Chapter Thirty-seven

 

 

Somewhere over California, United States of America

December 5, 6:05 p.m.

 

Initially, Carrie had opposed the idea of flying aboard Romanov’s private jet. She hated the man she liked to call “oil thug” even to his face. Romanov had helped her considerably in her search to find the remains of her father, but Carrie knew he was driven by ulterior motives and not simple generosity. His help came with a steep price. A billionaire like Romanov could buy virtually everything he ever wanted or desired, so owing a favor to this hateful man was certainly bothering her. It meant one day he was going to demand that Carrie or her agency engage in some kind of activity that no one would otherwise dare to touch, even when lured by Romanov’s billions. But with time running out and with all other flights fully booked or taking one or more stops through Frankfurt, Munich, or Dubai, Romanov was the best of their bad options.

She had to admit, though, that it had been one of the most enjoyable airplane rides of her life. The luxury and the comfort of the Gulfstream G550 were intoxicating, especially since she was the only passenger on board and two polite flight attendants were at her complete disposal. She savored a delightful supper of beef stroganoff with smetana, sour cream, prepared in the traditional Russian style just before their departure. It was so finger-licking good that she asked for a second serving. She was offered a range of wines and liquor, but of course she turned them down, opting instead for lemon water. She wanted to keep a clear mind as she focused on the information at hand and the task ahead.

She reviewed the files on her laptop, making notes and analyzing all information for the next couple of hours. The exact nature and the location of the terrorist attack were still unclear, although they had narrowed it down to Los Angeles or San Francisco. CIA and FBI agents were on the ground checking several suspicious construction companies, while the NSA was combing through e-mails of the accounts received from Bashir, waiting for a hit. There was nothing concrete yet.

Carrie stood up to stretch her legs and walked around the cabin. One of the flight attendants—a long-legged blonde who could have been a catwalk model—offered to prepare the bed for her. She hardly believed her eyes as the flight attendant, with a few moves, transformed the sofa next to her chair into a very soft double bed, complete with feather pillows and cashmere blankets. Carrie rested her head on the pillow and fell asleep within a few moments.

She woke up after what to her seemed like an extremely long time. She looked around and noticed a set of beige drapes separating the area around her bed from the rest of the plane. It created a sort of bedroom and provided her with privacy. She sat on her bed as the plane rattled. That’s probably what woke me up.

Carrie glanced at a clock someone had placed on the table across from the bed. It was 3:15 p.m. Is that LA time? She yawned and stretched her arms. If so, it should be about 2:15 a.m. in Moscow and Dagestan. Justin’s operation should be in full force. Oh, I wish I was there with him.

She began to feel a bit guilty about Justin’s going forward with the Dagestan operation alone, even though it had not been her call. She was confident Justin could handle almost any situation, and the FSB troops were a great team, but stirring the hornets’ nest was extremely dangerous even for such battle-hardened operatives.

Carrie shrugged, trying to shake off her guilty thoughts. She stood up and walked to the spacious, full bathroom to freshen up.

She returned and sat at the table, next to her laptop. It had an almost unbreakable password encryption, so she was not worried that someone may have tried to access her files. She fired up the laptop and punched in her code.

“Ms. Baker,” one of the flight attendants called from behind the curtain in a soft voice. “Do you need anything?”

Baker was Carrie’s cover name. She had called herself Brianna Baker.

“Uh . . . no, well, yes. Can you get me some water and tea, please?” Carrie said.

“Right away, madam.”

Carrie shook her head. She had instructed the flight attendants to call her Brie, but they insisted on using her last name or “madam.” They always acted very respectfully and professionally.

“May I come in, madam?” the flight attendant said.

“Sure, come in.”

The curtains were drawn back and the blonde flight attendant placed a glass of water on the table. “How was your sleep?”

“Excellent.”

The other flight attendant, who was a dark-haired Asian, waltzed in with a large tray in her hands. “This is our tea selection, Ms. Baker,” she said in a soft whisper. “Which one is your preference?”

Carrie looked at the tea bags lined up in perfect rows. There were probably twenty different types of teas from all over the world. She felt embarrassed that she did not know any of the brands, but they looked quite expensive, considering the fancy packages.

Carrie said, “How about I let you choose? I need something strong, black, but also exotic. Surprise me.”

The flight attendant gave Carrie a nod and a small smile. “Right away. Do you need anything else?”

Carrie shook her head. “No, but I’ll let you know if I do.”

The flight attendant nodded again and returned to the galley.

Carrie took a sip of her water and checked her voicemail box from her Iridium satellite phone for new messages. She found none, placed the phone back on the table, and began to work on her laptop. She drafted a detailed report covering the events of the last couple of days. Then she sugarcoated the summary of the Moscow operation into a vague one-page note for public use by the Minister’s press office if any nosey journalists asked pointed questions.

She spent the next hour reexamining the intelligence reports received from the CIA and the NSA, searching for any details she may have overlooked or considered irrelevant in her previous analysis. She thought about different scenarios involving construction companies’ workers. They had access to heavy machinery and equipment, explosives, and cordoned-off areas. Los Angeles and San Francisco had airports, railroad stations, government buildings, business centers, stadiums, power plants, parks, and many other landmarks that could be targeted by terrorists. They could pose as repair or maintenance crews, enter basements or other crucial structures, and cause mayhem and massacres.

