Blood Covenent, page 7
Yevgeny nodded glumly and trudged the three blocks towards the snowplows. They walked, leaning into the ever-stiffening wind. The sign announcing the machine yard banged loudly on the chainlink fence. No one was on duty. “The keys, Major. Where do they keep them?” pressed Jerry.
Yevgeny looked around and pointed gruffly at the shed. Harper understood enough Russian to recognize a few words. He stepped quickly to the door and rattled the lock. Without a moment’s hesitation, he reared back and smashed a heel through the weathered wood door. The lock braced momentarily against the blow before it broke inwards. The door split length-wise and slammed open.
Harper glanced at the nearest plow and made out the number on the cab. He found a series of parkas hanging on hooks, some winter boots, and construction hard hats. He leaned out of the doorway and motioned the Russian family over to the shed. He pointed to the warm weather clothing and reached over to a desk running his finger down a tag board until he found the ring labeled the same as the nearest plow.
The report from the Browning snapped Harper’s attention to the yard. Yevgeny spun away from Jerry, knocking the gun away from the line of his body. He followed the spin with a flying backfist towards Jerry’s head.
Jerry caught the backfist with a raised arm angled upwards and away from his head. He tossed the Browning to the ground and grappled towards Yevgeny’s stomach, but the Major knew his business and was already moving away from his target. Jerry stood in a crouch, grasping at snowflakes. He turned towards where he expected to find Yevgeny, only to see a front kick aimed at his chin.
Harper flew across the yard in a flying scissors kick, catching the KGB man with his heel of his one foot on his chest and the other sweeping the back of his legs from under him. They came down in heap on the powdery snow. Harper swung his free foot up and slammed it down in a vicious ax kick close to Yevgeny’s throat.
Yevgeny twisted away from Harper’s legs, attempting to free himself. Abruptly, the motion stopped with a decided thud. Jerry drove a booted heel straight into Yevgeny’s groin and placed the Ruger’s muzzle directly on the bridge of his nose.
“Enough, Major!” snapped Jerry.
Harper rolled away from the fallen KGB man and retrieved Jerry’s Browning. He looked back at the Russians and waved them towards the plow. He turned back to Jerry and said, “I’ll ride shotgun in the dump bucket.”
Jerry nodded.
Yevgeny rolled onto his back holding his lower stomach. A cloud of hot breath condensed above his face as Jerry took the Browning from Harper and switched weapons. He nudged Yevgeny and said sharply, “Get up.”
Harper pushed Malikov’s wife into the back of the plow. He roughly grabbed the suitcases and tossed them up behind her. Next, he hefted their daughter up to her mother and waved Malikov to follow.
Jerry pulled Yevgeny to his feet and slammed him into the side of the snowplow. He pressed the Browning against the KGB man’s neck and said harshly, “We’re going to leave, and you’re going to take us through the barbed wire and gates, Major, and whether you live or die is entirely up to you. Personally, I don’t care. Do we understand each other?”
Yevgeny nodded.
“Good, now get in the cab.” He glanced back to Harper who was pulling himself into the back of the plow.
Two hours later and thirty kilometers outside Arzamas-16’s perimeter, Yevgeny stood alone in the snow, watching the plow disappear into the gloom. He shrugged and turned back to Arzamas-16. Hopefully, he could come up with a convincing story by the time he returned.
CHAPTER 6
CIA Safe House, Virginia
February 19, 1985
Louis Edwards appraised their prize defector across a coffee table in the comfortable confines of a government safe house. They were on a working farm with cattle and sheep, and a small ten-man squad toting automatic weapons within a motion sensitive perimeter.
The farmhouse itself had been totally modernized with satellite communications, modern appliances, and computer links to the National Security Agency, the National Reconnaissance Office, and the Central Intelligence Agency. It had been extended with additional bedrooms, an industrial-size kitchen, and an electronic surveillance-free bubble room in the basement. It was funded entirely from black budgets allocated to various intelligence agencies and under the control of Director Central Intelligence.
