Текст книги "Fallout (2007)"

TWOhours after dusk, as night fully closed in over the coast, Fisher turned south off Cape Breton's main southern coast road, the St. Peters-Fourchu, onto a winding dirt track that took him to the beach. He rolled to a stop in the gravel parking lot in the lee of a sand dune and shut off the headlights and engine. He sat quietly for few minutes, listening to the engine's tick tick tickas it cooled and watching the clouds gather over the sea. The rain would be here in less than an hour, and while its coming would present its own challenges for the mission ahead, the rain would dampen sound, deepen the shadows, and the clouds would cover the full moon, which had been his biggest worry.

His cell phone trilled. He checked the caller ID screen, then tapped the CONNECT button on his Bluetooth headset. "Hi, Grim."

"I've got the colonel on as well, Sam."

"Evening, Colonel."

"I understand you've managed to find yourself a tough nut to crack."

"It's a gift I have."

Between Robinson's own maps and books and firsthand knowledge of the area and Grim's computer research, they had over the last ten hours built an impressive profile on Tolkun Bakiyev's home, the fort known as Ingonish.

Ingonish, named after the city on the northern tip of the island, was built in 1740 by the French and changed hands half a dozen times over the next eighteen years as the French and British fought first the Seven Years' War, then the King George's War. Intended as a siege fort to guard what was now the Grand River Estuary, Ingonish never saw battle and as such never gained a place in the history books, earning in the mid-nineteenth century the nickname, the Forgotten Castle.

Upon leaving Robinson's house, Fisher had immediately called in to report the Kyrgyzstan connection. Like Fisher, Lambert wasn't a believer in coincidences, and he immediately tasked Grimsdottir and Redding with finding a connection–any connection, no matter how slight–that might explain a link between Carmen Hayes, the hydrogeologist; Calvin Stewart, the particle physicist; Chin-Hwa Pak, the North Korean RDEI spy; and the PuH-19 that had killed Peter. All were pieces of what appeared may be the same puzzle, but there was so far not even a hint of what bigger picture they might form.

Right now, though, Fisher had to focus on the task at hand: getting into Ingonish.

"Your OPSAT is fully loaded," Grimsdottir said. "The problem is, the castle hasn't been a tourist attraction for twenty years, since Bakiyev bought it, so we don't have any recent pictures. The good news is, the thing's made mostly of stone, so there's not much remodeling the guy could have done. Between Robert's library and what I've been able to pull off the Net, we put together a partial blueprint of the place. There're going to be gaps, though, so play it by ear."

"One of my specialties," Fisher replied.

"Sam, same ROE as before," Lambert said. "We need to keep this pipeline open, especially if it might eventually lead to Kyrgyzstan."

Bodies tend to clog pipelines,Fisher thought. "Understood. I know you've probably already considered this, Colonel, but that mortar attack on Bishkek . . . The North Koreans have that kind of technology–stolen, of course, but they've got it nonetheless."

"Yeah, I know. And satellite access."

Through front companies, the North Korean RDEI had for years been snatching up space on commercial satellite launches and piggybacking on existing commercial Landsats (land satellites) in orbit.

Fisher checked his watch, then craned his neck so he had a clearer view through the windshield. The rain clouds were slipping over the coast, and against the lower curve of the moon he could see wisps of rain. "Time to get the show on the road."

"Stay in touch," Lambert said, "and stay invisible."

Fisher did his superman imitation in the car, slipping out of his street clothes to reveal his tac suit underneath, donned his web harness, belt, and rucksack, then climbed out and started jogging.

Ingonish, situated on the northern edge of Little Bishkek, was a mile up the beach. Fisher covered the distance in six minutes. He stopped in a crouch against the cliff beneath the fort, some two hundred feet above his head. Down at the tide line, the ocean was hissing across the sand and receding, a soothing, rhythmic swoosh-hissbroken only by the distant groaning of foghorns. Fisher licked his lips and tasted salt.

Above his head came a screech. He pressed himself against the rock and looked up. Halfway up the cliff, the flapping shadow of a bird wheeled away from the rocks and disappeared in the darkness. Fisher, suspicious now, flipped down his goggles and switched to night-vision mode and scanned the cliffs above.

"You've got to be kidding me . . ." he murmured.

Scattered in nests among the nooks and crannies across the rock face were hundreds, perhaps thousands, of cormorants. A perfect, self-sustaining organic early warning system,Fisher thought. He had zero chance of scaling the cliff without setting off an explosion of screeching birds.