Carrie sighed as the array of terrifying situations flashed in front of her eyes. She wondered about how easily it came to her to think like the terrorists. To catch a terrorist, you need to think like one, I guess. But she was worried about the long-term effects of dealing on an almost daily basis with people who did not spare even their own children, but poisoned them with ideas of hate, calls for violence and death and resentment, and used them as fodder in what they considered “holy war.”

She sighed again and reached for her teacup. It was almost empty and the tea had grown cold. Before she could lift it up to her mouth, the blonde flight attendant appeared out of nowhere.

“Do you care for more tea, madam?” she asked with a gorgeous smile and her habitual tone of politeness.

“Sure, thanks.” Carrie smiled back.

“Something different?”

“Yes, let’s try something different, but still strong.”

“Right away.” The flight attendant collected Carrie’s cup. “Anything else where I can be of assistance?”

“No, but thank you.”

The flight attendant nodded, smiled again, then turned around.

Carrie had begun to delve again in her files, when her satellite phone beeped with a sharp sound. She glanced at the small screen, saw the initials JH, and grabbed the phone. “Hey, Justin, how are you?” she asked in a voice full of concern.

“Mostly okay,” Justin replied in an exhausted tone. “We’re out of the hot area and in a safe place.”

Carrie smiled and nodded. “How did it go?”

“We’ve got three dead and many wounded. Two gravely, but they’ll make it.”

“And you? What about you?”

“Eh, I’ve got a couple of flesh wounds and some scratches. My vest stopped a bullet that I suspect bruised a rib.”

“That’s serious.” Carrie’s voice dripped with greater concern.

“A medic will fix me up and give me something for—”

A rattling background noise muffled Justin’s last words.

“Say again,” Carrie asked. “I missed the last part.”

“Eh, a medic will give me drugs for the pain.”

A long barrage of gunfire echoed in her ear. “Is that what I think it is?” she asked, and her voice clearly showed her disappointment.

“Yes, the music of an orchestra of AKs and PKs. Oh, and the drums are RPGs. Did you hear that?”

Carrie shook her head. She heard the distant explosion. “Yes, and it’s not funny. You said something about being safe?”

“I am safe. This is just the terrorists’ send-off.”

She sighed. “Just stay safe, will you?”

“I will. Now I’ve got some news. We have learned the terrorist target. It’s in San Francisco. The Golden Gate Bridge.”

“What? You’re positive?”

“Absolutely. I got the intel from the leader, well, from his things. And I’ve got a name that may help.”

“Go ahead,” Carrie said as she leaned over her laptop.

“Adlan Aydamirov,” Justin said and spelled the name for her.

“Adlan? Why does his name sound familiar? Oh, yeah, he’s one of the people whose e-mail we got from Bashir.”

“Correct. Adlan’s mission is to blow up the bridge. He’s working with at least two other groups of terrorists.”

Carrie’s face fell into a grimace. She sighed, “Construction workers carrying explosives. The bridge is San Francisco’s most famous landmark. Its destruction will cause so many casualties, not to mention the psychological impact on the people and the cost to the economy.”

Gunfire resounded in the background. There was a short pause before Justin answered, “I couldn’t agree more. The initial plans had the explosions planned for Christmas Eve, but I suspect the terrorist cells will speed things up once they hear about our work in their HQ.”

Carrie fell back in her chair, which had lost all its previous comfort. She shifted her weight, then stood up and began to pace down the aisle, finding it impossible to sit still. “Yes, we’re running out of time. I’ll inform the CIA and the FBI and I’ll instruct the pilots to take me straight to SF. Perhaps we can still stop them.”

Justin returned a weak sigh. “I hope so, and I’m sorry I can’t be there with you.”

Carrie shrugged and said, “No worries, just get better. I can handle this situation on my own, just like you did on your side trip.”

Justin’s tired laugh came over the phone. “Yes, interesting side trip. I’ll tell you all about it when I meet you in a few days.”

“All right, stay safe, okay?”

“Will do. Unless the medic screws up, I should make a full recovery. You be safe too.”

“Will do my best,” Carrie said. “See you soon.”

“Take care,”

“Yeah, you too.”

Carrie took a deep breath. Time to put an end to this.

She walked to the galley. The blonde flight attendant was pouring water from a kettle into a white porcelain teapot. The dark-haired one was talking on the radio.

“Do you need anything?” the blonde asked with a smile.

“Yes, some privacy,” Carrie said. “I have to make an important phone call.”

“Yes, of course, madam,” the blonde replied. “I’ll shut the door and you’ll have total privacy.”

“I appreciate that.”

Carrie stepped outside the galley and the blonde closed the door in silence behind her. Returning to her seat, Carrie picked up her satellite phone again and dialed a number from memory.

A man answered the phone right after the first ring. “This is Special Agent Fox. Who is this?”

“This is Carrie O’Connor with the CIS. I’ve got an update on the Chechen terror plot.”