Black operator complete.., p.35
Black Operator--Complete Box Set (Books 1-6), page 35
"What can you do?" Maria asked, "We’re in a steel cage, with missiles pointed at us, fighter aircraft on the way, and every radar for a thousand miles locked on. He was right. There’s no escape."
"The hell there isn’t. I'm afraid it means losing my aircraft, but I don't see a choice. She means a lot to me, the Rapide, and we’ve been through a lot together, but not enough for us to lose our lives. Besides, I won’t allow them to take you people back to the gulag. Much too cold back there.”
He was looking down at the endless sea of green forest, and in the distance, the vast open space of Russian steppes that awaited them. A faint line on the horizon marked the Ural Mountains, too far away, impossible to reach or to cross.
"That should do it."
He banked the old Dragon to starboard, slipping down toward a small clearing in the forest. A few hundred meters away, a railway line was visible, a straight line as if drawn by ruler; a straight line that led west.
They were almost touching the tree canopy, and he shouted above the roar of the engines. "This is going to be a bumpy landing." He adjusted the speed and dropped the flaps, "There's not enough room put her down. We’re going to hit the trees, so hold tight."
She gasped. "You're mad."
He gave her a quick smile. "It's been said before. But if it keeps us alive, who cares?"
The clearing was less than one hundred meters across, and the Rapide needed seven hundred meters to touch down safely. He dropped the airspeed even more until the aircraft was almost stalling, and settled lower. He skimmed over the last of the trees and chopped the throttles all the way back. The Dragon touched down, and they rolled across the clearing, with the trees the other end rushing toward them. The forest came nearer and nearer, and at the last moment he swerved to port, so the starboard wing struck first, cushioning the crash. The flimsy fuselage and wings crumpled almost immediately, and incredibly they were smashing through the forest. Parts of the fuselage tore into trees, breaking apart piece by piece, until at last they came to a stop.
They didn't escape unscathed. After the first few seconds, Rhodes unfastened his seatbelt and went to check Maria. He heard a cry of agony from inside the cabin. Most of the cabin had disappeared. There was just a short length remaining behind the cockpit, with the rear open to the forest. Mikhail was kneeling over Nikolai's body.
"He’s dead."
"Dead?" Cris ran to him and saw a branch had broken off and pierced the floor of the cabin, skewering Nikolai through his body, through his heart.
He looked at Mikhail, who was openly weeping. "I'm sorry. To have gone through everything, to die like this, it's not fair."
The branch had pushed aside the dressings on Nikolai’s stomach wound, and the smell was inescapable. He wondered if he should tell Mikhail he was probably finished anyway. The stench of gangrene was something no one could ever forget. But he decided not to say anything. He was already devastated at the loss of his companion.
"Mikhail, it's too bad he died, but we’re alive, and we have a long way to go. We’ve disappeared from the radar, but they'll send helicopters to inspect the crash site, so we don’t have long. Hours at best, but how many hours I have no idea. You have to pull yourself together. We need to keep going and reach Moscow."
Maria was trying to comfort her bodyguard, and she gave him a sharp look. "Moscow, without any transport? If we start walking, we wouldn’t make it in a month."
Schiller came through from the cockpit. "We won’t be walking. Didn't you notice I put her down close to the railway line? We’ll clear the crash site and hitch a ride on the train.
Rhodes stared at him. "Are you crazy? How do you plan to stop a train?"
"Watch me."
They picked up their weapons and all the spare ammunition they could find. Schiller refilled his pockets with grenades. He was still badly hurt, and he winced every time he took a step, but he led them away from the crash site, through the forest. They walked beneath the forest canopy, parallel to the railway line. After three hours he found what he was looking for, a tree that had fallen, probably due to disease or even a lightning strike. They helped him drag the heavy log across the line, to make it look like an accidental fall. Then they waited.
