Ghosts of War (33 page)

T
he weasel-eyed man heard the snap, sounding like a firecracker, then screaming from outside the bedroom from someone losing control. The fat man loosened his hold on Mikhail's shoulders, and then they heard the apartment doorjamb splinter, followed by footsteps pounding in. The fat man ran to the door and peeked out, then took a knee, pulling out his pistol and shooting into the kitchen, shouting, “We're under attack!”

The weasel turned to the door, drawing his own weapon, and Mikhail went to work.

He broke the palm-to-palm hold he'd been maintaining, twisting his right hand over his left, forming an
X
with his hands and arms, and putting significant tension on the tape. He slammed his hands into his chest, pulling outward, and the top part of the tape split a quarter of an inch. He threw his hands out again, then repeated the procedure. The tear grew larger, like a dam with a hole in it, the water flowing out.

The weasel caught the movement and turned back to him. Mikhail saw him raising his pistol and repeated his attempts a third time, and the top part of the binding split through.

Mikhail leapt out of the chair, ripping his hands free and hammering the weasel with his shoulder, knocking him to the ground. The fat man turned from the door, and Mikhail saw his head explode, a round hitting the rear of his skull and exiting from the top of his forehead, the blast showering Mikhail in brain matter.

The body collapsed forward, the hand with the pistol outstretched.
Mikhail grabbed it, then jammed the barrel into the weasel's temple and pulled the trigger.

He heard movement outside the door and slammed it closed, then fired twice more through it, the weapon locking open. He grabbed the weasel's gun and punched bullets through the door again, drawing a fusillade of suppressed fire in return.

He knew what was coming. They were planning an assault, and by the skill with which they'd killed the entire Russian cell, he knew it wouldn't be a ten-minute conference full of dithering. He had seconds.

He snatched his passport and wallet off the dresser and fired two more rounds through the door, giving them pause. He grabbed the briefcase of Cesium and smashed the window over the bed. He crawled out onto the fire escape, gingerly placing his feet onto the rusted steel. It held.

He slid forward, and the bolts affixing the old metal to the concrete wall let go, plummeting half the fire escape toward the earth. He felt the fall and desperately held on, dropping the briefcase and pistol so he could clutch the rails in a vicelike grip. The stairs continued to drop, then hit the platform below, jarring his hold. He was thrown forward, and the second-story rails ripped out of the wall as well, a domino effect bouncing him down the platform, causing him to roll inexorably into space.

He pitched over the side, grabbing the bottom rung of the platform with his hands, the briefcase tumbling into space. He hung for a moment, the bolts loosening and groaning. He glanced down and saw he was about fourteen feet off the ground.

He let go, hitting the concrete hard and rolling. He looked up and saw a man staring out the window, searching for him.

He grabbed the briefcase, stood to run, and saw movement out of the corner of his eye. He recognized the threat, and felt more fear than he had inside the room, handcuffed with a knife at his breast.

It was the devil.

Shoshana was rounding the corner, and she was bringing death with her.

—

Shoshana heard the crack of the sniper rifle and crouched in the doorway, wanting to join the fight, but doing her duty. The radio came alive with calls, and she recognized that they'd achieved surprise. Mikhail would be dead, or facing her in a van soon. She heard unsuppressed gunfire, meaning the men in the room were fighting back, and considered running up the stairs.

She did not.

The calls came, fast and furious, and she could almost track the movement of the team: Aaron pinned down, Pike suppressing a doorway, fire coming back, then a final assault.

Then quiet. No jackpot call, but then again, no calls of wounded. She waited, letting them do their work. Then she heard, “Carrie, Carrie, this is Pike. Got a squirter.”

She was electrified at the words. She said, “This is Carrie. Send it.”

“It's Mikhail. He's escaped out the back, off a fire escape. He's just around the corner.”

She press-checked her pistol and took off out of the alcove, saying, “What's my mission? What can I do?”

And heard exactly what she wanted.

“Kill him.”

She ran up the street, seeing the crowds still in place in front of Club 70. She turned the corner and saw Mikhail on his knees, a briefcase next to him, dazed by his fall. He saw her coming and leapt up, grabbing the briefcase and running to the street right in front of her. She took a knee and settled the front site post, squeezing off a round.

She felt the recoil, then saw him fall. She stood, and he did too,
holding the side of his head. She saw the terror on his face, and he sprinted into the crowds. She raised the pistol, but held off the shot.

