Текст книги "Independence Day "

Автор книги: Ben Coes

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Текущая страница: 11 (всего у книги 28 страниц)

30

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.

“Katya?”

“Who is it from?”

“He didn’t say.”

She shut her eyes and steeled herself. She stood and walked to the door, opening it slightly, and took the package.

The box was blue and was tied with white string. She sat down at her makeup table. She put the box on her lap, then yanked up on the string. She lifted the top of the box.

Inside the box was another, this one long and thin, wrapped in light blue velvet. She opened it. Inside was a stunning diamond necklace. It was anchored by a large yellow diamond. Katya pulled the necklace out and stared at it for several moments. She fastened it around her neck and admired it in the mirror.

A small note was stuck inside the box: I love you, my future wife.

A light tap came at the door.

“Two minutes, Katya.”

Katya let the note fall from her fingers onto the floor. She took the necklace off and placed it on the dressing table, then walked to the door.

“Yes,” she said, barely above a whisper.

The door opened. Katya walked past the bodyguard, saying nothing, as the lights from the theater flickered in the distance.

*   *   *

Bond was seated in the backseat of the red Mercedes limousine, at that moment parked one block behind the Mariinsky Theatre. He was dressed in a linen suit, his hair combed back and dyed black, a white handkerchief puffed out of his breast pocket. The get-up was perhaps overkill, but Bond had spent two years in Saint Petersburg working for the CIA, and Polk didn’t want to take the risk he might be spotted in the middle of a live operation.

In the front seat, Joe Oliveri had on a chauffeur’s outfit. A former member of Force Recon, the Marines’ elite deep reconnaissance unit, Oliveri was considered one of Langley’s top “escape men,” the agent charged in a dead zone operation with getting whatever individual or materials that needed to be extracted to a drop zone.

Tonight, if necessary, it would be Bond’s job to grab Katya, and Oliveri’s job to get her to water, where Navy SEALs lurked eighteen feet beneath the waterline.

Bond stared out the side window, in silence, as Oliveri tapped his fingers absentmindedly on the steering wheel.

“Your kid make that baseball team he was trying out for?” asked Bond.

“Yeah,” said Oliveri, keeping his eyes trained on the street ahead. “First game’s tomorrow night. Hopefully, this’ll all be cake and I’ll be there to watch it.”

*   *   *

An usher led Dewey to the orchestra section near the front of the theater. His seat was on the aisle.

Dewey sat next to a woman and her young daughter. Dewey smiled at the girl, who smiled back. Her mother stared at him.

His eyes scanned the left and right balcony boxes. Seated inside were elegant-looking groups of Russians dressed in evening attire. The men varied in their looks, but each woman seemed like she could have been on the cover of a magazine.

The curtain opened to the final act of Swan Lake.

At Katya’s entrance, a wave of hushed whispers swept the theater. Even Dewey leaned forward in his seat to get a better view.

The ballerina wore a simple white dress, which looked as if it had been painted onto her body. Her black hair was braided on top of her head and shone like leather beneath the stage lights. Her skin was dark and dusted with white makeup. She stood motionless near the back of the stage. She looked sad, vulnerable, even frail. And then her head moved slightly around and her gaze ripped across the crowd.

In an instant, what had appeared weak and frightened disappeared. Her beauty shot from the back of the stage like lightning across the night sky. Audience members reflexively moved forward in their seats. The little girl two seats away from Dewey shot her arm out, pointing. The electricity in the audience was palpable, and Katya had yet to take even her first step.

