Ghosts of War (36 page)

D
evon heard the shouted Russian and the scuffling of a fight through the door. Which meant they weren't focused on him or his wife. He knelt down to the plywood slapped over the hole in the bathroom wall and began to pull it, the wood popping in protest.

He stopped, looking for something to use for leverage.

He said, “Hand me your toothbrush.”

Amy did, and he jammed the end underneath the wood, then pried out. The nail separated an infinitesimal amount. Holding the gap, he hissed, “Get me my toothbrush.”

She did, and he jammed that one in as well, then began prying back and forth. He heard footsteps coming down the hall and stopped, turning around and hiding what he was doing with his body.

One of the Russians opened the door and said, “I am Kirill. It's time. Come with me.”

Devon said, “What about my wife?”

“She stays. She'll be here when you get back.”

He handed Devon the keys to the sedan and pointed toward the den. Devon turned around, kissed his wife, saying, “Be strong. This will be over soon.”

She wiped a tear away and nodded.

Devon followed the Russian into the den. Before opening the door, Kirill showed him a pistol in his waistband, saying, “Do not, under any circumstances, attempt to escape or alert anyone. Or your wife will be the one to suffer.”

Devon nodded, and they went to his car. He saw a briefcase in the backseat and asked, “What is that?”

“It's the camera I'm going to use.”

“The gate might search it.”

“For your wife's sake, I'd make sure that doesn't happen.”

Devon started the sedan and began retracing his route back to the airbase in Lask, purposely using roads that would take longer than necessary to get out of the city. Eventually, he was forced to enter the expressway, and found himself doing a hundred kilometers an hour just to keep from getting run over. At this speed he would reach the base soon if he didn't come up with some plan to slow down.

And then the radiator warning light came on. Devon prayed that Kirill wouldn't notice, this time ignoring the warning, instead turning the air-conditioning on max.

Twelve minutes later, the first waft of steam floated out from under the hood. Kirill saw it, and said, “What's happening?”

“I told you I had a radiator problem. The car's overheating.”

Kirill withdrew his pistol and said, “You fucking liar! What did you do?”

Devon took his right hand off the wheel, holding it up in surrender. “Nothing! I swear! I told you it had a problem. I didn't hide it from you. You guys demanded I take this car.”

Kirill turned off the air conditioner, rotated the knob to heat, and said, “Get off the road before it seizes up.”

A half mile down the expressway, Devon saw the Shell station he'd stopped at on the way into town. He coasted off the exit ramp and rolled into the parking lot, the motor coughing and sputtering.

He killed the engine and said, “This is going to take about an hour to cool down before we can put in some water.”

Kirill said, “Get out of the car. We're going inside to buy coolant. If you try anything, I'll kill you and anyone else inside. And then I'll spend some quality time with your wife.”

—

I watched Brett talking to Master Sergeant Fitzgerald through the glass in the door and said, “What's up, sir?”

“You got Captain Tatum yet?”

“We're on the base talking to his NCO, but he left early. He's got some family issues. Brett's finding out what time he's coming in tomorrow and setting up a private meeting.”

“We don't have time to wait. We need to get him, right now.”

“What happened?”

“We completed the analysis of the information from the Jewish Ghetto target, and we've identified two of the five dead Russians. It's not good news.”

Before my team had left the apartment, we conducted a thorough site exploitation, retrieving biometric data from the dead men, a host of documents, and anything else we thought would be useful—down to the labels in the men's clothes—and had shipped all that, along with the phones, to the Taskforce.

I said, “What did they find?”

“One of the men was arrested in a joint FBI sting operation in Moldova. The FBI has his arrest jacket. The other is his boss—a man known as the ‘Colonel' in the underworld. Both were former members of the Russian security apparatus, with the Colonel being the actual target of the sting. He got away, but he was trying to sell radioactive waste to terrorists. We think Mikhail is trying to make a dirty bomb.”

Holy shit.

I said, “If the guy was arrested in Moldova, how is he running around Poland?”

“He spent less than six months in a Moldovan prison before being released. The Moldovans bungled the sting, getting the sample he brought, but not the mother lode. And they missed the Colonel as well.”

“But these guys were about to torture the hell out of Mikhail. That doesn't make any sense.”

“We don't know what went on in that apartment. We can only go with what we
do
know, which is that an attack is planned, and the planners met with a Russian group known for trying to sell radioactive waste to terrorists.”

Needless to say, I was fairly sure that had the presidential administration's ass in a pucker.

I said, “I'm on it. I'll interdict him in Lodz, but I'll have to figure out his address. Where do we stand with Simon?”

“Knuckles has the phone pinpointed to the Ritz-Carlton in Vienna. We're currently trying to neck down his room, but it's a lot of information to go through, and we have no idea what name he's using. We're focusing on Russian passports right now.”

I saw Brett heading my way and said, “I have to go, sir. I'll be in touch.”

