Devil's Fortress, page 5
Nick Flynn swung off a narrow, badly paved street near the city’s eastern rim and continued south on another dirt road. Tangled thickets of scrub trees and underbrush lined one edge. Along the other were row after row of small, one-story cinder-block buildings. They were nearly identical—all gray with low, flat roofs. Most of them were covered in spray-painted graffiti and looked abandoned. Amateurishly lettered signs above others showed they were in commercial use, either as storage sheds or as car and motorcycle repair shops. This late at night, none of them were open. Darkness shrouded the whole area, with only a few dim yellow lights glowing behind the windows of neighboring utilitarian apartment blocks.
Flynn counted openings under his breath as he rode past them. Four. Five. Six. There it was, he thought, spotting a rusting metal stake silhouetted in the beam of his headlight. With the Ural’s engine barely turning over, he swung into the sign-posted alley and slowly puttered between heaps of old trash bags and worn-out tires. There was just enough room for his bike and its attached sidecar.
Roughly halfway down the alley, he stopped in front of one of the small cinder-block buildings and switched off his engine. Crude graffiti scrawled across its dented, rust-flecked, metal roll-up door suggested it was among those long ago left to rot. Only a relatively new padlock securing the door hinted otherwise. Van Horn and Cooke pulled their motorcycles in right behind him. They both dismounted, followed by Hynes and Vucovich.
Stiffly, Flynn climbed off his bike and stretched, rotating his hips first in one direction and then the other. Muscles and joints popped. He felt like he’d been hit by a refrigerator-sized linebacker, stomped into the astroturf, and then trampled by a whole marching band at halftime. He appreciated that avoiding those kinds of outcomes was exactly why he’d decided to run track in school and not play football. High school football in Texas was played for keeps.
And judging by how awkwardly Kossak levered himself out of the Ural’s cramped sidecar, Flynn guessed the other man was feeling pretty much the same way.
“You guys getting old on us?” Van Horn teased.
Flynn resisted the temptation to quote the old Raiders of the Lost Ark line about it being the mileage, not the years. “I think maybe the whole crawling, running, jumping, almost getting blown up, and narrowly dodging bullets thing might be wearing us down some,” he said instead.
Kossak nodded. “This evening was . . . somewhat stressful.”
“Fair point,” Van Horn allowed. “The next time we try to pull off a mission like this, you should give the rest of us a chance at all the fun stuff.”
Hynes turned from where he’d been unloading equipment bags from one of the motorcycle sidecars. “Uh, ma’am, not to be disrespectful or anything, but your idea of fun just might be a tiny bit skewed,” he said carefully.
She shrugged. “Hey, Nick’s never complained.”
“Now, Ms. Van Horn,” Cooke said slowly, with more than a hint of laughter. “Are you really telling us that your private outings with our esteemed and glorious leader typically involve gunbattles and explosions?”
“Well, not yet,” she admitted. “I’ve been going easy on him up to now.”
“Ah, so that explains it,” Flynn said to her with a half-smile of his own. Their personal relationship wasn’t a secret from the rest of the team, but he was still glad it was dark enough to hide his face’s slight, embarrassed redness.
“Sir,” Vucovich interrupted suddenly. “I’m starting to pick up a whole lot of new radio traffic.”
Flynn turned toward him. The surveillance expert still had his headset on. He’d continued monitoring the enemy’s communications while they slipped away from Voronin’s compound. “Can you make anything out?”
The other man nodded. He paused momentarily, listening to the signals intercepted by his handheld scanner, and then looked back up. “From what I’m hearing, the local Russian cops are setting up a whole bunch of checkpoints all over the place. And based on the locations they’re rattling off, it sure sounds like they’re deploying like you figured they would.”
Flynn felt himself beginning to relax. Not much, though. Just a little. At least one element of this clusterfuck was going according to his initial plan. He’d known the Raven Syndicate’s radio transmissions would be too highly encrypted for them to break. But he’d also been pretty sure that the regional police communications networks were far less sophisticated and vulnerable to interception. Being right about that meant they had a window into what some of the numerous Russian forces now arrayed against them were doing.
