Coercion (19 page)

Piloting
his Beamer toward the Sunset Palms hotel and his rendezvous with one of Lucy’s Ladies, Victor found himself rehashing the stressful question that drove him to seek that kind of release.  Could coincidence account for all his recent problems?  It seemed unlikely, yet the alternative—that someone was finally on to him after all these years—seemed impossible.  For seventeen years, half of his life, he had been living a lie so skillfully conceived and flawlessly implemented that he had sailed through the background checks required for a government security clearance.  In fact, his implant had been so flawless that it had become the standard by which he judged all his future endeavors.

Victor was one of a dozen deep-cover Soviet moles the KGB planted in the US that year in an operation codenamed
Immaculate Conception
.  None had been rooted out.  He would not be the first.

Immaculate Conception began with the KGB placing an agent named Sparrow at U-Haul’s headquarters.  Sparrow’s first job was to go through the reservations database, looking for families making one-way long-distance moves.  Then he called everyone that fit the general profile, and began narrowing down the list.  The first criterion was children.  He was looking for families with teenage child
ren.

“Hello Mrs. Murphy, this is U-Haul Customer Service calling.  I just wanted to check if any children would be accompanying you and Mr. Murphy on your move this summer?”

“Why yes, our son Michael will be with us.”

“I see.  And how old is he?”

“He’s twelve.  Why do you ask?”

“We just want to be sure your truck is equipped with the proper safety equipment.  It’s just one more way U-Haul works to serve you better.”

“It’s kind of you to ask, but we won’t be needing any of that.”

“Thank you Mrs. Murphy, and have a good day.”

Once Sparrow had prepared his list of finalists, he quit U-Haul, donned a suit, and set off to visit each family.  His tack was to pretend to be with the Census Bureau; his job to determine if the family had any close friends or family.  Most did, and Sparrow ended up visiting over two hundred finalists before producing the dozen target families Immaculate Conception required.

The Stormer family was moving from Detroit to Sacramento, where they planned to start a fresh life and a new business.  Sixteen-year-old Victor and his “parents” intercepted the Stormers one night at a motel in Wyoming, killed them, and continued the drive the next day in their place.

They buried Jason in a deep grave with enough lime to dissolve him in no time.  He was never found.  Nobody was looking.  Mr. and Mrs. Stormer, on the other hand, made the journey to Sacramento in an ice cream truck before the KGB transferred them to a deep freezer plugged in at a U-Store facility.

Six months later, the new Jason Stormer graduated from high school and applied to UCLA.  Shortly thereafter, his KGB
parents thawed Jason’s real parents, put them in a car, and “killed” them in an accident that burned them beyond the reach of an autopsy.

Victor’s KGB parents flew on to another assignment while Victor himself went off to college fully armed.  He had friends and a history in Sacramento, a High School diploma, a fat insurance payment from his dear parents’ death, and a bulletproof cover.

After the additional camouflage seventeen years of citizenship layered on, he was confident that nobody in America could possibly guess, much less find a way to prove, that Jason Stormer was born Victor Titov.  The string of problems he had been facing had to be a coincidence.

Victor entered the hotel room to find that the evening’s entertainment had already
arrived, she was waiting for him on the bed in one of the suite’s white terrycloth robes.  “My name’s Nikki,” she said, setting down a jar of mini-bar pistachios and standing.  She dropped the robe around her ankles without another word.

Nikki was exactly what he had ordered.  That was, of course, what one expected when putting a thousand dollars on their AmEx, but in this business, you never knew.  She had slender arms rising to supple shoulders which she pulled back gracefully to parade
two golden apples, ripe for the plucking.  They were teased from atop by her thick brown hair which was coiffed in a wild, unkempt look, akin to the one in her eyes.  Victor felt his mouth go dry. 

Still mute
, Nikki walked over, crouched to her knees and unbuckled his belt.  She might have been nineteen when she walked in the door, Victor thought, but she’ll feel twenty-five by the time she leaves.  Victor’s mind began to bathe within the carnal pleasures of the moment, releasing his tensions and assuaging his cares, then his pager leapt to life.

