Price of Duty

TWENTY-SEVEN

The black sedan turned right onto a wide, six-lane boulevard — heading toward the Third Ring Road, which circled around Moscow. Hotels, shopping malls, and apartment buildings blurred past in a succession of twinkling lights seen through a curtain of softly falling snow.

In the front passenger seat, Samantha Kerr took off her peaked officer’s cap and ran her fingers quickly through her short-cropped dyed hair. She put her radio earpiece back in and clicked the transmit button. “Firebird to Gray Wolf. We’re on the move.”

The driver of their chase car, posted several blocks back, radioed back. “Understood, Firebird. We have eyes on you.”

She glanced back across the seat at Marcus Cartwright. The big man had just finished fastening a seat belt to keep Truznyev from slumping over. Instead, the Russian lolled back against the headrest with his mouth sagging open. “Everything okay back there?”

Cartwright nodded. He had his fingers on the former Russian president’s wrist, checking his pulse. “No problems so far. His pulse is strong. His respiration appears normal.”

“That’s a relief,” Sam said. “This guy’s a pig, but I know Mr. Martindale would rather we delivered him alive instead of as a corpse.”

The drug they’d used on Truznyev was a Scion-crafted derivative of fentanyl — a fast-acting opioid analgesic. While there were a range of dangerous potential side effects, medical specialists who’d studied what was known of the Russian’s health history had been fairly confident he could tolerate the drug’s effects without suffering permanent damage. It wouldn’t keep him unconscious for more than an hour or two, but by then they could arrange for longer-term sedation under more carefully controlled conditions.

Their sedan swung onto the access road that paralleled the main Ring Road and accelerated.

“Gray Wolf to Firebird,” the chase car radioed. “You have company. A black Mercedes S-Class. The plate number is ‘A 145 KH.’”

Sam Kerr frowned. That was Truznyev’s personal car. She turned back to Cartwright. “His goons are following us.”

“You’re sure?” the big man asked mildly.

“Yep,” she said flatly. “The turnoff to his apartment was three blocks back. They blew right past it.” She frowned. “He must have slipped a code phrase in when he gave them their orders.”

“Probably,” Cartwright agreed. He pursed his lips. “So Comrade Truznyev here has finely honed survival instincts. That is too bad, though not entirely unexpected.” He shrugged his shoulders. “Still, it’s a shame when an operation gets messy.”

He leaned forward, speaking to the driver. “We’ll move to Plan B, Davey.”

“Got it, Mr. Cartwright,” David Jones said, carefully noting street signs as they flashed past in the darkness and falling snow. At the right moment, he exited the Ring Road, turning onto a broad, tree-lined street flanked by well-maintained four- and five-story-high apartment buildings. The black Mercedes limousine swung in behind them, now just about ten car lengths back.

Sam Kerr pulled out her smartphone and tapped in a short text message: KRAK ENG. Then, carefully holding her finger hovering over the send button on the screen, she kept her eyes fixed on the side-view mirror. “We’re prepped and good to go,” she told Cartwright and Jones.

Several blocks down the avenue, they turned again, this time into a narrow, dingier street running behind some of the apartment buildings. Trash dumpsters, mounds of blackened snow and frozen slush, and parked cars lined both sides of the road. A small orange reflector taped to the outside of one of the dumpsters gleamed brightly in their headlights.

They drove on past.

Behind them, the Mercedes accelerated, obviously moving to close the gap now that they were caught in a confined space without room for any fancy escape maneuvers. Sam’s eyes narrowed as she began counting down, watching the headlights of the car behind as it drew closer. “Three. Two. One,” she murmured, and then pushed the send button.

Fifty meters behind them, a small, soda-can-size plastic tube packed with C-4 dangled from the side of the marked dumpster. The Krakatoa-shaped demolition charge detonated with a blinding flash. A massive shock wave slammed straight into a thin, inverted copper plate set at the mouth of the plastic tube — instantly transforming it into a mass of molten metal flaring outward at hypersonic speed. Hit broadside, Truznyev’s black Mercedes was blown apart, ripped into a blazing heap of pulverized metal and plastic.