High profile defections were handled at a different facility. Arkady Malikov’s defection remained a secret from virtually everyone. Jerry and Jim encountered an all too common theme—the KGB knew they were coming. Aldrich Ames would continue to operate for years, and betray a secret army for the selfish comforts of a large house and a Mercedes Benz.
Bill Casey, Director Central Intelligence, handed the debriefing and security regarding Malikov over to George Carnady and Louis Edwards. Louis and George began to understand something Casey merely hinted at. Ronald Reagan was serious about defeating the Soviet Empire, and should he succeed, they might need to developindependentfunding sources. There were those who believed success would make them obsolete.
Louis had two shadows today—Jim and Jerry. They had earned the right to sit in on the debriefing.
Harper wore a navy blue turtleneck, leather bomber jacket, blue jeans, and a pair of old Nikes. His eyes followed everything and everyone in the room. The 1911 government model .45 ACP hung heavy on the back of his belt in a small-of-the-back holster. There was still some stiffness in his left shoulder, and his shins continued to hurt in the cold weather. A week baking in the Florida sunshine had helped, but it was not enough to remove the aches from his battle wounds.
Jerry leaned against the wall next to a bookshelf. He wore an amused smirk on his lips and fiddled with a Swiss Army knife. He wore a sports coat, an open neck dress shirt, casual Dockers, and dress shoes. Beneath the sports coat was his Browning Hi Power in a leather shoulder rig. He seemed totally disinterested in his surroundings, but he watched what Harper passed over. His cheek bore a nasty scar where grenade shrapnel had burned through.
Their wounds and words were not lost on Louis. Harper had been particularly vehement about the KGB troops waiting for them, and a KGB major with a couple of goons babysitting Arkady at two in the morning. Getting in and out of Arzamas-16 in the midst of a raging blizzard was not a casual undertaking. Letting the opposition know about their mission was intolerable.
Bill Casey suspected there was a mole somewhere inside the company. Louis knew how such things usually went: The FBI would find their man, and never tell anyone else in town, except theWashington Post andNew York Times. They would gather a mountain of evidence, run copious numbers of wiretaps—some legal and some not. They would unleash their team of hackers from inside Quantico to break into banking systems and trace the money trail.
Finally, when they were ready, the FBI Director would have a quiet meeting with the Attorney General and explain what a terrible job those folks at Langley were doing. The nod would be given and the media alerted as another master spy would be exposed and captured. Louis would learn of it with the rest of the nation on the evening news shows.
The effect was simple. The Bureau would garner the glory at the expense of the company, and the appropriation process would be dutifully manipulated. Money and power ran like a tandem through the Beltway budget system.
Harper wondered aloud in one of their briefing sessions whether the entire Arkady defection was an elaborate trap and disinformation campaign. The frightening concept was that the KGB might know more about their operation than the United States government.
Louis led them down the steps to the electronic bubble in the basement. He punched in the code on the ten-digit cipher lock keypad. The two-inch steel door snapped and hissed open. Louis, followed by Arkady, two computer technicians, Jerry, and Jim, walked into the room. The lights clicked on automatically when the motion sensors detected movement.
The air conditioning system hummed quietly in the background, and the keyboards for the VAX terminals clicked under the technician’s fingers. Lines of text scrolled across the terminal screens before the thirty-inch Sony Trinitron monitors came to life with satellite imagery above Arzamas-16.
Louis walked over to the first monitor and waved a pointer at the screen. He tapped a particular set of buildings. “Doctor, what is this building?”
Arkady leaned forward and mumbled to himself. “That’s the main road leading out of the restricted zone?” he asked, pointing at the snow-covered road.
“Yes.”
“This is theJew’s lab!” he announced.
Louis watched Arkady; no expression rippled across his features. He simply nodded to the technician who clicked the next photograph to the screen.
The same row of buildings was displayed. The snow-packed street was obliterated by fire engines and an angry black pall billowing from theJew’s lab.
“Hah!” snapped Arkady. “So he finally blew himself up, the arrogant little bastard. Always thought he was superior to the rest of us. AYid— can you imagine him thinking he was better than a true Russian?” Arkady shook his head.