I opened the door and Brett said, “Zero-seven-thirty. We'll be the first on his agenda.” He saw my face and said, “What happened?”

I said, “Hang on a sec.” I turned to Master Sergeant Fitzgerald and said, “There is something else you can help us with. If we put drones here, besides the force protection issue, we're going to need a place for the maintenance team to stay. Do you have the real estate agency that Captain Tatum used?”

“You don't want to go to Lodz. Too long of a commute.”

“Hey, no offense, but my days of sleeping in the dirt are over. We've already looked at Lask, and my guys are going to want a town big enough to have at least two bars.”

He laughed and stood up, saying, “I don't have it, but it might be in his desk.”

He rooted through the top drawer, then pulled out a card, saying, “Here it is. I remember he kept it because the lady he worked with could speak fluent English. He sometimes calls her for things that
have nothing to do with real estate. I think it's how he found the plumber he's using now.”

I took a picture of the card with my phone and thanked him, saying we'd see him tomorrow morning.

Once outside, Brett glanced at me, and I gave him the news. He said, “Wow. How do you always end up in the middle of a shit sandwich?”

We got in the car and I said, “Skill.”

I sent the picture of the card to Kurt, then tried to call, getting his voice mail. We exited the base, going back to the turnout where the team waited. On the drive, Brett said, “You remember Iraq? In 2002?”

“Yeah.”

“Remember when the world leaders were all looking for an out, and everyone was talking about inspections, UN resolutions, and the way to head off a war?”

“Yeah. I do.”

“We reached a point—long before we crossed the berm—where the war was on its own trajectory, and nothing anybody was going to do would alter that. We'd built up so much combat power that it became a self-fulfilling prophecy. Somewhere we crossed a line where all the talk was wasted breath, and the only thing remaining was the timing.”

He exhaled, the air leaking out in a resigned way. He said, “I think we're close to that here. This thing is going to take on a life of its own within forty-eight hours, and after that, nothing you or I do will change it.”

I hoped he was wrong.

We exited the gate, finding the team patiently waiting on us. I briefed them on the status of Tatum, then where we stood with Simon.

Jennifer said, “Sounds like Knuckles is having better luck than us.”

“Not really. All they have is a gigantic hotel. Simon's using an alias, and they don't know what it is. Only that it's probably Russian.”

Shoshana said, “Tell them to look for Israelis. If he's using a false passport and Mikhail is involved, it'll be Israeli.”

Of course.
I felt like planting a giant face-palm. My phone rang, and I saw it was Kurt returning my call. To her, I said, “You're a damn genius.”

Shoshana grinned and said, “I know.”

I answered the phone, saying, “Did you get the card I sent?”

“Yes. What is it?”

“Devon Tatum's real estate agent. They've got a website, and I'll bet hacking it is child's play. We're headed to Lodz right now. Get the Taskforce on it. You have about an hour to get me an address.”

I heard him say something to someone in the background, then he returned, saying, “They're on it. Give me an update as soon as you can.”

I said, “Will do.” He started to hang up and I said, “Sir!”

“Yeah, what? I gotta go.”

“We think you're looking at the wrong passports for Simon. Screen anyone from Israel. There will probably be only two or three, and one of them is the target.”

“Why would you think that?”

“Let's just say I have some people on my team who are pretty well versed in the target set.”

“Shoshana?”

“Yeah. And she's right. I guarantee it.”

O
n the portico of the West Wing, Kurt Hale hung up the phone and began giving rapid orders to George Wolffe. He passed the photo of the business card, gave him the Israeli information, then said, “Get back to the Taskforce and start working this. Pike needs an address in an hour or less, and give whatever you find on Simon directly to Knuckles.”

George said, “My pleasure. You oughta come with me. Get out of that hellhole.”

“I wish. If I leave here now, Lord knows what decisions will be made in that room.”

George turned to leave, saying, “Good luck with that. Someday we'll have our normal life back, just chasing terrorists.”

Kurt said, “Someday. If we're not all jumping into lead-lined bunkers shortly.”

He walked back to the situation room, the place reeking of sweat, with the long conference table covered in a blizzard of reports and briefings, and staffers of all types clogging up any available space. He searched the perimeter, finally seeing Alexander Palmer at the head of the table, talking to someone he didn't recognize.

He slipped through the bodies, their armpits stained and ties askew, then sidled up to Palmer.

Palmer saw him and said, “Excuse me, Bill,” then stepped away from the man he had been talking to without waiting for an acknowledgment.

“Tell me some good news.”

“We got a handle on Captain Tatum, but we don't have control of him yet. We've also got Simon's phone necked down to the Ritz in Vienna, but we don't know a room.”

“Well, shit. I can't take that to the president. Come back when you've actually worked a solution.”

“What's the latest?”

“NATO's fully alerted. Poland hasn't invoked Article 5 yet, but that's because President Hannister has asked them not to. Doing so is basically a declaration of war, and when that happens, Putin's going to smash everything around him in a preemptive bid to keep NATO out. So far, they've listened to us, but they've got some nationalists who are making it very hard.”

