Operator - 01 (15 page)

“Yes, Yuri,” the man replies.
Yuri, that’s your name.
Yuri and the rail-thin Russian start walking towards the schoolhouse-like administration building.

The four-story building has a porch of sorts, really just three concrete stairs leading to a small landing in front of the main door to the building, which I’ve bolted shut. I see Yuri consider it for a moment. The skinny Russian moves onto the platform, just to Yuri’s right, crowding him a little. Perfect. I pull the twine in my hand, a little at first to get it taut and then a swift yank, hoping it doesn’t break before the job is done. There’s the slight sound of a clatter on the fourth floor of the administration building as a chair pitches forward. Yuri hears it and vaults off the stoop, over the railing and down to the ground. The skinny man doesn’t move, he just stares at Yuri with a puzzled expression right up to the moment when that old IBM Selectric typewriter lands on his head. I know from the sound it makes that it’s killed the unfortunate man, even though I’m already on the move and can’t see it. I hear the stutter of the P90 as Misha empties a full clip through the window from which the typewriter dropped. Fortunately, I’m not there anymore.

Moving silently through the old mill complex is about as difficult as anything I’ve attempted. Steel rivets that were secure a dozen years ago have corroded, clinker is everywhere and the main yard is wide open except for the protective cover of half a dozen derelict freight cars. I manage to get off the platform building during the moment of distraction after the typewriter hits the skinny Russian. Then I loop around the warehouse at the extreme left of the complex, keeping a close eye on the fat man with the AK-47. He’s standing in between the administration building and the three furnace towers and he already looks bored. He hasn’t even heard the typewriter drop or the suppressed gunfire from Misha’s P90. His walkie-talkie crackles as I’m just about to round the corner of the warehouse building. He doesn’t so much as cast a glance my way.

Once I’ve made it around the warehouse, I use the abandoned boxcars to screen my movement as I work my way around Misha. He is still watching the entire complex from the front. I could possibly slip by him and out the front gate, but I respect his skill with that P90 too much to try. Yuri is not in sight and I assume he’s still working his way upward through the administration building. That means I have precious little time until he discovers my little ruse and warns his comrades. As I slip around the last boxcar, I am twenty feet behind Misha. I move carefully, deliberately and silently and thank god this is a skill I haven’t yet lost. When I’m three feet behind him, Misha senses me and whips around, but it’s too late. I’ve disabled his gun hand and have him face-forward on the ground before he can make his move. Then my little folding Spyderco knife slips between the vertebrae in his neck, severing his spinal cord. Death comes silently and quickly. I turn him over and check his pockets. I slip his wallet into my pocket and take the little Motorola radio. In his coat, I find a replacement magazine for the P90. I hesitate for a moment and then close the man’s eyes before I hurry away to the front gate. I’ve just hot-wired the Crown Victoria when I hear Yuri’s voice squawk through the Motorola. “It’s a trick!” he yells in Russian. “He’s not in this building, watch out for him!” Then I hit the throttle, sending the Crown Victoria into reverse as fast as it will go. After a hundred yards I hit the brake as I pull the wheel around and the car pirouettes smoothly on its axis. In a few seconds, I’m driving away from the mill, back toward town.

* * *

Light leaks from the door to Room 103 of the Motor Mountain Lodge, piercing the gloom of the early morning in Conestoga. It is a cold morning, more like the first day of winter than an average day in the middle of the autumn. The door is slightly ajar. It is the room Veronica and I shared last night, and I’ve approached it obliquely. The Crown Victoria is two blocks away. I tried calling Veronica on her cell from the car as I sped towards the motel, but she didn’t pick up. She could be in the shower, but I don’t have that kind of luck. Before I left the Crown Victoria, I took a closer look at the items I pulled off of Misha at the Godfrey Mill. The Russian’s wallet held just a single credit card, two hundred dollars in cash and a driver’s license in the name of Michail Grigor Alekseev. The license looked authentic, although I can’t say I can tell a real NY driver’s license from a good quality forgery at a glance. Sitting in the front seat of the Ford, I grasped the P90 and pushing back on the magazine catch at the top of the weapon, lifted the magazine upward. The clear polycarbonate magazine holds 50 rounds of 5.7x28mm ammunition, double-stacked at a ninety-degree angle to the main system receiver. I lifted the magazine out, then pulled the cocking handle back and released it, which ejected a single chambered round downward from the pistol grip of the weapon.

