The Kremlin Phoenix (16 page)

Hi Mom,

I’m OK. Don’t worry. Everything they’re saying about me on TV is
untrue.

Please hide the other page in a safe place. No matter what happens,
don’t tell anyone about it. I’ll call you soon.

Love

Craig

Joan read the note with a mixture
of relief and confusion. She never considered calling Hal Woods. Instead, she
climbed the stairs to the attic. Against one wall was an old wooden chest
filled with dusty aging books. She placed the envelope inside the third volume
from the top, then dusted the books lightly, removing all trace of her finger
prints, ensuring anyone looking inside wouldn’t discover she’d recently touched
them.

Satisfied the page containing
Craig’s Swiss account number was well hidden, she locked the chest.

April 16, 2277

“I’ve ran the scan three times,” Zikky
explained. “There’s no trace of Craig Balard in any historical record – not
since his English death certificate vanished.”

“But there are still birth records,
right?” Captain Wilkins asked.

“Yeah, we haven’t erased him from
history!” Zikky declared. “But we have no record of how he dies. Nothing!”

“And there have been no more
resets?” Wilkins asked.

“There won’t be any resets, unless
we trigger them.” Mariena said. “The current timeline is what happened, and it
will stay as it is, unless we find a way to change it.”

“That means finding Craig
Balard,” Zikky said, “Where ever he is.”

“What countries did the Montreal
data center cover?”

“North America, Western Europe,
and partial feeds from a few other regions,” Zikky replied.

“English language feeds, right?”
she asked.

“And local French.”

“We need to check non-English language
data exchanges.”

Zikky rolled his eyes. “How are
we going to do that? We don’t even know if other data exchanges survived the
war, and even if they did, we don’t have the access codes.”

“Then we have a lot of work to
do!” Wilkins said.

“Most data exchanges have organic
power, and satellite uplinks,” Mariena said. “If they didn’t take a direct hit,
they should still be down there, just waiting to talk to us.”

“Sounds easy,” Zikky said, “But
you haven’t seen the encryption on those things. You know how paranoid everyone
was about getting hacked before the war.”

Mariena waved towards the
sparkling white walls adorned with blank display screens. “This station is the
most advanced piece of technology ever devised, with the most powerful
computers ever built. It’s also got some of the smartest people ever born
operating it. We’ll get them to test every data-link, in every country. If we
find any that are still working, we’ll program the station’s computers to crack
them open.”

“Do you know how long that could
take?” Zikky asked incredulously.

Mariena glanced at the dead Earth
floating in the distance. “It’s not like we have anything else to do.”

* * * *

Craig had been conscious a short time
when the rear door of the ambulance opened, flooding the interior with light
and fresh sea air. Two seamen pulled the stretcher from the ambulance and
carried it out onto the ship’s deck. Craig lifted his head off the stretcher to
discover blue grey water reached unbroken from horizon to horizon.

When the sailors set the stretcher
down on the deck, Nogorev stepped forward. “Where is the master list?”

“In my head,” Craig said.

Nogorev spoke to the seamen in
Russian. “He’s coming with me. Get some rope.”

The seamen relaxed, having no
desire to be a party to a murder. They quickly bound Craig’s arms and legs,
then carried him to the port side of the ship. The derrick arm moved into
position overhead, then the seaman threaded its hook under the rope securing
his hands. When he was winched off the deck, he discovered a Beriev seaplane,
equipped with long range fuel tanks, floating close to the ship. The pilot sat
with his legs in a hatch on top of the fuselage, waiting for his passenger.

Craig swung like a pendulum out
over the sea as the crunching of the derrick’s gears sounded, then he was
lowered onto the seaplane. When Craig’s feet touched the top of the wings, the
pilot guided him down into the fuselage, laying him on his back before unhitching
the hook and waving ‘all clear’ to the derrick operator. The cable swung back
inboard for Nogorev, who took it in hand and balanced with one foot on the hook.
He was lifted across to the seaplane, stepping off onto the fuselage without
assistance.

