The importer a michael t.., p.17
The Importer: A Michael Thomas Thriller, page 17
Sergio emerged from the restroom and picked up his envelope from the bed. Hunter did the same, and both settled on the other beds.
John claimed the last envelope and strode to the desk. “Did you two leave the signal jammer in the Skoda?”
“Yeah, it’s still plugged in under the front seat,” Sergio replied as he flipped through the scant intel update.
“Until we trade that car out, we gotta make sure that stays on.” John put his reading glasses on and removed the intel packet from his envelope, which was noticeably thicker than the others. “If somebody drops a beacon on us, we wanna make sure it never drops a dime on us.”
Michael watched John for a moment. “Who’s Bishop Peppino?”
The boss looked at him over the half-lenses. “His contact information’s at the back of your packets. He’s our primary resource for intel and analysis at DICE, and I’ve kept his identity confidential up to this point, but I need y’all to have it in case something goes wrong.”
Michael nodded and flipped to the second page of his intel updates:
Target Residence – House on the Embankment, #1, Moscow
A street map below the address had four location pins: (1) Kremlin, (2) H.O.T.E. #1, (3) Oremus, and (4) Sanctuary. All four pins stood less than a mile apart.
“He’s right across the park,” Michael muttered aloud and looked up at John. “The Butcher lives a half-mile from here?”
“Awful convenient, ain’t it? We’re plopped down right in the middle of every conceivable enemy here. I don’t know how much it’ll matter these days, but our closest potential sanctuary is marked on that map, too. Church of the Immaculate Conception of the Blessed Virgin Mary. ‘Mary’s Church’ just didn’t quite have the right ring to it, I guess, but if government goons have you cornered, the priests there may be willin’ to offer asylum; I just don’t expect anybody with an ounce of authority in Russia to respect the sanctity of that cathedral as an extension of the Holy See.
“Since we’ve got such a damned good chance of runnin’ into all sorts of bad men,” John continued, “the next order of business is to get ourselves separated from all the data Border Services collected on us. That’s the kinda thing that could get us killed quicker’n anything else.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
May 12th, 10:32 a.m.
North Garden Ring Road, Moscow.
Michael drove their Skoda on the northernmost portion of Moscow’s Garden Ring road. John navigated from the back seat with Hunter, and Sergio rode shotgun.
“Most all the consulates and embassies are inside the city’s Garden Ring, which puts ’em reasonably near the Kremlin, but of course, ours ain’t,” John explained. “Like a lot of old Europe, Moscow grew up in semi-concentric rings of development. Sometimes, a city’s defensive outer walls turned into roads.”
“What’s at the embassy, exactly?” Sergio asked.
“Our new identities. Dzheyms couldn’t take care of it before we got here ’cause we can’t risk havin’ him spotted or tailed to a foreign embassy. Russian authorities would be on him like stink on shit.”
Michael cocked his head. “The Russians are watching the Holy See embassy that close?”
“They watch everybody that close. Even if it’s just with CCTV cameras or occasional spot surveillance, we need our fixer to stay in Moscow more than we need him to courier a couple packages for us. Turn off on the next right.”
Michael slowed and navigated into the residential neighborhood. Three- and four-story buildings stood on both sides of the narrow road, and the architecture looked like most of every 18th and 19th century European city. Not the gray concrete blocks I’ve always expected to find over here.
“Here’s the plan,” John exhaled. “Drop me on the next block. Drive a short surveillance detection route and pick me up two blocks west in thirty minutes. In thirty-five minutes, I’ll be walkin’ to a train station, so don’t be late. If you do run into trouble, stay flexible and remember that no plan survives first contact. If you show up for me and I ignore you, just keep goin’. Use the comms if you have to, but keep that as a last resort.”
Michael stopped long enough for John to get out. He pulled away and watched their boss disappear in his mirrors. “Alright, Player One. It’s all up to you now.”
