One Child (9 page)

Chapter

15

Moscow, Russia

"We'll need more accurate blueprints of the stadium than these," Maelle said.

In the distance, visible from the balcony of the room in the Korston Hotel, Luzhniki Stadium was tucked into the lush green on the north side of the Moscow River. She cleared the table and laid out the rudimentary set of drawings Trey had given her in Paris. They showed the circular structure of the building, its support columns, seating diagrams and many of the major features, like concourses and stairwells. Conspicuous in their absence were the electrical, plumbing and heating/cooling systems.

"I should have better ones in a day or two." Miller opened the bar fridge and took out a beer. He checked the label, shrugged and popped off the lid. A swig, a thoughtful nod on the quality, then he sat on the couch. He watched Maelle as she poured over the schematics of Moscow's largest sports stadium, then checked his watch. "Dinner in an hour. No blue jeans. We're going to the Sky Lounge."

"I'll be ready," she said without looking up. "Did you tell Androv and Besovich that I was coming?"

"No," Trey said. "Things are always so much more fun when there is a surprise involved."

"You're childish," she snapped.

"You like it."

She looked up from under her hair, which fell down across her eyes. "I like it when we're having fun. This is business."

Miller didn't bother responding. There was no reason to. Maelle would let him know when the time was right for them to play. If ever. He had let her know he was willing to blur the lines between the job and pleasure when they had met in the church, now it was in her court to make the next move. He picked up the Mac laptop, keyed in his password for his international bank account in the Caymans and checked the balance. It was a touch over three million. Yesterday the dollar figure was a bit over two, so
Fleming
's million dollars had arrived. He clicked on the transfer icon and sent eighty thousand US to Maelle's account in Jersey, where he had deposited large sums of money many times.

So nice dealing with professionals
, he thought. He sent
Fleming
a quick e-mail about meeting with the team before closing the computer.

"We're going to be late," he said.

"Fashionably," Maelle replied. "Nobody ever eats in Moscow before nine o'clock."

The drive from the Korston Hotel, set in the picturesque green district of the Vorobyovy Hills, to the Sky Lounge was less than fifteen minutes. The restaurant was in Gargarin Square, set atop the building housing the Russian Academy of Sciences and almost directly across the river from Luzhniki Stadium. The late evening sun reflected off the building's gold windows.

Two men were sitting at the corner table on the outside terrace. The river, and the stadium, were easily visible to the west, tucked into one of Moscow's most eco-friendly zones. On the east side of the bridge and the freeway was a solid block of concrete apartment buildings. Spreading out directly below the ornate sciences center were the Leninsky Hills, an undulating wave of trees punctuated by red tile roofs. Moscow at its best. Neither man was enjoying the view. They were both watching Trey and Maelle approach.

"Petr. Alexi." He offered his hand. They both stood and shook.

Petr Besovich was short and thick, his chest so wide it forced his arms to hang at a twenty-degree angle to his body. He had no neck to speak of, his head appeared directly attached to his broad shoulders. His features were crude - the flattened nose and protruding ears common to professional boxers, which he had been in his youth. He was early forties with a thick thatch of jet-black hair and dense eyebrows to match. A scar sliced across his lower right cheek and disappeared below his jawbone. Every time Besovich shaved he remembered the look on the face of the man who had cut him - as he died from a severed trachea.

"Trey," Besovich said, his eyes focused on Maelle. "I see you brought some pussy with you. What's wrong with Russian girls?"

"I see you haven't changed," Maelle said. "You're still a pig."

Besovich grinned. "Pig or not, girls like me."

"Not this one," she said, sitting. She acknowledged the other man. "Hello, Alexi."

"Maelle," he said, retaking his seat. Alexi Androv was the other end of the spectrum from Petr Besovich. He was average height and slender, stylishly dressed in camel-colored slacks and an untucked black silk shirt. His shoes were pointed and well polished. Androv's face conveyed kindness, soft brown eyes and an easy smile framed by nicely coifed, blond hair. Of the three men, his look was the most sophisticated and benevolent. The sophisticated part was true - he had lived in Moscow all his life, attended the ballet and enjoyed art galleries. The benevolent part was a lie. Alexi Androv was skilled in weapons most people had never even heard of. And he was ruthless. Androv was the man Trey Miller went to when someone had to die.