And then she began her run. She moved as if galloping on the wind, toward the center of the stage, then leapt high into the air as gasps arose above the orchestra music. She seemed to hold the air for an inhuman amount of time. The lights from behind her brightened, creating a dark silhouette of her soaring figure, like a five-pointed star crossing in front of the sun. Then, just when it seemed like she would remain airborne forever, she fell like a bird in flight, a bird who’s been shot, falling helplessly, listlessly, freely, with no concern for her own safety. She fell as if she had just died midflight. Inches from striking the stage, a male dancer caught Katya, swinging her up and around, landing her on one toe, upon which she proceeded to pirouette like a top, until at long last she stopped, raised her arm triumphantly above her head, then looked out across the audience. A mysterious smile creased her lips. The entire audience erupted in a cacophony of cheering as it stood up to welcome its beloved Katya.

She seemed to glow, to radiate, and yet her eyes met no one’s, not the dancer who caught her, not the audience that screamed in delight. She was in a different world altogether.

Dewey had never seen anything like it. He’d never seen a woman with such beauty as the woman standing on the stage before him.

Finally, the clapping ended, and the audience sat down to watch the rest of the performance.

In Dewey’s ear, the monotone Philadelphia accent of Bill Polk brought him back into focus.

“We have sign-off from the president,” said Polk. “Get in and get it done.”

31

ELEKTROSTAL

Sascha nodded at Cloud. Cloud stepped around the table and walked to him.

Sascha was a gifted programmer in his own right and was the one who was able to penetrate Alexei Malnikov’s father’s VPN, thus enabling Cloud to anonymously set up the elder Malnikov.

“What is it?” asked Cloud.

“The trapdoor into Langley,” said Sascha. “It was there an hour ago. Now I can’t find it.”

In hacker lingo, a trapdoor was a hole in the security of a system deliberately left in place by a designer or maintainer.

Cloud moved quickly to Sascha’s workstation.

“The operation will be going live,” said Cloud.

“I know.”

Cloud leaned over and took Sascha’s keyboard, then started typing.

“Yes, I see,” said Cloud, typing away. “They found the evidence of one of the times we were inside. Like finding the ashes after a fire. But they’re not anywhere near the matches or the gasoline.”

Cloud gently pushed Sascha aside and took over his computer. He typed a URL into the Web browser. This was the enterprise server in Elektrostal. He went through a series of consecutive screens, entering passwords, each time pressing his right thumb to the computer’s thumbprint detection security device. At the fifth screen, a large cartoonish-looking eye suddenly appeared. Cloud leaned forward, staring into the laptop’s built-in camera. After a few moments, a soft musical note chimed, the eye disappeared, and the words came onto the screen.

Welcome home, Cloud

Cloud had succeeded in hacking into the CIA but not by penetrating the Agency’s computer networks. The odds of being able to pull off such a “front door” intrusion were not only remote, but they would also likely lead the CIA back to him. The CIA was in large part a closed-loop user of the Internet and originator of signals intelligence. This meant there were few exposed access points into the Agency. Those that did exist were for noncore, “passive” activities, such as human resources and public relations. Those access points which allowed the general public into the CIA through e-mail or a Web browser were heavily monitored and delivered visitors to a digital world entirely separate from the important stuff, such as communications regarding live operations.

The coming attack on America was based on surprise. Although he’d stolen hundreds of millions of dollars from U.S. corporations over the years, he’d never targeted any entity that would consider it a national security violation.

Instead, Cloud had taken a more prosaic approach to worming his way into Langley. He’d written a virus, which, once downloaded, was innocuous and invisible to its users. It sat there in silence and was impossible to detect. The virus was activated by a user mistakenly clicking a link in an e-mail. Once activated, the virus targeted music files, striking the digital code of a song as it was being downloaded. Then the virus waited. For most people, it waited forever and did nothing.

The virus was designed to awaken if it was ever placed on the CIA mainframe. Then it would go live and create a single trapdoor for Cloud.

Cloud had designed the virus, then blanketed a fifty-mile radius around Langley. The goal was to have a vital employee of the Agency, with access to the closed-loop mainframe, break Agency rules and share music on a home computer with a work computer.

