Текст книги "Black Wolf"

Автор книги: Dale Brown

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9

Kiev, Ukraine

“Purpose of visit?”

“Tourism.”

“How long are you staying?”

“A week.”

The Ukrainian customs official inspected Danny’s passport, flipping it back and forth in his hand to make sure the holographic symbols were displayed. Danny and the others were traveling with standard passports rather than using diplomatic cover, trying to maintain as low a profile as possible.

Sally McEwen had warned him that their entry at Boryspil Airport, about eighteen miles east of Kiev, would almost surely be recorded by the Ukrainian secret service, which was still run like an offshoot of the KGB. A video camera above the passport control desk was undoubtedly taping him, while the clerk’s computer was running a check against his name. The Ukrainian technology was relatively old, however, and even if Danny was flagged as a suspicious American, it would take weeks for a file to be prepared with his photo. By then the operation would be over.

It was possible they would tell the Ukrainians that they were here. But for the moment the Ukrainians weren’t to be trusted. No one was. It was the old CIA prejudice—we don’t exist, and if we do exist, which we don’t, you never heard of us.

Danny’s own prejudice was the opposite: be honest and tell people what was going on. It was a military mind-set.

“Enjoy Ukraine,” said the customs clerk, handing his passport back.

Danny saw McEwen and Hera waiting a short distance beyond the stations.

“How’d you guys get through so fast?” he asked.

“You have to pick the right line,” said McEwen. “But it helps to look like a little old lady.”

“The secret to your success,” said Hera.

“Don’t be jealous, dear.”

There were two rentals waiting for them at Hertz, so-called mid-sized Fords, which would have been considered subcompacts back in the States. Hera rode with McEwen, while Danny followed. McEwen might have been old, but she drove with a lead foot—he lost her before they’d gone two miles, and had to use MY-PID’s GPS to find the hotel. By the time he got there, the two women had already checked in.

“Ready for a tour?” McEwen asked as Danny finished registering.

“Love to,” he said. “Give me a minute.”

The hotel was in an old building in the business district. While the facade was boring and plain, the interior had been renovated recently and the place still smelled of paint. The design mixed old-style plaster details with occasional chrome and sleek marble. It wasn’t retro and it wasn’t modern, but it somehow caught Kiev’s spirit, at least as espoused by the chamber of commerce: “The future building on the past, moving ahead with expediency.”

More than three million people lived in Kiev, making it one of Europe’s largest cities. Besides being the capital of Ukraine, it was looked on as the center of opposition to the Russian bear, both politically and culturally, the counter to Moscow’s notoriously heavy hand. That had both good and bad aspects—while it helped draw a vibrant class of artists and entrepreneurs, it also made it the focus of Russian resentments. There was a sizable Russian spy network in the city, McEwen warned; they should always proceed under the theory that they were being watched or about to be watched.

The city was slightly cooler than Washington had been, though not unpleasantly so; the average high for May was just under 70 Fahrenheit, and though it was still only mid-morning, the temperature had just topped 72. Danny could have gone around in shirtsleeves, but took his light leather jacket, where it was easier to keep his MY-PID.

The NATO meeting was to be held in the Kiev Fortress, a historic complex near the center of the city. A good portion of the fortress had been turned into a museum, open to the public; the rest consisted of government buildings. McEwen started there, taking them on a quick tour of the general area, driving Lesi Ukrainky Boulevard, a thick artery that paralleled the Dnieper River on the city’s western half.

The road had just been paved, and unlike most of the city’s streets, was smooth and pothole free. It was tree-lined, with an island through much of the middle; driving down it, Danny got the impression of an area that was sophisticated but slightly sleepy, as if it still belonged to the early nineteenth century. This was in contrast to the rest of the city, which over the past two or three years had undergone rapid growth. New buildings were everywhere along the river.

McEwen was surprised by the amount of change that had occurred in the past twelve or thirteen months; she kept marveling at the different buildings she said had sprung up since she last visited.

“We can take a tour of the fort tomorrow,” the CIA officer recommended. “It’ll be better to see the general layout of the city first, and set up some of the logistics. We need a place to operate out of.”

“What’s wrong with the hotel we just checked into?” asked Danny.

“What’s the expression, Colonel?” said McEwen. “You don’t shit where you live.”