Hynes frowned. “So essentially the cops are out in force, and we’re surrounded?”
“Which is why we’re not planning to stick our heads in the noose just yet,” Flynn said.
The broad-shouldered, former U.S. Army soldier snorted. “Gonna have to do that sometime, sir,” he pointed out. “Because I sure as hell don’t plan on taking up permanent residence in this crappy country.”
Despite his own inner misgivings at how badly this mission had already gone astray, Flynn offered the other man a confident smile. “Ye of little faith, Cole. I have a cunning plan.”
“Counting on it, sir,” Hynes said simply.
Flynn nodded. He’d been recruited into Four in the aftermath of two separate covert operations that had exploded in the CIA’s face a few years ago. Both times, he’d put his life on the line to salvage whatever was possible from Langley’s largely self-inflicted disasters. Despite that, since he’d just been a lowly captain in U.S. Air Force intelligence, he’d been the one tapped as a scapegoat for the agency’s errors. In the CIA’s game of musical chairs, the loser was always the one without any political pull. Ultimately, however, he figured he’d actually come out ahead. Joining the Quartet Directorate had given him what he craved: the opportunity to act decisively against hostile forces without being second-guessed or hobbled by superiors who were more interested in protecting their own careers than in defending the United States.
The same went for Hynes and Vucovich. They were among the few survivors of the last Langley-orchestrated debacle. Fiercely loyal to Flynn himself, they’d somehow tracked him down and finagled their way into the Quartet Directorate. And while they were both a bit rougher around the edges than Four’s usual recruits, they’d each proved their worth when it counted―and in extreme circumstances. He owed them a lot.
Muscling up the heavy door revealed a pitch-black interior. It smelled of dust, sweat, grease, old food, and, faintly, fresh paint. Moving quickly, Flynn and his team wheeled their heavy Ural motorcycles in through the open door and then went back for the rest of their gear. As soon as everything was safely inside, they rolled the metal door back down.
Flynn was careful not to turn on the overhead light until the outer door was fully closed. Its single incandescent bulb flickered to life, buzzing softly as it cast harsh shadows across the single room.
Over half the available space was taken up by a single large vehicle entirely covered by a tarp. Sleeping bags, a camp stove, and a screened portable toilet and washbasin filled the rest of the limited square footage.
“Ah, home sweet home,” Van Horn murmured. She shrugged. “But I’m still rating it one-star on Yelp.”
“It’s not exactly the Ritz-Carlton,” Flynn conceded. He checked his watch, a Vostok Amphibian model—Russian-manufactured like all the rest of their gear. Midnight had come and gone hours ago. But late though it was, they still had work to do. He looked around the intent group of faces. “All right, people. Let’s get to it. We’ll grab some shut-eye once we’re finished. Clear?”
Heads nodded.
Suiting his actions to his words, Flynn grabbed a duffel bag full of their weapons and other equipment and lugged it over to the tarp-covered vehicle. Behind him, the others began wiping down the Ural motorcycles and sidecars with bleach-covered cloths, painstakingly removing fingerprints, DNA, and any other identifying traces from the machines. They needed to leave nothing behind that could be tied to them.
CHAPTER
SIX
at the raven’s nest
the next day
Compared to the other rooms full of expensive furniture and priceless art, Pavel Voronin’s private office on the dacha’s second floor was a study in simplicity. It was occupied only by a plain wood desk, several monitors and other computer equipment, and a few functional chairs. The extravagance elsewhere was mainly for show, intended to impress high-ranking visitors with his wealth and sophistication. This was a room suited for serious work.
Moodily, Voronin pushed aside a tray holding his untouched meal. His mouth thinned. Being openly targeted for assassination worked as an appetite suppressant. He looked across his desk at Kiril Rodin. “So?”
