Independence Day (25 page)

“What?”

“You can’t get captured, Dewey. You need to be on that SEAL Delivery Vehicle. I can’t emphasize that enough.”

“Don’t worry,” said Dewey, shifting uncomfortably under the watchful gaze of the Russian thug. “I’ll be on it.”

39

FOUR SEASONS LION PALACE

SAINT PETERSBURG

Roman, Katya’s bodyguard, sat down at the table and took out his cell phone. He started typing:

Roman stood and walked to the wall, out of the line of sight of the man. He took the cell and moved the very end of the wall, where the camera lens was, just past the ornate wooden pillar, and snapped several photos without looking. He examined the photos, finding one that caught the man as he sipped a drink. Roman texted it to Cloud.

He went back to the table, where Katya was eating.

“What were you doing?” she asked.

“Nothing,” he said, placing his cell on the table as he awaited further instructions from Cloud.

40

ELEKTROSTAL

Cloud stared at the grainy photograph of the stranger in the restaurant. The restaurant was dark and the image was not good. He uploaded the photo into a facial recognition program. The computer screen scrolled rapidly through thousands of photos. After more than a minute, the words appeared:

No matches found

“Come here,” he said.

Sascha walked from his computer and looked at the photo.

“Who is it?”

“I don’t know. See if you can find anything at the hotel. A list of guests. We need to know more.”

Sascha returned to his computer.

A news flash abruptly cut across one of Cloud’s screens. It was a report from one of the Moscow television stations. At the bottom of the screen, the words:

LIVE—RUBLEVKA

Behind a news reporter, flames from the dacha lit up the distant sky. A police cordon was visible, as well as fire trucks, ambulances, and police cruisers.

Cloud stared, mesmerized, at the horrible scene he’d created. The faintest hint of sadness flashed across his eyes.

Then Sascha whistled. Cloud stood and moved quickly to him. A black-and-white photo was frozen on one of Sascha’s screens. It was the man from the restaurant. The image was much crisper.

“Where did you get this?”

“I took it off the hotel security cameras,” said Sascha.

He wore a light tan leather motorcycle jacket,
BELSTAFF
emblazoned across the chest. He had a mop of brown hair, parted down the middle, but roughly, as if by hand. The edges of his hair were dark with sweat. His hair went down past his ears, a slight, natural feather to it. He had a thick beard and mustache. He was handsome in a rugged way. He looked tough, even brutal, someone to be avoided. He was tan. His eyes revealed little; it was a blank expression, and yet there was no question. The way they looked forward into the camera, almost knowing the photo would be found and examined in the very manner it was being examined at this moment.

Cloud leaned closer, studying the photo. The jacket was unzipped. A thin strap was visible near the man’s neck.

“Shoulder holster,” said Cloud.

Sascha pointed at the man’s arm. A large patch of dark covered the bottom inside section of the jacket, near the wrist. The hand was dark with blood.

“Who is he?”

“I don’t know.”

“Was there
any
intelligence involving a third man from the CIA?” asked Cloud.

“Nothing I could find,” said Sascha. “After the explosion at the dacha, the feed went dark.”

Cloud took over the keyboard and started typing.

“What are you doing?” asked Sascha.

“Running the photo against the GRU database,” said Cloud, referring to Russia’s foreign intelligence service. “There’s a chance he’s on their radar screen.”

Cloud uploaded the photo of Dewey into the same facial recognition program. Again, the screen scrolled rapidly through thousands of photos. After half a minute, the screen froze. A photo appeared of a much younger individual, with short-cropped hair, standing on an airport tarmac. A large-caliber carbine was in his right hand, trained at the ground. He was walking point in front of a small entourage that included the former president of Afghanistan.

