Deeper Than Red (Red Returning Trilogy) (31 page)

I
an had spoken to Ava only once since she’d discovered him in the Keys, and only on Agent Jakes’s secure phone, which he’d just brought to Ian again. “Call for you, Mr. O’Brien.” The agent barely suppressed a grin as he boarded
Exodus II.
Ian had returned to the boat and an anxious Henry, awaiting more news of the previous evening’s—and this early morning’s—unfolding drama. In the meantime, Henry had been on the phone with Liesl for almost an hour, and reported to Ian that she’d assured him all was well in Berlin, though Henry had sensed there was something she wasn’t telling him.

Now he watched as Ian reluctantly approached Agent Jakes. “Uh oh. My head’s back on the chopping block, right?”

“Afraid so, sir.”

Ian expelled a wobbly breath. “Okay, hand it over.” He reached for the phone and immediately shifted tone. “Hey there, sweet lady. How are things in Charleston this afternoon?”

“Cut it out, Ian. You’re in enough trouble without adding mockery to your list of offenses—eavesdropping on my conversation and sneaking around my desk.”

“I did not sneak. That note was lying right there on top of your desk for anyone to see. I just had to turn it around a bit so I could read it clearly.”

“You’re unbelievable and—”

“Well hold on now. Who just went traipsing all over New York last January with a Russian spy? You see, if you think certain information is important enough, you don’t rightly care who leads you to it, do you?” He kept barreling. “So maybe it’s okay if a couple of geezers with not one Uzi between ’em came down here to get more of that information.” He had to stop for breath. “There was just something about mailmen shooting at Liesl that didn’t sit too well, you know?”

Ava was quiet.

“You there?” Ian asked.

“I’m here. Where are you?”

“At the boat.”

“Where’s Henry?”

“Here with me, We’re headed home early in the morning..”

“That’s why I’m calling. For whatever good it does, I’m telling you you’ve got to stay where you are at least for the next twenty-four hours.”

“How so?”

“I can’t tell you any more than that, but the last place I want you two is offshore in any direction.”

“What about flying?”

“Excuse me?”

“Henry and I thought we might take in that concert Friday night.”

“In Nuremberg?” Ava blurted with surprise.

“Well, unless they’ve moved it to Pigeon Forge.”

Ava sighed. “You just can’t leave the boat in Florida and fly off to Nuremberg at the last minute. What you
can
do, though, is stay put for the next day or so, then cast off for Charleston.” She paused. “I miss seeing your scruffy old face around here.”

“Oh yeah? Well, wait till you see the scruffy old bike I’m bringing home.”

L
ong before dawn that Thursday, two Sentinel-class Coast Guard cutters left Miami cruising south to a point barely ten miles off Key Largo. The coordinates were sure, the target vessel sighted earlier by overhead reconnaissance, and radar contact maintained to the second. It was forty-two nautical miles away and stationary.

At 154 feet, the Sentinel-class was the newest in the Coast Guard fleet. It was fast and formidable with a 25 mm autocannon and four .50-caliber machine guns anchored topside. Running hard with a tailwind that overcast night, the cutters together carried four officers, forty crew, and one U.S. president.

At three nautical miles distance from Ivan Volynski’s yacht, both cutters went into darken-ship mode, with all exterior and interior lights doused. Navigation was facilitated by infrared scanners on the ship’s mast, their night-vision images displayed on a screen on the bridge.

At one nautical mile out, both cutters came to a stop. At the stern of one vessel, six crewmen outfitted with night-vision goggles, bulletproof vests, .40-caliber side arms, and M16s prepared to board a twenty-two-foot Zodiac off the launch ramp.

With night-vision binoculars, President Noland watched the operation from the bridge of the other cutter.

In full blackout, the rigid-hulled inflatable eased its way to the yacht, which displayed the requisite number of anchor lights but only a few interior lights. It was almost two in the morning.

The sea slapped hard at the small interception boat as it approached, but it was the only sound from the boarding party.

Ivan had awakened with a sharp pain in his back. Turning slowly in his bed, he opened his eyes and focused on the dim blue lights running at floor level throughout his stateroom, housed in the forward section of the upper deck. The lights were meant to keep his travel paths lit at all times, but he found their soft glow and color strangely ethereal. It seemed all of life now bore some twilight unearthliness, except when real-time pain jerked him back to reality.

He had trouble lifting his head from the pillow, the neck muscles beginning to lose their grip. With most of the crew asleep, he refused to call for help. There would be enough of that in time. He struggled to sit up in bed and look out, but the night fell densely against the windows, two of which were partially open. He preferred to sleep in ocean breezes, not the mechanically chilled ones from the vents.

He reached for the heating pad, positioned it beneath the back spasms, and turned it on. When he finally settled down again, he thought of Vandoren and the voyage they would take the next day. They would follow in the distant wake of the cargo ship as far as Charleston, where he would dare to disembark long enough to see for himself the house on Tidewater Lane—a house unlike any he and his mother had ever lived in, or gone hungry in. Once they left Charleston Harbor and were safely at sea again, the device he planned to leave at the doorstep of the house would lift it from its foundations and deposit it piece by splintered piece over the Holy City. That is what they called Charleston, wasn’t it? He laughed to himself. After Felix eliminated Liesl Bower and Ivan destroyed the family home, what did holiness have to do with anything?

