Kill Switch (9780062135285) (4 page)

“Harper is good, Tucker. Really knows her stuff. Give her a chance. So will you do it?”

Tucker sighed. While he had little trust in government agencies, Crowe had so far proven himself to be a stand-­up guy.

“Give me the details.”

3

March 7, 8:07
A.M.

Siberia, Russia

The door to Tucker's private berth on the train slid back, and a head bearing a blue cap peeked through.

“Papers, please,” the train porter ordered, tempering his KGB-­like request with a friendly smile. The sliver-­thin young man could be no more than twenty, his coal-­black hair peeking from under his crisp hat. He kept the buttons of his uniform well polished, clearly very proud of his job.

Tucker handed over his passport.

The porter studied it, nodded, and handed it back. The man's eyes settled nervously on Kane. The shepherd sat upright in the seat opposite Tucker, panting, tongue hanging.

“And your animal?” the porter asked.

“Ser­vice animal.”

Tucker handed over Kane's packet, courtesy of Painter Crowe. The papers certified his furry companion was a working dog, adept at sensing Tucker's frequent and debilitating epileptic seizures. It was a ruse, of course, but traveling with a seventy-­pound military war dog tended to raise unwanted questions.

The porter reviewed the papers and nodded. “
Da,
I see. My second cousin suffers same sickness.” His gaze returned to Kane, but with more affection and sympathy now. “May I pet him?”

Tucker shrugged. “Sure. He doesn't bite.”

Not unless I tell him to.

Tentatively, the porter reached out and scratched Kane under the chin. “Good doggy.”

Kane regarded him impassively, tolerating the familiarity.

Tucker resisted the urge to smile.

Satisfied, the porter grinned and returned the documents to Tucker.

“I like him very much,” the young man said.

“I do, too.”

“If there's anything you need, you ask,
da
?”

Tucker nodded as the porter exited and slid the door closed.

He settled back, staring at the Russian scenery passing by the window, which mostly consisted of snowy trees and Soviet-­bloc-­era buildings as the train headed out of Vladivostok. The port city marked one end of this route of the Trans-­Siberian Railway; the other was Moscow.

Not that he and Kane were traveling that far.

For reasons Crowe hadn't explained, Tucker's target wouldn't be ready for extraction for a week. So after completing his final two days with Bogdan Fedoseev, Tucker had boarded the famous Trans-­Siberian Railway and settled in for the five-­day journey to the city of Perm. Once there, he was to meet a contact who would take him to his target, a man named Abram Bukolov.

Tucker still had no idea
why
the man needed to leave Russia in such a clandestine manner—­especially such a high-­profile figure. Tucker had recognized his name as soon as Crowe had mentioned it on the phone. Tucker's previous employer, Bogdan Fedoseev, had had business dealings with this man in the past.

Abram Bukolov was the owner of Horizon Industries and arguably the country's pharmacological tycoon. A frequent face on magazine covers and television shows, Bukolov was to prescription drugs what Steve Jobs had been to personal computing. In the years following the breakup of the Soviet Union, the pharmaceutical industry in Russia disintegrated into disarray and corruption, from the quality of the drugs themselves to the distribution networks. Thousands were thought to have died from tainted drugs or faulty doses. Through sheer force of will and inherited wealth, Abram Bukolov slowly and steadily bent the system to his benevolent will, becoming the keeper of Russia's pharmacy.

And now he wanted out, all but abandoning a multibillion-­dollar empire he had spent his entire adult life building.

Why?

And what could possibly drive such a man to run so scared?

According to the encrypted dossier sent by Painter Crowe, the only clue lay in Bukolov's mysterious warning:
The Arzamas-­16 generals are after me . . .

The man refused to explain more until he was safely out of Russia.

Tucker had studied the rest of the files for this mission over and over again. Bukolov was a well-­known eccentric, a personality trait that shone in every interview of him. He was clearly a driven visionary with a zealous passion to match, but had he finally snapped?

And what about these Arzamas-­16 generals?

From the research notes included in the dossier, there was once a city named
Arzamas-­16
. During the rule of Joseph Stalin, it was home to the Soviet Union's first nuclear weapons design center. The U.S. intelligence community simply referred to it as the
Russian Los Alamos
.

But it was only the first of the many
naukograds,
or “closed science cities,” that popped up across the Soviet Union, secured by ironclad perimeters. In such places, top-­secret projects under the aegis of the best Soviet scientists were conducted. Rumors abounded during the Cold War of biological weapons, mind control drugs, and stealth technology.