Cloud clicked the attached bio:

GRU CASE FILE 112-A-77

USA DIRECTORATE

SUBJECT: ANDREAS, DEWEY

INACTIVE FILE

STATISTICS:

Citizenship: USA

b. Castine, ME (c. 1973)

U.S. ARMY 1993–4

* US ARMY RANGERS 1994

Winter School

Rank #1 out of 188

*** 1st SFOD—DELTA FORCE

OPERATIONS (known):

+
    Lisbon, POR: Jan–Mar 96 (mission unknown)

+
    San Isidro de El General, COS: Oct 96–Jan 97: Anti-narcotic: NIC, COL, VEN

+
    Munich, GER: April 97: Exfiltration Milos Abramovich (wanted by GUR-RUS) (mission success)

+
    Buenos Aires, ARG: Sep–Dec 97: Anti-narcotic: ARG, COL, CHI, and BOL

+
    Montreal, CAN: Jan 98: Assassination Milos Abramovich (mission success)

+
    London, ENG: Apr 98: Assassination (attempted) Subhi al-Tufayli/Hezbollah (mission aborted)

+
    Lisbon, POR: Mar 98: Assassination Frances Vibohr (Siemens VIP suspect in sale of TS info to SAU) (mission success)

+
    Bali, IND: Aug 98: Assassination of Rumallah Khomeini (mission success)

NOTES:

ANDREAS is a Combat Applications Group (formerly Delta Force) officer with extensive international mission experience. GRU INTEL was asked to open a file on him following the death of LEONID PARSKY, GRU COMMANDER (1988–1997).

ANDREAS has executed at least three covert penetrations of Russia. The first (April 1997) was a fact-finding mission and field setting, in which ANDREAS spent four days in Moscow preparing various elements associated with his second penetration. ANDREAS’s second visit was shorter, two days, and coincided with PARSKY’s assassination (September 1997).

Though no evidence was found implicating ANDREAS in PARSKY’s death, ANDREAS met with MILOS ABRAMOVICH during his first visit to Moscow. ABRAMOVICH, who was later found to be working for the CIA, was under a GRU Task Force Investigation, so ordered by PARSKY. It is GRU INTEL’s assessment that the US Government had PARSKY killed in order to preserve ABRAMOVICH. ABRAMOVICH most likely provided ANDREAS with information enabling him to kill PARSKY.

ANDREAS’s third infiltration took place in November 1997, in which ABRAMOVICH was successfully exfiltrated from the country in order to save his life. (In January 1998, ABRAMOVICH was subsequently killed in Montreal by ANDREAS for reasons unknown.)

ANDREAS is considered unusually dangerous, with Level 12 proficiency in all aspects of operations, including close quarters combat, face-to-face combat, firearms, explosives, cold weapons, transportation, and improvisation. He is trained in extreme condition field and wet work, and has seen multiple actions in hostile environments across the geopolitical theater.

JUL 2003: FILE DESIGNATED
INACTIVE

Cloud and Sascha read the file in silence. Sascha furrowed his brow, then looked at Cloud with a concerned look.

Cloud picked up his cell phone and started typing a text to Roman:
Kill him.

41

FOUR SEASONS LION PALACE

SAINT PETERSBURG

A minute later, Dewey’s cell buzzed.

“Yeah,” said Dewey.

“This is Commander John Drake on the USS
Hartford.
Where are you, Dewey?”

The waitress appeared carrying a plate with Dewey’s steak.

“At the Four Seasons,” said Dewey. “Where’s the team?”

“The SDV is in harbor. I’ll patch you through to Jacobsson, he’s the in-water operator.”

“Thanks, Commander.”

A minute later, another man appeared in the restaurant. He was shorter than the first, but he was, in his own way, more worrisome. His shirt was open at the collar and unbuttoned down to his navel. Gold chains hung around his neck. He had spiky blond hair. He was wiry and pale. He wore a hard stare, his eyes sweeping the room.

A moment later, Dewey heard a voice.

“This is Jacobsson. You there, Dewey?”

“Yeah, I’m here.”

“Do you have the girl?”

When the Russian’s eyes arrived at Dewey, they stopped. The next moments were intense, as the thug stared for several long moments at him.

“Not yet,” said Dewey. “It’s going to be a little while.”

“We’re here,” said Jacobsson, “and we’re good to go.”

