Boundless Ambition: (Kyle Achilles, Book 5), page 7
“The human propensity to leave the tough stuff to other people is why the world faces so many problems in the first place. We tend to take like we’re entitled, but don’t give like we’re obligated.”
She couldn’t argue with that.
“I’m not immune to those impulses,” he continued, his voice soothing, his eyes full of affection. “Excuses are always easy to find, while solutions are often difficult to accept, so I force myself to stay focused on the big picture.”
“And what picture is that?” Katya asked.
“The portrait of the person I want to be.”
Katya knew what he meant, but it was her turn to ask anyway. “A person who can be counted on to step up when others back off, regardless of the risk or inconvenience?”
“Something like that.”
She leaned across the aisle and kissed her husband.
Chapter 15
The Russians
THEY SLEPT until the pilot announced landing in Almaty, at which point Achilles cracked a window shade. He found a full moon illuminating Kazakhstan’s largest metropolis.
“It’s beautiful,” Katya said, looking over his shoulder. “Between the twinkling lights and the mountains in the background.”
Achilles agreed, although he hadn’t come for the scenery. Three factors had led him to select Almaty for their staging operation. One, it was on the flight path from Moscow to Delhi, making their approach appear appropriate to Indian air traffic control. Two, it would be easier for them to work with than the other countries along that flight path—namely Kyrgyzstan, China, and Pakistan—since the people and customs were more familiar. And three, it was full of Russian equipment and soldiers, both of which could be rented under the table.
Once Achilles knew exactly what he wanted and where, he’d outsourced the procurement to the man who’d been provided for that purpose. True to his name, Aladdin had organized the plane, people, and other supplies, arranging to have everything delivered in one tidy package for a single fixed fee.
Now, just as their “procurement officer extraordinaire” had promised, an SUV was waiting at the bottom of their jet’s airstair. It was a civilian vehicle, a black Mercedes of the style favored by Moscow’s elite. By contrast, the two men standing at parade rest beside the open passenger door were not private citizens. They wore the duty fatigues of Russian Air Force sergeants. The one whose insignia marked him as a senior sergeant stepped forward as they descended. “General Antonov, Major Brusilova, welcome to Almaty,” he said, using the names Achilles and Katya had assumed for the operation. “I’m Sergeant Belikov.”
“Should we salute?” Katya whispered, softly enough to avoid being overheard on the noisy airfield.
“Not when out of uniform,” Achilles replied, realizing that they had some last-minute cramming to do. “And the lower rank always initiates.”
“Thank you, Sergeant.”
“Sir, I believe you have something for us?”
Achilles motioned up the airstair. “You’ll find two briefcases just inside the door, along with our luggage.”
Sergeant Belikov motioned to his companion, who proceeded to retrieve all four bags from the Falcon in a single trip. While the bags disappeared into the trunk, Belikov motioned to the SUV’s open rear door. “If you please.”
The drive to the waiting Ilyushin Il-76 took only a few minutes. It was also in the executive aviation section of the airport, not the military, as one might have expected given the flat gray paint job and Russian Air Force markings. The sergeant did not take them to an airstair. None was present. Instead he drove toward the tail and then backed up the rear cargo ramp into the belly of the plane.
The cargo hold was about twice as wide as the Mercedes and five times as long, leaving room to open both doors—and transport a missile. The four exited and walked around to the front of the SUV, where six additional soldiers of various ranks and two pilots were standing at attention. The men all looked sufficiently impressive, with rugged faces, tough physiques and close-cropped hair. Achilles was pleased to see them acting like he really was a general, whether they believed it or not.
“At ease,” Achilles said, in Russian.
Sergeant Belikov addressed them. “It is your choice, of course—sir, ma’am—but I would suggest that you spend the night on the plane. That way you’ll avoid passport control and leave no footprints in Kazakhstan.”
“Sleeping arrangements?” Achilles asked, implicitly agreeing to the plan.
“You and the major can have the SUV. We have bedrolls. Wheels-up at 0600 will get us to Delhi at 0800 India Standard Time.”
“Did our luggage arrive?” Achilles was referencing their papers and uniforms. He had supplied Aladdin with their requirements and sizes.
“Yes, sir. Two bags are waiting on the plane.”
Achilles looked over at his wife a little later when they were alone. “You’re in the Air Force now, babe.”
“It’s major,” Katya replied in a tone that told him she was prepared for the dangerous mission ahead.
Chapter 16
The Major and The General
ACHILLES FOUND the cold-water shave in the Soviet-era military aircraft’s tiny restroom to be surprisingly bracing. Routine tasks often had that effect on him during stressful situations, but he didn’t think familiarity was the driver this time. The discomfort reminded him that he’d often roughed it during his years in CIA operations, and those had all worked out.
At least as far as the missions themselves were concerned.
The politics hadn’t always ended smoothly.
His shave complete, Achilles moved on to makeup—a less familiar act and a more stressful one to be sure. His goal was to add about fifteen years to his appearance, making it match the stereotypical image of a fast-track general.
