“I want you to redirect our intelligence-gathering and analysis efforts,” the president told him flatly. Like it or not, he realized, he had to try working through this man—at least for now.
Wexler raised a single quizzical eyebrow. “In what way?”
“I want more focus on political and military developments inside Russia, and on events in the smaller countries around its borders,” Castilla said. “And that’s going to require extensive shifts in the allocation of satellite time, SIGINT translation priorities, and analyst assignments.”
“Russia?” Wexler was astonished.
“That’s right.”
“But the Cold War is over,” the intelligence director protested.
“So they tell me,” Castilla said drily. He leaned forward in his chair. “Look, Bill, for any number of overriding geopolitical reasons we’ve cut our good friend Viktor Dudarev a lot of slack over the past couple of years, right? Even though that’s meant turning a blind eye to some of the nasty moves he’s made against his own people?”
Wexler nodded reluctantly.
“Well, the trouble is that while we’ve been tied down in Afghanistan, Iraq, and a dozen other hellholes around the globe, Dudarev has been busy building a new autocracy in Russia, with him sitting on top of the heap as the supreme ruler of all that he surveys. And I don’t like that. I don’t like it one little goddamned bit.”
“The Russians have been extremely useful allies against al-Qaeda and other terrorist groups,” the intelligence director pointed out. “Both the CIA and the Pentagon report that we’ve obtained a substantial amount of actionable intelligence from their prisoner interrogations in Chechnya.”
Castilla shrugged his big shoulders. “Sure.” He gave the other man a lopsided grin. “But, hell, even a two-bit thug will help you kill a rattlesnake—so long as you’re both stuck at the bottom of the same canyon, that is. That sure doesn’t mean you should turn your back on him.”
“Are you suggesting that Russia is again becoming an active enemy of the United States?” Wexler asked carefully.
Castilla made an effort to hold his temper in check. “What I’m suggesting is that I don’t like flying blind around a guy like Viktor Dudarev. And right now the intelligence analysis I’m getting from the CIA and the other agencies pretty much reads as though they’re just clipping newspaper articles.”
The DNI smiled weakly. “I’ve made the same comments to my staff,” he admitted. “I’ve even passed those complaints along through the various appropriate interagency coordinating committees.”
Castilla scowled. The “appropriate interagency coordinating committees?” Leadership by memo and committee? And this was the guy who was supposed to be cracking the whip over the CIA and the other intelligence organizations? Wonderful. Just wonderful. He gritted his teeth. “And?”
“Apparently, there are…well…problems in some of the analysis sections,” Wexler said hesitantly. “I don’t have all the details myself yet, but I’ve been told that several of our best Russia specialists have fallen seriously ill over the past couple of weeks.”
Castilla stared hard at him for several seconds. “Maybe you had better fill me in, Bill,” he said grimly. “From the top, and starting right now.”
Moscow
It was full daylight now. Pallid rays cast by the weak winter sun winked off the ice-choked Moscow River and sent back dazzling reflections from the windshields of the cars and trucks grinding slowly in both directions across the bridges visible from the windows of the Kotelnicheskaya high-rise. Even twenty-four floors up, their blaring horns could be heard faintly. The Russian capital’s morning rush hour was in full swing.
The blond-haired man sat at his desk, again rapidly skimming through the set of highly encrypted e-mails sent to his computer over the past several hours. Most were short, usually containing only a name and title, a location, and a single-line status report:
MARCHUK, A., CINC, NORTHERN COMMAND, UKRAINE—INFECTED. CONDITION: TERMINAL.
BRIGHTMAN, H., SIGINT SPECIALIST, GCHQ, CHELTENHAM, UNITED KINGDOM—INFECTED. CONDITION: DEAD.
YASHVILI, M., PRESIDENT, REPUBLIC OF GEORGIA—INFECTED. CONDITION: TERMINAL.
SUNDQUIST, P., SENIOR POLITICAL ANALYST, CIA, LANGLEY, U.S.A.—INFECTED. CONDITION: DEAD.