But Arzamas-­16 no longer existed.

In its place, the region had become home to a ­couple of nuclear weapons test facilities—­but what did anything like that have to do with Abram Bukolov?

And who could these nefarious
generals
be?

It made no sense.

He glanced over at Kane, who wagged his tail, ready for whatever was to come. Tucker settled back, deciding that was probably the best course of action from here.

Just be ready for anything.

4

March 7, 10:42
A.M.

Moscow, Russia

The large man stepped around his desk and settled into his chair with a creak of leather. He had the call up on his speakerphone. He had no fear of anyone listening. No one dared, especially not here.

“Where is the target now?” he asked. Word had reached his offices that an operative—­an American mercenary with a dog—­had been assigned to help Dr. Bukolov leave Russian soil.

That must not happen.

“Heading west,” the caller answered in Swedish-­accented Russian. “Aboard the Trans-­Siberian. We know he is booked through to Perm, but whether that's his final destination, we don't know yet.”

“What makes you think it would be otherwise?”

“This one clearly has some training. My instincts tell me he wouldn't book a ticket straight to his ultimate destination. He's too clever for that.”

“What name is he traveling under?”

“We're working on that, too,” the Swede answered, growing testy.

“And where are
you
now?”

“Driving to Khabarovsk. We tried to board the train at Vladivostok but—­”

“He gave you the shake,
da
?”

“Yes.”

“Let me understand this. A man and a large dog lost you and your team. Did he see you?”

“No. Of that we're certain. He is simply careful and well trained. What else have you learned about him?”

“Nothing much. I'm making inquiries, trying to track his finances, but it appears he is using a credit card that has been backstopped—­sanitized. It suggests he's either more than he seems to be or has powerful help. Or both. What came of the hotel search in Vladivostok?”

“Nothing. We couldn't get close. His employer—­that bastard Bogdan Fedoseev—­rented out the entire penthouse. Security was too tight. But if we can reach Khabarovsk before the train does, we'll board there. If not . . .”

The Swede's words trailed off.

Neither of them had to verbalize the problems such a failure would present.

The railway branched frequently from there, with routes heading in many different directions, including into China and Mongolia. Following their target into a foreign country—­especially China—­would exponentially multiply their surveillance challenges.

The speakerphone crackled again as the caller offered one hope. “If he is using sanitized credit cards, we should assume he has several passports and travel documents. If you have any colleagues in the FPS, it may be helpful to circulate his photo.”

He nodded to himself, rubbing his chin. The caller was referring to Russia's Federal Border Guard Ser­vice.

“As you said,” the caller continued, “a man and a large dog are hard to miss.”

“I'll see what I can do. I would prefer to keep the scope of this operation limited. That's why I hired you. Sadly, I am beginning to question my judgment. Get results, or I'll be making a change. Do you understand my meaning?”

A long silence followed before a response came.

“Not to worry. I've never failed before. I'll get the information you need, and he'll be dead before he ever reaches Perm.”

5

March 7, 6:08
P.M.

Trans-­Siberian Railway

A voice over the intercom system called out first in Russian, then in English.

“Next stop
,
Khabarovsk
.”

A scrolling green LED sign on the wall of Tucker's berth repeated the multilingual message along with: D
EPARTING AGAIN IN
18 MINUTES
.

Tucker began gathering his things, tugging on his coat. Once done, he patted Kane. “What do you say we stretch our legs?”

They'd been cooped up in the car for most of the day, and he knew he could use a bit of fresh air. He pulled on his fur trapper's cap, attached Kane's lead, then opened the berth door.

He followed the slow trudge of fellow passengers down the corridor to the exit steps. A few eyebrows were raised at the sight of his unusual traveling companion. One matronly babushka gave him what he could best describe as the evil eye.

Taking heed of the unnecessary attention, he avoided the terminal building—­a whitewashed, green-­tiled Kremlin-­esque structure—­and guided Kane across the train tracks to a patch of scrub brush. A chest-­high fence, missing more pickets than it retained, bordered the area.

As Kane sniffed and marked his territory, Tucker stretched his back and legs. Aboard the train, he had caught up on his sleep, and he had the muscle kinks to prove it.

