Tom Clancy's Act of Valor (11 page)

SIX

In Kherson, Ukraine, the administrative center of the oblast, or province of the same name, near the southern reaches of the Dnieper River, Shabal walked past rows of abandoned warehouses ten kilometers east of one of Kherson’s major shipyards. Once a busy industrial center making machinery for Kherson’s thriving shipbuilding industry, the district, like the shipyard to the west, fell into disuse when Europe’s tanking economy decimated Ukraine’s shipbuilding industry.

A pack of rats feasting on the carcass of a dead cat scattered as Shabal kicked a board at them. Fucking parasites. The dead cat called to mind his younger sister, who now worked as a waitress in Odessa. There she flirted for tips with the vacationing capitalist swine who visited her restaurant. With those tips, she supported herself and her four cats, all adopted from the street—something this poor creature would never know. Shabal hated rats almost as much as he hated capitalist swine. If he wasn’t expected by Kerimov, he’d stop and put a bullet in every rat. A bullet was too good for the capitalists. So he had other ideas.

But he was expected and he had come a long way to complete his mission. He knew Kerimov had what he wanted, and although he would bargain with him—it was always about bargaining—what he was about to obtain was priceless. He knew Christo would have to pay dearly for them, but he did not care. This was jihad, and no price could be placed on that which served the Will of Allah.

Shabal feared nothing but was wary of Kherson’s drug dealers. This area was theirs; the Kherson police had stopped patrolling this district long ago. If one of those drug dealers even half suspected Shabal was a rival dealer trying to muscle in on their territory they’d put a bullet in his brain. He didn’t slow down as he approached the warehouse entrance in the dark alley.

He rapped twice on the heavy metal door, all the while keeping his head on a swivel. Christo would never come here. That’s why he had to do this.

The peephole clicked open and the voice merely said, “Who?”

“Shabal.”

The door creaked open and the bulky man with the AK-47 in his right hand waved Shabal inside the dimly lit vestibule. Once Shabal was inside, the man slammed the metal door shut with a resounding
thud
and waved the AK-47 at him in an upward motion. Shabal knew the drill. He raised his arms high above his head as the man unceremoniously jerked Shabal’s heavy overcoat to the side and removed the Russian Kobalt 9mm revolver from Shabal’s belt.

That done, the man grunted and waved the weapon at a flight of stairs. Shabal descended as the guard followed him down, the Kalashnikov pointed at his back.

As he negotiated the last dozen steps, Shabal heard the music of a violin. When he reached the bottom steps, he surveyed the room. It was a cavernous bunker at least forty meters by eighty meters, easily five meters high, with raw concrete walls. There were numerous metal tables and working lights suspended from the ceiling. Clearly, this was a serious work area, one that no one was supposed to stumble onto.

Shabal looked at the thick Russian playing the violin. He was an unpleasant-looking man with a flat, Slavic brow, and the instrument looked tiny in his enormous, calloused hands. Yet he was accomplished and played with feeling and passion. Shabal ignored everyone and everything in the room and addressed the man.

“Is that Mendelssohn?”

“Brahms,” replied Kerimov, the correction delivered without emotion but with an air of a man who was self-assured regarding his music.

“I came to speak to Kerimov.”

“I see. And you must be Shabal,” the Russian replied, extending his hand to shake Shabal’s.

Shabal looked at Kerimov’s hand disdainfully, did not take it, and then looked him directly in the eye. His cold stare conveyed that he was here for business, nothing more.

Kerimov recovered quickly. It was all business for him, too, and he knew Shabal needed what he had. He wouldn’t be bullied—or taken lightly.

“As I explained to you on the telephone, I have exactly the thing for your needs,” Kerimov continued. He lifted two heavy duffel bags sitting in front of him and placed them at Shabal’s feet.

Shabal leaned down and unzipped one of the bags, lifted out a thin vest, and held it up with one hand. He looked at it quizzically, as if he were expecting something different.