Hera laughed. “Do you kiss your grandkids with that mouth?”

“I don’t have any grandkids. Or children, for that matter. We’re going to want a place convenient to the museum where you can have people coming and going,” added McEwen. “Someplace where a half-dozen Americans wouldn’t seem odd.”

“Minnesota would be perfect,” said Hera.

“That might be a little far,” said Danny. He hadn’t remembered Hera being so jovial on their last mission, and she was downright taciturn at home. But she’d clearly taken a liking to McEwen.

“I know someone who owns a restaurant in that row of buildings there,” McEwen told him, pointing to a row of one-story storefronts. “It’s not a very popular place, which is a positive for us. We could probably use their back room. For a price, of course.”

“You trust them?” asked Danny.

“To an extent. Never trust anyone, Colonel. Not with your life.”

McEwen took them over, parking along the street about a block away. Danny saw instantly why she liked the area—it had a view of the museum’s entrance, but seemed somehow invisible to it, or at least to the tourists who were mostly arriving by bus. There were four other storefronts; two were empty, and the other belonged to a tailor whom McEwen said only worked on Tuesdays and Thursdays.

It was just about dinnertime, but the restaurant had only two customers—a young man and woman with backpacks—who sat at a table next to the large plate-glass window in the front. They were staring at the menu as Danny and the others passed outside, talking in whispered tones as they came in.

If the place had ever had a heyday, this wasn’t it. The tables and chairs were made of wood and looked to be about thirty or forty years old, their finish worn down by use, though the thick legs looked and felt sturdy enough. The walls were painted a yellow that had probably been bright when fresh but was now a kind of dull backdrop to the assorted paintings of Kiev that hung across them in a straight line, almost frame-to-frame, on both sides of the room. The paintings were in a variety of styles, by different artists, but were all the same size. They showed different landmarks in the city, along with a few from the countryside.

A waitress came out of the back. Dressed in a light blue skirt with a checkered blue and white blouse, she was twelve or thirteen, just at the age between child and young woman. About five-two, a little chubby, and nearsighted, she squinted when she saw them, pushing her head forward on her neck as if she were a gopher coming out of her hole.

Then she squealed.

“Sal!” she said, rushing toward them. “How are you?”

McEwen folded her arms around the girl. She said something in Ukrainian. The girl replied, then stepping back, said in English that she must only speak English.

“My English has became bad since I haven’t saw you,” said the girl. “I have to practice.”

“Of course we’ll practice,” said McEwen. “These are my friends,” she added, gesturing toward Danny and Hera. “Can we get something to eat?”

“Of course. Wait—mama is in the back.”

“Sit,” McEwen told Danny and Hera. She pulled out a chair, but instead of sitting, went over to the young couple in the front of the room. Danny watched as she asked them, in English, if they were having trouble with the menu, which was in Ukrainian. By the time the cook emerged from the back, she had made several recommendations and told them how to pronounce what they wanted.

The cook was a slightly larger version of the waitress. Her large red cheeks were puffed with a smile. She had flour on her forearms and just a daub of it in her hair. Her white apron, which was pulled so tight against her body it looked as if it would burst, was spotless.

“Sal, Sal, so long we’ve not seen you!” she said.

They embraced.

McEwen introduced them. The cook was the owner; her name sounded like “Nezalehno” to Danny. She promised to fix them a nice dinner, then disappeared with the waitress into the back.

“You’re everybody’s friend,” said Danny.

“That’s my job,” answered McEwen. “Or it was.”

“Can we trust them?”

“I keep telling you—we don’t trust anyone. Not completely. But yes, to the extent we trust anyone.” She lowered her voice. “Her husband died shortly after Kira was born. Kira’s our waitress. She’s the youngest of eight children.”

“Eight?”

“They all worked here, at one time or another,” said McEwen before continuing her explanation. “The father was killed in an auto accident with a man who turned out to be a Russian army major in the city on unofficial business. He seems to have been drunk at the time. It wasn’t clear exactly what he was doing, but the end result was that he went back to Russia, and no compensation was paid to the widow. There was no trial, of course. So, Nexi and her family don’t particularly like Russians.”

“And they need money,” said Danny.

“You’re catching on, Colonel. But they’re nice people besides. If I could pick someone to help, and who could help me—Nez would be a perfect fit.”

“Are some of those yours?” Hera asked, pointing to the paintings.

