Black operator complete.., p.13
Black Operator--Complete Box Set (Books 1-6), page 13
She nodded uncertainly. “Yes, I see. I still don’t want to go to Chicago. I thought I made that clear.”
The smile didn’t slip by a fraction. “Leave it all to Cris. Go this route. When you get there, you’ll have given them the slip, and you can travel on to anywhere. Right, Cris.”
“Right.”
He was like a whirlwind, confident and a go-getter, like so many rich people. The ever-resourceful Jeff March fitted them out with clothes that were a reasonable fit, and they pulled on their thermal clothing when it was time to leave. The temperatures in the north were low during winter, and despite the climate control on the Land Cruiser, each knew the importance of being prepared for anything.
The drive took them north on roads cleared of much of the snow. Until they left the highway and the going became harder. He helped Jeff fit chains to the tires, and they continued the journey on little used tracks. When he asked the reason, March had the answers.
“Security, Cris. We won’t be using a regular border crossing. That would put you into the computer systems; make you easy to track. We’ll cross the border the old-fashioned way.” He winked, “Below the radar.”
The border crossing was invisible. One moment they were in the U.S., and the next they’d crossed into Canada. He swung the vehicle around to the southwest, heading back down to the lake. When they reached the shore, the floatplane was waiting for them. The Cessna 172 tied to the dock was liveried in white with blue trim. It looked well maintained and modern. When he commented on it to Jeff, his expression was serious.
“Chuck Warner is mighty careful about what he flies in. Keeps his aircraft up to scratch, and you can be sure of one thing. When you fly with Chuck, you’re gonna arrive in one piece. Hey, there he is now.”
He waved to a man in a Day-Glo orange thermal coat, stepping out from the hut. He limped toward them, and March walked forward to shake hands. Chatted for a moment, and introduced them.
“Chuck, these are my good friends Cris and Maria. You’ll take good care of them, now. Get them across the lake in one piece, and keep it between us, if you know what I mean.”
“I know.” His face bore the expression of an undertaker on a cold and wet day.
March turned back to Cris. “Me and Chuck go back a long way. You can trust him with your life.” He chuckled, “Which is exactly what you will be doing, I guess. Say, Chuck, I need to make a call and cellphone reception is no good around here. You mind if I use your landline?”
He waved toward the hut. “Knock yourself out, Jeff.”
March walked away, and Maria glanced at Cris. The exchange between March and Warner was strange. Not like two old buddies who ‘go back a long way.’ They waited while the pilot conducted a rough and ready preflight check that consisted of tugging at the ailerons and inspecting the engine cowling. They assumed he was checking for oil leaks. Then he nodded for them to board the plane, just as March emerged from the hut.
“All set? I didn’t realize you’d get away so fast. Chuck, come inside with me. We can settle up.”
They disappeared into the hut, and Maria took the rear seat, Cris the front.
She tapped him on the shoulder. “I don’t like this.”
“The pilot?”
“Any of it. Why is your old pal going overboard for us? It doesn’t make sense. He’s in there now paying for the charter.”
He kept his voice light. “That’s Jeff. He always was generous, can afford to be, too.”
“I wish we weren’t going to Chicago. As soon as we arrive, I want to rent a car and get as far away from the city as possible.”
“Are you going to tell me why?”
She didn’t answer for almost a minute, and he was about to ask her again when she replied. “I thought it would be safe, the last place they’d come looking for me.”
“Uh, huh. Maybe it is.”
“Not if we go back. You see, my son is in the city. He arrived just over a week ago.”
He was struck dumb for a short time. “Your son?”
“Alexander. He arrived with his father, who’s been taking care of him since this all started. His father was on a business trip to America, and it just so happened he needs to be in Chicago for a conference. That’s why I’d prefer to stay away.”
His mind whirled with possibilities. If the men trying to kill her found out about the son, they could grab him and use him as a bargaining chip. If they found out.