“Annenkov’s patrols have returned. There’s no sign of any hostile forces remaining in the vicinity.”
Voronin snorted. “Leaving us with no understanding of what just happened.”
“For the moment,” Rodin agreed. “But we’ve recovered valuable evidence—shell casings and fragments from both the drone and SAM missile that were used against us.”
“And?”
“Early analysis suggests those who carried out the attack were using Russian-made weapons,” Rodin said.
“How . . . interesting.” Voronin’s expression hardened. “So maybe we do have an enemy close to home.”
Rodin shook his head. “I wouldn’t jump to conclusions. We’re not the only ones who understand how important it is that the equipment used in black ops can’t be traced. If foreign agents were involved in this effort to assassinate you, they’d have been fools to use their own country’s weapons. Besides, a Russian bullet is just as lethal as anything made by the Americans or the Israelis or others in the West.”
Reluctantly, Voronin nodded. The other man had a good point. The international black market was awash in firearms, missiles, and explosives. Dangle enough hard currency in front of the right people—whether they were shady arms dealers or corrupt officials—and you could obtain practically anything without inconvenient questions being asked. Over the past several years, the Raven Syndicate had acquired its own substantial arsenal of foreign-made armaments through just such methods.
Rodin’s smartphone pinged. He glanced down at the screen and scrolled through the new message he’d received. After a moment, he looked up again. “Annenkov just relayed the most recent reports from the local police units.”
“To what effect?” Voronin snapped.
“Their checkpoints haven’t turned up anything significant so far. They’ve made a few arrests but only of known criminals—small fry wanted mostly for petty offenses,” Rodin said with a shrug. “Drugs. Some shoplifting. A drunken assault here or there. Nothing severe. And nothing that would tie any of them to last night’s attack.”
Voronin scowled. “Then what’s your recommendation?”
“We should take this to a higher level,” the other man replied. “It’s time to bring the official security services into the mix. Without cooperation from the Ministries of Internal Affairs and Defense, we can’t expand the search area as needed, let alone implement the more extreme measures that might be required to find, identify, and arrest or eliminate those responsible for hitting us.”
Voronin’s frown grew deeper.
“There is no question that rumors are already circulating in Moscow,” Rodin pointed out. “We can’t keep an attack of this magnitude under wraps forever.”
“And I suppose you’ve already personally briefed Zhdanov on the incident?” Voronin commented dryly.
“Of course,” Rodin acknowledged.
Voronin gritted his teeth. The gray-haired bastard had never bothered to hide where his ultimate loyalties lay. Why expect him to start pretending now?
Rodin spread his hands. “The president understands your concerns. But he has assured me they are unfounded. He’s certain that no one official was involved in any of this.”
With an effort, Voronin forced down the urge to swear aloud. The other man was manipulating him—and quite openly too. Now, if he continued to refuse to bring the FSB and military into the loop, he could be seen as doubting Zhdanov’s sworn word. From there it would be a short and undoubtedly fatal step to being accused of treason, which gave him no real choice but to agree.
Elaborately, he shrugged. “All right. Make the arrangements. But I want an all-out effort from the security services in return, with nothing held back. And I want our own people in Moscow—all of them, operational specialists and analysts alike—deployed to backstop the different ministries. We need to know everything the FSB and the others find, when they find it. I want our own eyes on everything they do . . . or don’t do. Is that understood?”
Rodin nodded. “Quis custodiet ipsos custodes? Who will watch the watchers?” he quoted. “Evidently, we will.”
“Exactly. And put Kondakov in charge,” Voronin ordered.
Again, Rodin nodded. Prior to his own appointment by President Zhdanov as the head of Special Operations, Vasily Kondakov, a former colonel in the GRU, had been the oligarch’s top deputy in the Raven Syndicate. Neither man especially liked the other, but there was no doubt about Kondakov’s competence—or his allegiance to Voronin.
near the a108 moscow big ring road
that same time
The checkpoint on the outskirts of Voskresensk was sited just short of a major intersection. Temporary barricades narrowed the road at this point to only one lane in each direction. Four police cars, patrol lights flashing, were parked off to the side. Two black-uniformed officers handled the job of methodically inspecting every vehicle headed north toward Moscow. Six more were armed with assault rifles and shotguns and alert for any sign of trouble.
