The cuban, p.14
The Cuban, page 14
He watched as she went into the fishing tackle box and pulled out a box of ammunition for the Ruger.
“The holster is in that box over there,” he said helpfully as she began to fill the magazine.
“I have my own. Custom.”
He raised a bushy eyebrow in surprise.
“You carry this gun regularly?”
“It’s a good gun.”
She pushed the magazine into the handle and reached behind her to tuck the Ruger into the holster sewn into the waistband at the back of her jeans. As the familiar weight settled into the small of her back, a wave of relief went through her. She had felt naked without her firearm for the past few days. Traveling through security checkpoints had necessitated being unarmed, something that she never enjoyed and which always made her uncomfortable.
“Yes, but it’s a canon.”
Viper laughed at that.
“Yes, and it will stop anything coming at me.”
Boris studied her for a second, a smile playing around his mouth.
“You are not what I expected,” he finally said.
She raised her eyebrows in question and he shrugged.
“You clearly have the respect of Mossad, but you are not one of them. You are too relaxed. They are uptight.”
Alina stepped back from the Jeep and pulled the rear windshield down before closing the door.
“I’ve never seen a benefit to being wound too tight. It tends to cause more problems than are necessary.”
“Very true.” Boris reached into the inside pocket of his coat and pulled out a padded envelope. “Here. Something extra. No charge.”
He handed her the envelope and, as her fingers closed around it, his eyes met hers.
“It is a burn phone. For emergency only. If you get stuck or trapped and need help, call the number programmed into the phone. They can get you anything you need. Use the code word Odesa.” He released his hold on the envelope. “The trip to Luhansk will take about five hours. You can find lodging in the Zhovtnevyi district. The address is on the map. Your target is east, near the Donets River.”
“What do you know of my target?” she asked sharply, her shoulders stiffening.
“You go to Luhansk, request all of this, and tell me you are going to war,” he said with a shrug and a flash of surprisingly white teeth. “It doesn’t take a rocket scientist. But don’t worry. Your secret is safe with me. I want no part of what you’re contemplating.”
She stared at him, her face impassive, for a long moment. Her first impression had been correct. Not much got past Boris, and she wasn’t sure that she was happy about that. The last thing she needed was an unknown factor knowing her destination. Yet he’d clearly put two and two together, and what could she do about it? She had to go, no matter who found out.
“Who will the phone contact?” she finally asked, breaking her silence.
Boris smiled at her and turned to leave.
“Good luck, Anya,” he said over his shoulder.
Alina watched as he went around the dumpster and began to walk away down the alley. She tipped the phone out into her hand and tossed the empty envelope into the dumpster, sliding the phone into her jacket pocket.
A few moments later, the Jeep rolled up to the other end of the alley. Viper stopped and waited for a break in the traffic to pull out. She had everything she needed, as well as something extra.
It was time to go get Hawk.
Chapter Sixteen
Luhansk Oblast
Viper held binoculars to her eyes and watched the armed guards patrolling around the perimeter. She was perched rather precariously in the frozen branches of a massive oak tree some distance from the structure that housed prison #15. Dressed in a white ski suit, she blended with the snow that blanketed the region. Her black hair was covered with the hood of her jacket, and she burrowed deeper into the warmth of the faux fur lining. Of all the times for Hawk to go and get himself captured, it had to be winter in Ukraine.
#15 was situated in what she imagined must have been a Soviet-era factory of some sort. Chimneys rose towards the back of the large, block building, and old, crumbling loading docks stretched across the back of the structure. The building itself was constructed from stone and cement, and it looked as though it could easily withstand quite a bit of damage. It had been built in a time when things were expected to last, and when the threat of war was always uppermost in engineers’ minds. She doubted she could put much of a dent in the fortress-like structure with the limited weapons she had available.
Shifting her attention back to the guards, she watched as they patrolled around the outer perimeter. Barbed wire ran along the top of the sturdy stone and cement wall, and she would be willing to bet that it was electrified. Even if she got over the fence, there was no way she was bringing Hawk out the same way. She’d be amazed if he could walk. Climbing a ten foot, barbed wired wall was out of the question. She would have to find another way in — and out.
Viper turned the binoculars to the only opening in the wall. A heavy metal gate provided the only access point into the area. They would have to exit through that gate.
While she studied the gate, a supply truck rattled up to it. As it began to open, she glanced at her watch, timing how long it took. The heavy, ancient metal moved ponderously while the truck idled, waiting. After what seemed like an eternity, but was in fact only thirty seconds, it stopped and two of the guards came out to talk to the driver. After a moment of conversation and examination of papers and a clipboard, the truck was waved through and the gates began their painfully slow journey to close.
Lowering the binoculars, Viper stared at the prison in the distance. She needed a truck, and a reason to gain access to the camp. That was the easy part. Once she had Hawk, getting out would be infinitely more difficult. She couldn’t leave the way she came in.
She lifted the binoculars again and studied the perimeter, her lips pressed together. The wall wasn’t impenetrable by any means, but getting an injured prisoner out made it almost impossible. She was considering and discarding idea after idea when movement from the supply truck drew her attention. It had pulled up in front of the building and the driver had climbed out, a clipboard in his hand. Something about the way he moved made her click a button on the binoculars and zoom in on his face. Sucking in her breath, she watched as he turned to go to the back of the truck and open the doors.
