Chapter Twenty-Seven

 

 

December 20

Two blocks south of the Russian UN Ambassador’s residence

Pregny-Chambésy, Geneva

Switzerland

 

Justin leaned over the handlebars of his BMW motorbike and glanced at the three-way intersection to his right. Claudia had gone on foot to check along the Chemin de la Fontaine, the street on which the Russian UN Ambassador lived. Justin and Claudia had opted for a motorbike, so they could maneuver better along the narrow paths of the ritzy neighborhood. Pregny-Chambésy was just north of Grand-Saconnex and not too far from the Russian Embassy. It was a safe, quiet area, with large two- and three-story red-roofed houses and hedged fences.

Justin and Claudia had talked to the ambassador’s family security detail. Four operatives of the SVR’s Zaslon elite unit—tasked to protect Russian diplomats abroad, especially in high-threat countries—assured Justin and Claudia that everything was under control. The ambassador’s wife and eight-year-old daughter were at home, preparing supper and waiting for the ambassador to arrive. No, the operatives had not observed any suspicious behavior; not today, not yesterday or over the last few weeks. Everything had been quiet, and Justin and Claudia’s assistance was not necessary. But the Russians had agreed to keep the radio communications open.

Justin was not ready to return to the ECS station. He had this gut feeling, this premonition, that al-Nueimi or one his associates would be coming for their pound of flesh. But Justin was not sure of when or how.

He glanced at his wristwatch. It was almost four. The wind had gotten stronger, and the temperature was around three degrees Celsius. He was glad he and Claudia had gone for thick leather jackets and not just to match their biker profiles. They had been watching the ambassador’s residence and patrolling the neighborhood for over an hour. And just as the Zaslon operatives had confirmed, there had been nothing suspicious.

Justin drew in a deep breath, then let it out slowly and glanced at the thin mist that it formed in front of his face. His eyes went to the nearest house, the residence of one of Portugal’s embassy policy advisors. Justin had talked to his security staff, informing them of his team, and that they were a part of the increased security in the area. He had given the same story to the staff securing the other houses in a four-block area. The last thing Justin wanted was to come under friendly fire.

Claudia returned from her reconnaissance walk and shook her head at Justin. “Everything’s quiet.”

“Nothing here either.”

“Do you . . . do you think we’re at the wrong place?”

“This could be one of the targets.”

Claudia shrugged. “I wish we had more coffee.”

“Why don’t you check the other side and stop at the café?”

“Yes, I’ll do that. But in a few minutes.”

“Is there anything wrong?”

“No, but I want to talk to you about something.”

“Okay.” Justin turned to face Claudia. “What is it?”

“It’s about Arkady. I’ve . . . ever since the Russian got into my, well, our agency’s affairs, I’ve sensed this . . . what do I call it . . . a certain amount of distrust for me on your part, Justin.”

“Distrust?”

“Yes. I’ve become a secondary part of the team, like an afterthought. Considering I was the one developing al-Nueimi as an asset—”

“Hold on a second, Claudia. You never developed him. Al-Nueimi was playing you, well, us, for his own goals—”

“That’s not true, Justin. Al-Nueimi gave us good intel.”

“Yes, intel he wanted us to have, so we would take him seriously. I was saying that we don’t know his goals, but it’s clear he’s not an asset, and I doubt he ever was.”

“That’s harsh, Justin. Everyone makes mistakes.”

“No doubt about it. But your not being front and center in this operation is not because of that mistake.”

“Well, what is it then?”

Justin sighed. He wished he did not have to explain the obvious. “I wanted a fresh pair of eyes, unclouded judgment, someone to bring a new perspective to this mission. Thus, Vale and Dolina.”

“And Carrie and Arkady.”

“Arkady wasn’t my choice. You can express your objections to our boss, if you disagree with his choice.” Justin shrugged and drew in a deep breath. “Carrie . . . I trust Carrie with my life. She’s always there, ready to take a bullet for me.”

Claudia sighed. “But you don’t trust me like you trust her?”

