The Sniper and the Wolf

46

More than half of the young Russian women rescued from the brothel in Istanbul had family waiting for them at the Domodedovo Airport southeast of Moscow when the plane landed shortly after sunrise. The women cheered the moment the wheels touched down and smothered both Gil and Dragunov with kisses upon deplaning.

The rescuers were not afforded the opportunity to see the women reunited with their loved ones, however. The Russian media had been invited to film the tearful reunions for propaganda purposes, and the Kremlin had given express orders for Gil and Dragunov to be kept away from the cameras. They were ushered immediately from the plane to a waiting blue and white Mi-8 helicopter, which lifted off the moment the door was closed.

The Mi-8 was a large military model, but there was nothing military about the luxurious interior. Gil sat across a table from Dragunov, facing forward as they were served coffee and orange juice. “Something tells me this isn’t standard treatment,” he said dryly.

Dragunov sat looking pensively out the window. “This is Putin’s personal helicopter.”

Gil glanced around. “You’re kidding me.”

The Russian looked at him. “I would never joke about Putin.”

“Well, you don’t have much of a sense of humor, anyhow. Where are we going?”

Dragunov asked the Russian sergeant who had served their coffee. “We’re going to the Kremlin.”

“What do you think that means?”

“I don’t know, but what it does not mean is that they intend to pin medals to our chests, I can assure you of that. Your people must have contacted Moscow before we boarded the plane in Istanbul. They were too well prepared for us at the airport.”

Gil grinned. “Washington likes to keep things tidy with you guys. You’re too touchy.”

Dragunov was agitated by Gil’s lightheartedness. “You still don’t understand, do you? This is Russia.”

“I understand that, Ivan, but what do you want me to do about it? Sit over here pissing myself? What’s gonna happen is gonna happen.”

“That’s an easy attitude for you to take,” Dragunov said irritably, looking out the window again.

Gil realized for the first time that Dragunov was legitimately spooked. “What are you so worried about? You weren’t this rattled when we had people shooting at us.”

Dragunov turned toward him again. “Do you think Putin would send his personal helicopter for a lowly major returning from a failed mission?” He shook his head. “This helicopter is for you. It has nothing to do with me. You’re probably going to be treated like a celebrity. I’m going to be demoted and tossed into an infantry brigade. I’ll probably be in Ukraine before tomorrow night. My career is ruined because of this!” He swore foully in Russian and asked the sergeant if there was any vodka aboard.

The sergeant produced a bottle of Russian Standard vodka from a small refrigerator and poured the major a drink.

A short time later, Gil saw looming in the distance the five gold onion domes of the Dormition Cathedral located within the walls of the Kremlin. “It’s an awesome sight, Ivan.”

For a moment, Dragunov seemed to forget his concerns, moving around to Gil’s side of the table and pointing out the window to the northwest. “There near the horizon is the town of Khimki, where we stopped the Nazis in December of ’41 — barely eight kilometers outside of Moscow.”

Gil converted the distance in his head to just shy of five miles.

Within a minute, they buzzed past the multicolored onion domes of St. Basil’s Cathedral located just outside of the Kremlin near Red Square. Seconds later, they were over the landing threshold of the Kremlin helipad, constructed two years earlier in the southeast corner of the Kremlin compound. Russian presidential motorcades were infamous for causing traffic jams, and President Putin had ditched his Mercedes limousine in 2013 in favor of faster, less obtrusive transportation.

The Kremlin — meaning “fortress” — had been constructed over a period of thirteen years from 1482 to 1495 and covered almost twenty-eight acres in the heart of the city. It was surrounded by a defensive brick wall more than a mile in circumference, ranging in height from sixteen to sixty-two feet, and in thickness from eleven to twenty-one feet.

The sergeant opened the helo door, and they stepped down the short staircase to the pad, where they were received by a large contingent of Russian military personnel. Winter had not yet relinquished its grip on the city, and though there was no snow on the ground, it was still cold enough to see everyone’s breath.

“Major Dragunov,” said a stern-looking Spetsnaz colonel, “you will come with me.”

Dragunov saluted, responding, “Yes, sir!” He turned to offer Gil his hand. “In case we never see each other again.”

Gil matched his grip. “It’s been a privilege, Major. I’m sorry we missed our man.”

Dragunov smiled a melancholy smile. “Perhaps next time, eh?”

Gil watched as he was led away toward the western part of the fortress, accompanied by eight armed Spetsnaz soldiers.

“Master Chief Shannon?” said another Russian colonel in nearly perfect-sounding English. “I am Colonel Savcenko. I will be your interpreter during your stay here at the Kremlin.”

Gil saluted the colonel at once. “I am at your orders, sir.”

The colonel returned the salute. “If you will follow me, please?”

“Of course, sir.”

They were escorted northward by no fewer than a dozen armed soldiers toward a large building referred to as the State Kremlin Palace.

“How was your flight from Istanbul, Master Chief?”

“A little tense at times,” Gil replied, his hands in his pockets against the cold. “The girls have all been severely traumatized. I don’t think they believed they were really coming home until the wheels were on the ground.”

“They’ll be well taken care of,” the colonel said. “May I ask you for the passport you were issued in Paris?”

“Yes, sir.” Gil took the passport from his coat pocket and gave it to the colonel, who passed it off to a major, who tucked it away inside his own coat. “Is my government aware of my arrival, sir?”

“I believe so,” the colonel said. “I’m told someone from your embassy will call on you this evening. Before that, the president would like a private word with you over an early lunch — if you’re feeling up to it.”

Gil cleared his throat. “President Putin, sir?”

The colonel met his gaze. “Will that be all right with you, Master Chief?”

“Absolutely, sir. I’m just a little shocked the president of Russia would bother meeting with a virtual nobody such as myself.”

The colonel smiled and continued walking. “You give yourself too little credit, Master Chief. You’re a very accomplished soldier. We have been following your career rather closely here in Moscow over the past eighteen months — ever since your mission into Iran last year.”

Gil went on alert. “I’ve never been to Iran, Colonel. I’m afraid you have me confused with someone else.”

The colonel laughed. “Perhaps we do.”

They walked along in silence the final few yards to the Kremlin Palace, where Gil was led inside and shown to a small suite. The room was much like a hotel room, but instead of a bed, there was a black leather sofa.

“I assume you would like an opportunity to shower and change your clothes before your meeting with the president.”

“Very much so,” Gil said. “Thank you, Colonel.”

“There is a change of clothes in the closet. I’ll return for you in half an hour.”

Savcenko stepped out, pulling the door to, and Gil dropped down on the sofa, stretching his arms across the back of it and extending his legs. “Holy shit,” he muttered. “Six hours ago, I was in a Turkish whorehouse, and now here I sit in the fucking Kremlin getting ready to break bread with Stalin Junior. My wife would never believe this.”