“Problem solved,” Samantha Kerr said evenly. She slipped her phone back into her uniform coat and turned back to Cartwright. “But the heat’s going to come down hard on this one, Marcus. I think it’s high time I disappeared. Along with the rest of my team.”

The big man nodded. “Quite true, Ms. Kerr. Once we part company at the rendezvous point, activate your exfiltration plan.” He offered her a crooked grin. “After all, there’s no point in spoiling the beauty of the thing by lingering too long where you’re likely to be wanted… at least by the Russian security services. Davey and I will take our sleeping friend here the rest of the way.”

Minutes later, their sedan turned onto the M2 Motorway, heading south out of Moscow. Police and fire sirens wailed in the distance, converging on a plume of oily black smoke rising into the night sky.

Ostafyevo lay roughly twenty-seven kilometers south of Moscow’s Third Ring Road. Originally owned by the Russian Ministry of Defense, the airport was now operated by Gazpromavia, a subsidiary of Gazprom, the giant, state-controlled natural-gas corporation. Much smaller than any of the other Moscow-area airports, it was used mostly by chartered flights and by corporate jets owned by favored international and domestic companies. Its two-thousand-meter-long concrete runway could accommodate aircraft ranging from Learjets to Boeing 737-700s and Sukhoi Superjet-100s.

Marcus Cartwright’s black sedan, again carrying its regulation license plates, pulled up alongside a small but elegant, mirrored-glass terminal. Even this late, all the lights were on. Ostafyevo ran on international time, welcoming flights from Europe, Asia, and the Americas at all hours. The big, beefy man, back in his Klaus Wernicke persona, climbed out from behind the steering wheel. With a smile, he handed the keys and a fat tip to one of the hovering valets. “Put my automobile in long-term parking, please, Dmitry,” he said. “I may not be back for a few weeks.”

With a pleased grin, the young Russian made the banknotes disappear. “At once, Herr Wernicke,” he replied.

A utility van pulled in behind the sedan and David Jones got out. He moved around to the back of the van and yanked open its rear doors, revealing two large crates. Each crate already bore inspection seals from Russia’s Federal Customs Service. Imperiously, the slender man waved a handful of waiting airport cargo handlers over. “These go to Herr Wernicke’s private jet,” he said. “But be careful with them, mind you. They’re fragile.”

They hurried over and began muscling the crates out of the van and onto the snow-dampened pavement.

Leaving the matter in the short Welshman’s capable hands, Cartwright entered the terminal to handle the rest of the formalities for their departure. He moved straight to the main desk. An airport official in a jacket and tie looked up at his approach. “Welcome to Ostafyevo, Herr Wernicke.” He checked his watch. “Right on schedule, as always.”

Cartwright laughed. “We Germans are nothing if not precise,” he said in Teutonic-accented Russian.

“I hope your visit to our country was pleasant?” the Russian asked obsequiously. It was widely known that the Kremlin smiled on Tekhwerk, GmbH, thanks largely to its role in supplying otherwise-difficult-to-obtain Western high-technology equipment useful for both civil and military applications.

“Extremely pleasant,” Cartwright told him. “And very profitable.” He slid a folder across the desk. “I trust that you will find my shipping and customs paperwork in good order?”

With a pleased smile, the Russian smoothly pocketed the sealed envelope discreetly tucked away inside the folder. “Everything is in perfect form, Herr Wernicke,” the official assured him. “As always.” He checked a monitor on the desk. “In fact, your baggage is being loaded aboard the aircraft now. There should be no trouble with an on-time departure.”

“Even with this snow?” Cartwright asked. “I thought there might be a weather delay.”

The airport official’s smile widened. “All the runways have been thoroughly plowed and swept, Herr Wernicke. Remember, while you Germans may be the most punctual of all peoples, we Russians certainly know how to handle a few centimeters of snow.”

Not long afterward, Marcus Cartwright and David Jones lounged comfortably aboard a nine-passenger Dassault Falcon 50 corporate jet — flying west out of Russia. Behind them, in the aircraft’s baggage hold, a heavily sedated Igor Truznyev slept on, securely strapped inside a shipping crate.