HAMILTON, J., MANAGER, A2 (RUSSIA GROUP), NSA, FORT MEADE, U.S.A.—INFECTED. CONDITION: TERMINAL.
The list of those now ill and dying or already dead ran on and on, more than thirty men and women in all. He read to the end with growing satisfaction. It had taken years of painstaking research to perfect the biological weapon called HYDRA—the ultimate, precision-guided silent killer. Months of preparation had gone into selecting targets for the first HYDRA variants and then finding ways to deliver them undetected to the chosen victims. Months more had been spent in secretly acquiring the necessary materials to build each specialized variant of the weapon. At last, all of that intricate planning and dangerous work was coming to fruition.
In retrospect, he thought dispassionately, those preliminary tests in Moscow had been largely unnecessary, a waste of resources and a breach of operational security, but HYDRA’s creator had insisted on running them. Controlled experiments in the sterile confines of a laboratory were no substitute for field tests on real people, he had said. Only by setting HYDRA loose on random targets could they be sure that other doctors and hospitals, those outside the secret, would not be able to detect his creation, or to cure those infected by it.
The man code-named Moscow One shook his head. Wulf Renke was brilliant, ruthless, and, as always, utterly determined to have his own way. In the end, those sponsoring the HYDRA Project had yielded to his will, eager to see for themselves that the weapon’s performance matched his extravagant claims. Well, it had, but only at the cost of alerting Doctors Kiryanov and Petrenko and sending them haring off to warn the West.
Then he shrugged. What did it really matter? Kiryanov and Petrenko were both dead. And soon the only Westerner with whom they had shared their fears would join them.
He reached out for his phone and dialed a local number.
A cold, clear voice answered on the first ring. “Well?”
“The first phase is largely complete,” the blond-haired man said quietly.
“Have you informed Ivanov?”
“I gave him a preliminary report late last night,” he confirmed. “Before he left to join Dudarev for the WINTER CROWN maneuvers. I’ll brief him more fully once he returns to Moscow.”
“I assume our friend from the Thirteenth Directorate was pleased?” the voice said.
“I suspect Alexei Ivanov would be far more pleased if he filled my shoes—or yours,” the man known as Moscow One said sardonically.
“No doubt,” the voice said. “Fortunately, his master is more sensible and more accommodating. Now, how soon can we begin the next phase? Our friends need to know when they can ramp up their military preparations.”
The blond-haired man checked the last status report on his computer screen, one sent by Wulf Renke himself. It would be best to confer personally with the scientist before deploying the next variants by courier. “I’ll need a plane out of Sheremetevo-2 later tonight.”
“I will arrange it.”
“Then I should be at the HYDRA lab early tomorrow morning.”
Chapter Six
Prague
With his overnight bag and laptop slung over one shoulder, Smith pushed through a crowd of patrolmen and traffic wardens coming back to work from their mid-morning coffee break. Cold air rushed in through the open front doors of the Konviktská station, bringing with it the cloying reek of gasoline and diesel fumes trapped in the Old Town’s maze of narrow streets.
Jon stepped outside onto the pavement and immediately felt the frigid Prague winter climate wrap itself around him. He stopped and blew on his hands, already regretting the loss of his leather jacket, torn and soaked beyond repair. Before signing out of the police station, he had chang
ed into a pair of jeans and a black turtleneck sweater, but the thin gray windbreaker he wore over the sweater offered little real protection against the piercing cold. Over his cupped hands, his eyes were busy scanning the surrounding environment.
There, he thought.
Just across the street from the police headquarters, a big, beefy, bearded man leaned casually against the side of a parked taxi, a Czech-made Skoda sedan. Beneath the caked-on grime and mud, the cab had so many dents and scrapes from minor accidents that it was hard to tell where its original paint job left off and the primer began. The driver looked Smith up and down, hawked once, spat to the side, and then slowly straightened up to his full height. “Hey, mister!” he called out in heavily accented English. “You need a taxi?”
“Maybe,” Smith said cautiously, crossing the street. Was this huge bear of a man his promised contact? “How much would you charge me for a ride to the airport?”
