Fog of War

Chapter Twenty-one

Justin and Carrie travelled to Moscow under authentic Australian passports they had never used before in any operation. No reason to raise suspicions among Russian custom officials. A clean entry and high hopes for the same kind of exit.

Their Aeroflot flight took them to Terminal D about one o’clock in the afternoon. The terminal — a state-of-the-art facility completed in 2009— had a unique design. Its centerpiece was a majestic dome resembling a swan with its wings stretched, the wings being the two halls of the terminal. Justin had read the architect was inspired by Tchaikovsky’s Swan Lake ballet and the Russian culture. Its full beauty was better appreciated during the airplane descent over the terminal.

In their case, the weather decided not to cooperate. A thick curtain of gray clouds and a heavy rain greeted them before they hit the tarmac. The captain noted it was only fifty degrees outside, with wind speeds of over ten miles. Justin could feel the cold as they stepped out of the airplane and into the air bridge.

Inside the airport, another gigantic dome reminding Justin of a large flower with open petals welcomed passengers. The terminal was clean and lacked nothing in terms of passenger services. Open spaces, lots of stores, and short lines at the passport check-in counters.

Their cover was they were traveling to enjoy the sights of Moscow for a few days and nights. Yes, it was their first visit to Moscow, they told customs officials. Yes, they were booked at the Sheraton Palace Hotel for three nights and had their return ticket to go back home. Everything was in order. A few stamps on official documents, and they were welcomed to Moscow.

Aware they were most likely being watched, they never turned their heads to check behind their backs. They collected their luggage, then Carrie bought an umbrella from one of the gift stores. They hailed a cab outside the terminal and headed for the city, about twenty miles south of the airport.

Once they had been on the Leningradskoye Highway for a few minutes, the driver — a man who told them he was forty-five, but whose wrinkles made him look almost ten years older — began to point out various landmarks of the city. Carrie began to snap pictures, acting excited at pretty much everything. Justin asked the driver for advice about places to visit, acting as if it were their first time in the city, and the driver had all the answers.

He was a calm, relaxed man, doing the speed limit and respecting most, if not all, traffic rules. Other cars kept changing lanes, fighting to gain a few extra seconds, their bumpers almost kissing the ones of cars in front of them. Their maneuvers were crazy, the drivers showing very little regard for their own lives or the lives of other people around them.

They crossed the Moscow Canal, which connected the Volga River to the Moskva River snaking throughout most of the city. Soon they reached the Sokol District and the highway turned into the Leningradsky Prospekt, one of the major avenues in Moscow. Modern, luxury import cars sped past cheap, Russian-made clunkers. Stalin-era gray and drab apartment complexes were dwarfed by newly-constructed shiny, glass towers. The rain had slowed down, but the menacing clouds loomed over the buildings.

The driver dropped them off at the Sheraton Palace Hotel, and Justin rewarded him for the safe ride and the tourist advice with a generous tip. His services were no longer required, but Justin liked the man and would have hired him for all three days, if they were really tourists.

After registering with the reception, they turned down the porter offering to carry their luggage and proceeded to their room on the fifth floor. As they entered the elevator, Justin turned to Carrie. “I almost can’t believe you’re here with me, in Moscow. You know, because of your hate for Russia.”

“I can hardly believe it myself. But here we are.”

“Too bad we couldn’t get in touch with Yuliya. She hasn’t returned to Moscow yet.”

“She’s still in Yemen?”

Justin nodded. “That’s what I heard. They found Romanov’s money, and Yuliya is getting her revenge. The people who attacked the safe house in Sana’a were Houthis. She’s hunting them down.”

The elevator binged, and they stepped outside. “I bet you Fyodor is already here,” Carrie said.

“I’m sure he is.”

They found their room, and Justin swiped his card. The door opened, and they entered their Club Junior Suite. The blinds were drawn, and one of the lamps was turned on. A man in his thirties was sitting on a chair in the middle of the room and facing the hallway. “Justin and Carrie. Welcome to Moscow,” he said as he stood up, pushing the chair to the side.

It took Justin a millisecond to compare his face to one he had seen in his mission files. The man was Fyodor, one of the Service’s operatives in Russia’s capital. He was going to be their main contact, providing them with intelligence and equipment.

