Independence Day (20 page)
“We cross the Russian border in four minutes, sir,” answered Lesesne.
Polk looked at Calibrisi.
“We’re about to penetrate Russian airspace, Chief,” he said, a concerned look on his face. “We need sign-off from the president.”
Calibrisi glanced at his cell. On the screen was a live CNN broadcast of President J. P. Dellenbaugh, standing on a stage, delivering a speech. He had the volume turned down. He had been following it to see when Dellenbaugh would be finished. He looked back at Polk.
“What’s the call?” asked Polk.
DETROIT CONVENTION CENTER
DETROIT, MICHIGAN
President J. P. Dellenbaugh smiled and waved for the fourth time as the large crowd gathered at the Detroit Convention Center continued to applaud. Finally, he held up a hand. He waited until the crowd became quiet.
“It’s great to be home,” said Dellenbaugh. Cheers arose again, but he quickly quelled them by holding up his hand. “But I want to say something serious now. I want to make a wish, and I want you all to help me.”
At the corner of his eye, Dellenbaugh saw his aide, Holden Weese, holding up four fingers. He’d been doing so for the past few minutes.
The CIA director is on the line, and it’s urgent.
“No, it’s not for world peace, or economic prosperity, or anything like that,” he continued.
Dellenbaugh was dressed in jeans and a polo shirt. His thick mane of black hair was combed neatly back. The president, who was raised in a two-bedroom Cape by a father and mother who both spent their entire careers working the General Motors assembly line down the road, had a common touch that came from the simple fact that he’d been there too. That touch was like gasoline on a fire, and the blue-collar crowd—mostly Democrats—was going nuts. Dellenbaugh was American—blue-collar American—and the annual summer meeting of the Teamsters Union let him know that despite the fact that he was a Republican, to a lunch-pail-carrying man and woman they recognized J. P. Dellenbaugh was one of them.
The crowd was hushed and quiet as they awaited Dellenbaugh’s final words.
“I want the Red Wings to win the damn cup next year!”
The crowd erupted into wild cheers.
“Thank you, Big D!” said Dellenbaugh. “Man, I love coming home. You all have a great Fourth, now, will ya.”
Dellenbaugh waved one more time to the enormous crowd, then walked offstage.
Once on the other side of the curtain, he charged behind Weese in a hard run down the hallway. He came to a secure holding room, guarded by plainclothes Secret Service agents armed with machine guns and carbines.
Inside, a military attach
é
in a dark blue Navy uniform held a small black briefcase, extended from which was a portable phone. Near the attach
é
, two men held what looked like small antennae. These were jamming devices, which would scramble the president’s conversation to anyone trying to eavesdrop, beyond the significant layers of encryption the signal would already have.
Dellenbaugh grabbed the phone.
“Go, Hector,” he said.
“Sorry for the interruption, Mr. President,” said Calibrisi. “We’ve found Cloud. I need your authority to send in some men and try to capture him. It’s a tight time frame. He’s supposed to be at a dinner party in less than an hour outside of Moscow, and it might be our only opportunity to capture him.”
“What about the boat?” asked the president.
“It’s through the Strait of Gibraltar, sir. They have open ocean to the East Coast.”
“Are we working with Russia?”
“Negative.”
“Why not?”
Pause.
“Enough said. What’s the ask, Hector?”
“Emergency Priority,” said Calibrisi, “hostile exfiltration. We have a team in the air right now. The intelligence is hours old. It’s likely to be the last time we have a shot at him.”
In the special language reserved for covert operations, what Calibrisi wanted was full presidential authority to infiltrate a sovereign, unfriendly nation, in this case Russia, with members of a U.S. paramilitary team. Emergency Priority was the highest classification level possible for an operation. It meant the mission was critical to the national security of the United States of America. In turn, the granting of such authority gave the front-line operators a clear message, tantamount to license to kill. In his three years running the CIA, it was the first time Calibrisi had ever made such a request.
“How many people will be with him?” asked the president.
“We don’t know. It’s a dinner party. We’re not going to go out of our way to hurt any of them, sir.”
Dellenbaugh glanced to a photo on the wall, an antique black-and-white shot of Henry Ford holding a champagne bottle as he prepared to smash it on a car.
