She had just downloaded the latest tap from a passive listening device she’d installed in the Metyor Aerospace hangar several weeks before. Metyor had never had very much activity until recently, right around the time that the father of Metyor IIG’s largest shareholder, Pavel Kazakov, had been brutally killed in Kosovo. Suddenly, Metyor Aerospace was buzzing with activity. Before it got too hairy over there, she had managed to plant listening devices inside the main hangar and in the administrative offices. No matter how old, young, married, busy, or noninterested they were, her red hair, green eyes, luscious Louisiana breasts, and sassy attitude attracted men like nothing else, and she practically had free access to Metyor. But no matter how hard she tried, it was impossible to get inside the secure hangar or get close to the facility director, Pyotr Fursenko. The old fart had to be gay — she’d tried all of her feminine charms on him, to no avail.
Linda had not seen it depart, but she knew the Metyor-179 was gone the day after the raid on Kukes, Albania. There was no doubt in her mind that it had done the raid. She’d pieced together snippets of other conversations and could draw a fairly detailed timeline of the entire mission, all the way back to when live weapons were uploaded, what kind they used, where they got them, the strike routing — even details on what they would do if they encountered an AWACS radar plane, which obviously they had. The listening devices were very, very effective.
Unfortunately, in order to prevent detection, they were extremely low-power devices, which meant she had to get very close to the facility in order to download the stored recordings; they also had to be very-low-frequency transmissions in order to penetrate the radio-resistant steel hangar, so each packet of data, although compressed, took a long time to download. She had to bring the downloading device somewhere where it would be within the two hundred meters range of the pickup/transmitters. She needed at least one minute to download five minutes’ worth of conversations, so the recorder had to be within range for at least thirty minutes.
Linda could never get permission to live at base housing, and at the current time she didn’t have a boyfriend who lived there, so she had to disguise these download sessions by taking up jogging. The main road around the airfield at Zhukovsky led from the main base area around the long northeast-southwest runway and all the way to the housing area on the south side of the base. Every day, after working late in her office or in the design labs, Linda would go to the base gymnasium, stretch or lift weights for an hour or so to let the traffic die down, then change into a jogging suit, put on her Austrian-made portable tape recorder, and jog the main road all the way to the housing area, rest or visit friends who lived there, and then jog back. As long as she was within two hundred meters of the Metyor hangar, the transmitter would feed digital packets of data into the CompactFlash memory card inside the tape recorder. She made sure she stopped many times along the way — although she was fit enough to run a marathon if she wanted to, she would stop every kilometer or so to check her pulse, make like she had to get her breath back, watch airplanes land, or just do some karate kata or stretch. The entrance to the Metyor Aerospace facility sometimes had a friendly guard on duty, so she stopped there often to chat, flirt, or do whatever was necessary to hang out long enough to collect data.
She could also listen to the data as it was downloading — dangerous, but it helped to remind her of the importance of what she was doing, why she was risking her life to get this information to the United States. Ever since things started buzzing inside Metyor, she started listening to the downloads — and it scared the hell out of her. This development was even scarier. They were actually going to use the Metyor-179 to …
She heard the rustle of tires on gravel coming up behind her. She had the headphones on, so she pretended not to notice. She switched the data downloader off, switched the Russian rock music back on, tried some jumping jacks, unzipped her jogging suit jacket about halfway down her chest, then took the headphones off.
“Prasteetye, gaspazha, “ a man said behind her. She pretended to be startled and turned around. It was a base security police vehicle, with two officers. They didn’t have their flashing lights on, so maybe this wasn’t an enforcement stop, just a friendly …
At that instant, the officer behind the wheel turned on the flashing red and blue lights. Oh, shit, what was this about?
“Da?” Linda asked in her most seductive, disarming voice, adding just a hint of her Louisiana accent to try to put them off guard. “What’s going on, fellas?”
“Miss Maslyukov, we would like to ask you some questions,” the officer outside the vehicle said. “Would you mind coming with us, please?”
“May I ask what this is about, officer?”
“We will explain everything at base security headquarters, Miss Maslyukov,” the officer said. It was then that Linda noticed it — a strange antenna bolted to the hood of the trunk. A scanner, probably to detect eavesdroppers. That was new to the base. It must’ve come from outside the base, because if the base commander wanted any sort of electronic gear, he came to Linda’s shop to get it.
“Kharasho, “ Linda acknowledged. She stepped toward the officer outside the car. Once out of the glare of the headlights, she looked inside the vehicle. No dog. The other officer was still in the driver’s seat, still seat-belted in, the radio microphone in his hand casually watching her approach, a cigarette in his left hand. Obviously, he expected this to be a very routine pickup.
She knew, whatever happened, she must not get inside that car.
The second officer had a large metal flashlight in his left hand, his right hand behind his back, unsnapping a pair of handcuffs from his utility belt pouch. As she approached the officer outside the car, she noticed he was doing exactly what she expected him to be doing — staring at her chest, the flashlight beam focused right on her cleavage. “Please put your hands behind your back, miss,” the officer ordered, in a not-too forceful, almost anticipatory voice.
“Like this?” Linda put her hands behind her back without turning around, which served to push out her breasts even farther. The second officer’s attention was fully riveted on her tits.
She didn’t know where the strength came from. Maybe it was from worrying about this very moment for so long. Maybe it was some sort of heroic, defiant gesture. Maybe she had just watched too many episodes of Charlie’s Angels. Whatever it was, wherever it came from, it was happening whether she thought it was safe or sane or whatever. Prison, interrogation center, Hell, or the Cayman Islands. One way or the other, she was on her way.
Just as the second officer took a step toward her, still paying attention to nothing else but her white billowy breasts, Linda executed a perfect snap kick, just like her black-belt-qualifying kata move. It missed by a mile, nailing the officer in the shins. But the officer seemed frozen, as if he couldn’t believe what she had done, which gave her the opportunity to line up an even better kick. Her second attack was right on target, her right foot burying itself deeply into the officers groin. He made a loud, long grunt and bent over nearly double. She quickly stepped beside him and jammed her left foot into the side of his left knee. The joint buckled, and he went down on his left side — exposing the side arm on the right, its safety strap unfastened. She snatched it out of the holster. He reached out, grabbing for her, but she twisted out of reach.