Black Wolf (2010) Page 7

  9

  Kiev, Ukraine

  “Purpose of visit?”

  “Tourism.”

  “How long are you staying?”

  “A week.”

  The Ukrainian customs official inspected Danny’s passport, flipping it back and forth in his hand to make sure the holographic symbols were displayed. Danny and the others were traveling with standard passports rather than using diplomatic cover, trying to maintain as low a profile as possible.

  Sally McEwen had warned him that their entry at Boryspil Airport, about eighteen miles east of Kiev, would almost surely be recorded by the Ukrainian secret service, which was still run like an offshoot of the KGB. A video camera above the passport control desk was undoubtedly taping him, while the clerk’s computer was running a check against his name. The Ukrainian technology was relatively old, however, and even if Danny was flagged as a suspicious American, it would take weeks for a file to be prepared with his photo. By then the operation would be over.

  It was possible they would tell the Ukrainians that they were here. But for the moment the Ukrainians weren’t to be trusted. No one was. It was the old CIA prejudice—we don’t exist, and if we do exist, which we don’t, you never heard of us.

  Danny’s own prejudice was the opposite: be honest and tell people what was going on. It was a military mind-set.

  “Enjoy Ukraine,” said the customs clerk, handing his passport back.

  Danny saw McEwen and Hera waiting a short distance beyond the stations.

  “How’d you guys get through so fast?” he asked.

  “You have to pick the right line,” said McEwen. “But it helps to look like a little old lady.”

  “The secret to your success,” said Hera.

  “Don’t be jealous, dear.”

  There were two rentals waiting for them at Hertz, so-called mid-sized Fords, which would have been considered subcompacts back in the States. Hera rode with McEwen, while Danny followed. McEwen might have been old, but she drove with a lead foot—he lost her before they’d gone two miles, and had to use MY-PID’s GPS to find the hotel. By the time he got there, the two women had already checked in.

  “Ready for a tour?” McEwen asked as Danny finished registering.

  “Love to,” he said. “Give me a minute.”

  The hotel was in an old building in the business district. While the facade was boring and plain, the interior had been renovated recently and the place still smelled of paint. The design mixed old-style plaster details with occasional chrome and sleek marble. It wasn’t retro and it wasn’t modern, but it somehow caught Kiev’s spirit, at least as espoused by the chamber of commerce: “The future building on the past, moving ahead with expediency.”

  More than three million people lived in Kiev, making it one of Europe’s largest cities. Besides being the capital of Ukraine, it was looked on as the center of opposition to the Russian bear, both politically and culturally, the counter to Moscow’s notoriously heavy hand. That had both good and bad aspects—while it helped draw a vibrant class of artists and entrepreneurs, it also made it the focus of Russian resentments. There was a sizable Russian spy network in the city, McEwen warned; they should always proceed under the theory that they were being watched or about to be watched.

  The city was slightly cooler than Washington had been, though not unpleasantly so; the average high for May was just under 70 Fahrenheit, and though it was still only mid-morning, the temperature had just topped 72. Danny could have gone around in shirtsleeves, but took his light leather jacket, where it was easier to keep his MY-PID.

  The NATO meeting was to be held in the Kiev Fortress, a historic complex near the center of the city. A good portion of the fortress had been turned into a museum, open to the public; the rest consisted of government buildings. McEwen started there, taking them on a quick tour of the general area, driving Lesi Ukrainky Boulevard, a thick artery that paralleled the Dnieper River on the city’s western half.

  The road had just been paved, and unlike most of the city’s streets, was smooth and pothole free. It was tree-lined, with an island through much of the middle; driving down it, Danny got the impression of an area that was sophisticated but slightly sleepy, as if it still belonged to the early nineteenth century. This was in contrast to the rest of the city, which over the past two or three years had undergone rapid growth. New buildings were everywhere along the river.

  McEwen was surprised by the amount of change that had occurred in the past twelve or thirteen months; she kept marveling at the different buildings she said had sprung up since she last visited.

  “We can take a tour of the fort tomorrow,” the CIA officer recommended. “It’ll be better to see the general layout of the city first, and set up some of the logistics. We need a place to operate out of.”

  “What’s wrong with the hotel we just checked into?” asked Danny.

  “What’s the expression, Colonel?” said McEwen. “You don’t shit where you live.”

  Hera laughed. “Do you kiss your grandkids with that mouth?”

  “I don’t have any grandkids. Or children, for that matter. We’re going to want a place convenient to the museum where you can have people coming and going,” added McEwen. “Someplace where a half-dozen Americans wouldn’t seem odd.”

  “Minnesota would be perfect,” said Hera.

  “That might be a little far,” said Danny. He hadn’t remembered Hera being so jovial on their last mission, and she was downright taciturn at home. But she’d clearly taken a liking to McEwen.

  “I know someone who owns a restaurant in that row of buildings there,” McEwen told him, pointing to a row of one-story storefronts. “It’s not a very popular place, which is a positive for us. We could probably use their back room. For a price, of course.”

  “You trust them?” asked Danny.

  “To an extent. Never trust anyone, Colonel. Not with your life.”