“Do it,” said Dellenbaugh. “Tell the attorney general to get me some paper. Be careful in there, Hector.”
IN THE AIR
BRITISH AIRWAYS FLIGHT 319
In a small, pitch-black compartment near the back of British Airways flight 319, three men sat pressed tightly together. Each was dressed in black tactical military gear, with special polypropylene underwear for warmth. On each man’s head was an airtight helmet with tubes that led to small oxygen tanks strapped to their chests. On each man’s back was a high-altitude high-opening (HAHO) parachute, designed to enable the three Special Operations Group commandos to fly a very long distance using GPS and trade winds. HAHO jumps were invented to enable special forces to penetrate deep inside enemy territory.
“Phase line in twenty, guys,” said Polk.
Between each commando’s legs was a ruck bag containing weapons and ammunition: each had a PP-2000 submachine gun, an ASh-12.7 urban assault rifle, and an OTs-33 Pernach machine pistol. All the guns were suppressed. Fitzgerald’s ruck held a Vintorez “Thread Cutter” sniper rifle. On the right leg, each man had an extra pistol. For Dowling, a GSh-18 compact 9mm. Tosatti and Fitzgerald each carried a P-96 compact 9mm.
The three commandos had been seated for three hours in a secret hold at the back of the twice-daily British Airways Frankfurt-to-Moscow flight. Their presence was unknown to anyone on board the plane, including the pilots. The small compartment was one of England’s best-kept secrets, designed by SAS, Britain’s elite Special Air Service, in conjunction with British Airways, under a top secret directive in 2001.
HAHOs had an effective range of only seventy-five miles, and that was with a strong tailwind. Moscow was two hundred miles from the nearest border. This meant that urgent missions inside Moscow were effectively rendered impossible unless manpower was already in-theater, on the ground. The small compartment enabled England and, by extension, the United States to drop operators deep into the heart of Moscow on an ad hoc basis, using the cloaking anonymity of a commercial airliner.
“Roger, Langley,” said Dowling.
Dowling, the senior Special Operations Group commander, clicked a ceramic switch in his glove, allowing him to talk on a closed circuit with Tosatti and Fitzgerald.
The outer glass of the commandos’ helmets was dark blue, making it impossible to see inside the helmets. Dowling saw the reflection of his own helmet and that was all.
“Check your packs,” said Dowling, referring to their parachutes.
“I’m good,” said Fitzgerald.
Tosatti nodded, indicating he was good to go.
“I fuckin’ hate HAHOs,” said Tosatti.
Dowling glanced at his watch. “We’re within five.”
Fitzgerald reached out and hit a yellow switch on the wall. Over the next two minutes, the compartment depressurized, reaching equilibrium with the outside air. The temperature dropped to fifty degrees below zero.
“Fuck, it’s cold,” said Fitzgerald.
“Just got the upload,” said Dowling.
Dowling clicked the ceramic. The interior upper right-hand corner of all three helmet glasses lit up. Displayed was a black-and-white photograph showing a man, young, perhaps in his twenties, and an Afro of dirty blond hair. He had a long, thin, gaunt face.
The three men studied the photo for several seconds, then Dowling clicked the ceramic again.
The photo of the target was replaced by a video, which began to play. It showed a three-dimensional topographical map, with the plane represented on the left-hand side and the word
Moscow
in bright red on the right.
A monotone prerecorded female voice accompanied the video.
“Gentlemen, you are now in Russian airspace, headed for a dacha outside of Moscow.”
The video sharpened to a side view of the plane. Three small figures—representing the commandos—emerged from the back of the plane. Their parachutes opened. A red arrow appeared. It cast a line from the commandos toward Moscow, then dipped and stopped on a bright green X. This was the flight path of the HAHO team.
“From the drop point, you will travel eighty-one miles northeast,” continued the woman. “Landing zone is a dacha located in a town called Rublevka, near Moscow. Target is believed on premises.”
A series of photos replaced the video. They showed a modern glass-and-steel house from a variety of angles. The house was large, spreading in an L shape atop a bluff. Manicured lawns in every direction surrounded the stunning glass structure.
