College Park Airport, Washington, DC
The Russians had unceremoniously dropped him onto the concrete floor in a small room at the back of the hangar. Hunter’s eyes were heavy. It took all his willpower to stop them from closing, and he knew this was an effect of the unknown drugs injected, against his will, into his system. The narcotics continued to make his temples throb; he prayed for it to pass. The most important aspect for Hunter was that Terri was safe, for the moment at least. She was by his side, her head leaning on his shoulder. Her eyes were closed and she was snoring gently, something she would never admit to.
Another diplomat, a Frenchman whom Hunter knew well socially, sat on his left. Each of them had their hands bound and legs hobbled, but they were not gagged and able to talk freely – as freely as their guard would let them. Hunter looked up at the surly, burly Russian who watched over them as his face, a mask of professional disgust, peered through the window in the door. His nostrils flared and he sniffed, as though checking the progress of wet paint drying, before he moved away.
‘There was no warning, no nothing,’ Remy Debois complained, his Gallic accent wafting off the walls. ‘I heard a knock at the door. A big man stepped inside and hit me. I do not know why they want me; I mean what for? I am the French Cultural Attaché. What do they think, that I have the Mona Lisa rolled up in my pocket?’
Hunter smirked, in spite of the situation; he found it hard to take Debois seriously. Both men were members of the Washington Hash House Harriers, which was described as a drinking club with a running problem. They, and other expats, met up twice a month and ran a course around the leafy Washington countryside before stopping for beer and burgers. Burgers … Hunter heard his stomach rumble. ‘I need to eat.’
‘Ah, me too! I need my breakfast.’
‘How many eggs does a Frenchman have for breakfast?’
Debois raised his eyebrow. ‘I do not eat eggs.’
‘Humour me, it’s a joke.’ It was best that they kept their spirits up. ‘I ask you, “how many eggs does a Frenchman have for breakfast?” and you say “I don’t know”.’
‘OK.’
‘So, how many eggs does a Frenchman have for breakfast?’
‘I do not know.’
‘One. Because one egg is un oeuf.’
Debois shook his head.
‘You Roast Beef have a funny sense of humour.’
‘Do the French still call us that?’
‘I just did, and I am the cultural representative for my country so the official answer from the French government is “oui”, Roast Beef.’
They became silent as the guard passed again.
‘This place is an airport, but it’s too quiet,’ Hunter noted.
‘I agree. I cannot understand what is happening. It is a Monday morning and we should be hearing the sounds of planes, helicopters, but instead all I hear are your jokes about eggs.’
To Hunter’s trained mind the silence was ominous, but he had no idea why. ‘What do you know, Remy?’
‘Know about what?’
‘Confidential information, secrets about your embassy, your government. What do you know that is so important that the Russians want to kidnap you for it?’
The Frenchman raised his bound hands to his face and rubbed wearily. ‘I do not know. I am not a spy. Perhaps I was just an easy target? I live alone, no wife, no children.’
‘For a normal kidnapping, yes, I’d agree but for an operation on this scale? I have my doubts.’
‘They are Russian – who knows what their aims are. Perhaps they plan to claim Washington for “Mother Russia,” to protect the Russian speakers in the District of Columbia?’
‘Wait a moment …’ Hunter remembered something they’d discussed over a beer. ‘Didn’t you back the boycott of that Russian soprano from performing in Paris?’
‘You know I did. Valentia Smetaniuk – the crazy woman who sang in support of Russia’s bombing of Syria. I did not merely back the boycott, I banned her from performing in all of France! Le Pen’s National Front were not happy; neither was the Russian ambassador. But I do not see how that is connected to this. Valentia Smetaniuk was only an opera singer.’
‘She was a Moscow mouthpiece, a favourite of the president; a ban on her was a slap in the face to the Kremlin.’
‘So for this the Russian state kidnaps me?’
Hunter sighed. ‘It sounds far-fetched, but what else can it be? I think we are both here because we’ve spoken out or angered the Russians in some way …’ His voice trailed off as he understood completely. The drugs had slowed his mind, prevented his brain from seeing it all, but now as he reasoned it out with his French friend, the clouds were moving, the sky was clear. Hunter knew it was too much of a coincidence Dudley Smith’s murder and his kidnap happening within hours of each other. The Russians had, he decided, murdered Dudley Smith – murdered him because in his official capacity as the British Military Attaché, Smith had been a vocal critic of the Russian regime. Hunter explained his theory.
