The Kremlin Phoenix (6 page)

The team leader listened
carefully to the brief conversation. When it finished, he used a scrambler to call
a number given to him by the East Coast commander.

Nogorev answered. “Yes?”

“Zelenyy pyat,” ‘Green Five’, the
team leader said, all that was needed to identify himself. “Intercept at 10.43
AM,” he announced, then replayed Craig’s brief telephone call.

The team leader hung up, leaving Nogorev
troubled that another MLI document was still unrecovered. He didn’t know what
document it was, or even if it was important, but he’d have to advise his
superiors that part of the operation was incomplete. More significantly, he
recognized the accent of the man calling Craig Balard. If not for years of
training, he would have spoken with a similar accent. It could mean only one
thing.

Someone was mounting a counter operation!

* * * *

Dr Chaing slid into the chair between
Woods’ and Harriman’s desks. He held up a small plastic envelope containing a
tiny melted square of metal. Harriman took the envelope between thumb and
forefinger for a closer look.

“We pulled that out of McCormack’s
car,” Dr Chaing explained. “It’s a computer chip from one of the bombs.
According to my calculations, the detonation rate was in excess of seven
thousand meters per second.”

Harriman gave him a blank look. “Which
means . . . ?”

“It was a military grade
explosive. That’s why there’s not much left of the bomb. I’m hoping we can
scrape up enough residue for a chemical analysis, but if not, we’ve still got
that chip. It’s a very interesting chip, considering it’s not one of ours.”

“Ours?”

“It’s not available in North
America. From the metallurgy, I’ve identified some of the compounds used in its
manufacture. I’m still trying to get a match, but I suspect the entire bomb was
smuggled into the country.”

Harriman looked at the sliver of
metal with renewed interest. “From where?”

Chaing winced uncertainly. “I’m
still trying to work that out. It’s custom made.”

“Is it a terrorist device?”

“No, terrorists don’t make bombs
that sophisticated.”

Harriman handed the plastic
envelope back to Chaing, who slipped it into his pocket. “Let me know if you
find out where it came from.”

“I know someone who does a little
metallurgy for the intelligence community. I’ll ask him to look at it, off the
record.”

Harriman nodded. “OK, but keep it
quiet.”

Chaing got up to leave. “You know
Rick, even McCormack’s gold fillings melted. Can you believe it?” Chaing walked
off toward the exit.

Once the doctor had left, Woods swiveled
his chair towards Harriman. “I checked Goldstein’s calls for the week before
his death. Two calls were made to him on Monday from an abandoned warehouse.”

“Abandoned?” Harriman said
thoughtfully. “It’s worth a look. Get a warrant, and a couple of black and
whites – just in case.”

* * * *

Harriman’s unmarked car rolled quietly
down the back street, followed by two squad cars. There were no flashing
lights, no sirens, no screeching tires as they pulled up in front of a dilapidated
warehouse near the East River. The name of the company that had once owned the
building had been painted over. The few windows high above the street were
smashed and the roller door was splashed with graffiti, while the front door
was secured by a shiny new, heavy duty padlock.

The cars parked in front. Harriman
sent two uniformed officers to cover the rear while he, Woods and two more
uniformed officers approached the front door. An officer carrying a sledge
hammer took out the padlock on the front door, then Harriman led the charge
inside, guns drawn.

Four paces through the doorway,
Harriman relaxed, convinced the warehouse was empty. Dust and cobwebs shrouded
the interior, except for a single wooden chair beside a telephone in the middle
of the floor and a heavy concrete road barrier placed parallel to the rear wall.
A thin black cable snaked its way from the telephone across the floor to the
wall, skirting a small oil patch in front of the roller door, where tire marks
and shoeprints marked the dust.

Harriman holstered his pistol,
studying the interior while Woods waved to a forensic specialist waiting
outside.

“Dust the phone and the chair for
prints,” Woods said.

Harriman skirted the oil patch
and examined the roller door’s tracks. They were not covered in dust from lack
of use, but glistened with grease. “Don’t touch anything!” he shouted, then turned
to Woods who was inspecting the telephone. “Get the front door fixed. I want
the same type of padlock on it. Once the padlock is on, drive a screw into it
so it can’t be used. Whoever’s using this place won’t know his key doesn’t
work. And put more graffiti on the door. Make the damage look like vandalism,
not police.”

“You think the perp’s coming back?”
Woods asked.

“Maybe.”

Harriman approached the door, gauging
how severe the damage was. The padlock had taken most of the force of the impact.
Once it was replaced, the ruse had a chance. He stepped outside to study the
street. On the other side of the road were several cars parked in front of a
row of rundown buildings they could use to watch the warehouse.

Woods came outside. “Look at
this,” he said, holding up an empty cartridge box. The label on the front
identified the ammunition as seven point six two millimeter. “He’s got an
assault rifle.”

“That’ll punch through our body
armor at close range,” Harriman said grimly. “Better let Mooney know the perp
has a heavy caliber weapon.” Mooney was the officer in charge of Powell’s
protection unit. “And get some ESU guys out here in unmarked vehicles.” If this
did turn into a fire fight, Harriman realized, they’d need the heavier weapons
used by the Emergency Service Unit.

“On it,” Woods said, heading for
the car radio.

Harriman studied the approaches
to the warehouse, trying to assemble a picture of the killer. Expert shot, high
grade explosives, heavy caliber ammunition all pointed in one direction. This
was no mere contract killer they were dealing with, he was far more dangerous
than that.

He was military.

