Ghosts of War (6 page)

T
he Russian girls continued dancing below. Inside the alcove, the dim light failed to hide Mikhail's shocked expression at Simon's statement. Simon said, “Yes, you heard me correctly. We need to alter the balance of power. Running and hiding won't do me any good. Putin will find me wherever I go, just as he did with Alexander Litvinenko. But, unlike Alexander, I have no intention of dying of radiation poisoning in a London hospital. I will die of old age in Moscow.”

Mikhail said, “I can't help with this. I understand your plight, but that is not mine, at least not yet. We have had good business together, but you're asking me to commit suicide.”

“No, I'm not. The world is sick of Vladimir Putin. He barges around like a bear in the woods, from Syria to the Ukraine, and he's made the West afraid with his actions. They're on a trip wire after Crimea.”

Mikhail grimaced and said, “There is an old adage: ‘If you shoot at the king, make sure you hit him. If you bury him, make sure he's dead.' That is not us. We
cannot
take on the president of the Russian Federation.”

“
We
can't, but there is an undercurrent of unease in Moscow. Men who are worried about Putin's global escapades. Men of power. These men will do anything to retain what they have, even if that means removing Vladimir Putin and his entrenched circle. But they need to be convinced that such action is in their best interests.”

“And how are we to do that?”

“We will provoke the West. Destabilize the already fragile lines of
war. If it appears that Putin took it upon himself to initiate hostilities for political gain, he will not be allowed to remain in control, especially if NATO is on the verge of crushing the entire Russian Federation. He is a powerful man, but not a god, and he will be sacrificed when it's deemed expedient. Just like he is planning to do with me. NATO and the oligarchs in Moscow will accomplish our goals for us. All we need to do is light the fuse.”

Still not convinced, Mikhail had started to reply when there was a knock on the door to their little alcove. Simon held up a finger and said, “I believe that's our book of matches.”

The door cracked open and Simon saw the same waiter stick his head in, saying, “Sir, the men you have on the list are here, but they refuse to put on—”

That was as far as he got before he was shoved rudely out of the way. Two men pushed past him, both looking decidedly different than the rest of the patrons in their thousand-dollar suits. One had a full beard, the other an unkempt goatee. Wearing jeans and jackboots, both sported leather vests adorned with a multitude of patches, the back of each vest taken up by a large depiction of a howling wolf's head, flame coming from the neck as if it had been launched from a cannon.

The lead man said, “Simon, the weasel here has an issue with our colors.”

Simon rolled his eyes and stood up, waving another bill. He pointed to a couch and said, “Sit.” To the waiter: “It's okay. They won't cause any trouble.”

The waiter took the money, hesitated for a fraction of a second, as if contemplating forcing the issue, then decided discretion was the better part of valor and silently left the room.

Simon waited until the door had closed again, then turned and said, “What did I tell you about the dress code? Why do you insist on making a scene? Being remembered?”

The leader held up his hands and said, “Honestly, I just thought you were recommending. I didn't know wearing a coat and tie was a rule.”

Simon sat down, pointed at the other man and said, “Who is this?”

“Oleg. He's the one with the skill you asked for.”

Simon nodded, then said, “Mikhail, meet Kirill Zharkov. The leader of our little cell of Night Wolves.”

Mikhail stuck out his hand and said, “Yes, yes, of course. We've spoken over chat and text, but never met.”

Kirill shook the hand, thinking, then said, “Mikhail? You're the man who turned us on to that little opportunity in Volgograd, is that right?”

Mikhail nodded, and Simon said, “Which brings us to why you're here. Opportunity, but not for profit. For the motherland. The president has a special mission, and has asked for you to carry it out.”

The words had an effect on the two men. Kirill said, “Like he did in Crimea?”

“Exactly. Are you prepared to fight for Russia?”

Kirill became agitated, slapping his hand on the table hard enough to make Simon wonder how much vodka he'd had in the last hour. “Of course! President Putin has had his hands tied too long. He's trying to make us what we should be, and he's stopped by weaklings in our own government. It turns my stomach. We've suffered one indignity after another at the hands of the West. What is it you wish us to do?”

Simon saw Mikhail roll his eyes, and he snaked his hand under the table, tapping Mikhail's knee as a reminder. He slid one glare Mikhail's way, then told the men the broad strokes of what was expected of them. After he was done, he said, “Do you have any qualms about that?”

“No. I think it's perfect. We'll do our part.”

“You might end up killing Russian soldiers. It's not necessary, if you can blow up aircraft instead, but it might happen.”

Kirill said, “I'm not sure why that matters. We're prepared to give our lives for Mother Russia. So are they. Who cares who pulls the trigger, if the end result is for the greater good?”

Simon saw Mikhail squeeze his eyes shut as if he were warding off a headache, and leaned forward to block Kirill's view, sliding a cell phone across the table. He said, “Okay, then. The president himself will provide Russian uniforms to penetrate the base. You did as I asked, and your men have all served, correct?”

