Fog of War (Justin Hall # 3) (31 page)

Justin seized the moment. He quickly excused himself, and climbed up the stairs. The palace blueprints were vivid in his memory. He turned left, moving toward the west wing. Impressive paintings covered the walls. Magnificent marble replicas of famous Roman and Greek statues stood on equally stunning pedestals. A plush red carpet covered the middle of the marble floor, silencing his rapid footsteps.

He passed a series of doors and made a right turn. A man was sitting on a chair in front of a large wooden door. Justin recognized him as the passenger of Romanov’s limousine, who had approached him in New York, outside the Ambassador Theater.
Uh-uh, bad news.

The guard recognized him as well. He stood up and stepped forward. “What are you doing here?”

Justin walked toward the guard. “I’d like to talk to Romanov.”

“He’s busy. How did you get in?”

“Romanov invited me, but you wouldn’t know about it.”

The guard’s neck muscles were bulging. “My orders are to let no one in.”

“Something has come up. This will only take five minutes.”

The guard grinned. “You need to check your ears. I said I’m not letting you in.” He took another step forward, standing face to face with Justin.

“I heard you, no need to lose your cool over it. I’m leaving. Sorry for your trouble.”

Justin began to turn around, then swung his arm fast, his right fist going for the guard’s head. But the guard had anticipated Justin’s move. His large hand stopped Justin’s fist, deflecting the blow. Justin too had predicted the guard’s reaction. He threw a quick left hook to the guard’s throat, followed by another one, which connected with his right temple.

The guard wavered but responded by flinging his right arm. Justin ducked and sidestepped the guard. He grabbed the guard’s wrist and twisted his arm. He pushed the guard down, then he knocked him unconscious with an elbow to the back of the head.

Justin reached inside the guard’s jacket and took his pistol. Then he stood up and knocked twice on the door.

“What is it, Sergei?” Romanov asked.

Justin pushed the heavy door, holding his pistol at eye level.

Romanov was alone in his office, sitting behind a large, antique desk. “Justin? You like to make an entrance.”

His voice showed no surprise. Romanov was probably expecting him and was not one to be easily intimidated. He had stared down one too many gun barrels.

“Are you here to kill me?” Romanov asked.

“No, I’m here to talk,” Justin replied. “This is Sergei’s.”

He flicked the magazine release switch on the pistol and caught the falling magazine before it hit the floor. He placed both the pistol and the magazine on Romanov’s desk before sitting in one of the large armchairs across from him.

The door was thrown open, and two guards rushed in, pistols drawn.

“What the hell are you doing?” Romanov barked at them.

“Sorry, sir, Sergei is down, so we tho—”

“I don’t pay you to think. Get out and don’t interrupt us. I’m having a talk with a friend.”

The guards nodded and closed the door behind them.

“They never learn manners, no matter how long they’ve been around you,” Romanov said.

“You’ve got a nice place here.” Justin looked around the room.

“Oh, you like it? It’s a good little place in a great area. Even the President has a
dacha,
a cottage, a little further away.”

Justin’s eyes scanned the large bookcase behind Romanov’s desk. “
War and Peace, Dead Souls, Crime and Punishment.
Great classics. You’ve read them?”

“Of course, I have.” Romanov sounded a bit offended by the question. “I love
Crime and Punishment.
I find myself always cheering for the villains.”

Justin grinned. “It’s a good story. With some good morals.”

“Yes, good morals. Justin, what brings you to Moscow?” Romanov pushed back his chair.

“Debriefing after the Yemeni operation. Still need to sort out a few issues. Like why didn’t you tell me the whole truth about your missile shipment?”

Romanov shrugged. “It wasn’t relevant to your task. Whoever had stolen from me, they had to pay and return my property.”

Justin shook his head. “It would have been a great help to know the man stealing from you was Hamidi, an arms dealer whose name was on Mossad’s blacklist.”

“I had no knowledge about that.”

“Huh. OK, maybe not about Mossad, but you knew Hamidi was there.”

Romanov reached for a glass on his desk and took a sip. The liquid had the golden-yellow color of scotch.

“I would have gone to Yemen regardless of who those people were. Knowing that information would have helped me with my preparations and may have avoided the firefight with Mossad.”