“The one all the way to the right, over there,” said McEwen, beaming.

“You had a lot of time to paint when you were here?” asked Danny.

“It was part of the job,” said McEwen. “A way to meet different people, to circulate. It makes you uncomfortable, doesn’t it, Colonel?”

“Painting?”

“It doesn’t fit with your stereotype of what a spy does. And I don’t look like one. That’s what you’re thinking,” she said, her voice just loud enough for Danny to hear. “People get certain notions in their head, and they operate on them without really examining them. They feel a certain way about something before they even have a chance to experience it or see it. And that preconception colors everything. So you don’t think that an old lady who paints—paints!—could possibly be gathering intelligence, persuading people to betray their country, or at least help another one. Right?”

“I guess.”

“Who better to be a spy?”

After they ate, Danny had McEwen take them around to different hotels where she thought the Wolves might stay if they needed to rent rooms. The hotels were third and fourth tier establishments, places Ukrainians on a budget or small businessmen paying their own way might stay. The staffs, while friendly, spoke limited English. Asking about a concierge would have made them laugh. There were dozens of such places in the city, and keeping them under complete surveillance would have been impossible, even with MY-PID’s help.

“We could plant a video bug near each entrance,” suggested Hera. “That would give us at least some idea of who’s going in and out.”

“That might work,” said Danny.

“If you don’t mind my saying, Colonel, I’m not sure video surveillance would be anything more than a shot in the dark,” said McEwen. “And it could even work against us.”

“Against us how?”

“We can’t possibly cover every place. They could stay outside of the city just as easily as in. Putting the video bugs in might give us a false sense of security—we’d focus on those sights.”

“Good point,” said Danny.

“I’m not suggesting we ignore them entirely, but if we have limited resources…”

“Where would we put the bugs?”

“The airport for starters. Train station. Obviously the area around the fort. If we have bugs left over, then we can think about the hotels. If I was planning some sort of action here,” McEwen continued, “then I would be casing the area. That’s the person we should look for. The team that would do the assassination wouldn’t be here yet.”

“When would they come?”

“Not until the day before. Maybe not even until that day. Unless there was a reason for it.”

Danny nodded. He wasn’t comfortable with the espionage aspects of the mission. Covert action tended to be relatively straightforward, even when extremely difficult—here’s the target, hit it. This was considerably more nebulous—find assassins whom no one knows, stop them from killing anyone, and then apprehend them.

This wasn’t a classic Whiplash mission, he thought.

Then again, what was the classic Whiplash mission? He was thinking about the old days, when everything seemed more straightforward. This was the new Whiplash, in a much more complicated world. Alliances shifted every day, technology improved seemingly by the second.

Maybe he was just a little too old to keep up.

But age seemed like a ludicrous idea with McEwen around. She was as enthusiastic and energetic as Hera.

They continued on their tour of the city, driving by the U.S. embassy and Ukrainian government buildings, walking through Maidan Nzalezhnosti, the square and monument in the city center, and getting more of a feel for the place. McEwen was just about to take them on the metro when Danny’s sat phone rang.

It was Nuri.

“I ran into a roadblock with the Italians,” Nuri told him. “They say it’ll be months before we can get in to talk to this mafia guy, Moreno. By that time, any data will be off his computer.”

“How much did you tell them?”

“Enough to put him away for life.”

“And they still won’t move?”

“They’ll move. They may even arrest him. But it’ll be at Italian pace. Next year or so. I have another idea.”

“Shoot.”

“I want to go into the estate and steal the computer.”

“What happens if you’re caught?”

“Bad things,” replied Nuri. “I’ll just have to make sure I don’t get caught.”

“You need backup?”

“I can handle it. I talked to Reid and we’ll have real-time infrared surveillance, so I’ll know where everybody is.”

Danny checked his watch.

“Flash is flying in from the States with a layover in Frankfurt,” he told Nuri. “If I can get ahold of him, we might be able to change his plans and get him down to Naples tonight.”

“All right. I like Flash.”

Flash was John “Flash” Gordon, a former Special Forces soldier who’d teamed with Nuri during their first mission. He tended to be quiet and efficient—a rare but winning combination.

“Hera and I can come out as well,” Danny added. He glanced at his watch. “We may not be able to get there until tomorrow, though.”

