09.Deep Black: Death Wave Page 7

In fact, she knew, in a sense it was, since keeping Feng happy—being “eye candy,” as Rubens had described it—was as precise a description of the job as was possible.

  She knew one other thing, too. If this was supposed to be her working outfit, she was going to have a hell of a time hiding any SIGINT devices inside—to say nothing of her P226.

  5

  ILYA AKULININ

  MORGUE, RUSSIAN MILITARY HOSPITAL

  DUSHANBE, TAJIKISTAN

  WEDNESDAY, 1925 HOURS LOCAL TIME

  Oh, God, no,” Masha said, taking several halting steps backward.

  “What’s the matter?” Akulinin passed the radiation counter over the Chinese man’s body. There was no response—or very little. A few clicks that might represent normal background radiation, but nothing like the hiss of static that the other two had shown, even on his hands.

  So … this one had stayed back while the other two had gotten their hands dirty. Had he been the one in charge? Or had he just not been involved with the actual transfer of radioactive materials?

  “The radiation on those two …”

  “Don’t worry,” Akulinin told her. “It’s not enough to make you sick or anything.” I just hope the Art Room knows its stuff, he added to himself.

  “You don’t understand,” she said. She looked desperate, and scared. “Those men who were here a few minutes ago, Vasilyev …”

  “What about them?”

  “They’re FSB! That means they’re part of an antiterror unit, or maybe nuclear security, and they were after these three.”

  “Yeah … so …”

  “So I’m not stupid, Ilya! Those two people were handling nuclear material of some sort, and they’re mafiya! That one”—she pointed at the Chinese man—“if he’s involved, this must be big. International. Big enough, even, to bring in the American CIA?”

  She was quick on the uptake.

  He indicated the gray-eyed corpse, “This guy was a mafiya middleman,” Akulinin told her. “We think he was selling stolen mini nukes to an Islamic extremist group, maybe al-Qaeda, maybe someone else, a Pakistani terror organization. I don’t know why the Chinese guy is here.”

  “Don’t you understand? Vasilyev will be back soon with a technician to check the bodies for radiation. They’re not going want to let word of this get out. Stolen nuclear weapons? That makes the Moscow government look very bad. If they think I know too much, they … they’re not going to let me go!”

  “It’s okay, Masha,” Akulinin said. He was thinking fast. It was a breach of operational security, but in for a penny—

  “It is not okay!”

  “Look, you said you were trying to get back to the States, right? Maybe I can help.”

  Her eyes widened. “What? Really? That would be—”

  “I’m going to need to clear some stuff with my superiors, but at the very least we can get you out of here.”

  The immediate problem was how. Dean and Akulinin were supposed to exfiltrate across the border into Afghanistan when their part of the op was over. Bringing along a civilian woman they’d just happened to pick up along the way was definitely not a part of the plan.

  “People who get on the bad side of the FSB,” she said, “they … they disappear.”

  Akulinin nodded. The Federalnaya Sluzhba Bezopasnosti had a bad rep both for being thoroughly corrupt and for being unnecessarily brutal in the prosecution of their duties. Most Russian civilians were terrified of them, and with good reason. There were reports of mafiya extortionists within the FSB shaking down small business owners, of ex-military and ex-KGB thugs kidnapping people and holding them for ransom.

  “I know,” he said. “That’s not going to happen to you. I promise you.” He stooped over and reattached the radiation counter to his ankle. “Listen, have you tried the American Embassy here in Dushanbe? I’d think they could help you.”

  “No. My parents surrendered their American citizenship when they came here … and mine, too. And I would need money, lots of money, for a plane ticket, and proof I had relatives or a job in America.” She shook her head. “They wouldn’t help me.”

  “It depends on who you talk to, Masha. I have … friends. They should be able to swing something.” He saw a pad of notepaper on a desk nearby, and a pen. He walked to the desk and wrote out an address in clear block Cyrillic letters. “Do you know where this is?”

  “Adkhamov Street? It’s in the eastern part of the city. About, oh, five kilometers from here.”

  A long way for her to walk. “Do you have a car?”

  “No … but there’s good bus service.”

