The Dig: A Taskforce Story (10 page)

Y
uri Gorshenko watched from the rear of the crowd, gawking like the rest of the people at the dead Russian. Finally, two men pushed through the throng, ostensibly some sort of medical team. He saw the Israeli stand up and fade to the back. Yuri waited until he had disappeared from view before leaving himself.

Figuring the Israeli would take the shortest route out of the old town, Yuri kept to the high ground, circling the ancient cobblestoned streets until he was standing next to a Roman theater from eons ago, now equipped with modern sound and advertising contemporary shows. He found a small table in the sun and sat down, giving the Israeli time to clear the area. Killing time, he fiddled with an electronic device, checking the readout for a sniff of a vulnerability, but it came up empty.

No pacemakers around here.

Looking like a scientific calculator with an antennae, he marveled at how quickly it had worked. He’d practiced with it endlessly, but had never used it live.

Worth the risk going to San Francisco.

The device was nothing but a bunch of plastic and silicon, harnessed together like any other modern gadget, from a Nintendo portable game player to a digital cell phone. The difference was its purpose. There would be no joy working this device, unless one liked watching people die. Using a wireless connection, it injected malware into implanted medical devices. In plain language, it caused pacemakers to flame out with eight hundred volts.

The vulnerability had been perfected by the FSB over two years ago, and had been used quite successfully until the back door had been discovered by an American hacker named Barnaby Jack. Last year, he was all set to reveal what he’d found at a hacking conference called Black Hat when the FSB had intervened. They’d spent too much time and effort refining their technique to allow their back door to be exposed, and so they’d decided the risk of operating in the United States was worth it. Barnaby Jack died under “mysterious” circumstances in San Francisco, causing a mountain of conspiracy theories, but none as outlandish as the truth.

Yuri checked his watch, seeing thirty minutes had passed. He had about forty-five minutes before he had to report to his Control, something he didn’t want to be late for. He stood up and walked around the outskirts of the theater, then followed the cobblestones downhill until he intersected Knyaz Aleksandar Street. He blended into the crowds out shopping, and wandered south, past the ugly Communist-era post office, the building blanketed with graffiti.

The supposed benefits of capitalism.

Yuri passed behind the post office and turned right, walking toward another squat, ugly four-story building at the edge of a large wooded park. The location of his Control, it was a Communist-era military club, still used by the old Bulgarian military men. A sort of veteran’s affairs association from the USSR of the past.

He entered, seeing a geriatric man guarding the front door, the room inside paneled in old wood, dark and dank. In Bulgarian, he said, “I’m Jarilo. Someone is here to meet me.”

The man showed nothing but boredom, having seen and heard many odd things in his eight decades of life. He nodded and said, “Upstairs. Last room.”

Yuri turned without a word and walked across the open ballroom, his feet clacking on the marble floor. He entered the stairwell and climbed to the top, his steps now causing echoes that bounced back and forth in the narrow confines.

The clatter stopped in the hallway, his footfalls smothered by the threadbare carpeting, something he was sure was left over from the Bulgarian revolution.

From the thirteenth century.

He found the last door and paused, checking his clothing to ensure he projected a professional appearance. He had nothing but disdain for Control, as the man had never entered the arena—never risked his life in the great game—but he
did
outrank Yuri and was someone who could affect his career.

Yuri knocked, heard a muffled “Come in,” and opened the door. What he saw on the other side rendered him speechless.

B
efore the man in the room even turned from the window, Yuri knew it wasn’t his Control. When he did face about, Yuri thought he was surely mistaken. Seeing the wart on the man’s temple, right next to his left eye, he was sure.

Vlad the Impaler? Here? Why?

Vladimir Malikov said, “Don’t look so shocked. I do get out into the field occasionally. I’m not decrepit yet.”

Yuri snapped to attention and said, “Sir, no, sir.”

Vlad walked to a wall covered in books, seemingly studying them. He said, “Stand at ease, Jarilo. I’m not going to bite.”

Yuri tried to relax, but it was impossible. The leader of the new and improved FSB—the successor of the KGB—Vladimir Malikov was a legend who’d earned the nickname Vlad the Impaler from some of his operations in the Middle East. Yuri waited for Vlad to say something more, but the man remained silent, his labored breathing the only thing disturbing the peace in the room. A rattle that sounded like an Arab smoking a water pipe, it ended in a string of coughs, then a hacking spit into a trash can.

Vlad lit a cigarette, drew deeply, coughed again and said, “These things will fucking kill you.”

Yuri nodded, remaining silent.

“Jarilo. Slavic god of war. Did you pick that code name?”

“No, sir. Just lucky, I suppose.”

“But you believe in it. Like it.”

“Yes. I guess.”

Vlad turned from the books. “How did the operation go?”

Yuri pulled the electronic Bluetooth device from his pocket. “It went absolutely perfect. The traitor is dead, and I have now identified the Israeli. He is exposed and doesn’t even know it.”

“Did you get the cache of information?”

“No, sir, but neither did the Israeli.”

“How do you know?”

“Because I watched the entire affair. The traitor passed nothing, and his death put the Israeli in a dilemma. He could not explain to the authorities what he was doing with a Russian national without giving up that he was an Israeli spy. Nothing he said would fit his cover. He fled at the earliest opportunity, leaving the body for others to clean up.”