She followed, the blood lust raging. She watched him barrel his way to the entrance, and she was there thirty seconds later. She tried to bull her way through, and was stopped by a man already angry about Mikhail's pushing. She raised her Glock and snarled, “Get the fuck out of my way.”

The Polish millennials parted like the Red Sea.

She entered the club, blasted by the music and the cloying, claustrophobic mass of people. She pushed through the first layer and saw the writhing bodies on the dance floor, along with the three-deep layer at the bar. She wanted to continue the search, knowing her enemy was cowering within, but none in the club were looking askance, as if something weird had just passed by.

Unlike the way they were looking at her.

With her pistol out, the people behind her were pointing and talking. It was only a matter of time.

The professional in her defeated the dark angel.

She retreated.

K
urt Hale saw George Wolffe poke his head in the door. “Sir, we gotta go. Meeting in forty minutes, and rush hour is still going on.”

Kurt held up his finger, talking into a headset, saying, “So he got away?”

Pike said, “Yes, sir. He did. To make matters worse, the men we killed are Russian. I think they were trying to stop him. Putin must know that Simon is behind what's going on, and our assault was a rescue for him. If we'd have sat back, we'd have let them destroy the plan.”

“How do you know?”

“During SSE we found duct tape, handcuffs with blood on them, and syringes with some type of drug in them. Mikhail was being held against his will for interrogation. Our assault gave him the chance to escape.”

Kurt cursed under his breath, then said, “That's not something I can bring to higher. Where do we stand?”

“One of the men we searched had two smartphones. We think one of them is Mikhail's. We just don't know which one, but if we can neck it down, we might be able to get something off it.”

“Okay, good. We'll take a look. Let Taskforce intel drain both phones. They'll figure it out.”

Pike said, “Already done.”

“What's the status of the apartment?”

Pike knew what he was asking. “We sterilized it, but had to leave
the bodies. If they're found it'll look like a gangland hit, without any indication they're Russian. It was the best we could do.”

“And you got in and out clean?”

“Yes. Well, Shoshana spiked a bit at the club across the street, chasing Mikhail, but we got out clean. She had the presence of mind to simply keep going, away from our operation. We picked her up on the street a mile away from the target. No police interference.”

“Okay. At least that's something.”

“What's my next move with the team? Are we still okay to operate?”

Kurt rubbed his face and said, “Yeah, for whatever good that will do.”

Pike said, “Hey, sir, that assault was a correct call. We're under pressure and we had to execute. It didn't work out, but if I had to do it again, I'd do it.”

Kurt said nothing, then heard Pike ask, “Sir?”

“I hear you, Pike. I do. It was my call, and for the record, you were right. We should have developed the target. If we had, Mikhail would be dead.”

Kurt was surprised at the vociferous response. “
Fuck
that. You know how these operations go. Sometimes you make the right call, sometimes you don't. Don't let the stakes here become a judgment on your decision-making.”

Remembering his position, Kurt said, “Pike, I wasn't asking for forgiveness. Just that I should have listened to you. Look, I have to go to a meeting with the president. I'll get you the information from the phone as soon as I can. I expect you to continue the hunt, but pull off the Israelis. They're done. I can't report their actions without political fallout.”

Pike said, “Sir, I can't do that. I need them on this.”

“Pike, I can't brief the president on this disaster
and
have Mossad involved.”

“Sir, it's not a disaster. Just a setback. Look, if we move anywhere else, I'll leave them here in Warsaw. I won't cut them free, but I'll only use them if I have to, as a reserve. Will that work? The mission is what's important here. We can deal with the fallout later, but if we miss on this, it won't matter.”

Hearing Pike's argument, Kurt remembered that trust was the cornerstone of Taskforce existence, and clearly Pike trusted the Israeli component of his team. As for him, Kurt had learned long ago to trust the man on the ground.

“Okay, Pike. That'll work. I'll call when I have something.”

He heard “Call soon, because Shoshana wants to kill someone.”

He hung up, not wanting to learn if that was just a joke.

George said, “What happened?”

“They missed. My call, but it went bad.”

“And?”

“And there's still a team out there trying to spark a war.”

George nodded, the information enough. He said, “We gotta go. We're going to be late.”