Some people react to spiders, others to blood, some fear heights, others enclosed spaces.  Nothing knocked the joy out of Victor like the vibration from his pager.  The heavens might as well have opened up to drop a rattlesnake into
his shorts; his reaction would have been the same.  He had no illusions about what that hum signified.  To Nikki, however, it was just another toy.  She picked the vibrating box off his belt with a giggle and began pleasuring herself with it, staring all the while dreamily into his eyes.  Victor found himself paralyzed with shock.  It was like watching a baby teethe on a hand grenade—hard to process.  But the spell didn’t last.  He snatched the pager away and went to the bathroom to read the message in private.

Sight unseen, a pager message meant two things to Victor.  It meant something was wrong, and it meant that his father was upset about it. 
Then there was the message.  Like an EAM sent to a submarine, the pager format meant there was to be no discussion, no debate, and no explanation, just emergency action.  It was a father’s way of getting the last word without even having to speak to his son.  The pager was the voice that commanded him, the collar that enslaved him, and the whip that lashed him.  Victor hated the pager. 

He punched in his nine-digit security code and looked at the screen. 
Ferris slipped his tail in Irkutsk
.  Victor’s blood pressure surged such that he thought his eyes might pop like champagne corks.  “No!”  He punched the bathroom door hard enough to put his fist through both sides of the flimsy wood. Nikki yelped.  It took a grumbly minute for Victor to extract his hand.  No sooner had he done so than the pager went off again. 
Damn it!
  He tossed it into the air out of shock, but managed to catch it as it fell.  Then a calm settled over him like a warm blanket as he read the continuation of the earlier text:
but Yarik has him now
.

Victor liked Yarik; he was strong, sincere, and straightforward.  He was also, without a doubt, the most instinctively sadistic person Victor had ever met.  He wondered how that chase had gone, and made a mental not
e to ask Yarik the next time they spoke.  Victor recalled the story of a fur trader who had stolen supplies from a remote base while Yarik was visiting.  Yarik chased him over the Siberian countryside, in the dead of winter, for four days, just for sport.  What mortal could enjoy spending nights outdoors when the temperature was forty below zero?  And over what, a rifle and a couple boxes of ammunition?  Not this California boy.

The local soldier sent by the embarrassed C
.O. to accompany Yarik on the chase was a man who had lived twenty years in those woods.  He said that Yarik could track a man better than a beatified bloodhound.  The soldier also reported what happened when Yarik finally caught the trapper.  Yarik zipped him up in a sleeping bag with his arms sticking out the top.  Then he bound his wrists together around the trunk of a fir tree, and then left him there overnight.  In the morning, while Yarik sipped his tea, he began interrogating the man.  What else had he stolen?  To whom did he sell things?  Did he have help on the inside?  Questions like that.  For each answer that Yarik didn’t like, he ceremoniously snapped off one of the trapper’s frozen fingers.  When the interrogation was over, he just left him there.  The soldier later described the scene as a freezing fingerless freak fastened to a fir.  Victor superimposed Alex’s face on that mental image and grew a grin.  Enjoy yourself, Alex.

With that thought, the blood returned to Victor’s loins and he walked back into the bedroom intent on giving Nikki the good news.  She was gone.  He punched his palm in frustration and recoiled in pain.  Looking down he saw that his hand was gashed and dripping blood.  Then he remembered punching the door and pictured the look that must have crossed the call girl’s face.  He was too much of a man even for the pros.

Victor was about to run after her when the pager vibrated a third time.  Enough was enough.  He picked it back up and re-entered his code.  This time the screen read, “C001F1200.  Igor is dead.”

Victor collapsed onto the bed. 
Igor—dead.  What had happened?  He looked at his watch.  It was eight PM.  He had two hours before it would be noon Foxtrot time, and he’d have to call his father.  He knew it wasn’t going to be a consolation call.  Vasily would want something.  Nonetheless, for the first time in his life, Victor was looking forward to calling good old 001.

Without
warning, four of the seven KGB soldiers erupted in a deadly dance, convulsing wildly as bullets tunneled through their bodies from below.  The three remaining soldiers jumped to their feet from the opposite bench and stared in uncomprehending horror as their team members disintegrated before their eyes, the victims of an unseen power.

The roar of the aircraft’s engines drowned out all sound in the cargo hold, making it unclear if gunfire or lightning or Satan himself were powering the bloody boogie.  That doubt vanished a moment later when the devil incarnate, all glistening red and bristling with rage, burst forth from beneath the four lost souls and turned his fiery gaze toward them.