“Good. And the information?”

“We’ll have to do some investigation. The traitor hid it somewhere.”

Vlad moved back to the window, saying, “Okay. Not your issue, though, is it?”

Yuri was unsure how to respond, as his taskings ultimately came from the man in front of him.

Vlad said, “You have served with distinction on many fronts. One of the few who remained after the fall. Tell me, did you do this out of duty, or out of fear of a brave new world?”

“Duty, sir. I have no fear of any new world. I saw how others made their fortunes, and I could have done the same. I could have eclipsed them all.”

Vlad considered, finally saying, “Yes. Yes, I believe you might have. You ran the Berlin group, did you not?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And the Chechens learned to fear you.”

Where is this going?
Vlad was reciting things that were old news. Missions that had been hashed out over two years ago. Yes, he’d run an assassination cell out of Berlin, and had killed Chechen terrorists everywhere from London to Istanbul, including the former Chechen president—in Qatar, no less. It was what the Vympel were trained for. Blending into a foreign culture and sowing the seeds of destruction.

He said, “Yes, sir. I did as I was ordered.”

“Did you believe in the mission?”

“Belief has nothing to do with it.”

“No. You’re wrong. I’ve learned over time that belief has
everything
to do with it. You can order a man to attack, but you’ll only succeed in the assault if he
believes
. A man who believes is worth ten who simply follow orders.”

He faced Yuri, standing a full head shorter, but his lack of physical stature in no way interfered with his ability to instill obedience. “Tell me, what do you think of the United States? Do you wish Russia to emulate them?”

“If that is what you think is best.”

Vlad waved his hand. “Give me an answer that isn’t just supplication.”

Yuri said, “Okay . . . no, sir. I don’t think we should emulate the US. I despise them and their arrogant worldview. I hate the humiliation they have heaped upon our country.”

“You mean you despise the fact that we went from a superpower to a has-been. From an equal player to a shell that lives for pinpricks on the UN Security Council.”

Yuri said nothing, unsure how to respond.

Vlad said, “Can I trust you? Trust what you say?”

“Yes, sir. Of course you can.”

Yuri considered for a moment, then said, “There is a terrorist here in Plovdiv. A Nigerian from the group Boko Haram. He’s a wild-eyed, radical, suicidal monkey. The worst I’ve ever seen. But he’s also a tool. Something I intend to use to equal the playing field with the United States. Remember what caused our undoing?”

“The United States spreading the lies of capitalism to our federation, causing our satellites to run blindly toward a dream that didn’t exist.”

“Really, now, I expected more from you. That was an outcome. States choosing a different path because the one they were on was failing. Why was it failing?”

Yuri thought for a moment, then said, “Afghanistan. Getting involved in Afghanistan. It bankrupted both our moral fiber and our bank account.”

Vlad smiled, pleased. “Precisely. And I believe the United States is ripe for that very thing.”

“I don’t understand.”

“You will in due time. I’ve taken over as your Control. I have a special mission for you. But first, I need to meet this Boko Haram savage. I was going to introduce him to a Syrian Shabeeha leader. A man from Syrian Air Force intelligence who is working external operations. Someone who would help us attain our goals, but I’m afraid the savage has been compromised. I believe the United States is tracking him, and I need that to stop. I need you to confirm his status.”

Yuri nodded. “I can do that. My team is here right now.”

Vlad’s face grew stern. “It’s more than that. If he’s being tracked by the Americans, I need you to dissuade them from continuing. Buy me enough time to set up and execute a meeting.”

“How? Have them arrested? Get them involved with whores? That’s really not my skill, sir. Others in the FSB can do that much better than my team.”

Vlad’s face split into a macabre smile, disconcerting even to a man like Yuri. He began to understand where the nickname Impaler came from. “No, no, Yuri. I precisely want your skills.”

He pulled a folder off of the table and handed it to Yuri.

“I want you to kill them.”

Brad Taylor, Lieutenant Colonel (ret.),
is a twenty-one-year veteran of the U.S. Army Infantry and Special Forces, including eight years with the 1st Special Forces Operational Detachment–Delta, popularly known as Delta Force. Taylor retired in 2010 after serving more than two decades and participating in Operation Enduring Freedom and Operation Iraqi Freedom, as well as classified operations around the globe. His final military post was as Assistant Professor of Military Science at the Citadel. His first five Pike Logan thrillers were New York Times bestsellers. He lives in Charleston, South Carolina.

In 1864, E. P. Dutton & Co. bought the famous Old Corner Bookstore and its publishing division from Ticknor and Fields and began their storied publishing career. Mr. Edward Payson Dutton and his partner, Mr. Lemuel Ide, had started the company in Boston, Massachusetts, as a bookseller in 1852. Dutton expanded to New York City, and in 1869 opened both a bookstore and publishing house at 713 Broadway. In 2014, Dutton celebrates 150 years of publishing excellence. We have redesigned our longtime logotype to reflect the simple design of those earliest published books. For more information on the history of Dutton and its books and authors, please visit www.penguin.com/dutton.