Black Ghosts (36 page)

Sokolov sat quietly for a long minute. Then, in a low, thoughtful voice, he said, “You have a point. I'm sure there's a flaw in your argument somewhere, but we'll have to pick it up again when this is all over.”

“You're on,” Edward said, and lit a cigarette.

By the time Rogov arrived at the Kremlin, his troops would already have taken control. As soon as the American president's plane had landed, the communication array would be activated, so all normal communication by radio, television, and satellite would cease, to be replaced by Peter's proclamation of his own ascendancy.

“Do you think you'll have any trouble with the Kremlin security?”

“Kremlin security has only one man who is a member of the Black Ghosts, Colonel Denisov, the chief of the entire unit. That is why Rogov was able to ensure that his troops would be the ones called in to guard the Kremlin. All the rest of the staff are loyal. Remove Denisov and we remove the problem.”

“And how do you intend to do that?”

“Simple. He believes I'm the one who has to take control, remember. I shall arrest him.”

“Can you make it stick?”

“I'm sorry?” Sokolov was puzzled by this unfamiliar expression.

“Can you convince everyone around him that you are right to arrest him?”

“I am a colonel. I need to convince no one.”

Their deliberations were interrupted by Edward's watch sounding its alarm. “It's time,” he said, getting up. “They should be arriving here in . . .”—he looked at his watch again—“about ten minutes, give or take five. Yuri?” He called to the big man, who was almost asleep at the table, bored with the fast English that Edward and Sokolov were talking, which to him must have sounded like a loose nut in a fan.

“Da?”

“Can you turn on the runway lights?”

“When?”

“We should be able to hear them coming in. We don't want the lights on for too long.”

“The switch is in big hangar. My man is waiting there, but I go myself. Maybe he had too much to warm himself.” He made a drinking gesture with his hand.

“And get the hangar doors open; we want the plane in there as quickly as we can.”

“What kind of plane?” Yuri asked.

“Jumbo, Boeing seven forty-seven.”

“No problem, this place built for it. Here.” He handed Edward the walkie-talkie. “This set for you to talk. You tell when light go on.”

“Great.” Edward was satisfied. “Did you test the lights?”

“No, no need for that.”

There was that detail he had forgotten, Edward thought. He had forgotten to take care of it beforehand, when he'd had the time, and he was not used to working with people who had to be told everything. He needed an alternative plan, and fast. “How many cars do you have?”

“Twelve,” said the Russian, puzzled.

“Get your men in the cars and out to the field now.” Edward's voice made it clear that things were urgent. “Have them line up the cars on both sides of the runway and turn on the car lights. Have them spread out along the entire length. This is a big plane we have coming in. He needs lights, and if your lights don't work we need a backup.”

Yuri got the message. Responding to the urgency in Edward's voice, he got up and began shouting orders. His men responded quickly, to Edward's surprise.

“What's the problem?” Sokolov asked, walking by Edward's side on their way out of the farmhouse.

“The plane has come most of the way taking the place of a chartered flight we managed to get delayed.” He turned to face the tall Russian officer. “I hope, that is. I've had no communication with them for some time now. After crossing Estonia, they should have descended to a very low altitude. They have to maintain that low-level flight until they arrive here. They should be almost out of fuel. And this is the only place they can land.”

By the time they got outside, the various vehicles, including the one Edward had arrived in, were lining up along the runway on both sides. They then turned to face each other, their headlights throwing pools of illumination on the airstrip. Edward was satisfied. In the darkness, he could see the large door of the hangar slowly open, its grooved runners giving a terrible screech.

Then from far away came a sound that at first could be mistaken for a distant drum roll. It gradually developed into the roar of an approaching jet plane.

Yuri pulled the switch in the hangar. The lights on the runway flickered for a moment and then went out, taking with them the lights in the house, the ones at the end of the hangar, and probably everything else within a ten-mile radius.

“Here they come,” Edward said aloud, but there was only the sound getting louder and louder. Nothing was visible in the sky. It was eerie, the thundering sound and the empty sky. Then suddenly the giant plane came into view, hugging the top of the hill to the west, almost perfectly lined up with the airstrip. It was flying with landing gear open, not more than fifty feet above the treetops. Before they had time to blink, it was already touching the end of the runway with a screech of rubber on asphalt.

Then came the roar of engines thrown into reverse, bringing the plane to a full stop. It stood there for several seconds, then started to move again, heading for the open hangar. Edward and Sokolov ran to the car closest to them, Sokolov ordering the driver to head for the large open door.

The plane slowly entered the hangar. What had at first seemed to be a giant structure now appeared almost small in comparison with the vast jet that barely fit inside it. The huge engines fell silent.

But almost immediately another sound was heard. At first it sounded like a motorcycle engine, a ta-ta-ta-ta sound. In a flash Edward recognized it: an approaching helicopter. There was the whistle of the turbo engine. It was somewhere beyond the hill the jumbo had just flown over.

“Can you hear me?” Edward shouted into the walkie-talkie.

“What you want?” came the answer.

“Tell your men to turn off their lights!”

There was a call on the radio and the lights went off one by one.

“There's a helicopter coming in!” Edward shouted into the radio. “Can you shoot it down?”

Oleg's helicopter followed the plane's path over the hill. The airfield came into view, and Oleg saw the tail of the huge plane slowly disappearing behind the closing doors of the giant hangar. The entire place was blacked out, but with his night-vision goggles he could see it all in the green light. There were trucks lined up on both sides of the long runway. Men were getting out of them and looking into the sky.

