Devil's Fortress, page 22
“Which leads me to the obvious question,” Fox said finally. “Can you and your team accomplish the mission?”
Flynn looked the older man straight in the eyes. “It won’t be easy. It sure as hell won’t be safe. But, yes, I’m confident that we can.”
Van Horn nodded her agreement.
“And your assessment is based on what you learned from Kondakov?” Fox pressed.
“Correct.” Flynn laid another set of papers on the desk, plus the red access key card they’d obtained from their Russian prisoner. The documents included rough sketches of several of the Mercury City Tower’s above-ground and subterranean floors. Others showed strength estimates for the Raven Syndicate and building security forces and details about their usual deployment patterns and armament. He waited patiently while the other man examined the material.
After several minutes, Fox lifted his head with a questioning look. “On quick inspection, I don’t see any obvious weak points in Voronin’s security arrangements,” he said carefully.
“That’s because there aren’t any,” Van Horn told him. “Trust me on this, Br’er Fox. Nick and I spent days studying the tactical situation from every angle we could think of—digging through what we’ve been told to find even the smallest gap we could exploit. Trouble is, we both came up with zero, zip, nada. Shannon Cooke wasn’t wrong when he said this place is locked down tighter than Fort Knox.”
Fox frowned. He picked up Kondakov’s red key card. “And this?”
“A dead end, I’m afraid,” Flynn said. “We were pretty sure the Raven Syndicate would cancel his building access as soon as they thought he was dead. Nevertheless, I’d hoped we could use that card as a template to forge our own versions. It would have been a nifty way to dodge their weapons screening and gain access to those restricted elevators.” He shrugged. “I ran my idea by some of our technical people. Once they analyzed the way those key cards are programmed, they shot me down fast.”
“Why?”
Flynn nodded at the plastic card in Fox’s hand. “Because whenever a card is scanned, the individual biometric data coded inside it is automatically double-checked against a special database maintained by Mercury City Tower security.”
“So using a key card containing information that’s not already in their system―”
“Would only trigger every damn alarm in the whole building,” Flynn acknowledged.
Fox winced. “And I suppose a similar problem would affect any forged visitor key cards?”
“Yep.” Flynn confirmed. “They may not contain biometric info, but they’re still clearly individually coded in some fashion.”
“Plus, those temporary cards don’t have restricted elevator access, and you can only pick them up at the lobby security desk,” Van Horn pointed out. “And even if we had some way to slip weapons by the metal detectors and screening machines at the entrances, not even rent-a-cops would be dumb enough to hand out visitor passes to a whole bunch of strangers. No matter how politely we asked.”
Fox frowned at them over the top of his glasses. He indicated the papers on his desk. “Then, if there aren’t any gaps or other vulnerabilities in Voronin’s security for you and your team to exploit, I don’t see how you can hope to succeed,” he said. “While I’m willing to accept the risk of casualties in any operation, I am not prepared to countenance a suicide mission.”
“And I don’t plan to go on one,” Flynn countered. “There’s an old quote that dates back to the famous Carthaginian general Hannibal, when his officers protested that his idea of crossing the Alps to invade Italy was nuts. He told them, ‘I will find a way, or make one.’” He offered the older man a tiny cockeyed smile. “There’s our plan in a nutshell. Since we can’t find any serious hole in Voronin’s existing security arrangements, we’re going to make a hole of our own.”
Fox eyed him narrowly for a long silent moment. “I assume you do know that I’m going to need a bit more detail than simply the recitation of a pithy military aphorism, Nick?” he remarked at last, with just the faintest hint of amusement in his voice. “No matter how apt it may be.”
“I kind of figured you might,” Flynn admitted. He leaned forward. “Okay, here’s how Laura and I see this going down―”
Over the next half hour, he laid out the gist of the plan they’d concocted to penetrate the security systems at the Mercury Center Tower and move a strike team into position to kill Pavel Voronin—along with as many of his Raven Syndicate’s senior executives as possible. Fox listened intently, occasionally nodding in either agreement or understanding.