"You look wonderful," Androv said. "Life in Paris must be agreeing with you."

"It is. It does," Maelle said. She smiled, but it was detached. She knew Androv's true nature. Knew it all too well. She had seen too many men die at his hand to ever see him for anything other than what he was. A vicious, psychopathic killer. His presence as one of the team members didn't resonate well with her, but Trey had picked the men for specific reasons.

Trey sat down in a chair facing the river and the stadium. The sun was setting and thousands of streetlights were blinking on. A shimmering glow settled in over the massive city. After five minutes of small talk, the group ordered dinner and got down to business.

"Thanks for coming," Trey said. "I have something that I think will interest you."

"Your jobs always interest me," Besovich said. His beer arrived and he drank half and waved to the server for another one.

"This is strictly confidential, as always," Trey said, and when they had all nodded, he continued. "I have a client who wants to disgrace the promoter of the upcoming U2 concert."

"Dimitri
Volstov
," Androv said matter-of-factly. The event was big news and
Volstov
's name was linked to it as the man who had made it happen.

"Yes,
Volstov
. They dislike each other intensely, and my client is incensed that
Volstov
is a hero to the Russian people for bringing U2 to Moscow. So, we need to be inventive here. This needs to look like the promoter screwed up. That he didn't think about the immense draw the concert would have on the electrical systems. We need to crash the grid - cause the lights to fail just as the concert is starting - but do it in a way that will never be discovered. It has to look like an overload on the system from a lack of planning."

"I doubt
Volstov
would take on any project without proper planning," Petr said. "He built
Murmansk-Technika
from one gas well into Russia's leading energy provider.
Volstov
is all about planning. He's brilliant and he doesn't make mistakes."

"I'm sure he makes mistakes," Trey said. "He never lets anyone see them."

Alexi was looking the calendar on his phone and he shook his head. "The concert is on the 25
th
. Today is the 3
rd
. That's twenty-two days. Today is pretty much over and we'll have no time to do anything inside the last twenty-four hours. So that means we have less than three weeks. It's impossible."

"Difficult, but not impossible," Trey said. "And the pay is good."

"How much?" Besovich asked.

"Eighty thousand US. Each."

"What sort of risks are we looking at?" Androv asked.

"We'll be in the sewer system cutting into the electrical conduits, which means it will be dark, wet and cold. There might be an occasional city worker around. And we need to get in and get out of the sewers without being seen. It's probably best if we rent an apartment or main-floor business from which we can access the underground. We have to be careful that no people come into the space we rent and see the hole. And there will be some level of security around the concert itself. A firm named
Details Matter
handles the security for the band while they're on tour. They'll have people on the ground in Moscow in advance of the show, but most of the muscle will be local guys hired to stand around in T-shirts and look tough."

"That's it?" Besovich asked skeptically. "Pay seems pretty good for such an easy gig."

Trey shook his head. "No such thing as an easy gig. I'm not telling you anything you don't already know. We've both seen the wheels come off and everything go wrong on assignments that looked easy. We need to be ready for anything."

"What will we be doing?" Androv asked.

"Petr will review the schematics and identify where we need to splice into the main lines to maximize the damage. Then all of us will work on getting that done. Alexi, in addition to building the equipment we need to cut the power, you will ensure we have drawings of the sewers and the stadium. Preferably in English."

"What do you care?" Androv said. "You speak Russian."

"It's rusty. I haven't used it for a while."

Androv shook his head. "I don't think we'll find them in English. I'll have to translate."

Trey smiled. "Well, there you go. That's the reason I'm paying you eighty large."

Besovich asked, "What happens when the lights fail? People could get trampled if they panic."

"If we take the lights out early enough, there will still be some daylight. Moscow is pretty far north and it stays light late in the evening. In fact, I checked and sunset is 8:42 pm on August 25
th
."

"Still, the sun will be low and the stadium will be darkening."

"To some degree," Trey agreed. "The emergency lighting is on battery packs so it will kick in. But there's still a degree of risk."

"What about backup generators?" Alexi asked. "A band the size of U2 probably has backup systems for the sound and lights."

