The Emperor's Revenge (The Oregon Files) Page 4

  After a minute, she said, “Reprogramming complete.”

  “That’s my girl,” Golov said. He turned in his seat to face Munier, who was sandwiched between O’Connor and Sirkal, Antonovich’s most trusted security operatives.

  Rahul Sirkal had gained combat experience in the Indian military during the Kashmir conflict before joining the intelligence service, then retired five years ago to build a private security business. Though Antonovich was Russian, he had traveled the world extensively, so he didn’t limit himself to hiring from Russia alone. He’d come across Sirkal during a particularly troublesome negotiation with his Bangalore subsidiary and was so impressed that he hired the Indian to head up his own security team.

  Seamus O’Connor, a florid Irishman and a veteran of the Irish Republican Army, was Sirkal’s weapons expert who didn’t mind getting his hands dirty when the need arose. He was the brawler to complement Sirkal’s technical approach.

  Sitting between them, Munier looked decidedly apprehensive.

  “I want to remind you that we will be watching and listening at all times,” Golov said to Munier.

  Ivana turned the laptop’s screen toward him to show her and Golov, as seen from the wide-angle lapel camera on Munier’s jacket.

  Munier nodded. “I understand.”

  “If we lose the signal for more than three seconds, or we don’t see your hands in the frame for a similar amount of time, we will assume that you are attempting to reveal our involvement. Not only will we detonate the tiny explosive in the camera but your family will suffer before they die.”

  “I said I understand.” Munier glanced around the parking lot. “And the guards inside? What are you going to do to them, once you’re in?”

  “What do you think?”

  “I . . . I can’t . . .”

  “You can if you want your wife and children to live.”

  Munier composed himself and nodded again.

  “You have five minutes,” Golov said.

  Munier got out and went to the elevator.

  Ivana had the ultra-light laptop propped on her knees. The image coming from the lapel camera was clear, and they could distinctly hear Munier’s ragged breathing.

  “Don’t hyperventilate,” Golov said into his microphone. “You’re supposed to look natural. Don’t leave the elevator until you compose yourself.”

  “All right,” Munier replied, and his breathing slowed enough so that he no longer sounded like he was about to pass out from nervousness.

  The elevator dinged, and Munier walked into the bank’s lobby. He was met by a uniformed guard, coming out of the security office.

  The guard spoke to him in French. Ivana, who was fluent in four languages, translated for Golov.

  “Munier called him André. He’s surprised to see Munier there.”

  “He doesn’t look too happy about it, either,” Golov said.

  “He was probably about to watch the race and is embarrassed he missed the arrival of Munier’s car in the garage. He doesn’t seem suspicious.”

  Munier spoke again. The guard nodded and ducked into the security office next to the lobby.

  “He went to get another guard named François. Munier told him that his driver was having a problem with the car and needed their help.”

  Golov smiled. “He’s good at following a script.”

  The plan was going exactly as he’d drawn it up. Golov’s command before Antonovich hired him to captain the Achilles was a Ukrainian frigate named the Poltava. He’d been trained by the Soviet Navy before the breakup of the USSR and then transferred to the newly christened navy of his native Ukraine. He’d become one of Ukraine’s preeminent naval strategists and was about to be recommended for a star in the admiralty. Then the Crimea crisis occurred. Russia annexed the entire peninsula and took over the Ukraine naval base at Sevastopol. Many of Ukraine’s best ships were seized, including the Poltava.

  Golov had been reprimanded for letting his ship be confiscated, instead of sailing it out before the Russians could take it, and his career was effectively over.

  An ex-pat Russian, Antonovich found a kindred spirit in Golov. Both of them despised the current leadership in Moscow. Antonovich had needed someone with Golov’s skills to command a yacht with the Achilles’s unique capabilities, so it had been a perfect match.

  Now Golov was able to apply his planning skills to even more interesting work.

  The two guards returned from the security office, never questioning the bank president’s request for them to leave their post and accompany him to the garage.

  Golov and the three others exited the SUV and took positions on either side of the elevator. Sirkal and O’Connor had their Glock pistols leveled.

  The elevator dinged when it arrived at garage level, and Munier led the guards out. When they were clear of the door, Golov said, “Bonjour.”

  As the guards turned toward the voice, Sirkal shot André twice in the chest, then François.

  Munier sobbed at the sight of them collapsing.

  “Your family or them,” Golov reminded him.

  O’Connor and Sirkal made sure the two guards were dead, then dragged their bodies to the back of the SUV and dumped them inside. Sirkal tossed the Glock in as well.