‘That is unbelievable.’
‘I agree.’
‘I have nothing against Russia or her people. Are you telling me that we are part of some “hit list”?’
‘If they had wanted us dead, we would already be knocking at the pearly gates; they had plenty of opportunity. We are alive for a reason.’
‘What reason? If it is information, I have none.’
‘And nor do I.’ It was a lie, a huge one. Hunter had information, too much information, about the SIS and especially about past E Squadron operations and the men who had undertaken them.
Debois asked, ‘I wonder how many people they have kidnapped. You saw the other room, like this one?’
Hunter had noticed the second cell. ‘Have you heard any noise from it?’
‘I have heard nothing. Are we just to sit here and wait to be interrogated, tortured?’ Debois rubbed his face again. ‘I need a cigarette!’
‘I need a drink.’
‘What … what?’ Terri sat up.
‘You fell asleep.’ Hunter stroked her head.
‘We are still here – it’s not a dream?’
‘No,’ Debois added, ‘it is a nightmare.’
The guard appeared at the door. This time, however, he stepped inside the crude room and made to grab Terri. Hunter raised his arms to try to stop him. The large man brusquely brushed him aside.
‘Simon!’ Terri yelped as she was dragged to her feet.
‘Where are you taking her?’ Hunter demanded and tried to stand.
The Russian looked down; he was smiling. ‘On vacation.’
‘I demand you let us go! We have diplomatic immunity!’ Debois’s voice became indignant.
*
Oleniuk eyed the woman as she was brought before him. ‘What have you learned?’
‘Simon is trying to understand why you are holding him and Debois.’
‘And why are we?’ Oleniuk asked, noticing again that she used Hunter’s first name.
‘He thinks it is because he and Debois are enemies of the Russian state.’
‘Hunter is extremely perceptive, rather a good job that he is an intelligence officer.’ Oleniuk snorted at his own joke.
‘Debois says he knows nothing.’
‘That is true. Anything else?’
‘They were talking about the other room.’
‘Oh?’
‘They were speculating if that too holds hostages.’
Oleniuk snorted at the word “hostages”. The correct term was prisoners. ‘And does it?’
‘They do not know.’
‘Good.’ The cell held no one, but believing it did would increase their sense of unease. ‘Are they aware of the EMP?’
‘No.’
‘Splendid. Go back. We have a little more time on our hands before I make my final decision.’
‘Decision?’
‘Whether or not I take both men to Moscow.’ He noticed her mouth tremble. It opened and she was about to speak but then apparently thought better of it. Oleniuk gave a signal and the guard grabbed her.
Oleniuk sat back in his chair and laced his fingers across his stomach. He hated being a patient man. He hated having to wait with nothing to do. It was as though he were just as much a prisoner as Hunter and Debois.
It was almost midday and on a normal Monday morning he’d be about to start his three-hour lunch interlude. First would come a fine restaurant, where red wine and red meat would be consumed in large quantities, followed by a professional massage to loosen his war-weary body and relieve the twinges in his neck; and there were usually “extras”. He wet his lips. The Chinese were good at that, or at least those he had encountered here in Washington on his many scouting and planning visits were. His mind wandered to his Chinese business partner, Chen Yan, and a smile crossed his face as he imagined himself with her.
He let out a sigh. The damned Chinese, he snorted. Yes, their progress and delivery of the EMP device was to be commended, but he hated their fake subservience, like a pretty, tamed tiger who, given the opportunity, would rip apart the hand that fed it. And rip apart Russia they would, if Russia dropped its guard. He was glad that Chen Yan had persuaded the Chinese authorities to allow Blackline use of their in-country deniable assets. These hangars, like others around the US, were leased or owned by Chinese shell companies. An excuse for Chinese pilots to come and go in private jets without a second glance. The fact that his own country no longer had the necessary assets in the US was by the by. He was a realist. He knew that despite the bluster and the Russian president’s promenading, his country was poor and heading in the right direction to become Third World.