Two hours later, the distinctive sound of a train intruded on the silence of the empty, snow-covered wasteland. No ordinary train, but the vast Trans-Siberian Express, pounding along the track with a roar of powerful diesel engines. Then the squeal of iron wheels on steel rails was loud as the engineer spotted the obstruction and applied the emergency brakes. The train came to a halt, and the crew climbed out to clear the blockage. They didn't seem surprised at the incident, and Rhodes assumed it was nothing unusual. But they were busy clearing it off the line, which gave them the chance to open a freight car at the rear of the almost mile-long train, and they climbed into the concealing darkness.
The cargo was wooden cases containing washing machines imported from South Korea, taken by sea to the port of Vladivostok, and transported overland on the huge Trans-Siberian Express to eager consumers in the capital. They moved the cases and made space to hide. The train began to move, and the long journey to Moscow continued.
They didn't arrive until the following evening. After the enforced rest during the journey, they’d recovered some of their energy. Even Schiller had lost his ghastly pallor after the wounds he’d sustained during the fight outside Gulag Sakha 1. But they felt little security. Each concealed a rifle beneath their coats, and Schiller wouldn’t part with his precious grenades. He expected trouble, and he confronted Maria.
“You know they'll have found the wreckage, and they’re not fools. They'll have put two and two together, and worked out the proximity of the crash site to the railway line. They may have used tracker dogs to locate the direction we took. They’d have found where we boarded the train and which station we’ll arrive at. They could already be looking for us in Moscow.
"We’re going to church."
His face was almost comical, with an expression of utter astonishment. "Church? Why the hell do we want to go to church? If you think we should give thanks for…"
"Believe me, we’re not going for any religious reason. We’re going there for one reason, to retrieve the weapon that'll keep the Kremlin from killing us.”
“What weapon?”
“Information."
They left the station protected by the gathering gloom of the Moscow evening. The streets were crowded. Men and women scurrying along to beat the cold, anonymous in their thick furs, heavy overcoats, scarves, and fur hats.
Seconds later they rounded a corner, moments before a military convoy screeched to a halt outside the railway station. Captain Katya Karpov raced through the gates at the head of a squad of FSB agents. A second vehicle unloaded a platoon of Moscow Militia, and they began to spread out to surround the station. A black Mercedes limousine came to a halt, and the chauffeur leapt out to open the door for the sole passenger.
Vladimir Ushakov stepped out, and his bodyguard was already waiting with a pistol held low in his hand. Just in case. They entered the station, and Ushakov went directly to the security booth. He glanced coldly at the elderly security guard who'd been pretending to watch the CCTV screens, while he kept one eye on a hockey match playing out on a tiny black-and-white TV. He scrambled his feet and switched off the match.
“Sir, how can I help?"
There was no question of him asking for identification. When a man dressed like Ushakov, wearing an aura of cold authority and accompanied by an armed bodyguard entered his office, identification was unnecessary. This was government business, and he correctly identified Ushakov as a Kremlin insider.
"I want to see the security videos that covered the arrival of the Trans-Siberian Express."
He nodded eagerly. "That was just a few minutes ago, Sir. Give me a moment, and I’ll show you."
In his haste, he pressed wrong buttons, and it took him several minutes to bring up what Ushakov was waiting to see. The Kremlin man told him to pause the replay when he saw his quarry climbing from the freight car and crossing the line. They exited the station, and they were outside the range of the cameras. He nodded to his bodyguard.
"I’ve seen enough. She’s in Moscow. Alert the Militia and all FSB units. We have to find them."
“Yes, Sir."
They looked around as the door crashed open, and Captain Karpov was standing there. "Sir, there’s no sign of them."
"You missed them, Katya. Again."
Her faced creased in puzzlement. "I missed them? How is that possible? How did you…" She went silent as she saw the images on the screen, and she nodded, "Of course, the CCTV. We’ll get them, Sir. I'll put out a citywide alert. They won't escape."
"I hope not, Captain Karpov. It would be better for you if you found them sooner rather than later. If you take my meaning."
She winced. "I won't let you down, Sir."
