Code Name Antares

Chapter 13

Laying on the couch, Nicolai Kalinin slowly opened his eyes, then rubbed his hands briskly over his face. The past hours hadn’t been restful ones. His sleep was constantly interrupted as he reviewed his plan for part two of the operation.

It was time to begin the same process he had done at the rental house… wiping down everything, taking no chances. Even though this place was only known to Russians, leaving fingerprints behind was too risky. He couldn’t depend on Vikulin or Zelesky.

His suitcases were already in the truck, stamped as diplomatic pouches. The pilot waiting at Dulles had been notified. All documents were in order, along with his Russian diplomatic passport. His American passport was concealed in the lining of his suitcase.

He finally sat up, holding his hand against his stomach, feeling the “rumble.” No time to eat, he thought. He’d wait till he was aboard the plane. He went to the fridge and grabbed one of the bottles of Coke he bought last night. He started drinking as he went upstairs to the main bedroom.

Blinds on both windows were closed. He started cleaning from the opposite side of the room and worked his way backwards until he got to the closet, panel and equipment. Time-consuming, but essential.

KGB Zelesky rushed into the embassy, then ran to the elevator, pounding the button with a knuckle. Finally, the doors parted and he stepped inside, staying within a few inches of the doors. The elevator stopped with a jolt, and as the doors started opening, he jammed his heavy hands between them, forcing them apart.

A door to the ambassador’s residence was just ahead, off a small entryway. Zelesky rang the bell then rapped his knuckles against the door. “Ambassador!”

“Yes?!” Vazov called, as he sat up in bed.

“I must see you!”

Vazov put on a robe. As he started opening the door, Zelesky hurried past him. Vazov closed the door, then tied his robe. “What is so important, Misha?!”

Zelesky held a manila envelope toward him. “You must look at this! I found it at one of the American’s drop sites.”

Vazov grabbed the envelope as he watched Zelesky through narrowed eyes. What he removed from the envelope shocked him. “This cannot be! I will not believe it is… ”

“Look more closely!”

Vazov drew the official-looking color photograph closer, finally noticing brown eyes, not hazel. “Who is this?!”

“Turn it over.”

On the back, printed in black ink, was a name: Captain Grant Stevens, U.S. Navy.

Vazov walked slowly to the dining room table, all the while staring at the photograph. He pulled a chair out then sat down heavily. “The resemblance is remarkable.”

A number of questions ran through Vazov’s mind, mostly worrisome ones. Why would the American traitor suddenly release this photograph? He still had not asked for anything in exchange for the information. Did this person have something to do with the weapons?

Continuing to look at the picture, Vazov said, “Misha, see if there is a dossier on this ‘Stevens.’” Zelesky left for the records room in the basement.

Vazov dropped the picture on the table. It was most imperative he contact the defense minister in Moscow, and Kalinin. He went to his bedroom to dress.

Heavy footsteps pounded against the tile, echoing in the long, second floor hallway, as Vazov hurried to the comm room. He wasn’t about to wait until this evening.

Corporal Brusinsky spun around in his chair, as the ambassador burst into the room.

“Send this coded messages immediately,” Vazov said, stepping near the counter holding the comm equipment. Brusinsky grabbed a pad and pen. “To Captain Ivanov aboard the Igor Brobov. ‘Reconfirm package is aboard and you are proceeding as instructed. Immediate response required.’” Without hesitation, he began dictating the second message. “This goes to Defense Minister Andrei Troski. ‘Merchandise being shipped today. Notify receiver.’”

Vazov left the room, then went to the opposite end of the hallway to his office. He unlocked the door, then turned on an overhead florescent light. No matter how early it was, he had to make the call to the FCD. Since he, Vazov, was the only person to know the identity, he’d have to privately communicate with him by phone.

He had his hand on the scrambler, when he decided to call Kalinin, hoping he hadn’t left for Dulles. He dialed.

Kalinin was wiping down blinds, when the phone rang. He rushed to the side table, and picked up the receiver with the cloth. “Mr. Ambassador?”

