Thousands of feet above the Atlantic Ocean
Hardy sat back in his seat aboard a Gulfstream V jet, flying high above the Atlantic Ocean. He was the only passenger on the flight. The FBI used the jet to transport agents around the world. The aircraft had taken off from Washington D.C. at 1 p.m.; its destination was Moscow, Russia. After the plane had leveled off and reached its cruising speed, Hardy unbuckled his seatbelt and picked up his new phone.
He stared at the satellite phone. Even though it appeared to be exactly like any other smartphone on the market, it was a state-of-the-art piece of technology, capable of getting a communication signal where normal smartphones could not. Plus, it contained a Global Positioning System tracker that was accurate within one square block. He was not staring at the sat phone in awe of its technological advances, however. Before the Gulfstream V had taken off, Hardy made a call to Special Agent Raychel DelaCruz of the FBI. The conversation had not gone well.
Special Agent DelaCruz, her colleagues shortened her name to Cruz, had been the lead agent investigating the explosion at the tavern that killed everyone, except Hardy. His first encounter with her was at the hospital after the explosion. He had been captivated by her from the moment he opened his eyes and saw her standing over his hospital bed. Twenty-nine years old, she was both beautiful and professional. She was tall, standing five-feet, eight inches. She had dark brown hair that fell below her shoulders. Her hair was paired with an equally beautiful set of dark brown eyes. She had a long face with high cheekbones and a flawless complexion.
During the past week, Hardy and Cruz had been seeing each other, taking walks during her lunch hour and going out for drinks. Two days ago, they went out for dinner for the first time. They had a great time and made plans to go out again tonight, which made the call to her more difficult.
Hardy had told her he was going out of town, which had prompted her to ask the usual questions—where are you going?, why are you going?, how long will you be gone? Since the President had made it clear his new job was top-secret, Hardy had to tiptoe around the inquiry, unable to get into specifics. Even though she sounded like she was okay, he had sensed she was not happy with his vague responses.
Hardy closed his eyes and rested his head on the seat. He did not want to ruin what he had with her. In his line of work, it was difficult to have a serious relationship with a woman. He would be gone for long periods and he could not discuss where he had been. Since Cruz had spent long hours at her job, he had hoped she would be better able to understand his unconventional schedule. Still, no woman wanted to be separated from her man for long stretches.
He put the sat phone in his pocket and reached for the manila file folder on an adjacent seat. I’ll take her somewhere nice when I get back. Shifting his thoughts to the mission, he opened the file and studied its contents.
Director Jameson had spent the rest of the morning briefing Hardy on the mission. It was simple in nature. He was to locate Anton Rudin, a Russian bomb maker, and kill him. Rudin was a bomb maker for hire. He made sophisticated and powerful explosive devices and sold them to anyone, or any organization, for the right price. He may not have been a terrorist, but he supplied them. The theory behind the mission was stop the bomb maker from making bombs, and the terrorists have one less resource at their disposal.
For the past five months, Russia had been experiencing a wave of domestic terrorist attacks, including several bombings in, and around, the city of Moscow. The Russian authorities suspected Rudin had supplied the bombs, but had not been able to find him. In a spirit of cooperation, Russia had contacted the White House and agreed to share the information they had on Rudin in the hopes of stopping further terrorist attacks. It was a real ‘olive branch’ of a gesture, since the two nations were not on the best of speaking terms.
Hardy peeled back a sheet of paper, skimmed the page beneath it and let go of the paper. The dossier of Natasha Volkov, the Russian FSB agent he was scheduled to meet in Moscow, was lengthy.
Volkov was twenty-seven years old. She had been working for the FSB for the last four years, serving in various positions. Her most recent appointment, which began shortly after the terrorist attacks had started, specialized in counter-terrorism. She was fluent in three languages, one of which was English. She graduated from Moscow State University before completing her training at the FSB Academy, where she was recognized for numerous talents, including marksmanship and criminal investigation. Hardy rubbed his eyes with his thumb and forefinger. Even though he had not met her, he could see she was an accomplished woman, at least on paper. Reading the file, he began the task of committing to memory everything the dossier contained.
Three hours later, Hardy tossed the file onto the seat. He retrieved his sat phone and checked the time before reclining in his seat. He was tired and his eyes burned. The flight to Moscow was going to take nine hours, and there was an eight-hour time difference between Washington, D.C. and the Russian capitol. He would be landing at 6 a.m., local time. He closed his eyes and relaxed. He needed to get some sleep before his 8 a.m. meeting with the FSB agent.