It was a natural question. Prague’s independent cabdrivers were notorious for doubling and even tripling their regulated fares for unwary or naïve tourists. Even on the short run to Ruzyn, the city’s only international airport, that could add up to serious money.
The big man grinned broadly, revealing a mouthful of tobacco-stained teeth. “For a rich businessman? I would charge a thousand crowns.” He lowered his voice. “But for a scholar like you? A poor professor? Nothing. You will pay me nothing.”
Smith allowed himself to relax slightly. Scholar was the recognition word Klein had selected for this rendezvous. Against all appearances, that meant this rough, boisterous taxi driver was the Covert-One asset activated to help him get out of the Czech Republic in one piece. He nodded quickly. “Okay. You’ve got yourself a deal. Let’s go.”
With one final look around, he slid into the back seat and waited while the driver squeezed himself in behind the wheel. The Skoda rocked under the big man’s weight.
Before putting the taxi in gear, the driver swung round to look the American in the eye. “I have been told that you wish to arrive at the airport safely and discreetly,” he rumbled.
“That’s right.”
“And that there may be others who do not wish to see this occur. Correct?”
Again, Smith nodded, tight-lipped this time.
The big man smiled widely again. “Do not worry, Scholar. All will be well. You can rely on Václav Masek.” He unzipped his bright red ski parka just far enough for Jon to see the butt of a pistol in a shoulder holster, and winked theatrically. “And on my little friend here if there is any trouble.”
Smith tamped down a worried frown. The head of Covert-One had warned him not to expect too much. “I can only get one man to you in time, Jon,” Klein had said. “He’s a contract courier, not a field operative, but he is mostly reliable.”
Smith made a mental note to have Klein update his file on Masek. The bearded giant seemed too boastful and far too eager to flourish his concealed weapon. That was potential trouble. It meant that the Czech cabdriver was either badly frightened and talking big to hide his case of nerves—or that he was too aggressive, spoiling for a chance to prove himself ready for more exacting and rewarding assignments.
He stayed quiet while the taxi driver took them through the labyrinthine streets of the Old Town, across the Vltava, and up the winding road east of the Castle, a massive complex of churches, convents, towers, and government buildings dating back centuries. Through it all, the other man kept up a running commentary, pointing out tourist sights, swearing profanely at other drivers, and offering repeated assurances that they were making good time.
Definitely nerves, Smith decided. For all his bulk and bravado, Masek was a small, scared man on the inside. The Czech driver might be a competent clandestine courier, but Klein should never have asked him to step so far out of the safety of the shadows. Be fair, Jon, his mind coldly reminded him. This guy probably knows that a hit team has already tried to kill you once and that it may try again.
He sighed. Hell, he was feeling pretty twitchy himself. He stared out the window, seeking calm in the neatly manicured gardens visible on either side. The roof of the Belvedere, a lovely royal summerhouse built during the Renaissance, rose above the surrounding trees, sheathed in blue-green copper.
Minutes after heading downhill again just north of the Castle, the Skoda curved three-quarters of the way around a busy traffic circle and came out heading west on a wide boulevard. Smith sat up straighter. They were on Evropská, a modern thoroughfare that ran straight to the airport. Off to their left, he could make out a sprawling patchwork of suburban houses, schools, and small industrial parks. On the right, a chain of three hills crowned with evergreens, oaks, and beeches climbed steeply above more rows of detached houses and shops. These forested heights stretched away to the north and east, reaching toward the river behind them.
Masek accelerated, pushing the taxi up to and then beyond the posted speed limit. Signs sliding past overhead indicated that the airport was only a few kilometers away.
Soon Jon caught fleeting glimpses of a narrow artificial lake through the bare branches of the trees lining the north side of the boulevard. Beyond the lake, the ground fell away into a rugged, broken landscape of dark woods and gray limestone cliffs.