“Nicolai! Good. You are still there.”

“What is it, sir?”

“Misha found an envelope at one of the American’s drop sites.”

“More information or directions?”

“No. A photograph of an American naval officer.”

Kalinin sat on the couch. “Not him, I assume.”

“No, Nicolai, it is someone who looks just like you, except for the color of eyes.”

Kalinin never expected that response. “Like me?! Who is it?!”

“A name on the photograph was ‘Captain Grant Stevens.’ Does that sound familiar?”

Kalinin was quiet, thinking about his time in the Navy and the defense contractor he worked for. “I do not recall that name, nor do I remember seeing anyone who looked like me, sir!”

Vazov leaned back, shaking his head slowly. “Misha is looking through our files to see if we have a dossier on him. I do not understand why the photo was given… ” A sudden knocking at the office door made Vazov break off the conversation. “Enter!”

Corporal Brusinsky walked to the desk, handed Vazov a paper, then immediately left.

“Sir?” Kalinin said.

“A moment, Nicolai. I have a message from Captain Ivanov.” As he scanned the communication, sweat formed on his brow. His heart thumped against his chest. “No!” he shouted, pounding a fist on the desk.

Kalinin abruptly stood, concerned. “Mr. Ambassador! What is wrong?!”

Vazov didn’t immediately respond as he reread the message. He finally answered Kalinin. “A team of men boarded the Igor Brobov during the night and stole the weapons.”

Kalinin was stunned. “But I received a message from him earlier in the evening saying the weapons were safely onboard!”

“Apparently this happened after midnight.” Both men were quiet, trying to assimilate the incident.

Kalinin finally broke the silence. “Sir?” No response. “Mr. Ambassador! Was there any further information?! Does he have any idea who those men were?!”

Vazov perused the message again. “He said there were six onboard. Two spoke Russian. They left the ship by helicopter. One of the ship’s crew was killed, two injured.”

Kalinin paced the room. “We must get more information from him. What kind of weapons did they use? Were there markings on the helicopter? Anything, sir! It is vital we find out!”

“Yes. Yes. Of course.”

“Should I still prepare to leave for Moscow with the remaining weapons?”

“I have sent a message to Defense Minister Troski, advising him shipment will be today. He should confirm soon. I will phone you.”

Vazov put the phone down, just as there was a knock at the door, and the communication corporal rushed in again. “Mr. Ambassador, a message from Moscow!” Vazov ripped the paper from his hand, then waved him away.

Vazov read the message, and immediately phoned Kalinin. “Nicolai.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Moscow is notifying the base. Do you have everything ready?”

“Not quite. I have just started downstairs. The radio and Morse key are cleaned and secured again. Weapons are in the truck. I will call the pilot to file a flight plan.”

“And what about a flight time?”

“I will wait until I am positive things here are completely cleaned, then I will call.”

“Be sure to give me your exact departure time, Nicolai. I may want to send Comrade Vikulin with you for additional security.”

“Yes, sir, I will. Have you received further information on those six men?”

“Not yet. I will try to contact the Brobov before you depart.”

Kalinin hung up. Six men,he thought. But how? How could they have discovered his plan, and know the exact cargo ship? And what does Stevens have to do with anything? Kalinin slapped the cleaning cloth against his thigh as he paced the room. Then, he abruptly stopped, remembering the men who followed him that day. He closed his eyes, trying to picture them. Were they part of the team that boarded the ship? He could never understand how they knew he’d show up that morning. Unless it was pure luck. Coincidences were always possible, but not this many. Yet, all of them affected him.

The door swung open. Zelesky came in carrying a folder. He dropped it in front of Vazov, pointing to a name along the side.

Vazov scanned the papers inside. Certain areas were highlighted, catching his attention: Navy SEAL; Naval Investigative Service; speaks Russian and Japanese. He turned to the next page, but it was blank. The last entry was nearly a year ago, when Ambassador Balicov died.

