State of the Union (12 page)

“Former deputy director,” replied Harvath, “He now heads a new division of our Department of Homeland Security called the Office of International Investigative Assistance.”

“What does this office do exactly?”

“Their mission is to help solve and prevent terrorist acts against Americans and American interests both at home and abroad.”

“And your connection here is?”

“Gary Lawlor is my new boss,” said Harvath, hoping that the bone he had thrown them had enough meat on it to make them happy.

“So no more Secret Service?” asked Herman.

“No more Secret Service,” responded Harvath.

“I guess that will have to do for now,” said Sebastian.

“So you’re in?” replied Harvath.

“Yeah, we’re in. Here’s what I am prepared to do. Since we are apparently going to continue without official sanction, I want this contained. If it blows up in our faces, I don’t want to drag my entire team down. I will let the rest of the men go. Max and I will get a hold of the bank and traffic footage—”

“How do you plan on doing that?” asked Harvath.

“I think we’ll let the police do it for us.”

“Won’t they be suspicious of the involvement of two MEK operatives?”

“Not if they think we’re fellow investigators,” said Max as he fished a set of authentic looking credentials out of his pocket that identified him as a special federal investigator.

Sebastian walked over to Max’s BMW and as he opened the door and climbed into the passenger seat, said over his shoulder, “We’ll call you on Herman’s cell phone as soon as we have everything and tell you where to meet us.”

Max followed, slapping the side of the trunk to make sure Heinrich hadn’t fallen asleep and said, “Time to get back to work, Liebling.”

Moments later, all that was left in the parking lot was a pair of tire tracks in the light snow that had begun to accumulate.

“Back inside?” asked Herman.

“No. I’ve got someplace else in mind.”

“Really? I didn’t think you knew Berlin very well.”

“Actually,” responded Harvath, “I don’t. This is a place a friend of mine used to frequent. Let’s get going. I’ll explain in the car.”

F
rank Leighton had called the number from his satellite phone two times more than he probably should have. Nothing was making sense. He was completely isolated. He had had no human confirmation of his assignment at all and that made him even less comfortable than he already was about what he was preparing to do. If his handler failed to make contact, he would have no choice but to assume the worst and put the final plan into action. He would get the device as close as he could to his target, set the timer and run like hell. God, he hoped it wouldn’t come to that.

Once again he heard the words as if they had just been spoken to him, “The protocol is infallible. The protocol will never be wrong.” Frank Leighton had been trained to follow through on his orders and that was exactly what he was going to have to do. Still, if he could just get some sort of confirmation…

There was no choice but to slam the iron door back down on his misgivings and focus his energy on the task at hand. According to his initial readings, the device was still stable even after all these years. Good, that only helped to make his job that much easier. He didn’t want this to turn into a suicide mission.

Leighton used nothing more than the light from a filtered headlamp to illuminate the rocks he was clearing to create a makeshift path down to the beach. Once the slope was clear, he unpacked what could best be described as a child’s wagon on steroids. The lightweight, brushed aluminum cart boasted knobby rubber tires attached to a sophisticated air shock suspension system. Frank Leighton wasn’t leaving anything to chance.

He loaded the wagon with stones, equivalent in weight to the deadly payload he knew he would soon have to transport, and maneuvered it down to the beach where his dinghy was moored. He went back and forth several times, memorizing the terrain, paying close attention to every potential pitfall until he knew it well enough to make the trip with his eyes closed.

His task complete, he disassembled the wagon, covered over its tracks and rowed the dilapidated dinghy back out to the rusting fishing trawler. On board, he brewed a small pot of strong Finnish coffee and prepared a meal of pea soup, rye bread, herring, and pickled cucumbers. His training had taught him that food was a cover just as important as being able to speak the local language. While it might seem strange to the uninitiated, a good operative knew that mankind still relied on its sense of smell, though not nearly as much as other senses. Many Special Forces soldiers in Vietnam were convinced that their ability to elude detection came in part only after they began eating, and thereby smelling, like their enemy. The additional benefit of eating like a local was that should the galley of the trawler ever be searched, it would yield nothing out of the ordinary.

