“He doesn’t deserve it,” Boucher said. “He’s a sham. You know that, right?”
Duncan nodded. “But he served a purpose, albeit unknowingly.”
“A pawn?”
Duncan smiled. “Exactly.”
SEVENTY-FIVE
Severodvinsk, Russia
THE DOCKS WERE quiet. For that, Rook was thankful. His host seemed far less excited. Burdened by the weight of his sister’s death, Maksim Dashkov was not in a cooperative mood. The old, red-nosed fisherman was built like the great Siberian brown bear, but he had a heart similar to his sister’s. He had openly wept for her in front of Rook, and had asked about the state of her cabin, how she survived the winters, and if she was happy. He expressed regret over having not seen her since the death of her husband, and told of hard winters and small hauls.
The pair stood on the old wooden fisherman’s dock. The sub yard sat about a mile away. Rook could see a docked Borei class submarine, probably rotating crews and getting resupplied. A patrol boat with a large mounted machine gun cruised back and forth, ever watchful.
Dashkov breathed into his hands. “Hard times have forced me to take on less than noble jobs in the past. And I assume that’s why Galya sent you to me.” He made a point of looking back at the security boat. Rook had been watching it a little too keenly.
“I’d like to avoid conflicts if possible, yes.”
“As would I,” Dashkov said. “Which is why I cannot do what you ask.”
Rook had explained, without going into detail, that he needed a quick and quiet trip out of Russia, destination Norway.
Rook frowned. “Why not?”
The large man sighed. “My ship has already been chartered.”
Rook knew he was asking a lot. It was clear that Dashkov and much of the city were hurting for money. He could promise to have money sent, but that’s all it was, a promise. Without money up front he was asking for a free ride.
Dashkov turned away and looked out at the gray ocean. “You seem like a good man, I’m sorry.”
“Put me to work, then,” Rook said. “Pass me off as a member of the crew.”
“I can’t afford a crew.”
“Does your charter know this?”
“No, but—”
Rook stood in front of Dashkov. “What are you afraid of?”
Dashkov took out a cigarette and lit it, sucking in the tobacco smoke and letting it out slowly. “These men, they are not like you. They are not good people.”
There was more to it than that. Rook waited.
“Sometimes I see things and look the other way. Understand?”
Rook did understand. The Chess Team had to do the same on occasion to serve the greater good. Deals with drug dealers, warlords, and gunrunners weren’t uncommon when fighting a greater enemy. “Then I will look the other way, too.”
After another long drag, Dashkov shook his head. “I’m sorry. I can’t.” He started to walk away.
Rook took his arm and spun him around. His patience was gone. If it took the blunt truth to make this man help him, so be it. “Hey,” he said, his voice full of mirth. Rook pulled up his shirt revealing a swath of bandages with red polka dots of blood staining them. He pulled up the bandages revealing a splash of bruised skin and several small holes sewed up with thread. “Your sister saved my life.”
Dashkov leaned in and looked at the wounds. “She used thread?”
“She did the best she could with what she had.”
“She always did.” Dashkov looked moved, but not convinced.
“I haven’t told you how she died.”
Dashkov lost his taste for tobacco and flicked the cigarette into the ocean. “I haven’t asked.”
“She died protecting me. Took the bullet meant for me and four more on top of it.” Rook made sure the man’s eyes were trained on his. “Her last wish in this life is that you would help me.”
After a deep sigh, the old fisherman asked, “Who shot her?”
It was Rook’s turn to glance at the patrol boat. Dashkov understood and gave a nod. “I will drop you off at the first port in Norway. It is not a place I would spend any time, but it is the best I can do. You will act as my first mate and will feign illness. Understood?”
“Don’t worry,” Rook said. “I can follow orders.”
Dashkov squinted at him. “I’m sure.”
An hour later Dashkov and Rook boarded his fishing boat, the Songbird. As he led Rook belowdecks, Dashkov whispered a reminder. “Remember. Do not react to what you see. Do not speak to these men. I am simply introducing you so that they are not caught off guard by your presence. If these men do not like the way you sneeze they are liable to throw us both overboard.”
Rook nodded, steeling himself for the worst—a shipment of weapons, drugs, or other contraband. But when they entered the cargo hold where the two passengers and their package spent most of their time, Rook was decidedly unprepared for what he saw. His eyes arced around the space, taking everything in. Then he turned his eyes to the floor, careful to not meet the harsh stares of the two men.
As Dashkov explained who Rook was and what he would be doing, Rook thought about the two men. They had the distinct look of old KGB agents—thick skin; cold, deep-set eyes; and battle scars to boot. They were killers for certain. But it was the third person in the room who had fully captured his attention. The woman, perhaps in her early thirties, sat bound and gagged in a metal chair. A gash over her eye dripped blood over her face. The wound was straight and thin, delivered by a razor blade.
As the two men grunted in acknowledgment of Dashkov’s explanation, Rook chanced a look up. The woman caught his eyes. She silently pleaded with him for help, but he glanced away quickly. In that moment when their eyes met, there was a flicker of recognition, but he couldn’t place it. Something about her was familiar, yet he knew he’d never seen her before in his life.
He followed Dashkov to the deck and then to the pilot house. He wanted to apologize to the man in advance, but stayed quiet. Speaking his mind would only upset him and Rook needed to maintain the status quo until they were far out to sea.
Once they were on the high seas, they were at the mercy of Mother Nature. Anything could happen.
Anything.
It was normally impossible to predict what that might be, but Rook knew exactly what was going to happen. Dashkov be damned, he could not look the other way.
Not this time.
SEVENTY-SIX
Pontus, Turkey
WITH NO TIME to prebreath for a HALO jump during the short flight from Iraq to Turkey, the team would attempt a new kind of drop. The Crescent, flying at thirty thousand feet, would descend rapidly. Its stealth technology made it practically invisible to radar and other detection methods, but to the naked eye, the black croissant-shaped plane was easy to spot. So its insertion into Turkey’s airspace needed to be done quickly. Upon reaching five thousand feet, the Crescent would pull up, beginning a strenuous downward arc before going vertical again and dumping the team from its backside three thousand feet from the surface.
King, Queen, Knight, Bishop, and Alexander sat at the rear of the jet’s cargo hold, waiting for the drop to begin. Each was dressed in black special ops gear with night vision goggles, XM-25 assault rifles, an assortment of grenades, and blocks of C4—enough to bring down the mountain, which King was prepared to do in order to stop Ridley and save Fiona.