“They are light, yes?” offered Kerimov, smiling. “You could wear one under a tuxedo or simply a light shirt,” he continued.

Shabal continued to inspect the vest, holding it up close to one of the suspended working lights, examining it from all angles.

Kerimov turned on a handheld metal detector and passed it slowly over the vest, covering every inch of it. Th [nchalle metal detector didn’t make a sound.

Shabal put the vest down on the table.

Kerimov opened the vest and ran his hands over it, continuing his explanation.

“Inside, tiny ceramic ball bearings—five hundred of them—are woven into the vest. The inner lining of the vest is filled with a new generation of explosive gel.” Kerimov spoke with pride; he was a craftsman, and he wanted his work appreciated—as well as paid for. “The new explosive will propel the ceramic balls at a velocity close to that of a chambered rifle round.

“It is truly devastating. It does not look like much, but believe me when I say it would take dozens of your martyrs and your vests to do what one of these can do. They can kill everyone on a city bus or a subway car. Others in the vicinity would die as well. There are few weapons in the world a single man can operate that are more deadly. And not one that is more discreet. You could take a tour of the White House with one of these or board an airliner.”

Shabal trembled imperceptibly as he considered the possibilities. “Can I see a demonstration?” he asked.

“You would have to drive to Siberia,” Kerimov replied, chuckling. “When this explodes, no one is safe. No one inside a kilometer radius is safe.”

Shabal knew there was no possibility of a demonstration, but to ask was part of the negotiation. Kerimov could see that Shabal needed little convincing; now they were talking about the price.

“Walk with me,” he said to Shabal, picking up the vest and walking past tables where women were constructing other vests.

Shabal followed as they moved toward a corner of the bunker where a number of workers were sitting on metal folding chairs, hunched around a small TV. They were eating lunch and watching a soccer match.

Kerimov nodded toward the TV. “You take one of these into a place like that and you will kill hundreds—perhaps thousands—as panic sets in and they begin trampling each other heading for the exits.”

Just then, several of the workers let out a cheer as the home team scored. The roar of the crowd on the TV broadcast became a continuous roar as the TV camera panned the stadium, a vast sea of people leaping and cheering ecstatically.

Shabal stared at the TV, consumed by what he envisioned the vests could do—the casualties they could cause.

*  *  *

Christo stood before the floor-to-ceiling windows of his office on the thirty-fifth floor of Kiev’s Esplanada Continental office building looking down at the landscape of Ukraine’s capital city. From his vantage point in the center of the city, more than five hundred feet above the sprawling cityscape, it seemed as if he could see all of Kiev—from Independence Square [nde th to Saint Andrews Church to Mariyinsky Palace to the Verkhovna Rada building, seat of the Ukrainian Parliament, to every monument and building in the city.

But unlike the slow-moving, winding, Dnieper River far below him, Christo’s brain was moving at warp speed. He knew what he had to tell Shabal, and he thought he knew what Shabal’s reaction would be. He wrestled with what to say and just how to say it. He knew he had to keep Shabal and his terrorist plot moving forward at any cost. This was the key to his own plan and, for that matter, the life he envisioned with his wife, Dominga, and daughter, Solana.

“Your guest is here,” a voice called from over his shoulder. His secretary, per his instructions, ushered Shabal in.

Christo spun and looked directly at Shabal. “Look at you, my friend! You look the same—older, harder, but the same.”

Shabal lowered his head in a neutral gesture but said nothing.

“May I take your coat?” the secretary asked politely. “Or get you something to drink?”

“That will not be necessary,” Shabal replied.

Christo sat down heavily in his chair and exhaled deeply, partly a natural reaction and partly to convey his apprehension—his uneasiness. He wanted Shabal to know he was troubled—to understand the difficulty of his position. Christo also knew this would be hard for Shabal to believe given Christo’s privileged upbringing, his wealth, and the well-appointed office suite in Kiev’s most prestigious building. Shabal now sat across the desk from Christo, shucking his coat onto the arm of the chair.

