Long Shot

29

Jan Hollings squinted up at the single bare bulb that had burned all night long. It was annoying. Putting her palm across her eyes did little to ease the glare, for when she took her hand away, the bright light was still there, staring at her. During her training to become a CIA agent, she had gone through a program of what to do in the unlikely event that she was ever captured, so this was not startling. Bright lights were a painless torture, for it robbed a prisoner of sleep and left them weary and with lowered defenses and ruined the sense of time. Soon, they could not remember if it was day or night.

Her capture had happened so quickly that she barely remembered it. She had been ready to leave Narva, and was walking to her car, her mind not tuned to her surroundings while she mentally composed her report. Then there was a sudden large shadow and a small popping sound, followed by a pinprick on her left arm and a paralyzing electrical shock. Taser, she eventually decided. Little prongs had delivered a charge that knocked her on her butt. Calico was thankful that she did not remember the severe neuro-muscular contractions that would have left her writhing on the dirt like a broken puppet.

She had awakened in captivity. Searching her memory, she was positive that she had not made some grievous tradecraft error on Sunday, for she was an established professional with an iron-clad cover; a well-known fashion dealer throughout Estonia. But Calico, well, Calico was a very different person, and her captors had known exactly who she was. They took her because she was an agent, for capturing a rag merchant made absolutely no sense. She rolled to her side to avoid some of the light, remembering Swanson’s suspicion that there was a mole, a leak, somewhere in the system. He was right, but he was still a bastard. Poor Anneli.

She counted it a small blessing that she was not in the Middle East, where fanatics cut off heads and/or inflicted other medieval tortures. Here, wherever here was, meant at worst that she faced spending the rest of her life in some rotten prison. That was unlikely. There was more of a purpose in play.

Jan got off the cot and walked the room, measuring it. About twelve feet by twelve, and maybe ten high, with rough and unfinished concrete walls. That one damned bare bulb, a hundred watts at least, hung in the middle, caged to protect the bulb and too high to reach. A small utilitarian bathroom to one side contained a metal toilet and a sink. No windows. She tried the door. Metal. Locked. She pounded. No response. It was a basement, chill and damp. On a little table was a pitcher of water and fruit, bread and cheese. A small kindness that indicated she was in a special category of imprisonment. Her captors had something specific in mind. The “something” she did not know. It would all be revealed in time.

And she did not know who had taken her. She really did not know much at all.

Jan returned to the cot and sat on it stiffly, as if her spine was iron, and pulled a threadbare white blanket around her shoulders. There had to be a camera and audio device recording her every move, although she could not see them. Pinholes. Then she closed her eyes because her thoughts turned to the unthinkable. If the Russians had her, then their security services this very minute were combing through her history, her client lists and eventually would find the people who comprised her intelligence network throughout Estonia. A few tears fell as she prayed silently for them to run for their lives.

The CIA brain trust did not panic upon receiving the news that the station chief in Estonia had vanished. Calico was not even the only crisis they would face today. Crisis was their game.

“So this new puppet mayor of Narva has announced to the world that they captured her.” Marty Atkins was summing it all up during a meeting of section chiefs. “We have received nothing through official channels. Then, over in Brussels, this jerk Strakov suddenly decides that he does not want to defect after all. Am I the only one here that smells a Russian rat?”

A general muttering of agreement rumbled around the room. Nobody in the meeting believed in coincidence.

“I agree,” said National Security Adviser Dean Thomas, who had come over from the White House. “What have you done so far?”

Atkins took off his reading glasses and studied his old friend. “Nothing much. We have to let it play out for a while. State Department is enlisting our embassy people in Tallinn to get the Estonian government to help. She is apparently being held in the Town Hall, probably a special cell. The Estonians will stomp all over the mayor to let him know that kidnapping Jan Hollings was a pretty dumb move that will backfire.”

“Are the Russians really involved?” asked Royals.

“Not a peep from them yet, Dean. You can bet they are somewhere in the woodwork, and the mayor says he will turn Calico over to them at some point.”