“Who knows about this visit?”
“No one.
“You’re sure?”
She grimaced. “You think I’m stupid, is that it?”
No, I don’t think you’re stupid. But you should have told me before.
“Of course not. We don’t have too many choices. Jeff has organized this escape route for us, and there’ll be a car and driver when we land waiting to take us as far as the Windy City. Soon as we arrive, we’ll disappear. No one will know where we are, or where we’re going.”
She didn’t look convinced. “Like they didn’t know we were in Vermont.”
“We’ll do better next time. There are ways.”
Chuck Warner came out of the hut, followed by Jeff March. The pilot climbed into the aircraft, and Jeff cast off the mooring lines. With an ear splitting roar the single Lycoming 160 hp engine came to life, and it ran unevenly for a minute until it settled into an even beat. Chuck cast his eyes over the gauges, nodded in satisfaction, and advanced the throttle. They began to leave the dock, moving out into the lake.
Warner didn’t speak for the first part of the journey. Maria was silent, lost in thought, presumably about her son. He got bored and gave Chuck a smile.
“You’ve known Jeff a long time, Chuck?”
“Not long.”
“I thought he said…”
“He loaned me the money to buy this aircraft. That’s how I came to know him.”
“Right. He’s a generous guy.”
The pilot turned his head toward him, and his face wore something of a sneer. “Generous? At the interest rate he charges me, I’ll be working flat out for the next fifteen years to pay off the debt.”
“But, I thought…”
“Your pal don’t give away anything. Not unless there’s a big payback at the end.”
“Right.”
“Damn right. Mister, I’m hardly keeping this business running, and I have the bank chasing my ass almost every day. Yeah, your pal’s a real star.”
That isn’t the Jeff March I knew. Did I ever know the real guy behind the façade? I guess all I really knew about him was that he was rich, and yeah, a good DEA man. Good with a gun, when necessary. Other than that, he was an avid hunter, and…that was about it. So why did he loan us the lodge up in Vermont? Why organize all this?
* * *
Tracking them had proved impossible, until Major Sverdlov used his cellphone to put a call through to another continent. To an unlisted number inside the Kremlin but diverted to SVR Foreign Intelligence Headquarters, Satellite Intelligence Section. He gave them a description of the SUV and the exact coordinates of when he last saw them. Within minutes, a battalion of intelligence experts labored for hours to divert an intelligence gathering satellite to take up a geostationary position over the exact area of the North American continent where they focused their interest. With so many men and women working on the problem, they had an answer less than eight hours later. The analysts pinpointed the position of an SUV to a lakeside house. They must have swapped vehicles. When the call came in, he’d almost fallen asleep, and the ringing brought him spinning back to alertness.
“Sverdlov.”
“We have them, Major. They have stopped by the side of a lake, across the border in Canada. I can give you the coordinates for your satellite navigation system.”
“Tell me.”
“One moment. There is someone who wants to speak with you.”
He waited for several minutes, listening to the clicks as the call was diverted through different switching systems. When the voice spoke, it had a flat, hollow sound to it, the characteristic of state of the art digital encryption.
“Is that Sverdlov?”
“This is Major Sverdlov, who is this?”
But he already knew. Ultimately, his unit answered to one man, and that man had a fixer, one who handled his dirty work, his wet work.
“A word with you. I’m not confident you’re handling this mission with the degree of competence I would expect from a man of your experience. You’ve already missed the target, and it seems you have once again allowed them to get away.”
He took a breath. “Mr. Ushakov, I understand your concerns, but the man who missed them paid for it with his life.”
The reply shot back immediately. “Which is no more than he deserved. The responsibility is yours. You are in charge, Major. For now.”
The threat didn’t escape him. “Yes, Sir.”
“Very well. Do not miss them again. I don’t care what you have to do, or how many people you kill to achieve it. Find them, and kill them. Clear?”
“Sir.”