“I’m not going to lie to you. But here you are with me, on the ground, a crucial part of this mission.” Justin gestured toward the Russian ambassador’s residence. “I’m not punishing you for your mistake. But trust . . . trust needs time to develop, to grow.”

Claudia nodded but a look of disappointment remained on her face. “All right, Justin. Let’s hope you will trust me again, as you once did, if you ever did.”

Justin did not respond to Claudia’s remark but gave her a slight nod.

“I’ll go get those coffees. Regular for you?”

“Sure.”

“Okay. I’ll be right back.”

Justin sat on his bike and followed Claudia’s quick walk in his mirror. Maybe I am being too harsh with her. But is she being completely honest with me? Was this just a catastrophic mistake and not incompetence? He shook his head and glanced at his phone. No new messages.

It was all quiet, perhaps too quiet.

I don’t like this.

Justin hated boredom since he felt ineffective. Then doubts would creep in about wasting precious time and resources. What if Claudia’s right, and we’re at the wrong place? What if terrorists attack the US Ambassador’s residence or the Syrian government rep? After all, they’re all terrorist targets.

He thought about calling Carrie. She had told him she was a few minutes out. Carrie and Arkady had not found anything suspicious with regard to the security around the head of the Syrian government delegation.

Justin drew in another deep breath and glanced up ahead. The roar of a loud engine reached his ears before he saw the van coming from the east. It was a windowless utility van, whose driver now was slowly moving through the narrow road.

Justin reached for his radio. “White utility truck rolling from the east. Two blocks away.”

“Yes, Justin,” said one of the Zaslon operatives in a slightly annoyed voice. “Is it from Swisscom?”

“Yes, with their red and blue—”

“They’ve been here all week.”

Justin frowned. “All week? It takes folks that long to fix the phone or the TV around here?”

“I don’t know; I’m not a technician. But we’ve checked them. Relax.”

“Relax? You know exactly who’s in the van and what they have inside?” He glanced at the radio then peered at the van advancing toward the house.

“No, but it’s impossible to—”

An earth-shattering explosion cut off his words.

Justin saw the van turn into a huge orange fireball. A split second later, the detonation’s shockwave threw him off his bike, tossing him to the ground. Shrapnel fell around him.

Justin’s ears were ringing as he checked himself for wounds. He was not bleeding. Nothing felt broken, but sharp jolts of pain came from his back and left arm. He slowly climbed to his feet.

The van had turned into a mangled mess. The entrance gate and a large section of the fence had disappeared. Black smoke was billowing from one of the security detail SUVs parked just outside the entrance.

Justin ran to the bike, which had flopped over on the sidewalk. He found the radio and said, “This is Justin, can you read me?”

Only sharp static came back.

“Can you read me?”

Nothing.

He tossed the radio away and picked up his C8SFW carbine from the bike’s rucksack. He readied it and ran toward the house.

Justin had barely advanced ten steps when another white van turned onto the road from the same direction as the previous one. The van had the same Swisscom logo. Justin had no doubts the van was full of explosives or terrorists rushing toward the house with the broken security perimeter.

He fired a quick burst at the van’s windshield.

It was bulletproof, which confirmed his suspicions.

An assault rifle appeared from the front passenger’s window.

Justin ran toward the hedge fence and climbed over it. Bullets whizzed over his head. He landed on the green lawn as rounds went through the bushes, a few inches away from him. Then a couple of barrages came from behind.

He turned his head and saw the Portuguese security operatives firing at the van. Justin ignored the searing pain from his left shoulder and ran away from the fence.

Toward the Russian’s residence.

A long barrage came from across the fence. One of the Portuguese operatives collapsed near the wall of the house. The other operative stopped firing, so he could help his partner.

Justin pivoted on his knee. He aimed his rifle at the van’s last location and squeezed off a few rounds. Cover fire for the Portuguese.

More gunshots rang from the other side of the fence, the one separating the Portuguese residence from the Russian one.