It took almost a year of daily e-mails, often in the millions, but eventually it happened. A young case officer had synced his iPhone with his computer at Langley. Within forty-five seconds of the insertion of the USB, Cloud, on the other side of the world, had a ladder into Langley’s closed-loop mainframe.

He was soon staring at a live video, the same video being watched inside the CIA mission theater.

He typed in silence for more than five minutes, then, with a dramatic flair, hit Enter.

Sascha smiled at him.

“A lucky break,” said Cloud, pretending to be modest.

In a dialogue box at the lower left of his screen, the audio communications passing between Langley and the Agency’s operators in the field were transcribed in real time:

1842

phase line in twenty guys

1843

this is immediate priority

1844

its vital we capture this guy

1845

use all means necessary to bring him in alive

1846

roger langley

1847

we have sign off from the president

1848

get in and get it done

Cloud sat back, crossed his arms, and stared at the screen.

“It is beginning,” he said.

32

IN THE AIR

BRITISH AIRWAYS FLIGHT 319

Dowling looked down at the earth. He clicked the ceramic switch in his glove. A digital altimeter in his helmet read:

32,880.7FT

006.23M

He glanced at the mission clock, dimly illuminated in orange in the upper left corner of his glass:

1:06:32

They had a little over an hour to go. He clicked again. A digital chart appeared, displaying Dowling’s position relative to where, based on trade winds and other metrics, he should have been.

The data that informed the charts was compiled and processed in real time, based on readings in their helmets, in communication with an Air Force AWACS that was flying, at that moment, above the Caspian Sea.

Dowling clicked again and looked at yet another chart, which showed the three commandos, along with data as to how much height and distance separated them.

All three commandos had spent years learning how to do high-altitude high-opening (HAHO) and high-altitude low-opening (HALO) parachute jumps as Rangers. HAHOs were exhausting. The adjustments to the steering and altitude of the canopy, based upon a constant cycling through the charts, was endless. It required intense concentration, especially for the lead navigator, who, in this case, was Dowling. A strobe on his helmet enabled the other men to follow.

The sky above Russia was clear and warm as the commando team descended. The lights of the Moscow suburbs were like a carpet beneath them—yellow, increasingly bright—as they came concentrically closer to the dacha.

They reached the outskirts of Rublevka while still a thousand feet in the air. A green light appeared in the upper corner of Dowling’s helmet along with a steady beeping noise. They were directly above the dacha.

The lights of the modern glass mansion were visible below.

The three Americans circled concentrically above, funneling rapidly lower as if swirling down a drain. The lights grew brighter. Dowling triggered the ceramic in his glove several times until the plot lines of the property appeared in bright orange. He made out a line of cars in the driveway. He soared left, over the house, moving out over a dark lawn. Night-vision goggles lit up the ground in light green. Several large pine trees lay dead ahead, then a field, and he dropped rapidly now. When his feet were about to hit the ground, he adjusted his chute, letting it pull him up one last time, softening the coming landing.

A minute later, Fitzgerald landed a few feet away, then Tosatti.

The team removed their parachutes, flying packs, tanks, helmets, and anything else that was unnecessary, packing it in black nylon bags they’d carried in. All three men were sweating profusely, from the heated flight suit and from the adrenaline now coursing through them like fire.

Each commando was dressed the same: black synthetic wicking shirt and pants, light duty combat boots.

Fitzgerald pulled a thermal night scope from a pocket and scanned the property for any signs of life.

Dowling activated his commo.

“We’re clear,” he said.

The dacha’s lights cast bright warm blue and orange light into the night sky.

Each commando unzipped his weapons ruck, removed the submachine gun and slammed in a mag. Tosatti reached for his ASh-12.7 urban combat assault rifle, equipped with night optics and an undermounted grenade launcher. Dowling and Fitzgerald followed suit, slamming in mags, then grabbed several extras and attached them to their belts.

Each man grabbed OTs-33 Pernach 9 × 18 machine pistols, tucking them into the holster on his belt.

