Devil's Fortress, page 14
With a soft grunt, he stretched his stiff arms and legs. He’d been keeping track of comings and goings from the skyscraper—at least those visible from this concealed vantage point—for several days, sleeping only in short snatches when he could no longer stay awake.
Keeping one eye on the screen, he unwrapped a protein bar and took a bite. Ah, all the texture of the finest cardboard, he thought, chewing steadily, but without any of its natural wood pulp flavor. Crunching down one or two of the concentrated energy bars in an emergency was fine. Living off them for days wasn’t much fun. Even Russian army rations—with their packs of gooey processed cheese, stale crackers, overly sweet apple jam, and lumpy, ready-to-heat beef and barley porridge—would be a feast in comparison. Unfortunately, he couldn’t risk anyone catching the smell of cooked food wafting out of what was supposed to be an empty apartment. The elderly Russian pensioners clinging to their own shabby, rent-controlled flats were a nosy bunch.
Cooke felt a wry smile cross his face. He’d signed on to snoop around Voronin’s corporate headquarters of his own free will. And in doing so, he’d broken the first important military commandment: Never volunteer. So, while bitching to himself about the consequences might have made him feel a little better, it didn’t do a thing to change the overall situation. Boredom, discomfort, and exhaustion were the three guaranteed constants of any solo surveillance operation. Years of covert work around the world, almost always in Third World hellholes, had taught him that the hard way.
Well, at least this particular operation was nearing its conclusion. Or so he hoped. But several variables had to shake out in just the right order for that to happen. First, the assessment by Four’s still-unidentified intelligence asset that Voronin was basically holed up inside the Mercury City Tower had to prove accurate. Second, Flynn and Van Horn had to be right in tying the ownership of a private aircraft, a Bombardier Global 7500 executive jet based at Moscow’s Vnukovo Airport, to the Russian oligarch. And finally, the flight tracking data Fox had been emailing him all day needed to actually mean something. Currently, it showed the jet in question heading to Moscow on a return flight from Volgograd.
Cooke knew there was a chance he was committing a classic blunder. Leaping to a desired conclusion using assumptions loosely pinned together by wishful thinking was a common error in the intelligence business. But he’d spent enough days and nights cautiously poking around the Mercury City Tower to realize continuing to play it safe wasn’t going to yield any useful information. Sometimes you just had to roll the dice and hope you got lucky.
His smartphone buzzed softly. He answered it. “Yes?”
“Mr. Zimin,” a familiar voice said, “this is the pharmacy. Your prescription for blood pressure medication is ready for pickup. A three months’ supply.”
“Can you deliver it instead?” Cooke asked. “I can’t leave the office just yet.”
“Certainly,” the other man said. “But we would, of course, need to add an 18 percent surcharge to cover our fuel and labor costs.”
“I see,” Cooke said, hesitating briefly as though he were doing the mental math needed to figure out how much more he’d be paying for delivery. “That’s a bit steep,” he said at last. “I’ll swing by when I can and pick the pills up myself.”
The caller thanked him for his business and hung up.
Cooke considered what he’d been told. Tony McGill—the head of the Quartet Directorate’s European action team—was acting as his backup on this surveillance op. Masquerading as a Russian businessman in Moscow for a meeting with clients, the Englishman had checked into Vnukovo’s Doubletree by Hilton earlier in the day. The hotel, located directly across the street from the airport, offered good views of the flight line from its upper-floor rooms. And now, using Four’s special word code, McGill had confirmed that the executive jet they were tracking had just landed at Vnukovo, where a convoy of six vehicles was meeting it.
Cooke’s pulse quickened. While he supposed there was a slim chance McGill had actually spotted a different Russian VIP, maybe some other corporate chieftain with similarly expensive tastes in personal aircraft, the safe bet now was that this was Voronin. And that he would soon be returning to his lair.
Less than an hour later, Cooke was sure.