“Yes, it would have helped,” Romanov said.

His eyes locked with Justin’s and glinted dark. Romanov’s admission was a poor substitute for an apology, but it would do in this situation.

Justin smiled and leaned forward. “Very well. Carrie and I came out mostly unharmed, but we need some intelligence. About something we found in Somalia.”

Romanov gestured with his hand for Justin to continue talking.

“We fought with al-Shabaab, and after the shootout I discovered militants had two boxes full of M16s. Brand new. We checked their serial numbers. They originated from a warehouse in Qatar, belonging to a famous arms dealer. Care to guess the name?”

Romanov frowned. “You know I don’t like riddles.”

“The name is Hamidi, your business associate. And here’s where the story gets interesting. One of the dead al-Shabaab terrorists was a US citizen. Not only that, but he was recently in the US, entering the country under his real name. Hassan Khalif Yusuf. Two days later, a large shipment of American weapons, including these M16s, made their way to Qatar.”

“Fascinating. Now get to the point.”

“How did this happen? Who is this man? What connections does he have?”

Romanov stopped Justin with a raised hand. “You ask a lot of questions. Do you really want the answers?”

Justin blinked. “Of course. Yusuf almost killed me. Innocent people died because of him. And this illegal weapons trade has to stop.”

Romanov shook his head. “As long as people continue to fight in Somalia and other wastelands of the world, there will always be people selling guns and making money. Not you or anyone else can stop this trade.”

Justin felt defeated. He fell back in his chair. He sighed. “Why don’t you let me decide that?”

Romanov thought about it for a few moments. He leaned forward. “All right, so I give you this man’s connections. What are you planning to do?”

“Whatever it takes to bring them down.”

“Sure, like no one has tried it before. These people, they are like hydras. You chop off one head, two more will grow. You’re going to take down one man, maybe a few. A hundred more will step up to take their places.”

“Let’s start rolling one head at a time.”

“Yes, you want it that way? Fine.”

Romanov reached for a drawer to his right. He pulled out a couple of folders. “The UN has put an arms embargo in place for Somalia since 1992. But embargos don’t stop the arms flow. They just increase prices. That country is awash with all types and brands of weapons. Russian, Chinese, American. The US sells to the Somali government, but their officials are so corrupt they turn around and sell the same weapons to al-Shabaab. Then al-Shabaab’s militants attack police stations and military bases and get even more guns, missiles, mortars.

“Yemen also sells a big portion of weapons to Somalia. And all sorts of gun smugglers make their living shipping weapons to Somalia from its neighbors, Eritrea, Ethiopia, Kenya. Then you’ve got Iran involved, albeit on a smaller scale.”

Justin held Romanov’s eyes. “Russia’s not involved?”

“Oh, we are, but we try to keep it legit. Well, that word has different meanings to different people.

“So, Somalia is a very lucrative market. There are a million illegal weapons in a country of ten million people. And another nine million would love to buy or steal an AK or RPG. Enter Yusuf.”

Romanov opened his folder. He picked up a photo, held it up so only he could see it, then looked up at Justin. “Yusuf was not only
a member
of al-Shabaab. He was also a CIA agent.”

“What?” Justin voice came out in a loud shout.

Romanov handed over the photo. “I assume you know both men in the picture.”

Justin could not believe his eyes. The photo was taken in a fancy restaurant. The background was blurry, so he could not determine the location. But the face of the man dining with Yusuf was very clear. He was Deputy Director of NCS Travis Adams.

“This photo is doctored. This can’t be true,” Justin said.

“I knew you were going to say that. But deep down you know it’s real.” Romanov pulled out a document from his folder. “Yusuf’s records. Authentic files from CIA records. Don’t expect me to tell you how I got this copy. Just know the files are real.”

Justin shook his head and bit his lip. “This explains so many things. How he got in and out of the US. His passport. Was he in deep cover inside al-Shabaab?”

“Yes. At least initially. But it seems things didn’t go as CIA planned. Instead of Yusuf turning militants to his cause, it seemed he began to trust in
their
cause. That’s when he began to channel weapons from US shipments to terrorists.”