  McEwen took them over, parking along the street about a block away. Danny saw instantly why she liked the area—it had a view of the museum’s entrance, but seemed somehow invisible to it, or at least to the tourists who were mostly arriving by bus. There were four other storefronts; two were empty, and the other belonged to a tailor whom McEwen said only worked on Tuesdays and Thursdays.

  It was just about dinnertime, but the restaurant had only two customers—a young man and woman with backpacks—who sat at a table next to the large plate-glass window in the front. They were staring at the menu as Danny and the others passed outside, talking in whispered tones as they came in.

  If the place had ever had a heyday, this wasn’t it. The tables and chairs were made of wood and looked to be about thirty or forty years old, their finish worn down by use, though the thick legs looked and felt sturdy enough. The walls were painted a yellow that had probably been bright when fresh but was now a kind of dull backdrop to the assorted paintings of Kiev that hung across them in a straight line, almost frame-to-frame, on both sides of the room. The paintings were in a variety of styles, by different artists, but were all the same size. They showed different landmarks in the city, along with a few from the countryside.

  A waitress came out of the back. Dressed in a light blue skirt with a checkered blue and white blouse, she was twelve or thirteen, just at the age between child and young woman. About five-two, a little chubby, and nearsighted, she squinted when she saw them, pushing her head forward on her neck as if she were a gopher coming out of her hole.

  Then she squealed.

  “Sal!” she said, rushing toward them. “How are you?”

  McEwen folded her arms around the girl. She said something in Ukrainian. The girl replied, then stepping back, said in English that she must only speak English.

  “My English has became bad since I haven’t saw you,” said the girl. “I have to practice.”

  “Of course we’ll practice,” said McEwen. “These are my friends,” she added, gesturing toward Danny and Hera. “Can we get something
to eat?”

  “Of course. Wait—mama is in the back.”

  “Sit,” McEwen told Danny and Hera. She pulled out a chair, but instead of sitting, went over to the young couple in the front of the room. Danny watched as she asked them, in English, if they were having trouble with the menu, which was in Ukrainian. By the time the cook emerged from the back, she had made several recommendations and told them how to pronounce what they wanted.

  The cook was a slightly larger version of the waitress. Her large red cheeks were puffed with a smile. She had flour on her forearms and just a daub of it in her hair. Her white apron, which was pulled so tight against her body it looked as if it would burst, was spotless.

  “Sal, Sal, so long we’ve not seen you!” she said.

  They embraced.

  McEwen introduced them. The cook was the owner; her name sounded like “Nezalehno” to Danny. She promised to fix them a nice dinner, then disappeared with the waitress into the back.

  “You’re everybody’s friend,” said Danny.

  “That’s my job,” answered McEwen. “Or it was.”

  “Can we trust them?”

  “I keep telling you—we don’t trust anyone. Not completely. But yes, to the extent we trust anyone.” She lowered her voice. “Her husband died shortly after Kira was born. Kira’s our waitress. She’s the youngest of eight children.”

  “Eight?”

  “They all worked here, at one time or another,” said McEwen before continuing her explanation. “The father was killed in an auto accident with a man who turned out to be a Russian army major in the city on unofficial business. He seems to have been drunk at the time. It wasn’t clear exactly what he was doing, but the end result was that he went back to Russia, and no compensation was paid to the widow. There was no trial, of course. So, Nexi and her family don’t particularly like Russians.”

  “And they need money,” said Danny.

  “You’re catching on, Colonel. But they’re nice people besides. If I could pick someone to help, and who could help me—Nez would be a perfect fit.”

  “Are some of those yours?” Hera asked, pointing to the paintings.

  “The one all the way to the right, over there,” said McEwen, beaming.

  “You had a lot of time to paint when you were here?” asked Danny.

  “It was part of the job,” said McEwen. “A way to meet different people, to circulate. It makes you uncomfortable, doesn’t it, Colonel?”

  “Painting?”

  “It doesn’t fit with your stereotype of what a spy does. And I don’t look like one. That’s what you’re thinking,” she said, her voice just loud enough for Danny to hear. “People get certain notions in their head, and they operate on them without really examining them. They feel a certain way about something before they even have a chance to experience it or see it. And that preconception colors everything. So you don’t think that an old lady who paints—paints!—could possibly be gathering intelligence, persuading people to betray their country, or at least help another one. Right?”

  “I guess.”

  “Who better to be a spy?”

  After they ate, Danny had McEwen take them around to different hotels where she thought the Wolves might stay if they needed to rent rooms. The hotels were third and fourth tier establishments, places Ukrainians on a budget or small businessmen paying their own way might stay. The staffs, while friendly, spoke limited English. Asking about a concierge would have made them laugh. There were dozens of such places in the city, and keeping them under complete surveillance would have been impossible, even with MY-PID’s help.

  “We could plant a video bug near each entrance,” suggested Hera. “That would give us at least some idea of who’s going in and out.”

  “That might work,” said Danny.

  “If you don’t mind my saying, Colonel, I’m not sure video surveillance would be anything more than a shot in the dark,” said McEwen. “And it could even work against us.”