“Is he going all the way?” the
pilot asked, motioning to Craig

“Yes.”

“I’m operating at the extreme
range, even with the external tanks,” the pilot said apprehensively. “I hadn’t
figured on the extra weight.”

“He’s coming!” Nogorev snapped. “Modify
your flight plan accordingly.”

The pilot nodded. “If there are
headwinds, we’ll be swimming the last hundred kilometers.”

They took their seats at the
controls, then the pilot taxied the seaplane a short distance from the ship
before turning into the breeze. The twin, rear mounted engines roared to life, sending
the plane crashing through the low swells, picking up speed until it lurched
into the air. The pilot leveled off almost immediately and turned east.

“Only way to make it is to fly
straight over Denmark,” the pilot said. “We’ll fly low, sneak under Danish
radar, then climb to cruising altitude when we reach the Baltic.”

Nogorev barely heard him. Abandoning
his mission before it was complete troubled him. He could return later to
finish destroying the trail of European bankers that led back to Moscow, but before
that could happen, he had less than forty eight hours to complete a much more
critical mission.

He had to break Craig Balard’s
will.

* * * *

The reporters drifted away from Joan
Balard’s house as the string of homicides slipped from the headlines. The day
after the last reporter departed in search of a more current story, Joan
noticed a Lincoln parked across the road from her house. She didn’t know how
long it had been there, and at first, she thought the two clean cut men in dark
suits were reporters, but as the hours passed and they never showed a camera or
demonstrated the feverishness displayed by the earlier news crews, she began to
wonder who they were. She regularly stole a look through the curtains, checking
to see if they were still watching her house, and each time, it was as if
nothing had changed. After lunch, she peaked through the window, finding the
car empty.

The door bell rang, startling her.

She stepped back from the window
and crept slowly to the door as the bell rang again. Joan peered through the
peep hole confirming that both men were standing on the porch. She hesitated,
wondering if she should answer the door when the bell rang a third time. The
chain was in place and the new deadlock was securely set. She decided to open
the door, leaving the chain on, but as she reached for the deadlock, a metallic
rattle sounded from the original door lock, freezing her in place. The rattle
sounded again and the old tumbler unlocked. One of the men muttered a word she
didn’t understand, then tried the handle, but the deadbolt held firm. For
several minutes, the man tried to force the deadlock, then cursed softly in a
guttural language.

Both men stepped off the porch
and moved slowly to the side window, casting shadows upon the curtains as they
studied the recently installed window locks. One of the men tested the window
lightly, but the key locks meant they’d have to break glass to enter, something
they weren’t yet prepared to do. They began working their way around the house,
testing each window in turn. Joan followed their movements by their shadows on
the curtains, ensuring they never saw her. She tip toed to the kitchen, watching
as they tried the window and back door, but again the newly installed locks
foiled their efforts. When they’d gone completely around the house, they
strolled back to their car. Joan peeked through the window, not daring to touch
the curtain in case they saw movement. The two men sat talking for several
minutes, then drove slowly off down the road.

Joan stood in the shadows, shaking
with fear, watching the empty road outside for a long time. She couldn’t shake
the idea that the men would come back again, and next time, the locks would not
stop them. She retrieved the card she’d placed on the mantle a few days ago and
dialed the number on it. After a few rings, a young man answered.

“Homicide. Detective Woods
speaking.”

* * * *

The seaplane banked over the tranquil
waters of the eastern Baltic, before gliding down onto the smooth waters of a
wide estuary. When it settled into the water, the seaplane taxied to a pier
where two men waited in plain clothes. Drushkev and Pieltov were non
commissioned officers, who like Nogorev, had secretly been reassigned to work
directly for the GRU, the main intelligence directorate of the general staff,
although they knew much less about the operation than he did.

