same year, Lukashenko announced
construction of a nuclear power plant.

Although a
frequent target of CIA’s Counter Proliferation Center and Europe Division, as
well as British, Polish, and German intelligence services, Belarus is a
difficult country for the Agency to operate in, due to the closed, repressive
nature of Belarusian society and the reach of the security services. In 2008,
Minsk expelled several CIA officers with diplomatic cover for their involvement
with opposition politicians and parties.

The photographs
provided to Mockingbird by an anonymous source with the Internet handle ADen80
showed the GlobeEx An-22 sitting on a parking revetment at Minsk National. The
aircraft’s identification number— RA8564G—was in clear view on the tail. The
geographic coordinates in the photo’s time and date stamp matched those of
Minsk. The distance between Ayni and Minsk, and the timing of the aircraft’s
departure and arrival, was consistent for a nonstop flight between the two
countries, and Mockingbird was convinced that the picture was genuine.

Before reading
up on Belarus online, Avery had known next to nothing about the country. But Belarus
made a logical destination for Ukrainian arms traffickers and rogue spooks. Maybe
Minsk was just a layover and Cramer had already moved onto another destination
or maybe he was still there. Either way, there was only one way to pick up Cramer’s
trail now.

Avery had no
contacts in Europe. He didn’t have a feel for the local gestalt and the mood on
the streets. He wasn’t intimately familiar with the political and social
landscape and climate the way he was with Afghanistan or Pakistan. He didn’t
know the lay of the streets or how to get around there. He didn’t speak a word
of Belarusian or Russian. In short, he didn’t know how to blend in there. He’d
be even more of an outsider than in Tajikistan. And when someone felt like an
outsider, they invariably acted the part—awkward, unconfident, apprehensive,
and timid— and consequently stood out.  

His previous
experience in Europe was limited to a couple brief jobs back when he’d been a
cleaner. In Poland, he was sent in when the defection of a Russian navy captain
went sour, and Avery was tasked with getting both the agent and his handler out
of Kaliningrad, the Russian enclave nestled on the Baltic Sea between Poland
and Lithuania.

Then, in
Germany, after a terrorist rendition operation went to shit do to incompetent
management and poor OPSEC, Avery had been tasked with sanitizing the safe house
used by the compromised CIA unit—who had already fled the country in a hurry,
with warrants issued for their arrest—and retrieving vital equipment and
materials before German federal police raided the place.

Those had been
the most stressful jobs of his career, far worse than anything he’d come up
against in Iraq or Afghanistan. He didn’t mind having to shoot it out with
terrorists, especially in a war zone where his rules of engagement permitted
him to shoot first. That’s why he trained so hard. But going up against another
country’s police and counterintelligence services and risk spending the rest of
his life in prison was a different story. He didn’t know how the Cold War
generation did it.

Aside from
essentially going into Minsk blind, he’d also be without backup. There’d be no
support from Culler. Sideshow had very specific op orders, Afghanistan or Uzbekistan
was acceptable, with Seventh Floor approval, but their mandate didn’t include
Belarus. Avery could easily end up dead in an alley or spend the rest of his
life in the Amerikanka, Belarus’s notorious Stalin-era KGB-run prison for spies
and political prisoners. And no one would ever know or care.

Simply put, the
Charlie Foxtrot potential was high.

Avery’s first
priority was simply getting into the country. He couldn’t use his Nick Anderson
diplomatic papers. But on a job, he always had a backup. He’d enter on an Irish
passport in the name of Nick Ambrose, a Canadian who had immigrated to Ireland.
Americans and Brits would warrant scrutiny from the Belarusian authorities as a
matter of course, but nobody ever had problems with the Irish or Canadians. Nick
Ambrose was a satellite dish engineer. Avery even had business cards and
fliers, as well as the necessary credit cards, driver’s license, and a Kinsale
Library card.

Aside from a
plausible cover for action, the biggest hurdle was the visa application.
Whether coming to Belarus on business or private matters, visitors were
required to submit their visa application one week in advance. The applicant
also needed to include contact information for the Belarusian citizens they
were visiting or the offices they were doing business with.

Avery continued
reading and clicking websites, and found his solution.

By special
decree of President Lukashenko, visas would not be required for foreigners
visiting Minsk for the three-week-long International Ice Hockey Championship
games, as long as they had their tickets upon arrival.

