Devil's Fortress, page 8
“Observe,” Kondakov said simply, letting the surveillance footage play.
They all watched silently as the woman stopped at an information kiosk, chatted briefly with its attendant, and then strolled casually down the station hall past the checkpoint and into a coffee shop. Minutes later, she emerged, threw away her disposable coffee cup, and entered the nearest women’s restroom.
“Ah, a great mystery,” Rodin said, not bothering to hide his scorn. “A woman drinks coffee and then has to take a piss.”
Unfazed, Kondakov adjusted the playback speed. People now moved through the frame in skittering jerks as first minutes and then hours raced by.
Voronin was the first to figure it out. “She never comes out of that restroom,” he realized.
“Correct,” Kondakov agreed. “Or more accurately, she does emerge—but not in the same guise.” He touched the controls again, rewinding the CCTV footage and slowing it down. Several minutes after the attractive blonde went through the door to the ladies’ room, a very different woman—much older, dowdier, and plumper in appearance—came out and joined a flood of newly arrived passengers headed out of the station. “Her tradecraft was excellent,” he commented matter-of-factly. “If one of my analysts weren’t something of an obsessive compulsive, we would never have spotted the switch.”
Fascinated, Voronin watched the woman shuffle out through the main doors and vanish. It was hard to believe she had any connection to the elegant blonde they’d first observed, let alone that she was the same person. He turned to Kondakov. “What then? Do you know where she went?”
“My team was able to recreate her later movements,” the other man confirmed. “At least while she traveled through the Metro system.”
Voronin nodded his understanding. With more than nine million riders a day, Moscow’s Metro was the primary means of transportation for most capital residents. That made the system a focal point for police and security service surveillance. Between the thousands of CCTV cameras covering every entrance, exit, and station platform and the government’s advanced facial recognition software, a known suspect couldn’t easily evade detection. “And?”
“This woman shuttled between several different Metro lines in rapid succession, timing it precisely so that she transferred from arriving underground trains to others which were about to depart, usually with only seconds to spare.”
Interested now, Rodin leaned forward. “That’s classic practice to evade any human tail.”
“She’s definitely a professional intelligence operative,” Kondakov agreed. “In my judgment, one of the highest caliber.”
“Whose operative is she?” Voronin ground out through clenched teeth. “Which country, which organization, employs this spy or assassin?”
Kondakov shrugged. “That is still unclear. Even once we have her in our hands, I suspect it will require prolonged and rigorous interrogation to pry out the truth.” He smiled thinly. “She should be an interesting challenge.”
Voronin nodded, appreciating the other man’s intentions. Among his many talents, the former GRU colonel was a skilled torturer. With an effort, he pulled his mind away from the anticipation of future pleasure and back to the business at hand. “And after she finished playing this game of Metro hopscotch? What then?”
“She took the Black Line south,” Kondakov said, “and finally exited the system at the Anino Metro stop, near the Moscow Ring Road.” He pulled up a new set of images. “Cameras outside the station caught her heading east on foot into the Biryulyovo Zapadnoye district.”
“And from there?” Voronin demanded. “Where did she go?”
“We can’t be sure,” Kondakov said carefully. He took off his glasses and polished them with his handkerchief for a few seconds, plainly buying time to consider the best way to impart what he knew would be extremely unwelcome news. “Not precisely, at least,” he said at last. He put his glasses back on and spread his hands. “The local CCTV network in this part of Moscow is comparatively sparse, with many of the cameras off-line for various reasons.”
Voronin stared at the other man, his hands balled into fists. “Are you telling me that you lost her after all of that, Vasily? That she’s completely disappeared on us?”
“Not completely,” Kondakov replied. He opened a digital satellite map of Moscow on the screen. Zoomed in, it showed the Biryulyovo Zapodnye district in intricate detail—displaying every street, alley, building, and patch of open ground. “My people have scanned the footage from every surveillance camera covering the borders of this area. Our target doesn’t appear. Not once. So we’re reasonably confident that she hasn’t doubled back on us again. Which means this district was her intended destination.”