“Misha, find Petya. The two of you may have work to do.” Zelesky immediately left. Vazov pressed the intercom, calling for the communication corporal. When Brusinsky arrived, Vazov dictated a message to be sent to Kabul, advising weapons would not be delivered. No explanation was given.

Then, holding the dossier, he called Kalinin. “Nicolai, I have very interesting information on ‘Stevens.’ He is fluent in Russian and he is a Navy SEAL. His dossier is… ” Vazov looked up as Zelesky walked in with Vikulin. “Nicolai, I must go.”

Kalinin wondered about the ambassador’s report. “Navy SEAL,” he said out loud. It had to be. A team of Navy SEALs boarded the cargo ship. And the two men outside the embassy were part of that team.

His worry now was finishing his work at the house, then getting to the airport. Too much had gone wrong in a short expanse of time. And if he was right about the men being SEALs, they were the reason.

“Has Misha explained the situation, Petya?” the ambassador asked.

“Only briefly.”

“Here. Look at this,” Vazov said, picking up the photograph.

Vikulin walked closer to the desk and reached for the photo. He stared at the face, remembering his meeting with Kalinin. Everything suddenly became clear. Everything explained completely. He threw the photograph on the desk, then turned away. He should have known, with all the specific questions asked of him. How could he have been fooled? He brushed beads of sweat from his forehead as he debated how much, if anything, he should tell Vazov.

Vazov was obviously curious. “Do you know this man?!” Vikulin didn’t respond. “Petya!”

Vikulin saw Zelesky out of the corner of his eye, watching him closely. He made a mistake in his over-reaction to the photograph. There wasn’t any way to make a denial. “Mr. Ambassador, I had a meeting with someone who I thought was Comrade Kalinin, but… ”

“You had a meeting with this man?! A private meeting?!”

“I am afraid so.”

Vazov angrily shoved his chair away from the desk, and abruptly stood. “You?! A KGB officer?! Explain!” Vikulin proceeded to relay full details of the meeting. The longer he talked, the redder Vazov’s face became.

He asked Zelesky, “Did you have knowledge of this?”

Zelesky shook his head. “No.”

Vazov turned his attention again to Vikulin. “Confirm you did not discuss anything about the weapons.”

“I did not! They were never brought up.”

Vazov continued staring at the KGB officer. “Do you expect me to believe it is completely coincidental that you talked with this man, then the weapons were taken from the ship, and then we get this photograph?!”

“We did not discuss the weapons!”

“I will have to report this to Director Antolov (Mikhail Antolov, KGB). But I am making the decision to send you back to Moscow. You will report immediately to the director once you arrive. He will be expecting you.”

Vikulin started to leave when Vazov called. “Wait!” He picked up the phone and called Kalinin. “Nicolai, Comrade Vikulin will be joining you on the flight. He has an ‘appointment’ with Director Antolov in Moscow.”

“All right, sir. I will call you and verify a time.” Kalinin had to wonder about the so-called ‘appointment.’ He still did not completely understand the inner workings of the KGB, but he imagined this was out of the ordinary.

After Vikulin and Zelesky left the office, Vazov sat quietly for several moments, then he went to the front window. Street lights were still on. Out of the corner of his eye he saw yellow flashing lights as a street sweeping truck turned the corner on M Street.

Standing there with his arms behind his back, he decided he’d had enough of the foolish game. As soon as Zelesky returned he would have him take a message to a drop site, offering to meet “Primex.” There had to be more explanation why the American turned against his country. Unless he found out why, he would never feel comfortable, wondering if he himself would become a “victim” of this man. Maybe he was being foolish with these thoughts, but traitors were always unpredictable.

After all gear had been offloaded from the chopper then put in the SUVs, Grant returned to the cockpit. “You sure you don’t need any more help, Matt?”

“No. I’ve just got a few more items on the checklist.”

“Okay. See you at the house.”

Garrett checked off the last items on his sheet, then secured the chopper. A decision still hadn’t been made when or if the Team would be leaving anytime soon, but the plane would be ready. As he ran to the Gulfstream, in the distance he could see red taillights through a dusty haze.