He set about scrunching his face this way and that, then painting dark makeup into the wrinkles, contours and sags. Once satisfied that he’d found all his natural fault lines, he feathered each marking in the proper direction, using the technique he’d been taught by an Agency disguise artist. To strengthen the illusion of depth, Achilles added a line of light color to the unfeathered side of each dark line.
“Not bad,” he mumbled into the mirror.
For the finishing touches, Achilles powdered his face all over with light concealer, then added gray to his hair around the temples. The completed picture was both satisfying and disconcerting. He looked a lot older. Ironically, if anyone picked up on the powder, they’d interpret it as a general’s vain attempt to look younger. To better fit the ideal image of a vigorous warrior. Nobody used makeup to appear older.
Katya had transformed into Major Brusilova by the time Achilles returned to the SUV with her tea, his coffee, and their breakfast. Two white rolls and a brick of cheese. They’d practiced with the stage makeup at home, so his appearance didn’t shock her. “Good job with the hair,” he said, referring to her military bun. Given the circumstances, he figured that greeting was better than, “How’d you sleep?”
“Can’t be that good. You didn’t salute.”
Achilles couldn’t tell from her tone if she was serious. They were both a bit off. Morning lag plus jet lag. Caffeine and calories would help. “Junior rank salutes first. You know that, right?”
“I know.”
“Missions get blown by the little things. When you’re playing a role, it has to come fast and look natural. People are like dogs, they pick up on tension—just subconsciously and without the growl.”
His last clause elicited a smile. “I grew up in Moscow. I know how authority figures behave. Their confident body language, assertive verbal tendencies and imperious facial expressions.”
“You want to go over it again while we eat?”
“I’m good to go, General.”
He met her eye and saw that she was. “Hoorah, Major. Eat up, and we’ll make the call.”
Rather than run the risk of getting caught rescheduling the prototype transfer, they decided to show up three hours early under the guise of a surprise inspection. Surprise inspections being a common occurrence when the Russian military was involved.
They figured thirty minutes was the right amount of advance notice to give DelMos that Air Force General Antonov would be accompanying the transfer team. They would call it a visit rather than an inspection, but the rank of the powerful officer made the two synonymous.
DelMos Technologies was headquartered at Safdarjung, which had once been the main airport for the region around Delhi but had ceased commercial operations in the late 1960s when its runway became outdated. The once grand facility now housed only DelMos and the Delhi Flying Club.
Using her Major Brusilova voice, Katya got the joint venture’s Delhi program director on the line and alerted him to their early arrival time. “The general wanted to come a bit early to have a look around before picking up the prototype. I’m sure you understand.”
Anyone who worked with the Russians understood that they liked to throw their weight around. That was what powerful brutes did, and it was best not to aggravate them.
“But of course. We’re honored by the visit.”
“I’m sure the general would appreciate it if you were there to meet the plane,” Katya added.
The program director was a distinguished academic. With PhDs in both mechanical engineering and aeronautics from prestigious Indian universities, Dr. Mishra was the joint venture’s ultimate authority on technical issues. But the military was not his bailiwick. In Achilles’ experience, people who had never worn a uniform tended to be intimidated by those who did. Throw in the fact that this uniformed Russian was a general, and almost anyone would be deferential.
Almost anyone.
Achilles did not know Mishra. He couldn’t be certain. He was playing the odds. That was what successful operatives did—they worked percentages—with conviction, intuition and courage.
“I’m afraid the timing is a bit problematic,” Mishra replied.
“Well then I’m glad to be dealing with such a renowned problem-solver,” Katya shot back.
Mishra hesitated a bit longer than Achilles would have liked, but his ultimate answer was satisfactory. “Please tell the general that I look forward to welcoming him shortly.”
Chapter 17
The First Problem
KATYA WATCHED the cargo door open in Delhi like it was the gate to Hell. Given the accompanying blast of heat and blazing sun beyond, she figured the analogy might fit in more ways than one. Still, there was something hypnotizing about watching the jet’s rear partition swing up out of the way while the floor angled down to form a ramp.
The air that billowed in with the light wasn’t just furnace-like, it stank. The Indian capital city was known for having hazardous pollution levels during the summer months, and one whiff was enough to confirm as much. How did people without air-conditioned homes and offices cope? What was it like in prison?
Katya pushed the troubling questions aside. Once the soldiers had removed the straps used to secure the SUV during flight, she took her seat and assumed a military disposition.
The sergeant behind the wheel waited to start the engine until his men had marched down the ramp and formed a corridor. Three men on each side, spaced equally between the bottom of the ramp and the assembled welcome party.
If all went according to plan, that would be the soldiers’ only duty. Window dressing. Uniformed mannequins. A general’s entourage.
If someone screwed up, however, or fate somehow intervened, then the mannequins would spring to life. They would help the imposters fight their way to freedom. Fight and flight, Katya mused. No or about it.
While she mentally rehearsed potential responses to the disaster scenario—running, fighting or hiding—the driver keyed the ignition. The noise functioned like the starter’s bell at the Kentucky Derby, sending the soldiers springing into action. They pivoted precisely ninety degrees and whipped off crisp salutes.