“Nice to meet you, Fyodor,” Carrie said.

“Same here,” Fyodor replied.

He reached over and shook Justin’s hand.

His English had no trace of Russian or any other accents. His handshake was strong and steady. “Good trip?”

“Yes, a long, but good trip,” Justin replied.

“Thirsty? Hungry? We can order room service.” Fyodor pointed at the phone and the menu on the small desk across from the bed.

“Thanks, but we’re fine,” Justin said.

“As you wish. The room is clean. I swept it for bugs myself. So we can speak freely.”

Fyodor walked to the desk and picked up a small leather briefcase from underneath it. He placed it on the bed, then flipped open its hinges. “Here you have euros, dollars, two MP-443 pistols, Russian passports, driver licenses, credit cards, clean cellphones, and of course, the plans of Romanov’s mansion.”

Carrie smiled. “Wonderful.”

She reached over, picked up one of the guns, and began to inspect it. Satisfied, she said, “Now I feel complete.”

Fyodor nodded, then grinned.

“We really appreciate this,” Justin said.

“No problem,” Fyodor said. “My partner and I will drive you to Romanov’s. We’re staying across the hall, so we have eyes and ears on everything going on in this floor.”

“Perfect,” said Justin. “We’re going to clean up, then come and get you when we’re ready.”

“Anything you need, just let me know.”

“We’ll do.”

No city in the world had more billionaires than Moscow, and Romanov was one of them, but he preferred to live away from the city’s noise and commotion. Yes, he owned a penthouse in one of the newest and most luxurious apartment towers in Moscow, with magnificent vistas of the Kremlin and the Moskva River. But he liked to throw parties for his business partners in his country residence, a posh palace west of the city.

Fyodor was their driver in a black Audi sedan, a luxurious model Justin had never seen before. They were going to a billionaire’s party, so they needed to look the part of billionaires. Their clothes were bought at some of the top fashion stores in Moscow. Carrie was wearing a scoop neckline black dress that accentuated her hourglass shape and equally exquisite three-inch pumps, along with a matching purse. She also had a black wool blend coat. Justin had a black suit and tie with a white shirt, all Italian hand-made, and a black felt coat.

“I feel so exposed in this dress,” Carrie said, pulling up the neckline to cover some of her cleavage. “I should have gone for the other dress, but that one made me look like an escort.”

Fyodor grinned. “I’m sure there will be some high-priced escorts at the party.”

“You look great,” Justin said. “Your appearance will help us get past the guards. Then we’ll go straight for Romanov.”

Fyodor caught Justin’s eyes in the rearview mirror. “How much time do you think you’ll have?”

Justin shrugged. “It depends who Romanov has as his eyes tonight. The guards at the door most likely will not recognize me, but some of his close bodyguards have seen me before. I’d like to find Romanov in the first five minutes once we’re inside his palace.”

They travelled a few miles on the Rublovka highway, and as they drew near the village of Razdory, Fyodor began to point out palaces, mansions, and country residences dotting the landscape. Only dim lights in the distance betrayed their presence, as they were mostly hidden away from the highway, surrounded by forests and high walls, according to Fyodor’s explanations. Many of Moscow’s elite lived around this area, and Fyodor said that villagers who refused to sell their lands had received death threats.

“Hey, check that out,” Fyodor said. “A Lambo—”

His words were muted by the vroom of a Lamborghini passing them at an insane speed. The yellow glow of the supercar vanished in the night just as quick as it had appeared.

“Wow,” was the only word that came out of Justin’s mouth.

“I think it was an Aventador Roadster. I’ve never seen one before,” said Fyodor.

A Maserati convertible passed them, and Justin’s eyes followed it.

“The closer we get, the more expensive cars we’ll see,” Fyodor said. “Romanov’s palace is in Zhukovka, home of the richest of the rich.”

Justin nodded. “Let’s check with your partner.”

Fyodor called his partner, Nikolai, on his cellphone. Nikolai was driving about one hundred yards behind them, to make sure they were not being followed. His Porsche SUV would also serve as their backup gateway car in case things did not go according to plan.

“He’s good,” Fyodor said. “I told him we’re making a right turn about here.”