His concealed peephole camera picked up a group of tough-looking men in dark suits as they left the Mercury City Tower. Moving briskly, they joined a trio of uniformed police officers on duty at the parking garage entrance. Two of the newcomers flashed ID cards and then snapped orders. With indifferent shrugs, the cops moved aside, leaving what he was sure were Raven Syndicate security personnel in sole command of the entry barrier.
Cooke’s mouth tightened. It was clear who was running the show over there. His fingers scrolled across his tablet, zooming the camera in to take a closer look at those men in dark suits. Discreet bulges under their jackets marked concealed weapons. Several carried attaché cases far more likely to hold compact submachine guns than corporate paperwork. That was a lot of firepower on tap. Way too much for the anticipated arrival of any regular building resident or visitor—no matter how wealthy or high-powered they might be compared to most Muscovites.
He zoomed the camera back out. Moments later, it picked up a line of six black limousines turning onto the avenue from the direction of the Third Ring Road. That was the most direct route for anyone coming from Vnukovo International. “Gotcha, Pavel, you rat bastard,” he murmured.
Swiftly, Cooke slipped the tablet into his pocket and grabbed a bike helmet and backpack from beside the overturned crate he’d been sitting on. Then he clipped a walkie-talkie to his bright orange reflective vest and inserted a pair of earbuds. It was time to put on a show.
Cautiously, he cracked the door he’d jimmied open days before and stole a look outside. His eyes flicked left and right. This floor’s dimly lit hallway was clear. None of his unwitting neighbors were in sight.
Aware that the clock was running, Cooke slipped through the door and descended the stairs to the ground floor. There, a battered service door let him out into a narrow alley. His bicycle was chained up at the far end, well out of sight of the street. He unlocked the bike and, moving faster now, wheeled it back down the alley. He came out onto the street in time to see the last of the black limos turning in through the entrance to the Mercury City Tower’s underground garage. Moments later, its red tail lights disappeared down a ramp.
After settling the neon red plastic bike helmet firmly on his head, he swung a leg over his bicycle and started off—weaving in and out between slow-moving cars and trucks as he cut across the avenue and angled toward the huge skyscraper. Horns blared behind him in irritation, but he only shrugged his shoulders and kept pedaling. It was all part of the act. Bike messengers were the same the world over—always in a hurry, heedless of their own safety or that of others, and relying on quick reflexes to get out of any jam.
One of the Raven Syndicate security men saw him coming and curtly flagged him to a halt on the pavement. “You there!” he growled, striding closer. “Where the fuck do you think you’re going?”
“Easy there, comrade,” Cooke said soothingly. He let go of the bike’s handlebars and took out his earbuds, letting the other man hear the heavy metal blasting out of them. “It’s no big deal. I’m just making a delivery. That’s all.”
Impatiently, the security man snapped his fingers. “Show me!”
“Hey, no problem,” Cooke said, sliding the backpack off his shoulder. He unzipped it and pulled out a thick manila envelope. He indicated the recipient’s address, which was an apartment on one of the upper floors of the Mercury City Tower. “See?”
Scowling, the guard took the envelope from him and examined it through narrowed eyes. Slowly, he turned it end over end, poking at the seals and flaps as if to make sure they hadn’t been tampered with.
While he waited patiently for the man to finish checking out the package, Cooke risked a casual glance around. He wasn’t the only one who’d been pulled aside. The other Raven Syndicate security men were stopping every pedestrian or vehicle trying to enter the immediate area. Paranoids R Us, he thought coldly. Voronin’s people weren’t taking any chances, especially while their master was out in the open—at least to the extent that a heavily guarded gated parking garage could be considered as “the open.”
Apparently satisfied, the guard thrust the envelope at him. “All right, you can go.” He stepped back and waved toward the skyscraper’s elaborate front entrance. Tall metal structures—part modern sculpture, part light fixture, and part shelter from rain or snow—lined the walkway. Tubular steel columns supported overhanging glass panels. They were clearly intended to convey the impression of oak trees in autumn, down to the scattering of red and gold leaf symbols imprinted on each transparent panel. “Report to the security desk in the main lobby. They’ll handle everything from there.”