Adler was driving the first vehicle, with Grant in the passenger seat. The console phone rang. “Stevens.”

“Grant, it’s Scott.”

“What’ve you got for me?”

“My contact at Dulles just called. Your ‘boy’ hasn’t showed up yet but a flight plan was filed — D.C. to Moscow; no refueling location yet.”

“Dammit!” Grant beat a fist against the armrest. “What about a flight time?”

“Nothing.”

“How many passengers?”

“That can change at any time, but for now only one’s been listed. I needn’t tell you his name.”

“‘Kalinin.’”

“To be more specific, ‘Nicolai Kalinin.’ He’s traveling on a diplomatic courier passport.”

“Still no dossier on him?” Grant asked, but not expecting anything.

“Not a damn thing. That guy’s cover must be deeper than the depths of hell.”

Grant glanced at his submariner. “We’re almost home. Call me there if anything changes.”

“Will do.” Call ended.

“Doesn’t sound good,” Adler said, giving a quick glance at Grant.

“A flight plan from D.C. to Moscow’s been filed. Only one passenger registered — Kalinin.”

“Now what?”

“Have to wait for Scott. Don’t know what else we can do.”

“What if we fly the Gulfstream to Dulles, then wait?”

Grant mulled over the suggestion. “Might work, but we’d probably be better off leaving from here, instead of getting caught up in Dulles flight control and air traffic. Besides, we’ve still got prep work to do.”

Adler slowed the SUV as it approached the security gate. Within a couple of seconds, the automatic gate swung back. Both SUVs raced through.

The vehicles parked in front of the three-car garage, and the Zodiac was offloaded. Grant hurried into the house. Adler announced, “Listen up! If you want to clean up now then come back, do it — and fast!”

Slade responded for everyone, “We’ll take care of gear first, LT.”

Working quickly under time constraints, the men hosed down all gear touched by seawater, finally storing everything in a section of the garage. The Zodiac was carried in then lined up directly behind the other rubber boat.

Adler walked into the brightly lit space, then knelt next to a door embedded in the concrete. The metal door was similar to one on an armored truck. He dialed the combination. Underneath the garage was a storage room. “Okay, guys,” he said standing. “Get extra ammo, clips, and anything we need to refresh, then come into the house. We’ll clean weapons inside. Secure this when you’re through.”

Garrett pulled up to the garage, then followed Adler into the house.

Coming out of the bedroom carrying his black boots, his “boondockers,” Grant was now wearing black sweater, black pants. He called Bethesda for an update on Diaz. The Team hadn’t had time to wait after getting an initial report from the emergency room doctor. Diaz would be kept overnight, on antibiotics and lactated ringer’s. Stitches would remain for about ten days. Latest patient information reported he was resting and in stable condition.

“How’s he doin’?” Adler asked, pulling a black turtleneck sweater over his head.

Grant sat on the couch and tied his boots. “He’s doing good, Joe. Listen, I’m gonna get stuff from the safe. I’ll start the coffee when I get back.”

“I’ll start breakfast.” Adler opened the refrigerator, and pulled out three dozen eggs, bacon, bread.

“What can I do, Joe?” Garrett asked, leaning on the counter.

Adler handed him the loaf of bread. “Toast.”

Coming back to the kitchen, Grant dropped a zippered black bag on the counter. Cash, passports, credit card. Any extra money needed, they’d have to withdraw from the offshore account. He and Adler had the number memorized.

The garage door slammed. The four men came into the room, laying rucksacks and weapons by the table, then they hustled to the baths and bedrooms.

Grant shouted after them, “Coffee and breakfast ready in under ten!” He made the coffee then went to the table and started spreading layers of newspapers on top, preparing to clean weapons. He picked up individual weapons, laying each on the table as he thought about what was ahead for A.T.

Soon they’d be on the move again. This time possibly Russia, his “home away from home.” A major problem loomed ahead. How the hell would they get to Moscow? They sure as hell couldn’t just fly into the country. The Gulfstream had been modified for parachute drops, but without a second “seat,” it was out of the question. He shook his head, frustrated.