“Even if that’s true and not just wishful thinking to save your ass,” Rodin spoke up frostily, “the original point still stands. This is a waste of time and resources.” He pointed to the map with disdain. “Close to a hundred thousand people must live in this district. Most of them are probably tenants occupying block after block of apartment buildings. We’d need hundreds of armed men to carry out a thorough search in any reasonable amount of time. As it is, we have fewer than forty troops with us.”
Kondakov smiled back at his rival. “If we needed to go door-to-door through every apartment block, your premise would be correct. But we don’t.”
Voronin eyed him closely. “And why is that?”
In answer, Kondakov zoomed in the satellite map until the screen showed only a tiny part of the district—the segment closest to where CCTV cameras had last spotted their female suspect. Instead of rows of apartment buildings, this area was mostly given over to a few dozen tiny commercial enterprises—everything from automotive repair shops to electrical supply outlets to building materials warehouses and storage lots.
Before Rodin could object further, Kondakov used his mouse to highlight a few locations. “According to tax records, these particular buildings and lots are abandoned,” he explained. “Which makes them ideal temporary hiding places for foreign agents—or others—who evaded the initial net cast around the Raven’s Nest and are now desperately exploring ways to escape from Russia.”
Voronin nodded appreciatively, seeing what the other man was driving at. “You think that’s what this woman was doing for these would-be assassins? Scouting the train station to learn if tighter security measures were in place?”
“Just so.”
“All roads and railways lead to and from Moscow, and a large urban area does offer many nooks and crannies in which to conceal oneself,” Voronin mused aloud. He glanced back at Rodin. “So?” he asked. “What is your assessment now?”
The other man’s eyes were hooded. Plainly, he was not happy about having walked so easily into the clever analytical trap Kondakov had set for him. But then he shrugged, obviously deciding he would gain nothing by further argument. “Assuming these guesses are accurate, we should have enough men on hand to handle the job,” he said carefully. “Especially if we can take these people we’re hunting by surprise.”
Voronin straightened up. “All right. Let’s get this done.” He looked at Kondakov. Since the older man was in charge of the Raven Syndicate’s internal security apparatus, this was now his operation to command personally. “Make sure you’ve blocked the exits from these different places you’ve identified, and then send the rest of your teams in hard and fast. Roust anyone there. Shoot if you must, but take prisoners for further interrogation if possible.”
“And after we’re done questioning these people?” Kondakov asked calmly. “What then?”
“Kill them,” Voronin said. His eyes were icy. “No one comes after me and escapes alive.”
biryulyovo zapadnoye
a short time later
A squad of Raven Syndicate troops in night-gray camouflage and body armor crouched on the far side of a low wall. A two-man sniper team on the roof of a nearby building reported that the storage lot the wall surrounded was full of rusting, abandoned cars and trucks, old shipping containers, boxes, and crates, and a couple of weather-battered metal sheds.
As a young officer cadet, Igor Nemov had been earmarked for service with the Spetsnaz. After intense, often dangerous, training and several years of active duty for absurdly low pay, he’d been persuaded to transfer his hard-won skills to the Syndicate instead. Since the mercenary organization served Russia’s national interests, he saw little significant moral difference between being asked to kill for the State or for Pavel Voronin. And if that were so, why not do the same job for substantially more money?
“Strike Three-One, this is Strike Three Overwatch. No movement in the target area. Everything still looks quiet,” a voice whispered through Nemov’s radio headset.
He clicked his mike to acknowledge the sitrep from his sniper team. Taking a shallow breath and then another, he waited uneasily while the seconds ticked slowly past. From the quick, pre-raid briefing they’d been given, the people they were hunting tonight were dangerous as hell, highly trained professional killers. Taking them by surprise was essential if they were hiding out somewhere in this abandoned lot. Because otherwise, Nemov and his men were in for an ugly fight.