  “Where do you live?”

  “Prospekt Apartments, on Karamova. Perhaps a kilometer and a half.”

  “I want you to go home, pack whatever you need to bring with you—a small suitcase, no more. Then get to this address.”

  “What is it?”

  “A safe house. You’ll buzz the intercom at the front door, and when a voice answers, you’ll ask them Net li oo vahs luchshi comatih?”

  She looked puzzled. “Do you have a better room?”

  “Right. It’s a code phrase. They’ll let you stay there, no questions asked. I’ll come by later.”

  “Wait! Where are you going?”

  “I have to see about rescuing my friend.”

  “Who? Oh! The Indian Air Force officer?”

  “The same. He’s in a lot of trouble right now.”

  “You … you know they probably have men watching the hospital outside. If they see you leave … or me …”

  Damn, she was right—and he should have thought about that. He wasn’t thinking clearly, and that could spell disaster for operators in the field, especially when the carefully crafted script had just been thrown out and they were ad-libbing it.

  “I know. Masha, look. I’ll see what I can do about getting you out of the building and on your way. Then I have to take care of my friend. But I will come back for you. You … you’re just going to have to trust me.”

  “I … I do. It’s just …”

  “Just what?”

  “Why are you doing this? Why are you helping me this way?”

  “Let’s just say I really liked the way you stood up to Vasilyev a little while ago. And you were willing to help me. Besides … what are the chances of two kids from Brighton Beach meeting up here, of all places, eh?”

  “Thank you, Ilya.” She stepped forward, stood on tiptoe, and kissed him. After an awkward moment, he put his arms around her and hugged her close.

  “Well, well,” he said as they stepped apart. “What was that for?”

  “For helping me get these cadavers into the refrigerator,” she said, all business again.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Well, I don’t want to just leave them here in the open to start decomposing! Dr. Shmatko thinks better of me than that.” She began opening refrigerator doors, pulling out a morgue slab from each opening.

  With a rueful shrug, Akulinin began helping her move the bodies.

  ALLEY OFF RUDAKI AVENUE

  DUSHANBE, TAJIKISTAN

  WEDNESDAY, 1935 HOURS LOCAL TIME

  They’d taken Dean out the back door to one of the cars parked beneath a pool of illumination from a security light in the alley behind the hospital. Vasilyev had told a soldier to put him in the rear seat and keep him there, then got into another vehicle just ahead, where he appeared to be making a phone call.

  His guard was outside the car, leaning against the wall. The window was rolled down, but the man was far enough away that Dean could say, “I’m back. Did you miss me?”

  He spoke quietly, barely vocalizing at all, but he knew the sensitive microphone would pick up the words and transmit them to a communications satellite and back to the Art Room.

  “We hear you, Charlie.” It was Marie Telach. “What the hell happened?”

  “No reception in the basement,” Dean said. He kept his replies terse. “I’m being held by Vympel personnel … de
coy.”

  “We still don’t have a signal on Ilya. Is he with you?”

  “Negative. Ilya’s in the morgue. Still free, far as I know. I’ll keep you informed.”

  “We copy, Charlie. Uh-oh. Hang on.”

  “What’s going on?”

  There was a long pause. “Your friend Vasilyev just put a call through to Subarao’s office. We had a ‘secretary’ talking to him. Now … okay. Sudhi is talking with him.”

  Dr. Sudhi V. Anand was the Desk Three linguist for Hindi and several other Indian dialects.

  “Have him give the SOB a good reaming for me,” Dean said.

  “Copy that.”

  “Listen, I used the story of possible Pakistani agents loose in Dushanbe and other bases, maybe spying, maybe working to screw the Indian-Tajik treaty. I used the name of another IAF officer—Group Captain Narayanan, at Ayni. I told him Narayanan had sent me to warn him about the threat personally.”

  “Thanks, Charlie. I’ll pass that on to Dr. Anand’s monitor.”

  “Hey … Hindu!” the guard outside asked in Russian, leaning closer. “What’s that you’re mumbling? Who are you talking to?”