Fyodor turned the steering wheel, and the Audi glided into a narrow road, barely wide enough for two cars. A thick wall of pines sheltered from their view everything on both sides of the road. The pavement was new, resulting in a smooth ride. The Audi’s headlights shone on a silver Bentley cruising along at about forty miles.

“He’s probably going to the same place.” Justin pointed at the Bentley.

“Most likely,” Fyodor said.

The Bentley slowed down, then cut to the left.

“Yes, he’s going to Romanov’s,” Justin said.

He glanced at the rearview mirror. Nikolai’s Porsche had fallen behind. He was going to hide in the woods until it was time to call him or until he saw them drive away.

The Audi made the turn, and they saw the Bentley again. It had stopped in front of a large wrought-iron gate. A man in a navy blue uniform and a cap was checking the car with a small flashlight. He had a notepad in his left hand. The guest list? Another man stood in a small watch post by the gate, observing the operation. He held a submachine gun in his hands.

Justin’s stomach tightened, but his face was relaxed. It was a simple checkpoint.

“There should be no problem,” Fyodor said.

Carrie nodded, then leaned over Justin’s shoulder. “I’ve got the man with the sub,” she whispered.

Her left hand held a MP-443 pistol. She flashed it to Justin for a second, then hid it under her seat.

Justin nodded.

The guard finished with the Bentley and gestured to Fyodor to move forward.

“Here we go,” Fyodor said.

He spoke softly to the guard and showed them the two passports of Justin and Carrie. The guard flashed his light in their faces and kept it a bit longer than necessary on Carrie’s. Then he checked their names against his notepad. He nodded to the man inside the watch post. The gate began to swing open toward the inside. The guard handed the passports back to Fyodor and gestured for them to move forward.

Justin’s breathing relaxed. He exchanged a glance with Carrie. After they had left the gate behind, she handed Fyodor her pistol.

Fyodor said, “Hopefully, we won’t need guns.”

He put her pistol in the glove compartment.

Justin doubted his words, but did not say anything. “Here’s mine,” he handed Fyodor his MP-443.

They were not sure if Romanov had guards who would search every guest or if he had installed metal detectors at his palace entrances, but they were not willing to risk it. After all, Justin was here to simply have a talk with Romanov.

The Audi rounded a couple of curves, and the splendor of a medieval-style palace opened up before their eyes. It was built of rustic-looking stones, with numerous towers, balconies and turrets, and it had two long, stretched out wings. A lot of work had gone into creating elaborate decorations on the walls and along the arched windows. Large sconces lit up most of the windows and the two large entrances.

“Wow, the pictures didn’t show half its beauty,” said Carrie.

“Which entrance?” asked Justin.

“That one,” replied Fyodor.

He pointed to the one closer to them. Seven or eight supercars were parked along the wide driveway that circled a large, brightly-lit water fountain. Fyodor parked next to a Ferrari Enzo, which made their Audi look like a poor man’s car.

“There’s the welcome team,” Fyodor said, arranging his rearview mirror. “Four guards at the entrance.”

“If they don’t recognize me, the hardest part is over,” Justin replied.

He stepped out and fixed his tie. Carrie came over to him and hung on to his left arm.

“Good luck,” said Fyodor.

“Thanks. OK, wife, let’s go enjoy some champagne,” Justin said with a grin.

The temperature had dropped to freezing, and their breath formed small clouds in front of their faces. They crossed the distance in measured steps and walked on the red carpet leading up the stairs. The guards nodded at Justin, but he did not return their greeting. Servants were invisible to a snob billionaire. Less face time also meant they were less likely to recognize him if they had ever seen him or his photo.

A couple of steps inside the entrance, two gorgeous brunettes in elegant red dresses offered to take their coats. Justin and Carrie obliged, then walked through a huge rotunda. About twenty people were chatting with one another in hushed voices. Justin quickly scanned their faces. Romanov was not in the crowd. A grand piano was to the left, where someone was playing a famous classic piece Justin recognized, but could not remember its name. A waitress with a pretty face and long golden hair offered them champagne, and they picked up glasses, but did not drink from them.