Her eyes narrowed and she lowered the binoculars, letting out a soft curse. The entire operation, which was already virtually impossible, had just become ten times more complicated.
Michael rubbed his hands together briskly to ward off the cold and glanced at the fireplace. The fire he’d built an hour before was throwing out heat, but the old, abandoned house was drafty and it could only do so much. He shifted on the folding chair he’d bought when he picked up supplies in Luhansk and turned his attention back to the laptop. As cold as it was in the house, he was glad that he’d found it. It saved him from renting a room in a hotel miles away. The more invisible he was, the better all around.
He’d spotted the abandoned house on his way to the prison this morning. It was located about a mile from the compound, buried in some trees. At one time, it had probably belonged to a farmer, but any evidence of crops had long since disappeared. Now it was a dilapidated affair consisting of two rooms and a kitchen. There was no electricity and no water, but the roof was intact and so were the windows. Michael had moved in that afternoon, armed with a folding chair and table, kerosene lamp, and a subzero sleeping bag. Dinner had been canned beans and thick, brown bread that he toasted over the fire. All in all, he would take this over the possibility of being seen in a hotel.
Getting into the prison had been easier than he’d expected, although he admitted to himself that much of it had to do with luck. After he’d surveyed the prison and the wall, he’d gone to the nearest town in search of lunch. He’d found a delivery driver instead.
Michael reached for his water bottle. The driver suffered from an unfortunate accident an hour later. While Michael was confident that his body would never be found, he did feel uncomfortable with the lengths that he’d gone to gain access to the prison. He drank some water, his eyes sliding to the flames in the hearth. He supposed Charlie would say that the ends justified the means, and the spy in him would agree. But the Marine rebelled against the thought of taking a non-combatants life in exchange for a pass into a secure area. He supposed that was why Charlie had his assets, and his spies. The two functions required two different mentalities, and he’d left his killer mentality with the Corps when he discharged.
Yet today it had re-emerged in a frighteningly natural way, almost as if it had never been laid to rest. His lips twisted sardonically and he set the water down. It was unnerving how easily the lines between spy and assassin became blurred when the opportunity presented itself.
Setting the moral and ethical questions aside, Michael turned his attention back to the computer screen. Right or wrong, assuming the identity of the delivery driver had not only gained him access to the prison, but had provided the opportunity to place an electronic device near one of the Wi-Fi hubs in the main offices. The signal enabled him to hack into the closed circuit network, and as long as no one discovered the tiny bug nestled behind a framed photograph of Vladimir Putin, he would have unimpeded access to their entire network. He just had to find his way in.
The silence in the room was interrupted occasionally by the sound of burning wood crackling while Michael worked to hack into the heavily fortified network. Their security was good, but he was better, and after about an hour, he sat back with a grunt of satisfaction.
He was in.
Getting up, he drained his water bottle and turned to toss it into the trash bag he’d hooked over a nail across the room. He stretched a few times, then went to a case of water to pull out another bottle. Now that he was into their system, it would be an easy thing to locate the prisoner logs. Finding out where they were keeping Hans Becker was the easy part. Getting in to see him would be the challenging part.
He rubbed his eyes as he opened a fresh bottle of water and took a sip. He had absolutely no idea how to do it, and he was contemplating reaching out to Charlie for the assistance of an asset when he shook his head impatiently. There wasn’t time. He was here now, and he had to get to Becker while the man was still cognizant. If only half of what he’d heard about these cellars was true, he had very little time before Becker was either dead or mental. He wanted to know everything he knew about The Cuban before that happened.
Going back to the folding table and chair, Michael wondered if he was on a wild goose chase. After all, the only reason he’d come into a Russian-held region of Ukraine, in the middle of a war, was essentially on a hunch. His gut told him that the name couldn’t be a coincidence, and so here he was. But what if his gut was wrong and Hans Becker had simply run afoul of the wrong person? What if he had no connection with The Cuban at all?
Then I’m risking everything to walk in there for no good reason, he thought, settling himself into his chair once more. But as his fingers moved over the keys, Michael knew that he had no choice. He’d come this far, and he had to either rule Becker out or confirm that his hunch was correct. If he was right, at the very least Becker would give him another clue to The Cuban. In the best case, he’d be able to give a location or means to make contact. And that possibility alone was worth any price. It would be closer than anyone had been able to get to the arms dealer yet.
Finding the prisoner logs in the system, Michael scanned down the list of folders, looking for Becker. Finding him, he opened it. A second later, he let out a low curse as he stared at the information on the screen. Hans Becker had been moved the day before to a different location. He was no longer there.
Scowling, Michael stared at the notation on the line item. Becker had been transferred to location #9. Bending down, he fished in one of the pockets of his bags until he found the flash drive he’d used in Belarus. A few minutes later, he had the coordinates to prison #9.
It looked like he was going to Donetsk.