“No pressure on the new guy,” Hunter replied and referenced his navigation app. “Go south three streets and turn left. We’ll make the block, double back, and see if anyone’s surprised to see us.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
May 12th, 10:59 a.m.
Vadkovskij Street, Moscow.
John exited the embassy’s side doors and descended a flight of concrete steps with a wax-sealed manila envelope hidden in his jacket’s oversized inside pocket. The seals and legal warnings won’t matter to the Beria crime family, but they might give legitimate government agents pause. The side entrance was designed to match the neighboring rowhouses to facilitate clandestine movement in and out of the embassy. His new local contact had assured John he’d have side access for his next visit. John didn’t want to admit that he never wanted to risk another trip to Moscow.
The operative paused on the sidewalk and pulled his phone out to conceal his glance around the street. At the building’s corner to his far left, the embassy’s exterior signage appeared in three languages:
Nunziatura Apostolica della Santa Sede
Апостольская нунциатура Святого Престола
Apostolic Nunciature of the Holy See
Kids today would have to stop there for a goddamned selfie. What’s the world gonna look like when they’re the adult in the room?
John turned right and strolled along the sidewalk. Half a block in, he checked his watch and used the flat back windows of a cargo van to scan the street behind him. Six minutes to the exfil, hafta slow down so I’m not standin’ around with a thumb in my ass.
Sunlight reflected in the van’s windows and called John’s attention to an approaching SUV. The midsized, dark blue crossover passed just as John reached the front of the van. Two men, neither looked over. Hyundai logo on the back, Creta? What the hell model is the ‘Creta’? He veered right to try catching part of the license plate around a VW van a few cars up the street. The Creta slowed for a stop sign and hurried off to the right
Y698XT-777
The triple-seven is one of the Moscow specific registrations. No surprise. Nothing else moved around him, and John decided against doubling back. He popped in his earbud and activated its encrypted Bluetooth connection. A glance at his KryptAll confirmed the device was connected and working.
Traffic picked up on the next street and John rechecked his ETA. A dark blue Creta passed him going the other way, and the passenger made eye contact with him. Tension knotted in his chest. After it passed, John knelt and tied his shoe. Glancing left, he waited for the plate to come into view
Y698XT-777
He pressed the mic button. “Two out.”
“Copy,” Andrew replied.
“Keep your eyes peeled for a midsized SUV, Hyundai Creta, plate’s Yankee-six-niner-eight-x-ray-tango-triple-seven.”
“Copy.”
John crossed the street midblock, and no one followed him. At the next intersection, he turned left and strode toward the next street. I’d like to think we’re still clean, but that won’t last long. Moscow don’t like me that much.
Their Skoda Kodiaq drove toward him on the narrow street, and Andrew slowed when he spotted John.
The team leader opened the passenger door, and tires squealed as a black Mercedes and the dark blue Creta barreled around the corner three blocks away and accelerated toward the back of the Kodiaq.
John tossed the manila envelope on the passenger seat. “Go now.” He slammed the door and walked toward the vehicles, pressing the transmit button on his phone as Andrew sped away. “We’re made. Stay out of the narrow neighborhoods, get out on the main roads, and ditch that Skoda as soon as you can. If you don’t hear from me by tomorrow, get the hell out of Dodge.”
“We’ll pick you up on the next block,” Sergio protested. “Run!”
John snickered. “Maybe twenty years ago. Godspeed boys.” He swallowed hard as the Mercedes slammed on its brakes and veered toward him. “Peace be with you.”
He ducked between two vans, plucked his earpiece out, and shoved it into the fly of his Hanes briefs. If they want it that bad, they’re gonna get it anyway.
The heavy sedan screeched to a stop, and the Creta whipped into the oncoming lane and accelerated around it. Two black Audi Q7 SUVs pulled up and stopped behind the Mercedes as John stepped back onto the sidewalk and tried to ignore his imminent apprehension. If this isn’t an FSB operation, John sighed. I’m pretty much fucked.