Blood from the soldiers’ bodies poured down onto Andrey as the savage smells of cordite and copper suffused the bench.  The vile combination sparked an adrenal blast that primed him for the fight ahead.  He swallowed an acrid cloud, summoned a barbaric cry from deep within, and sprang from the cargo bench like a demonic Jack-in-the-box.

Andrey had the steady nerves of a combat veteran, but the reflexes and stamina of a pentagenarian, so he remained calm though the sight that met his eyes sucked the wind from his lungs.  Three soldiers were still standing, and he was out of ammunition.

The survivors stood before the opposite bench, a meter to the right of where Alex sat bound.  Each wore the same wide-eyed expression of horror—despite having youth, numbers and arms on their side.  Andrey needed that split-second of shock to neutralize two AK-74s and a hunting knife.

Lying in the dark bench Andrey had anticipated a survivor or two, and had burst forth prepared to act accordingly.  As he spun to face his opponents he whipped a parachute around by the end of its straps like World Series slugger in the bottom of the ninth.  To hit all three targets Andrey was forced to overextend his swing.  So while the parachute flew to the back of the cargo hold with the AKs and the hunting knife, he tumbled into the trio, landing with them in a heap on the floor.

Andrey looked up from the writhing muddle to catch a glimpse of his comrade in arms.  Alex was unmasked now and on his feet.  Judging by the fire in his eyes, he too was ready for redemption.

Andrey disabled the soldier above him with a bear hug from behind, while kicking the head of another against the base of the bench.  The soldier’s skull gave way on the second blow as Alex swooped in with the knife to slash the bear-hugged soldier’s throat.  Andrey turned his head to avoid swallowing arterial spray and yelled “Go block the cockpit door!”  Then he rolled free of the corpse and stood to face the remaining man.

Andrey recognized him as the soldier who had been holding the hunting knife.  He was
a Armenian of about half Andrey’s age and equal weight, and he wore an air of confidence the surrounding scene did not support.  As Andrey met his eye he flared his upper lip as though to bear his teeth and assumed the cool, forceful stance of a martial artist.

Andrey had always been more of a wrestler than a fighter, his large frame better suited to developing a gorilla’s strength than a gazelle’s speed.  But if he followed his natural inclinations and dropped into wrestling pose, his opponent would understand the score and adapt his attack accordingly.  So instead Andrey squared off with fists and forearms before him—announcing himself as a student of the sweet science.

The soldier feigned a punch then leapt and twisted with a spinning kick to the side of Andrey’s head.  His move was lighting quick and nearly impossible to block, but it was not Andrey’s intent to try.  He accepted the blinding blow in order to catch the recoiling leg, which he trapped high above the ground.  Clamping down with viselike hands Andrey somersaulted forward in a diving roll, snapping the soldier’s leg at the knee.

Were it not for the earsplitting screams, Andrey might have let the Armenian live.  Instead he planted his boot deep in the soldier’s solar plexus, momentarily extinguishing his mortal cry.  Then Andrey slammed the switch for the
tail landing gate with the side of his fist.  As the rear of the craft began to open, he stooped and grabbed two handfuls from the back of the soldier’s uniform.  Then he lifted and twisted like a hammer thrower, sending the silenced soldier sailing through the burgeoning crack and out into space.

Andrey bent forward to rest his palms on his knees while he chased his breath.  When he looked back up Alex was there, buoyed with newfound freedom and percolating the energy of youth.  Facing each other eye-to-eye for the first time, the two panting predators spent a silent moment sizing each other up.

“Is the door secure?”  Andrey asked, breaking the verbal silence as he repocketed his knife.  He leaned inward toward Alex so he could hear his response over the sixteen close-quarter pistol blasts that still rang in his ears.

“I blocked it as best I could,” Alex shouted, “but I don’t know how long it will hold.  Let’s hope we can get out of here before they learn what happened.”

A murderous clamor erupted from the direction of the cockpit before Andrey could concur.  He looked over at the vibrating door and pictured a red-faced Yarik fuming on the other side.

It was not the best time for such a ceremony, but something about the warrior’s code made Andrey pause and extend his hand.  “Andrey Demerko.”