They moved across the field, dead silent as they traversed toward the dacha.

Dowling reached to his wrist and triggered his commo, then whispered.

“Phase Line One, on the ground.”

Fitzgerald, Tosatti, and Dowling made a wide arc across the back of the dacha, stalking along behind a canopy of birch trees, in the darkness and shadows.

The house was long and rectangular, a modern box made almost entirely of glass. It stood elevated on steel stilts. Every room in the house was alight.

On the south side of the dacha, set back from the window, was a room full of people seated around a dining table.

Tosatti snapped his fingers, pointing to the driveway.

Dowling moved his night goggles down over his eyes. Two men were standing in the driveway, between two automobiles. One was smoking. Both men clutched submachine guns, trained at the ground.

Dowling nodded to Tosatti and Fitzgerald.

“On my go,” he whispered. “I got the Ivan in back; Dave, take the other guy. Fitz, backup.”

“Roger that,” whispered Fitzgerald.

All three men raised their carbines. Dowling aimed at the guard facing them, while Tosatti aimed at the man whose back was turned.

Fitzgerald was backup. He aimed at a spot between the two men and would fire only if Dowling or Tosatti missed.

“On three,” whispered Dowling. “One, two…”

Tosatti and Dowling triggered their guns. Dowling struck his man above his right ear, dropping him, and in the same instant Tosatti took the top of the other guard’s head clean off.

They moved quietly, at the back edge of the lawn, scanning the terrain for other guards. They didn’t see any.

Dowling took out a high-powered monocular. He studied the dining room. He counted fourteen people, all seated around a large oval table, eating dinner. The low din of conversation could be heard.

He scanned each person at the table. Seated at the right corner was a tall man with an Afro of curly blond hair. Dowling couldn’t see his face, but the hair was unmistakable.

“I got him,” he whispered. “Front right.”

Fitzgerald moved toward the driveway. He pulled a preset explosive from his weapons belt as he moved: C-4 with a remote detonator. He came to the side of the house, then stalked, pressed against the wall, toward the front. As he was about to move around the corner to the front door, headlights abruptly punctured the darkness.

The vehicle barreled through the entrance to the driveway. It was out of Fitzgerald’s sight line, but he would soon be illuminated by the lights.

Dowling whistled as Tosatti raised his carbine and trained it on the approaching vehicle. Fitzgerald turned. Dowling signaled to hold his position.

A Range Rover sped up the driveway and parked just feet from the dead bodyguards. The lights on the SUV went out. A woman in a white summer dress stepped out from the driver’s door. She had yet to see the dead men on the ground, but she would soon step on them.

Tosatti trained the sniper rifle on the woman, who was now walking toward the front door. The dead guards lay directly in her path. He aimed, then waited.

“Sorry, honey,” he whispered.

He fired. The bullet ripped the woman’s chest, exploding crimson across her white dress, pummeling her backward. She tumbled to the ground.

Dowling nodded to Fitzgerald.

Fitzgerald moved to the front entrance. The objective was simple: create a diversion at the front of the house, then enter through the back. The explosives were the diversion. He attached a small brick of C-4 to the door, just below the doorknob, then moved silently along the side of the dacha back to Dowling and Tosatti.

Dowling led the team to the back of the glass house. A swimming pool twinkled in muted subwater green light. Behind it was a stairway that led up to a deck. The three men moved rapidly now, around the side of the pool, then climbed the stairs. They stopped outside the door.

Dowling ran his hand along the perimeter of the door, studying it. He took a preset explosive from his belt, smaller than the one on the front door. He stuck it beneath the doorknob.

The men stood as silent and still as statues. Their faces were black with paint. They were as dark, as invisible as phantoms, shielded by the door.

“I have the target,” Dowling whispered to Tosatti and Fitzgerald.

Tosatti and Fitzgerald nodded.

Dowling reached to his wrist, pressing commo.

“We’re at the line,” he whispered, telling Langley they were about to strike.