He took his meal to the wheelhouse and listened to the marine radio chatter of lonely Finnish and Russian fishermen plying the cold Baltic Sea. Several men spoke of an approaching storm, and Leighton felt a chill as a gust of wind found its way through a poorly insulated gap between two of the windows. He was glad he didn’t have to be out there tonight, but at the same time, he dreaded how soon he would have to move. He decided to try to make contact one more time.

I
t had taken Milesch Popov two years to find the weapon he now held in his hand. He had been watching an American documentary on modern-day gangsters when he first saw it—the Thompson ZG-51 Pit Bull. The .45-caliber pistol was the rage with all the high-level crime kingpins in East L.A. While lesser wannabe gangsters were running around with their nine millimeters, classy, more self-confident original gangsters were fully strapped with Pit Bulls, complete with a depiction of the notorious dog.

Popov had an engraver give the Pit Bull on the pistol’s slide a huge set of balls. Then, carved right in front of the animal, was the outline of a naked woman on her hands and knees with a huge set of tits covered by the letters O.G. for original gangster. What Popov lacked in class, he definitely made up for in creativity.

As he pulled back the slide of his Pit Bull to chamber a round, Popov made a mental note to invoice Stavropol for this recent purchase of custom ammunition. After all, it was a legitimate expense, one which Popov couldn’t imagine conducting his business without. The armor-piercing rounds were made from hardened machined steel that had been hand-dipped in Teflon. With his enemies relying more and more on heavily armored cars and bulletproof vests, complete with titanium trauma plates over their hearts, he needed every advantage he could get.

The armor piercing rounds had become his signature and though they did seem a bit of an overkill for what he was about to do, he had modeled his career on the old Russian proverb,
while fame travels slowly, at least notoriety travels fast
. The runaway orphan from Nizhnevartovsk had learned much during his short time in this world.

The missing general had been easier to find than Popov had expected—though he wouldn’t inform his current benefactor of that fact. No, he would let the famous General Sergei Olegovich Stavropol believe that he had moved heaven and earth to track down his quarry. In reality, it had been as simple as driving to certain shops in and around Zvenigorod, making inquiries.

After having examined the empty grave at the hunting lodge, Popov had decided to operate under the assumption that General Anatoly Karganov was indeed wounded, but not dead. Either he had escaped under his own power, or someone had helped him. Under the circumstances, Karganov would not have been able to return home. It would have been too dangerous. In fact, if his injuries were serious enough, he might not have been able to travel very far at all.

At the very least, Karganov probably would have needed some sort of medical attention. With this in mind, Popov had visited not only every physician, but also every veterinarian within a fifty-kilometer radius. Popov had a way of making most people, especially hardworking law-abiding citizens, feel uncomfortable around him. Maybe it was his slightly repugnant, street-savvy demeanor or the way his eyes held you in their gaze and never let go that made most people automatically assume he was a special investigator or some other State law enforcement officer. Not one soul bothered to ask him for identification. His suit alone, hell, even his shoes, cost more than what most of the people in the Odinstovo area saw in an entire year. Whoever he was, Milesch Popov was important and conveyed the distinct impression that failing to cooperate with him brought with it a slew of undesirable consequences.

When the physician and veterinarian trail went cold, Popov moved to the next item on his checklist—stores that sold any type of medical supplies. He left no stone unturned. If a shop carried anything that even remotely resembled what he was looking for, he paid them a visit.

It was at the end of a very long day, when most of the shops were preparing to close, that his efforts appeared to be finally paying off. “
Dobri vyechyer,
” he said in an officious tone to the aging shopkeeper, as he scanned the provincial pharmacy’s scantily stocked shelves. “Do you sell bandages?”

“
Da,
” replied the old man, pointing to where the bandages were.

“And antibiotics?”

“
Da,
” repeated the old man as he came around the counter to help direct his wealthy young customer.

“How about antiseptic?”

“We’re all out,” said the man as he shook his head
no
.

When Popov asked him why he didn’t have any antiseptic on hand, the shopkeeper explained that a young woman had come in and bought all that he had. She had also bought several boxes of bandages, and a healthy amount of antibiotics.