When Flynn finished, Fox sat back in his chair, his eyes half-closed while working through what he’d just heard. His fingers drummed softly on his desk as a rhythmic accompaniment to his deep, focused thought. At length, he sighed and looked back across the desk at Flynn and Van Horn. “You won’t have much of a margin for error or accident,” he observed.
“Practically none,” Flynn conceded. “This either works out the way we intend, or it all goes down in flames right from the start.” He knew that was an inherent weakness of their plan, and it worried him. Tacticians preached the need for alternate avenues of approach and contingency plans to cope with the friction—a fancy term for “shit going wrong,” as one of his instructors had laconically observed—inherent in any clash between armed enemies. It was good advice. Unfortunately, in this case, there were no other avenues of approach to the problem. Voronin’s defenses were so tight, they’d only get one chance to breach them. “But we have to take this shot now or walk away. Because, as soon as the Russians learn that Vasily Kondakov is still alive, all bets are off.”
Fox nodded. “Very well. You have my approval to go ahead.” One of his eyebrows ticked upward. “Which raises the question of how you intend to infiltrate your team and all of the special equipment you need back into Russia.”
“That’s Task One,” Flynn acknowledged. “And it will be a grade-A bitch, especially because of the time pressure we’re up against. Not to mention all of the extra border security measures the Russians have added since our last, noisier-than-we-wanted visit. We sure as heck can’t plan on slipping the whole team across the frontier in one go.”
“That would be . . . unwise,” Fox said. “So you’re going to break into smaller groups?”
Flynn nodded. They would send only two agents across the border at any one place. As an added security measure, the full details of their plan—its final rendezvous points, precise methods of attack and evasion, the cover identities for others in the group, and the like—would be communicated only to individuals as necessary. In effect, his action team would operate on a strict need-to-know basis until almost the last moment. He wasn’t pleased about that proviso. Until now, he’d kept Cooke, Kossak, and the others in the loop on every operation. But the risks this time were just too high. If the Russians captured any of his people crossing the frontier, they needed to be kept from learning exactly how Flynn intended to penetrate Voronin’s defenses.
“A sensible precaution,” Fox said. His eyes sharpened. “Of course, you and Laura will be the unavoidable exceptions to this rule . . . since the plan is entirely your creation. Both of you, by definition, know too much.” Flynn and Van Horn nodded. “Which makes it all the more unfortunate that you are, in fact, the Quartet Directorate agents most at risk in this madcap enterprise,” Fox continued. “As the inevitable downside of your acting as bait to lure Kondakov to Sudan, I imagine your photographs are now plastered across every Russian border checkpoint, international airport, and seaport from the Baltic all the way east to the Pacific coast.”
“Likely so,” Flynn agreed. He glanced at Van Horn.
She smiled. “That’s exactly why Nick and I have worked out our own special way in,” she told the older man. “What’s the best way to avoid getting picked up at checkpoints or airports or ports, do you suppose?”
“Bypassing them entirely,” Fox said straightaway.
Van Horn nodded. “Yep.” She shrugged. “Now that makes what we’re planning a little complicated. We’ll need to buy some new equipment, for a start. Plus, we’ll have to charter a ship.”
The older man suddenly bent his head and pinched his nose in poorly concealed dismay. “And all of this is going to cost a lot of money?” he guessed with a long-suffering sigh. Over the past couple of years, critical covert operations conducted by Flynn and Van Horn had cost several million dollars—primarily to procure cutting-edge aircraft and other pieces of equipment that had proved essential. Thanks to wise investments made decades ago by its wealthier founding members, Four had deep pockets . . . but its resources were not unlimited. Fox could only hope that his two best field operatives would somehow keep that firmly in mind.
Flynn grinned. “Ah, Br’er Fox, you know us all too well,” he admitted, only slightly abashed.