Justin was about fifty yards away, but he was not sure how to make his presence known to the Russians. If he went over the fence, they might take him for one of the terrorists. He could not use the radio, and he did not have any of the Zaslon operatives’ phone numbers.

He shook his head and cleared his throat. As he neared the fence, he shouted, “Friendly, friendly coming from the south.”

No answer, but also no one firing through the fence.

Justin hesitated for a moment. He was not certain the Russians had heard him or recognized his voice.

“This is Hall. I’m coming through—”

Another loud explosion.

Shrapnel came through the fence, but at a considerable distance from Justin.

He swore as a helicopter rumble tore through the skies. It was followed by the rattle of machine gun fire. All rounds struck on the other side of the fence, pounding the Russian residence.

Justin peered through the hedge. A brownish civilian helicopter was hovering at about three hundred yards, pouring down a torrent of gunfire against the house. Rounds were hammering everything in the front yard and tearing huge chunks off the brick walls of the house.

He tried to locate the Russian operatives. If they were still alive, they were not returning fire. They’re probably inside, ensuring the safety of the ambassador’s daughter. Or maybe they’re exiting from the back.

The helicopter’s pilot must have had the same thought. He banked hard to the right, and circled the house. Then he swooped down to the back of the house.

The machine gun rattle resumed.

This is my moment.

Justin climbed over the fence and dropped gently on the other side. He took in the front yard. No terrorists charging through the broken-down entrance or torn fence. No Russian operatives strewn about the grounds or manning positions along the front of the house.

He crossed the fifteen-yard distance separating him from the nearest corner of the house. Then Justin ran along the wall, trying to get a direct line of sight on the helicopter.

Long bursts echoed in his ears—the machine gun and the occasional assault rifle return fire. When he drew near the back, the helicopter’s rumble grew quieter. The pilot was completing the circle, heading toward the front of the house.

Justin reached the other corner of the house. The machine gun rounds had punched holes through the brick walls and had shattered windows and doors. Two bodies were lying near the veranda.

“Friendly coming from the left. This is Justin,” he shouted at the top of his lungs in Russian.

“Come . . . come in,” said a woman’s wavering voice.

Justin stepped onto the veranda then glanced inside the house. The woman was sitting next to a metallic bullet-ridden bookcase in a large living room. Her long black hair was disheveled, and she was bleeding from her left arm. A young girl crouched by the woman.

“Anyone else alive?” Justin asked and gestured toward the hall on the right.

The woman nodded. “Yes, one . . . one of the guards. But he’s wounded. His leg . . .”

“Okay, I’ll go and find him. Stay here. Don’t go outside. The helo will come again.” He unholstered his pistol and waved it at the woman. “You know how to use this?”

“Of course I do,” the woman said in a voice with a tinge of frustration. “I’m Russian. I served in the army.”

“Great.” Justin handed her the pistol. “You know what to do.”

The woman cocked the Sig Sauer P229 pistol then caressed the girl’s head. “It will be okay, my dear. This will soon be over.”

Justin smiled at the girl, but she buried her head deeper under her mother’s reassuring arm. “Got to go.”

“Thanks,” the woman said.

Justin nodded. He dashed toward the hall, looking for any intruders. He found none, only one of the operatives he had met earlier. The man was sitting against one of the walls, holding an assault rifle in his hands and facing the front door. Justin asked, “How are you?”

The operative glanced at his bloodied leg. “Shattered femur.” He cursed the shooter.

Justin nodded. The man’s whitish face told Justin the operative had lost a lot of blood. His hands were trembling slightly, and he tried to steady them. “Can you do this?” Justin asked.

“Of course I can.” The operative tightened his grip around the rifle.

“You got any large weapons here? RPGs?”

“Yes, out in the hall, by the front.”

“Cover me.”

Justin dashed toward the front of the house. The machine gun fire continued, but he was not worried. The gunner could not get to him unless the pilot dropped the helicopter lower. Judging by the rumble, the helicopter was still at a high altitude. Still, Justin kept an eye open for ricocheting bullets and for any terrorists who may have gotten out of the van.

