Текст книги "Independence Day "

Автор книги: Ben Coes

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Текущая страница: 18 (всего у книги 28 страниц)

56

GRAMERCY PARK HOTEL

NEW YORK CITY

Igor heard his phone beeping through a fog of Patrón and extremely expensive marijuana, grown in a laboratory in Oregon and designed for a mild prep school high intermingled with a Viagra-like sexual potency. The beeping was accompanied by a nudge from the foot that was approximately half an inch from his face, a foot that was tan and smooth, with red toenail polish and a heel that looked as if it had never done a hard day’s work in its life, despite the fact that it belonged to a runway model, at least, that’s what Igor thought she’d said. His left eye opened. He was now staring at the foot. It was a beautiful foot, he thought.

What the hell is her name? Alice? Allison?

The phone beeped for a fifth time.

At the other end of the bed, he felt a girl kissing his ankle, then his knee, then his thigh, and then a little higher.

Whoever’s calling, well, they’re just going to have to wait.

Suddenly, he felt a hand wrap around his chest. His eyes darted down. It was a small hand, brown, with white fingernail polish. Then he remembered the black girl. She was Alice. Now it was coming back to him. La Piscine. Hotel Americano. A shared joint. A limo ride back to the Gramercy. The shower.

Igor was worth more than $100 million. It wasn’t as much as Sergey Brin, one of his classmates at Stanford, but it was better than a sharp stick in the eye.

He was the best programmer in his class. If others had made more money, it didn’t seem to bother him.

Igor had made his fortune working for an American energy company, KKB. With little help or fanfare, he had designed, built, and then managed a technology colossus that controlled, in real time, all aspects of exploration, production, storage, and distribution for the largest energy company in North America and the second largest in the world.

Igor not only built it all alone, he managed it with a staff of only twelve people. The company’s executives and traders knew precisely what was occurring in all parts of the company’s massive supply chain, at all times.

Most impressive was the complex algorithm Igor had written that enabled KKB to optimize how it priced its products—electricity, oil, coal—in real time, against location. It was a mathematical piece of software genius. It helped deliver the highest profit margins of any other energy company, large or small, in the world.

KKB, in turn, had rewarded Igor handsomely. The year before, he’d made $25 million. And on New Year’s Day, Igor had walked out of KKB for the last time, retiring with enough money to live a life of pleasure and, occasionally, debauchery. Of course, all that was irrelevant at this particular moment. Money, KKB, computers, the world—none of that crossed his mind, as Alice said something in French that he didn’t understand.

The beeping started again, and this time it didn’t stop. Reluctantly, Igor pushed Alice off and reached for his cell phone.

“Who is it?” Igor asked.

“It’s Hector Calibrisi.”

Igor sat up. He rubbed the bridge of his nose, trying to expel the hangover and dizziness from his head.

“What time is it?”

“Two o’clock,” said Calibrisi.

“Day or night?”

Calibrisi ignored the question.

“We need your help, Igor.”

“Call Geek Squad,” said Igor.

“I’m not fucking around.”

“I’m not either. I retired, Hector.”

“This concerns your adopted homeland, the United States of America. I’m assuming you still like it here?”

“Oh, man. What do you need my help with?”

“Catching a hacker.”

Igor swung his legs over the edge of the bed and stood up. He walked toward the bathroom as the two girls curled up together and started kissing.

“What do you mean, ‘a hacker’?”

“He’s Russian. His name is Vargarin, but he goes by the name—”

“Cloud,” said Igor, stepping into the bathroom and turning the shower on—cold.

“That’s right.”

“Okay, first thing, tell your IT people not to shut anything down,” said Igor. “No sanitization, no removal of code. Nothing. Leave it alone.”

“Why?”

“He’s inside Langley, correct?”

“Yeah.”

“Cloud came in through a path. We need to find the beginning of the path. If we can do that, we can find him.”

57

PARK TENISOWY OLIMPIA

POZNAŃ, POLAND

The bleachers were filled with fans, there to watch a second-round doubles match in Poland’s sole professional men’s tennis tournament, the Poznań Open. Beneath a warm summer evening, the point was already under way.

The French team was leading, having taken the first set over the pair of Americans. Tom Fairweather suddenly found himself in no-man’s-land, trying to get to a lob that was headed for the baseline.

