Shadow War (7 page)

Greenlees nodded. “And the other supplies.”

I had sent the list through Wolcott before leaving Washington. The Berettas were on it, but so were other necessities for an airlift: infrared lights to outline a landing strip, marker beacons, aviation radio, laser range finder, broadband scanners, and night-vision and field glasses. For an operation like this, supplies were often the most difficult part.

He handed me an envelope of euros, probably the €50,000 Wolcott promised. I shook my head and handed it back. “I'm set for now.” There was a decent chance the goons would pick me up on suspicion of being suspicious, and I didn't want to give them a reason to detain me.

“I'll pick you up here at 2100,” Greenlees said, as we pulled up in front of my hotel. “Wear your fine dining attire.”

Nine o'clock. Damn. I thought about the dinner date I'd be missing with Alie and felt a tinge of guilt. I wanted to see her. I wanted to explain myself. Who I was. Why I left. Maybe, if she didn't walk out after the first glass of wine, I'd tell her that I hadn't forgotten her, even after all these years. That she always meant something to me.

But she was a reporter. I was clandestine. I was never really going to meet with her. Was I?

We drove silently through the sparse night traffic, Greenlees's brother-in-law watching me with quiet disdain in the rearview mirror. No trouble with the FSB, Russian or Ukrainian, so I'd had a chance to shower and nap before changing into field clothes, and I was feeling fresh. Greenlees was wearing the same retiree-on-vacation outfit he'd been wearing before, but now with extra wrinkles, both in his shirt and under his eyes. He looked like he'd been at it for an extra ten hours, even though we'd only been apart for six.

Alcoholism, maybe—it was a common malady in the field. Or maybe he'd been compromised. It wasn't unheard-of for these old Cold War warriors to lose their way when the world changed.

“I was visiting with . . . someone,” he said, by way of explanation. “I made promises, you see . . .”

“It doesn't matter,” I said, not wanting the old man to struggle on. It was clear that his young Ukrainian wife (judging from the age of his brother-in-law) and decade (at least) in retirement had softened the man Ronald Reagan had sent to lay mines with Dave Wolcott in Corinto. We hadn't even left Kiev, and it looked like my Sherpa was coming apart.

What have you gotten me into, Winters?

We took the long route, stopping several times and making several left turns at red lights to see if anyone was following
us, which they were. Eventually, we pulled up at a restaurant, walked through the dining room, and out the back door to another car. Old school. Like 1950s old school. So old the goons following us might even be fooled. At least the new driver was a professional. By the time we pulled up to a field somewhere beyond the outskirts of Kiev, even I didn't know what direction we'd gone.

The helicopter appeared less than a minute later, flying low against the dark sky, its lights off. It was an AgustaWestland corporate model, intended to ferry business executives on short commutes. Limited range. Unarmed. Seating for seven at most. It might have been Karpenko's, but more likely, given that Karpenko was a wanted man, it had been rented in the last few hours.

“Grigory Maltov,” Greenlees whispered, as a burly man stepped out. “Karpenko's fist.”

Maltov was a classic enforcer, maybe a former bodyguard, probably a thug jumped up to the inner circle because of his extreme efficiency at disagreeable tasks. Every organization had a man like this, and twenty more waiting in line to take his place. The key was finding out whether the boss enjoyed his company or treated him like a necessity.

“Grigory,” Greenlees said, stepping forward and extending his hand. Maltov didn't shake it. He just frowned at us, clearly unimpressed. But that meant nothing. This kind of man was always unimpressed. That was his job.

“The fixer?” Maltov said, and I knew from the phrase that he was a fan of Western action movies.

“Tom Locke,” I said, extending my hand. Maltov tried to crush it. He clearly understood that in America, he would have been cast as the villain. And not without reason.

“Get in,” he said.

We retrieved our bags from the trunk of the car. Greenlees had packed lightly, in a 1990s-era stretchbag that had clearly come out of mothballs.

“We have equipment,” Greenlees said, indicating the trunk.

Maltov grunted.

“This wasn't his idea,” I muttered to Greenlees, as Maltov packed the radios, beacons, and landing lights without bothering to balance the weight

Within minutes, we were airborne, the ground passing swiftly below us, a dark, endless countryside of flat fields that could have been Kansas or the more fertile upland of Eritrea. I was half asleep by the time we banked steeply and dropped low, a few meters above the treetops. My stomach hit my throat as the pilot skimmed the treeline. It was a common military tactic to fly nap of earth, using natural features to evade radars and missiles, but not like this. The pilot was a cowboy.