“Where are we?” Craig demanded as
the pilot climbed out of his seat to throw ropes to the two men waiting on the
wharf.

“Piarnu,” the pilot answered.

“Where’s that?”

 “Seventy five kilometers south
of Tallinin, Estonia.”

“Estonia?” Craig said
incredulously.

Nogorev glared at the pilot. “Do
not speak to the prisoner!”

The pilot looked surprised,
unused to dealing with prisoners. He turned his attention to tying the seaplane
up safely to the wharf.

Nogorev climbed out of the
co-pilot’s seat, and approached Craig. “I’m going to untie your feet, so you
can walk. Do not do anything stupid.”

“You won’t get away with this”
Craig said. “People will be looking for me.”

“No one is looking for you –
here,” Nogorev said as he removed the rope around Craig’s ankles. As soon as
his feet were free, he kicked out at Nogorev, who effortlessly deflected the
blow with one hand and jabbed him hard in the stomach with the other. Craig
doubled over, wheezing for air, then Nogorev dragged him roughly out onto the
wharf.

 “Who is this?” Drushkev asked in
Russian.

“Someone I intend to interrogate.
Call ahead. Arrange for the appropriate facilities.”

“Yes sir,” Pieltov said as he and
Drushkev threw Craig onto the back seat of the car.

“I demand to speak to the
American Embassy!” Craig yelled.

Nogorev raised his pistol
threatening to strike Craig in the head with the butt. “Not another word!”

Craig fell into a sullen silence,
which he maintained on the long drive to Moscow.

* * * *

“Open up, Harriman!” Corman yelled as
he banged on the hotel door again.

“Keep your shirt on,” Harriman
grumbled as he unlocked the door.

Corman was dressed in a freshly
pressed suit and was carrying his travel bag.

“Do you know what time it is?”
Harriman asked.

“Yeah, it’s time to move.” Corman
checked his watch. “I just got a call, Balard’s gone. Kidnapped.”

“How do you know?” Harriman asked,
snapping awake.

“One of our satellites detected a
sea plane rendezvousing with a ship off the coast of England. Tracked it to
Estonia. Then one of our listening stations in Moscow picked up a call requesting
a safe house and an interrogation unit for a high priority prisoner. It’s got
to be him.”

“So it’s all over?” Harriman
said, thinking there was nothing more they could do.

“No, it means we’re going to
Moscow.”

“Moscow!”

“Be downstairs in five minutes.” Corman
turned without waiting for an answer and headed for the elevator.

Harriman closed the door, quickly
pulled on his increasingly crumpled suit and packed his bag. When he was ready
to leave, he called Hal Woods. “Any news?”

“Yeah,” Woods said. “Nikki Angelo
told me Balard’s looking for his father, who according to his mother, and the
US Air Force, was killed over Serbia years ago. That’s why he skipped the
country. On top of that, someone’s sniffing around Joan Balard’s house. I tried
to put some men in with her, but Ridley wouldn’t approve it. He says it’s
outside our jurisdiction.”

“Is she in danger?”

“Maybe. Nikki Angelo was roughed
up pretty badly. Someone might be planning the same treatment for Balard’s
mother.”

“Does she know anything?”

“Doesn’t seem to.”

Harriman remembered what Corman
had said, Craig Balard was going to be interrogated. “She’s leverage! They’ll
try to get to Balard through her. You better keep an eye on her. No need to
tell Ridley. Take some leave.”

“Sure boss.”

Harriman hung up, yawned once,
then grabbed his bag and headed down stairs for the airport.

* * * *

When the car stopped in front of the
safe house in the Moscow suburb of Schunkino, Nogorev and Drushkev dragged Craig
inside where an older, scholarly looking man waited.

“I’m Doctor Tatska. I’ve been
expecting you,” he said, offering a hand to shake, then withdrawing it when
Nogorev brushed past him.

“Where are you doing it?” Nogorev
asked, not bothering to introduce himself.

“In the sitting room.”