  “Against us how?”

  “We can’t possibly cover every place. They could stay outside of the city just as easily as in. Putting the video bugs in might give us a false sense of security—we’d focus on those sights.”

  “Good point,” said Danny.

  “I’m not suggesting we ignore them entirely, but if we have limited resources . . .”

  “Where would we put the bugs?”

  “The airport for starters. Train station. Obviously the area around the fort. If we have bugs left over, then we can think about the hotels. If I was planning some sort of action here,” McEwen continued, “then I would be casing the area. That’s the person we should look for. The team that would do the assassination wouldn’t be here yet.”

  “When would they come?”

  “Not until the day before. Maybe not even until that day. Unless there was a reason for it.”

  Danny nodded. He wasn’t comfortable with the espionage aspects of the mission. Covert action tended to be relatively straightforward, even when extremely difficult—here’s the target, hit it. This was considerably more nebulous—find assassins whom no one knows, stop them from killing anyone, and then apprehend them.

  This wasn’t a classic Whiplash mission, he thought.

  Then again, what was the classic Whiplash mission? He was thinking about the old days, when everything seemed more straightforward. This was the new Whiplash, in a much more complicated world. Alliances shifted every day, technology improved seemingly by the second.

  Maybe he was just a little too old to keep up.

  But age seemed like a ludicrous idea with McEwen around. She was as enthusiastic and energetic as Hera.

  They continued on their tour of the city, driving by the U.S. embassy and Ukrainian government buildings, walking through Maidan Nzalezhnosti, the square and monument in the city center, and getting more of a feel for the place. McEwen was just about to take them on the metro when Danny’s sat phone rang.

  It was Nuri.

  “I ran into a roadblock with the Italians,” Nuri told him. “They say it’ll be months before we can get in to talk to this mafia guy, Moreno. By that time, any data will be off his computer.”

  “How much did you tell them?”

  “Enough to put him away for life.”

  “And they still won’t move?”

  “They’ll move. They may even arrest him. But it’ll be at Italian pace. Next year or so. I have another idea.”

  “Shoot.”

  “I want to go into the estate and steal the computer.”

  “What happens if you’re caught?”

  “Bad things,” replied Nuri. “I’ll just have to make sure I don’t get caught.”

  “You need backup?”

  “I can handle it. I talked to Reid and we’ll have real-time infrared surveillance, so I’ll know where everybody is.”

  Danny checked his watch.

  “Flash is flying in from the States with a layover in Frankfurt,” he told Nuri. “If I can get ahold of him, we might be able to change his plans and get him down to Naples tonight.”

  “All right. I like Flash.”

  Flash was John “Flash” Gordon, a former Special Forces soldier who’d teamed with Nuri during their first mission. He tended to be quiet and efficient—a rare but winning combination.

  “Hera and I can come out as well,” Danny added. He glanced at his watch. “We may not be able to get there until tomorrow, though.”

  “It’s OK. It’s not a hard job. I checked the place out. There are only two guards around the perimeter. The guy lives like a prince,” added Nuri. “But he’s way overconfident. Everyone’s so scared of him nobody even tries to get up there. I’m sure the house is wired, but it shouldn’t be too hard to get inside. There’s only one slight complication.”

  “How slight?”

  “The FBI is helping me.”

  Just from Nuri’s tone, Danny understood that wasn’t a good thing.

  “Is that going to be a
problem?”

  “Only if I kill her. But it may be worth it.”

  10

  Outside of Naples, Italy

  As a CIA officer, Nuri was generally in the habit of getting other people to do his dirty work. Things like breaking into a mafia chieftain’s home, bugging his office and his computers, were considerably safer when done by someone other than himself. But such arrangements took time, and in this case might very well be impossible. Besides, Nuri liked going places where he wasn’t supposed to be. And this place didn’t look nearly as well protected as it could have been.

  He had done a few similar jobs before. As long as he didn’t get caught—admittedly a singular caveat—they were relatively straightforward. He’d sneak in, sprinkle a few bugs in strategic places, kick on the computer and load a virus that would dump all of its information to a Room 4 server the next time it accessed the Internet. Bypassing the computer’s security protocols was child’s play, and if there was a local area network, it was easy to scoop everything up from a single computer.

  To get to the computer he had to get into the estate, but that wouldn’t be difficult either. A Reaper drone would provide real-time imaging through MY-PID, telling Nuri where the two outside guards were with the help of a synthetic imaging radar. The radar could penetrate the earth to roughly one hundred feet; it would have no trouble seeing into the house. The aircraft also had a small cesium magnetometer and an electronic field sensor aboard; the devices were sensitive enough to detect burglar alarms and computers, even when off—in effect telling Nuri not only what to avoid, but where to go.

  Vineyards and olive groves surrounded the estate on three sides. A small booth near the top of the driveway about two hundred feet from the house looked to be the only permanent guard post. The two men who watched the place came out of the hut every thirty to forty minutes. Though their schedule was unpredictable, their route wasn’t: one walked around the house to the west, one went east. They met at the back veranda, continuing onward back to the hut.