Black Ghosts (3 page)

In order to prevent the activation of the Black Ghosts by any unauthorized personnel, new sophisticated security systems had been installed in all three command posts. The Moscow command bunker was protected by a new Iris Identification Scanner, which prevented anyone but General Kozov from powering up the mobilization computer, without which the units were only an imaginary army, fragmented and unreachable. The computer was at the heart of the Black Ghosts' call-up mechanism and held all the activation codes.

General Kozov had advocated that the Black Ghosts be disbanded altogether, but the presidential decree dissolving the units was slow in coming. Meanwhile, General Kozov had to content himself with the promise that the IIS was fail-safe.

If tampered with, the IIS worked as an explosive lock, instantly destroying all information stored in the computer. The only way to unlock it was for Kozov to have the device scan his eye and compare the image of his iris to a previous scan. Without that image, no one could unleash the fury of the Black Ghosts.

The career of Kozov's predecessor as commander of the Black Ghosts was less auspicious. Implicated in the 1988 coup attempt against Gorbachev, he had been exiled to a prison colony in Siberia and was now presumed dead, a victim of the horrific accident at the nuclear facility adjacent to where he was incarcerated.

Peter, however, was sitting in the Combat Information Center of the Black Ghosts' underground command bunker outside Moscow. He was well rested and felt comfortable in his tailored black uniform, with gold general's shoulder braids. His legs were raised on the dark wooden desk, his chair tilted back. In these surroundings—the familiar charts, screens, the smell of fresh paint, a staple of underground military bunkers—Peter felt at home. It was almost as if the years at the prison colony had never happened. But they had, and for that Peter was about to tear his revenge from the living tissue of his adversaries.

“Operation Czar is on schedule, sir,” said Colonel Sokolov, a tall, slim man with a sophisticated aura about him.

Peter lit a cigarette. “And the communication array?” His eyes were like two slits scanning Sokolov's face.

“Most of it has been delivered, sir. The rest should arrive any day.”

“How about installation?”

“On schedule, sir.”

“What is the status of the prisoners?”

Before Peter had arrived at the bunker, his men had found a small maintenance crew and a contingent of guards. They'd been quickly overrun and taken prisoner.

“They were interrogated, sir. Colonel Yazarinsky handled that.”

“And?”

Sokolov's face showed his distaste for his fellow colonel. “He disposed of them, sir.”

“I see.” The general leaned back in his chair and gazed for several seconds at the darkened computer screens on the walls of the control room. Except for the yellowish glow of the emergency lights, nothing was on. The only system that worked was the life-support system for the skeleton maintenance crews. “Any progress on breaking the lock on the computer?”

Sokolov looked uncomfortable. “Not very much, sir. The technician said we might have to find an alternative to the computer.”

“An alternative?” Peter was about to pour out all his anger on the slim officer standing to attention on the other side of his desk. But he reconsidered. Still staring at the blank screen, Peter seemed to reach some kind of decision. There was a hint of a smile on his face.

“Get Colonel Yazarinsky in here now,” he said absently. “I have a little job for him.”

 

Dawn cautiously probed the winter sky, dragging the valley from under the shadows of the jagged snow-covered peaks to the east.

“Le Bistro” was located in an old converted warehouse at the west end of Grantsville, where Main Street bends northwest, joining up with Highway 138 on its way from Salt Lake City. The restaurant was the source of a mouth-watering aroma of fresh-baked croissants that lingered in the cold air. Using a recipe he picked up in the south of France, Edward baked an increasing number of the crescent-shaped rolls every morning. He now removed the last sizzling tray from the oven, placing it in a tall metal rack.

Whistling a tune only he could have recognized, Edward attended to his favorite part of the morning: preparing a hearty, somewhat oversized breakfast for himself. His staff was not due in for another hour, which gave him all the time he needed.

He had begun this routine the day after he opened ten months ago, and since then he had guarded it as a sacred rite. For someone who had dragged himself through some of the bloodiest gutters the world had to offer, as an officer with Alpha 27, a highly specialized and extremely covert operation unit of U.S. Military Intelligence, this was as close to heaven as it could get.

Edward had just poured himself a cup of hot black Colombian coffee and set his loaded plate—three eggs over easy, six crispy strips of bacon, and a basket of fresh croissants—on the counter separating the open kitchen from the bistro's main seating area, when he heard a knock at the door. It was the door leading from the kitchen into a back alley.

Edward glanced quickly at the neon Michelob clock on the wall above the cash register. It was ten past six. The road in front of the restaurant was empty, and large, fluffy snowflakes descended gently through the fading yellow glow of the street lamp.

The second knock was stronger, more vigorous. Edward felt the hairs bristle on the back of his neck: In his book, surprises were rarely pleasant. All his senses were now alert. Moving fast, he reached under the counter and drew a .357 Magnum Ruger revolver from a secret compartment.

“Just a minute,” he called out, moving closer to the door. Through the spy hole, Edward got a fish-eye view of the back alley and the woman standing at the door. Clumps of wet snow clung to her coat and to the knitted black cap pulled over her ears. She was alone, her arms folded across her chest, trying to keep warm.

“We open at seven,” he said through the door. “What do you want?”

“I'm looking for Edward.” The woman's voice was barely audible. “Larry Collins sent me.”

Larry Collins was not a name that would come up in casual conversation. Larry was CIA, one of the few friends who knew where Edward could be found. They had met on a job about ten years ago, in the Middle East, and had become friends—not common in the murky province of covert activity. The work they had done together was usually referred to in the inner circle of the intelligence community as an INHAP OP—It Never Happened Operation—giving the politicians their precious plausible deniability. Therefore, on the record, Larry and Edward had never met, which was exactly the reason they could be friends without endangering each other.