CHAPTER
TWENTY-NINE
mercury city tower, moscow
a couple of weeks later
A long motorcade turned into the main entrance of the skyscraper’s underground parking garage. The security guards and uniformed police officers on duty there immediately stiffened to attention. Slowly, the cavalcade of flag-decked black limousines and unmarked vans drove past and down the ramp. Their tires squealed on the garage’s concrete surface, echoing shrilly throughout its cavernous, multi-level interior.
Five levels below the surface, the long column of vehicles rolled to a stop. Doors banged loudly up and down its length as armed soldiers and members of the president’s security detail fanned out to form a shield against would-be assassins and curious onlookers alike.
Once his bodyguards were in place, President Piotr Zhdanov emerged from his personal car, an armored Aurus Senate L700 limousine. Buttoning his suit coat, he stood for a moment, allowing his eyes to adjust to the bright artificial glare of the overhead LED lights. Then he swiveled his head to an aide. “Well?” he demanded. “Where is he?” The aide murmured an answer in his ear, accompanied by a respectful nod toward a small nearby elevator.
Zhdanov swung in that direction and spotted Pavel Voronin standing there, closely hemmed in by several members of the president’s advance security detail. He hid a smile at the carefully neutral expression the younger man had adopted. No doubt Voronin would have preferred the protection of his own Raven Syndicate bodyguards, but that would not happen. Not for this mysterious meeting, at least, whatever it truly portended. The only armed men allowed in the president’s immediate presence were those known to be utterly loyal to him.
He jerked his head, signaling Voronin to approach. The guards parted slightly, stepping aside just far enough to make room for the other man to obey.
“Welcome to the Mercury City Tower, Mr. President,” Voronin said politely. He indicated the elevator behind him. “This is my executive lift. We can take it up to my offices whenever you’re ready.”
Before answering, Zhdanov’s eyes sought out the senior officer of his advance detail. The hard-faced man nodded slightly, confirming that his men had checked everything for possible threats and they were completely safe. Satisfied, the president turned back to Voronin. “Very good, Pavel. Let’s get this done, shall we? I don’t want people to ask too many questions about what I’m doing here.”
“Nor do I, sir,” he assured him. “But I think you’ll find this visit today well worth your time.”
Zhdanov nodded curtly. “I’m counting on it.” He followed Voronin to the elevator and waited while the other man swiped a card through a security reader. A light on the machine glowed green, and gleaming metal doors slid open. Two unsmiling security men squeezed into the elevator with them. There was no conversation during the short, fast ride up forty-four floors.
Kiril Rodin was the only person waiting for them when the doors opened again. He nodded his head in polite greeting. “If you’ll follow me, Mr. President, everything is ready for you.” At Zhdanov’s silent acknowledgment, he turned and led them along a corridor.
The president noted the empty offices on each side. “Where is everyone?” he asked.
Rodin looked back over his shoulder. “As a security precaution, we’ve temporarily ordered everyone off this entire floor,” he explained. “Only Syndicate personnel cleared at the very highest level are exempt.”
“Excellent,” Zhdanov approved. “The fewer eyes to see and mouths to blab, the better.”
They entered a large conference room not far from Voronin’s private office. Zhdanov took the comfortable leather chair indicated by Rodin. A snap of his fingers sent his bodyguards back outside to guard the door. Alone with the other two men, the president swung around to face them. “All right,” he snapped. “I’m here. Now tell me why. That vague line of bullshit you sold my top aides, ‘vital matters of state security, etc.’ had better bear some resemblance to the truth.”
“I apologize for the imprecision and ambiguity,” Voronin said calmly. “But the need for absolute secrecy you’ve rightly insisted on made it impossible for me to be any clearer.”
“So this does involve VELES,” Zhdanov said with satisfaction.
