Collateral (Tier One #6)

Kovtun Storage (Number 3)

Three Miles North of Odessa International Airport

1640 Local Time

Gavriil watched carefully as the former Russian missile technician—now a midlevel agent in the GRU—inspected the launch panel on the side of the MZKT Astrolog missile transporter. He realized that, for the first time in nearly five years, he wanted desperately to smoke a cigarette, and he chastised himself for the craving and the lack of mental discipline it suggested. Perhaps the proximity to this weapon of war and the nostalgia for his early days as a soldier brought on the craving. More likely it was the combination of the diesel fuel smell and the technician who reeked of tobacco. Smell, he had been told, triggered more powerful memories than almost any other stimulus.

“Are the prelaunch checks complete?” he asked the technician impatiently. He’d already memorized the entire operations manual for the Astrolog truck, the launch system, and everything he could digest about the Iskander-M missiles. He was confident he could operate the system, drive the vehicle into position, and fire the two missiles if it came to it. But it would be better to have a proficient tech present in case an unforeseen electrical or mechanical problem reared its ugly head . . . which it always seemed to do at the most inopportune time.

“Yes, we are at the stage where I enter the target coordinates. It is better to have the programming done now and stored in the system memory. That way, at launch time, we only have to confirm the prompts. It saves us much time,” the tech said.

“I will program the target coordinates myself,” Gavriil said, pacing away from the man and the irresistible aroma of cigarettes.

The man turned, both eyebrows arching. “Then why am I here, comrade?” he said, retrieving his pack of Belomorkanals from his shirt pocket. He shook one free and put it to his lips as he searched his other pocket for a lighter. “I have all the necessary clearances, my mysterious friend. I am GRU, after all. You need not keep the targets from me, and in any case . . .” He snapped open a metal lighter and lit his smoke. “I will know soon enough.”

“It is our protocol. I myself have not yet been informed of the target coordinates,” he lied, “so as to maintain complete operational security.”

“Is that so?” the other man said, a flash of something in his eyes.

The billowing smoke was almost intoxicating, and Gavriil had the urge to shoot the man now just to rid himself of the temptation. It was an unfortunate necessity of the operation that this man must die, but they both had their roles to play. Gavriil understood his; this poor fool did not. When the body of a known GRU agent—a part of the GRU task force linked closely to Petrov—was found beside the truck by the authorities, the dominos would begin to fall. With all of the other breadcrumbs they would leave behind, Gavriil imagined it would take only hours for the Americans to link the devastating Mariupol missile attack to Petrov. As expected, Arkady’s plan was coming together. Hopefully the spymaster’s foresight about what would happen in the days that followed was equally prescient.

“Then what to do now?” the GRU agent asked, smoke streaming from both of his nostrils like some ancient dragon.

“We wait,” Gavriil said, his hands behind his back.

“Perhaps we go and get something to eat? And maybe a drink?”

Gavriil sighed. This was the GRU inner circle?

“Nyet. We must stay here—and indoors—until after dark when we receive our coordinates and conduct our operation. When it is done, we’ll have a steak dinner and a bottle of vodka. My treat. Da?”

The man shrugged, but his eyes narrowed. “It is the American Marines we are attacking, I assume?”

Undistracted by the man’s left hand bringing the cigarette back to his lips, Gavriil noticed his right hand slipping under the flap of his jacket, undoubtedly going for his weapon. Gavriil was faster, however, retrieving the compact GSh-18 pistol from his waistband, aiming, and firing in one fluid motion. The bullet tore through the missile tech’s head just beside the bridge of his nose, and the man instantly collapsed, his own larger Makarov P-96 pistol clattering to the ground. Gavriil shook his head. The pistol the GRU man carried was like wearing a T-shirt saying, I am Russian military covert operations. Like the GSh-18 Gavriil had chosen to use for the murder, the Makarov would leave little doubt as to who had been behind the missile attack.

He holstered his weapon and exhaled. It was a relief to have it done. Between the smoking and the questions, he could barely stand it anymore. In any case, he always worked better alone . . .

He tsked when he saw the rather large spatter of blood and other gore on the side of the truck. That would require cleaning. Behind him, he heard a quiet click. Gavriil whirled, pistol up and ready, as he shifted left to take cover. He scanned left and right until he found his target—a lone and familiar silhouette, backlit from the sunlight streaming through the partially opened door.

“You shouldn’t do things like that,” Gavriil said, heart pounding as he lowered his weapon. “You’re not supposed to be here before dark. Has something gone wrong? You take a great risk . . .”

“Yes, yes,” Arkady said. “It is wonderful to see you, too. And nothing is wrong. I’m simply here to help.”

Gavriil felt anxiety rise to join his confusion. Do you not trust my ability to execute this mission? Or am I another loose thread to be snipped? Gavriil shoved the GSh-18 back into his waistband. If Arkady intended to kill him, there would be no stopping it. Just as Gavriil had been tasked to take the life of the Prime who preceded him. If today was his day to die, then today was his day.

Arkady laughed, and it echoed in the cavernous warehouse as he approached. When he reached Gavriil, he set down the large metal suitcase and the brown paper sack he carried, and opened his arms wide. “You look worried, my son,” the spymaster said, embracing him, a large smile creasing his face. “Don’t be. I’m not here to micromanage, but I am here to help. This operation cannot fail. It is bigger than you, than me, than Zeta. Today we begin the long and arduous operation of saving Russia from the enemy within. A phoenix will rise from the ashes of the chaos we unleash here, and I will need you in the coming days. Our next operation will be more difficult than anything we’ve undertaken before, and it is one I will not survive.”