“All right, Romanov’s office should be on the second floor.” Justin pointed casually with his hand toward his left. “Maybe he’s there.” He gestured with his head toward a set of grand stairs.

“I’ll be here on guard,” she replied with a smile. Then she reached over and whispered in his ear, “A man at my two o’clock is checking us out very thoroughly. One of Romanov’s men.”

Justin nodded. “Good to know. He’s the one right by the stairs?”

Carrie burst into a quiet laughter and tapped Justin on his arm. “Yes, that one. I’ll distract him.”

“Great.”

They split up. Justin struck a conversation with a couple who looked like they were in their mid-fifties. He introduced himself as an oil businessman from Australia and an old friend of Romanov. They were real estate moguls who had sold most of the properties in Zhukovka and the surrounding areas. Justin feigned interest in their stories, while following Carrie out of the corner of his eye.

She took a sip from her champagne glass and began to look for a waitress. One was right by the piano, but she overlooked her. She strutted toward the guard and began talking to him. Justin could not hear her words, but she was moving her arms and body, indicating something was wrong about the champagne and making a disapproving face. The guard tried to get the waitress’s attention with hand gestures and calm Carrie at the same time. It was not working, so he walked along with Carrie, away from his position.

Justin seized the moment. He quickly excused himself, and climbed up the stairs. The palace blueprints were vivid in his memory. He turned left, moving toward the west wing. Impressive paintings covered the walls. Magnificent marble replicas of famous Roman and Greek statues stood on equally stunning pedestals. A plush red carpet covered the middle of the marble floor, silencing his rapid footsteps.

He passed a series of doors and made a right turn. A man was sitting on a chair in front of a large wooden door. Justin recognized him as the passenger of Romanov’s limousine, who had approached him in New York, outside the Ambassador Theater. Uh-uh, bad news.

The guard recognized him as well. He stood up and stepped forward. “What are you doing here?”

Justin walked toward the guard. “I’d like to talk to Romanov.”

“He’s busy. How did you get in?”

“Romanov invited me, but you wouldn’t know about it.”

The guard’s neck muscles were bulging. “My orders are to let no one in.”

“Something has come up. This will only take five minutes.”

The guard grinned. “You need to check your ears. I said I’m not letting you in.” He took another step forward, standing face to face with Justin.

“I heard you, no need to lose your cool over it. I’m leaving. Sorry for your trouble.”

Justin began to turn around, then swung his arm fast, his right fist going for the guard’s head. But the guard had anticipated Justin’s move. His large hand stopped Justin’s fist, deflecting the blow. Justin too had predicted the guard’s reaction. He threw a quick left hook to the guard’s throat, followed by another one, which connected with his right temple.

The guard wavered but responded by flinging his right arm. Justin ducked and sidestepped the guard. He grabbed the guard’s wrist and twisted his arm. He pushed the guard down, then he knocked him unconscious with an elbow to the back of the head.

Justin reached inside the guard’s jacket and took his pistol. Then he stood up and knocked twice on the door.

“What is it, Sergei?” Romanov asked.

Justin pushed the heavy door, holding his pistol at eye level.

Romanov was alone in his office, sitting behind a large, antique desk. “Justin? You like to make an entrance.”

His voice showed no surprise. Romanov was probably expecting him and was not one to be easily intimidated. He had stared down one too many gun barrels.

“Are you here to kill me?” Romanov asked.

“No, I’m here to talk,” Justin replied. “This is Sergei’s.”

He flicked the magazine release switch on the pistol and caught the falling magazine before it hit the floor. He placed both the pistol and the magazine on Romanov’s desk before sitting in one of the large armchairs across from him.

The door was thrown open, and two guards rushed in, pistols drawn.

“What the hell are you doing?” Romanov barked at them.

“Sorry, sir, Sergei is down, so we tho—”

“I don’t pay you to think. Get out and don’t interrupt us. I’m having a talk with a friend.”

The guards nodded and closed the door behind them.

“They never learn manners, no matter how long they’ve been around you,” Romanov said.

“You’ve got a nice place here.” Justin looked around the room.

“Oh, you like it? It’s a good little place in a great area. Even the President has a dacha, a cottage, a little further away.”

Justin’s eyes scanned the large bookcase behind Romanov’s desk. “War and Peace, Dead Souls, Crime and Punishment. Great classics. You’ve read them?”