*   *   *

Polk stood, arms crossed, directly in front of the plasma, watching a live video feed picked up from a satellite ten miles in the sky. Calibrisi was a foot behind him, to the right. Every man and woman in the room stared at the screen.

Polk was calm. He’d stood in the exact same place many times, directing literally hundreds of operations in his storied career. He looked like a high school English teacher, with horn-rimmed glasses, a striped rep tie, a pink button-down shirt, khakis, a needlepoint belt, and penny loafers. He was considered the best in-mission commander in the history of NCS.

*   *   *

The thermal prints of Dowling, Tosatti, and Fitzgerald were grouped to the left of the screen, like apparitions, huddled three abreast just outside the door.

On the other side of the door, a few feet away from the waiting commandos, the thermal outlines of the dinner party attendees were similarly visible, their movements well defined if hazy: seven bodies on each side of a table, facing each other; the rapid movements of arms, heads, shoulders in the act of enjoying dinner.

One of the people stood up and started to move toward the front entrance.

Polk glanced at Calibrisi, then reached for commo.

“You have someone moving to the door,” said Polk. “Get in there.”

*   *   *

At the back door to the dacha, Dowling registered Polk’s words, glanced at Fitzgerald, who clutched the detonator for the C-4 at the front door, then nodded.

Fitzgerald flipped the metal cap off the detonator and thumbed a small red button. A loud boom abruptly ripped the air on the other side of the house, shaking the ground.

The steel front door was blown like a cannonball into the dacha, down the front hallway. It slammed headlong into a woman on her way to the bathroom, hitting her at more than fifty miles per hour and killing her instantly.

Steel and concrete from above the door were kicked thirty feet in the air. Red and orange flames burst in a fiery cloud. Glass shattered throughout the front wing of the dacha as shouting, then screams, suddenly filled the air.

The wailing of the house alarm came next, a high-pitched siren that only added to the sense of chaos.

Then, at the seeming height of pandemonium, Dowling hit the button on his detonator.

A small-burst explosion ripped the back door off its hinges. It tumbled down onto the deck.

The screams from inside the dacha were louder now.

Tosatti held a small pocket mirror in the door opening, looking for security or signs of weapons. All he could see, through the smoke-clogged air, was the dining room table filled with people, all of whom had raised their hands.

Tosatti signaled the other two commandos, then moved.

They charged through the smoke into the dining room. Tosatti surged first into the room, ASh-12.7 in his grip, suppressor jutting out, then moved right. Fitzgerald was half a step behind him, also armed with an ASh-12.7, and he leapt to the left, surrounding the table.

Then Dowling ran in, moving to the man at the corner of the table as Tosatti and Fitzgerald provided cover.

The thirteen remaining guests stared at the three commandos. Several of the women were crying, hysterical with fear.

“Comment?” asked one of the men, his accent unmistakably French.

Dowling stepped in front of the man known to them only as Cloud. But instead of a young man, the one who now cowered before Dowling’s suppressor was much older. He stared blankly at Dowling, his arms raised.

“Where is he?” asked Dowling.

“Who?” he whispered.

“Cloud.”

The man was silent. His hands, raised above his head, trembled in fear.

Fitzgerald moved his wrist to his mouth and triggered commo.

“Bill, we’ve got a situation,” he said.

But before Polk could respond, another explosion shattered the night.

It started beneath the dacha—ten pounds of Semtex, igniting in a ferocious moment that no one had time to flee. The detonation ripped the floor, scorching white-hot fire and heat through the dacha like a grenade through a sand castle. The three commandos, along with the guests, were vaporized before they could even register the white heat as it engulfed them. The glass-and-concrete house shattered in a wild, violent moment. Steel beams went flying as the force of the explosion spread sideways and up, in one horrendous sequence. The dacha burst into a mushroom cloud of flames and heat, white, red, and orange, against the desolate Russian night.