Immediately, Popov’s interest was piqued and his questions began flowing.
Did the shopkeeper recognize her?
No, he didn’t.
Was she local?
No, she was definitely not local.
What did she need the medical supplies for?
She didn’t say.
Do you know where she is staying?
No, but he did direct her to the market around the corner where she could buy food and order firewood.

And, without so much as a ‘
spaseeba,
’ Popov was out the door and headed toward the local
riynak
.

The woman who ran the market prided herself on being well informed on everything that happened in their small village. In other words, she was an insufferable gossip. It took very little for Milesch Popov to coax out of her the location of the dacha where the old woman’s son had delivered the order of firewood. It was only three kilometers away.

Popov hid his car up the road and picked his way by foot through scrawny trees with bare, claw-like branches to the dilapidated house. Above the poorly shingled roof, small tendrils of smoke rose into the sky from a rusting stovepipe. In the driveway sat a lone Lada hatchback. As Popov approached it, he withdrew his stiletto and slashed both of the Lada’s front tires. Returning the knife to his coat pocket, Popov maneuvered himself closer to one of the dacha’s rear windows to get a good look inside.

In his thin, Italian calfskin loafers, his feet were beyond freezing, but when he saw the man propped upright in a small metal-framed bed with his head wrapped turban style in a long white bandage, Popov was suddenly infused with a surge of warmth.

He crept a safe distance away from the house, withdrew his cell phone and dialed. Stavropol answered on the third ring.

“I have found your package,” said Popov.

“Where?” asked Stavropol, the moan of a ship’s horn discernable in the near distance.

“Out in the countryside.”

“I knew it,” purred Stavropol. “Listen carefully. I’m going to give you an address. I want you to put the body into the trunk of your car and drive it—”

“There’s a small problem.”

“I paid you to find a body, not problems. Now I want you to put him in your—”

“He’s alive,” interrupted Popov.

“What do you mean,
he’s alive
?”

“A
live
—as in
not dead
.”

“That’s impossible,” snarled Stavropol.

“I was just looking at him. He’s got a bandage around his head and he’s sitting upright in a bed.”

“Are you sure it’s him?”

“Would I be calling you if I wasn’t? He looks just like the picture you sent me, so either it’s him, or he’s got a double with a very bad head wound.”

“Head wound,” reflected Stavropol. “Damn it. Is he alone?”

“I don’t know. I only took a quick look through the window. I think there might be a woman in there with him,” replied Popov.

“I want you to find out for sure and then kill them both.”

“
Kill them both
?”

“Don’t act so unsettled, Milesch. I know you’ve killed before. That’s why I chose you.”

“Our deal was only that I find him,” responded Popov.

“That’s when we thought he was already dead.”

“Well, killing him and anyone else who’s with him is going to cost you more.”

“How much more?” asked Stavropol, not surprised that Popov was asking for more money. Had Stavropol been closer, he would have done the job himself, but he couldn’t risk losing Karganov in the time it would take him to get there. Stavropol waited longer than he should have for Popov to respond and when he didn’t, he said, “Popov, are you there or not? What’s going on?”

Alexandra Ivanova pressed the silencer of her nine-millimeter Walther P4 hard against the spot where Milesch Popov’s left ear met his skull. The steel tube felt like ice to him, but that was only part of what made him freeze. He was absolutely amazed that anyone could have snuck up behind him. He had been so careful. Or so he had thought.

“You’ll have to call them back,” said Alexandra. “Drop your weapon and hang up now.”

Stavropol’s voice could be heard coming from the cell phone, “Milesch? Milesch? What’s going on there?”

Popov didn’t move. He just stood there in shock.

“No second chances,” said Alexandra as she readjusted the angle of her silencer and then pulled the Walther’s trigger.

There was the sound of a muffled cough and then Popov roared in pain as his earlobe was torn from his head in a spatter of blood and pink tissue. Both his weapon and the cell phone fell to the ground as his hands shot to the left side of his head, frantically searching for what was left of his ear.

Stavropol’s voice could still be heard shouting through the cell phone, “Popov! Popov! What’s happening?”