“From time to time I see former friends—people from my old life—and it’s almost always a disappointment,” Christo began wearily, speaking in their native Chechen dialect. “They’ve become distant or they’ve become boring or, more often than not, they have crawled into a vodka bottle.”

Christo’s remark accomplished its purpose and brought a small smile to Shabal’s face. He swirled the ice in his water glass and raised it to Shabal.

“It’s nice not to be disappointed for a change, Hubie.” It was a name they used as childhood friends.

Shabal’s smile vanished as rapidly as it had appeared. “That’s not my name,” he replied, all but spitting out the words as he turned his face away from Christo to look out at Kiev in the distance.

Christo recovered quickly, measuring Shabal and his mood. As difficult as this man could be, he still needed him.

“I know, I know. Mohammad Abu Shabal. The son of Shabal. Come, my old friend, your father’s name is Afghan.”

Shabal bristled and continued to stare outside, ignoring the man behind the desk. Christo thought he knew him, but he did not. Yes, [dids rema they had been schoolmates as boys. And yes, they were once close. Christo was sent to the upscale boarding school by his indulgent parents; Shabal had attended the same school on scholarship. But he had had to work two jobs after school just to dress like Christo. No, the man behind the desk did not
know
him. And now, what the hell was he up to?

“Things change,” Shabal replied, “as have the times we live in.”

“Yes, things have changed,” Christo began, leaning across his desk to get as close to Shabal as he could. “That’s why this might be the last time we meet like this. For I must find myself a hole to hide in—for me and for my family.”

That got Shabal’s attention, and he finally turned to look directly at Christo.

“I don’t understand.”

“It’s like this,” Christo continued. “I’m being watched by the CIA, and I can afford to take no chances. As soon as arrangements can be made, I am taking my family away. I have neither the energy nor the will to fight the Americans, and I will not endanger my family.”

“But what about our plan, Mikhail?” Shabal protested, shock registering on his face at this unanticipated announcement. “My men have been training for close to a year. I have devoted almost all my resources to this project. Much of what we have worked for is in place.”

“And our plan,” Christo interrupted, “this arrangement between us, will be honored. Just because I have chosen early retirement doesn’t mean my promises will go unfulfilled,” he continued, holding Shabal in his gaze.

“But there is still much to be done.”

“And it will be. However, I must insist the completion of our plan be done through associates of mine—trusted associates. I am being watched. It is for the safety of all concerned. I simply must distance myself from you and the execution of what you are planning.”

“This is not good, not good at all!” Shabal exclaimed, leaping up from his chair. “I trusted you, not your associates. Now you wish to run and hide. You are a coward!”

Christo paused to frame his words. They were now on unequal footing. Shabal cared nothing for his own life. If it was forfeited in serving this plan or the cause, so be it. Christo did not share this commitment, nor would he put his family at risk to serve “the cause.”

“Yet I must insist,” Christo replied, also rising, trying to be firm but calm. He would not have Shabal towering over him. And, he reminded himself, not for the first time, that he was dealing with a zealot. “You have your plan, and I respect that. You have had my help and the help of my organization. And you will continue to have it. But I have my family to think of. I ask that you respect that as well.”

“You are a coward!” Shabal repeated. “This is bulls [Thiv> hit and you know it. This work and this plan are too important for you to turn it over to your . . . your ‘trusted associates,’” he spat out, his anger boiling over. “It’s too late. You can’t change this and run away.”

“Nothing changes,” Christo said evenly, his voice conveying resignation and the fact that he was trying to be reasonable.

Shabal could no longer stand still. He began to pace, throwing his hands into the air as his anger turned to rage—rage now directed at Christo.

“You just told me that now you want out—that others will act for you, in your place. Do you know what I had to do to get here? Do you know the men I had to sacrifice to get here? No, you have
no
idea. No, you are shit and a coward! You live up here in your ivory tower. You don’t know and you don’t care!”