“Strike Group, this is Command,” he heard Kondakov radio at last. “All units are in position. Wait one.”
Nemov tensed, raising his clenched fist so the rest of his assault squad could see it. The plan was to hit multiple possible hiding places simultaneously. Doing so inevitably reduced the number of troops available to take out any site, which was risky. But it was either that or mass more forces against one location at a time and risk hitting empty air—while making enough noise to spook their intended targets and give them time to bolt for some other safe haven. Kondakov had made it abundantly clear that was not an acceptable outcome.
“Execute,” Kondakov said coolly. “Now.”
Nemov pumped his fist twice. “Go! Go! Go!” he hissed.
Instantly, two of his men yanked sharply on cables attached to coiled barbed wire they’d cut earlier. The wire, strung along the top of the wall years ago to deter thieves, fell aside with a soft, metallic twang.
With their way now clear, Nemov and his squad swarmed over the low wall and dropped into the darkened lot, fanning out, weapons at the ready. They drifted past abandoned vehicles, mounds of old crates, and empty shipping containers—probing carefully for any signs of an ambush or concealed sentries as they moved deeper into the area.
One of the two sheds in the far corner of the lot was plainly abandoned. Only empty blackness loomed behind its wide-open entrance. The other had a door that was shut. Assault rifle up and aimed, Nemov glided silently toward the shed. His troops moved with him. He was sweating now. No light showed under the door, but what did that matter if armed men were concealed inside, waiting to spring an ambush?
Rapid hand signals deployed his Raven Syndicate squad into a tactical stack alongside the door. From front to back, their heads nodded as each man confirmed he was ready. Silently, Nemov counted down. Three. Two. One.
His finger jabbed inward, unleashing his troops.
The man in the lead smashed a battering ram into the flimsy door. It broke open with an earsplitting crash. He rolled aside, clearing the way for the soldier behind him to lean in and lob a flash-bang grenade through the pitch-black opening.
WHAAMM.
The grenade went off with a shattering roar. A cascading shower of blinding pyrotechnics suddenly lit the night. The troops waiting behind the grenade thrower rushed in right on the heels of the blast—deploying to the right and left, ready to open fire at the slightest sign of movement.
The shed was unoccupied, empty of anyone, hostile or otherwise.
Nemov was the last man inside. He paused at the doorway to scan the empty room through experienced eyes. His pulse pounded in his ears. He felt jittery and knew that the sensation was a symptom of the adrenaline flooding his system in anticipation of a deadly, close-quarters battle slowly ebbing away.
“Shit,” one of the Syndicate troopers growled. “This was a waste of time.”
“I don’t think so, Gennady,” Nemov retorted. “Lights,” he called out in warning. Then he flipped up his night vision goggles and flicked on a powerful flashlight. Its bright beam darted here and there across the interior of the shed, highlighting scuffed patches on the floor and other places where the old cardboard boxes lining the walls looked to have been disturbed.
At his gesture, some of the men dragged the boxes away, revealing sacks of recent food trash—mostly containers from surplus Russian Army field rations—and stacks of paint cans. Staring at them, one of his men tentatively suggested, “Homeless mooks?”
Nemov shook his head. “Ever met a homeless guy who was this neat and tidy? Or one who collects full cans of paint?”
“No, sir,” the other man admitted.
“Me neither,” Nemov said with a grimace. “Which probably means all this crap was left behind by the people we’ve been hunting.” Dourly, he keyed his radio, preparing to report in. He was sure the news that their targets had already abandoned this safe house would not be well-received.
