Cold Warriors (A Special Agent Dylan Kane Thriller, Book #3) Page 4

  All for one and one for all.

  He wondered if Dumas had even conceived of communism when he coined the now famous phrase that could so aptly describe the political system that by its very nature was impossible to implement.

  There are always leaders, therefore some will always be more equal than others.

  He stood, pouring himself a vodka, the bottle requested upon arrival. He had had a few sips to numb the damage the flight had done, then brought it into the shower with him, making a show of tipping the bottle up so any camera could see it above the shower curtain, but in reality letting it dribble out of his mouth as he rinsed.

  He also let the water fill the bottle, reducing the potency of what remained. At this point his observers would assume he was three quarters of the way into their national sport, and any odd behavior, such as lying naked on the bed and scratching yourself, could be excused.

  Swirling the wheat-based rather than potato-based alcohol in his crystal glass, he having opted for a finer quality his cover enjoyed, he took a swig of the now extremely weak mix, eyeing the painting with interest, focusing on the man and girl, but letting his peripheral vision do the walking of the rest of the large piece of artwork and frame.

  There it is.

  Upper left corner, a hole in the ornate frame, perhaps half an inch in diameter, stood out to the expert eye, the reflective surface of the lens making it even more obvious once spotted.

  “I think you need wh-wh-one of my tractor’s,” he said to the man in the painting, his knees shaking, his body wavering back and forth as he tried to keep balance, his words slurred and stammered just enough. “That way you c-c-could shpend more time with yer faamlee.” He held up his glass, toasting the man. “To Mother Russia! Pro-Pro-Prost!” He took another swig then stopped, a curious expression on his face. “Wait. Ish Prosht Ru-Ru-Russian or Ger-German?” His eyebrows narrowed. “What, you don’t know?”

  He stumbled into the painting, shoving it up and pulling it from the wall, dropping his glass and landing with the painting covering his upper body.

  “Sh-shit!” he exclaimed, pushing the painting off, the corner of his eye catching the now dangling camera hanging from the wall. He stumbled to his feet, lifting the painting and keeping it between him and the wall at all times so anyone still watching would assume he never saw the camera. He lifted the painting higher than the hooks in the wall, then slowly lowered it until the wire snagged.

  He left it crooked, the camera now behind the painting, its view completely blocked by the canvas.

  “That sh-should d-do it.”

  He turned the light out then stumbled back to the bed, collapsing on it, and began to snore.

  One obstacle down.

  CIA Headquarters, Langley, Virginia

  Present Day

  Leif Morrison, National Clandestine Service Chief for the CIA, read the latest update on Dylan Kane’s mission while one of his top analysts, Chris Leroux, sat by all outward appearances impatiently. Kane was one of the best he had, if not the best, that distinction in this business usually fleeting—the better you were, the more difficult the missions, the more likely to be injured with no hope of returning to active duty, or worse, killed.

  For someone like Kane, he’d probably prefer death.

  Kane was pure warrior and Morrison knew his jacket like the back of his hand. Tutored through high school by the younger Leroux, football scholarship to St. Paul’s, then a year later 9/11. Joined the army right away, worked his way quickly to Sergeant and immediately applied to Delta, where he again excelled. He had been offered a chance—a chance jumped at—to join the Special Operations Group and their elite Special Activities Division within the CIA.

  And he had excelled.

  He was a loner, minimal friends, not very close with his family—not estranged, simply not the type that needed to call constantly or visit all the time.

  His cover with them, insurance investigator with Shaw’s of London was perfect. It had him travelling the globe, excused him with his family, and allowed him to establish his bona fides in every major city in the world.

  But his current mission had stumbled on something that didn’t make sense. Why would the former commander of the Soviet nuclear arsenal be involved with a Chechen drug lord? Why were massive amounts of funds transferred to this General in exchange for a memory stick? What was on that memory stick? And what the hell was Crimson Rush?

  He looked at Leroux.

  “What have you got for me?”

  “I found out what Crimson Rush is.”

  And when Morrison heard his young analyst’s report, he felt himself weaken noticeably as his blood pressure dropped.

  “This is now your top priority. I have to contact Washington.” He pointed at the door, Leroux jumping to his feet as Morrison hit the speed dial for the Director of National Intelligence.

  “Lou, it’s Leif. I’ve got something that can’t wait for the President’s Daily Brief. Intelligence is thin, but he’s going to want to know about it now rather than tomorrow morning.”

  “NSA is already hot about that Crimson Rush thing your guy stumbled on. They already convinced the President to go to DEFCON Four under the assumption our ex-General just sold nuclear launch or detonation codes to Islamists. I assume this is about that?” asked Lou Tenet, the man responsible for delivering the daily report to the President covering essentially every threat known to the country.

  “Yes it is. But we now know what Crimson Rush might actually be.”

  Three minutes later Morrison was headed to a meeting with the President.