“It’s OK. It’s not a hard job. I checked the place out. There are only two guards around the perimeter. The guy lives like a prince,” added Nuri. “But he’s way overconfident. Everyone’s so scared of him nobody even tries to get up there. I’m sure the house is wired, but it shouldn’t be too hard to get inside. There’s only one slight complication.”

“How slight?”

“The FBI is helping me.”

Just from Nuri’s tone, Danny understood that wasn’t a good thing.

“Is that going to be a problem?”

“Only if I kill her. But it may be worth it.”

10

Outside of Naples, Italy

As a CIA officer, Nuri was generally in the habit of getting other people to do his dirty work. Things like breaking into a mafia chieftain’s home, bugging his office and his computers, were considerably safer when done by someone other than himself. But such arrangements took time, and in this case might very well be impossible. Besides, Nuri liked going places where he wasn’t supposed to be. And this place didn’t look nearly as well protected as it could have been.

He had done a few similar jobs before. As long as he didn’t get caught—admittedly a singular caveat—they were relatively straightforward. He’d sneak in, sprinkle a few bugs in strategic places, kick on the computer and load a virus that would dump all of its information to a Room 4 server the next time it accessed the Internet. Bypassing the computer’s security protocols was child’s play, and if there was a local area network, it was easy to scoop everything up from a single computer.

To get to the computer he had to get into the estate, but that wouldn’t be difficult either. A Reaper drone would provide real-time imaging through MY-PID, telling Nuri where the two outside guards were with the help of a synthetic imaging radar. The radar could penetrate the earth to roughly one hundred feet; it would have no trouble seeing into the house. The aircraft also had a small cesium magnetometer and an electronic field sensor aboard; the devices were sensitive enough to detect burglar alarms and computers, even when off—in effect telling Nuri not only what to avoid, but where to go.

Vineyards and olive groves surrounded the estate on three sides. A small booth near the top of the driveway about two hundred feet from the house looked to be the only permanent guard post. The two men who watched the place came out of the hut every thirty to forty minutes. Though their schedule was unpredictable, their route wasn’t: one walked around the house to the west, one went east. They met at the back veranda, continuing onward back to the hut.

Approaching through the eastern olive grove would be the easiest; hedges blocked most of the view from the post, and a pair of farm buildings near the house would make for a natural jumping off point.

The house was an old stone structure, at least six or seven hundred years old. It had three stories aboveground and one below. A portico ran along the east and north of the building, a kind of two-story porch flanking the kitchen and main living area. A pool was located on the northwestern side. Nuri wouldn’t know where the office was until the Reaper made its first overflight, but he suspected it was somewhere on the second floor, very possibly near the mafioso’s bedroom.

Or in it.

Given that possibility, he decided he wasn’t going to let insomnia jeopardize his mission: he armed himself with several syringes of an etomidate derivative, a powerful anesthetic that would put Moreno into a deep slumber almost instantaneously.

He was tempted to use one to get rid of Gregor. She clung to him like glue when he went to Naples International Airport, Ugo Niutta, to pick up Flash and the gear he needed, which had been flown in from the States via the Aviano air base.

In one breath she would say she didn’t want to do anything illegal, in the next she would ask how they were getting onto the estate. Nuri kept the details to himself. He didn’t need her, now that Flash was with him. The question was how to ease her from the picture.

A cliff would have done nicely.

Flash was flying on a diplomatic passport, and brought in a “pouch” of weapons and backup com gear. “Pouch” was a diplomatic misnomer—it was actually a small metal crate, securely locked. To carry it, they had to each take a handle at the side and walk out to the car.

“You could open the trunk for us,” Nuri grunted to Gregor as they approached the rented Fiat.

“You didn’t give me the keys,” she said.

True, but somehow it felt like it was her fault. They packed up the car, then went off for something to eat.

Flash had been in the Army for just over ten years before deciding to work with a private security contractor. That gig, three months in an African hellhole, hadn’t worked out the way he had hoped. He told Nuri in Iran that he’d spent his time guarding the brother of an African “president”—aka dictator for life. The man had a thing for guns, and liked to fire them at all hours of the night, and not always in appropriate places or directions. This wouldn’t have been so bad if Flash had been paid as promised. In the end he had to take matters into his own hands, bartering for his pay—diamonds for his employer’s life.