Four goons leapt out of the Audis and stood by their open doors, waiting for direction.
“Tacana,” a familiar voice called out. “I’d stop right there if I were you.”
John turned toward the Mercedes. An old nemesis stood behind the open rear door and three gunmen with suppressed AK rifles were positioned around the sedan.
“Will you peacefully accept a ride, or must my men prove how time and abuse have made you just as slow and incapable as me?”
Fuck. Vassi Zaitsev’s supposed to be dead. John dropped his head. I’ll catch a bullet in my back before I get to the next intersection, and then they’ll definitely get my earpiece.
“The cat has your tongue? Perhaps you did not expect to see me. Of course not, or you would not have risked coming back to Moscow.” Zaitsev strolled toward him, and his gunmen fanned out in a half-circle around John. Another henchman stepped from the Mercedes and approached him with a heavy, clear plastic bag that had black nylon around its edges. The gunman to his right edged closer and raised his suppressed rifle.
Zaitsev smirked. “Put your electronics in the bag and get in the car, John. If you don’t comply, they’ll kill you where you stand and then do it for you.” His oldest adversary cocked his head. “The only question is whether we have to bag your body, too.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
May 12th, 11:05 a.m.
The Oremus at Gorky Park, Moscow.
Lyonya hurried into the lobby of the opulent boutique hotel with a team of four shooters in tow, all carrying concealed pistols under their dark clothing. He paused just inside the doorway, scanned the plush seating area and front desk, and scowled. They’re not here.
A tall, athletic Russian emerged from an alcove behind the concierge desk, smiled, and strode toward them. His suit fitted in with the upper social echelons, but his demeanor suggested he could handle himself. “Good day, gentlemen. How may my staff serve you today?”
Lyonya donned a plastic smile. “I thought a friend was meeting me here, but I’m apparently mistaken.”
“Perhaps you’d all care for some lunch in our Michelin-rated restaurant while you sort out the details?” The concierge stopped just out of kicking distance, and the darkness in his eyes contradicted all his other body language.
Lyonya grinned. “Another time, perhaps, but thank you.” He turned and led his cadre back out to the parking lot and called Mishe. “They’re gone. The Kodiaq’s not here, and we’ve lost signal on the tracker again.”
“What the hell am I paying you for, Lyonya? We stand on the eve of my ascension, and four incompetent American pukes manage to evade you?”
“Anyone can get lucky.”
“Then make it your turn. Find them, and bring me any survivors.” The Butcher paused. “While you’re at it, find Zaitsev. It’s time we checked on his progress, especially with all that is at stake.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
May 12th, 11:08 a.m.
Gulf of Mexico.
Survive, Evade, Resist, Escape, John reminded himself. He stared out the back window of Zaitsev’s black Mercedes and clung to every ounce of control that remained as the sedan raced through Moscow. Controlled combat breathing, keep the emotions in check. Stay intel positive and focus on survival. That comes before all the others for a reason.
Occasional, muffled radio transmissions eked out from the driver and his navigator, but Zaitsev sat in silence to John’s right. The Audi SUVs drove behind and in front of them, and four police motorcycles joined the caravan; the BMW enduros began clearing intersections so the caravan didn’t yield for stop lights or traffic.
Not looking good for the visiting team, John told himself. He watched the cops as the Mercedes shot through another intersection and the motorcycles hustled to beat them to the next traffic light. They’d traveled about four miles when the dark blue Creta pulled around the police escort and joined the back of their convoy. John grinned. They already failed and gave up. Lots of quit in these new pinkos, I guess.
“What do you recall of me?” Zaitsev asked.
And so it begins. “You were devoutly tied to the USSR, but not to the generations of politicians and oligarchs who’d mismanaged the country and the revolution. You didn’t mind the iron fist, but you despised how they used it against your own people. Last we heard, the KGB was throwin’ you a state funeral.” He eyed his captor. “You musta not got the memo.”