Avery clicked
onto the International Ice Hockey Championship website. The games had just
started and were into their first week.

It was as solid
a cover as he was going to get within twenty-four hours. Tourists from all over
Europe were flocking to Minsk. And that’s exactly why Lukashenko was waiving
visas. The games would be a huge boost to Minsk’s tourist industry and economy.
But it would also be impossible for the KGB to keep track of every Westerner in
the city, and their surveillance teams would hopefully have higher priorities
than a Canadian hockey fan.

Avery bought
tickets on his Nick Ambrose credit card for games later that week and printed
them. Next, he put his flight plan together and paid for the airline tickets. The
Aeroflot flight to Russia’s Sochi International Airport left Dushanbe
International 8:45AM tomorrow, thirteen hours away.

Unfortunately,
the lack of official cover meant no diplomatic lockboxes in which to smuggle
his equipment into the country without going through Customs. The small x-ray
proof compartment in his suitcase was large enough only for the Glock.

 Sure, he could
arrange through Gerald Rashid to forward his equipment to the embassy at Minsk
so he could pick it up from a local case officer there, but that created an
inevitable chain of records and paperwork in two countries, as well as back at
Langley, and he definitely didn’t want to alert COS Minsk. Avery didn’t know
who the local CIA chief was, but from experience, he knew these guys, or gals, were
often appointed because they were politically reliable. Most didn’t make a move
outside the embassy without ambassadorial permission. They’d be none too happy
to have an independent freelancer, especially one with Avery’s reputation,
operating on their turf, with weapons.  

“And what’s the
plan once you arrive in Minsk?” Poacher asked. He was skeptical and had already
tried to talk Avery out of it.

Avery didn’t
have an answer to the question. Mockingbird had compiled a list of restaurants,
bars, and nightclubs owned or frequented by Russian mafiya
vor
, plus
offices and facilities used by GlobeEx Transport. But scoping out these places
in hopes of finding a familiar face from Ayni was a long-shot. They knew the
hangar and terminal GlobeEx used at Minsk National. Another long-shot, scoping
that place out hoping to catch a glimpse of Cramer, but so far it was the best
he had.

“I’ve arranged a
local contact for you,” Mockingbird said, before Avery could respond to
Poacher’s question. Mockingbird had been quietly working on his laptop the
entire time Avery had been putting together his travel plans. “The source that
provided the intel on the Antonov. He’s willing to meet me, or rather you, I
should say. He’s pretty interested in Litvin’s business, too. I think he’s a
journalist, probably Russian. He said he’s working on a story in Minsk.”

“This can’t be a
good idea,” Poacher said. He didn’t even need to elaborate why, because he knew
Avery was already thinking the same.

“What’s his
name? Have you checked him out?” Avery asked.

 “He won’t
provide a name, but I searched his screen name and got a few hits. That’s how I
surmised he’s a reporter. He’s taking a risk by doing this. Belarus isn’t a
safe place for an investigative reporter. If he’s on the level, he could be a
real asset. At least he may have insight into Litvin’s operations and he’ll know
his way around Minsk.”

“If he’s who you
think he is,” Avery said, “and not a plant set up by Litvin or the Belarusian
KGB.”

“There is that,”
Mockingbird acknowledged meekly.

“If he wants to
stay anonymous, how am I supposed to find him and identify him? I’m not going
to sit around in a hostile country and wait for him to find me.”

“You won’t have
to.” Mockingbird explained the contact procedure he’d worked out with the journalist.
“He’s taking a bigger risk than you. You can scope it out first. If you don’t
like something, simply walk away, and he’ll never even know what you look like
or who you are. He’s the one who has to worry about this being a set-up. At
least it’s better than staking out the airport and hoping to get lucky.”

“Okay. Set it
up. But if I see something I don’t like, or I get a bad feeling, I’m calling it
off.”

“One of my guys
should go with you,” Poacher said. “Our cover will hold over there.”

But Avery shook
his head. “No, I’m going to need to be discreet there. Plus there’s no way
Langley is going to approve it.” And once Langley received and denied Sideshow’s
request for entry into Belarus, eyebrows would be raised. The Seventh Floor
would want to know exactly why Poacher wanted his team in Minsk. Given
Sideshow’s mission in Tajikistan, they’d quickly start making connections
between Belarus and Cramer, and that’s what Avery wanted to avoid.