  “I’m praying,” Dean replied in the same language. “I’m calling upon my ancient and powerful gods to make sure that your commanding officer sees the error of his ways.”

  From the rear seat of the vehicle, Dean could see the back of Vasilyev’s head as he spoke on the phone. The way the man’s head was jerking back and forth, it looked as though angry words were being exchanged.

  Still, Subarao was the equivalent of an army major general, and Vasilyev was a mere podpolkovnik, a lieutenant colonel. The Russian might not like Indian nationals, but he wouldn’t risk insulting a high-ranking foreign general in Tajikistan’s capital and creating a truly international incident.

  At long last, Vasilyev got out of the vehicle, slammed the door hard, and walked back toward Dean’s car. He looked … subdued. Angry, too.

  “Okay, Charlie,” Telach told him. “Dr. Anand says he read Vasilyev the riot act. He backed your story about rumors of Pakistani saboteurs. Vasilyev doesn’t like it, but he should let you go now.”

  “Copy.”

  Vasilyev reached the car and jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “Out of the vehicle.”

  “Did you call Air Vice Marshal—”

  “I don’t need a foreigner to tell me my business,” Vasilyev snapped. “I have other sources.” The way he spat the word inostranyets, foreigner, made it sound like an obscenity.

  “Sir! I was simply following orders.”

  “Next time you decide to follow orders, stay out of restricted military areas! It would be … unfortunate if you were shot. Your death might create an incident.”

  “Yes, Lieutenant Colonel.”

  “Get out of here, and don’t let me see you around my city again!”

  “Yes, Lieutenant Colonel. Thank you, sir.”

  Dean hurried down the alley, as if he half expected to be shot in the back. He knew Vasilyev’s type well enough—a bully who enjoyed abusing his power over others, whether under his command or in the civilian population. He was just glad the Vympels hadn’t decided to search him. The radiation counter on his ankle would have been difficult to explain, as would the folding camera-binoculars in his pocket.

  He crossed Rudaki and headed for Tolstoy Street. Ilya would meet him at the car when he was finished getting the pictures.

  “C’mon, Ilya, c’mon!” he muttered. “What’s taking you so long?”

  LOBBY, RUSSIAN MILITARY HOSPITAL

  DUSHANBE, TAJIKISTAN

  WEDNESDAY, 1954 HOURS LOCAL TIME

  Akulinin reached the top of the basement-level steps and peered through the glass in the doors opening into the hospital lobby. Through the small window, he saw a bored-looking attendant at the information desk, but there was no one else in sight. “Come on, Masha,” he called over his shoulder. “It’s clear.”

  Maria came up the stairs behind him. She’d shed her white lab coat and rubber gloves and was now wearing blue jeans, a green shirt, and flat-heeled shoes.

  A burst of static sounded in Akulinin’s ear. “Ilya!” Jeff Rockman’s voice called. “Ilya, do you copy?”

  “Right here, Jeff. I hear you.”

  “Where the hell have you been?”

  “Cut off down in the basement,” Akulinin replied. “I’m back on the street level now. Still in the hospital, about to enter the front lobby.”

  “Who are you talking to, Ilya?” Maria asked.

  “Remember those friends I mentioned?”

  “Who’s that with you, Ilya?” That was Telach’s voice.

  “Long story, guys,” he said. “I’m going to need your help here. First of all, I have some data to upload.”

  He pulled out his camera and touched a control on the side. Next he reached down, touching another button on the radiation counter strapped to his leg. The devices began uploading their recordings to a communications satellite.

  “We’re receiving,” Rockman said after a moment. “Nice shots … if a bit morbid.”

  “The bodies are the ones Podpolkovnik Vasilyev brought back on the helicopter,” he told the Art Room. “I’m thinking the clean-shaven Caucasian looks a lot like our contact, Zhernov, though his face is cut up and bruised so badly, I’m not sure. The rad counts are being transmitted in the same order as the pictures. I’d be very interested in knowing who the Asian guy is.”

  “We’re running the photos through the ID database now,” Telach said. “Now … who’s that with you, and why? We can hear her over the open channel.”

  “First things first, Marie. Do you have a fix on Charlie?”