Alexandra shattered the phone with a bullet and then gave Popov a quick kick to the back of one of his knees, knocking him down. As he clutched desperately at his ear, the snow running red with his blood, Alexandra retrieved his Pit Bull and ordered him to get up.

“Over to the car,” instructed Alexandra, waving her Walther in the direction of the Lada. “Hands on the hood. Let’s go. Legs spread apart—wide.”

Popov did as he was told, the blood running down his neck, staining the white collar of his expensive dress shirt. “I don’t know who you are—” he said as Alexandra tucked the Pit Bull underneath her jacket at the small of her back.

“Zamalcheetyeh!” Shut up!
, she ordered as she used her free hand to pat Popov down for additional weapons. She found the stiletto and tucked it in one of her pockets. She also found his State Inspector credentials with the name Leuchin, as well as a wallet with a driver’s license under the name Popov.

“As the man you were talking to was calling you Popov,” said Alexandra as she removed his handkerchief from his front pocket, “I’m guessing this State Inspector identification is a fake, and looking closer at it, a rather bad one at that. Turn around.”

“I’m going to fucking kill you, you bitch!” spat Popov.

“You had your chance and you blew it, remember? Now, take your coat off.”

“
Yob tvoyu mat!
”

“Fuck
my
mother?” asked Alexandra as she pointed her weapon at Popov’s kneecap and fired. “No, fuck yours.”

Popov fell to the ground screaming. “You bitch! You fucking bitch!”

“Per-ee-staan haameetca,” Quit your complaining
, she said. “I only grazed your knee. Now get up and take off your jacket.”

Popov struggled upright and did as he was told.

“The suit coat as well. Good. Now throw them both off to the side.”

When Popov had done what Alexandra had asked, she balled up the handkerchief and threw it at him. After he had dabbed his ear and then tied it around his wounded knee to stem the bleeding, Alexandra waved her pistol in the direction of the cottage. “Inside,” she commanded. “Let’s go.”

Popov led the way while Alexandra followed several paces behind, her Walther pointed right at the base of the man’s spine.

They entered the small ramshackle dwelling via the kitchen door. Alexandra waved her pistol at a lone chair against the wall and said, “I want you to sit down over there and don’t move.”

As Popov sat down in the chair, he watched Alexandra cross to a large, cast iron stove. She deftly flicked open the grate with the toe of her boot. The fire inside had burned down to almost nothing but glowing embers. She threw in another piece of wood and kicked the grate shut. With her pistol still trained on Popov, she put one hand on the door jamb and looked into the dacha’s other room to check on her patient who had just started to come around.

Satisfied that he was okay for the moment, Alexandra returned her attention to Popov. “So,” she began, “you must be my repentant husband.”

Popov pretended that he didn’t know what she was talking about, but the look in his eyes was confirmation enough.

“That’s what you told the old lady who runs the
riynak
, isn’t it? We had a fight, I left Moscow to think about things for a while, but you couldn’t stand us being apart any longer and wanted to find me so you could make it up to me? She bought it at first, but after you left she began to worry. What if you were coming here to do me harm? Little did she know how right she was,” said Alexandra as she removed the Pit Bull from underneath her jacket, released the magazine, and ejected the chambered round.

“Armor piercing,” she remarked, as she picked up the lone bullet and rolled it between her fingers. “Who the hell are you, Mr. Milesch Popov?”

Popov just stared at her as she placed his pistol and its ammunition on the top of a faded hutch resting atop an old sideboard near the stove.
How could a woman so beautiful be so vicious?
he wondered.

Long slim legs, narrow waist, ample chest, full lips, green eyes, and shoulder-length blond hair indeed made Alexandra Ivanova beautiful, very beautiful, but that beauty had often times been as much a hindrance to her as it had been an asset. Because of those startling good looks she had had to work harder than most to earn the respect of her peers, both in the Russian Military and then later at the FSB. Too often, she was seen as just a pretty face. Her male superiors had always coveted her and she was constantly fending off their advances. More times than she cared to remember had she given herself to a man only to be betrayed in the end. They had no desire to relate to her as an equal, they only wanted to possess her as a thing, an object. She eventually decided that if given the chance, people will let you down every single time. There really was no one she could trust.