After a few minutes, the screech of tires drew his attention past the terminal. The frantic blare of a car horn followed. He spotted a line of cars stopped at the intersection as a departing eastbound train cleared the station. As the caboose clunked over the road and the barriers rose, a black sedan swerved to the head of the line and raced into the terminal parking lot.

He checked his watch. Four minutes to departure.

Whoever was in the sedan was cutting it close.

He let Kane wander for another full minute, then walked back over the tracks to their train car. Once returned to their berth, Kane jumped into his usual seat, panting, refreshed.

A commotion out on the terminal platform drew his attention, too. A trio of men in long black leather dusters strode purposefully along the length of the train, occasionally stopping porters and showing them what looked to be a photo before moving on again. None of the men offered any credentials.

Faint alarm bells sounded in Tucker's head. But there were hundreds of ­people on the train, he told himself, and so far all the porters had merely shrugged or shook their heads when shown the photo.

Clearly frustrated, one of the men pulled out a cell phone and spoke into it. Thirty seconds later, he was joined by his partners, and after a brief discussion, the trio hurried back into the terminal and disappeared from view.

He watched and waited, but none of them reappeared.

He sighed in relief when the train whistle blew and the
All Aboard
was called. The train lurched forward and slowly pulled away from the station.

Only then did he settle back in his own seat.

But he was hardly settled.

7:38
P.M.

An hour later, too full of nervous energy to remain inside the berth, Tucker found himself seated in the dining car. Around him, the tables were draped with linen; the windows framed by silk curtains; the place settings china and crystal.

But his attention focused on the car's best feature.

While he had never been the type to ogle the opposite sex, the woman sitting across the aisle and one booth down was challenging his discipline.

She was tall and lithe, her figure accentuated by a form-­fitting skirt and a white cashmere turtleneck sweater. She wore her blond hair long and straight, framing high cheekbones and ice-­blue eyes. Picking at a salad and occasionally sipping from a glass of wine, she spent most of the meal either reading a dog-­eared copy of
Anna Karenina
or staring out the window as dusk settled over the Siberian landscape. For one chance moment, she looked up, caught Tucker's eye, and smiled—­genuine, pleasant, but clearly reserved.

Still, her body language was easy to read.

Thank you
,
but I'd prefer to be alone.

A few minutes later, the woman signaled for the check, signed her bill, then swished past Tucker's table and through the connecting door to the berth cars.

Tucker lingered over his coffee, oddly disappointed, more than he should be, then headed back to his own berth.

As he stepped into the corridor, he found the blond woman kneeling on the floor, the contents of her purse scattered at her feet, some of it rolling farther away with each jostle of the train's wheels.

Tucker walked over and dropped to a knee beside her. “Let me help.”

She frowned, tucked a strand of blond hair behind her ear, and offered him a shy smile. “Thank you. Everything seems to be getting away from me lately.”

Her accent was British, refined.

Tucker helped her gather the runaway items, then stood up. He nodded at her copy of
Anna Karenina
. “The butler did it, by the way.”

She blinked at him, momentarily confused.

Tucker added, “In the library, with a lead pipe.”

She smiled. “Well, goodness. Then there's not much point in my finishing it, is there?”

“Sorry if I ruined it for you.”

“You've read it?”

“In high school,” he said.

“And your verdict?”

“Certainly not beach reading. I liked it—­but not enough to wade through it a second time.”

“It's my
third
time. I'm a glutton for punishment, I suppose.” She extended her hand. “Well, thank you again . . .”

He took her hand, finding her fingers soft, but firm. “Tucker,” he said.

“I'm Felice. Thank you for your help. I hope you have a pleasant night.”

It had certainly turned out
pleasant
.

She turned and started down the corridor. Ten feet away, she stopped and spoke without turning. “It doesn't seem quite fair, you know.”

Tucker didn't reply, but waited until she turned to face him before asking, “What isn't?”

“You spoiling the end of a perfectly good Russian novel.”

“I see your point. I take it that an apology isn't enough?”

“Not even close.”

“Breakfast, then?”

Her lips pursed as Felice considered this a moment. “Is seven too early for you?”

He smiled. “See you in the morning.”

With a slight wave, she turned and headed down the corridor. He watched until she vanished out of sight, enjoying every step she took.

Once alone, he opened the door to his berth and found Kane sitting on the floor staring up at him. The shepherd must have heard his voice out in the passageway. Kane tilted his head in his customary
What's going on?
fashion.

He smiled and scratched Kane between the ears. “Sorry, pal, she didn't have a friend.”