Oleniuk checked his watch again; the minutes ticked by sluggishly and the taxi driver had still not arrived. Something was definitely wrong. Something had happened to Li Tam. The more the day wore on, the more conspicuous a working taxi would be. The last thing he needed was for any of his vehicles to be seized by first responders, law enforcement, or armed citizens. In a country where the Second Amendment was sacrosanct, it wouldn’t take long for armed mobs to replace the void left by the authorities. And nature did so hate a void. His men were professionals, handpicked former Spetsnaz commandos who could easily shoot their way to safety, but he did not want any undue attention brought to the operation. If any of the planes were to be damaged or destroyed, it was a long walk home to Mother Russia.
The fate of the taxi driver did not concern him one iota. What concerned him was the fate of the man’s passengers. The two women were integral to his plan. Without them or their dead bodies, it would not be complete. From a military point of view, the mission’s objectives had been completed: the EMP had been deployed and deemed a success. Data on the EMP’s effectiveness on unshielded technology had been collected and his side mission – those who had caused harm to the Russian state – had been liquidated. He could, and should, give the order now to pull out, pack up, board his executive jet, and return home after a fully successful mission; after all, he now had Simon Hunter.
But it would be a hollow victory if he could not make the Englishman accept, face to face, what he had been responsible for. First he would make Hunter suffer, demonstrate to him that his actions a decade earlier had-far reaching consequences. And those consequences were the death of all those he had ever admired or held dear. Oleniuk would finally get his revenge on the man who had stolen from him the only woman he had ever truly loved. Yes love was at the heart of Oleniuk’s hate for Simon Hunter, and he very well understood the irony.
Oleniuk opened a drawer in his metal desk and slid out a thin steel case. Inserting a key, he unlocked it to reveal a second sat phone. This had been given to him by Chen Yan. It was for emergency usage only. He eyed up the strange-looking handset; it was not a brand he was familiar with.
Where was the taxi driver, Li Tam? Oleniuk had to know. He started to second-guess himself. He should never have agreed to work with the Chinese, but the decision had not been his. He had needed Chen Yan’s money and Chinese scientific expertise. Without Chen Yan this chance would not have materialised. He closed the case and put it back in the desk. He refused to lose face to a woman. He marched out into the main hangar, ignoring the rise in temperature from that of his air-conditioned office, and over to the man operating his communications hub. Before the technician had a chance to speak, Oleniuk asked, ‘Is it possible to track the whereabouts of the taxi driver’s encrypted sat phone?’
‘Only if he answers a call from us, sir.’
Oleniuk pointed at the machine. ‘In that case, set it up so that my phone calls his.’
‘Yes, sir.’
Maine
Tate motored the reverse route he had taken two days before, this time driving from Camden via Belfast to hit the I-95 at Bangor. Oleg sat next to Tate in the front passenger seat. His wrists were still cuffed together to the door handle. They passed the occasional car, and each time they did so, Oleg strained to see its make and model. Every now and then abandoned cars littered the verge, having come to a rolling stop.
They continued north on the rural 1A through green, rolling New England countryside and saw no other vehicles on the road with the exception of several pedal bikes. People came out of their homes in the hope that the Tahoe was either a rescue vehicle or law enforcement, but Tate did not stop until they hit Hampden and encountered a Crown Victoria parked across the entrance to a pharmacy at a strip mall. A pair of police officers stepped into the road and attempted to flag them down. Tate judged the angles and the width of the road; if the officers didn’t dive under his wheels, he could get past them.
Oleg looked across at him, seeming to read his mind. ‘Their standard-issue 9mm Glocks cannot penetrate our ballistic plates.’
‘And you are sure?’
‘Quite.’
Tate slowed the Tahoe to a walking pace and then just as the two officers stepped forwards, he yanked the wheel to the left and floored the accelerator. The tyres bit, the engine growled, and the big, heavy SUV jerked sideways before leaping forwards. Instinctively, Tate hunkered down in his seat, not trusting the armour plating as he aimed for the junction for the 202, which would take them to the I-95. Tate risked a glance in his rear-view mirror and saw one of the officers shaking his head while the other lowered his Glock. Perhaps Tate could have helped or perhaps they just wanted to commandeer the Tahoe; he would never know.
‘You are a very interesting man, Tate,’ Oleg stated after several minutes of silence.
‘The Camden PD were of the same opinion.’ Tate concentrated on the road.