Rising from the top of the cliff for a quarter mile to the north he could see the towers and crenellated walls of the fort itself. Scattered across the wall were four stories of arched, inset widows; here and there, some were lit from within. Fisher used the goggles to zoom in but saw no one moving behind the glass.

He said into the SVT, "Penetration route one is out. Switching to PR two."

"Roger," Grimsdottir replied. "Problem?"

"Birds," Fisher replied. "Lots and lots of birds."

PRtwo had been Fisher's second choice primarily because to reach it he had to go precisely where he didn't want to go: through downtown Little Bishkek. Facing a naturally suspicious and xenophobic population, the idea of picking his way down the main street–at night or not–was unappealing at best. Robinson had mentioned that yet another of Little Bishkek's quirks was that at night its inhabitants fielded an unofficial police force, citizens that patrolled the streets and sidewalks armed with billy clubs, flashlights, and whistles. The clubs and flashlights didn't particularly concern Fisher, but the whistles did. Little Bishkek's population was 694, and he was beginning to think a single whistle blast would bring each and every one of them to the streets.

Fisher jogged back to his car, then up the winding track to the St. Peters-Fourchu, where he crouched down in the bushes and kept watch for a few minutes to ensure he was alone. Satisfied, he sprinted, hunched over, two hundred yards down the road, staying in the undergrowth along the shoulder until he reached the junction where St. Peters-Fourchu met Quqon Road, Little Bishkek's main thorough-fare, which curved again to the south, toward the bluffs. Another thirty seconds of running brought him within sight of the village's westernmost building, a small, tin-roofed post office. He crouched down against the building's hard-board wall, scooted to the edge, and peeked around the corner. A drizzle was now falling, lightly pattering on the roof above. The drainpipes gurgled softly with the runoff.

Little Bishkek's layout was straightforward: Businesses and restaurants lined the northern and southern sides of Quqon Road, the latter sitting atop the cliffs overlooking the sea, a mile south of Ingonish. From the road's northern edge, residential streets radiated inland for half a mile. As far as Fisher could see, the village's architecture was comprised mostly of saltbox construction with hard and clap-board siding, dormered windows, and steeply pitched slate roofs. Over the tops of the businesses, each of which was fronted by a raised, continuous boardwalk and a hand-painted sign in both French and Kyrgyz, Fisher could see dozens upon dozens of chimneys–most emitting a curl of smoke–and scattered squares of lighted windows. The storefronts were painted in various shades of pale blue, butter yellow, and mint green. Lining the boardwalk every fifty feet or so was an electric, gaslight-style streetlamp, the globes glowing yellow in the darkness.

Fisher switched to night vision and scanned the street. He saw nothing but a single cat, ghostly in washed-out gray green, dash across the street and disappear down a side street. He switched first to EM–as expected he saw no signs of cameras or sensors–then to infrared to scan for thermal signatures.

Hello there. . .

Two figures, standing together at the corner of a building on this side of the street about a hundred yards away. In IR, they were man-shaped cutouts cast in various temperature shades of red, yellow, green, and blue. As Fisher watched, he could see a long, dark blue cylinder dangling from each man's hand. Billy clubs. The men talked for a few more minutes as one of them smoked, then shook hands and parted company, one crossing the street and heading north, the other mounting the boardwalk and heading in Fisher's direction, tapping the billy club against his thigh as he walked.

Fisher crept back along the building until he reached the rear wall, where he found an open-faced porch. Its outer rail sat three feet from the edge of the cliff, which dropped away into darkness. Far below he could hear the faint rush of the surf, and closer in, seemingly coming from a few feet down the rock face, soft cooing sounds he assumed belonged to the cormorants. Between the porch rail and the cliff's edge was a narrow gravel path. He crouch-stepped around the porch's corner railing onto the path, then down to the building's next corner.

"Arretez!"

The voice, speaking in French, came from Fisher's left. He spun and found himself facing a pair of legs. He looked up in time to see a billy club sweeping down toward his face. He jerked his head backward, felt the club graze his cheekbone and, as he fell backward onto his butt, he drew his pistol and squeezed off a single shot. The bullet entered below the man's chin and exited the top of his skull. His head snapped back, and he toppled forward, his billy club skittering down the path. Fisher rolled out of the way. The man landed with his upper torso over the edge of the cliff, teetered there for a moment, then slid over the edge. There came the distant flapping of wings and scattered squawks, but after five seconds silence returned. Fisher crab-walked down the path, retrieved the guard's fallen billy club, tossed it over the edge, and then crawled beneath the floorboards of the porch and went still.