Alex looked at him for a moment before reciprocating, “Alex Ferris.”  Then he added “Thank you,” indicating the pile of bodies with a sweep of his head.

Andrey brushed off the latter remark and said “Suit up” as he turned to appraise landscape now visible far below.  It looked as cold as a glacier, and no less desolate.

“Out of the frying pan and into the freezer
,” Alex said, capturing his thoughts.

“You are going to be very glad you kept those Asolo boots, my friend.”

“You have got a lot of explaining to do.”

“When we’re on the ground, Alex, when we’re on the ground.”

Yarik’s pounding intensified and then ceased altogether as the two donned their parachutes with practiced speed.  Finishing first, Andrey withdrew two hand grenades from his belt and wedged them in the tailgate’s hydraulics.  He said, “Compliments of the Chulin Air Base arsenal,” and then pulled the pins.

Alex gave him an understanding nod.  When the pilot closed the gate, the grenades would release, and it would be bye-bye-birdie.

“Grab an AK.  I don’t have any more ammunition for my Makarovs.”

Alex complied with a mock salute and then leapt out into space.  He had obviously endured all the Yarik he cared to take.

With a somber smile and a silent prayer Andrey dove after his charge.  It was his first flight as a guardian angel.  He hoped it would also be his last. 

Their altitude was somewhere in the range of six to seven thousand meters, so once they established eye contact, each assumed a diving pose.  The increased speed made it harder for them to stick together, but the thin air demanded the quickest possible descent.  This was no place to pass out.

As they rocketed toward the white expanse below, Andrey caught sight of the airplane above.  It was circling back.  They were not yet out of the woods.  A long sixty seconds later they leveled out, preparing to deploy.  The two unlikely comrades looked each other in the eye for a moment, then nodded. 

Andrey had to shift his AK from his right hand to his left in order to pull his ripcord.  As he did so, he saw Alex’s canopy fail to inflate.  His parachute had deployed, but the harness that connected the risers on the right side was severed and the silk just streamed out uselessly above him like the luminous trail of a plummeting meteorite.  The Armenian had probably slashed it with his hunting knife during Andrey’s swing for the bleachers.  Would he get the last laugh?

Andrey discarded his AK and assumed the soaring-eagle position to slow his descent, grateful that he had not yet deployed.  Then he looked over at the man he had chosen to save his country.  Alex seemed to have his wits about him.  The two men locked eyes as Alex released his useless chute.

Paratroopers were not skydivers, and thus unaccustomed to freefall acrobatics.  They made one unsuccessful pass, and then another, attempting with increasing desperation to converge in three dimensions as they fell to Earth. 
How many more tries did they have?

On the third pass, Alex caught Andrey by the ankle.  Then the two veterans began to work the drill they had studied decades apart with different forces on separate continents.  Working face to face, they attached the clips on the front of Alex’s harness to the D-rings on the front of Andrey’s.  Andrey gave them a quick test and then pulled his own ripcord.  A second later his parachute bellowed open and both men began to breathe again.

Their descent slowed, but it soon became clear that it had not slowed nearly enough.  Looking up Andrey saw the problem; it was an extra-light chute.  All military parachutes were lightweight compared to sport parachutes, and this one was at the small end of that spectrum.  It was designed for lightly equipped troops descending under fire.  How one of those had gotten packed into a regular harness, Andrey did not know, but whatever the reason, the outcome was indisputable.  They were both going to break their legs and probably their backs unless one of them found a way to substantially lighten the load.  There were not many options available, and the rocketing ground left little time to experiment.

Alex dropped his AK, but that was like bailing a boat with a thimble.  Then Alex lifted a leg to undo a boot, but Andrey stopped him.  He knew what he had to do.  These past months had just been borrowed time.  He had used them well.

He grabbed Alex on both sides of his head, looked him in the eye and shouted, “Don’t you fail me Alex!  Don’t you let my children down!”  Then, before his charge could respond, Andrey Demerko, veteran of Afghanistan, Chief of Staff for the Russian Minister of Foreign Affairs, and architect of the plan that would save his beloved nation from the clutches of criminals, cut himself free.

At one time or another, everyone wonders what he would think about if he knew he only had a moment to live.  This was the second time Andrey learned the answer.  He saw the smiles of his wife and children and those of the grandchildren to come, and he knew that he had done the right thing
.