“We're near Poltava,” Greenlees said into the headset, the first words any of us had spoken for an hour. I wasn't surprised. Karpenko was a wanted man. Contrary to popular wisdom, wanted men usually stayed close to home.

When we swung over the road, I suspected we were close. Even in the dark, I could see it was dead straight with open fields on both sides and a compound at the far end. The edges had been cleared, probably recently. No power lines, meaning they had been buried. We slowed as we approached the compound: a house, a barn, and two outbuildings surrounded by a perimeter fence and six, seven, eight men with AK-47s and dogs.

It would take an army to storm this place, I thought, as we bounced down in the formal garden. I wasn't until I stepped into the mud that I realized this garden wasn't shrubs and flowers, but two-foot-tall weeds.

“Traditional dacha,” Greenlees said, sliding up beside me.
“Summer home from the Imperial Period, original Russian Empire. Probably abandoned during the late Soviet years. This isn't one of the homes on our list.”

Karpenko owned eight homes that Greenlees knew of, including the Poltava mansion that had been assaulted last week. This one was either a recently purchased safe house, or an early purchase on the way up. Karpenko came from a poor background in Poltava; owning this local emblem of wealth was probably the culmination of a childhood dream.

Until reality outstripped that dream a thousand times over.

Now he was a prisoner to that wealth, with two guards at the front door and a keypad security system. Five number. No scrambler. Amateur.

Inside, there was a security room, with two men monitoring camera feeds on laptops, then a second door made of steel. A guard with a handheld metal detector was waved away by Maltov, telling me even Karpenko's own men were probably being checked. And that this wasn't a job interview. Karpenko hadn't even met me, but I was already hired. He was desperate.

“Captain Locke,” a man said, entering the room. He was tall and thin, a generation older than Maltov, wearing forest green fatigues and a 9 mm pistol. I could tell by his bearing he was ex-military, probably Ukrainian special forces. He was almost surely Karpenko's head of security.

“Colonel Sirko,” Greenlees whispered, as the man and I shook hands.

The colonel nodded. “Come,” he said, like a man who knew three words of English, and had just exhausted his supply.

There were no guards in the inner sanctum, but there wasn't much else to make it feel like home. The rooms were elegant, but damp and musty, with hardly any furniture. The enormous fish tank along one living room wall held dirty water . . . and a
large pile of mobile phones. I thought about what Greenlees had hinted at: that the assault in Poltava had been an inside job. So now Karpenko was confiscating cell phones. Good. That meant he was learning.

If the oligarch was paranoid, though, it certainly didn't show. He entered the room moments later, seemingly at ease. He looked like who he was: a businessman. He was wearing a casual suit, tapered cut in the London style, with no tie and unbuttoned cuffs. He was my age, early forties, in Western shape, probably a member of a fancy gym or three, but he wasn't wearing anything flashy except his expensive watch, the same one from the file photo back in DC. Aside from a simple iron wedding band, his hands were clean. I knew he was eaten up inside by the recent turn of events—I wouldn't be surprised if he had ulcers so bad he was shitting blood—but he could have been interviewing a cake decorator for his daughter's birthday party, he was so languid and calm.

I liked him immediately, at least as a client. There was nothing worse than working with a pompous strongman. They had too many ideas, and too much faith in brutality. A man like Karpenko, I suspected, would leave the important work to the professionals. That was probably how he had gotten to the top in the first place.

“Mr. Locke,” Karpenko said in a Kensington accent—London School of Economics, perhaps? Hadn't someone mentioned he was an economist by trade? He took the large leather chair; Greenlees took the only other seat in the room. I didn't mind. I preferred to stand. Sirko was standing behind Karpenko, in a protective position. Maltov was standing by the door, a power move, judging by Sirko's sour expression.

“Mr. Karpenko,” I said, with proper respect.

“We've been waiting. How was the trip?”

“Long.”

“You came from America.” He picked up a bottle of translucent brown liquor and poured three glasses. He was checking my connections.

“From Washington, DC,” I said, taking a glass.

“You met with Mr. Winters then? He filled you in on the situation?”

“I'm fully up to speed,” I lied.

He raised his glass in a toast, “
Bud'mo!
” he said, and I wondered as I knocked back the translucent liquor how he knew Brad Winters by name, since nobody knew Brad Winters by name. But this was a BNR. Winters had named me to Karpenko. Maybe the oligarch was a friend. Or someone with a shared interest, which was as close to a friend as a man like Winters ever had.