Only then did I unscrew the silencer. Putting it down next to the magazine, I depressed the receiver lock and pulled the barrel support assembly forward out of the stock. I pushed the breech through the magazine opening and pulled the butt plate of the weapon upward and off. Finally, I raised the locking latch on the hammer group and pulled backward on the rear wall, withdrawing it. Field stripping the P90 took me less than 20 seconds, and after examining each part for dirt or corrosion; it took me half that time to reassemble it. The weapon was immaculate, as I had expected it would be. Unfortunately, the spare magazine was empty.

I left the P90 in the Crown Victoria and advanced toward the motel from the side. As I reached the structure, I peered down the cement walkway fronting a row of six identical units. The only light I observed came from my room, whose door was slightly ajar.

Now I crouch down and slowly move past the units, keeping my head below the level of the picture windows fronting the parking lot. It is still early, just after 6am, and there is no activity from the rooms or the road. My black GTO is parked two doors down from my room. Force of habit kept me from pulling it right up to the door last night, though Veronica gave me an odd look. I’m thankful for that now.

I slide around the GTO and open the trunk slowly. The trunk light does not illuminate; I’ve long ago disabled it. With the lid halfway up, I snake my left hand along the front edge of the carpeted cargo floor, finding the seam in the floor panel concealing the spare tire. I lift the panel up, exposing the top of the spare, which has a huge gash in it. I lean in and reach behind the tire, releasing a hidden latch. The visible two inches of tire swing upward – the defective spare is a decoy. A false bottom epoxied to a metal liner creates a hidden compartment in the trunk. There is a square black metal case about the size of a thick briefcase in the compartment. Dialing a combination on the locking plate on the front, I pop the lock and flip the case open. It has molded openings for a pistol, magazines, a silencer and set of Gen IV military night vision goggles. I gently lift the pistol out. It is a .45 ACP Kimber Custom ICQB, a modern update of the century-old Colt 1911. The 1911 Colt is a favorite in the U.S. special operations community because of its reliability and stopping power, which is far superior to 9mm weapons. I’ve owned this gun for nearly a decade and I fire it weekly, although I haven’t hit anything more sinister than a silhouette target in almost four years. I screw on the silencer and insert a magazine, pulling the slide gently back to chamber a round. I close the case and the trunk, keeping the pistol low and against my body.

I check to my left and right as I approach the door to my motel room. There are a couple of lights on, but all of the curtains are closed in the adjacent rooms. I raise the Kimber in front of me in a two-handed hold. I push the door open with my toe and wait a moment before crouching and peering cautiously into the room over the barrel of the Kimber. A thin man with a pockmarked face, wearing a tailored gray flannel suit with a Glock automatic in his right hand resting casually on his knees is sitting in an armchair he’s pulled around to face the door. A burly goon in a tight-fitting blue muscle shirt stands behind the man, holding a revolver – a Smith & Wesson .357 Magnum. The big revolver is pointed at me. Unfortunately, this is more or less what I’m expecting.

“Come in, Mr. Herne,” the pockmarked man says. His accent places him from St. Petersburg. At least I feel like I’m getting somewhere. I step inside the door, keeping my gun trained on the man. The suited man is calm as he continues to rest the Glock casually on his lap and leans back in the cheap faux-leather chair. “We have your girlfriend, Mr. Herne,” he warns, glancing pointedly at my weapon. The burly thug makes a move towards me and I swing the Kimber towards him. Things get tense. Then the pockmarked Russian raises a hand and the larger man freezes.

“You can speak to her if you wish,” the seated man intones, slowly reaching into an outer pocket in his suit jacket and pulling out a clamshell cell phone, which he flips open with his left hand. He presses the redial button and brings the phone to his ear. “Put the girl on,” he says in Russian after a few seconds. Then he activates his speakerphone and turns the phone toward me. The line crackles.

“Mike, I’m so sorry,” Veronica sobs.

“Are you okay?” I ask. My voice betrays no emotion.

“Yes, I’m in…” Veronica begins. The pockmarked man flips the phone shut before she can say more.