He reached the front and noticed another operative slumped against the wall. The pool of blood around his body told Justin the operative was dead. An RPG launcher was a few feet away.

Justin checked the weapon to make sure it was intact. The grenade was loaded properly at the launcher’s muzzle. He picked up the grenade launcher and ran back to the operative. “How’re you doing?”

“All . . . all right,” the operative replied with a sigh. His face twisted in pain.

“I need you at the back. The helo will return.”

“I’ll make it.”

Justin wrapped his arms around the operative’s waist and half carried, half pushed him to the living room. The operative sat next to what was left of one of the small walls below the shattered windows.

Justin said, “Wait until the helo comes into view then—”

“I know what I’m doing.” The operative waved a dismissive hand. “You got the launcher ready?”

“I do.” Justin shouldered the grenade launcher with a swift gesture. Then he looked at the woman. “Let them have it.”

She nodded.

Justin’s eyes caught a glimpse of the little girl. She was lying behind the bookcase and had closed her eyes. “Don’t be afraid, sweetheart,” Justin said in a soft voice. “Your mother will protect you. And these evil men will not come close to you.”

The woman nodded.

He ran out to the veranda, knelt behind one of the portico’s pillars, and waited for the helicopter.

It was not a long wait.

The rumble returned. The helicopter appeared high in the sky, on the right side, and the machine gun began to pour forth its endless volley. Bullets thumped against the walls and the shattered windows. A few stripped slivers off the red brick pillar.

“Fire, fire, fire,” Justin shouted.

The operative squeezed off a long barrage.

The ambassador’s wife also fired her pistol.

Justin drew in a deep breath, then swung around the pillar. He quickly aimed the launcher at the helicopter’s fuselage and locked the weapon’s sight onto the target.

Then he pulled the trigger.

The grenade screamed, leaving the launcher at over three hundred feet per second. Through the gray smoke curtain mushrooming around him, Justin followed the warhead’s diagonal flight. It slammed on the helicopter’s tail boom near the engine.

The helicopter swung abruptly to the left, then to the right. Black smoke billowed from the tail. The pilot was able to regain control of the helicopter, soared upwards, then banked hard to the left.

Justin cursed the pilot, then tossed away the launcher. He wished he had another projectile. Maybe there’s another one somewhere in the house.

He swung the rifle from behind his back and aimed it at the helicopter as it circled over the area, three, maybe four houses to the north. The trail of smoke was following the helicopter’s choppy flight.

Justin fired a couple of quick bursts.

The pilot steadied the aircraft, then veered to the right. It completed the turn, then rumbled toward the house.

Justin fired again, emptying his magazine. He reloaded with a swift gesture, then returned his eyes to the helicopter. Its flight was steady.

But only for a moment.

Then the back of the helicopter erupted in a large orange fireball. The tail rotor collapsed. The fuselage began to spiral down, dropping hard and fast. It swung around and completed a full circle, before nose-diving toward the back yard.

“Run, run, run.” Justin bolted toward the living room.

He grabbed the operative and pulled him toward the hall.

The woman and her daughter were already dashing toward the front of the house.

A loud explosion came from behind them as the helicopter crashed over the living room. The roof caved in, and shrapnel rained over Justin and the operative. They both dove to the floor and crawled along the hall. Metal pieces hit the wall just behind them, missing them by sheer luck.

Justin continued to crawl and drag the operative until they reached the kitchen, on the other side of the house. “You okay?” he asked the Russian, who was breathing heavy and hard.

“Uh . . . uh . . . yes . . . I’m . . . all right.”

Justin glanced behind them. One of the helicopter’s blades had pierced through the hall, right at the place where Justin and the operative had been standing only five seconds ago.

“Mommy, are we safe now?”

Justin looked at the girl lying near the front entrance. He opened his mouth to assure her the ordeal was over, but then he saw a man marching through the front yard. A man he knew.

It was al-Nueimi.