Close. Too close.

Little Bishkek's citizen cops were armed with more than just clubs and whistles; they also came equipped with some very quiet footsteps.

Fisher waited another five minutes, watching to see if the encounter had drawn any attention, then keyed his SVT and said, "Sleeper; clean."

"Roger," Grimsdottir replied.

Whether his clean report would prove truly accurate or not, only time would tell. In his brief, Robinson had doubted the village's cops were on any check-in schedule or supervision. Fisher checked his watch: still three hours before shift change. Time enough if he moved quickly. Even if the man's body were found tonight, it was unlikely the crash into the rocks below would have left much to identify. Hopefully the trauma would camouflage the bullet wound.

In fact, Fisher thought, a little staging might help the ruse. He crawled back onto the path and used his hands to smooth out the man's erratic footprints near the path. He took another NV/IR scan of the area to ensure he was still alone and then used his boot heel to gently kick away a foot-wide section of dirt along the cliff face. With luck, the indentation would look like a section that had simply given way beneath the man.

Fisher got up and started moving.

19

OVERthe next hour Fisher picked his way slowly through the heart of the village. In addition to the other guard he'd seen upon reaching the outskirts, he found three others, each seemingly moving in random patterns, sometimes up and down the residential streets bordering Quqon Road, sometimes on the boardwalks along the storefronts, but always moving aside for occasional stops to chat with a fellow guard. Fisher absently wondered whether this level of patrol was the norm or if it had been prompted by the new arrival at Ingonish. He hoped it was the former; it might mean security measures inside the fort itself had similarly remained unchanged.

Finally, just before midnight, he was within fifty yards of the fort itself. The fort's facade, a stone wall twelve feet tall and, according to Robinson, four feet thick, rose directly from the road and was broken only by a pair of massive, cross-beamed oak doors. It wasn't the wall or the doors that interested Fisher but rather an architectural detail Robinson had mentioned in his brief.

He circled to the rear of the next-door building–an outdoor cafe with green and white awnings–and crept along the cliff-side path until he was within arm's reach of the fort's wall. Here, running between the cafe and the wall, was a three-foot gap in the street's cobblestones covered by a rusted iron grating. Through the grating, four feet below, Fisher could see cracked and jagged cobbles.

The canal, which Robinson had called a siege runnel, lay at a slight slant and perpendicular to the main road, and began just inside the front wall with an L-shaped junction. It ended at the edge of the cliff with a funnel-like chute, also covered in iron grating.

Though it had never seen any action, Robinson had said, the siege runnel had been designed as a stationary siege defense system into which cannonballs and boiling pitch could be dropped and then rolled onto invaders on the beach below.

Down the alley Fisher heard footsteps clicking on the cobblestones. He dropped flat on the path, his face pressed into the dirt. At the mouth of the alley, a silhouetted figure had stopped. The man clicked on his flashlight and shined the beam down along the siege runnel. The light played over Fisher's face, paused for a few seconds, then clicked off. The man walked on. His footsteps creaked as he mounted the boardwalk steps, then faded, clicking on wood as he continued down the street. Fisher slowly reached up, toggled his goggles to IR, waited until he could no longer hear the footsteps, then waited another two more minutes until he was certain the man hadn't doubled back.

Still on his belly, he crawled forward until his fingertips touched the edge of the runnel's grating. From his right thigh pouch he withdrew what looked like three twelve-inch strips of heavy filament tape. Each strip was made up of two bonded halves, one half containing a superconcentrated coat of gelled nitric acid, the other half a catalyst, and between the two a thin strip of neutralizing agent. Jutting a few inches from the end of each strip was a nub of knotted cable.

He placed two strips perpendicularly across the grating, about a foot apart, and the third along the grating's far edge where it met the cobbles. Next he reached out his left hand, gripped the center of the grating and then in turn pulled the cable nub from each strip. Five seconds passed, and then Fisher heard a faint hissing, like air escaping a tire's valve stem. The hissing went on for a full sixty seconds, then slowly faded away. The severed grating gave way. He tensed his forearm, taking the grating's weight, then caught it, scooted forward, laid it in the bottom of the runnel, and crawled down.

Five minutes later he had the grating back in place, secured by homemade black baling wire clips he'd fashioned earlier that day.

"At PR two," he radioed. "Moving in."

"Roger," Grimsdottir replied.

