Chapter Twenty-nine

 

 

Moscow, Russia

December 5, 9:05 a.m.

 

McClain called again to explain what Justin and Carrie had already figured out: a senior security advisor from the Minister’s office had insisted on being present during the call. McClain had refused at first, considering the request a sign of distrust, then had relented because he was seeking the Minister’s authorization for the Dagestan operation, and he wanted the advisor in his camp. The advisor had left McClain’s office convinced that the Minister should approve the covert operation. At least, that is what he had told McClain.

Justin wanted to visit Yuliya at the hospital, then meet with Fyodor, and Carrie decided to go with him. They could no longer use the bullet-ridden Lada, which they had ditched last night a few blocks away from their apartment. Justin had thought about stealing a car but he wanted to keep a low profile. They had a deal with Derzhavin that kept them beyond the FSB’s reach. Justin was not about to jeopardize their situation by provoking other incidents.

They called a taxi to take them to the Yugo-Zapadnaya metro station. It was not rush hour but traffic was still crawling at a snail’s pace. Large snowplows were tackling the snow and tow trucks, ambulances, firemen, and the police were called to the scene of a horrific incident right off Vernadskogo Prospect: a cement truck had turned over, splattering a couple of Ladas and a Fiat as if they were toy cars. A large section of the road had been cordoned off and the traffic was bottlenecked in one lane.

Half an hour later, Justin and Carrie got into the train to Sokolniki station, and from there they got into another taxi. The northern part of Moscow seemed to have received less snow, or perhaps by now the snowplows had completed most of their job. The traffic was flowing fast but for the occasional erratic driver, an ever-present sign of Moscow’s roads.

The taxicab left them outside the hospital’s main entrance and they found Yuliya resting in a private room on the second floor. She was in a somewhat foul mood, mainly because of the doctor’s orders. The surgery had gone well, but she was to adhere to a strict bed regime for the next week and then use crutches for four to six weeks.

“This is going to kill me,” she said with a sigh and a sad headshake. “Two months away from field ops. I’ll get so rusty.”

Justin nodded. He was sitting on a small stool on the right side of Yuliya’s bed, opposite Carrie. He reached over and held her hand. “I understand,” he said. “It sucks. But think of it as an opportunity to do something else, different, something you’ve always wanted to do.”

Yuliya groaned. “What? Baking? Knitting?”

“No, I was thinking more of learning Chinese. They’re getting much more involved in global politics and also battling their own demons. Soon enough there may be some work for us in the dragon’s lair.”

Someone knocked and the door opened. It was Bronislav. He nodded at Justin and Carrie, then disappeared back into the hall. He returned a moment later pulling a chair behind him. He sat near the end of the bed.

“Good to see you,” Yuliya said to Bronislav. “What’s new with the bastard?”

Justin knew she was referring to Derzhavin.

Bronislav said, “He’s on the third floor surrounded by heavy security. The surgeon was able to save his arm.”

It sounded like the surgeon had committed a crime against humanity, considering the somber, low tone of Bronislav’s voice.

Yuliya shrugged. “He’ll pay sooner or later. I prefer sooner, but in this case I will have to settle for later.”

“When do we head out?” Bronislav asked Justin.

Justin sat back on his stool and stretched his neck. “I’m not sure,” he replied. “I’m still waiting for authorization from my boss and intelligence from Der . . . from the FSB.”

Bronislav’s face began to turn dark. He opened his mouth, but Yuliya was faster. She said, “I made a few calls this morning and started to assemble a team. I’m assuming the two of you are it from the CIS?”

Justin nodded. “Yes, as far as I know. My boss may have a different opinion.”

Yuliya waved her hand. She pressed a couple of buttons on the side of her bed to adjust it. “So, you and Carrie, Bronislav and Daniel.” She held her fingers up. “I’m thinking ten, twelve people. Large enough for a successful outcome but small enough so it would go unnoticed in terrorist territory.”

“I have a couple of people in mind too,” Bronislav said slowly.

Justin’s cellphone vibrated in one of his coat pockets. He knew it was McClain before he checked the caller ID, since he was the only one who had this number. Well, Carrie had it too, but she was in the same room and had not made the call.

“I’ve got to step out for a moment,” Justin said.

He waited until he was beyond the glass window of Yuliya’s recovery room, then answered his phone. “This is Justin.”

“He . . . llo, Jus . . . tin,” McClain said in a crackling voice. “I can bare . . . ly hear you.”

Justin quickened his pace down the hall. He stood by a window overlooking a parking lot and a small park across the street. Gray clouds hung menacingly low, ready to start a new snowstorm at a moment’s notice.

“How about now?” Justin said. “Can you hear me now?”