That made him think of his pet spiritual guru who wished to infuse the new Kremlin with his mystic powers. As Ivan pondered the eventuality of that, Glinka’s complaint echoed.
Why isn’t Vandoren returning my calls?
Now Ivan wondered the same thing. He didn’t care if Vandoren was still recuperating from a night of psychic phenomena or not, Ivan needed to talk to him. Finally pulling himself up against the cushioned headboard, he punched in Vandoren’s secure number and waited. After a long interval, he ended the call and stared into the blackness beyond the window. He’d begun to wonder if installing a flamboyant medium such as Curt Vandoren in the new regime was wise. If it was to be billed as the people’s revolution, would the people stand for the same radical indulgences as Czar Nicholas II had allowed himself?

Who would the new president be anyway?

Not Glinka. Ivan would see to that. He’d long favored one of the young ones in his camp. There were several fine candidates from which to choose. But as long as Glinka was in power, even as interim president, those young ones must not know they were even in the running. But Ivan would place his choice in office, within the year, if he had that long.

The heating pad was beginning to comfort him even as his irritation with Vandoren grew. Ivan would call again in a moment, but first, his mind’s eye caught sight of the cargo ship plowing north with its secret container. That image pleased him, erasing any doubts of his scheme to kill off an entire government. He lifted his phone again and punched in the code for the cargo ship’s captain, who answered immediately.
Curt Vandoren will have to be retrained to this level of attention if he’s coming with me to Russia.
“Your voyage is going smoothly?” Ivan asked the captain.

“Yes, sir. We’re approaching the South Carolina coast.”

Ivan smiled.
How timely.

“We should reach the Potomac sometime tomorrow afternoon.”

“And your friends at the boatyard?”

“They’re already there and waiting for us, sir. As planned, we’ll off-load downriver from Washington and deliver it by truck.”

“Monday morning rush hour,” Ivan confirmed.

“Yes, sir. Within a block of the Capitol. Don’t worry. Your plan is etched deeply in our heads. We’ve practiced this many times to your satisfaction.”

“Yes, I know. But I must be sure the same personnel I’ve met and trained remain loyal.”

“Sir, you handpicked the driver. You can have no doubts about him. He knows exactly where to park the truck and you know his skills with the bomb.”

“I would hate to lose him.”

“Delayed detonation allows him over an hour to flee the area. His escape route to the heliport is charted and I spoke with your pilot this morning. The chopper is primed and ready. All is well. Please don’t trouble yourself further, sir. Let us do our jobs.”

Ivan inhaled with some effort, and exhaled slowly. It was a labored rhythm that could either pain or steady him. Right now, he was at peace.

“The balance of your payment awaits you, along with your country’s enduring gratitude, comrade.”

“Thank you, sir.”

When the call ended, Ivan started to phone Vandoren again, but decided against it. His words to the man would have to be scolding, and Ivan wished not to dispel the peace he now felt.
Let him sleep. He will be here soon enough in the morning.

Ivan slipped back under the covers, his frail body relaxed and ready for sleep, but his mind still churned. What if the driver was held up in rush hour traffic? He would carry oxygen, but using it would signal his prior knowledge of the attack. Who would just happen to have an oxygen mask in his everyday belongings? And what about the pilot? If he were somehow detained, he and the driver both would be casualties. Ivan hated to lose two good men. It would be service to their country, though, and their names would be bronzed somewhere in the new Russia. Ivan would see to it.

What was that?
A sound, a slap of seawater against … what? He halted his breathing to listen. The ponderous boat barely rocked, but now, through the open window, he heard the rush of wind over water, and yes, another hard clap against something.
Against your own boat, old woman!
He admonished himself for his jittery fears and closed his eyes.

He was beginning to drift when his eyes suddenly sprang open. Somewhere a voice had shouted. Now, feet pounded the hallway, advancing on his stateroom. He wrenched himself from the covers and reached for the handgun on his night table. But the door to his room burst open and two men in heavy armor crossed the room before he could force his weakened hands around the grip of the gun.

“Drop it!” both men shouted at him, one of them virtually on top of him before he could utter a sound, the man’s hands searching him, his knees boring into Ivan’s chest, expelling what little air he’d accumulated in his lungs. As he gasped for breath, the other man quickly cuffed Ivan’s wrists and pulled him harshly from bed, eliciting a sharp cry from him. He slumped to the floor, but their rough hands hauled him back to his feet. One of them must have noticed the wheelchair in the room.

“He can’t walk,” one man shouted. Together, they lifted Ivan by his shoulders and legs and carried him into an adjoining study where they sat him upright in an executive desk chair and tied him to it.

He screamed at them, “Who are you? What do you want?”

“United States Coast Guard,” one of them reported, his gun aimed at Ivan’s chest. “Are you Ivan Volynski?”

Ivan refused to answer. But the man pulled a photograph from his pocket and held it up, then showed it to his buddy. Looking back at Ivan, the man said, “It looks like you are. So I suggest you sit calmly and wait.”

“For what?” Ivan demanded angrily, but got no response. Something outside his windows halted the indignant tirade he was about to launch. An unmistakable sound, the thrashing rotors of an inbound helicopter. Now it was on him, hovering over his ship, its searchlights arcing through his windows, exposing him. Ivan squinted in the glare of the arrogant light.

Who did this? How could they know where I was?

Then Glinka’s voice returned to him, again.
Why isn’t Vandoren returning my calls?

And Ivan knew.