Net Force (10 page)

    “Okay, Julio, let’s run through it one more time.”

    The sergeant shook his head. “Begging the colonel’s pardon-”

    “There would be a first,” Howard broke in.

    “-and no disrespect intended,” Fernandez continued, ignoring Howard’s comment, “but the colonel must have a brain like a sieve.”

    “Thank you for your neurological opinion, Dr. Fernandez.” He rolled his finger in the “continue” sign. “Move along.”

    Fernandez sighed. “Sir. Ukraine is about the size of France, holds fifty-two million people, has an elected President, and a four-hundred-fifty-person parliament called the Verkhovna Rada. The U.S. Embassy is in the capital of Kiev, at 10 Yuriya Kotsubinskoho. The building used to be the Communist Party precinct and Communist Youth League HQ, before the Ukrainians kicked the Commies out in ‘91. There are one hundred and ninety-eight American employees and two hundred and forty-four Ukrainian nationals working at or for the embassy.”

    Howard smiled, but kept it to himself. Sarge never told it the same way twice.

    Fernandez continued. “Kiev has a population of three million, covers forty-five by forty-four kilometers and sits on the Dnieper River, which runs all the way to the Black Sea. This time of year it’s still warm, though mostly overcast and about to get rainy. About seventy-five percent of the population is Ukrainian, twenty percent are Russian, the rest are Jews, Byelorussians, Moldovans, Poles, Armenians, Greeks and Bulgarians. Counting yourself, there might be
three
people of African descent in the country, although some of the Crimeans and ethnic Mongols are a bit dark. You
will
draw a crowd on the streets, sir.”

    Howard waved him off. They had argued about this for half the trip. According to Fernandez, there was no way the colonel should be on this operation. He should sit back at the embassy and direct traffic by radio and satlink. Sir.

    “Go on.”

    “Sir. The city is eight time zones ahead of D.C. It has an okay subway and surface street system, lousy radio and TV stations. You can get the CNBC Superstation until noon, and CNN after six p.m., and yesterday’s
Wall Street Journal
and
New York Times
if you go to a big hotel and are willing to pay half your retirement for a copy of either. If you go into a public bathroom, best you take your own toilet paper, you will need it.

    “Money is the ‘hryvnia,’ and one of ours will get you two of theirs at the legal exchanges. The water is okay to bathe in if you let it run a few seconds for the lead to settle out, but you don’t want to drink it without boiling it, due to bacteria and intestinal parasites. Radiation levels from Chernobyl are mostly normal, but don’t eat local mushrooms, berries, or game animals unless you want to maybe be able to read at night without using a bedside lamp.

    “If you drink alcohol and drive and get caught, you’ll probably get thrown into jail, unless it is the militia that catches you, in which case you’ll probably be shot on the spot. They drink like fish here, but they
walk
when they get potted. Zero tolerance for drunk drivers and more power to ‘em.

    “A lot of folks still speak Russian, but the official language is now Ukrainian. The most useful phrase you’ll want to know in Ukrainian is, ‘
Probachteh, deh cholovee-chy tualeht
.’ ”

    Howard said, “Which means?”

    “ ‘Excuse me, but where is the men’s room?’ ”

    Howard grinned, and shook his head. “Keep going.”

    Fernandez droned on, but now Howard was only listening with half his attention. Despite his sergeant’s concern over his brain leakage, he did know this material. He was just burning it in deeper. Better to be sure than sorry.

    Unfortunately, Sarge was right about him not skulking around on the streets of Kiev. He’d been to China, and everywhere he had gone people had come up to him to stare, and sometimes to touch him. Black wasn’t just different in some cultures; it was amazing. No way could he move around surreptitiously with that kind of attention on him. And yet, the idea of sitting in an embassy command room trading comments with the CIA station chief while his teams went hunting for a terrorist lair did not appeal in any way, shape or form. He was a soldier, a field man before he joined Net Force, and he did not want to spend any more time behind a desk than he had to.

    “-weapons and sub-rosa field gear are scheduled to arrive by diplomatic pouch at approximately 0945, local time. Although diplomatic
shipping crate
would be more appropriate. FedEx is bringing it in. Ain’t that something? We don’t need bombers, we can just FedEx it to our enemies, have ‘em sign for it, then set it off. Boom.”