* * * *

July 25, 2276

“I thought you said Craig Balard wasn’t
in danger?” Captain Wilkins asked.

“He wasn’t,” Mariena said. “He
lived until he was seventy six years old – before the second timeline reset.”

“You mean, we got him killed?”

“Yes. After I spoke to him, he
must have found the master list. That triggered the second timeline reset, which
our sensors detected. We know from the new historical record, the one that came
into existence after the second reset, that Craig Balard was murdered the day
after I spoke to him.”

“We never saw that coming?”

“How could we?” she said. “It
never happened in the original timeline.”

Wilkins sighed. “We really don’t
know what we’re doing, do we?”

“We have no choice,” she said. “I
wish my brother was here, but he isn’t.” Her brother had been Professor in
Temporal Mechanics at MIT, but he was dead, like everyone else on Earth.

“How do you know Balard was
killed?” Wilkins asked.

“I found his death certificate,”
Zikky said, “when I was scanning all data sources for our next reset point.”

“So the first time you researched
him, he lived until he was seventy six years old?” Wilkins asked.

“Yes, then I told him to get the
master list,” she said. “That changed the timeline, and got him killed. It’s
our fault.”

“OK, so Balard found the master
list in the second timeline,” Wilkins said, “our current timeline?”

“Third timeline,” Mariena
corrected. “Two resets, plus the original.”

“The question is, do we care if
he lives or dies?” Wilkins asked. “I mean, from our perspective, he’s been dead
a long time.”

“We absolutely have to save him.”

“Why?” Wilkins asked.

“Because in this current
timeline, he’s the focal point. We made him that! Before I used him to trigger
the second reset, he was irrelevant, because in the original timeline he never
found the master list. Now that he has found it – in the new timeline – everything
hinges on what he does with it!”

“So we get him to hand the master
list over to the right people, they do what we hope they will with it, and he’s
off the hook. Right?”

“He still might be killed, but we
can’t let that happen while he controls the master list, otherwise the whole
thing falls apart.”

Captain Wilkins sighed. “So how
are you going to save this guy?”

“After Zikky found Balard’s death
certificate, we started researching the location where he was murdered. It’s an
Italian restaurant called Romano’s,” Mariena explained. “To save him, this is
what we’re going to do . . .”

* * * *

Present Day

“Do you have a table reserved for a Mr
Balard?” Nogorev asked a jovial little man standing behind the restaurant’s cash
register.

“Yes sir,” Giorgio Romano replied.
“Please, this way.”

Romano led Nogorev through the
cafe to a high backed private booth in the rear, far from other guests. A man sat
waiting, furtively glancing at the other customers, then at Romano and Nogorev
as they approached.

Nervous
eyes!
Nogorev thought as Romano handed him a
menu.

“Mr Balard?” The other man asked
once they were alone.

Nogorev recognized the voice of the
man who’d phoned Craig Balard from the communications intercept. He nodded

“You have the file?”

Nogorev nodded again.

“Well! Let me have it.”

Nogorev shook his head, holding
out his hand and motioning to receive payment first.

“I have already given you proof,
Mr Balard. You have the photograph. If you want more than that, you will have
to give me something in return.”

Photograph?
he wondered.
Of what?
He slipped his hand into his coat
pocket below the table, feeling for the small caliber silenced pistol, then
spoke in a low firm tone. “Who are you?”

Nervous Eyes froze. “You’re not
Balard!”

“Who are you working for?” Nogorev
demanded, glancing down at his concealed weapon, ensuring the man opposite understood
the danger he was now in.

Nervous Eyes glanced toward Romano,
hoping to catch his eye, but the restaurant owner was talking to customers.

“You wouldn’t shoot me, not in
here.”

“Answer me!” Nogorev demanded firmly.
“Who are you?”

“SK.”

SK?
Nogorev hid his surprise. “Sledkom?”

The SK officer nodded. The
Sledsteveynny Komitet were civilian investigators and criminal prosecutors, the
nearest thing Russia had to the FBI.

“How did you find out about MLI?”
Nogorev asked.

“I’m leaving.”

“Don’t move!” Nogorev ordered
quietly. He didn’t want to shoot. He wanted information, and to wait for Balard
to arrive, but he couldn’t let the SK officer leave.

The Sledkom officer avoided eye
contact as he slid across the seat towards the edge of the booth. Nogorev
coughed loudly as he pulled the trigger, disguising the soft whisper from the silenced
gun. The SK officer shuddered as the hollow point bullet tore through his chest,
then he slumped forward. Nogorev pushed the other man back into the cushioned
seat, fastening his coat to conceal his blood stained shirt, then walked
casually to the counter where Romano stood.

“I need to go to the bank. I’ll
be back soon. We won’t order until I return.” Nogorev said, eliminating the
need for Romano to talk to the dead man.

“Of course, sir. Take your time.”

Nogorev strode out of the cafe,
walked a short distance, and pretended to look into a shop window. At the
corner, the stop lights turned red and Craig crossed the road with a handful of
other pedestrians. He hurried towards the café, passing close by Nogorev, who
glimpsed his face as he entered the café. It was enough to allow the assassin
to commit his face to memory.

Inside the café, Craig approached
the proprietor. “I’m meeting someone here. The table is registered under the
name of Balard.”

“Of course sir. One of your
friends has just gone to the bank, he’ll be back in a few minutes.”

“One of my friends?” Craig said
uncertainly.

“Yes sir. The other gentleman is in
the booth, at the end. Follow me.”