CHAPTER
TEN
mercury city tower, moscow
an hour later
Under a dark, star-filled sky, the floodlit Mercury City Tower’s bronze-tinted reflective glass glowed, transforming the 340-meter-high skyscraper into a soaring pillar of fire on Moscow’s night skyline. Slanting, steplike recesses along one side gave the structure a tapered look. These unique architectural elements added to its apparent height and set it apart from its closest neighbors—the other ultramodern office and residential high-rises spiking skyward as part of the city’s International Business Center. Eleven huge skyscrapers were packed into a small area, considerably less than a square kilometer, on the left bank of the Moskva River. Several more enormous buildings stood at different stages of construction—left unfinished amid the current economic downturn.
Forty-four stories up, Pavel Voronin prowled around his spacious private office. Ordinarily, its breathtaking views over the bright city lights of Moscow put him in a good mood. But not tonight. Tonight, he felt caged and restless. More suited by nature and temperament to be a predator among other, lesser men, he intensely disliked the realization that some group—as yet unidentified—had him in its sights. Nor was this an empty threat. Their assault on the Raven’s Nest could easily have succeeded in killing him.
He scowled. If nothing else, the debacle there had proved that his defenses were weaker than he had assumed. The wooded, thinly populated countryside around the Raven’s Nest offered too many separate avenues of infiltration and attack.
That was why Voronin had decided to retreat here for the time being—to this towering, reinforced concrete-and-steel skyscraper. Three of the Mercury Center Tower’s seventy-five floors housed the Raven Syndicate’s corporate headquarters. Offices of other corporations, five-star restaurants, high-end retailers, and opulent apartments owned by some of Russia’s richest and most powerful citizens filled the rest of the space. Consequently, the security systems protecting its easily guarded entrances and elevator banks were state-of-the-art. Now, bolstered by his armed personnel, they should be effectively air-tight.
He stopped pacing and stared out a window. Safe or not, his decision to take refuge in the Mercury City Tower still rubbed at his pride. It wasn’t that he lacked for anything here. The living quarters adjacent to his office were comfortable, even lavish. And if anything, he was in closer touch with events and his most important subordinates.
No, Voronin understood, what gnawed at him was the knowledge that he had to take counsel of his fears for the first time in his adult life. Before the recent attempt to kill him, anyone with any sense had feared Pavel Voronin. But now, he thought sourly, it was as if his pursuers had abruptly turned his life upside down. He was the one who was afraid, and it was an unpleasant sensation.
His office door chimed suddenly. What now? Irritably, he turned away from the view outside and went back to his desk where he glanced at his computer monitor. The feed from a security camera showed Vasily Kondakov waiting just outside. A pair of Voronin’s bodyguards had just finished patting him for concealed weapons.
Composing himself, Voronin sat down. He tapped an icon on his smartwatch, disengaging the door’s security lock. Thick steel bolts retracted, and the door swung open, admitting his chief of internal security.
Voronin curtly gestured Kondakov to the chair in front of his desk. It took effort to control his mounting frustration. Showing signs of anxiety in front of his subordinates would be unwise. Men obeyed the strong and despised the weak. Assuming a feigned look of mild curiosity, he waited until the door locked again before nodding to the other man to begin. “So, Vasily, I assume this unscheduled visit means you’ve found something useful?”
“I believe so,” Kondakov said carefully. “Ever since our raid on that enemy safe house came back empty-handed, my analysts have been working to develop new leads.”
“And?”
“Reviewing reports and bodycam footage from the web of police checkpoints you ordered deployed immediately after the assault yielded results,” Kondakov said. He synched his tablet with a large digital screen on the closest wall and opened a file. It showed surveillance footage from a checkpoint on the outskirts of Voskresensk, close to a junction with one of the main roads to Moscow.
Voronin watched silently as a battered early model UAZ panel van pulled up for inspection. Video from a young police lieutenant’s bodycam showed him checking identification cards from two heavyset, disheveled men riding in the cab. Moments later, the view shifted around to the back when he insisted on inspecting their cargo.
Kondakov froze the image on a wall of paint cans, old and dented, that seemed to fill the van’s cargo space from top to bottom.
“Paint?” Voronin asked, perplexed. “What’s so significant there?”