    Howard made an appropriate grunt to show he was still awake. So-how was he going to do it, get out on the street? Some kind of disguise? Makeup, maybe? It was his operation, and he ought to be able to post himself to the active side of it. Maybe he could let his units scout things out, then get there for the finale, if it came to that. There had to be a way. He’d already sat out too many wars.

    “-crime is on the rise and we are advised not to go down dark alleys late at night alone.” Fernandez grinned. “Bet the local muggers will go into major pucker-factor if they jump one of ours and find themselves target-laser-painted and staring down the barrel of an H&K subgun.”

    “Let’s not be shooting the locals, even the muggers, if we can help it, Sarge. This is supposed to be a surgical operation, in and out like a lance, no more damage than necessary. We don’t want any incidents we can’t sweep under a thin rug.”

    “Certainly, sir. I’ll make sure the boys keep the barroom brawls to an absolute minimum.”

    Howard grinned and shook his head again. There was no better man to have at your side or watching your back than Julio Fernandez. He had trouble working a computer that a six-year-old could operate with ease, but when push came to shove, he was the best. He could pin a fly to the wall with his throwing knife, then shoot its eyes out with whatever hardware he happened to be holding, either hand and you pick ‘em.

    And a bunch of half-baked local radicals were about to discover that making threats against a United States embassy was an extremely stupid idea.

    

    
Friday, September 17th, 1:25 p.m. New York City

    Luigi Sampson, Security Chief for Genaloni Industries, left the midtown Chinese restaurant, flanked by two bodyguards. Despite his position and ancestry, Sampson did not like Italian food. He did enjoy Chinese cuisine, however, and large amounts of it. For lunch, he had consumed an order of hot and spicy chicken, hard wheat noodles, sweet and sour pork, lemon duck and snow crab in peanut sauce, as well as two beers and three cups of tea. There had not been enough of the meal left to bother packing into little paper containers.

    Sampson used a toothpick as he strolled toward his chauffeured automobile, parked illegally in front of the restaurant. He flicked bits of his meal into the air, to fall upon the sidewalk.

    In the plain one-color, four-door sedan across the street, Ruzhyo looked at Winters, the driver, then at Grigory the Snake, seated in back. “Are we ready?”

    “I am ready,” the Snake said.

    “Go to it, hoss.”

    The three of them wore identical charcoal suits, not too expensive ones, with shined black-leather shoes, dark sunglasses and new, short haircuts. In addition, each of them carried cards and badges that identified them as Special Agents of the United States Federal Bureau of Investigation. These IDs were, of course, forgeries, but the best that money could buy, and as such, would pass any examination up to destructive tests.

    The license plate of the car had been switched, and the one it now wore had come from a vehicle currently parked in the FBI lot, not that far from where they now were.

    The Snake still looked like a big, dumb Russian to Ruzhyo, even with his disguise, but there was no help for that. Besides, big dumb Russians and big dumb Americans looked much alike.

    Winters was the best driver among them. It was his country, and he needed to stay at the wheel.

    Ruzhyo adjusted the pistol in the holster behind his right hip. It was a SIG.40, a no-nonsense flat-black German combat weapon, very expensive and dependable, and was carried by many FBI agents. They looked the part, even the Snake.

    “All right. Let us go.”

    Ruzhyo and Grigory the Snake alighted from the car and started across the street.

    The bodyguards noticed them immediately. One of the guards said something to Sampson, who paused in picking his teeth, looked at the approaching men and grinned. He laughed and said something to his men. Ruzhyo could not hear, but he had an idea of what it might be. These men would have no love for their own federal authorities.

    As Ruzhyo and the Snake drew near to the trio, Sampson said, “Good afternoon, boys. You guys’re with the Bureau, right?” He smiled at the two guards, to show how adept he was at recognizing federal agents.

    This was exactly as Plekhanov and Ruzhyo had planned.

    Give people something close to what they expected and they would fool themselves, you did not need to say a word.

    Ruzhyo affected the flat Midwestern American accent he had practiced. “Luigi Sampson? I’m Special Agent Arnold, this is Special Agent Johnson.” He held his badge case up in his left hand to show the ID card and badge just as real agents did, always keeping their weapon hand clear. He nodded at the Snake, who glared at the bodyguards.