Harper shifted his weight and examined a spot beyond Arkady’s head on the wall. Anger continued to smolder behind the blue gray eyes. He listened to this Russian bigot who appeared to be nothing more than a great deal of hot air constantly in competition with others who were smarter than him. No wonder he defected.
The third photograph revealed a blasted ruin. Water-soaked, blackened timbers scattered like Lincoln Logs across the dirty brown and white snow carpet. The buildings on either side severely damaged. The roof having collapsed on one side, and windows clearly shattered on the other. The three-story building buried in a crater that may have been a basement.
“The Jew—” whispered Louis, “Tell us about him.”
Arkady blinked and demanded, “When did this happen?”
“Two weeks ago,” replied Jerry. An ungenerous smirk paraded across his lips. “From what you’ve told us, there were no labs here.” He pushed off the wall and let both hands land palm down on the table. He brought his chin forward so he came to a halt two feet from Arkady. “But this is theJew’s lab, and it’s blown to bits. So tell us, Arkady, about theJew .”
“I’d forgotten,” he whispered, suddenly unsure of himself.
Harper focused on Arkady as if noticing something decidedly unpleasant. “Answer Jerry’s question,” he hissed. “You owe both of us the truth.”
“I have been telling the truth!” he said shakily.
Louis shook his head. “Not all of it, Arkady.”
Jerry shook his head. “You’ve told us about the people you were smarter than.” He smirked and pulled up from the table. “Most of them are low grade technicians or junior people. But we’ve a list of senior people, and you’ve decidedly not told us anything about them.”
“We know you had to have contacts with Arzamas-16’s sister facility, Chelyabinsk-70. Yet you’ve never discussed the people you should have interacted with,” continued Louis.
Harper rubbed his hands together. His shoulder still ached from the bullet he stopped protecting Arkady’s wife. The puckered skin around his collarbone and the bone chips still floating inside his shoulder reminded Harper of a debt he expected to be paid in the currency of the truth. It was his turn to question. “Where is your honor? Or don’t they teach you honor anymore?”
* * * *
Arkady glared upwards at the man. Harper, more wolf than man, left them for a time the night they escaped from Arzamas-16. He became a phantom slithering through the snow and finally vanished into the blizzard’s fuzz. Arkady next saw Harper when they rounded the corner to the main entrance. He seemed more shadow than man. He fastened himself to the top of the BTR-60 armored fighting vehicle. The snow-covered soldier in the front turret jerked unnaturally, before sliding out of view. Two muffled booms drifted through the storm. Arkady thought he saw a flash, but it vanished in the storm’s white haze.
Harper emerged from the snow. He was sweating and it looked like there was blood on his gloves. The snowplow continued towards the main gate. The BTR-60 remained strangely quiet. The main guard tower loomed ahead. Harper suddenly snapping backwards into the plow’s truck bed was emblazoned on his memory. An inhuman cry escaped Harper’s lips as the 139 grain rifle slug pierced his upper chest. Incredibly, Harper brought the shotgun up and started firing into the watchtower. Each shot caused his body to spasm with pain. He ran the magazine tube dry before reaching into a holster and producing a .45 ACP. He continued firing until this gun ran dry as well. Harper’s dark red blood was spluttering on the snow like a leaky pipe.
Harper thumbed the magazine release button and slammed a second magazine in place. Assuming a Weaver stance with a wounded arm, he somehow held up the weak side of the grip. He flipped the slide release closed and fired again. Through the snow, a shadow flipped out of the watchtower and smacked mutely on the snow pack. He ran this magazine dry too and brought the gun down, panting. His face was blotted with sweat and his breath came harshly.
Somehow, Harper assumed a sitting position and applied a pressure bandage to the wound. He never spoke or cursed. His collarbone suffered a nick, causing a hairline fracture to extend into the joint. Arkady’s wife emerged from behind him, quivering in fear. The 7.62 x 45 mm round had deflected sideways after it hit Harper’s shoulder and the steel core shed its copper sheathing before emerging as a flattened mushroom in his back and ripping a long wound down his back. It bled more than it should. Three miles from the gate, Harper sat with the shotgun across his lap, his face whiter than the blizzard’s snow, slowly bleeding.