“Okay. President Thompson wants her back safe, sound and soon. The State Department will make that very clear to both Tallinn and Moscow. Are you doing anything specific that I can tell him?”

Marty Atkins leaned back and spun an ink pen around in his fingers. “On the clandestine side, yes. I sent one of our operatives, Kyle Swanson, into Estonia.”

“Swanson. The sniper?”

“Yep.”

Royals thought about that for a moment. “He is a very dangerous man, Marty. Maybe you should have Swanson back off until we get a clearer picture.”

“I’m afraid it is too late for that,” said Atkins. “He has dropped off the grid. No idea what the boy is up to. He likes to work alone.”

“Boy?” snorted Dean Thomas. “Swanson’s a damned frothing Rottweiler with a gun.”

“But he is our Rottweiler, Dean, and I did not let him off the leash just to do a half-assed job of locating our missing agent. We wait and see.”

President Valdimir Pushkin and his western military district commander, Colonel General Valery Levchenko, walked side by side on a secluded gravel path in the Neskuchny Gardens. Security police fanned out in a distant circle around them, shooing away tourists and Muscovites alike. April was being kind to the gardens, which had braved another Russian winter and were springing to life earlier than usual, and both men were in good spirits. The heart of Moscow was turning green.

“It is as if someone handed me a diamond of great value,” the president declared with a chuckle and a grim smile. “I confess that I had many doubts about these grandiose plans of Colonel Strakov. He seems to have accomplished the impossible.”

Levchenko kept his hands behind his back and matched the president’s stride. He had flown over from St. Petersburg again, beginning to feel like a commuter, as soon as he heard about the CIA woman. The colors of the park were remarkable, and new leaves nosed out of healthy limbs. Flowers that had been frozen seeds for months were erupting into shades and varieties that had not yet made it up to St. Petersburg. “He seems to have been damned near clairvoyant.”

Pushkin looked up as a noisy pair of ducks lumbered overhead, aiming for the nearby Moscow River. “None of us counted on having the CIA’s Estonian chief of station in custody. Strakov just wanted us to snatch some prominent American like a businessman or a tourist or a reporter, and accuse them of spying. This is so much better.”

“She fell into our laps, sir. But with her in our grasp, we also secure our hold on this weak-chinned General Ravensdale, who is forcing NATO to weaken its forces throughout the region. In addition, we dissolve the troublesome Calico intelligence network. Then we put Narva in our pocket as the springboard into Estonia. We also get Colonel Strakov back with a prisoner swap. It is a great coup. All I need right now is your final permission to wrap up Operation Hermitage when the moment comes. Phase One accomplished its mission of screwing up the NATO defenses, and our men and equipment are all back in place. Phase Two is ready to launch, and I will be in Narva tomorrow morning to personally command the movement. No weaklings will be allowed to back out at the last minute.”

The ducks came to a splashy landing out on the river, joining a paddling of several dozen others floating about and discussing the warm weather.

President Pushkin watched them while he considered the entire situation. “You have my authority. I will put that in writing. Keep me informed, Valery. Bring this all together and I will see that you replace Sergeyev as chief of the general staff.”

The general from St. Petersburg promised that he would. The president was tempted to remind him that history was littered with the bones of generals who had grown too ambitious.

Ivan Strakov had dealt the game from a stacked deck, played the hand, made the bets and won. It was sweet. The CIA people were unhappy with him for reneging on the agreement. So what? The first outburst had been to threaten to send him to a supermax or the Guantánamo prison or turn him over to some banana-republic dictator who would do their bidding. That was a bluff. Ivan knew that a prisoner swap eventually would be arranged because some important American should have been arrested by this time. Better than a fortune-teller, he had already written the future. A prisoner exchange was certain.

They had become petulant, and moaned and taken away his privileges, which bothered him not at all. Everything would work out. About now, NATO would be holding emergency meetings and urgently shifting units toward the North Pole, war-gaming worst-case scenarios and trying to envision what would result from a nuclear exchange at the top of the world. Those non-NATO nations like Finland and Sweden would be shitting their pants. And on the Russian side, Valery Levchenko would be orchestrating everything. Phase Two of Operation Hermitage should be ready to begin.