Oleg continued, ‘You speak Russian like you come from St Petersburg. For a foreigner, that is unheard of. You learned this in the British Army?’
‘I did.’ Tate wasn’t comfortable talking about himself but understood that if he was to get any intel out of Oleg, he needed to keep the conversation going, one operative to another. Give a little to get a little. ‘The Regiment has language instructors who teach on intensive courses.’
‘Regiment?’
‘The SAS.’
‘Ah yes, the British Spetsnaz. You were a Special Forces soldier?’
‘I was.’
‘So one can conclude that you operated in a Russian-speaking environment?’
‘I did.’
‘Ukraine?’
‘Yes.’ Tate’s mind flicked briefly back to his mission with The Shadows and his shooting of Oleniuk before returning to his current predicament. Tate hoped he could use his language abilities when they reached Houlton, but he somehow doubted it.
‘I did not agree with the annexation of Crimea,’ Oleg stated. ‘It was a folly to take the land from Ukraine.’
‘I agree.’
‘Our president was a lunatic; he still is. He is a survivor, but the end of his time is coming. He is still committed to the past and does not see that cooperation with China is the future. On the other hand, Maksim Oleniuk embraces this, and that is why he had to accept a deal with the Chinese.’
Tate glanced at Oleg. ‘Had to?’
‘Yes,’ Oleg stated ruefully. ‘Once, our scientists were undisputedly the best in the world. We, after all, won the space race. For scientists, at least our system – the communist system – worked, and its legacy continued to do so. Our science was science. It was for the greater good.’
Despite himself, Tate grunted with derision. ‘Attacking another country is the greater good?’
‘No, you misunderstand me, Tate. Let me explain. My research was into electromagnetic pulse weapons. While others worked on rockets or nuclear warheads with ever-increasing payloads, I was exploring how to beat an enemy without loss of life. Imagine, if you will, drawing a black line on a map around a target and knowing that all electrical equipment and motorised vehicles within that area are non-functional. That was the aim of our group, project Blackline from which the company takes its name.’
‘Are you confirming that it was a Russian EMP weapon that was deployed against the United States?’
‘Yes and no.’ Oleg took a slow, deep breath. ‘Alas I no longer have a wife, and when I die my line will end. Blackline have destroyed my loyalty with their lies. I have nothing to lose by telling you what I am about to. This is beyond classified. There was a virus in one specific, localised region of Russia. An outbreak of an unknown disease that hit hard. The young and the elderly were, of course, the most at risk. A small town with an overpopulation of elderly people was decimated. My research centre was in that town. Our scientists became infected. The belief was it was because they visited the shops and the markets, bought locally produced homemade produce et cetera.
‘But this was not the case. In fact, it was the exact reverse. They transported the virus out of the base. We realised that we had created the virus, and that it had escaped from one of the classified chemical weapons research laboratories in Arzamas-16. So what did the authorities do? Calling it a “quarantine” exercise, they sealed our facility with us inside. I was fortunate not to be infected, and several other colleagues also recovered; however, many of the finest scientific minds of my generation perished, and their research died with them. The Kremlin officially lost interest in our research and shut us down.’
Tate could guess where the story was heading but wanted to keep the Russian talking, gaining his confidence. ‘This is where the Chinese came in?’
‘You are exactly right. A group of privately funded Chinese scientists, working under the employment of one of China’s largest technology firms, had also been working on EMP technology. Somehow Oleniuk knew about the work of both sides and brokered an agreement that the two teams should work together to develop a fully functional EMP device. The Chinese had been focusing on a payload delivery system – which is what they detonated above the USA this morning, while in Russia, I had been exploring a man-portable device.’
Tate whistled. ‘That would be a complete game changer.’
‘And together, we had been developing EMP shielding.’
‘But now everyone will include EMP shielding in their vehicles or garages as standard.’
‘That is true, but how long that would take to implement? Also think of the benefits to law enforcement if a runaway or stolen vehicle can be brought to a halt with a simple, highly localised electromagnetic pulse.’
‘Let me get this straight; what was the point of a terrorist attack on the US? A smaller scale test could have been carried out elsewhere and in secret?’
‘I can see why you would call it a terrorist attack. As a scientist I demanded that I be included in a team on the ground here. And I am glad I was.’