Gavriil looked into the eyes, at once both young and old, of the man he had loved and hated while always admiring—and fearing. Now, he finally understood.

“Yes,” Arkady said, nodding. “You see the end game now. You will carry on my mantle.”

“I . . . I don’t know,” he stammered. “I will serve Russia—and you—until my last breath, but I don’t have your gifts.”

“Don’t worry; I’m recruiting a potential ally for you,” the old fox said cryptically. “But we will talk about that later.” Arkady’s eyes went to the corpse on the floor. Chuckling, he said, “I see you executed one aspect of the plan a little prematurely.”

“Yes, well, he was asking questions . . . and he was going to shoot me.”

“We have enemies everywhere,” Arkady said, nodding. “Never forget that.”

Gavriil stepped over the dead GRU agent, snatching a large green towel from the step beneath the control panel of the truck. He began to clean the mess off the side of the truck. He was about to say, “I leave such things to you; I am just a weapon,” but he stopped himself. That was the response Arkady would have wanted to hear from him five minutes ago, but not now, he surmised. So instead, he said, “It is sometimes difficult to tell friend from foe until the last second.”

“Believe me, I know,” Arkady said and nudged the paper bag with his foot. “I brought food. Let’s share a meal and talk about the operation. What support elements do you have in place?”

“I have a single controller, two armed spotters, and one sniper. Other than that, it is just me.”

“A small footprint is very wise—” The chirping of a satellite phone interrupted him, and he fished the device from his pocket. He held up a bony finger to Gavriil and put the phone to his ear. “Yes?”

Gavriil studied the old spy’s expression, searching for a clue as to the nature of the interruption, but as always, Arkady’s face gave up nothing. He disconnected the call and dropped the phone back into his pocket.

“It’s the Americans,” he said, his face still a mask, but his voice grave.

“What of the Americans? I have seen the Marines at the stadium and out conducting patrols. It is impossible that they will stumble on us here.”

“Not those Americans,” Arkady said. “The Ember Boeing just arrived at the airport. They are taxiing over to the government ramp as we speak.”

“Shit.”

“Yes,” Arkady said, pulling at his chin. “An unfortunate development.”

“They can’t possibly know about this operation, nor about our presence here. How could they?”

“How, indeed? But they are here nonetheless,” Arkady said, his mind working the problem. His cheeks suddenly blanched. “It’s my fault.”

“They don’t know you. It must be me. Somehow, they tracked me from Kiev.”

“No, I don’t think so,” Arkady said, shaking his head. “The Hemmler NOC is blown. Bessonov must have broken.”

Gavriil paced away from the truck, then turned back to his Director. “Let me program the weapon to target their jet. This is our chance to take them out—completely and finally.”

Arkady seemed to consider this for a moment, but Gavriil already knew the answer—whether from some subtle body cue or facial tic, or because he understood Arkady’s long-term goal for Mother Russia. “No,” the spymaster said. “It would ruin everything. We have to launch now.”

“In broad daylight?”

“It is the hand we are dealt, my son,” Arkady said. “How long to program the missile, plant the clues, and execute the plan?”

“Most of it is done,” Gavriil said, his mind ticking off the few tasks remaining. “I need thirty minutes.”

Arkady squeezed his arm and smiled. “Good.” He knelt and opened the metal suitcase, which reminded Gavriil of a luggage bomb from an old American spy movie. Gavriil watched as the old man pulled out a tripod device—like a miniature replica of a cell phone tower. He extended it to its maximum height and connected it to the metal box with a thick cable.

“What is that?” Gavriil asked.

“A portable EM jammer. It will interfere with all communications signals for a one-mile radius.” Arkady stood. “It is very powerful, but as such has a limited amount of battery. Once activated it will work for up to ninety minutes. You’ll have to tell your team in advance. They will lose comms, too.”

“That’s a problem,” Gavriil said.

“I know, but again, the alternative is worse.”

“How does it work?”

“Just push this button,” Arkady said and pointed to a green button on an electronic control panel.

“And if something changes? What if we need to abort?”

Arkady shook his head. “There is no going back now. There will be no abort. We execute the mission and exfil directly to the airport. While Ember is in the city, we will be escaping right under their noses.”

Gavriil nodded, still stunned at the turn of events. He shook his head clear and radioed each member of his team, briefing them on the revised timeline and the electronic jamming that would be implemented. With that done, he lifted the dead missile tech into the cab of the transport vehicle, then walked to the missile launch control panel to enter the target coordinates.

“Gavriil?” Arkady interrupted him, uncharacteristically using his given name.

“Yes?” he said, looking up. The spymaster’s eyes held something different, something he had seen only a glimmer of before. Respect? Admiration? Even love, perhaps?

“The plane leaves in one hour, with or without you.”

“Da, I know.”

“And the same holds for me. If I am late, detained, or injured, do not wait for me.” Arkady’s expression went hard as granite. “Do you understand?”

Gavriil hesitated a moment, then said, “I understand.”

“Good,” the old fox said, and with a fatalistic smile pressed the green button in the center of the open metal briefcase. “For Russia.”