  “They let him go about ten minutes ago. He’s on his way back to your car.”

  “Excellent.” That gave them some additional options. He wasn’t happy about turning Masha loose on the streets of Dushanbe if the FSB might be looking for her.

  “And who is your little friend?”

  “Maria Alekseyevna. Distressed foreign national, Russian citizenship. But she’s an American.”

  “O-kay. How can she be a foreign national and an American?”

  “Look, we can go into the history later. What’s important is she helped me on the mission just now, and there’s a good chance that the opposition is going to be interested in her, understand? I need to get her to the safe house—then get her out of the country.”

  “We’ll have to see about that,” Telach said. She did not sound like she approved. There was a certain air of “wait until your father gets home” about the way she said it.

  “Is the boss there?” he asked. Might as well face the music right away.

  “No, he’s not. But I imagine he’ll want to talk with you when he gets in.”

  “I’m sure. I … wait a second.”

  “What do you have, Ilya?”

  Two Vympel soldiers had just entered the hospital’s front door and taken up sentry positions on either side of it.

  “Possible trouble.”

  He turned, about to lead Masha back down the stairs, but he stopped when he heard a hollow thump—a door banging open—echoing up the bare stairwell. Far below, he could hear voices, someone shouting, demanding information. “G’deh devochka?” he heard. “Where is the girl?” It sounded like Vasilyev’s voice.

  He heard another voice—the junior sergeant with the copy of Playboy stationed outside the morgue doors—but couldn’t make out the words. The man would be pointing to the stairs, however. He’d seen them go that way just moments before.

  “Tell Charlie to bring the car south on Rudaki,” Akulinin told the Art Room. “Tell him there are two of us, we’re on the run, and the black hats are in pursuit! We’ll be going south, on the east side of the street, and we’ll meet him there!”

  “Roger that. We’re patching through to Charlie now.”

  Another boom from downstairs, closer now. Vasilyev and his troops were entering the stairwell, starting up
the steps toward the first landing.

  “Ilya!” Masha cried.

  He gathered her close with his arm. “Trust me!” he said fiercely. “Just play along, okay? And whatever happens, smile!”

  She nodded as he punched through the double doors in front of them and swept her with him into the lobby. The two soldiers looked up at the noise and began unslinging their rifles.

  Akulinin laughed out loud, grinning broadly as he jogged directly toward the soldiers, his arm still tight around Masha’s waist. “This is going to be great!” he called out in Russian. “A night on the town you will not forget!”

  The soldiers brought their rifles to an uncertain port arms. They would have been expecting to see the woman alone, would not be expecting to see a Russian Army major accompanying her.

  “Stoy, sudar’!” the one on the left called.

  “Stand aside, soldier,” Akulinin said, still laughing as they got closer. “I’m taking the most beautiful girl in the world out to dinner … then dancing and drinks at the Pamir Club … and after that …” And he kissed her.

  He kept kissing her as he strode between the two soldiers, pushing through the hospital’s front doors. He was counting on his psychological advantage, on surprise and embarrassment to get them through the doors.

  “Meior!” one of the soldiers said. “Please halt—”

  “Go to hell!” Akulinin said, laughing again.

  “Stop that girl!” Vasilyev shouted from the stairway door. “Stop them!”

  Then they were through the doors and running down the concrete steps in front of the red-painted hospital. It was dark outside now, with only a little glow from the fading twilight, and pools of light beneath the streetlamps. Taking Masha’s hand, Akulinin swung left and started racing down the sidewalk.

  “Stoy! Stoy! Slushaisya eelee ya budoo strelyat!”

  Obey or I’ll fire.

  Traffic was fairly heavy on Rudaki Avenue, a four-lane city street. They needed to get across to the other side—and civilian traffic would make the bad guys cautious about opening fire. Swerving suddenly right, he dragged Masha into the street, thankful that she was wearing sensible shoes. Headlights flared to their left, dazzlingly bright, and a horn sounded, a long, piercing blare. A northbound car slammed on its brakes and screeched to a halt, stopping close enough that Akulinin’s free hand slammed down on its hood.