Tate shook his head. ‘So what’s the end game? The US has been disabled and what, China steps in to clear up the mess?’
‘Exactly. Russia can live with a strong China; it cannot live with a powerful USA. So Blackline brought both sides together, in a manner of speaking. It was better to be collectively strong than individually weak.’
‘Isn’t that the rationale behind communism?’
‘It is.’
Tate again shook his head. ‘But Blackline is a private military contractor, not a governmental agency.’
‘Blackline is a power broker. Our two founders are well placed to coerce their governments.’
‘Oleniuk is one founder, who is the other?’
‘Chen Yan, a Chinese multi-billionaire.’
The name meant nothing to him. Tate read the road signs in silence. Whatever Blackline was, it was a menace. ‘Now that it’s just you and me, tell me about the assassinations.’
Oleg shook his head. ‘That is something I have no idea whatsoever about.’
‘You’re being honest?’
‘Of course.’ He looked out of the window, as though he was trying to locate a memory. ‘I did, however, hear Oleniuk once mention a “hit list”, when he took a phone call during a meeting we had at the research facility.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘It was not verified, just a phrase he used. He could have been talking about the pop charts.’
‘I see.’
Tate again became quiet as he concentrated on the highway. He still had no hard evidence that the assassinations were linked to Blackline. What he had was circumstantial; the timing fitted, and the vehicles matched and the victims themselves. ‘Was there more than one team?’
‘Two colleagues of mine, and by that I mean scientists, were also dispatched with men who were former soldiers. I do not know how many other groups there may have been, but what I do know is that the base at Houlton is large enough to accommodate many men.’
‘Tell me what happens next. What’s the next stage?’
‘After the operation, we regroup at Houlton before flying out of the country.’
Both men fell silent. Tate agreed with the idea of non-lethal weapons, even though he couldn’t condone the Russian’s actions. Would Tate have accepted similar orders issued by his government? He would like to think not, but would he have accepted them if given by a private employer? His answer was a resolute no.
‘Why are you in Maine?’ Oleg asked.
‘I’m here on holiday.’
‘That is a silly cover story.’
‘Silly or not,’ replied Tate, ‘it’s the truth. I’d originally given myself a month to work my way down the coast to Washington.’
‘That is a long drive. Why visit Washington?’
‘My brother works there.’
‘I see. The EMP was detonated above Washington. It is our ground zero.’
Tate felt himself go cold, but before he could ask anything more there was a sound from the glove compartment. He cast a glance at Oleg.
‘That was the Iridium satellite telephone.’
‘OK; can you take it out for me?’
‘How? You have me chained up like a convicted felon.’
Tate took a deep breath. Oleg, he felt, was not dangerous. Even if he tried to escape, where would he go? He reached inside his jeans pocket and handed Oleg the keys. ‘Undo the cuffs; I trust you.’
‘Thank you, but what makes you think I will not hit you over the head?’
Tate focused on the road.
Oleg undid the cuffs, flexed his wrists, and retrieved the Iridium handset. ‘There is a text message on this. It claims to be from the Department of Homeland Security.’
‘Read it to me, please.’
Oleg read the message.
‘A national state of emergency has been declared and is effective immediately for the continental United States. Widespread power outages have been reported. For your safety, and the safety of others, all citizens are encouraged to remain at their residences and to avoid any form of travel until further notice.’
‘They are trying to be clever and not mention the EMP.’
‘Perhaps they will not?’ Oleg shrugged. ‘The Soviet authorities did not acknowledge the Chernobyl reactor catastrophe immediately.’
‘This isn’t the USSR.’ Tate had an idea. ‘Your Russian sat phone can communicate with the other groups?’
‘Of course, but we were instructed to keep complete radio silence.’
‘Tell me about the base at Houlton. Who is running it and what equipment and hardware do they have?’
‘It is run by a former GRU major, who reports to Oleniuk; he has a team of six men. They have several SUVs like this, cars and trucks, as well as an arsenal of weapons.’
‘What communications system do they have?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘And your exfil is today by plane?’
‘Yes, twelve hours after the attack.’
Tate checked his Rolex; they were an hour away. ‘Piece of cake, we can make it.’
Oleg frowned. ‘You want to make a cake?’