Fairweather had gotten lured to the net by a drop shot, and now he had no choice. He leapt, striking the ball with the very edge of the racket. The ball sailed in a wobbly line back down the middle of the court, between the two Frenchmen.

“Watch your alley!” barked Fairweather.

The French player reached the ball and pivoted, ripping a forehand crosscourt, toward Fairweather’s alley. At full sprint, he lurched forward, racket extended, diving. The ball hit the racket in the half second before Fairweather landed chest-first on the clay, thumping hard and sliding painfully forward as gasps came from the crowd. From the ground, he watched the ball hit the top of the net, perch for a pregnant moment, then dribble over and die on the clay on the other side of the court.

Slowly, Fairweather climbed to his feet. The front of his white shirt and shorts, as well as his arms and legs, were covered in red clay.

“Nice shot,” said one of the French players, nodding at him.

“Thanks.”

Above the French player’s shoulder, he saw a woman in a white linen pantsuit standing in the entranceway, arms crossed, staring at him.

Fairweather walked across the court to his partner.

“I gotta go.”

“Can’t you hold it until the break?”

“No, I have to leave. Sorry.”

His partner took a deep breath.

“We’re in the middle of a—”

Fairweather didn’t wait to hear the end of his partner’s sentence. He ran to the court exit. In the underground passageway beneath the bleachers, he dropped his racket on the ground and fell into a full-on sprint, charging out through the central clubhouse to the street. A silver Volvo station wagon was idling.

He climbed in the back, joining the woman from the court, and the car sped away.

Panting hard, he looked at her.

“What is it?”

“Moscow,” the woman said, nodding to a white duffel bag on the seat. He unzipped it, finding a change of clothes. Beneath the clothing was money, a passport, and a plane ticket.

As the Volvo headed for the airport, Fairweather undressed.

“What do you know?” he asked as he pulled on a pair of dry boxers. He glanced up, catching her appraising his body.

“Tina, what do you know?” he repeated.

“It’s Emergency Priority,” she said, looking out the window.

Fairweather’s demeanor shifted. He stared straight ahead, watching the other cars on the road, lost in thought, a cold, blank expression on his face.

A few minutes later, the Volvo pulled into Poznań–Ławica Airport. Fairweather looked at her one more time.

“Tell me what you know. I know you know something.”

“We lost five men earlier tonight.”

“In Russia?”

“Yes.”

“How good is the paper?”

She looked back from the window.

“It’s one of Mr. Coughlin’s old aliases,” she whispered. “The ones he kept in the safe. Bill insisted.”

58

HOTEL EUROPA

MINSK, BELARUS

Alina described to Brainard, for the second time that evening, the car accident. It had happened that afternoon, in front of her office near Victory Square. An elderly woman had been struck by a taxicab, then thrown in the air. Alina had been the first person to find her, lying facedown on the sidewalk, dead.

“Miortvych,” she said in Belarusian, as again tears appeared on her cheeks. “Ja byŭ biezdapamožny, Todd.”

Dead. I was helpless, Todd.

You get used to it, Brainard thought to himself.

“Josć, josć,” he said.

There, there.

Brainard put his hand on hers, then noticed a man seated at the bar, staring at him.

“Ja chutka viarnusi,” he said, standing.

I’ll be right back.

At the bar, Carter, Minsk chief of station, was having a glass of wine and reading the newspaper. Beads of sweat covered his brow. Brainard stood next to him.

“Moscow,” Carter whispered. “Vernacular House. Emergency Priority.”

“What’s going on?”

“I don’t know. Bill called and told me to get you the fuck over there.”

“FSB tagged me last week,” said Brainard. “I won’t make it through Customs.”

Carter pushed a section of the paper toward him. The edge of a white envelope was visible.

“The passport’s fresh,” said Carter, “and it’s off grid.”

“How fresh?”

“Ten minutes old. Get moving.”

59

VERNACULAR HOUSE

MOSCOW

Christy Braga knocked on the door to the bedroom. There was no answer.

“Johnny?”

She was holding a field trauma medical kit, housed in a large stainless steel case. She opened the door.

Maybank was lying on the bed. He stared up at her. His face was bright red. He was drenched in sweat, even though the air-conditioning was cranked up.

“We need to remove the bullet,” she said.

Maybank stared at her with bloodshot eyes.

“I’ll be fine,” he said.

She went to the side of the bed and pulled the blanket away. The mattress beneath Maybank’s leg was covered in red.