Edward pulled the latch and moved a few feet back. “It's open.” He stood with his back to the wall, the gun cocked.

The fact that it was a woman behind the door and not some gorilla made no difference to him. During his career, he had witnessed more than one incident when a tough, well-trained combat grunt had been blown to bits by a small, innocent-looking girl. Aside from that, saying “Larry sent me” didn't necessarily make it so. For now he had only her word for it.

It took her a moment to push the door open, as it had frozen to the jamb. A burst of cold air carrying her gentle scent reached him almost the instant she entered.

“Hi,” she said, closing the door behind her, a brief apologetic smile touching her pale face. She seemed to be in a hurry, restless, catching her breath. She stamped her feet to get the slush off her boots and then dusted the melting snow from her shoulders. By the time she pulled off her black cap, releasing a splash of disheveled blond hair, she was standing in a small puddle of melted snow.

“What can I do for you?” He lowered the gun slightly.

“Are you Edward?” She stared at the menacing Magnum bore. The smile was gone. Even in her big, bulky coat, she seemed graceful, fragile. Edward thought she was very beautiful, and very tense, as though she expected something terrible to happen.

“Yes. And you are—?”

“Natalie,” she responded quickly. “I work with Larry.” She stepped forward, extending her hand.

Edward raised the gun. “Let's not be hasty,” he said.

She froze, her hand hanging in midair. “Right. Listen—”

“Where's Larry?”

“He's wounded, he's in the van. We must hurry,” she pleaded.

Edward felt a knot form in his gut. A friend was in peril, but he didn't let it show.

“How do I know this isn't a trick to get me out there?”

“Larry said you owed him a bottle of scotch—Navy Cut.”

“That's rum. Navy Cut's a rum, not a scotch.”

“He said you'd say that. Now can we go?” She pulled her cap back on and turned to leave.

It was a joke between Larry and him, having to do with payment for a shot of illicit booze they had enjoyed together in Saudi Arabia, after a successful incursion into Iraq. Edward reached for a brown leather coat on the rack by the door and stuck the gun into his belt. “What happened?”

“He's been shot.” She opened the door. “The van's a couple of blocks from here.”

“Who shot him?” Edward followed her out, closing the door behind him.

“Look, mister,” she said coldly and impatiently, “what goddamn difference does it make who shot him? He said you'd help.”

“Why didn't you park here?”

“I wanted to be sure the place was safe before I brought him here. Things are not what they appear to be lately.”

It stopped snowing, but the day was still very cold. By the time they had reached the end of the alley and turned onto Main Street, Edward could feel the chill penetrating his coat, and his ears were smarting. He put his hands deeper into his coat pockets, envying the woman in her black cap.

At the corner of Apple and Hale he saw the dark blue van parked across the street from the small town hall building. The exhaust was emitting a white cloud, indicating the engine was running.

“You drive,” she said as she entered the back seat.

Edward moved fast. Grantsville was not a place with a night life, but that was not to say everybody was asleep. A parked van with its engine running at this hour of the morning was bound to draw attention. This was a place where people would sit up and complain if a bird was chirping out of tune. He opened the driver's-side door and looked into the back seat. Larry was wrapped in a gray blanket soaked in blood. His head was slumped to one side, leaning against the fogged-up window. Edward could hear him wheezing and gasping for air. It didn't look good.

The sight of Larry all bloodied and helpless angered him. He couldn't tell whether he was angry with whoever had done this or with Larry himself for making him deal with this sort of thing again.

“How long ago did this happen?” Edward asked.

“A couple of hours.” She put her arms around the unconscious man, gently lifting his head from the cold glass and leaning it on her shoulder. Larry opened his eyes briefly, trying to focus and muttering something. Then his eyes closed again.

“What did he say?” Edward asked.

“He's delirious.” She lifted the blanket and looked underneath. “He's losing blood. We need to get him inside, change his dressings.”

“We'll get him to a hospital. There's one down the road in Tooele.” Edward put the van in gear and eased out of the parking spot.

“No,” she said sharply, tugging on his shoulder. “Drive to your place.”

“He needs medical attention,” Edward reasoned, looking at her in the rearview mirror.

“They'll nail him if we take him to a hospital.”

“Who's they?”

“FBI, CIA, whoever.”

“Oh, great,” muttered Edward. Things were going from bad to worse. “How close are they?”

“We shot at the ones who came for us.”

“Came for you? What do you mean?”

“Larry called for backup and they came.”

“Larry's backup did this?” Edward was starting to realize the magnitude of the problem. From what she had told him, it was very possible they had just killed some CIA agents. If that was true, it would not be long before they would have the National Guard on their case, and not just the kids from Tooele.

“Do they know you?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, do Larry's so-called friends know you?”

“No.”

Edward thought fast. They had to get Larry out of sight as quickly as possible. If, however, he was already being tailed, it was game over.

“What about this van?”

“What about it?”

“Is it clean?” Edward could see in the rearview mirror that she was staring blankly at him, obviously confused by the situation. “Who rented it?” he pressed.

“Shit,” she said in frustration. “He did.”

Edward had to think fast. He couldn't dump the van, not with blood all over it. God only knew what the sheriff might do if he found it abandoned in that condition. Edward had no time to clean it up. He decided to park it in the old warehouse. There was a closed-off section he had been planning to turn into another seating area for the bistro. Edward turned down Main Street, back the way they had come.

“Why are they after him?” Edward asked as he pulled into the alley behind the bistro.

“He stumbled on something big, and they want him silenced.”

“And how do you fit in?”

“It's a long story. I'm a friend of a friend.”