"Good question," Trey said, raising an eyebrow. He hadn't expected anyone on the team to think about that. "U2 has built three stages for their tour and they leapfrog them from place to place. Each stage is accompanied by a massive generator mounted on a dedicated truck."

"That's a problem," Alexi said.

"Not if the truck breaks down," Trey said.

"Which it will."

"Yes."

Their food arrived and Besovich turned to Maelle as the waiter set the plates on the linen tablecloth. "You're quiet," he said.

"I have nothing to say," she replied.

Trey dug into his meal. Sea trout on buckwheat noodles. "Are you guys in?" he asked between bites.

Androv nodded. "I'm in."

Besovich grinned, crooked teeth poking out from behind thick lips. "Hell, yes. Easy money and a hot chick. It doesn't get any better."

The sun dipped below the western horizon and a sudden wave of darkness swept over the city. "No such thing as easy money, Petr," Trey said. "It's fool's thinking to be expecting that."

"Whatever," Besovich said.

An uneasy calm settled over the table.

Chapter

16

Outside Spin Buldak, Afghanistan

"I have an assignment for you." Captain Brian Hocking, thirty-one and on his third tour in Afghanistan, handed a single sheet of paper across his desk to the soldier on the other side. "I think you'll like it."

Specialist
Andrew
James took the paper and scanned the typewritten text, his icy blue eyes moving quickly from side to side. His military records indicated James was exactly six feet, but every person who met him assumed he was at least six-two. He stood perfectly straight, with a wiry body, gaunt cheeks and a determined jaw line. His blond hair was long by military standards, short when compared to his surfing and clamming buddies who were still hanging around his hometown of Pismo Beach, California. When he was finished, he said, "Why me, captain? Taking care of embedded reporters usually goes to men with sergeant stripes."

Hocking reclined in his wooden chair. His office was the remnants of a shipping container that had served as a shower until half of it was blown up in a mortar attack in early July. Hocking had commandeered the useful half and reconfigured it into a workspace with phones, faxes and computers. The open side backed onto an eight-foot-thick wall of heavy-duty canvas bags with wire frames filled with sand called HESCO bastions. The welders had cut a front door into the opposing wall. The plywood floor creaked under the weight of the chair.

"Because you spent time working on the newspaper in high school, and you're the best man for the job," he replied. He rubbed a thick hand through the military-style stubble on his head. "You can get this guy interested in what we're doing here. Let the world know what it's like to be in a Forward Operating Base."

"Babysitting a reporter," James said. "Great. Thank you, sir."

Hocking checked the time. "He's waiting in Kandahar. You should probably pick him up. There's a chopper heading in this afternoon. Hurry and you might make it by air rather than on the road."

"He's not at KAF?" James asked.

"No, he arrived at the airfield on August 1
st
and headed into the city. Nothing was moving on the road between KAF and here on the 1
st
and we didn't have access to a chopper."

"The 1
st
was Sunday - the day they attacked the convoy when they were crossing the bridge," James said.

Hocking nodded. "That's right. So he got the opportunity to spend a few days in the city. Now it's our turn to take care of him. Show the man around,
Andrew
. Give him an idea of what we do here. And don't let him get himself killed."

"I'll try, sir."

Andrew
James spun and walked out the door into the August blast furnace that was southern Afghanistan. He didn't mind the heat all that much. His first tour had been at high elevations during the winter and he'd frozen every conceivable body part with the exception of the one he considered to be the most important. Least used these days, but that would change when his second tour was done and he was back in California. He took the quickest route back to his bunk, skirted the HESCO walls and pushed open the door. The room was empty, with most of the men out on a mission. He'd been held back and now he knew why. He changed his socks and checked the magazine on his M-4, then headed for the chopper.

The pilot had the rotor moving and was already into the pre-flight check. James waited until the pilot spied him and waved him to approach, then ducked under the wash from the rotor on the UH-60 Blackhawk and ran across the landing pad. He slipped into the back section and settled into a seat by the window, immediately forward of the gunner. He plugged his ear buds in his iPod and turned it on. Coldplay flooded through the earpieces.