They had to stop the Russian plane before it crossed into Communist territory. Sounded good, but how? A ‘sidewinder’ would do it, he smiled to himself. The most reasonable would be at a refueling stop. All they had to do was find out which one. He was depending on Mullins and the NSA.

Adler announced, “Breakfast’s served!” as he snatched a crispy piece of bacon off the plate.

Grant took a jar of Jif peanut butter from the cabinet, put it on the counter, then started pouring coffee into mugs as the men lined up, almost like in a Navy chow line. Instead of metal serving trays, they grabbed paper plates, plastic utensils. While they were gathered around the counter eating, Grant relayed the report from the hospital on Diaz’s condition.

Adler asked, “You’re worried about our next trip, aren’t you?” as he slid a plate of bacon, eggs, and toast toward Grant.

“And it’s not just about getting there. What happens if those weapons are ‘distributed’ to different locations? We wouldn’t have a snowball’s chance in hell tracking all of them.”

Grant picked up a piece of toast, then smeared on peanut butter, as he looked at each of his men. Even though there were a couple of fuck-ups before and during the first part of the op, these men were the best he and Adler could’ve chosen. The mission to China proved their worth. He respected them, trusted them. And he had a feeling those fuck-ups would be the last. Lessons learned.

“Chow down quick, guys,” he finally said. “And you might want to put away some extra caffeine. FYI, I’ve got your passports. Matt, you have all official papers in the plane?”

“Yeah. Just need a flight plan. Plus, I need to throw a few extra ‘Lurps’ in my car.” (LRPs: Food Packet, Long Range Patrol, also called “long rats.”)

“And take more of those MREs we’ve been asked to sample,” Adler requested.

Refreshing their coffee, they all carried the coffee mugs to the dining room table. MP5s, 45s, K-bars were spread out on the table. Stalley had his medical bag next to his chair. Once he finished with his weapons, he’d check supplies, sorting, counting, refilling bottles, adding more tape, more battle dressings, and a couple extra syringes.

The phone rang. “Stevens.”

“Grant, Scott here.”

“Any changes?”

“No.”

“I assume you notified the President about the cargo ship.”

“Yeah. That’s why I’m calling. Made him somewhat relieved, but … ”

“I know. Look, Scott, he wanted to keep us and the investigation ‘under the radar,’ but we may need more help besides NSA. CIA always has its ‘ears’ on. Maybe they already have something but don’t know it.”

“Do you wanna talk with him?”

“Not necessary, but I’ll leave that up to him.”

“It might take awhile before I can reach him again.”

“Do your best.” Expecting another call, Grant carried the phone to the table, stretching the cord to its max, then repeated his conversation with Mullins to everyone. For the time being, Team A.T. was “dead in the water.” Grant was beyond impatient.

Adler started cleaning up his kitchen mess, plunging his hands into hot, soapy dishwater.

“Joe, forget that for now,” Grant said over his shoulder.

Clips were ejected, and weapons were systematically broken down, a process each man could do with his eyes closed.

Grant was wiping down the gun with a cloth rag, when his motion slowed.

“Uh-oh,” Adler said quietly to himself, as he sat across from him, seeing the clenched jaw. “Why are those ‘wheels’ spinning? Look, we’re ready whenever you are. But you’ve gotta tell us what, where, and concerns. Out with it.”

“If that plane gets too far ahead of us, we may never catch it or the weapons. We can’t fuck this up.”

“You still plan on waiting here?”

Grant nodded. “It’ll take less time, Joe.” The phone rang again. “Scott?”

“NSA boys are working their asses off for you!”

“And?”

“Intercepted a couple of messages from the embassy to the cargo ship and one to Moscow.”

“They know about us ‘lifting’ the weapons, I assume.”

“You can say that. Plus, Moscow still wants its half of the weapons. So for now, the Afghans are out of the picture.”

“Is that it?”

“All for now!”

Grant loaded ammo into new clips. Not much was said by anyone, as they worked quickly, efficiently, waiting for the phone to ring again.