London
Jack nodded to his driver and got into the back of the SUV, glancing at his watch. He was hungry, but there was no time to stop for lunch. He had a meeting with the Prime Minister in twenty minutes, and then he was on his way to Scotland. Food would have to wait at least until he was on the train up.
“Jeremy, while I’m at Downing Street, will you pop over to the Red Lion and get me something for lunch?” he asked his driver as he settled behind the wheel. “I’ll eat it on the train.”
“What would you like, sir?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Something portable.”
Jeremy grinned and nodded, used to his employer’s ways.
“Very good, sir.”
The phone in his inside pocket began to vibrate and Jack sighed, pulling it out.
“Hello?”
“Good afternoon, sir. I hope I’m not catching you in a meeting.”
“No, Rodney. You’ve caught me between them at the moment.”
“Good. I was hoping that I would.”
Jack’s brows came together. “That sounds rather ominous.”
“Well, it’s just that we’ve run into a bit of trouble with Ms. Morozov, sir,” the voice said apologetically.
“What kind of trouble?” Jack asked sharply.
“Well, you see, sir,” the man on the other end hesitated, then cleared his throat, “she’s missing.”
“What?!”
“She seems to have...well...disappeared.”
Jack pressed his lips together and shifted his gaze out the window, inhaling silently.
“You’ve had a team watching her, correct?” he finally asked, his voice soft.
“Yes, sir. Around the clock.”
“Then how, exactly, could she disappear?”
“We don’t know. According to the team leader, she went back to her flat last night, but didn’t leave on time for the office this morning. After an hour, he sent in one of the agents. The flat’s empty. She’s just gone.”
“Define gone a bit more clearly, will you?” Jack asked, impatience making its way into his voice. “Has she packed a bag and gone on vacation? Has she left a suicide note and disappeared?”
“No note, sir. That’s the first thing I asked as well, given the recent proclivity towards seemingly well-adjusted and happy people suddenly offing themselves. There don’t appear to be any clothes missing, and no sign of a struggle or forced entry. Our people say it’s as if she vanished.”
“I can assure you, humans don’t simply vanish,” Jack said dryly. “She’s given them the slip.”
“Yes, sir.”
“The question is whether or not she did it voluntarily. What about the security footage?”
“They’re sending it to me now.”
“Alright. When you know more, let me know. Monitor it yourself, will you? I want to know everything they know as soon as they know it.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And Rodney? Find out all her normal haunts, where she goes on holiday, where she goes to relax. Check them all.”
“Of course.”
Jack ended the call and slid the phone back into his pocket, staring out the window, a frown on his face. He’d authorized the surveillance on Sophia Morozov over a month ago when he’d received intelligence that she was a possible target. As a top executive for BenuTec, one of the premier oil and gas companies in Eastern Europe, she fit the profile for all the deceased executives. When one of his agents in Warsaw came across a discarded message indicating that Morozov was proving difficult, the implications were that she would become the next victim. However, despite both Interpol and EU officials warning her that she could be at risk, the woman had refused protective custody. Jack had authorized the surveillance in an attempt to catch at least one of the assassins before they could succeed again. Now it appeared that it had been a wasted exercise.
The Cuban was still out there, and he was still causing havoc.
Three months ago, the international arms dealer had become a priority for MI6 after intelligence surfaced linking him to the deaths of two of the energy executives. However, despite their best efforts, after two months, they were no further ahead than when they began. They were unable to locate The Cuban, let alone put him under surveillance to see just what he was up to. The only thing they had turned up in two months was a name that Jack wasn’t even convinced was real: Yasha Novikov. The name had no connection anywhere. There were a few men bearing that name, but none of them were The Cuban. They’d all been cleared after a cursory investigation. And so, after two months, they had absolutely nothing on the mysterious arms dealer.
That’s when he’d approached Charlie with the idea that they could work together. Jack was confident that he was in charge of the most skilled and elite spies in the world, but Charlie also had some gems on his side. By combining both of their considerable resources, surely they would hook The Cuban. But Charlie had refused, stating bluntly that it was a problem in Jack’s backyard, not his. Jack’s lips curved now in amusement. And yet, not even a month later, Viper had been recalled and dispatched; target: The Cuban. Not only that, but Charlie had also pulled one of his other operatives to assist, sending two of his people into Eastern Europe without a moment’s hesitation. Amazing what the Americans would do when one of their own was attacked.
The smile faded as quickly as it had come and Jack tapped one finger on the arm rest as he stared at the city buildings sliding by. Charlie had refused to share the lead that his people were following, and while that fact irritated Jack to no end, he supposed he could understand it. The Cuban had proved to be so well concealed and illusive that he had to have people in all the major intelligence agencies. For none of them to be able to find a shred of evidence or any clue to his whereabouts was simply unheard of.
As much as Jack hated to admit that MI6 was compromised, he knew it must be so. He’d launched an internal investigation last month, but so far nothing had turned up. Yet how else could The Cuban always be one step ahead of all of them? Charlie knew it too. When Jack pressed him about the lead Viper was following, Charlie had told him that he didn’t want to risk a leak. After that debacle four years ago, Jack could hardly blame him. And so Charlie kept his secrets, and Jack kept his.