Voronin nodded. “Our planning has now reached the point where I believe a full operational briefing is in order.” He half-turned and pitched his voice to the audiovisual control room at the back. “Lights!”
Immediately, the conference room darkened and a wall-sized display screen lit up. Most of it was dedicated to a digitized topographical map of North America. Voronin picked up a remote control and touched a small button on its side. Substantial portions of the map now glowed a soft red—mostly confined to a vast swath of the United States between the Rocky Mountains on the west and the Adirondacks on the east. “The American heartland, the core of its agricultural production,” Zhdanov commented.
Voronin nodded. “And our primary target.” He touched another button. Smaller sections of the display lit up, showing videos of enormous high-altitude balloons lifting off and soaring into the stratosphere.
Zhdanov frowned. “What are those supposed to be?”
“The most efficient means of delivering our lethal payloads,” Voronin replied. Another button push made a sprinkling of balloon-shaped icons appear at different points on the map of the United States. As each icon appeared, it moved—purposefully propelled along the illustrated air currents. Behind each indicated balloon, vast stretches of the target area turned a sickly green color, a visual representation of the effects of the weaponized fungal spores it was sowing, spreading death from the skies.
Zhdanov scowled. “Balloons?” He shook his head. “What are you playing at, Pavel? This isn’t some kind of children’s game! American F-22 or F-35 fighters can knock your slow-moving gasbags out of the sky with a single missile each.”
Voronin smiled. “Perhaps. But the Americans can’t hit what they won’t even be looking for.”
“Explain that,” Zhdanov snapped.
“We will use their Pentagon’s earlier mistakes against them,” Voronin said. “The Americans were humiliated when a Chinese balloon-lofted spy platform slipped through their air surveillance network and rode the winds at will over their homeland. After that incident, they adjusted the filters on those radars to better detect slow-moving objects like high-altitude balloons.”
Zhdanov’s scowl deepened. “Yes, I remember. As I said, the Americans will see your gasbags as they launch and shoot them down with ease!”
“No, Mr. President,” Voronin said with absolute confidence. “They will not.” Seeing the older man’s face reddening with mingled rage and confusion, he went on more quickly. “The Americans won’t do so, because that first humiliation with China’s spy balloon led to others which were even more embarrassing. Not long afterward, the U.S. Air Force downed several other unidentified high-altitude objects—using Sidewinder missiles that cost half a million dollars. But it turned out that the balloons they’d destroyed so expensively were probably nothing more than stray private or commercial balloons, either ones that had been used for advertising purposes or that may have been carrying weather sensing and other scientific instruments.” Voronin smiled again. “These episodes generated so much political and social media ridicule that now no one in NORAD or the Pentagon, or especially in the White House, has any appetite for, or interest in, tracking slow-moving objects over the United States itself.”
“Like the story of the boy who cried wolf,” Zhdanov murmured.
Voronin nodded. “Exactly. NORAD’s air surveillance radars track unidentified objects crossing into North America’s controlled airspace. Anything flying over the interior is monitored loosely, if at all, by the civilian air traffic authorities.” He shrugged. “We will use this willful blindness against them. In fact, by the time the moment arrives to launch VELES, the Americans will not only avoid interfering with our operations, they will be actively encouraging them.”
“Encouraging your balloon flights? Why on earth would they do such a foolish thing?” Zhdanov asked, surprised.
Voronin’s slight smile grew more openly predatory. “The first step will come when you authorize me to begin covert operations inside the United States. With your permission, I intend to set up a new front organization there—one the Americans will believe to be a non-profit climate change research group.”
The president’s face betrayed his continuing confusion.
“The current U.S. administration is wholly committed to fighting climate change, and it actively encourages and even supports environmental organizations it sees as political allies in this struggle,” Voronin explained. “Based on past experience with earlier covert operations on U.S. soil, I’m confident this means no one in the American intelligence or national security apparatus will be interested in looking too closely at a group the White House views as friendly to its interests.”