He gave her a hard stare. “Your record so far is not good, Captain. You can take this as your last chance. If they get away again, you would do well to reconsider your position. I imagine Gulag Sakha 1 is looking for replacement guards. The post may well suit you."
"We’ll find them, Sir."
They left the station. Ushakov climbed into his limo, and Karpov’s frantic shouted orders at her men echoed around the station. He didn't have a great deal of confidence in her. She'd done well in the past and had proved to be a fine assassin. She’d never failed him, and the bodies of her victims had stacked up, until now. It seemed she’d lost her edge.
Has she outlived her usefulness? How should I terminate her career? A posting to a Siberian gulag as a humble guard would be a severe punishment, but the information she contains in her head would be best left buried. Yes, Captain Karpov is close to the end of her employment contract. It’s long past time I retired her. Although I’ll give her one more chance to locate and apprehend the fugitives. After all, if she fails, she’ll be the perfect scapegoat, a final use for her talents.
* * *
They walked through the teeming streets, protected from discovery by the crowds out for an evening's leisure or shopping. The church was three miles from Yaroslavsky railway station, and it took them over an hour to reach it. While they stood outside, Maria went to find the priest to get access. Cris admired the building, onion-shaped domes, gilded in bright gold. The ancient structure was like a beacon of beauty and culture in the otherwise dismal and dark Moscow suburb. The priest, one of Tereshkova's sympathizers, arrived and unlocked the door. He told Maria he'd return and lock up after she'd gone, but they were welcome to stay for as long as they wished.
They entered the echoing, empty space. Acres of wood paneling, carved wooden pews, and icons adorned the walls. The place reeked of incense, and there was a strange ambience in the air. He wasn't religious, and didn't believe in some mysterious celestial being. Although he had to admit it wouldn't be too hard to start to believe in this place. He grinned to himself.
Maybe I’m getting old.
Maria went straight to the rear of the church, walked behind the altar, and located a statue of the Virgin Mary in a niche, about three feet high. She felt behind the plaster figure and pressed a hidden lever. He heard the slight noise click as something slid open, and then she was holding it in her hand, a tiny USB stick, less than an inch long.
She smiled in satisfaction as they crowded around her. "This is it, the weapon they all fear. On this stick are details of every crooked deal they've carried out during the past five years. There’s much more, details of money transfers, offshore bank accounts, and their enormous illegal financial holdings. If this becomes public, it won't just bring the President down, it’ll bring the government down. If people knew how the country had been raped and pillaged by politicians, oligarchs, and Mafiosi, they'd march on Moscow, and there’d be no turning back."
"How do you plan to use it?" Schiller asked, "As I recall, last time they had a revolution in Russia, they went from a bad situation to a bad situation. Is there another way?"
She nodded. "You mean could I use it as a bargaining chip rather than making it public, and pressure them for reform. Yes, that’s exactly what I intend to do, if they give me time to do it."
They walked to the rear of the church, and she led them to a small meeting room, complete with comfortable armchairs.
"They use this for classes, children learning their catechisms and suchlike, and for meetings of the church council. The priest is happy for us to stay here until my people arrive.”
"And then?"
"I'm sure they'll get us out of Moscow, and then out of Russia." She looked at Cris. "I was wrong about coming back. The only way is to attack them from the outside. Find somewhere safe, and negotiate from where they can’t keep attacking me."
He felt relief. Although a nation with the huge resources of what used be the KGB meant that in practice, nowhere would be entirely safe from their brutal assassins.
The waiting seemed endless, but it couldn’t have been more than an hour when the outer door opened, and they heard footsteps coming toward them.
She smiled with relief. “That’ll be them, thank goodness. Let’s see what they have to say.”
She was still smiling when the door opened, and the smile fled her face. Captain Katya Karpov entered the room. She looked around for a few seconds, her expression triumphant.
“You’re all under arrest.”