Several seconds later Satellite Intelligence Section came back on the line, “Major, I have the data for you.” He reeled off a sequence of numbers.
“I have all that, thank you.”
“No problem. Major, a word of warning.”
“Yes?”
“He’s in a bad mood. Whatever you do, don’t fuck up.”
It was meant in a friendly way, and he didn’t chew him out. “I hear you.”
He ended the call and gave directions to Stepashin. They drove at a reckless speed, skidding along the icy tracts, and then onto the blacktop to reach the fugitives before they escaped. They arrived too late and had to wait for a frustrating forty minutes until the compatriots in Russia updated the data. They were heading along snow-covered roads toward a backwoods crossing of the Canadian border.
They arrived at the side of a lake where Stepashin was gunning the engine, and skidded to a halt less than two hundred yards from the departing aircraft. Private Dennikin tumbled out of the back, his rifle already loaded, and he ran towards the shore. Too late, he flung himself into the prone position to line up the shot. Just as the floats left the water and the Cessna 172 clawed its way into the air. He took aim and snapped off two shots. Sverdlov concluded both shots missed. The passengers in the aircraft didn't even look back, so they hadn’t noticed, didn’t know they were on their tail.
Stepashin was furious, and he rushed up to the hapless Dennikin and kicked him in the side.
"Get up, you stupid fool."
Dennikin jumped to his feet, a wary look on his face. "Sergeant, what did I do wrong?"
"What did you do? The chances of bringing the aircraft down with a rifle were almost zero. At best, you would have put a bullet through the fuselage and warned them we were here. Which would force them to hide even deeper."
"Sorry."
"Yob tvoy mat, we'll get over it. It's just lucky you missed."
All they could do was wait for a destination, which meant sitting around until the satellite observed the aircraft land. Then they'd have more information. They were all tired, and they sat inside the SUV with the engine running to keep warm. Only Sverdlov was wide-awake, waiting for the call. He didn't have a choice. The stakes were high. They'd made it clear that if he failed to complete the mission, he would be better off putting a bullet through his head, rather than the alternative awaiting him back in Russia. The man giving the orders, the man at the top, had no time for failure. They waited for long hours until darkness fell, and at last the call came in. He kicked the other two men awake.
"We're moving, Stepashin. We need to hurry. Once they get there, finding them is going to be difficult."
"Where are we going, Major?"
He smiled. "Chicago. Where else?"
"Chicago is a big city, Sir. Do you have any further information?"
He shook his head. "Not yet, but they're working on it. We'll get there first, find somewhere to sleep, and with any luck, they'll have them pinpointed. Then we finish the job and go home."
* * *
Chuck Warner brought the plane in for a perfect landing on the shore at Manitowoc. When the spray subsided, they could view the side of the lake, the shed that served the floatplane base, and several vehicles parked alongside. Maria shifted nervously.
"I can see cops. Could it be a connection with what happened back in Vermont?"
He put his arm around her and gave her a hug to reassure her. "Not in a million years, this is just routine. My guess is they’re following up a report of a theft or vandalism, something like that. Nothing to worry about."
They taxied to the dock, and Chuck stared through the windshield at the truck. "That's unusual. Not something we see here every day."
"What is it?"
"Not cops. It's the U.S. Immigration Service. I don't know why they are here. Let's face it, this isn't Ellis Island, nor is it the Rio Grande He chuckled, "Maybe they've come up for some fresh air, take a break and relax, do some fishing."
Cris climbed out of the plane as it bumped against the dock and secured the lines front and back. He helped Maria through the door, and they walked toward the shore. Empty-handed, some instinct had made him leave their bags with the weapons inside the aircraft, promising Chuck they'd pick them up when they had found a vehicle to take them to the city. They started walking to the office building, but the door of the truck opened, and a man stepped out. He was big, burly, with flaming red hair and freckles on his fleshy face. A drinker, his eyes slitted against the bright sunlight. He approached them and blocked their way, with his thumbs tucked into his belt. The badge said Senior Agent Griggs, U.S. Immigration Service.