This might have complicated Flash’s future, except for the fact that the president was overthrown a week after Flash left the country. He and his brother were executed by the new government. Flash held a private memorial service at a bar he liked in Oklahoma. He was the only attendee.

Nuri found a small restaurant on the outskirts of the city, far enough away from the crowded, medieval streets at the center of town where he could park the car without having to watch it. He was fluent in Italian—he’d spent some of his childhood here—and took charge of the ordering, sticking to basic spaghetti so heartburn wouldn’t be a factor later on.

“So what’s our plan?” asked Gregor after the waiter left.

“Eat,” said Nuri.

“I mean later.”

“The plan is, you go into the city, find a nice hotel with a good bar, and wait for us.”

“That’s it?”

“That’s it.”

The waiter returned with water and bread. The inside of the bread looked almost gray in the restaurant’s dim light.

“I’m not going to a hotel,” said Gregor.

“You don’t want to do anything illegal, right?”

“You don’t need backup?”

Flash stayed quiet, slowly sipping the water.

“What happens if something goes wrong when you break in?” asked Gregor. “Who’s going to rescue you?”

“You’re not coming in with me,” Nuri told her. “Flash isn’t either. This is a one-man gig.”

“Your radio tells you what to do?” said Gregor. She was apparently referring to the MY-PID control device.

“No,” said Nuri, a little louder than he wanted. He recalibrated his voice as he continued. “No one is telling me what to do. Flash is going to liaison between the Reaper and me. He’ll be near the estate, down the hill.”

“Who’s going to watch his back while he’s watching yours?”

“Here comes the spaghetti,” said Flash, glancing at the waiter.

Nuri considered what to do while the waiter put down the platter of pasta and served family style. Gregor might be helpful; in any event, it was safer to keep her with them than have her in the city if he couldn’t trust where she’d end up. Most likely she wouldn’t screw him up, but there was always that distant chance that might come back to bite him.

“If you do exactly what Flash says,” Nuri told her once the waiter retreated to the kitchen, “you can watch his back.”

He thought he saw a look of pain pass over Flash’s face, but maybe it was just a reaction to the spaghetti.

“It won’t be illegal, right?” asked Gregor.

“If it is,” deadpanned Flash between bites, “we’re blaming it on you.”

Nuri’s mother’s side of the family came from Sicily, and counted a number of relatives with low-level associations with the Men of Respect, as the mafia was generally known there. The Sicilians and the Neapolitans got along only rarely, but they were alike enough as a general species for Nuri to form a sound dossier on what Moreno would be like: brutal in his dealings with the outside world, but completely complacent and lazy within the confines of what he considered his safe and untouchable haven. Calling him full of himself wouldn’t begin to describe him. It was very likely that the two men watching his estate were related to him, drawing the assignment as a kind of family work program.

The Reaper was due to come on station precisely at midnight. Nuri wanted to be ready to get into the house by then; that would give him plenty of time to get in and out before dawn. If things went well, in fact, he should be out before the last bars closed.

The first sign of a complication came when he drove up the town road to familiarize Flash with the area. It was a little past eleven, and the few people who lived in the hamlet had long since retired; there were no lights on in any of the buildings. But as he drove toward the turnoff for Moreno’s estate, he saw a dark Mercedes E class sedan parked in the center of the road. Nuri slowed down but didn’t stop.

“Two guys inside,” said Flash, who was sitting in the passenger seat. “Didn’t look too friendly.”

“They weren’t there earlier,” said Gregor.

“Is there another way up?” asked Flash.

“That’s the only road. But we can get up there through the vineyards down around the bend here. Just a longer walk, that’s all.”

Nuri drove down the road, showing Flash how the road cut into the side of the hill. The old monastery was to their right, just below the vineyards. They could stash the car near the ruins.

“You two wait here,” Nuri told Flash after pulling down the dirt driveway that led to the ruins. “I want to see if I can figure out what’s going on. I’ll sneak back behind the car and see if I can pick up anything from their conversations.”

“You sure you don’t want backup?” asked Flash.

“It won’t be a problem. One is quieter than two. Test your radio and make sure we have a good signal.”

Nuri got out of the car. He put on his Gen 4 night glasses, fixing the strap at the back of his head. While the glasses were slightly more powerful than the generation 3 glasses that were standard issue in the military, their real value was in their size—they were only a little thicker than swimming goggles, and weighed barely a pound.