She stood aside, and four burly Militiamen piled into the room. Three plainclothes officers followed, men with the cold, hard faces that were the stamp of State Security. FSB. Their weapons were held low, pointed at the floor, which gave them a split second’s advantage. Sitting in the shadows, Schiller was the first to react. They hadn’t noticed he held the AK-47 on his lap. The weapon he’d taken all the way to Siberia. He swung the barrel up.
“Drop the guns, all of you. Now, or I’ll pull the trigger and spray you with bullets.”
They stared at him, stunned, and Katya was the first to react. “You can’t do this, Mr. Schiller. Yes, we know who you are. We checked out the aircraft you crashed in the forest. Once we’d cut through the false registration details, your name came up. Put down the gun.”
He shook his head. “I don’t think so. Last chance, drop the guns.”
The four Militiamen started to lower their pistols. The FSB operatives moved like lightning. They were nearest to the door, and they dove outside. Katya rolled to the floor and darted behind an oak chest. Her pistol spat twice, and Cris ignored the gunshots. He went through the door, shouting to Schiller, “Take care of her,” and went looking for the FSB men. If they got outside the church, they’d summon reinforcements, and the next step would be a dark, dank cell in the Lubyanka prison. Or wherever they put high risk, high security prisoners in Moscow these days.
He encountered the first man in the narrow hallway. His gun leveled, and he fired an instant later. He dove to one side. The bullet whistled past his shoulder, and the man was already taking aim for the next shot. Rhodes carried the AK he’d brought back from Siberia, but with no room to use the long, cumbersome weapon, he looked for cover. The room was feet away, and he dove through the doorway, to find himself in the priest’s robing room.
The long pole with a crucifix on top looked to be a useful weapon, and he hoped he wouldn’t be committing sacrilege. The FSB operative was coming after him, and the standard procedure for entering a hostile environment was a rolling dive to the side. Would he go to the left or the right? He decided it would be the left, to give the gun in his right hand room to aim and fire, and as the door pushed open, he swept the pole in a scything blow.
He’d called it right. The guy dove into the room, and the pole smashed into his shoulder. But he still had his gun, and Rhodes swung again.
He missed, and the operative came up with the gun pointed at him. He snarled something in Russian and squeezed the trigger. Rhodes was already bringing the pole down again. The bullet smacked into the metal crucifix and ricocheted off one arm of the cross, leaving it a jagged, broken-off spike. The torn metal tore into the man’s neck, and the sharp point went deep. The man shrieked and dropped his gun to favor his ruined windpipe.
Cris scooped up the pistol, a 9mm GSh-18, standard issue for Russian military and security forces. The man was dying, and he dashed out of the room, the AK on his shoulder and the pistol held ready to use. He had to reach the other two before they called in help. They were waiting for him. The first fired a short burst from a tiny submachine gun. He hit the deck, and the bullets whistled overhead. The shooter was taking aim, but before he could fire again, he snapped off two quick shots that sent him staggering back.
Rhodes came off the floor in a bound, seeing the other FSB man looking shocked at the death of his colleague. He was bringing up his own gun, but he fired again, and again. He walked forward, putting bullet after bullet into the man until the gun clicked on empty. He wasn’t worried about ammunition. They’d dropped another GSh-18, and he scooped it up, along with the automatic weapon. A PP-2000, squat, black, and deadly, easily concealed beneath a coat, and beloved of plainclothes security men.
After a quick check to make sure they were both dead, he was about to run back to the room to deal with Katya. He stopped. Another man was standing just inside the main door to the church. A ghost, it couldn’t be, yet it was. Sebastian Kennedy, who he’d last seen shivering with cold and terror inside Gulag Sakha 2. Yet he was here, clean-shaven, hair neatly combed, and he wore a thick woolen overcoat.
He rushed to meet him. “Seb, how did you get here?”
He looked back in embarrassment, shifting from foot to foot. “I, er, like I told you, it was all a mistake. They let me go, and I flew here in the Antonov with Katya and Vladimir.”
“Vladimir?”
“Ushakov.”
“Ushakov?” He could hardly believe it, and a second later it all clicked into place. “Sebastian, how did they know about this place? This church?”