Satisfied with what he’d seen, Police Junior Lieutenant Konstantin Tikhonov stepped back and gestured the old Volvo sedan he’d been examining through the checkpoint. “Go on. Pull ahead. You’re cleared.”
“Who’s going to explain to my boss why I’m late for work?” demanded its lone occupant, a sour-faced woman, to no one in particular. Tikhonov ignored her. With a final, irritated sniff, the woman put her car in gear. It lurched forward in a thick cloud of acrid diesel exhaust and sped off along the road.
Tikhonov turned his head away to hack out a rasping cough.
“Nasty-smelling fumes, sir,” his warrant officer said sympathetically. He waved a hand at the long line of cars and trucks crawling slowly toward their checkpoint. “All this backed-up traffic is spewing a lot of crap into the air.”
The lieutenant shrugged. “It can’t be helped. You heard the major. No terrorists will get through here on our watch.” He straightened up and carefully readjusted his peaked officer’s cap to the regulation angle. Then, imperiously, he signaled the next vehicle waiting in line to move forward.
It was another older model, this time a UAZ 3741 van. Popularly nicknamed “Bukhanka” or “Loaf” because its oblong shape made it look oddly like a wheeled loaf of bread, this particular Soviet-era make was badly dented and absolutely filthy. Dust and dirt streaked the windshield of its two-person cab. Logos stenciled across its cargo section’s grimy dark green sides showed that it belonged to the local Oliva Paint and Varnish Factory.
Tikhonov’s lips curled in disgust. “If that’s a loaf of bread,” he murmured to his subordinate, “it’s a damned moldy one.”
“It’s a working vehicle, sir,” the warrant officer pointed out.
The lieutenant frowned. “Shoddy equipment equals shoddy work. Keep that in mind, Vlasov.”
“Yes, sir.”
The panel van lurched to a stop at the checkpoint. At Tikhonov’s signal, its middle-aged driver laboriously rolled down his grimy window. He and his assistant were as unkempt as their vehicle. Clad in paint-stained coveralls and sweat-stained T-shirts that bulged over rolls of belly fat, it was obvious that neither had shaved or even bathed for at least a day.
Tikhonov stepped closer to the cab. His nose wrinkling at the stale smell of fried onions, he snapped his fingers impatiently. “Identification!”
Stifling a yawn, the driver handed over his license. With evident difficulty, his equally overweight assistant dug his ID card out of a back pocket.
Tikhonov scrutinized them carefully. They appeared genuine. He handed the cards back. Then, frowning in sudden thought, he studied the van’s cargo compartment. It was big enough to hide a multitude of contraband—or just possibly a few armed and dangerous terrorists attempting to escape the scene of their crimes. “What are you carrying back there?” he asked.
The driver stared back at him in bewilderment. “Why, paint, of course,” he said finally. “Got a big order from some fancy office renovation project in Moscow.” With a heavy sigh, he craned his head at the long line of vehicles backed up behind them. “We’re gonna catch hell from the bosses for being so late on this delivery.”
Tikhonov snorted, unmoved by the sob story. He’d already heard some variation of it a hundred times this morning. “Show me!” He put his hand threateningly on the 9mm pistol holstered at his hip, then he checked the light on his bodycam, to make sure it was working. Recording everything was standard procedure these days for any traffic stop, especially one that might go sour.
With a shrug, the driver shut off his ignition and tossed the keys to his assistant. “You heard him, Ivan. Open her up.”
The other man clambered down out of his side of the cab. Fumbling to find the right key, he ambled around to the back. With a grunt, he unlocked the van’s two back doors and then hauled them both wide open.