“Of course, I have.” Romanov sounded a bit offended by the question. “I love Crime and Punishment. I find myself always cheering for the villains.”

Justin grinned. “It’s a good story. With some good morals.”

“Yes, good morals. Justin, what brings you to Moscow?” Romanov pushed back his chair.

“Debriefing after the Yemeni operation. Still need to sort out a few issues. Like why didn’t you tell me the whole truth about your missile shipment?”

Romanov shrugged. “It wasn’t relevant to your task. Whoever had stolen from me, they had to pay and return my property.”

Justin shook his head. “It would have been a great help to know the man stealing from you was Hamidi, an arms dealer whose name was on Mossad’s blacklist.”

“I had no knowledge about that.”

“Huh. OK, maybe not about Mossad, but you knew Hamidi was there.”

Romanov reached for a glass on his desk and took a sip. The liquid had the golden-yellow color of scotch.

“I would have gone to Yemen regardless of who those people were. Knowing that information would have helped me with my preparations and may have avoided the firefight with Mossad.”

“Yes, it would have helped,” Romanov said.

His eyes locked with Justin’s and glinted dark. Romanov’s admission was a poor substitute for an apology, but it would do in this situation.

Justin smiled and leaned forward. “Very well. Carrie and I came out mostly unharmed, but we need some intelligence. About something we found in Somalia.”

Romanov gestured with his hand for Justin to continue talking.

“We fought with al-Shabaab, and after the shootout I discovered militants had two boxes full of M16s. Brand new. We checked their serial numbers. They originated from a warehouse in Qatar, belonging to a famous arms dealer. Care to guess the name?”

Romanov frowned. “You know I don’t like riddles.”

“The name is Hamidi, your business associate. And here’s where the story gets interesting. One of the dead al-Shabaab terrorists was a US citizen. Not only that, but he was recently in the US, entering the country under his real name. Hassan Khalif Yusuf. Two days later, a large shipment of American weapons, including these M16s, made their way to Qatar.”

“Fascinating. Now get to the point.”

“How did this happen? Who is this man? What connections does he have?”

Romanov stopped Justin with a raised hand. “You ask a lot of questions. Do you really want the answers?”

Justin blinked. “Of course. Yusuf almost killed me. Innocent people died because of him. And this illegal weapons trade has to stop.”

Romanov shook his head. “As long as people continue to fight in Somalia and other wastelands of the world, there will always be people selling guns and making money. Not you or anyone else can stop this trade.”

Justin felt defeated. He fell back in his chair. He sighed. “Why don’t you let me decide that?”

Romanov thought about it for a few moments. He leaned forward. “All right, so I give you this man’s connections. What are you planning to do?”

“Whatever it takes to bring them down.”

“Sure, like no one has tried it before. These people, they are like hydras. You chop off one head, two more will grow. You’re going to take down one man, maybe a few. A hundred more will step up to take their places.”

“Let’s start rolling one head at a time.”

“Yes, you want it that way? Fine.”

Romanov reached for a drawer to his right. He pulled out a couple of folders. “The UN has put an arms embargo in place for Somalia since 1992. But embargos don’t stop the arms flow. They just increase prices. That country is awash with all types and brands of weapons. Russian, Chinese, American. The US sells to the Somali government, but their officials are so corrupt they turn around and sell the same weapons to al-Shabaab. Then al-Shabaab’s militants attack police stations and military bases and get even more guns, missiles, mortars.

“Yemen also sells a big portion of weapons to Somalia. And all sorts of gun smugglers make their living shipping weapons to Somalia from its neighbors, Eritrea, Ethiopia, Kenya. Then you’ve got Iran involved, albeit on a smaller scale.”

Justin held Romanov’s eyes. “Russia’s not involved?”

“Oh, we are, but we try to keep it legit. Well, that word has different meanings to different people.

“So, Somalia is a very lucrative market. There are a million illegal weapons in a country of ten million people. And another nine million would love to buy or steal an AK or RPG. Enter Yusuf.”

Romanov opened his folder. He picked up a photo, held it up so only he could see it, then looked up at Justin. “Yusuf was not only a member of al-Shabaab. He was also a CIA agent.”