  Berlin Hotel (Formerly Savoy), Moscow, USSR

  February 6, 1982

  The snore erupting from Alex West’s throat was steady, heavy and a perfectly controlled imitation of how he sounded when drunk and passed out. Yes, he had taped it and practiced it until perfected. And he could control the volume if necessary. He reached slowly up to his nightstand, pushing the play button on his Sony Walkman with external speakers, power source and the all-important auto-reverse. The volume was already preset, the 90 minute cassette cued up, and immediately snoring burst from the speakers at the exact same volume he had been faking.

  He swung quietly from the bed and with the snoring playing smoothly from the speakers, and the tape designed to have him suffer from a little sleep apnea to cover the delays when the tape would reverse at the end of the 45 minutes, it should buy him plenty of time.

  Hopefully all he’d need if he were lucky.

  He quickly dressed, all in black, a pair of specially designed dress shoes with the latest soles designed for grip and retractable studs ideal for running on icy Soviet streets, leather gloves, wrap around glasses to protect from the elements, and a Russian style Ushanka hat, a patriotic hammer and sickle carefully embroidered in the center. Gun, originally hidden disassembled in his Walkman speakers, utility belt and papers completed his ensemble.

  He looked down at Rozhdestvenka Street, poorly lit compared to North American standards, but typically sparse by European expectations. His escort vehicle sat across the street, the occupants not concerned about the tailpipe exhaust giving away their presence in the cold night, the vapors obvious.

  They would be watching the front entrance, and most likely would have been told of what had just happened in his room, and the fact he was passed out drunk.

  If they bought the ruse.

  Having already checked the window when he first arrived for wires, he turned the knob and pushed the window out, quickly stepping onto the ledge that rimmed each floor. Shuffling aside, he closed the window, glancing down at the car.

  No movement.

  He glanced to his left then his right, deciding to proceed that way, there only being three rooms to pass in front of before he could climb a drainpipe to the roof. Inching along the less than foot wide row of stonework, he worked his gloved fingers into any groove or handhold he could find. The slow progress was painful, and with the cold rapidly working its way th
rough his clothing, his fingers became numb.

  The first window came far too slowly for his liking, but thankfully the curtains were closed. He shuffled past, the ledge slightly larger at the windows, and continued to the next. His toes were frozen, his fingers barely feeling the brickwork he was grabbing. He had done this before, but never on a night this cold.

  It must be some sort of record cold snap.

  A car door opened below just as he stepped in front of the next window. He froze, looking down to see one of his shadows rushing across the street. He pressed himself against the window, the ledge giving him some extra cover, but all it would take would be a quick glance up to curse the snow and he would be spotted.

  Unless of course he was already spotted and this wasn’t just a piss break.

  But it was one man. Surely they both would be leaving the car to chase him down if they had spotted him.

  Unless one is going to watch you from the warmth of the car until he needs to get out.

  The thought had his heart pumping a little faster as his mind raced to a decision—return to his room before his KGB escort arrived, or take a chance and continue on.

  Shuffling to the right, his jacket buttons scraped the window as he tried to keep out of sight.

  He winced at the sound, impossibly loud in the still of the night.

  A quick look down showed his escort was already inside, the car still idling quietly across the street.

  Suddenly the curtains flew open, light pouring out into the near pitch black. He spun on his right toe, kicking out and flipping away from the window and onto the ledge next to it, his back pressed against the wall, his left foot finding its footing just as his right heel was about to lose its. His left hand slapped against the wall, his ice cold fingers grasping for something to hold onto while his right flipped around, trying to hold onto the corner of the stone frame of the window.

  His heart slammed in his chest as he felt himself beginning to tip forward, away from the wall. He arched back as hard as he could, his left hand still grabbing for anything, when he felt something through the numbness. He squeezed his hand, grabbing whatever it was, his head spinning to see what it might be.

  A cable.

  His fingers grabbed hold with all the strength they had remaining as the window beside him opened. He spun around again, this time on his left heel, his right foot and arm swinging out from the wall, all that was now keeping him from falling to an ignominious death the thin wire stretching over his head to he assumed the roof.

  “I know I heard something,” said a man’s voice in Russian.

  “Come back to bed, Grigori!” protested a woman. “You’re letting all the cold in!”

  “But I heard something!”

  West slapped against the wall, both feet now on the ledge, his right hand reaching out to the edge of the next window, his balance finally steady.

  “I heard it again!” exclaimed the man.

  West pressed against the wall, praying his dark clothes and the frigid night would discourage any prolonged search.

  “Grigori, come in this instant or there is no sugar for you tonight!”

  “Fine!” yelled the man, adding with a mutter something in Russian that couldn’t be translated into English without losing the true depth of the insult. West just hoped the woman never followed through on her threat or she might find herself in a lot of pain.

  West continued to pass the third window uneventfully and soon reached the drainpipe wedged into a corner. Straddling the ledge on both sides, he rubbed his gloved hands together trying to coax some feeling into them with little success.

  Now or never.

