Independence Day (17 page)

Now, after a little more than a decade, they remained inextricably linked. But Katya’s world was as transparent as Cloud’s was hidden. She’d become the most famous dancer in Russia. Her life was an open book to Cloud. Cloud, meanwhile, had become the most famous computer hacker in Russia. But to Katya, he remained Pyotr Vargarin, computer consultant, who made a great deal of money but did not like to discuss his work.

They ate dinner at one end of the large dining room table, enjoying a bottle of wine as Tchaikovsky’s
Swan Lake
played softly in the background.

“Tell me about the Kirov,” said Cloud, referring to the Kirov Ballet in Saint Petersburg, where Katya would be headlining the summer production of
Swan Lake.
It was a highly anticipated series of performances for which she would be paid $5 million. The shows had sold out in less than an hour.

“I thought that perhaps you would consider coming,” Katya said.

“I would like that very much,” said Cloud. “I have a big project at work, as you know, but I am going to do my very best.”

“How long will this project take?” she asked.

“Maybe a week.”

“What is this project?”

Cloud leaned forward and put his hand on Katya’s.

“It’s a boring project involving computers,” he said.

“Computers, computers, computers,” she said. “You think I would be confused if you tell me, don’t you?”

“Not at all, just bored.”

“Try me.”

Cloud was silent for several moments. He didn’t like to lie to Katya.

“I am helping to redistribute certain scientific assets,” said Cloud.

“Why?”

“Well, these assets will help to bring a little heat and light to a part of the world that desperately needs it.”

Katya smiled, leaned forward, and kissed him on the lips.

“I am proud of you.”

“Not as proud as I am of you. I will try to see you in Saint Petersburg. Besides, I have seen you dance now about a hundred times. It seems only fair to let others have the chance to experience the wonder of your dancing.”

Katya smiled and blushed.

“Flattery will get you everywhere,” she said. “But I must tell you, Pyotr, that when you are in the audience, I dance differently. I run faster. I am able to jump higher. Your eyes beckon me to try harder.”

Cloud looked at Katya’s hand on his, running her finger over his gold signet ring. He felt a spike of anxiety, not at the terrible thing he was going to do but at the terrible deception he’d allowed into the most important relationship—the only relationship—he cared about. He’d built a lie in order to project—and protect—an image of himself in her eyes. He knew that if she ever found out his true nature, it would destroy everything he had.

“May I ask you something?” he asked.

“Yes.”

Cloud looked at Katya. He reached to his pocket and removed a small red leather box. Hand trembling, he put it on the table.

“Katya,” he whispered. His eyes were red with emotion. “I love you more than any man has ever loved a woman. I would do anything for you. The thought of you being gone for a month causes me great pain, because I will miss you. But I am also deeply proud of you, and I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

Katya smiled. A small tear came to her right eye as she reached forward to touch the red box.

“Forgive me for my meandering words, but what I am about to say is the most important thing I will ever say.”

Tears of emotion now trickled down Cloud’s cheeks.

“Will you marry me, dear Katya?” he whispered, looking at her with naked vulnerability.

Katya opened the box. Inside was a stunning object: a magnificently large yellow diamond the size of a person’s fingertip, set upon a platinum band scrolled in an antique design.

“It…” Katya started to speak, then went quiet. Her mouth opened in awe as she removed it from the box, and tears of happiness began to flow down her cheeks. “It’s so beautiful.”

Cloud slipped the ring over her left ring finger, then held her hand up, beneath the golden-hued light of the chandelier.

“It’s from Siberia,” he said.

She stared at it for several moments.

For Cloud, the moment was the most beautiful of his life, as he waited, doubt choking his heart.

“Yes,” she whispered.

*   *   *

Later, after watching Katya pack for Saint Petersburg, after making love to her, after she had long since fallen asleep, Cloud arose from the bed. He wrapped himself in a silk bathrobe and walked soundlessly out of the bedroom and through the apartment. In the front hall, he stared for several moments at the cherry credenza, almost as if he was admiring it. He got to his knees. Reaching down, he felt the bulge of a gun taped to the bottom of the credenza. Slowly, he pulled the gun out: Stechkin APS with a black silencer threaded into the muzzle.