Now safely inside the runnel, Fisher had two options for gaining entry into the fort proper: one a sure thing and the other a maybe. Forts of this period, which used this particular type of siege defense, usually, but not always, had two ports into which defenders fed their bombs: a cannonball port, just inside the fort's walls–this would be the L junction Fisher had seen earlier–and a pitch slot, normally located inside the castle near a forge for heating the pitch. This was Fisher's preferred entrance.

He switched his goggles to NV and on hands and knees began crawling up the runnel toward the street.

Suddenly, behind him at the cliff's edge, came the crunch of footsteps on gravel.

Fisher froze, looked around. Ten feet ahead of him he saw a square of darkness set into the side of the runnel. Moving as quickly as he dared without giving himself away, he crawled to the opening, duck-stepped into it under a cobblestone overhang, and went still. He drew his pistol, switched the selector to DART 4, and looked up through the grating. Fisher was under no illusions here. Putting a shot–dart or bullet alike–through the grating was a one-in-a-thousand chance.

For a few seconds nothing moved. All was silent.

And then, like a ghost gliding out of the darkness, a guard crept into Fisher's field of vision. The man, walking on flat feet, had his whistle clamped between his teeth, his billy club clutched in his fist and held before him. Carefully, slowly, Fisher backed himself deeper into the opening until he felt his back press against something hard. His heart pounded in his chest. He felt sweat gathering on the small of his back and his sides.

Keep moving, pal, just keep–

The guard stopped. He clicked on his flashlight and knelt down, playing it beneath the foundation pilings of the cafe next door, then down along the runnel. He stood up again, then stepped over the grating toward the fort's outer wall.

Checking the rooftops,Fisher thought. He took in a calming breath, let it out slowly.

After another sixty seconds, the guard stepped back over the grating, took one last look around, then headed down the alley toward the street.

FISHERhad found his "maybe" entrance. The pitch slot was eighteen inches wide and three feet tall and sealed from the inside by an ancient but solid-looking wooden hatch and a brand-new stainless steel padlock. Someone had given at least passing attention to Ingonish's small security details, but as he'd found at Legard's estate and he often found when dealing with men who lived by ego and ruled by threat of violence, Tolkun Bakiyev probably assumed his reputation alone was security measure enough. The rest–locks, sensors, cameras–were secondary. For men like that, admitting you needed heavy, sophisticated security was to show weakness.

Fisher picked the padlock and opened the hatch an inch, testing the hinges for telltales, but like the padlock, someone had looked after this detail as well; the hinges had a fresh coat of oil on them–WD-40, by the smell of it. He checked the jamb and hinges for wires or sensors; there were none. In the cracks between the cobbles, however, he spotted a gooey black substance. He worked his fingernail into a crack and dug out some of the substance. He sniffed it. Tar. Fisher smiled. Ingonish may have never seen any real warfare, but it appeared someone had at least tested out her defenses. He stared at the tar for a few more moments, strangely fascinated, wondering exactly how old it was. Ingonish was built in 1740; the tar was at least two hundred sixty-eight years old. Amazing,Fisher thought.

He slid the flexicam through the crack. On the other side of the hatch was another four feet of cobble-lined runnel that ended in an up-sloping ramp; beyond that, Fisher could see a twenty-foot-by-twenty-foot room with brick walls. Set into the right wall were two windows he assumed overlooked the cliff and between them a wide, open-hearth fireplace. On the nearest wall, just to the left of the flexicam's lens, was a long woodworker's bench backed by a Peg-Board holding a variety of hand tools, from screwdrivers to pliers to hand planes. A workshop. On the bench itself were several birdhouses in various states of construction. On the far wall was a single wooden door, but unlike those he'd encountered outside, this one was modern, a maple six-panel slab with brushed nickel hardware.

He gave the room a thorough scan in all three modes–IR, NV, and electromagnetic–and all looked clear, so he withdrew the flexicam, packed it away, then pushed the hatch all the way open and crawled through. When he reached the slope, he belly-crawled until he was just below the level of the floor, then took a final EM scan of the room. Again, he saw nothing.

He stood up and stretched his limbs, then checked the OPSAT. On the RFID tracking screen, which Grimsdottir had overlaid with her cobbled-together blueprint of Ingonish, Stewart's beacon, now a red diamond, pulsed steadily. Fisher turned in a circle, orienting himself with north, then checked the screen again. He panned and zoomed the blueprint.

Stewart's beacon was three floors above him at the northern end of the fort.

He said into the SVT, "I'm in. Target beacon is steady. Moving on."

"Roger," Grimsdottir replied. "What's your ETE?"