It did. Grant rammed a clip ‘home’ then answered, “Scott?”

“Grant! Flight time’s 0830! They’ve scheduled Shannon as the fuel stop.” (Shannon, Ireland was the westernmost non-NATO airport.)

Grant checked his watch. “We can do it!”

“Do what?!”

“Scott, thanks, but we’ve gotta move! I’ll call you on the way to the airfield!”

This might be their last chance. He slammed down the phone, then swung around toward Garrett. “Matt, we’ll take your gear. You head out now. Set a flight plan for Shannon, Ireland. We’ll be right behind you!”

Grant turned to the others. “Listen up! Get what you need from in here, maybe a change of clothes.” He asked Stalley, “Doc, is your medical bag…?”

“Yes, sir!”

“Okay! Let’s go!”

Boots pounded against the wood floor as they hightailed it to the bedrooms. Adler unplugged the coffee pot, confirmed stove was off, then made a quick detour to the pantry and grabbed a few packages of Oreos.

Within five minutes, with gear and weapons in hand, they were out the door.

The pilot and co-pilot were in the cockpit, going through the final checklist before departure of the embassy’s private jet, an Antonov I, similar to a Gulfstream in size, but lower to the ground like a 737. The jet, with a modified cabin, had become standard equipment for most of Russia’s embassies.

The co-pilot noticed a vehicle approaching, then left the cockpit, and waited at the top of the stairs for his passenger.

Kalinin backed the pickup truck close to the open cargo hold. He got out then lowered the tailgate, as he noticed a U.S. Customs agent walking toward him with a clipboard in hand.

Leaning slightly in order to read the name tag on the agent’s green jacket, he greeted him in broken English. “Good morning… Agent Davison.”

“Morning. Can I see your passport and documents for any diplomatic pouches you’re carrying?”

“Of course.” Kalinin removed his passport and papers from the inside pocket of his leather jacket, and handed them to Davison.

The agent laid everything on the clipboard, opened the passport and compared the picture to the man in front of him, examined all pertinent information, then date stamped one of the pages. He gave the passport back to Kalinin, and unfolded the documentation. He pointed to the truck. “Would you remove anything that’s going with you?”

Kalinin put his suitcases on the ground, each one marked appropriately. As the agent examined them, Kalinin pulled out the canvas bags. Even though he knew the agent couldn’t inspect the contents, he felt his heart pounding.

An approaching vehicle made both men turn. The Mercedes was within twenty feet of them when it stopped, and the driver shut off the engine. Zelesky got out then stood by the car, looking toward Kalinin.

Petya Vikulin let himself out from the passenger side, then removed a single suitcase from the back seat. He draped a suit bag over his shoulder, then walked toward Kalinin, with Zelesky following close.

The customs agent eyed the new passenger, then the manifest. “The manifest doesn’t show any additional passengers.”

Kalinin turned toward Vikulin, spoke in Russian, then answered the agent. “I am sorry, sir, that you were not informed in time, but Comrade Vikulin said he received an emergency message from Moscow, requesting he return home.”

“Passport,” Davison said, holding his hand toward the Russian. The passport was handed over, reviewed, and stamped. Then he pointed to Zelesky. “Is he going, too?”

Kalinin spoke to Zelesky, then responded, “He is not. He is here only to park the truck.” Kalinin handed Zelesky the keys. Once the tailgate was closed, Zelesky drove the pickup truck to the embassy’s assigned area. He returned to the Mercedes, and waited.

Davison stamped and signed official papers, then gave Kalinin a copy. “Have a nice flight,” he said over his shoulder as he walked away, then disappeared inside the building. Taking one last look at the plane, he ducked into a side room and quietly made a call.

Kalinin reached for one of the pouches, saying to Vikulin, “Help me put these in the cargo hold.”

Fifteen minutes later, with cargo loaded, exit door secured, and two passengers in their seats, the pilot received authorization to taxi to Runway 01R. Kalinin looked out the window, seeing the Mercedes being driven away.