“Thanks, comrade,” Cooke said with a polite nod. Reinserting his earbuds and humming along with his music under his breath, he walked his bicycle over to where several bronze-tinted sliding glass doors opened into the lobby. He chained up the bike and went inside.
His first impression of the Mercury City Tower’s lobby was one of immense space. The ceiling rose at least fifty feet above a vast white marble floor. Its recessed translucent panels glowed with light. Yards-long digital screens lined the walls, showing the latest news and advertising the virtues of the building’s commercial tenants—an array of luxury retail stores, wealthy business enterprises, and highly rated and very exclusive restaurants.
Cooke’s second impression was that he’d just set foot inside an armed camp. At the far end of the enormous open space, rows of key card–operated turnstiles blocked access to huge elevator banks. Beyond the turnstiles, airport-style metal detectors and X-ray screening machines provided an added layer of security against smuggled weapons or explosives. Armed guards were visible everywhere he looked. Those seated at the security desk wore jackets emblazoned with the Mercury City Tower’s corporate logo. Others in dark suits, with the hard-eyed look of veteran soldiers, were posted to observe the key card-controlled entrances and the elevators. Those must be more of Voronin’s men, he determined.
Still humming softly to himself, he walked nonchalantly across the cavernous space to the long desk manned by the skyscraper’s own rent-a-cops. One of the guards looked up from the computer screen he’d been watching. “Yes?”
Cooke pulled out his earbuds. “Got a delivery for someplace on the forty-sixth floor,” he said, unzipping his backpack and retrieving the thick manilla envelope. “What’s my best way there, comrade?”
The security man snorted. “There isn’t one . . . comrade.” He snapped his fingers. “Hand that over. Our internal mail service will take it from here.”
Regretfully, Cooke shook his head. “No can do,” he said. He flipped the envelope around to show the other man the form attached to the front. In bold red lettering, it stated, confidential financial material. signature required for delivery.
With a frown, the security guard swiveled toward his closest colleague. “What’s procedure here, Yuri?”
The other man shrugged. “Call the addressee. If they want the envelope, give this clown a visitor’s pass and send him on up.”
Nodding, the first guard swung back and peered closely at the name and address on the envelope. Then he entered the information into his computer, highlighted the appropriate number, and had it dialed by the system’s internal communications network. “Mr. Povetkin? This is the front desk. A signature-only package for you has just arrived. Should we send the messenger up?” He listened to the answer coming through his headset and then nodded rapidly. “Yes, sir. No problem. Yes, sir. Thank you.” When he disconnected, he looked over at Cooke with a sour expression. “Okay. You can go on up.” He reached into a drawer behind the desk and tossed him a bright yellow key card plainly marked temporary. “Use that to pass through the turnstiles. But don’t forget to drop it off here on your way out. Clear?”
Cooke nodded. “Clear as a sunny day.” He smiled. “Anything else I should know?”
“Yeah,” the guard told him. “You go in. You take the elevator to the right floor. You deliver your package. You come back down. That’s it. Don’t go wandering around. That card tracks your movements, so if you deviate in the slightest, we’ll know—and we’ll arrest your sorry ass for criminal trespass. And then we’ll probably beat the shit out of you for making our jobs harder. Got it?”
Cooke whistled. “That’s hardcore, comrade. Got it.” He leaned over the desk with a friendly grin and lowered his voice a notch. “Hey, what’s with all the high-tech security? Got a super-famous sports star living here? Or some big-name film actress or maybe a pop singer?”
The guard leaned closer himself. “You really want to know the truth?” he asked quietly.
“Sure.”
“It’s none of your damn business. Now shut up and deliver your package.”