Up in the helicopter, a flash coming from the house at the end of the runway caught Oleg's eye. He pulled hard on his stick, trying a maneuver he had learned in Afghanistan to get out of the way of a Stinger antiaircraft rocket. In Afghanistan, he had always been ready for one of those and had managed to avoid a few. Today, however, he was not ready, and the maneuver he took didn't stand a chance. He wanted to say something to his navigator, who at that moment was looking in the other direction. Lucky for him, thought Oleg, he will never know.

The ball of fire lit up the entire area for miles around. Then it was dark again, even darker than before.

“If he reported back, we could have the whole Russian army here in no time,” Sokolov said.

“Let's get the team out of the plane. We'll have to stay here for now,” Edward replied. “We have to play it as if nothing has changed. We have no choice.”

 

The three military trucks came to a stop down the block from the shiny glass-and-steel office building. There were no pedestrians at this time of night, and the occasional car that passed by only sped up at the sight of soldiers in dark green combat fatigues, black bulletproof vests and black helmets, armed with Kalashnikov submachine guns, and lined up around the corner.

Yakov signaled one of his lieutenants, placing his hand on his head and pointing to the building's main door. Not a word was said. The officer raised a fist in the air, then brought it down to shoulder height, repeating the motion several times, signaling his men to follow him. Hugging the wall, they waited for several seconds. Then a pale green Lada drove up the street and slammed into a telephone pole. The remote-controlled television camera located over the main entrance to the building turned in the direction of the accident. That was the lieutenant's final signal. He got up from his squatting position and, still keeping close to the wall, ran for the main entrance. Stopping several feet short of the door, he allowed two men carrying large steel hammers to pass him. They slammed the hammers into the doors, shattering the glass, and he threw in two stun grenades. Barely waiting for the flash to die down, he ran in with his men, screaming at the top of his lungs. Whoever was guarding the main entrance would be in total shock.

By the time Sergei Pozharsky's guards realized what had happened, they were riddled with bullets and the best they could do was die.

Following the break-in unit, the rest of the soldiers who had been waiting outside now made their way in, each team taking a predesignated floor.

Sergei, up in his penthouse suite, heard nothing until the large oak doors leading from the main hall came tumbling down, bringing the sweating and breathless soldiers to his bedside. The woman seated on him froze, and he had to push her aside as he tried to get to his gun in the drawer by the bed. A single bullet caught him in the shoulder, throwing him back against the satin-covered headboard. He looked at the wound in amazement, as if he had never seen blood before.

The naked woman screamed and tried to run for the door leading to the bathroom. A short burst from the lieutenant's submachine gun stopped her in her tracks. Splattering the bathroom door with blood and bits of torn tissue, she folded and fell to the floor.

“What do you want?” Sergei shouted in horror. “Who are you, who are you working for?”

“Russia,” said the lieutenant, pushing out his chin. “We serve our country, you bag of shit. We will rid the country of scum like you, we'll cleanse it.”

Sergei was trembling, trying to stop the bleeding from his wound with his other hand. “What do you want from me?”

At that moment Yakov walked in. “Where is the American you said you had?”

“I don't know what you're talking about!” Sergei tried to gain ground. Yakov drew a pistol from his holster and without any hesitation aimed it and shot Sergei in his shoulder, through the hand that was trying to stop the bleeding. “Where is the American?” He pointed his gun again.

Sergei was crying. His flabby body, now almost completely covered with blood, heaved as he shrieked loudly. “I don't have him, he's at the airfield.”

“What airfield?”

“I have the name in my desk,” Sergei said, trying to buy some time. He knew that he was not going to be left alive once these people, whoever they were, got their answers. He knew he had one chance to survive. This situation he was in right now did not come as a total surprise to him. The suddenness of it did, though. The way these people had made it all the way to his suite without his knowing was quite a feat, but he still had a card up his sleeve—even if he had no sleeve.

“Where in the desk?”

“The bottom drawer. There is a small compartment there. Inside that, there's a map with the airport marked on it.”

“Up,” Yakov said, pointing to the door with his gun. “Come on, move it.”

“Please, please, let me get something to stop the bleeding,” Sergei gasped. He tried to stand up, only to fall to the floor by the bed. He lay still, trying to pretend he had passed out. “Bring him over,” the lieutenant said to two of the soldiers who were still standing exactly where they'd wound up after breaking in.

They grabbed Sergei by the arms and pulled him up. The pain in his shoulder became unbearable and he knew he was about to pass out for real. He had to stay out of his office when they opened that drawer. He made a run for the balcony door. Outside, there was a small hatch that led to a concrete safe room, if he could only reach it. The first bullet got him in the thigh. His body slumped to one side, crashing through the glass door that led to the balcony.

The second bullet hit him in the back as he lay moaning on the floor amid the broken glass, jolting his body forward. He could see the hatch, which was open, and he could also hear the click as the hidden switch in the small compartment of his desk triggered the explosive device underneath. This was meant to happen when he was already in a safe place. The blast blew out the windows of the entire floor, filling the street below with a shower of glass fragments, pieces of furniture, and uniformed body parts. Yakov, too, knew what was coming when he heard the click of the trigger, but there was nothing he could do but utter a curse.

 

 

 

“What do you mean, you lost him?” Androva was not even attempting to sound polite. General Rogov was approaching her, having completed his briefing session in the glass-paneled office.

“He informed us,” said the voice on the phone, “that the two first locations you wanted checked were clean. He was on his way to the third when we lost him. We can't send out a helicopter to search for him because they are all committed to other tasks. In fact, they are all out already.”

“What is it?” Rogov asked.

“I think I know where Edward and his men are.”

“Get him,” the general spat and walked on.