“Yes. Of course. It's hard to find someone in Russia who hasn't served.”

“That's not what I meant. I mean you've served beyond the minimum conscription. You have people who can act like they know what's happening in the military. Not some asshole who spent two years stealing from his command and never even learned to put on his uniform correctly. You'll have to bluff those same people at the gate.”

Kirill said, “We can. My cell has many veterans. We know how to act like we're still in the military. You provide the uniforms, and it will be no problem. But that's not the final issue. We escape as Russians, and we still have blame to give. What about the Chechen artifacts? How will we do that?”

Simon was surprised at the forethought, believing that the Night Wolves would not understand the totality of the attack, and that he would have to spoon-feed the solution. He was pleased.

“The president will post the attack on some of their social media sites. They will claim credit even if they don't want to. You will also get certain weapons to leave at the scene. These weapons will have biometric traces on them from known Chechen terrorists on the loose. It will be enough to drown out any protests of innocence.”

Kirill took that in, then said, “Okay. All that makes sense, but it doesn't explain why you wanted Oleg. The Buk radar operator.”

Simon knew he was now brushing up against treason. Stepping out into the void.

He took a breath, glanced at Mikhail, then said, “This mission isn't the only one, which is why you must get in and out without casualties or compromise. There will be another one. When you are through with Belarus, you will travel back to Ukraine. Remember the shoot-down of MH17? The civilian aircraft?”

For the first time, Kirill looked uneasy. He said, “Yes . . . but that wasn't us. That was Ukraine.”

Simon waved his hand and said, “Whatever happened before, this time it will be you. Your team will take over a Buk M1 currently in Eastern Ukraine. After Russia has secured our airfields in Belarus, you will destroy a NATO warplane. The ones that are always buzzing about to show us how strong NATO is.”

Oleg's eyes widened and he said, “There is a ceasefire in eastern Ukraine. The president himself agreed to it. If we shoot, we will cause a war.”

Simon turned on the heat as if he were a missionary burning with the gospel, the truth fighting to escape. An ability he'd learned to mimic fairly well in prison, when every proclamation had to evince true fever.

“Exactly. That is
exactly
right. They will come to fight, but it won't be because of
Russian
provocation. They will simply make it so in their own minds. The president needs to be able to plausibly deny he did this, but he
wants
a fight. NATO is too weak to secure the Baltic states, and if they provoke a response because of one misguided missile fire, he is more than willing to take them up on it. It will be self-defense.”

Oleg remained silent. Kirill slowly nodded and said, “That is genius. Pure genius. We will regain all our lost lands.”

Simon sagged back in his chair, relieved. “Precisely. And with troops already in Belarus, it will be a short hop to success. But you must travel in secret. Nobody can know Russia was involved. From this moment on, outside your team, you cannot even talk to your Night Wolves brothers.
Nobody
. Is that understood?”

Simon could tell both Oleg and Kirill were caught up in the secrecy and scope of the plan, reveling in being chosen. He repeated, “Understood?”

In unison, they said, “Yes. Of course.”

He said, “Russia cannot have any connection to either attack. Because of this, Mikhail here will provide you with Israeli passports.”

Mikhail snapped his head up, and Kirill said, “Israeli? That's crazy. Why? We can get into Belarus as Russians, and Ukraine is no problem.”

“One, because I just told you: no Russian connection whatsoever. Two, because it might not end with those operations. We need to guarantee a strike from NATO, and this might not be enough. Yes, you can get into Belarus, but you can't get in anywhere else as Russians. Poland, Slovakia, you name it—they all suspect the Federation. Other countries don't have our love of the motherland and require a visa for Russians, but none do so for Israel.”

Feeling Mikhail's glare, Simon glanced at him and said, “You can do this, correct?”

Mikhail gritted out, “Yes. Give me a few days.”

Simon smiled and said, “Then it's settled.”

He poured a shot of vodka for all in the balcony and raised his high.

“To Mother Russia. May she keep us in her embrace forever.”

Oleg and Kirill repeated the toast and slammed the vodka home.

Mikhail left his on the table.

T
he hotel was small, no more than ten rooms, but clean. Built to look like an extension of Ksiaz Castle next door, it hadn't held up nearly as well, with the modern attempts at stonework starting to crumble. I didn't really care one way or the other—it had a bed, and I was smoked.

We'd spent one night in DC, then flown out the following afternoon. With a layover in Paris, we'd made it to Warsaw by eleven
A.M.
, local time, having spent all night in the air. I'd arrived tired and cranky, because apparently, while our business was sorely needed, it wasn't needed enough to get us first-class tickets and I'd been saddled with a middle seat next to a hyperactive child. And our trip wasn't over when we landed, as we still had four hours to the Polish border area where the castle was located. Aaron had reserved two rental cars, and off we went, driving through the Polish countryside.