“That is the Divoká a Ticha Sárka, the valley of the Wild and Still Sarka, a place of legend and violence,” the taxi driver explained grandly, nodding his massive head toward the shadowed gorge visible on the other side of the stretch of gray-green water. “Some say men and women fought a cruel and bloody war there long ago, before the dawn of history. It was a war waged for absolute power and dominion. According to the stories, a beautiful young maiden named Sarka lured the chief warrior of the men into that forest. There, she made love to him, plied him with strong drink, and then murdered him in his sleep.”
Smith grinned. “Not exactly a cheerful place, I guess.”
Masek shrugged his broad shoulders. “Well, actually, it is a nature preserve now. Many people from Prague swim and camp there in the summer, when it is hot. We Czechs may be romantic, but we are also very practical.”
Suddenly, brake lights glowed red as the cars in front of them began slowing down. A line of orange cones angled across the boulevard, closing off the fast lanes heading west. By the side of the road, a portable electronic sign blinked on and off, repeatedly flashing a warning message in Czech.
“Shit,” Masek muttered. He took his foot off the accelerator and stomped down hard on the Skoda’s brakes. The taxi decelerated sharply. Frowning and grumbling under his breath, he swung into the suddenly crowded right lane, forcing his way into the narrowing gap between an old Volvo and a brand-new Audi. Horns blared behind them in protest.
Smith leaned forward. “Road construction?” he asked quietly. “Or an accident?”
“Neither,” the big man replied, nervously chewing at his lower lip. “That sign says the police have set up a special traffic checkpoint and that we must be prepared to stop.”
“What are they looking for?” Jon heard himself ask.
Masek shook his head irritably. “I do not know. Drunk drivers? Drugs? Stolen goods? Or maybe only bald tires and broken taillights.” His knuckles whitened as he tightened his grip on the steering wheel. “It could be any of those things. The authorities greatly enjoy handing out tickets and collecting special fees.”
Smith peered through the windshield as the taxi inched slowly ahead. They were roughly one hundred meters from the exit marked Divoká Sárka. It fed onto a much narrower side road that veered off into the woods. A lone patrolman wearing the peaked cap, black winter jacket, and blue snow pants of the Czech national police stood there, rhythmically waving a bright orange baton to keep the traffic moving. Every so often, he would step out with an upraised hand and signal one or more of the oncoming cars or trucks off onto the exit beside him, emphasizing his orders with short, sharp jabs of the baton.
The American watched closely, looking for a pattern in the way vehicles we
re selected. He frowned, unable to detect one. The bored-looking patrolman seemed to be allowing most cars and trucks to roll right on past him, only occasionally pulling others off the boulevard in ones or twos. That meant this was probably just a random spot check.
Probably.
“Shit,” Masek muttered again as the policeman jabbed his baton at them. They had been plucked out of the passing parade. Glumly, the cabdriver spun the steering wheel sharply to the right. They turned onto the exit, trailing the short line of other cars and trucks already diverted off Evropská.
Smith glanced back through the Skoda’s rear window. A late-model black Mercedes with tinted windows swung onto the park access road close behind them. Frowning now, he turned around.
They were in among the trees now. Light filtered down through a maze of bare branches overhead. The police checkpoint was just ahead. He could see a pair of unmarked cars, also Czech-manufactured Skodas, parked on the shoulder, near another row of orange traffic cones. Two more uniformed patrolmen were posted there, apparently asking the drivers of each vehicle a few quick questions before waving them on.
One of them approached the taxi. He looked old for his rank, with a gaunt, sallow face. Under his peaked cap, his eyes were expressionless. He bent down and rapped sharply on the driver’s side window.
Masek quickly rolled it down.
The policeman held out his hand. “Show me your driver’s license. And your taxi permit,” he snapped in rapid-fire Czech.
Hurriedly, the big man obeyed, handing over the required papers. Visibly fretting, he waited uneasily while the patrolman skimmed through them. Apparently satisfied, the sallow-faced officer contemptuously tossed both the license and the permit back into Masek’s lap. Next, he peered into the backseat. One dark eyebrow went up. “Who is this fellow? A foreigner?”
Smith kept his own mouth shut.