Zaitsev shrugged. “Your people got all manner of things wrong. I wanted the success and freedoms of the West for my nation and its peoples. I’m sure you understood that then; we just disagreed on the economics and social superstructure that best provided those living conditions. Even after all this time, I remain intrigued by the romantic idea of a society shifting from the failures and shortcomings of communism to achieve true socialism in which no small group of men grow rich at the expense of all others beneath them.”
They sped through another closed intersection.
“If Marx had better understood human nature,” John countered, “he wouldn’t have left such a shitty and ignorant playbook for y’all to waste so many lives and so much treasure chasin’ a fantasy that ain’t never gonna exist on this earth. Communism fails everywhere it pops up, and it’s only ever sustained by violence and cruelty.”
Zaitsev shook his head. “The economists continue to insist we’ve never sufficiently ‘primed the pump’, as they say. Once we can inject enough government monies into the economy and get out of its way, true socialism can equitably exist and allow all humanity to live in peace without greed and envy over what others have. We can all be the same, and we’ll be better for it.”
“Poor and destitute, just like everyone around us. Not a great sales pitch.”
click
The Mercedes accelerated, and John realized someone up front had unlocked his door. They’re daring me to jump out. They get off easy if the government can write me off as a public suicide.
“Despite all our differences, I never thanked you for Poland.”
John squinted at his adversary as his chest further tightened. “What about it?”
“You were kind and professional, given the options available to you in that moment. While Soviet influence of the Polish government fell, you could have easily had me killed, or outed in public, which would have also meant my death. Instead, you chose diplomatic means to force my recall to Moscow. Thank you.”
“Am I gonna regret that decision before the day’s out?”
Zaitsev chuckled. “That’s up to you, but I do not wish to give you reason to do so.”
The driver spoke in a Cyrillic dialect John didn’t understand.
Zaitsev replied and turned to John. “Our escorts report their certainty that no one is following us, which means you and I are truly alone. Let’s take a walk in the woods, shall we?”
“Why would I want to do that?”
“Because I’m going to insist that you explain why you’ve come back to Moscow, and why you and your men are targeting Mishe Matsukovitch.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
May 12th, 11:34 a.m.
Third Ring Road, Moscow.
“Where the hell are you, John?” Michael asked aloud as he changed lanes and navigated through traffic on one of the city’s outer ring roads.
“It doesn’t matter,” Hunter replied. “Wherever they took him, whatever’s happening right now, we only have one available response.”
“I’m not leaving a man behind,” Sergio scoffed.
“This clearly dictates that we abort. John made it very plain how useless we are in Moscow without him, just three babes in the woods and night has fallen.”
Michael turned right off the main road and circled through a neighborhood to confirm that no one had followed them. He pulled over and parked the Kodiaq. “They were on John first, after he left the embassy. How did they find him, and what’s the weak link in our chain?”
Sergio exhaled. “If it’s The Butcher’s people, then they had to have found something back in Odessa. Maybe the car, maybe Igor the customs agent and his wife weren’t so trustworthy after all. We haven’t been here long enough to draw attention from the government.”
“I agree,” Hunter added. “I think it’s gotta be Matsukovitch. Government agents would have waited until they could take us all off together. There wasn’t any reason for them to take us off right then, unless they were only after John and didn’t realize we were with him until we tried to pick him up.”
“If that is true, then it’s more likely that this is someone from John’s past.” Michael checked the mirrors. No familiar vehicles or people approached their SUV.
“Back to the real dilemma,” Sergio countered. “What now? Until we know the threat, we can’t guess how compromised we are. Until we know that, we can’t continue the mission.”
“Forget continuing the mission. How the hell are we gonna get outta here? Anything we do, any resource we would normally use, any of it could be tainted.” Hunter leaned forward in the back seat. “I mean, name one thing we can trust right now.”