  He grabbed on and began to climb the two floors to the roof. The pipe seemed to hold, but a slight play had him a little concerned, and as he rested on the next ledge he saw why. The bolts holding the clamp that secured the pipe to the wall were loose above him. They hadn’t been last time, he was sure of it. It made him wonder if he perhaps had loosened them by accident last time he did this, pulling them from the wall slightly, if another person in his profession had done it just as accidentally, or if they were purposefully loosened to make climbing impossible.

  He wouldn’t put it past the KGB to do something sneaky like that.

  “Look! There he is!” yelled a voice below him. His head whipped toward the too close voice and he spotted the man from earlier, his head poking out his room window, pointing. “I told you I heard something!” A woman’s head quickly followed, joining in the shouting and pointing. He looked at the car and saw a window roll down.

  Shit!

  He scrambled up the loose pipe, praying it would hold, when suddenly there was a creaking sound of metal bending. He thrust up with his right hand, grabbing the raised lip at the top, pulling with all his might as he heard a car door open below, the shouts continuing. With another heroic lunge he transferred his left hand to the roof, pulling himself up and flipping over onto the large, flat lip that ringed the hotel. A quick peak over the side saw his second shadow exiting his vehicle, joined by the first who had just returned, looking up at the roof. He knew there was no way they could see him up here, it too dark, but he had little time to escape them should they decide to believe the slurred shouts of a couple in post-coital bliss.

  Snaking along the lip, he crawled on his belly toward the corner, rounded the bend, then looked over the side again to see no one following. He leapt to his feet and scurried to the back of the hotel, slid quickly down another drainpipe at the rear, this one still secure, and hit the ground at a run, sprinting toward the service entrance of the hotel. He skid to a halt just short of the door, the master power switch to the entire building behind a locked utility box. He quickly picked the lock, his numb fingers barely functioning, and pulled the dull grey door aside. He loosened all the old ceramic fuses he knew from past experience were for the floor lights, then yanked down the master switch.

  He closed the panel then pulled open the service entrance door, plunging into the confusion inside, several voices cursing in the dark. Running blindly forward toward the door he knew was at the other side of the vast storage area, he collided headlong into a confused employee who from the sounds of what West heard smacked hard onto the concrete floor, expletives erupting from his mouth as West struggled to keep his bearings. Pushing on, he reached the door without any additional encounters and pulled it open. Outside even more confusion reigned, the odd candle already lit by on-the-ball staff used to Moscow’s occasional blackouts, especially during winter storms, the only sign of order.

  From his vantage point he could see the front lobby and his two shadows rushing through the swinging front doors. He ran to his left, his hand trailing the wall, counting off the doors until he reached the third one. He pulled open the door and entered a completely dark stairwell, emergency lighting apparently not something required in Moscow hotels. He counted the flights until he reached his floor, the sound of the door below him opening, footfalls hammering on the stairs causing him to slow his pace the last flight lest they hear his own.

  Pressing on the bar to open the door as quietly as possible, he stepped through then gently pushed the door closed. He sprinted toward his door, his key already out. Feeling around for the lock, he pushed the key inside, yanked the door open and closed it behind him with a silent push as the snoring from his tape recorder filled his ears. The sound of the stairwell door opening had his heart slamming into his chest.

  He rushed toward the bed, yanking his clothes off, tossing them into a pile, stripping down naked, his numb fingers barely able to untie the laces on his shoes.

  Hammering at his door began and he gave up, simply yanking them off and shoving them under the bed. He grabbed the rest of his snow covered clothes and piled them on the chair by the window, shoving it open slightly, wind and snow whistling in, hopefully explaining away the reason they weren’t dry.

  A shoulder slammed into the door.

  He jumped for the Walkman, now running on batteries,
hitting the stop button, his own snoring replacing it none-too-steadily, his chest heaving from his efforts. Rushing around the end of the bed, he dropped onto it, his knees on the floor, his ass exposed to his visitors as they burst through the door, flashlights in hand, he draped over the bed, snoring.

  “He’s here!” whispered one to the other.

  “Impossible!”

  “Look!”

  “That’s disgusting. Has he no shame?”

  “American, what do you expect?”

  West continued his snoring as the men entered the room, quickly checking the bathroom then the closets.

  “Where are his clothes?” asked the first.

  “By the window.”

  Footsteps went to the chair.

  “They’re wet!”

  “So he was out!”

  A gust of wind blew the drapes.

  “Shit! His window is open.”

  “So?”

  “Snow is coming in. They could be wet just from that.”

  “What should we do?”

  “Get out of here before he wakes up.”

  “Should we fix the camera?”

  “In the dark?”

  West shifted his position, changing his snore as if he were about to wake up.

  “Let’s get out of here!” said the one closest to the door in a harsh whisper.

  The other man didn’t reply but West could hear the footsteps walk past him, then the door close behind them.

  West jumped up, reactivating the Walkman then quickly got dressed. He listened at the door and heard nothing, then quietly opened it, peeking out. It appeared clear; at least of flashlight toting KGB. He made for the stairs then opened the door gently, hearing footfalls below as the KGB men cleared the last couple of flights, their voices echoing up the steps as they commented on his naked display.