The race was on.
A battle of wits.
A grand deception with all their lives on the line and the safety of America at stake.
With two supporting actors seated up front, and the main characters settled in back, the SUV descended the ramp. It drove to the end of the human corridor and stopped. The sergeants stepped out, opened the rear doors and snapped off salutes. Russian Air Force General Antonov and his aide, Major Brusilova, stepped onto the hot tarmac.
Katya followed a half-step behind Achilles as they approached the small welcoming party. Every move for the next ninety minutes would involve critical calculations—beginning with this one. At that very moment, Achilles was playing a high-stakes game of chicken. He wanted Director Mishra to speak first, to set the tone, so Achilles could adapt his tactics accordingly. Read, then manipulate, in constant iteration—as Rex Rowe so masterfully did.
Tension began to build as the gap between the two parties narrowed without either breaking the ice. The silence did not reflect a hospitable disposition.
At the same time, Katya found that her husband’s strange uniform, makeup and demeanor were making it much easier for her to play the part of a major and general’s aide. His every glance, word and gesture reminded her of her own role. They put her in character.
When Achilles was nearly within handshake range, the man Katya recognized as Director Mishra stepped forward from the group of five and extended his hand. “General Antonov, thank you for coming. To what do we owe the pleasure?”
“Director Mishra. I’ve been wanting to visit for some time. A last-minute schedule change made this quick trip possible.” Achilles shook his host’s hand a bit longer than necessary. Katya knew this was purposeful. He wanted to make a deep, reinforcing impression. Rock climbing had given her husband calloused hands and a vise-like grip. Combined with his athletic physique and the intelligent gleam in his blue-gray eyes, they completed the image of a don’t-mess-with-me military man.
“Our good fortune to be sure,” Mishra replied. “Although I fear I haven’t had the opportunity to prepare a tour or presentation.”
“I’m not interested in how our joint venture presents on special occasions,” Achilles said in a neutral tone. “I prefer to see everyday operations.”
“Perhaps you’re thinking of Potemkin’s famous deception?”
“You know your Russian history.”
“For the last four centuries, Russian history has been world history,” Mishra said, sounding sage as he spoke with his hands clasped behind his back.
“Good point.”
Achilles gestured to the open space beyond the welcoming party’s two SUVs. “I can’t help but notice that you don’t have the missile with you.”
“We weren’t expecting the pickup for some hours. It’s being prepared for transport as we speak.”
“I have an appointment at the Kremlin this afternoon. I’m afraid that gives me a hard deadline. Wheels-up in ninety minutes.”
“I’ll let the team know.”
Katya didn’t like the sound of that. The deadline truly was as hard as they came—but not for the reason Achilles stated.
The real transport plane from Moscow was set to arrive in three hours. Given that Ghandi International managed all air traffic control in the region, Safdarjung would get no advance notice of its arrival. But that arrangement didn’t give the imposters three hours on the ground. They needed to get the missile out of Indian airspace before their deception was exposed. The border was a ninety-minute flight away.
To streamline their ground game, Katya and Achilles had formulated tactics that would both reinforce the charade and limit their exposure to the bare minimum. No more than ninety minutes.
Achilles swiftly segued his discussion with Mishra in that direction. “In keeping to the objective of observing everyday operations, I’d prefer a one-on-one tour. Just the two of us. Major Brusilova will remain with the plane to supervise the loading—and see to some urgent paperwork that Moscow just requested.”
“I’d like that very much,” the Director said with convincing inflection. “But I’m afraid I can’t be your guide this morning. I have an important breakfast meeting with the mayor. Rescheduling would be very bad for our business.”
Achilles stayed silent, but Katya was certain his face was speaking.
“Fortunately, several of my department heads are available.” Mishra turned and gestured to the other four members of his entourage. Each stepped forward to shake Achilles’ hand when introduced. “Aarav Khatri, Systems Development. Sai Bakshi, Engineering. Vihaan Acharya, Manufacturing Operations. And Prisha Chabra, Human Resources.”
The first title made Katya cringe. The second forced her to fight back panic. How could Achilles wriggle out of that net? Four intelligent adversaries, three of whom would have nothing to do but scrutinize Achilles’ every word as the fourth engaged him in shop talk that was over his head?
Katya struggled to concoct an excuse, something that would stop the tour without blowing the mission. Nothing came to mind. Before she knew it, her husband was gone.
Chapter 18
The Other General
STEEL SHIELD had been bribing generals and lawmakers since day one. That was how lucrative contracts were won, and how genteel business was done. The people who carved up a pie got a slice.
Successful players understood the unspoken rules.
But of course, there were exceptions. Every once in a while, a person came along who took the backstage game to a new level. A visionary. A pioneer. A person so skilled you never saw her coming.
William Zacharia studied his C3 colleagues as they settled into their customary seats around his fire pit. He now viewed them very differently from the way he had eighteen months earlier at Luci’s first meeting. Back then, the three CEOs had gathered as glorified lobbyists. Petitioners to a government they intended to influence. Three out of thousands of players competing in the time-honored dance of quid pro quo.