Just as the Antonov began traveling parallel to Runway 01R, the engines of a BOAC 747 roared, the jumbo jet rumbling down the runway, its wheels finally lifting off concrete.

Kalinin leaned back against the seat. With the incident aboard the cargo ship still fresh in his mind, he couldn’t help but worry. Come on! Come on! he repeated silently, slapping a hand on the armrest, anxious for takeoff.

Petya Vikulin sat two rows behind Kalinin, still speculating about two men who looked so very much alike. But were there two? Eye color could be changed easily with contact lenses. Could that be why the American traitor sent the photograph, to set them on a path looking for one man? Kalinin’s cover story seemed accurate enough. Then again, any story could be cleverly created by the CIA or FBI, a ploy used by the KGB itself over the years.

He sat up straighter, as he began formulating a plan. For the next several hours, it would just be him and Kalinin. The pilots would be too preoccupied. Perhaps he could find a way to make Kalinin talk, and if not, the stop in Shannon might be to his advantage.

Vikulin had given himself much to think about, much to consider. By the time they landed in Moscow, perhaps he would have found a way to clear himself from his dire situation.

The aircraft slowly came to a stop, as a TWA 707 began its takeoff. The Antonov taxied into position, lined up on Runway 01R, then waited for clearance. Noises increased as flap motors, hydraulics, electric valves adjusted, then the engines wound up. Brakes were released, and the plane began its takeoff roll.

Once airborne, Nicolai Kalinin breathed a heavy sigh of relief, while he watched the city of Washington, D.C. pass below. His first mission as a Russian operative was almost completed, even though it had not gone entirely as planned. Whether or not he was allowed to return to the U.S. rested in the hands of officials in Moscow.

Sounds of automatic weapons and explosions outside the compound couldn’t distract the two men. Farhad Hashimi angrily turned away from Major Viktor Zubarev. The news just delivered was not what Hashimi expected. Keeping his back to Zubarev, he asked, “You are certain you read the message correctly?”

“Yes. As I already told you, the weapons were stolen from the cargo ship. It was confirmed by the captain and the embassy in Washington.”

“I am finding this very difficult to believe.” Hashimi spun around. Standing close to the Russian, he questioned, “During the night, while that ship was underway, in the Atlantic Ocean, the weapons were taken?!”

Zubarev nodded. “They weren’t just taken! They were stolen!”

“What is being done to find those weapons, weapons promised to me?!”

“I do not know. I am not in charge of any investigation. How could I be?!”

“You must be in contact with someone!”

“Communication between the U.S. and here has been difficult. We may never… ”

Hashimi cut Zubarev off. “If those weapons were as top secret as you claimed, they could have had an impact on our fight against the rebels. Now we must continue to use old weapons?! Will you be supplying us with anything?! Old?! New?! Anything?!”

Zubarev had delivered the message. Any further information or conversation was unnecessary. “That is all I have to report. You will not be getting weapons.” He gave a quick bow of his head, then turned and walked out of the building.

Hashimi’s hands balled up into tight fists. He took short, quick strides toward the entry. Zubarev was already in his vehicle. As it turned past the building, he completely ignored the Afghan. Leaning toward his driver, he made a motion with his hand, as if pointing ahead of them.

Two of Hashimi’s guards, with RPGs slung over their shoulders, stood on either side of the entry, waiting for him to give them an order. All it took was a short nod. They ran down the steps, jumped into an overused, beat up UAZ, then sped across the compound. Ten minutes later, an explosion destroyed Zubarev’s vehicle, along with him and his driver.

For a few moments, Hashimi’s eyes followed a billowing cloud of black smoke beyond the north side of the compound. Rubbing his fingers continuously over his mustache and short beard, he turned and walked to his office. Standing by the window, he wondered if there was a way to obtain more sophisticated weapons.

He never saw it coming, only heard the telltale sound as he looked overhead, but by that time it was too late to take cover. Shells fired from two M-47, 152mm field guns, destroyed the entire section of building. Two more landed in the compound. Rebels? Russians? Was it immediate retribution for Zubarev?

No one was alive to question.