Kurt stood and put on what he had taken to calling his White House jacket, saying, “This isn't going to go well.”

—

They received their badges, the staff inside the West Wing unusually quiet and subdued. They went past the secretary's gatekeeping position without a second glance, the woman known to all politicos as the Dragon Lady waving them forward, and entered the Oval Office.

Alexander Palmer was more agitated than Kurt had ever seen, flipping pages in a folder as if he were searching for a truth that wasn't being presented. Mark Oglethorpe, the secretary of defense, was leaning on a table doing the same thing, poring over intel reports. And the president himself was pacing back and forth in front of the window, as if he were deciding what to believe.

It didn't look good.

Kurt coughed, getting their attention. President Hannister snapped his head up from the window and said, “Tell me you stopped whatever they had planned, because we're looking at World War Three without it.”

Kurt drew himself up, ready for the punishment. He said, “No, sir. We missed. Mikhail and Simon are still on the loose.” He laid out what he knew, ending with, “The best we can hope for is that the assault scared them into quitting.”

Nobody in the room said a word. President Hannister stared at the ceiling for a moment, then said, “So they're still on the hunt?”

“Most likely, sir.”

Palmer thumped his fist and said, “Shit. We should have never authorized that operation. The press is going to have a field day if they learn we could have stopped this and didn't.”

Kurt heard the words and had had enough. He'd lived in the world of politics before, but in the last five days he'd been immersed in it, like a man dropped into a septic tank. He advanced on Palmer and saw him recoil.

He got within inches of Palmer's face and said, “This isn't about optics, but like every other political fuck in this country, you can't separate the two. If Pike had done
nothing
, Mikhail might still be on the loose, and yet you look for someone else to blame to protect yourself from the nightly news.”

President Hannister interrupted, saying, “Hey, this isn't helping. Back off, Kurt. Don't blame him for the tension. Things have taken a turn for the worse.”

Kurt stepped back and said, “What's happening now?”

The SECDEF said, “Russia's begun to flex. They've split the border between Poland and Lithuania, building a land bridge to Kaliningrad. Poland and Lithuania, of course, are going crazy—as is NATO, because they're both members. Russia is saying they need a land bridge
to Kaliningrad because of our ‘provocation' in breaking the treaties NATO had against staging forces on their border. Meaning the forces picking the guts out of Air Force One that they shot down.”

Hannister said, “Bottom line is, it's getting out of our control. We're about to be at war whether we like it or not. I can restrain US forces, but I can't do anything with Lithuania and Poland. They flip out, and it'll invoke Article 5 of NATO. We'll be at war.”

Kurt said, “Tell them to back off. Jesus Christ, Mikhail escaped, but he did so from
Russian
intelligence. Putin
knows
what's going on. He knows that Simon is driving this forward. Am I the only one that sees this? Call him. Get him to stop.”

“Yeah, we all agree on that, with one exception: We think the Belarus strike was under his orders, and then he lost control. He can't have that come out. He can't say it was all a crazy man if Simon's on the loose, because Simon might appear and say it was all
Putin's
doing.”

Kurt said, “Are you fucking kidding me? The fate of the world has devolved into a seventh-grade he-said, she-said tiff?”

Palmer said, “Unfortunately, yes. That's pretty much what it is.”

Kurt looked at Hannister and said, “Call him. Tell him you understand. Tell him you know what happened, and it isn't worth a war. He doesn't think it is, or he wouldn't be hunting Mikhail. He
knows
what's going on.”

The SECDEF said, “He won't listen. He won't back down. He
will not
admit anything with Belarus, even if it means going to war. Remember whom we're talking about here. He doesn't answer to his people.”

The room remained quiet for a moment, everyone realizing the truth of the statement. Finally, Kurt said, “What do we do from here? What do you want from me?”

Hannister turned from the window and said, “I want you to find Mikhail. I want you to stop that attack. Buy me some time.”

Kurt started to say something, but Hannister cut him off. “I'm not done. Stop that attack, and then find me Simon. Get him in our hands. Give me something to use against Putin.”

Kurt nodded, saying nothing.

“You can do that, right? Tell me you can. President Warren created the Taskforce. He trusted you. Tell me that trust wasn't misplaced.”

Kurt realized the president of the United States was waiting on him to say only one thing. Wanting to hear nothing but confidence.

He said, “Yes, sir. I can do that.”

But he didn't believe it.