Cloud went to the apartment door and waited, leaning against the door, listening for more than a minute but hearing nothing. He raised the Stechkin with his left hand and trained it on the door. With his right hand, Cloud turned the doorknob, slowly, until it cracked open. He spied the guard to the left, seated on the floor, oblivious. Cloud pulled the door open, then triggered the suppressed Stechkin. The slug struck the burly Russian in the temple, spraying blood and skull down the hallway.

He heard movement down the hallway, around the corner, near the elevator, out of view. He dropped his left arm to his side, concealing the gun, then walked toward the elevator.

“Miss Basaeyev?” he heard from the second guard.

Cloud stepped around the corner and found the guard, who was standing near the wall. He smiled.

“Mr. Vargarin,” he said. “Is everything all right?”

“No,” said Cloud. “I can’t sleep.”

Cloud swung his arm up and fired. The slug ripped the guard before he could even comprehend what was happening, kicking him backward.

“You, however, don’t seem to have that problem,” added Cloud, making eye contact as the guard slid down the wall, clutching his chest, trying to say something.

Cloud took the elevator to the lobby. As the elevator came to a stop, he raised the weapon. The doors parted. Cloud stepped forward and started firing at the front desk, before he even had time to aim. His first two bullets missed, but it didn’t matter; both guards were seated, legs up. They both reacted too late, reaching for their sidearms just as Cloud pelted them with slugs, hitting one man in the left eye and the other in the forehead, decorating the walls behind them in a riot of crimson, brains, and bone.

Cloud shuffled calmly to the front desk. One of the vodka bottles was sitting there, unopened. He picked it up, yanked the wax-covered cork from the top, and took several sizable gulps. He reached beneath the desk and found the entrance buzzer, hitting it, unlatching the front door to the building. A few seconds later, a small army of men swarmed in from the outside. Two were dressed in suits, like the guards at the front desk; two were in sweaters and slacks, similar to the men upstairs; and two wore one-piece dark green work suits, their hands already covered in purple rubber gloves. Each carried a large duffel bag, inside of which were body bags, industrial cleaning equipment, plaster, wood putty, and small jars of paint for fixing the walls.

The crew went to work, packing up the two corpses. Cloud took several more slugs of vodka.

“Are they in place, Leo?” asked Cloud, looking at one of the men in the cleaning suits.

“The team is in Saint Petersburg.”

“And the backup?”

“Yes, Cloud. The backup. And the backup to the backup. The two women too. They are all highly skilled. The best that money can buy.”

Cloud nodded. Saying nothing, he turned and walked to the elevator.

“If anything—”

“Nothing will happen to her,” said Leo. “You have my word.”

21

ABOARD THE USS
DONALD COOK
(DDG-75)

NEAR C
Á
DIZ, SPAIN

General Torey Krug was standing with five other men on the bridge of the USS
Donald Cook,
an Arleigh Burke–class guided missile destroyer. They were all looking at the same thing: an illuminated plasma screen tied in to various naval and land-based units. The screen looked like an air traffic control screen, though instead of tracking commercial airliners, this one displayed U.S. military assets, in real time, in the geographic area south of Spain. Krug and his senior officers were tied in to a gamut of teams, including two other Aegis destroyers, two submarines, UAV command centers, and on-the-dirt commanders, including members of SEAL Team 6, now in fastboats off the coast of Spain.

At that moment, those military assets were all doing the same thing: searching for a boat.

The focus was the crowded stretch of water between Spain and Morocco known as the Strait of Gibraltar. Twenty-two UAVs had been scrambled to the area. Gray Eagles, Raptors, and several other drones were flying in low-hover lines back and forth across the narrowest section of the waterway, between Tarifa, Spain, and Eddalya, Morocco, a nine-mile stretch of water Krug believed was the best opportunity to stop the rogue nuclear bomb before it got to open water and the relative freedom of the Atlantic Ocean.