Braga opened the trauma kit. She removed an electronic thermometer and waved it across his forehead.

His fever had spiked to 104 degrees.

“You will not be fine unless we remove it.”

“Fuck off,” he panted, weakly pushing her away. “I need a doctor.”

Braga searched through the case, finding a syringe, and filled it with oxycodone. She held it in her left hand, thumb on the end of the plunger. She removed a scalpel, forceps, suture material, and a needle, placing them on the top of the case.

“Lie back,” she said soothingly.

“You’re not touching me,” he wheezed.

She lifted the scalpel and moved toward him. He lurched at her, she ducked, then she slammed the needle into his neck. His eyes drifted back into his head and his eyelids shut.

She placed her hand on Maybank’s torso, rubbing it gently. He was breathing very rapidly, unconscious but alive.

Braga cut away Maybank’s pants at the top of the thigh, above the wound. She took the scalpel and cut four small incisions in the skin near the bullet hole. She put the forceps into the bullet hole, digging down, searching for the slug. After more than a minute, she felt the hard edge of a steel object. Carefully, she gripped it with the forceps, rocked it slowly back and forth, and pulled the slug from Maybank’s leg.

Braga cleaned the wound, sewed the skin back together, then wrapped the thigh in a thick bandage. Finally, she filled a syringe with antibiotics and injected it into Maybank’s leg.

Braga sat on the bed next to Maybank and placed her hand on his forehead. He was still hot. His eyelids cracked open.

“Get some rest,” she said. “They’ll be here soon. We need you.”

60

DURHAM DRIVE

POTOMAC, MARYLAND

At just before three, under a blazing sun, Calibrisi’s black Lincoln Town Car pulled down a quiet road lined on both sides with white horse fence and palatial homes. The car came to a set of iron gates, which parted as his driver took him closer, then moved down a long pebble-stone driveway. The driveway led in a winding arc to a massive white house that looked like a palace.

“Jesus Christ,” said Calibrisi, reaching for the car door. “What a fucking eyesore.”

Calibrisi walked slowly up the driveway, then climbed marble steps to a pair of ten-foot-high doors. He rang the doorbell. When the doors opened, a young blond woman in a bright yellow tennis outfit was standing there.

“Mr. Calibrisi?” she asked, smiling.

“Yes.”

“Follow me. John’s in back. Would you like something to drink?”

“No, thank you.”

Calibrisi trailed the woman through an entrance hall and out to a stone terrace. Below was a tennis court, a swimming pool, and a rolling lawn that spread out to a white fence several hundred yards away.

John Barrows was seated in a teak chaise. He was wearing white tennis shorts and a striped polo shirt. Barrows’s hair was tousled. He had a blank expression on his face. He clutched a glass of lemonade.

“Hi, John,” said Calibrisi, taking a seat next to Barrows. “Sorry to interrupt your tennis match.”

Barrows was one of Washington, D.C.’s most powerful attorneys. Unlike most high-profile lawyers in town, he wasn’t well known, except to the select few who needed to know him.

When The Washington Post attempted to write a piece on him a few years before, Barrows succeeded in doing something even U.S. presidents had failed to do, namely, get the story killed. Barrows didn’t just have influence. He had power. His clients were the substructure that underlined most criminal activity in the United States. On the one hand, the U.S. government fought him, but at the highest levels, at times like this, they worked with him. They had to.

“What is it, Hector?” said Barrows.

“Before we start, I want you to send Alexei Malnikov a text.”

“Why?”

“Tell him to do a sweep of all cell phones, computers, and any other appliances that are connected to outside networks. He needs to sanitize. He’ll need a good IT person.”

Barrows reached for his cell phone.

“Was Langley penetrated?” Barrows asked as he typed.

“Yes,” said Calibrisi as Barrows typed a text. When Barrows was done, he looked up.

“The floor is yours, Mr. Director.”

“The conversation we’re about to have never happened,” said Calibrisi, staring at Barrows. “Dead man talk.”

Barrows nodded.

“Okay.”

“I want to cut a deal,” said Calibrisi.

“I’m listening.”

“Alexei pressured a Ukrainian general into selling him a nuclear bomb,” said Calibrisi.

“So you allege,” said Barrows.

“He admitted to it.”

Barrows nodded.

“I figured it was something more provocative than usual.”

“The bomb is on its way to the United States.”

For the first time, Barrows looked momentarily flummoxed.