"You folks need to show me your ID."
He removed one thumb on his belt and held up a hand, waiting for them to obey. Automatically, Cris dove a hand inside his coat and handed over his ID. Griggs gave it a long hard look and handed it back without a word. "Now you, Ma'am."
She'd gone pale, but she had no choice, and if she thought to ignore his request, the rear doors of the truck opened. Two more men stepped out, both in uniform and like Griggs, with pistols holstered on their belts. She handed over her distinctive Russian passport and waited.
Once again, he squinted at it hard, and this time his lips twitched in a slight smile. He looked up.
"You know your visa’s expired, Ma’am?"
"Visa?" She stared at him in confusion, although Cris was aware that technically the agent was correct. The visa had in fact expired. After all, when you are running from an assassin sent to kill you, the last thing you want to do is to call in at the nearest embassy to have them renew the stamp.
"You have an explanation?"
Cris tried to intervene. "Agent, it's just a simple oversight. I'll take this task over to the Consulate the moment we reach Chicago, and make sure they renew it."
The fleshy man's smile broadened. "You think this is a game, Mister?"
"No, no, no not a game."
"You're damn right it's not a game. This is serious. The northern border has become a popular entry point for illegals, and my Department has decided it's time to put the cork in the bottle. No one gets into the United States without a visa. No one."
Maria tried the soft approach. "Please, this is a simple oversight. How can I put this right?" She was Russian, and it was the wrong thing to say. In Moscow, the question would have been either a request for information, or the offer of a bribe, usually the latter. Griggs decided that's exactly what it was. The smile left his face, and his brow furrowed. "Ma'am, are you trying to bribe me? Are you aware of the penalties for bribing a federal officer?"
"I wasn't…"
The other two immigration agents had moved closer, and Griggs barked an order. "This woman is under arrest for being inside the country without a valid visa. Lock her up, and we’ll start the paperwork when we get back for deporting."
Rhodes tried one last time, knowing that putting her into the system, onto the computers, would be a virtual death sentence. "Please, this is just a simple mistake. There must be somebody in authority I can speak to, perhaps find a way to secure an emergency visa extension."
Griggs handed him a card. "If you wish to complain, Sir, the contact number of customer services is written down. Give them a call." He snorted, half laugh and a half sneer, "Of course, sometimes it can be almost impossible to get through. In the event you do, they may put you through to my senior officer."
Rhodes heard him mutter, "If he's in the office, and not taken more time off sick."
All he could do was watch as they put handcuffs on her and took her toward the truck. He followed, and when they open the doors, inside was fitted out as part jail and part office for the mobile immigration enforcement personnel. They pushed her into a tiny cell inside the truck body. The two officers remained inside, and Griggs slammed the door shut. He gave Rhodes a last smile and swaggered around to the passenger seat. The driver started the engine, and the truck rolled away. After all they'd been through, a simple visa overstay had finished them. And put her on the radar.
I need to talk someone. I need help on this. March, he's the only one I can think of. I'm not happy about going to him. Something about him doesn’t sit right. But I don’t have a choice.
He took out the satphone and noted the battery was almost drained. There was enough to make a call, and he got through to March. His friend was sympathetic and promised to help.
"I know these guys. They can be a pain in the ass. The office is in Chicago, so I’d go on to the city if I were you. I'll make some calls, and let you know what I come up with. Don't worry about this, Cris. I'll get it sorted. I'll call you later."
"How soon?"
A pause. "It'll be later, much later, maybe even tomorrow. Don't worry, I'll call."
He went to urge him to hurry, but the phone beeped; a signal the battery was dead. Feeling like a man who’d lost everything, he entered the floatplane office, little more than a backyard toolshed. He asked the disinterested clerk behind the counter to help him secure ride into Chicago.