Nuri rolled down the thin wire that ran from the right side of the goggles and plugged it into the MY-PID control unit, allowing the computer system to see what he was seeing. He checked his pistol—a Beretta fitted with a laser-dot pointer and a silencer—then did a quick check of the rest of his gear in the fanny pack he had around his waist. He’d taken a small can of mace and two of the hyperemic needles, but in truth he knew if he needed either, he might just as well use the gun.

He walked a few yards farther up the hill, moving through the trees as he approached the intersection where the guards were.

He was about fifty feet away when the dome light inside the Mercedes came on. He held his breath and went down to one knee as a Fiat approached from the main road. Reaching into his pocket, he took out a small microphone that was tuned to gather sounds from a distance. His fingers fumbled as he connected it to the radio headset.

The guard who’d been sitting in the passenger seat of the Mercedes got out and walked to the Fiat as it stopped. Nuri tuned his mike, but the Fiat’s muffler was broken and the car drowned out whatever they were saying.

The guard straightened and waved. Nuri froze, sure that the man was waving at him. But he was only signaling his companion in the Mercedes, who backed out of the way to let the Fiat pass.

He strained to see into the car as it passed but couldn’t see through the bushes.

“Computer, identify the occupants of the car.”

“Query: which vehicle?”

“The Fiat.”

“Unknown. One occupant. Driver. Unidentified female.”

“Female?”

“Affirmative.”

The Mercedes resumed its position blocking the road. The man who’d gotten out walked back over to the passenger side and got in.

“Can you identify the man who just got into the Mercedes?” Nuri asked the computer.

“Negative. Subject is approximately thirty years old. European extraction. Six feet three inches tall. Appears armed with a handgun in a holster beneath his jacket.”

Nuri angled to his right, trying to get a better line of sight on the intersection when they stopped another car. He settled into another clump of brush about twenty feet from the road and waited.

Ten minutes later a second car came up the road. This one was a Ford. He had a clear view into the windshield, despite the headlights. There were two women in the front seat; the back seemed empty.

The driver rolled down the window as the guard approached. The two women were laughing, giggling.

“The party,” she said in Italian.

The guard waved the Mercedes out of the way, and the car passed. Nuri retreated back to the old ruins.

By the time the Reaper was on station, there were a dozen people at the estate. Most were by the pool, though there were two in front of the house, near the cars. Nuri assumed they were guards and that the others were revelers.

“We’ll wait for them to get good and loaded,” he told Flash.

“How long is that?” asked Flash.

“Couple of hours.”

“You’re gonna wait that long?” asked Gregor.

“I can wait as long as I have to.”

At two-fifteen Nuri decided he’d waited long enough. “All right, we’ll go up together,” he told the others. “We’ll go up to that hedge line near the house. You guys wait for me there while I go in. Capisce?”

“We got it,” said Flash.

“Anything you say,” said Gregor.

“No questions,” added Nuri.

“No questions,” she said.

They got out and started up the hill, moving easily through the vineyards.

“Nice goggles,” said Gregor. “They’re starlight goggles, right? Cat’s eyes.”

“You weren’t going to ask any questions,” said Nuri sharply.

“Oh come on. That was harmless.”

“I could strangle you here and no one would ever know,” snapped Nuri.

Just as they were approaching the barns, MY-PID warned that a woman was coming down in their direction from the house. Nuri stopped at the edge of the vineyard, waiting to see where she was going. A minute or so later one of the guards slipped from the guard house, a good ten minutes earlier than the normal schedule dictated. He walked in her direction; they met in a small garden about thirty yards from the house, whispering before finding each other in the moonlit shadows.

“They’ll be busy for a while,” Nuri told Flash. “I’m going to circle around. Watch what’s going on with the MY-PID screen and let me know.”

“Got it.”

A few minutes later Nuri felt short of breath as he pulled himself onto the portico at the eastern end of the house. He knelt near one of the columns, catching his breath. Using the data from the Reaper, MY-PID had analyzed the circuitry inside the house and deduced that there were no alarm systems. It had also located the office on the western side of the house. He moved around the back, working his way toward the office.

Large French windows lined the exterior rooms on the first floor. He passed a large dining room and a living room before coming to the edge of the house.