“How?”

“Boat. A fishing trawler. It left Sevastopol three days ago.”

“So sink it,” said Barrows.

“Good idea,” said Calibrisi. “Why didn’t we think of that?”

Barrows grinned.

“There are four million registered commercial fishing vessels in the world,” added Calibrisi. “At least double that if you include unregistered boats.”

“How many fishing trawlers?”

“The size of the one the bomb left on? Approximately a million.”

“Alexei Malnikov is not a terrorist, Hector.”

“The man he gave it to is, however,” said Calibrisi.

“Who is he?”

“His name is Vargarin. He goes by the name Cloud. He’s a computer hacker.”

Barrows took a sip of lemonade. He stood up and walked to the balustrade that overlooked the tennis court and swimming pool.

“What do you need?”

“Alexei’s help.”

“You think my client knows where this guy is?” asked Barrows.

“Not necessarily,” said Calibrisi. “But he might be able to find him.”

“How do you figure that?”

“Let’s put it this way,” said Calibrisi. “If you asked me to go into the woods and find a truffle, I probably wouldn’t find it.”

Barrows laughed.

“I won’t tell Alexei you compared him to a pig,” said Barrows.

“There are air wars and there are ground wars,” said Calibrisi. “Right now, we need someone who knows the dark alleys of Russia.”

“Don’t you guys have manpower in Big Red?”

“Of course we do,” said Calibrisi. “But we need local access.”

“How big is the bomb?”

“Thirty kilotons.”

Barrows’s mouth fell open in astonishment. He looked ashen.

“If this bomb detonates, it will be a very dark day for this country,” Calibrisi continued. “We’re talking about the potential for more than a million deaths. We need Alexei’s help. We’re willing to pay a great deal of money for it.”

“You think money would move the dial with this guy?” scoffed Barrows. “If they included Alexei Malnikov on the Forbes 400, he’d be number six. He doesn’t care about another fifty million, hundred million, or whatever amount the U.S. government offers.”

“I can’t leave it to chance.”

Barrows leaned back in his chair.

“There’s only one thing Alexei cares about, and that’s his father,” said Barrows. “You want pay for performance, you need to deal with his dad.”

Barrows’s message was clear: Alexei Malnikov might help find Cloud in exchange for freeing his father from prison.

“A full presidential pardon,” added Barrows. “Nothing less.”

Calibrisi nodded slowly, deep in thought. This was the precise deal he knew he needed to cut with Barrows. But now that it was on the table, he felt sick to his stomach.

The low electric hum of a helicopter came from the distant sky.

“Fine,” said Calibrisi. “We’ll do it.”

“It’ll need to be in writing,” said Barrows. “From the attorney general.”

Calibrisi stood up as the sound of the chopper grew louder. Suddenly, a navy blue Sikorsky S-76C cut across the tree line, then hooked left and down toward Barrows’s backyard, descending with almost military intent.

“It cuts both ways, John,” said Calibrisi, his voice rising above the growing din.

“What does that mean?” Barrows shot back.

“We’ll do the deal. He helps us find Cloud, we stop the bomb, his dad goes free. But if we don’t stop it—”

“All the kid can do is try,” said Barrows, protesting. “It wouldn’t be fair for you to hold him responsible if this nutjob detonates a nuclear bomb on American soil.”

“He sourced it,” said Calibrisi, his anger rising for the first and only time during the conversation. “If that nuke goes off on U.S. soil, anyone with any connection to it better make damn sure his affairs are in order.”

“That sounds like a threat.”

Calibrisi watched as the chopper settled onto the lawn, just behind the tennis court. He paused, then stared angrily at Barrows.

“It is a threat. Alexei Malnikov helped create this problem.”

Calibrisi took a few steps toward the stairs that led to the backyard, then turned back to Barrows.

“You tell me, John, if this nuclear bomb goes off, and a million people die, do you think Alexei Malnikov deserves to live?”

61

MOSCOW

Malnikov’s crimson red Gulfstream 200 touched down at Moscow International Airport and taxied to the private aviation terminal, coming to a stop next to a waiting bright green Lamborghini Aventador 720-4. As Malnikov hustled down the stairs of the jet, the car’s right scissor door arose like a knife blade into the air. Malnikov climbed in the passenger seat, nodding with barely concealed anger at the driver. Before the door was even halfway down, the Lamborghini’s tires screeched high and the sports car ripped across the tarmac toward the airport exit.