“There will be security as well as a hard infrared cordon. You must land on the property.”
A drawing of the property plot lines appeared. The lot was long and thin.
“Property is two acres but is not wide. You will grab Target, then improvise vehicle transportation and move to safe house B.”
The video showed the topo map again. A red arrow simulating the vehicle moved down the long driveway. The map scaled wider and a red X appeared, representing the safe house.
“From safe house B, you will be extracted by a team from SRR. Good luck, gentlemen.”
The video froze and went off. A dull flashing red light pulsated, then went green.
“We’re going airborne,” said Dowling. “Follow my strobe. See you on the ground.”
Suddenly, a three-by-three-foot piece of steel on the fuselage of the plane moved down. The sky was eerily dark. Dowling leaned forward and jumped out. Tosatti, then Fitzgerald followed, leaping into the bitter cold, nearly oxygenless night air above Russia.
A moment later, the steel plate on the jumbo jet slid back into place and locked as the commandos disappeared.
MARIINSKY THEATRE
SAINT PETERSBURG
The lobby of the Mariinsky Theatre was a soaring, four-story atrium of vermillion marble, granite pilasters, and statues of Russia’s greatest dancers. The building was packed. The mood was celebratory.
A massive photograph of a woman’s face, more than three stories high, hung on the wall above the entrance. Her face was dark, Middle Eastern, and exceptionally beautiful. Her bright blue eyes resembled sapphires. Her hair was jet-black. A mysterious smile was on her face.
Across the bottom of the photo, in bold black cursive:
Katya.
Dewey walked toward the entrance to the main seating area of the theater. The theater’s ceilings and walls were adorned with magnificent murals, landscape scenes painted in towering gold frames. The walls were stacked with private boxes filled with Russians dressed in formal attire. The mood was festive, excited, yet hushed. There was a palpable sense of impending adventure. It was all related to Katya.
Dewey went to the bar and bought a whiskey. He’d never been to the ballet before.
A woman approached. Her long blond hair seemed to shimmer like water beneath the chandelier light, and her green eyes, as they scanned Dewey, widened, brightened, as she smiled at him with confidence. She leaned toward Dewey and said something in Russian.
“I’m sorry,” Dewey responded, “I don’t speak Russian.”
“I asked,” the woman said in English, with a pretty, soft Russian accent, “what do you think of the ballet?”
“I just got here.”
“Oh, that’s too bad. It was very beautiful.”
The woman was in her late twenties. Perhaps a model. The eyes of at least half a dozen men were on her. Yet the only person she could look at was the tall American.
“I’m Petra,” she said, extending her hand. “Are you from the United States?”
“Yes.”
“Would you like to have a drink afterward?”
“Thank you,” said Dewey, “but I have plans.”
* * *
Backstage at the Mariinsky, the dressing room was crowded. Dozens of dancers sat before mirror after mirror, staring at themselves, some smoking. The mood would have surprised most of the audience. It was raucous, with laughter filling the room, the occasional shout.
A half dozen makeup artists moved from dancer to dancer, reapplying powder and rouge for the final act.
“Ten minutes,” shouted one of the assistant directors.
A dimly lit corridor behind the cast dressing room had walls adorned with framed photographs of famous Russian dancers. Many were old, black and white, with a thin layer of dust.
The photo before the door at the end of the hallway was in color and showed Katya Basaeyev.
A hulking man with black hair and a mustache stood outside the door, guarding it.
Inside the private dressing room, a long table was cluttered with bouquets of freshly cut flowers, bottles of champagne, and unopened gifts. On the wall, dozens of articles had been cut out of newspapers and magazines, all of them showing photos of Katya and heralding her performances in Saint Petersburg over the last two weeks.
Katya was alone. She stood, naked, before an oval full-length mirror.
She shook a glass bottle filled with baby powder into the palm of her hand, then lightly dusted it into her brown skin, so that in the heat of the stage lights and the exertion of the dancing, perspiration would not make her slip in the hands of one of the male dancers there to catch her.
Katya pulled on her outfit for the final act.
A soft knock came at the door.
“A package, Katya,” came the voice of the bodyguard.
She said nothing.
She sat down before another mirror.