Justin ran his hands through his hair. “Why didn’t Adams stop this? Why didn’t
you
do something?”

“Yusuf had Adams by the balls. He deceived him for an entire year, giving him bogus intelligence. Adams had too much to lose if he admitted his mistake. He gave in to Yusuf’s blackmail, believing a few shipments of weapons and a few million dollars would keep things quiet.”

“How . . . how did you learn this?”

Romanov grinned. “I like to know the market and my competitors. Money buys a lot of things. Information. Classified files. Secrets.”

Justin nodded.

“And I
did
something with this information. I gave it to my contacts in FSB, and they talked to their counterparts in CIA. Needless to say, Adams survived CIA’s internal investigation without a scratch. But Yusuf had become a liability. Adams needed to make sure he went away. For good.”

Justin’s eyes flashed with rage. “He sent me there to execute Yusuf. He knew about Yusuf being in that village at that time, or he drew him out there to put him within my reach. I was carrying out Adams’s revenge.”

“Yes, he used you.”

Romanov’s words cut very sharp. He did not have to say them, and Justin knew what he was doing: fanning the flames.

“I need the entire folder,” he said coldly.

Romanov pushed it across the table. “It’s all yours. I just need to warn you that—”

“No warning necessary. I know what to do with it.”

“Have it your way.”

Romanov crossed his hands over his chest.

“We’re not done,” said Justin. “This was for me. Now I need something for Carrie.”

Romanov replied with a deep frown. “Do I look like a fairy godmother?”

“No, but you owe her one. This will even out the score.”

“Hmmm, it doesn’t work that way. You can’t come here and make such requests.”

Justin simply looked at Romanov. “We have a business relationship. We deal in secrets, in information. A time will come when you’ll need my help, our help. A favor. Like when you lose something, say a shipment of missiles.”

“Oh, yes, and since you mentioned those missiles, they went up in a big explosion. I did not get them back.”

Justin nodded. “Once again, if I had
all
the information about that mission, things may have ended better for everyone.”

Romanov nodded, but said nothing. He stared straight at Justin.

Justin did not want to play Romanov’s stare down game. “Carrie’s still looking for her father’s grave. The intel you provided her has helped a lot. She identified the gravesite, but the remains were moved. She needs to know where.”

Romanov kept his eyes fixed on Justin’s face.

Justin continued, “And she can never find out the information came from you or that I asked for it. In return, I’ll owe you one.”

His last words broke Romanov’s stare. He smiled, but it was just a small twitch of his lips. “I’ll see what I can do. It will be difficult. Chechnya is a mess.”

Justin nodded. He knew Romanov would come through with the information. “We’re done here. I’m going to let you get back to your par—”

An explosion blast lit up the dark night. Justin hurried to the windows. Romanov followed him. A truck was on fire a hundred or so yards away, by the back wall surrounding the palace. Four or five human silhouettes moved at a rapid pace away from the leaping flames.

Two of Romanov’s guards burst into the room. One of them aimed his pistol at Justin.

“Out there you morons,” Romanov growled at them. “The explosion. Find out whoever they are and kill them.”

“They’re here for me,” Justin said.

Romanov did a double take. “Who? Al-Shabaab? Here?”

“Most likely their proxies.”

Justin headed for the door.

“Give him a gun,” Romanov said to one of the guards. “And follow his orders. All of you.”

Sergei and three other guards joined them in the hall. They were carrying newer model AKs.

“There’s a side door this way,” Sergei said.

They ran down the stairs, cut to the right, and were soon out in the backyard. Gunshots shattered a window above their heads. Justin hit the ground, rolling and seeking cover behind a stone pillar. Sergei was right behind him. The other guards spread out along the side of a fountain and behind a couple of thick pines.

“I saw four, maybe five people,” Justin said, “but there could be more.”

One of the guards fired his AK. A heavy machine gun returned fire, blowing away marble chunks from the statues in the fountain.

“We’ll flank them from the left,” Justin said. “Sergei, come with me.”

Sergei radioed their plan to the other guards.

They began a barrage of cover fire as Justin and Sergei ran bent at the waist. They drew some erratic fire before they fell behind a couple of BMWs about fifty yards closer to the gunmen.