“He says you are the best,” Karpenko said, watching my reaction to the burning liquid.

“He said the same about you.”

Beside me, Greenlees sputtered, then coughed. The liquor really did burn. “Lovely,” he muttered, putting down his glass.

Karpenko poured another round. “
Horilka,
” he said. “Homemade herb-infused vodka. A Ukrainian specialty. You won't get anything like it in America.”

That's for sure,
I thought, as we downed another glass. Greenlees drank in silence this time.

“So what is your plan?” Karpenko asked.

I glanced at Sirko, then Maltov, who were eyeing each other.

“Don't worry,” Karpenko said. “I trust these men with my children's lives.”

It wasn't an idle phrase. That was exactly what Karpenko was doing.

“I'll exit your family by plane,” I said. “Tomorrow night. The plane will come in low, no lights, undetectable by radar . . .”

“Yes, yes,” Karpenko interrupted, “I know. But where will it land?”

The question threw me. Had Winters told him the plan already? When? And how?

“We don't have the landing coordinates set. We'll scout the location tomorrow . . .”

Karpenko said something in Ukrainian.

“It's the best way,” I said, cutting any objections short. “I have locations in mind based on a map recon and GIS satellite imagery, but I won't commit until I've seen them in person. The plane's landing zone doesn't have to be set until twenty minutes prior to arrival. If the Russians tip their hand, we want to have a backup plan.”

This wasn't true. Once we launched the plane from Romania we were committed. It was a one-shot deal. But American military prowess was a power tool. Clients usually believed anything I told them. Enemies usually believed anything they heard.

“Besides,” I said, gambling based on the rumor of betrayal and the cell phones in the fish tank, “the longer we wait to commit, the less chance of a security breach.”

Karpenko snapped to Colonel Sirko in Ukrainian. “No one has left the compound since they arrived,” Greenlees translated. “No one is allowed to leave now.”

“Smart,” I said. “But that's why Greenlees and I have to scout the landing strips. We need to know what is going on out there. And I need eyes on the landing zone.”

Karpenko stared at me quietly, as if waiting for something to sink in. I'd seen that look before, from men accustomed to power, but I never knew what they were thinking. Trusting their gut, I guess. Or seeing if I could be intimidated. It seemed like kindergarten to me.

“Take Maltov,” Karpenko said, and I saw a wince cross Sirko's
face. He didn't trust Maltov, and he wanted me to know it. Or maybe he just didn't like him. The enforcer and the security chief never liked each other.

“Perfect,” I said. “I need your best man. And a car. And a driver.”

Karpenko snapped in Ukrainian.

“Maltov has a driver,” Greenlees said.

“How many men do you have?” Karpenko asked, looking me in the eyes, something he'd either learned in business school or during a basement torture session. I was guessing business school.

“Just one. How many do you have?”

Karpenko didn't answer.

“Forty,” Maltov said, and I wondered how much English he knew. More than Sirko, that was obvious.

“Good. We'll need them tomorrow night.”

Maltov nodded.

“What about cars?”

“Fourteen.”

“Trucks?”

He looked confused. Greenlees translated.

“Six,” Sirko said, butting in.

“What about all-terrain vehicles?”

“What about guns?” Karpenko interrupted. “What about . . . SEALs?” He gestured at Greenlees, then me, then said something in Ukrainian that made the older man drop his eyes. “Do you know how many men Belenko has?”

“More than us,” I said, because that was obvious from Karpenko's tone.

“So what are we going to do about it?”

“Stay calm,” I said. “And trust each other. Winters sent me for a reason.”

Karpenko rose, turned calmly, and said something to Sirko in Ukrainian. Then he turned, looked at me, and walked out of the room.

Typical. Rich men always had unrealistic expectations.

Sirko motioned for us to follow. He took us down a dark back hallway perfect for servants and assassinations. At the end, we entered the servant's kitchen. On a small wooden table were two loaves of brown bread, a bowl of lard, and some cured bacon.

“Eat,” the colonel said, turning on his heel.

I was so famished, I fell into the bread, tearing off a huge corner chunk, slathering it with lard, and shoving it into my mouth before I realized I didn't have anything to wash it down.

“What did Karpenko say?” I asked, when I'd finally choked down the crust.

Greenlees looked glum. He hadn't touched his food. “He said he should never have trusted Winters.”