At the man’s breastplate, clearly visible, Dewey could see the telltale bulge of a gun, strapped around his neck.

“What’s point of entry?” asked Dewey.

“You need to get to the canal. To the right of the hotel.”

The excited voice of the hostess interrupted the din of conversations inside the restaurant. A moment later, Katya entered the restaurant.

She wore jeans and a white short-sleeved sweater. Her hair was braided back. She shook the hand of the hostess, then began speaking with her.

The four people at the table in front of Dewey all looked in unison at her, then began whispering excitedly.

The skinny guard looked again at Dewey. Dewey pretended not to notice, cutting another piece of his steak and putting it into his mouth. A moment later, the guard finally turned away, saying something to the larger man. He pointed to a booth, out of Dewey’s sight line.

The hostess led Katya across the restaurant. The ballerina glanced briefly in Dewey’s direction, making eye contact with him, a carefree smile on her face, then disappeared around the corner, flanked by her bodyguards.

“Got it,” said Dewey. “Give me a few minutes.”

42

LANGLEY

“I want all non-official covers in-theater,” Calibrisi said to Polk, “with their locations.”

One of the analysts typed, bringing up all NOCs in or near Russia. Three photos tiled across the screen:

“Remember Johnny’s wounded,” said Polk. “He has a bullet in his leg.”

“How bad is it?”

“He has a fever and hasn’t left the bedroom. Christy thinks he needs a doctor.”

They both knew what it meant. If Maybank’s injury required surgery, he would need exfiltration. Right now, there was a higher priority.

“Get Brainard and Fairweather to Moscow,” said Calibrisi, walking toward the door. “Tell Christy she needs to take the bullet out herself. Then get word to Dewey. He needs to stay in-theater. We can’t afford to have him get on that sub.”

43

FOUR SEASONS LION PALACE

SAINT PETERSBURG

Dewey finished his meal and paid. He was the last person inside the restaurant other than Katya and her men, who were in a booth out of his sight line. Before standing up to leave, he removed the .45 from a concealed pocket on the inside of his leather jacket. From his pants pocket, he removed a suppressor, screwing it into the muzzle of the gun beneath the table. He repocketed the gun, then stood and walked to the door. He glanced right, around the corner, to Katya’s booth. Both of the men with Katya returned his look. As Dewey passed the ma
î
tre d’, he caught movement in his eyes, a fleeting glance over Dewey’s shoulders, behind him.

Dewey crossed the lobby, looking quickly at his room key. The lobby was empty except for a woman behind the desk, who smiled and said goodnight to him.

At the elevator, Dewey heard footsteps, hard-soled shoes clicking on marble, approaching from behind him. A moment later, the bigger guard joined Dewey next to the elevator doors.

They were approximately the same size. The Russian stood close, waiting for the elevator. When it came, he stepped on first.

“Which floor, my friend?” he asked in English filtered with a sharp Russian accent.

“Four.”

As the doors shut, Dewey watched the guard carefully, spreading his legs in case the bodyguard wanted to engage him in the elevator.

The bodyguard instead pressed the button for four, then a button for a floor higher than Dewey’s.

When the elevator stopped at the fourth floor, Dewey stepped out. He walked down the dimly lit hall.

Dewey’s back was to the bodyguard as he walked away, trying to appear nonchalant but hyperaware of the man back at the elevator. With his right hand he reached inside his jacket, removed the .45, and clutched it tight beneath his left armpit, the suppressed muzzle of the gun aimed behind him, back up the hall, inside the leather jacket, so the man couldn’t see it.

Dewey heard the faint metallic click of a round being chambered.

At the end of the hall, he came to the last door. With his left hand, his free hand, he pulled a room key from his pocket.

Dewey inserted the card into the lock with his left hand while, with his right, he put his index finger on the trigger. The key slid into the lock. A red light came on. In the same moment, Dewey fired the Colt as fast as his finger could flex; several quick blasts, through the jacket, moving the .45 in a line without looking, left to right, across the hallway.

The scream from the Russian came from the second round, in the same instant a silenced slug sailed by Dewey, striking the door just above his head.