The chopper lifted off and banked to the north toward Kandahar. Below them was a series of ridges and flatlands, crisscrossed by intermittent riverbeds, now bone-dry. A vast plateau of wasteland stretched off to the west - thirty-foot-high sand dunes running to the horizon without a break. No roads, no villages, no life other than scorpions and vipers. Even the Taliban ignored Dasht-e M?rgow. No poppies, no opium, no villagers to lean on for taxes. Why bother.

Ahead, to the northwest, was Kandahar, the center of everything in the south of Afghanistan. The city Alexander the Great had founded early in the 4
th
century BC still held enormous power over the entire southern portion of the country.
Control Kandahar and you'll control Afghanistan
was an ancient Pashtun proverb with great relevance. The problem was, no one had figured out how to do it. Not the Mongols, led by the butcher Genghis Khan, or the Russians with their tanks and MIGs. Now it was the International Security Assistance Force that was bogged down fighting the Taliban for control. A fight the ISAF was not sure if they were winning or losing.

Andrew
stared down at the bleak landscape. Identifying the river systems was simple - look for trails of green snaking through the desert. How anyone could survive in the massive stretches of rocks and sand was beyond his comprehension. But they did. The Taliban were there, in the cracks and fissures, waiting for the windows of opportunity to embed Improvised Explosive Devices in the roads. They were good at it. Give them twenty minutes a night for three or four nights and they would have an IED in place that was capable of taking out a tank. Huge charges that killed and maimed indiscriminately. The men in the black turbans didn't care. When someone died they celebrated.

Kandahar came into view. From the air it appeared peaceful. Kites cut through the air on summer breezes and traffic moved on its boulevards and streets. The Old City was congested with street markets and thick with people on foot and bicycles. Life on a normal day. The only problem was, normal in Kandahar would be considered insanity in any other city of half a million people. Arms deals, drug dealers, insurgents, soldiers and a wary civilian population shared the same space. Everyone carried weapons, many of them hidden under loose-fitting robes, and the guns were loaded. The view from the chopper was a lie. People died violently every day in and around Kandahar. And that world of deceit and treachery was the one
Andrew
and the rest of the ISAF soldiers lived in.

The helicopter hovered over the landing pad and dropped slowly to the ground. The rotor wash whipped up a cloud of sand and small pebbles and the military personnel working the landing area covered exposed skin to keep from being sandblasted. The rotors slowed and then stopped.
Andrew
pushed open the door and stepped out into the quiet as the dust settled. A thin man dressed in civilian clothes was leaning against one of the mud buildings adjacent to the landing area. He had blond hair, was tanned and wore sunglasses. At his feet were two bags.
Andrew
recognized one of them as a reinforced camera case. He had his journalist. As
Andrew
walked toward him, he could feel the man's eyes focusing on him. Evaluating him.

"
Russell
Matthews?"
Andrew
asked when he reached the man.

"Yes." Matthews removed his sunglasses.

"I'm Specialist
Andrew
James. I'll be taking care of you while you're in Kandahar province."

Matthews extended his hand. "You. Personally?"

"Yes, sir,"
Andrew
said. He shook the writer's hand, surprised at the strength in the man's grip.

"Please," Matthews said. "Do me one favor."

"Of course, sir."

"Do not call me sir. Not ever. It's demeaning."

"I refer to all my superiors with that word. I don't think it has a demeaning connotation."

"Not to me," Matthews said. "To you."

Andrew
studied the reporter. He was squinting to keep out the blinding sun, but had angled himself so that even with his sunglasses off, he could still see. There were small crow's-feet at the edges of Matthew's eyes - premature for a man in his mid-thirties. His eyes were observant, and without fear or panic.
Andrew
knew that look. It was the same one that was in his eyes. The look of someone who had seen more than anyone should see in one lifetime. Someone who wore those memories in quiet solitude.
Russell
Matthews was a player.

"You got it." He motioned toward the chopper. "You ready to get out of the city?" he asked.

Matthews nodded. "Please. I need a break from all the noise. I'm looking forward to a little quiet time at the FOB."

"Yeah, it's pretty quiet,"
Andrew
said. "Aside from the mortars."

"Damn things wake you up," Matthews said. He picked up his bag and walked toward the chopper. "Shotgun."

Andrew
grinned at the man's back. He liked
Russell
Matthews already.