Fisher checked his watch. "Ninety to one-twenty. Something up?"

"More action on the Kyrgyzstan front."

"Understood. I'll keep you posted. Out."

What now?Fisher thought.

20

INGONISHwas a trapezoid, with its base running parallel to the cliff and its narrower, truncated top facing inland to the village. Each of the trapezoid's four corners was anchored by a stone watchtower eighty feet tall and topped with a gallery for archers. A fifth tower, twice as wide and forty feet taller than the others, was set between the two cliff-side corners, at the midpoint of the wall, and was topped by an expansive cupola that had once hosted the fort's three eight-inch antiship mortars. According to Fisher's OPSAT blueprint, Ingonish measured roughly three hundred feet, or one football field, to a side and encompassed some ninety thousand square feet. He prayed Stewart's beacon remained in place; if not, he had too much territory to cover and not much time with which to do it.

Fisher knelt before the workshop door and snaked the flexicam underneath. His vision was filled by a massive locomotive's driving wheel, crank, and coupling rod. Fisher tapped the OPSAT screen, changing the resolution and switching to fisheye. He checked again. A toy train, a replica steam locomotive. It didn't seem to be on a track, so Fisher slid the flexicam out a little farther and gave the locomotive a tap. It toppled onto its side, and beyond its plastic wheels Fisher could see the rest of the room.

Both he and Grimsdottir had been wrong. Tolkun Bakiyev had done a lot of remodeling. What lay before Fisher had once been a warren of workshops, storage bunkers, and soldiers' sleeping quarters made of heavy timber and thatch-and-mud brick. The warren would have been surrounded by a stone wall, twenty feet tall and set thirty feet in from the outer wall. Between, the two stone staircases would have risen to the second floor, which would have held the officers' quarters, the armory, and tunnels through which soldiers could access the fort's five battle towers.

All of it, save the stone staircases rising along each of the four walls and an arched stone passageway that joined them, was gone and in its place what Fisher could only describe as a playground. The train he'd seen was part of a set, a railway diorama built into the wall ten feet off the floor. It was complete with villages and towns, way stations, mountain tunnels, gorges, and waterfalls. A full quarter of the floor was dominated by a solid polished wood skate-board park, complete with half-pipes, high banks, stairs, pyramids, and grind rails. Near the far wall Fisher could make out what looked like a three-lane bowling alley, and beside that an inflatable kid's red-and-yellow bouncy fun castle. Wonderful,Fisher thought. BakiyevLand.

Fisher's brief on Bakiyev had mentioned no children. Either the man just liked to have fun, or he was an idiot-child in a man's body, or his home frequently served as a playground for Little Bishkek's children.

The remainder of the space was taken up with no less than a dozen seating areas sectioned off with hanging rug walls, each containing its own cluster of leather couches, chairs, and a jumbo plasma TV screen. Robinson had guessed and Fisher had agreed that Bakiyev's living spaces were likely in one or all of the watchtowers.

He took a few still shots for the Third Echelon photo album, did a final, full-mode sweep of the room, then withdrew the flexicam and opened the door and set out.

He picked his way down the center of the room, heading for the north stairway, using the skate park's obstacle course as cover. At the halfway point he heard, faintly, the squealing of tires, tinny and cartoon-like, and a voice muttering in Kyrgyz. Ahead and to his left, in one of the seating areas, Fisher could see the flickering of television light behind one of the rugs. He crouched down and crept around a grind rail.

Seated on a red leather couch before a plasma television were two men. Leaning against the couch beside each man Fisher could see the barrel of an AK-47. On the screen, the two men were racing dune buggies down a virtual Caribbean beach. One of the buggies missed a dune jump and tumbled end over end. The man on the left groaned, dropped the controller, and threw up his hands. He snatched up his rifle, said something to his partner that Fisher didn't catch, then walked off in the direction of the bowling alley. The other man leaned back and lit a cigarette, blowing a cloud of blue smoke toward the screen.

Fisher changed course, steering away from the men and around the skate park until he reached the north wall. The bowling alley, which sat at the foot of the stairway, was directly opposite Fisher now. The guard who'd wandered off was now standing beside a lighted popcorn kiosk complete with a red-and-white-striped awning, scooping his hand inside and shoving popcorn in his mouth. His AK sat propped against the kiosk's wheel. Fisher found a dark corner and crouched down to wait. The guard gorged himself for another astonishing ten minutes, then let out a belch, picked up his AK, and wandered back toward his buddy, who had returned to playing the dune buggy game.