The challenge for Krug and his team was multifaceted. They had only a vague description of the boat. That description, moreover, was of a type of vessel that was extremely common. Already, they’d pinpointed ten trawlers matching the description. They had no idea how fast it was moving. In addition, it was nighttime and, despite various thermal-sensitive cameras, it was difficult to see, and what they were able to see was starting to blend into a continuum.

With the help of the Spanish and Moroccan navies, along with local police forces, a small armada of speedboats patrolled the waters, looking for anything suspicious, their officers equipped with Geiger counters. Already, several boats had been boarded, without result.

Reflexively, Krug kept looking over at the line of clocks displaying time in various countries. It was five
A.M.
in Spain. Dawn was coming. On the one hand, the improved visibility would help. On the other, each passing hour diminished the chances of finding the boat.

A scratchy voice came over commo.

“General Krug, I’m putting up live video. This is UAV 16-Y. We have a report of a suspicious-looking ship close to the coast, near Nador, Morocco.”

“Roger, Major,” said Krug, scanning the plasma for the UAV, then reaching out and tapping a small icon. Suddenly, a grainy video started running on the plasma. It showed an empty stretch of water illuminated by the UAV’s powerful spotlight. A boat came into view. It was a motorboat, approximately forty feet long, with three uniformed men aboard. A hundred yards past them was a dilapidated fishing scow, running lights on, listing in the water, seemingly adrift.

“Send them in,” said Krug. “Keep the bird overhead.”

Krug and his men watched as the motorboat from the Moroccan Navy pulled up alongside the trawler and tied off.

A Vietnamese flag was flying from the aft of the ship. Its name was painted on the stern:
BI
Ể
N THI
Ê
N CH
Ú
A.

Sea God
.

Two of the officers scaled a steel ladder and climbed aboard. They moved to the wheelhouse, the image blurry but decent enough to capture their movement.

Each officer clutched a submachine gun as he moved. A short time later, the two gunmen emerged, shaking their heads, indicating they’d found nothing.

One of the men pointed at his helmet.

“Patch him into commo,” said Krug, pointing to one of his staffers.

The plasma cut into two live feeds. One was the UAV feed, the other was from a camera mounted to the officer’s helmet.

The officers charged belowdecks, down a badly lit set of steel stairs. They moved along a dark hallway, opening door after door, finding nothing. Then, near the front of the ship, one of the officers opened a door, revealing a horrible scene of carnage. The ground was littered with the corpses of fishermen. The floor was a miasma of blood.

The officers moved from corpse to corpse, searching for anyone still alive.

“In the corner,” barked Krug, seeing a slight movement. “Get over there!”

One of the officers stepped to a man in the corner. He was a young Vietnamese man. His chest was covered in blood. His eyes were shut. The officer shook him, softly at first, then with force, trying to wake him. The man opened his eyes.

“Put it on speaker,” said Krug to the officer.

The officer set his phone near the dying man’s ear.

“
Nh
ữ
ng g
ì
h
ọ
mu
ố
n?
” asked Krug.

What did they want?

The fisherman struggled to keep his eyes open.

“
V
ậ
t li
ệ
u n
ổ
,
” he said, coughing.

“Explosives,” Krug, translated. He turned back to the image of the dying man on the screen.

“
B
ạ
n b
ị
t
ấ
n c
ô
ng c
á
ch
đ
â
y bao l
â
u?
”

When were you attacked
?

“
D
ê
m qua,
” the Vietnamese man whispered.

“Last night,” said Krug.

Krug looked at the map. He took a ruler and did a quick calculation, estimating the time it took the trawler to travel from Sevastopol to Nador, then measuring the time between Nador and the Strait of Gibraltar.

A dejected look appeared on his face. He glanced around the table.

“Get Brubaker on the line,” said Krug. “Hector too. They’re through the strait. They have open water to the U.S. East Coast.”