“What about our forces?”

“Hunkered down in a defensive perimeter. Putin's saturated the Luhansk province with his forces. In fact, they're still flying in.”

“I thought we were finished at the crash site.”

Palmer scoffed and said, “Yeah, we were.” He flicked his head to the chairman of the Joint Chiefs, standing across the room and animatedly waving his hands about something. He said, “That jackass failed to take into account that jumping into combat is a one-way ticket. Once on the ground, the only way out is by foot, or by linkup with someone who can drive. The Marines and Army forces we sent in don't have enough vehicles to extract the two battalions of the 82nd on the ground. Which means the armor—that could have gotten out on its own—is staying behind for a defense.”

“We need to tell the Russians what we have. Let him know about Simon and that we don't think Russia was behind the downing of Air Force One. Someone needs to tone down the tension here.”

“President Hannister is talking to them, but they're belligerent,” Palmer said. “And I mean
really
belligerent. Putin is not backing down at all. He's blaming NATO and the West for the entire escalation, screaming about the Polish nationals that are doing hit-and-run
attacks on his forces—conveniently forgetting that he fucking built a land bridge to the Kaliningrad Oblast through Polish territory. He's not going to listen to anything we say without proof, and after what you reported about the Russians trying to take out Mikhail, we'd better find that proof before he does. If he kills Simon to protect himself, we're probably going to war.”

Kurt said, “I'm working it, sir.”

Palmer said, “I know. I just wish it were quicker.” Kurt let him return to his work, then took a seat and listened to the various conversations occurring. After forty minutes, he was considering returning to the Taskforce headquarters, feeling he wasn't doing anything constructive here, when his phone vibrated with a call from George. He answered. “You got good news?”

“Pike's information panned out. Simon's got an Israeli passport, and it took us about fifteen seconds of sifting to find his room. Knuckles is asking where the hell the FBI tactical team is. He's ready to hit, right now. He needs to linkup with them.”

Kurt smiled for the first time. He said, “I can make that happen.”

—

Amy Tatum had been sitting still for so long, her legs had fallen asleep. Every so often, a man named Oleg looked in to make sure she was behaving, causing her to tremble, but she gathered a little more courage each time after he left without harming her. It appeared they weren't going to rape or kill her outright. She began timing the visits, finding they were between eight and twelve minutes apart. After the last one, she hesitantly decided to do more than simply sit.

She slid off the toilet and tentatively worked the two toothbrushes still under the plywood. She pried them back, gaining a space between the wood and the wall, but she couldn't slide the toothbrushes higher to increase it. Every time she created a gap, she lost it. She needed
something larger to prop open the wood before trying to move closer to the nail.

She heard footsteps on the tile outside, and scrambled onto the toilet. This time, when he opened the door, she asked for a glass of water. He muttered something incomprehensible, but brought back what she wanted: a glass.

She waited until the footsteps retreated, straining her ears to be sure he'd gone, then dumped the water into the sink. She levered open the plywood, gaining the same space she had before, but this time, she jammed in the glass, keeping it open. She slid the toothbrushes higher, and levered again, gaining more space. She slid the glass upward and repeated the procedure until the nail popped out of the gypsum board wall.

She rotated the piece of plywood counterclockwise on the remaining nail, until the hole in the wall was exposed. She bent down, now knowing she was committed, but not wanting to be so. If someone came in to check on her and saw the hole, she'd probably be killed.

But if she tried to run and was caught, she most definitely would be killed. And she was sure they would catch her. She could see the daylight coming from the hole in the brick of the outer wall a mere four feet away, tantalizing her.

She went back and forth in her mind, considering the risk and feeling the seconds tick away. The man would return in five minutes, and the longer she sat there, the less time she had to run for freedom.

The fear overwhelmed her courage. She started to rotate the plywood back over the hole, then held it for a moment. She thought about what her husband would do, and she took that path. She flung the plywood back and squeezed into the small opening, worming her way through the pipes, feeling the grit of forty years digging into her skin. She reached the opening in the brick and cracked her head on a cinder block, seeing stars.

She fought through the pain and wriggled the final meter, spilling out onto the sidewalk next to her apartment complex. She leapt up and began running, looking for anyone to help her.

She went north, toward the mall, and hit Staromiejski Park. She saw a woman walking a dog, and sprinted toward her across the boundary street. The woman took one look at her dirty appearance and began walking rapidly away. Amy caught up to her and said, “Help me, please! I've been kidnapped!”

The woman shouted in Polish, scooped up her dog, and scurried away. Amy looked behind her, checking to see if she was being chased. She was not. She thought through the problem. She needed people. If they didn't speak her language, they would at least understand that she was being threatened if one of the men came after her.

She saw the giant Manufaktura mall in the distance and remembered the food court. Most of the people working the counters spoke English, and the place was always crowded. It was her ticket out of this nightmare.

If she could get there.