Acting abashed, Cooke bobbed his head. “Shutting up,” he muttered. Crap, this place is wired up tighter than Fort Knox, he thought. The yellow visitor key card got him through the turnstiles. But passing through the combination of x-ray and metal detector screening beyond them took several more painful and humiliating minutes. The Raven Syndicate troops assigned to the checkpoint did everything but subject him to a cavity search, and he had the clear impression they would gladly have tossed him out on his ear given even the slightest excuse. He noted that people who swiped red keycards to pass through the turnstiles were automatically waved past the additional weapons screening.
Cooke was feeling very thoughtful indeed by the time he finally approached the banks of elevators that opened into the lobby area. According to the limited information available on the internet, at least twenty passenger and nine separate freight elevators served the huge skyscraper. By his quick count, roughly half were accessible from this side of the building. But he immediately noticed that three of the elevators—two passenger and one freight—were indicated as restricted access only. They could only be summoned using the special red key cards.
Careful not to show too much interest in those elevators, he moved instead to take one of the regular lifts open to visitors and ordinary residents. When the car doors pinged shut, he saw that the call buttons for floors 43-45 had been removed and replaced by a blank metal panel. No surprise, he thought. Those were the floors occupied by the Raven Syndicate. He studiously controlled his expression. Voronin and company were obviously not fond of uninvited guests.
Skipping over the empty space, Cooke tapped the button for the forty-sixth floor and rode up. Thirty seconds later, the high-speed elevator glided smoothly to a stop. With a soft chime, the doors opened into a wide corridor. He stepped out, immediately aware of the atmosphere of carefully crafted elegance created by the original artwork lining its wood-paneled walls. Like most of the Mercury Center Tower’s upper levels, this floor was allocated to large luxury apartments.
He turned down the hall and ambled casually along, making a show of checking door numbers to find the correct address. All the while, however, he was using his peripheral vision to scope out his surroundings, including the location of the nearest emergency staircase. He paid special attention to the discreet placement of surveillance cameras. From what he could tell, the building’s security team could observe every public space inside the Mercury City Tower at the push of a button.
Cooke reached the apartment he’d been looking for and rapped on the door.
A moment later, a dour-faced man attired in a long-sleeved white shirt, gray tie, pale blue vest, and dark slacks pulled it open. “Yes?”
“Mr. Povetkin?” Cooke asked, holding up the manilla envelope. Povetkin was a wealthy Russian private equity banker.
“No,” the other man said. “I’m his personal assistant.” He held out his hand. “I’ll take that for him.”
Cooke fumbled in his pocket for a pen. “I need a signature,” he pointed out mildly. He waited while the assistant scrawled a signature across the form, detached it from the envelope, and handed it back. “Thanks, comrade,” he said cheerfully, slipping the piece of paper into his pocket. Then he held out a hand, palm up. “Hey, any chance of a―”
The assistant shut the apartment door in his face.
“Tip?” Cooke finished. He shrugged his shoulders. “Guess not.” He turned away, hiding a smile as he imagined the likely reaction of Povetkin when the banker read through the document he’d just delivered. It was an unsolicited invitation to participate in a project funded by Sykes-Fairbairn Strategic Investments, one of the Quartet Directorate’s long-established front companies. Based on the cost structure, fees, and anticipated profits it disclosed, any rational businessman would shred the investment offer and dump it in the trash without a second thought. Then again, its sole purpose had been to provide him with a seemingly legitimate excuse to visit this heavily guarded building—so at least that part of his plan had worked like a charm.
Unfortunately, that was about the only positive result from today’s reconnaissance exercise Cooke could see. The multiple overlapping layers of security he’d observed had given him a lot to think about . . . none of it good. Try as he might to be optimistic, it seemed clear that attempting to nail Voronin inside the Mercury Center Tower would end up being, in the memorable phrase coined by some ancient philosopher, “nasty, brutish, and short.”
CHAPTER
EIGHTEEN
