“And I don’t expect either of you to provide transport, Anna,” Dugan said. “I’m betting Braun prepaid that charter outfit to take Alex to Beirut. How would they react to a call from MI5 questioning their involvement?”
“Nervously, at the very least,” Anna said.
Dugan smiled. “Now suppose you implied Her Majesty’s Government would be grateful if the forfeited payment were used to take me to Russia?”
She nodded. “Devious, Dugan, but it might work.”
She pulled out her phone, then noticed a No Mobile Phone sign and moved to an exit.
Dugan turned to Ward.
“So Jesse, how are things at the Langley Puzzle Palace?”
“Shaky. With these latest developments, Gardner’s back up on the fence ready to hammer us or take credit, depending on the outcome. But he hates your guts. I’m concerned about you going to Russia solo.”
“Come with me.”
Ward shook his head. “I need to stick near Braun. He’s still the key. But I’ll try to watch your back. With Gardner involved, anything could happen.”
Dugan nodded as Anna returned.
“Air Dugan departs tonight at ten thirty,” she announced.
Dugan jerked awake.
“Dugan,” he said into the phone.
“Tom. Jesse.”
“Is Alex—”
“No change there, but Braun talked. But we had to cut a deal—”
“We’ve got the ship. Why rush to cut a deal with that—”
“No, we don’t. He was saying ‘Odessa,’ not ‘Orion.’”
“We got nothing loading in Odessa. I couldn’t—”
“An unrecorded charter. Not your fault, Tom.”
Dugan sighed. “OK. Let’s hear it.”
“Contessa di Mare, owned by Fratelli Barbiero Compagnia di Navigazione, loading gasoline in Odessa for Genoa. Four Chechen terrorists aboard.”
“I’ll divert.”
“Too late. She sailed yesterday. ETA at the Bosphorus pilot station is 1100 local today. Langley notified everyone, but the Turks seem skeptical. Our earlier misstep didn’t reassure them. And the Russians are still involved. They won’t ignore a threat to the Bosphorus.”
“Christ. What should I do?”
“Nothing. Things are too unstable. Langley, Moscow, Ankara, and God knows who else are in the act. Land, refuel, and leave before the shit hits the fan. If you’re met, give what advice you can and leave.”
“Got it,” Dugan said. “By the way, what’s the target? The strait’s pretty long.”
“Unknown. Braun was having problems. The docs made us stop. We’ll try later.”
“OK, pal. See you soon,” Dugan said.
Khassan Basaev’s gut knotted from weeks of stress, but it was almost over. The Chechens and their weapons, boxed as “ship spares in transit,” sped through the airport behind liberal bribes. The midnight boarding had gone equally well.
Awakened from his attempt at a few hours rest before a predawn sailing, the chief engineer was predictably confused by the forged work order. He’d ordered no riding gang. On cue, Basaev suggested riding to Istanbul, a day away, confirming the orders in transit. If there was a mistake, he promised his team would disembark at no cost. Happy to avoid spending the rest of the night on the phone to Genoa, the captain and chief engineer agreed.
They seized the bridge just after departure, Basaev holding the captain at gunpoint as his comrades corralled the crew in the aft rope locker. The Chechens freed a few crewmen at a time to raise cargo-tank covers and remove the steel blanks from the manifold discharge flanges as Doku and Shamil rigged charges along deck.
Then they used their recent training, and fumes boiled from the hatches as they ventilated the cargo tanks with fresh air. Inert gas hung above the deck in a cloud, changing to an explosive mix of air and gasoline as the inert gas was purged. Finally, they concealed their work, stopping the fans and moving the hatch covers almost, but not quite, closed. The wind dissipated the explosive cloud, but the fans would force it from the tanks again when the time was right.
Basaev touched the detonator in his pocket. He’d increased speed to claim the first morning transit slot. Soon he would be in Paradise, and the Russian scum would be choking on their oil. He thought of his loved ones’ deaths and wrapped himself in hate like an old, familiar blanket. A poor substitute for love, but it was all he had.
“Welcome to Mother Russia,” the copilot said from the cockpit door as the plane rolled to a stop. “We’ll refuel and stand by, but I think you’ll have a welcoming committee. They asked for you by name when we requested clearance.”
Not good, Dugan thought.
Three men waited on the tarmac: two in black behind a short man in a baggy brown uniform. Shorty glanced over his shoulder before turning back to Dugan and extending his hand.
“Passport,” he said, exhausting his English. Dugan surrendered his passport, and Shorty passed it to the larger of the men behind him.
Mr. In Charge studied the passport and Dugan’s battered face as Dugan reciprocated, ignoring Shorty. The others were tall, midthirties, with old faces. They wore tailored combat utilities with the Russian tricolor on the shoulder.
Mr. In Charge pocketed the passport and barked at Shorty in Russian, and the little bureaucrat scurried away without a backward glance.
“You come,” Mr. In Charge said as he and his subordinate turned.
“Wait,” Dugan said, “I’m returning to London.”
“Nyet,” the Russian called back, walking away.
Dugan hustled past them to stop in their path, his arm extended palm outward. Soon it pressed against Mr. In Charge’s chest.
“OK, let’s try that again. Give me my damned passport and tell me who the hell you are. If I like your answer, we’ll talk.”
The Russian glared at the hand until Dugan removed it. Then he nodded.
“I am Major Andrei Borgdanov, and this is Sergeant Ilya Denosovich. We belong to Federal Security Service, Special Operations Detachment, Krasnodar, Directorate V, Counterterrorism Unit.” He paused. “And your plane leaves when I say. So if you want me to authorize this, you come. Or plane will be here long, long time.”
The Russians resumed their walk toward a Humvee-like vehicle. Left with no choice, Dugan followed. The sergeant pointed to the rear seat before crawling behind the wheel, as Borgdanov took shotgun. They roared away, Dugan groping for a nonexistent seat belt, up the taxiway to a service area and a helicopter surrounded by men in the same black uniforms.
The sergeant braked hard, dumping Dugan on the floorboard to jeers from the waiting Russians. The major yelled something, stifling the jeers if not the smirks. The sergeant grinned over the seat at Dugan.
Eight of the Russians were dressed like the sergeant, but three had different uniforms, Dugan saw as he got out. Aircrew, he thought, not full members of the Crazy Commando Club. Borgdanov wrapped a big hand around Dugan’s bicep and steered him toward the chopper.
“We must get ready,” he said.
Dugan jerked his arm free. “So what can I tell you?”
“What? Nyet. Get ready.” The major nodded toward black utilities and body armor the sergeant was unloading.
“Whoa. I’m an advisor. I’m not going with you.”
“You are Agent Thomas Dugan of American CIA, here to help us as agreed.” Borgdanov nodded, and the sergeant approached, intent on undressing Dugan, by force if necessary.