There were always unknowns, but nothing was perfect. Strakov was confident that his meticulous scheme would overwhelm any obstacles. He shook out a cigarette and lit it, blowing smoke toward the camera mounted in a corner.

Mayor Konstantin Pran was one of thirty-one members of the City Council, but his Worker’s Party had won all but five seats from the upstart Social Democrats. The decisive political victory gave him a huge majority, and the five minor-party members were not even invited to the first meeting of the new government. If they showed up, they would have been barred from the room under the claim that the meeting was a not a public meeting, but a private caucus of the Worker’s Party.

Russian was the only language spoken that afternoon in the upper corridors of the Town Hall, for the Old Guard had already made its authoritarian presence known. Pran and his henchmen had worked hard to craft their majority and saw no reason to waste time now. The mayor had been handpicked for the position by friends in both Moscow and St. Petersburg, and was the acknowledged leader of his party. His voice was the only one that really counted.

In public during the campaign, the party’s candidates spoke of corruption within the Social Democrats, promised higher wages for all, an improved standard of living, a severe crackdown on criminals, a fight against greedy capitalists in Tallinn, lower taxes and strong security. In private, after hours, they always remembered when the city tried to secede from Estonia and reunite with Russia a number of years ago. Some 97 percent of voters had approved, but the federal government in Tallinn ignored the election and forced Narva back into line. Mayor Pran and his friends believed the time was ripe to try again; no, not to try, but to do it. Back then, Narva had no army standing by to guard its decision. This time would be much different. The entire police force was made up of tough Russians; active-duty soldiers in mufti. An entire protective armored force was poised in the town next door, separated by just a river. The council’s first and only piece of business that afternoon was to vote to secede.

With that accomplished, the new council members cheered and congratulated one another and drank toasts of vodka from little glasses. Food carts were wheeled in for a party, and families and friends joined them. Konstantin walked out hours later, filled to bursting with pride, and also a little drunk. He decided to make one final stop before going home. He had never seen an American spy.

The basement of the Town Hall smelled of decay and mildew. Over the years, it had primarily become the resting place for things that were unwanted elsewhere in the government building. During the Cold War, the space had been expanded to be deeper and wider to create several special rooms that would be bomb shelters when the Western powers attacked. These small rooms had been furnished, had stores of food and water, waste facilities and ventilation, and were expected to last for up to two weeks. The doors were of steel. When Russia pulled out, Estonia could not afford such useless hidey-holes, and all but one had been turned into giant storage closets for boxes and crates. The final room was used to hold special prisoners until the Russians could come and pick them up.

A young policeman with close-cropped dark hair was on sentry duty, seated in a wooden chair and reading. He put aside the magazine when he heard someone coming down the stairs, and snapped to ramrod-straight attention when the mayor appeared. Mayor Pran paused and inspected the guard. A sharp Spetsnaz commando. “Good man. You remain alert in this dreary place. I shall mention that to your chief. Now, please open the door. I need to speak to our prisoner.”

The tall cop did as he was told, and Pran knocked quietly on the steel panel three times before opening the door. The prisoner was a woman and he did not wish to find her in a compromising situation. Then he went inside.

Jan Hollings was on her feet, waiting, tense but not weeping. She was tall and had piercing blue eyes that made Pran think for a moment that she was Swedish or Norwegian and not American at all. A lightweight blanket was around her shoulders.

“Mrs. Hollings, I am Konstantin Pran, the mayor of Narva,” he said in good English.

“I know who you are. Why have I been taken prisoner?”

“Because you are a spy of the CIA, my dear.” He seemed amused, and looked at the little table with the wilting flowers and leftover food. “You have been treated well?”

“A spy? Mayor Pran, I am just a housewife who also runs a clothing company in Tallinn.”