“You have already caused us a great deal of inconvenience, Mr. Herne,” the man continues. I meet his dark blue eyes briefly, then focus on the Smith & Wesson in the larger Russian’s hands. I’m watching the goon’s knuckles, looking for any sign of whitening that signals increased pressure on the trigger. In double action mode, the Smith & Wesson has a hefty trigger pull, and the hammer is not cocked. I keep my Kimber trained on the larger man even as I listen to the pockmarked Russian.

“We now know that you work for the U.S. government, Mr. Herne. We have no desire to draw any more attention to our activities. I apologize for the unfortunate incident this morning. My colleagues exceeded their orders,” the pockmarked man shrugs wordlessly as if to say
you know how these types are
. He’s lying, of course. I listen to the man’s voice closely, imprinting the pattern of his speech in my memory.

“I assure you that if you surrender your weapon and come with us now, you will not be harmed. We will lock you and Ms. Ryan in a safe place for a few hours until we can disappear completely.” More lies. He motions to the bed with a bony finger, showing me where to drop the Kimber.

I look at him for a second. It is hard to believe that this guy works for the same group that hired two stone-cold professionals like Michail Alekseev and Yuri. I can’t say that I wasn’t expecting some kind of ultimatum, but I’m still surprised by this clumsy bluff.

The man clears his throat impatiently. “On the other hand, if you don’t put your weapon down immediately and come with us, I regret to say that we’ll be forced to kill Ms. Ryan.” The Russian smiles like a chess master who has just announced checkmate in five moves.

“I doubt that,” I reply as I squeeze the trigger of the Kimber twice, double-tapping the burly Russian through the forehead with powerful .45ACP rounds before the big man can react. The pockmarked man’s eyes widen in surprise and his smile turns to a frown as he struggles to raise the automatic he has been handling so casually. He’s too slow. I put a round through his throat and another through his forehead before he can reach the blue steel trigger of the Glock.

I pull the motel door shut behind me and close the curtains completely before evaluating the scene. I see that the big Russian has the same snake tattoos as Yuri and Alekseev, but the pockmarked man has none. I consider taking the Glock and the Smith & Wesson, but I don’t need them. Besides, this is my motel room. When the day of reckoning comes, the weapons will at least give me a shot at claiming self-defense. Or would if the police weren’t in on the game, I realize, frowning. I pat down the pockmarked Russian. The breast pocket of his suit jacket holds a slim card case containing a black card made of a light metal – possibly titanium – with the American Express Centurion symbol on it. He has a New York State driver’s license in the name of Victor Sherbatsky. A money clip in his pocket has a folded stack of hundred dollar bills, over two grand in all. I take the cash and leave the credit card and license after memorizing the numbers. Then I flip open my cell phone and call Sammie on his cell. He answers groggily after three rings.

“Jesus, God, what time is it?”

“Six-thirty. Sorry to wake you.” I wait for a second to let Sammie get his bearings before I continue. “I need to find the physical location of a phone. It may be a cell phone and if so it won’t be active for very long.”

“I can do that from here,” Sammie says after a moment. “Give me the number.” I flip open Victor’s phone and navigate the menu to find the last number dialed, then read it out to him.

“Anything else?”

“Not as urgent, but I need information on two New York residents, Michail Grigor Alekseev and Victor Sherbatsky,” I wait as Sammie copies down the names and then give him the two driver’s license numbers and the credit card information.

“What kind of guys are we talking about? I’m asking because it will help me know where to look,” Sammie asks.

“Russian mafia, I think. Alekseev probably has a military record, as well.”

Sammie whistles. “What kind of trouble are you getting yourself into, Orion? No – strike that – I really don’t want to know.”

“How long will the phone number take you?” I ask.

“Give me about ten minutes. Less if it’s a landline.” Sammie replies. I consider this for a moment.

“I’ll call you back. Don’t call my cell,” I say and hang up.

I quickly change, then gather my possessions and Veronica’s and leave the room, locking it from the outside. I hang the “do not disturb” sign on the doorknob. I put the Kimber back into the metal case and take it out of the trunk before depositing my duffel and Veronica’s overnight bag. Then I stop in the motel office and pay for three more nights with Victor’s cash. I pull the GTO out of the parking lot and drive around to a side street, parallel-parking it behind an old Chevy Trailblazer. As I am walking back to the Crown Victoria, I pass a pickup truck with a sign for “Roberts’ Landscaping” on the side. It is loaded with supplies. I pull my cell phone out, silence the ringer and casually drop it into the back of the truck between two bags of mulch, without breaking stride.