The warrior remained at his post, swallowing hard, breathing harder, and gobbling painkillers and amphetamines. He lost two pints of blood before they found a place to tend his wounds.
* * * *
“Ah, you want to hear about theJew— fine.”
“The truth,” reminded Jerry.
Arkady nodded.
“TheJew is David Kudrik. He’s one of the KGB’s wonder kids.”
Louis looked at the list in a file folder and realized they knew nothing of a Jew called David. How many other faceless ones were there? He scribbled the name on a notepad and passed it to one of the technicians. Perhaps the main database systems would know something.
“They found him before college—a child prodigy. Of course, the problem was hisJewishness ,” spat Arkady.
“Don’t you believe in something?” asked Harper disgustedly.
Arkady shook his head. “I believe in the power of the gun, and you’re making bigger and better guns.” He shook his head sadly. “Russia will never win this Cold War. We’ve nothing left. Can you understand that? We’ve a great big army, but the farms can’t feed us anymore. Our standard of living is little better than after the Great War, yet, here in the West, your poor are well off compared to our own. You have homes; we’re still living in apartments like maggots.
“But you were asking about theJew. ” He paused, sensing his answer disturbed Harper in a manner he could not fathom. There was sadness in those blue gray eyes. He ignored the thought. “TheJew was smarter than almost anybody. The rumor was they had made some accommodation for his family: better housing, jobs—that sort of thing. It was certainly worth it. He produced most of our basic research in particle and beam weapons.”
The envy came through every word. Harper eyed the blackened ruin where the lab had stood. It was a total loss.
“Yes, theJew was the first to understand the microprocessor and nuclear triggers,” replied Arkady to one of Louis’s questions.
Harper snapped back to the reality. He was working on a Computer Science degree with emphasis on database design.
“What microprocessors?” he asked suddenly.
Both Jerry and Louis glanced sideways at Harper.
“He got his hands on some 8080s back in 1978,” replied Arkady.
Louis felt the stomach acid release again. Microprocessor technology was only being released under strict license to the Soviets. The new 80286 chips were strictly forbidden export. Intel was just beginning to discuss the next generation chip called the 80386.
“Seven years ago,” whispered Harper.
“Yes. The KGB man—the one you two dealt with at Arzamas-16. He was tasked with getting theJew anything he asked for.”
Jerry sensed the tension emanating from Harper. “What did theJew do with these chips?”
Arkady shrugged, “He built a nuclear trigger for suitcase bombs.” An unpleasant smile crossed Arkady’s lips. “They wanted us to review his code. You know, the collegial atmosphere between scientists and that rot. Well, theJew showed us his code written in something he called Assembler Language.
“He gave us all a printout one day, and we stared at it for several hours. They all asked questions, but no one wanted to look totally stupid. You see no one understands—even now—what theJew did.
“We only know the bombs worked. They worked very well. Generally, two to three kiloton yield. Tap in a code and walk away. A couple hours later—Boom!” He smiled, waving his hands in the form of a mushroom cloud.
“How much did they weigh?”
“Fifty kilos maybe. They called them ‘man portable nuclear devices.’ Certainly, two people could deploy it, and someone in reasonably good shape could carry the weapon.”
Louis pushed a yellow legal pad across the table. “Make a sketch, Arkady.”
The beefy Russian shrugged and drew a reasonable facsimile. “It was seven years ago, but that’s what the prototype looked like.”
“How many?” asked Louis.
Arkady spread his hands. “I don’t know. They rumored that a hundred were made, maybe more, but the KGB and the military never told us. TheJew had his own joke. I don’t think anyone else ever understood it.”
“Joke?” quizzed Jerry.
“Yes, theJew —he called itSAMSON .”
CHAPTER 7
Geneva, Switzerland