“What?” Justin voice came out in a loud shout.

Romanov handed over the photo. “I assume you know both men in the picture.”

Justin could not believe his eyes. The photo was taken in a fancy restaurant. The background was blurry, so he could not determine the location. But the face of the man dining with Yusuf was very clear. He was Deputy Director of NCS Travis Adams.

“This photo is doctored. This can’t be true,” Justin said.

“I knew you were going to say that. But deep down you know it’s real.” Romanov pulled out a document from his folder. “Yusuf’s records. Authentic files from CIA records. Don’t expect me to tell you how I got this copy. Just know the files are real.”

Justin shook his head and bit his lip. “This explains so many things. How he got in and out of the US. His passport. Was he in deep cover inside al-Shabaab?”

“Yes. At least initially. But it seems things didn’t go as CIA planned. Instead of Yusuf turning militants to his cause, it seemed he began to trust in their cause. That’s when he began to channel weapons from US shipments to terrorists.”

Justin ran his hands through his hair. “Why didn’t Adams stop this? Why didn’t you do something?”

“Yusuf had Adams by the balls. He deceived him for an entire year, giving him bogus intelligence. Adams had too much to lose if he admitted his mistake. He gave in to Yusuf’s blackmail, believing a few shipments of weapons and a few million dollars would keep things quiet.”

“How… how did you learn this?”

Romanov grinned. “I like to know the market and my competitors. Money buys a lot of things. Information. Classified files. Secrets.”

Justin nodded.

“And I did something with this information. I gave it to my contacts in FSB, and they talked to their counterparts in CIA. Needless to say, Adams survived CIA’s internal investigation without a scratch. But Yusuf had become a liability. Adams needed to make sure he went away. For good.”

Justin’s eyes flashed with rage. “He sent me there to execute Yusuf. He knew about Yusuf being in that village at that time, or he drew him out there to put him within my reach. I was carrying out Adams’s revenge.”

“Yes, he used you.”

Romanov’s words cut very sharp. He did not have to say them, and Justin knew what he was doing: fanning the flames.

“I need the entire folder,” he said coldly.

Romanov pushed it across the table. “It’s all yours. I just need to warn you that—”

“No warning necessary. I know what to do with it.”

“Have it your way.”

Romanov crossed his hands over his chest.

“We’re not done,” said Justin. “This was for me. Now I need something for Carrie.”

Romanov replied with a deep frown. “Do I look like a fairy godmother?”

“No, but you owe her one. This will even out the score.”

“Hmmm, it doesn’t work that way. You can’t come here and make such requests.”

Justin simply looked at Romanov. “We have a business relationship. We deal in secrets, in information. A time will come when you’ll need my help, our help. A favor. Like when you lose something, say a shipment of missiles.”

“Oh, yes, and since you mentioned those missiles, they went up in a big explosion. I did not get them back.”

Justin nodded. “Once again, if I had all the information about that mission, things may have ended better for everyone.”

Romanov nodded, but said nothing. He stared straight at Justin.

Justin did not want to play Romanov’s stare down game. “Carrie’s still looking for her father’s grave. The intel you provided her has helped a lot. She identified the gravesite, but the remains were moved. She needs to know where.”

Romanov kept his eyes fixed on Justin’s face.

Justin continued, “And she can never find out the information came from you or that I asked for it. In return, I’ll owe you one.”

His last words broke Romanov’s stare. He smiled, but it was just a small twitch of his lips. “I’ll see what I can do. It will be difficult. Chechnya is a mess.”

Justin nodded. He knew Romanov would come through with the information. “We’re done here. I’m going to let you get back to your par—”

An explosion blast lit up the dark night. Justin hurried to the windows. Romanov followed him. A truck was on fire a hundred or so yards away, by the back wall surrounding the palace. Four or five human silhouettes moved at a rapid pace away from the leaping flames.

Two of Romanov’s guards burst into the room. One of them aimed his pistol at Justin.

“Out there you morons,” Romanov growled at them. “The explosion. Find out whoever they are and kill them.”

“They’re here for me,” Justin said.

Romanov did a double take. “Who? Al-Shabaab? Here?”