I made Jennifer do the driving because she needed the experience working in a foreign environment—future operations might depend on that knowledge. And I was tired and cranky. . . .

I pushed my carry-on to the corner of the room and flopped onto the queen-size bed, saying, “Man, I might take a nap while they coordinate.”

Jennifer put her carry-on next to mine and said, “Don't think you'll have the time. Aaron seemed anxious to get this started.”

“Yeah, but he doesn't know where to go to find his point of contact, and nobody speaks English. He'll be a while, trust me. It'll take Shoshana thirty minutes just to get those trunks to their room.”

“I was going to ask you about that. Why do you suppose Aaron and Shoshana brought such large suitcases?”

When Jennifer and I had flown from DC, we'd packed for five days at Aaron's request, and all that fit into a couple of roll-aboards. Aaron and Shoshana, on the other hand, had brought suitcases large enough to allow a permanent change of station.

Eyes closed, I said, “I don't know. They did have to come from Israel, so maybe they've been on the road for a while.”

“Shoshana's was heavy. I picked it up off the belt at baggage claim, and it's got to be close to overweight. What do you think is in there?”

I opened my eyes and said, “What are you asking? Maybe it's shoes, shampoo, makeup, and a hair dryer. She is a female after all.”

Jennifer slapped my thigh and said, “Shoshana? You think she's packing like a Real Housewife from Beverly Hills? Come on.” She slid in next to me and said, “Scoot over.”

I slid over to the right, allowing her room on the bed, and propped a pillow behind my head. I said, “Who can figure out what those two are up to. Maybe they came from a hit straight into this mission.”

Poking through a brochure, Jennifer said, “I hope we get to tour the castle after we do whatever it is we're supposed to do.”

I chuckled and said, “Maybe we'll get a discount on admission.”

Ksiaz Castle had been built in the thirteenth century, and as such, Jennifer had immediately become interested in reading its history. It had changed hands many, many times and was finally confiscated by the Nazis in 1941. From there, it became the heart of Project Riese, with some speculating that it was to be a final headquarters for Adolf Hitler. The ghost train had been found in a tunnel in the nearby Sowa Mountains, but the plunder had been brought here, to Ksiaz, because it already had a formidable security presence to protect the castle and museum, and its distance away from any town or city facilitated the secrecy the Poles wanted to preserve.

Jennifer said, “Let's go look at it now, while Aaron is tied up with
the museum staff. I don't want this to end up like every other Taskforce operation, where I'm always left hanging.”

We used our company as a cover to facilitate counterterrorist operations—much like we were doing today—which usually involved some plausible, concrete archaeological find around the globe, and Jennifer always studied up, becoming excited about seeing the site. Unfortunately, about nine times out of ten, Jennifer ended up doing far more meat-eating commando operations than plant-eating archaeological work.

I said, “This isn't a Taskforce operation. We'll get to see the castle. I promise. In the meantime, I'm taking a nap.”

I closed my eyes again and, as if on cue, heard a knock on the door. I muttered, “
Shit
.” Jennifer sat up and said, “It's open.”

Shoshana came in, took one look at me, and said, “Wake up, sleeping beauty. Time to earn your pay.”

I swung my legs over the side of the bed and said, “No way did Aaron wade through the Polish red tape that fast.”

Shoshana smiled and said, “Correct. You are the wader. Bring your business credentials, and don't forget your passports.”

Jennifer dug into her bag. I rubbed the sand out of my eyes. She stood up holding our documents and I said, “Okay, Carrie. Let's go earn some money.”

She looked at Jennifer and said, “He doesn't travel well, does he?”

Jennifer opened the door and said, “He would be much more amenable if we were allowed to survey the castle afterward. For our business.”

Shoshana gave a weird little grin and said, “Oh, I think that's going to happen,” then walked through the door. Jennifer looked at me with a
what the hell does that mean?
expression. I just shrugged.

We walked up the cobblestone path that intersected the castle courtyard, the landscaping looking remarkably like that of the Overlook Hotel in
The Shining
. In front of us, the castle loomed over the
courtyard, built onto the side of a mountain, with sheer walls dropping two hundred feet down. I have to admit, it was a little impressive.

Shoshana led us through the front doors, past the tourist ticket booths, and into the castle gift shop. She ignored the lady behind the counter and walked to the rear, entering a room packed full of furniture for sale. I'm not kidding. It was like an antique flea market, with wooden desks, chairs, and bookshelves all for sale, as if the average tourist would stop in the gift shop and say, “Wow, I like that two-thousand-pound oak table. I'll take it!”

At the far end, next to a desk with an inkwell and quill on it to show it was worthy of the antique title, Aaron stood next to a man in a security uniform. Aaron saw us enter and smiled, waving us forward.