“Oh, yes, much better.” McClain’s voice was steady, but still throaty, and he sounded even more worn out than on the previous call earlier that morning. “I’ve got some bad news. Is Carrie there with you?”

“No. We’re at the hospital, checking in on our . . . friends.” Justin omitted Yuliya’s name or that of her employee, since a woman in a lab coat was wheeling a patient in a wheelchair a few feet away. “I followed your advice and decided to enjoy Moscow.”

“Well, I hope you’ve had your fun, because the Minister has authorized the Dagestan op. You’re good to go.”

Justin flinched. “I thought you said bad news. This is excellent news.”

McClain hesitated for a moment, then said, “Justin, you’re going a . . . lone.”

The crackle returned and Justin turned around and walked to the next window. “Repeat your last, sir.”

McClain’s sigh came clear over the line. “The Minister’s authorizing the op but limiting our involvement to one agent, for ‘advisory purposes only.’” McClain’s voice took a mocking tone as he tried to imitate the Minister’s thick, deep voice. “Carrie will be dispatched to the States to follow up on the terrorist plot in California.”

Justin shook his head and tightened his grip around the cellphone. He felt like smashing it against the wall, imagining he was punching the smirking face of the ignorant Minister. His gaze fell outside the window, the clouds gathering fast, ready for their vicious pounding like the one Justin knew was headed his way.

“Still with me, Justin?”

“Yeah, still here.” Justin tried to contain the anger in his voice but he was sure McClain had noticed its gruffness.

“And mad as hell, I see.”

Justin took a deep breath and steadied his trembling hand. “This is not standard procedure, sir. With all due respect, it’s hamstringing me and compromising the success of this mission.”

“I know, and I made my strong objections known to the Minister. I was on the phone with him just ten minutes ago.”

Justin waited.

McClain said, “The Minister’s aware of the risk involved but is worried about unnecessary exposure, especially if things go to hell.”

“Things will go to hell if this is not a well-devised plan. Carrie is an irreplaceable agent, my right hand, someone I trust to watch my back. The rest of my teammates will be FSB agents.”

“I hear you, Justin, and I wished the Minister did as well. But with the Moscow incidents and the threats against the States, our political masters want to play this safe.”

“They don’t think I can pull this through, do they?” Justin’s voice rose almost to a shout as another wave of anger overtook him, this time because of the bitter feeling of doubt from the Minister.

“They did not put it in those terms, but yes, there is very little hope your team will find and eliminate Kaziyev.”

“They’re setting me up to fail, is this what they’re doing?”

“No, that’s not the case. The Minister’s office was excited about the intel exchange with the FSB in Moscow, as it would raise our profile and strengthen our leverage with both Russia and the US. And it was, for the most part, safe, although I know you beg to differ.

“This mission, on the other hand, is taking place in a volatile, remote region, and the outcome is, well, to put it mildly, insignificant, at least from the strict and narrow political point of view.”

Justin opened his mouth to object, but realized McClain would have expressed his thoughts about the importance of striking terrorists, especially where they felt they had the strongest and the safest havens.

“You still have the option of aborting this mission, Justin.” McClain voice had a warning edge and a pleading tinge.

“And disobey a direct order?”

“It was your proposal that introduced the idea for this mission. The order is not for you to embark on a suicide operation. You can still pull the plug, but if you decide to go ahead, those are the terms.”

Justin took a moment to weigh McClain’s words. He wanted to get that son of a bitch Kaziyev, but he realized the challenges of such an operation. Without Carrie by his side, things had become much harder. A little over two months ago, he had attacked a terrorist training camp in northern Yemen without Carrie, but things had been different at that time. There had been two Israeli Apaches pounding the camps and Yuliya and Daniel had been fellow combatants. Now he could count on no such air strike, and Yuliya was lying in a hospital bed. Justin knew he could rely on Daniel and, to a certain extent, on Bronislav.

He shook his head and tried to shake along with it the hunch that was forming in the pit of his stomach that he should just abort the mission, collect Carrie, and get the hell out of Russia while they still could. Instead, he said, “I need to think this over. Consider the pros and cons and talk it over with Carrie and Derzhavin. It will largely depend on what sort of support he’s able to provide. Can I call you in an hour?”

“Sure, Justin. You can take longer if you need to, since the Minister will not hear about your decision until tomorrow—well, today in the morning.”

“Yes, the time difference. I’ll call you as soon as I’ve made a decision.”

“Just remember that no one will think less of you regardless of your decision,” McClain said in a warm, soft tone. “You don’t have to prove anything to anyone. I know what you have done for your country, and the people who matter, they know it too.”

Justin nodded. “Thanks. It means a lot.”

“Anytime, son, anytime,” McClain said in a fatherly voice.

“I’ll keep you informed,” Justin said and ended the call.