    While their IDs were fake, the names were not-Agents Arnold and Johnson were assigned to the New York office. “We’d like you to come with us and answer a few questions.”

    “Sure thing, boys.” To the nearer guard, Sampson said, “Verification?”

    The bodyguard had a small computer flatscreen he tapped commands into. After a beat, he said, “They’re on the list.”

    “Call the lawyers and the boss. Tell ‘em.” Sampson flicked the toothpick into the air with his thumb and middle finger. “Third floor of the Federal Plaza, right?”

    “That’s the
twenty-third
floor, Mr. Sampson. You’ve been there before,” Ruzhyo said.

    Sampson’s grin increased. He thought his crude test was enough. He was a fool, more so for believing he was clever. Wise men always left room for new things; fools thought they knew it all already. “Always glad to help out my government. Let’s go.”

    In the back section of the car with the Snake, Sampson said, “So, what’s it all about, boys?”

    As Winters pulled away, Ruzhyo noted one of the bodyguards step into the street to make a note of their vehicle’s license number. Good. He looked at Sampson. “You work for the Genaloni crime family. You have personally killed six men, and ordered the deaths of more than a dozen others. You and your ilk are responsible for drugs on the streets, prostitution, smuggling, gambling, other illegal activities too many to list.”

    “Whoa! That’s slander, Agent, ‘cause it ain’t true. I’m a security man for a legitimate company. Better be careful what you say-you could get sued, you know. Our lawyers don’t have enough to do.”

    “You are criminal scum,” Ruzhyo said. “And you will pay for it very soon.”

    Sampson laughed. “Good luck proving it, pal. Better men than you have tried.” He leaned back into the seat, his face going hard. “I’ll be back on the street in time for dinner.”

    “You will not,” Ruzhyo said.

    “Yeah? Well, you’re stupid if you think that.”

    “No. You are the stupid one-
you
believe we are with the FBI.”

    The look on Sampson’s face was a mix of fear and disbelief, but by then the Snake had his gun out and pressed it into the man’s side. “And you would be
extremely
stupid to attempt to move,” the Snake said. The Russian accent was so thick in his voice you could lean against it without falling.

    “Jesus!” Sampson said.

    “Afraid he ain’t gonna be offering you much help, hoss,” Winters said.

    “What the hell is going on? Who are you? What do you want?”

    “To feed the wolves a poisoned bait,” Ruzhyo said.

    The criminal frowned. He did not understand. Nor would he have time to worry over it. Fate had reached into the lottery basket and closed his cold hard fingers.

    Luigi Sampson’s number had been drawn.

    

    
Friday, September 17th, 2:30 p.m. New York City

    Ray Genaloni was mad enough to kill somebody with his bare hands. The man who stood in front of his desk, one of Luigi’s bodyguards, was not delivering good news and he was the only target of opportunity-but that would be a bad idea, to kill him. Instead, Ray kept his temper held down, as if pressing a lid on a boiling pot to keep the steam from escaping.

    “Excuse me, Donald,” Genaloni said, “but what exactly do you mean the FBI doesn’t have him?”

    “We sent the lawyers, Boss. The feds say they didn’t pick up Luigi.”

    “But you and Randall say they did?”

    “We had just come out of Chen’s. There were two of ‘em, another one in the car. Luigi made them, and Randall and I know feds when we see them. Their IDs checked out, they are on the New York Bureau list, the car they were in had no-hit plates-which we ran through our police contacts and found they were blind-issued to the New York City FBI motor pool. They got him, all right.”

    “Then why are they telling the lawyers they never heard of him?”

    Donald shook his head. “I don’t know.”

    Genaloni sat silent for maybe fifteen seconds. He saw the bodyguard’s sweat. Good. Let him be nervous. Finally, he said, “That’s all. Go find something to do.”

    After the bodyguard left, Genaloni sat and stared at the wall. What the hell were the feds up to? Why were they putting the squeeze on him? Luigi was stand-up, they could threaten him with anything they wanted and he wouldn’t give them shit, but We-ain’t-got-him was a new game. And it was one he didn’t like. They were up to something and whatever it was, he didn’t fucking
like
it.