“Most likely their proxies.”

Justin headed for the door.

“Give him a gun,” Romanov said to one of the guards. “And follow his orders. All of you.”

Sergei and three other guards joined them in the hall. They were carrying newer model AKs.

“There’s a side door this way,” Sergei said.

They ran down the stairs, cut to the right, and were soon out in the backyard. Gunshots shattered a window above their heads. Justin hit the ground, rolling and seeking cover behind a stone pillar. Sergei was right behind him. The other guards spread out along the side of a fountain and behind a couple of thick pines.

“I saw four, maybe five people,” Justin said, “but there could be more.”

One of the guards fired his AK. A heavy machine gun returned fire, blowing away marble chunks from the statues in the fountain.

“We’ll flank them from the left,” Justin said. “Sergei, come with me.”

Sergei radioed their plan to the other guards.

They began a barrage of cover fire as Justin and Sergei ran bent at the waist. They drew some erratic fire before they fell behind a couple of BMWs about fifty yards closer to the gunmen.

A grenade exploded in front of them. One of the BMWs began to sound its sharp alarm. A few bullets thumped against the car doors.

The gunmen had secured their positions behind a stone gazebo and a few benches. Justin judged the distance to be about one hundred yards away from the BMW.

Sergei’s AK burst out in a long barrage. He stood on his feet, to the left of the first car. “Cover me,” he shouted while replacing his empty magazine and slipped into the BMW.

“Wait. Where are you goi—”

The car raced toward the gazebo. Justin got to his knees, closed his left eye, and tried to make out his targets. Gunshots came from the speeding BMW as Sergei was shooting his way to the gunmen. Justin saw two silhouettes pop up behind one of the benches. He shot them, then he began to shoot and run behind the BMW.

Gunshots hammered the car, but strangely it kept going. It jumped the curb and crossed through the lawns, ran over a flower patch and shrubs and came to a stop a few feet away from the gazebo’s stairs.

Justin dropped behind a thick pine tree. Two guards were running toward his position. A gunman stood from behind the gazebo and fired at them. One of the guards fell backwards. The other kept running, but slowly, limping on his left leg.

Justin glanced at the car. Sergei had not come out of the BMW. No one was shooting at the car, but a guard was firing single shots from his AK from across the lawn.

“Cease fire, cease fire,” Justin shouted in Russian. “They’re all dead.”

There was at least one gunman alive, but he hoped his words would draw him out.

Nothing happened in the first few seconds, then someone climbed over the gazebo’s wall and slid down the stairs. Before Justin could pull his trigger, the guard with the AK let off a short burst. Bullets cut the man down to the lawn.

Two guards moved forward from the other side of the yard. Justin came out from behind the tree. Taking careful steps, he swept the grounds for surviving gunmen. The cold night was silent, but for the crunching of guards boot on the grass.

Justin reached the BMW. Sergei was leaning over the steering wheel. Two gunshot wounds were visible in his back. Justin let out a deep sigh. He looked up at one of the guards standing by the car.

“He’s gone,” Justin said.

The guard cursed in Russian, then kicked the BMW’s door.

Justin marched toward the gazebo. A dead gunman was lying on the lawn. His was on his back, and his left arm was twisted underneath his body. He had a black thick beard and was wearing a military camouflage jacket and pants.

“Do you recognize him?” Justin asked one of the guards who just came up behind him.

The guard crouched and looked at the dead man’s face. He rummaged through the man’s pockets, came out empty, then nodded. “I think he’s a Chechen rebel.”

Do Chechen rebels have ties to al-Shabaab? Justin thought. Or is Johnson directly contacting these men, sending them to finish al-Shabaab’s job?

“Justin,” Carrie called at him.

He turned around and saw her standing a few feet away.

“I’m fine,” he said. “They’re not.”

She walked to the bench where the guards had placed the body of another dead gunman.

“He’s definitely a Chechen terrorist,” said a guard. “I’ve seen his face on television.”

Justin nodded. He pulled Carrie to the side. “Let’s check with McClain and see if this bait worked,” he said. “I’m pretty sure Johnson is behind this.”

“I think so too. How did it go with Romanov?”

“He completed our puzzle. I’ll tell you everything on our way out.”