“Yes, of course. You were here to spy on our election and report back to your masters.” He giggled girlishly. “This is the conversation of a thriller movie, is it not?”

“I want to go home.”

“And you shall. You shall be reunited with your important U.S. Army colonel husband very soon.”

Hollings felt a surge of hope. The man was tipsy. “Well, that will be very good, but I am no spy. You have made a mistake.”

Konstantin Pran smiled, his cheeks pulling aside to show capped white teeth. Such dentistry required money, Calico thought. She sat on the cot and crossed her legs, noticing when his small eyes checked her. He continued to stand, hands clasped before him.

“I watched you speak at the square this afternoon. Congratulations on your election.”

“I thank you for that, madame. It is quite an honor for me. My city is at the most important juncture in its history.”

Jan was looking directly at him, unafraid. She had just established that it was still the same day. She smiled shyly. “Narva has been around for many, many years, sir. Why is this time more important than all that has gone before?”

Again came the giggle and he waved one hand to dismiss this. “Ah, you are playing the spy with me again. It is no matter, for you will know everything by this time tomorrow. By then, Narva will once again be part of Russia.”

“You know that the Estonian federal government will never permit that,” she said, her eyes narrowing.

The mayor shifted his weight and his ego was boosted by the alcohol he had consumed. “There will be another rally in St. Peter’s Square tomorrow morning and I will formally issue a declaration of secession. At precisely nine o’clock on Tuesday, I shall walk across the bridge and invite Russian troops to come over from Ivanogrod to defend us. Colonel General Levchenko himself, the powerful district commandant, will personally lead the force into town.”

Calico was stunned. “NATO will consider that an act of war.”

The mayor spoke faster. “NATO is in disarray because of the new threats in the Arctic, so our move will meet little resistance. Russian troops will be in defensive positions before you Yankees and your NATO helpers can react in any significant manner. Afterward, things will only bog down in endless negotiations. The final piece will take place when you, Mrs. Hollings, are exchanged for a very important person.”

“Who?”

The mayor laughed aloud. “Probably, I have said too much already, but as I mentioned earlier, it will make no difference. By the time you can get back tomorrow night, this will all be over. A fait accompli, with no options but war or negotiation, and NATO will not fight for Narva.”

“You’re wrong, Mr. Mayor. Sadly, so very wrong. You know that if the Russians take Narva, they won’t stop until they have all of Estonia, and then they will move to make the rest of the Baltic dominoes fall. We will definitely fight to prevent that from happening. Without question. You are putting the world on the brink of a new war, and your city, Narva, will be ground zero. Your city will be utterly destroyed. Thousands will die.”

He shook his head, bid her a pleasant night, gave a slight bow and left. The door locked behind him, leaving Calico sitting there trying to absorb the enormity of what would happen. She wanted to shout the news, but no one would hear her.

The mayor stepped into the night and felt the moist air cool his cheeks. He got into a small car driven by an old friend, a retired policeman and who had become chief of the mayor’s security team, all ethnic Russians. Not that Pran thought he needed protection, because on this day, everyone loved him.

Moscow, always skeptical, insisted. There might be a few Social Democrat thugs who wanted to protest. Most of the dissidents had been disappeared over the past months, but a handful of activists were still around. In a way, he regretted helping make some of his countrymen leave aboard the Black Trains, never to return, but the dream of reunification was more important than a few lives.

The mayor and the guard shared a few laughs as the car drove away from the middle of the city and threaded through traffic to reach Pran’s suburban home, a modest detached building with a garage. He had raised his family there and knew every stone. Pran danced merrily up the steps and through the front door, calling for his wife. The guard parked the car at the curb, adjusted the seat and made himself comfortable. His twelve-hour shift lasted until dawn.

Neither the guard nor the mayor had noticed a black motorcycle that had followed them, staying about a block or so behind, ducking out of sight briefly now and then, only to appear again in some blind spot. When the car stopped and the mayor went inside, the small dirt bike roared past the house and evaporated into the failing light.