Eight minutes later, the Lamborghini braked in front of a low brick building that housed Malnikov’s base of operations along with his nightclub. Malnikov stepped out of the car and walked to the door, which opened as he approached. Inside, a gunman stood.

“Hello, Alexei,” he said.

Malnikov ignored him.

The club was empty. It smelled of spilled alcohol, cigarette smoke, and body odor. He crossed the litter-strewn dance floor, walking toward the stairs at the back, where another gunman stood.

“Get me coffee,” snapped Malnikov as he stepped by the gunman and descended the stairs.

Inside his office, four men were gathered: Prozkya, Radovitch, Leonid, and Obramovitch.

Malnikov crossed to his desk and reached below, opening a small refrigerator. He took out a Red Bull, popped it open, then took a big sip, staring at his men.

“I want you to drop whatever you’re doing,” said Malnikov. “Right now, we have one job: we’re going to kill this motherfucker Cloud. Find him and kill him. I want to put a steak knife in the side of his head. Do you understand?”

“I told you not to buy the fucking bomb,” said Radovitch.

“Thank you for pointing that out,” said Malnikov. “Do you want a medal? Take your fucking attitude and stick it up your ass.”

“This is about the fact that he set up your father, and we all know it. You’ve put the entire organization at risk.”

Malnikov’s hand moved imperceptibly to his hip, then swung into the air and threw a knife in Radovitch’s direction. The blade somersaulted in a tight arc and landed in the leather of the coach, only an inch from Radovitch’s head.

Malnikov stared at Radovitch as a long, pregnant silence took over the room.

“Shut the fuck up,” said Malnikov. “Just be quiet. It’s not about my father. It’s not about the bomb. It’s not the money. This is about honor. My honor. Your honor. We’re going to find Cloud. We’re going to find him and we’re going to stab a steak knife into his fucking skull and cut apart that big brain of his. Do I make myself clear?”

“Yes,” said Radovitch, who reached to his right and pulled the knife from the leather couch.

“What is the last information we have?” asked Prozkya.

Malnikov felt a small vibration in his pocket. He pulled out a cell phone and glanced at the caller ID on the screen:

:: CALIBRISI H.C.::

He stared at the screen for a moment, then answered.

“What is it?”

“Alexei, it’s Hector Calibrisi.”

Malnikov covered the phone with his hand. He looked at his men and nodded toward the door, telling them in no uncertain terms to get the hell out of the room.

“What do you want?”

“We need your help.”

“Haven’t I already helped you enough?” asked Malnikov.

“This is a zero-sum game,” said Calibrisi. “I’ll tell you when you’ve helped me enough.”

Silence took over the phone.

“Did you speak with your lawyer?” asked Calibrisi.

“Yes.”

Malnikov reached to the drawer of his desk and took out a pack of cigarettes, then lit one.

“The paperwork is in process. We have presidential sign-off.”

“How do I know the United States will keep its word?”

“That’s why you pay John Barrows so much money.”

“I don’t know where Cloud is.”

“You better start looking, then,” said Calibrisi.

Malnikov’s nostrils flared slightly. He took a sip of Red Bull.

“Look, I didn’t call to argue with you,” continued Calibrisi. “You already helped us. I want you to know I’m grateful.”

“Then why the threats?”

“Because that bomb you gave Cloud is on its way to the United States. I need you to understand that your life depends on us stopping it. You want to live? You want to see your father go free? Find Cloud.”

“I’ll find him for you,” said Malnikov. “And when I do, I will kill him myself.”

“You won’t touch him. We need him alive. He has information that is of vital interest to the United States of America. There’s an agent on his way to Moscow. He will direct the in-theater aspects of Cloud’s takedown.”

Malnikov shook his head, then took another drag on his cigarette.

“Do I make myself clear?” asked Calibrisi.

“What’s his name?”

“Dewey Andreas.”

“You want me to find Cloud and bring him to this agent, Dewey?” said Malnikov, a hint of contempt in his voice. “Treat him like a little baby?”

Calibrisi was silent for a few moments.

“I realize you think this is some sort of deal that’s gone bad for you, Alexei,” he said calmly, “but it’s much more than that, and you need to drop the attitude and accept the situation you’re in. If that nuclear bomb goes off inside the United States, we will scour the earth until we find you, and then you’ll die. Got it?”

“Yeah, I got it.”