  Golov nodded in satisfaction. “Let’s go.”

  O’Connor shoved Munier into the elevator and they rode up to the lobby. The elevator camera had a good shot of all of them, but it wouldn’t matter now that the guards were no longer monitoring it.

  Munier’s lavish office was at the rear of the marble lobby. Once they were inside, Ivana took a seat in his chair at the computer terminal.

  “Thumb, please,” she said.

  Munier sighed and put his thumb on the reader.

  “Password.”

  He typed it in, then leaned close to the desk. His right hand casually dropped to its surface.

  “Don’t even think about pressing the silent alarm,” Golov said when he noticed Munier’s fingers edging under the desk. “Your family would be dead before the police could arrive.”

  Munier snatched his hand away as if the desk were on fire.

  “I wasn’t,” he said unconvincingly.

  “I’m sure.”

  With the computer system now wide open thanks to Munier’s biometric access, Sirkal and O’Connor pulled him back.

  “This is pointless,” Munier said. “The vault is on a time lock until nine o’clock tomorrow morning, and that computer doesn’t even control it. I can’t open it no matter what you do to me or how much you threaten my family.”

  “We don’t want your money,” Golov said.

  Munier looked at him bewildered. “You don’t?” Comprehension dawned on him. “You’re going to transfer our depositors’ funds?”

  “You are so very close. We needed a hard connection to your internal servers. After hackers repeatedly gained access to bank servers, security at every bank, including yours, was stepped up, and firewalls became impossible to breach from outside. But we’re not here to transfer money.”

  “If you’re not stealing money, then why kill all these people and take such a big risk?”

  Golov considered telling Munier the entire plan just to show how clever he was, but that would be bragging. Golov preferred to let his work speak for itself. Munier would never know the whole story, but the depositors would know soon enough.

  “Your bank’s shareholders are going to have a very bad day tomorrow” was all he would say.

  After ten minutes, Ivana announced, “The virus is uploaded and operating. It should be done in a few hours. I have to say it’s some of my best work.”

  While humility was one of Golov’s traits, Ivana, like most hackers, was an incorrigible show-off.

  “Excellent,” he said. “Then let’s take care of the cameras.”

/>   She logged out, and they all went into the security guards’ observation room. She rapidly found the files she wanted and deleted everything except the segment showing Munier talking to André and then leading both guards to the garage.

  With the videos edited, they went back to Munier’s office.

  “Well, we’re almost done here,” Golov said, and turned to Ivana. “Are we ready?”

  She nodded. “Everything is set up. The car is waiting outside.”

  “I suppose this is when you kill me,” Munier said, sounding resigned to his fate.

  “Not exactly,” Golov said. “We have other plans for you.”

  “But you promised that my family—” Munier protested.

  Golov put up his hands to calm him. “You’ve done what I asked and your family will remain unharmed. But it’s not going to be that easy for you, Mr. Munier. You have one more job to do.”

  To Munier’s shock, Golov walked past him, reached under the desk, and pressed the button to trip the silent alarm.

  FIVE

  ALGERIA

  “I found a body!”

  The shout came from one of Nazari’s men. They’d been digging at the side of the plane for a half hour, trying to find a way into the bomb bay. The bomb bay was directly under the wing roots, which they’d revealed early in the dig.

  They had also uncovered the canopy, and none of the three officers who’d been aboard the plane were inside. It was likely all three had survived the crash. A dead man would have been left in his seat while the others waited outside for rescue.

  When the Egyptian made his discovery, everyone else stopped digging and rushed to see what he’d found.

  Only the head was visible. Even though it had been there nearly sixty years, the mummified features were plainly visible. The skin was stretched and dried, exposing the teeth and empty eye sockets in a gruesome expression. Hair still covered the head.

  It was the obvious place for them to find remains. Anyone who’d stayed with the aircraft instead of wandering into the desert would have taken refuge in the shade of the immense wing, which had been sheared off fifteen feet from the fuselage but still provided protection from the intense midday sun.

  They all scooped sand away from the corpse to uncover a green U.S. Air Force flight suit. The bars on his shoulder indicated he was a captain. The patch underneath read 369th Bomb Squadron. The name on the man’s chest patch was Robert Hodgin.

  Further digging revealed the mummified corpse was still holding a logbook. Nazari removed it roughly from the desiccated hand, flipped through it, and tossed it to Juan.

  “Translate that.”

  The logbook indicated that Hodgin was the aircraft commander. All of the entries leading up to March 10, 1956, were standard status reports about fuel, heading, and aircraft condition.

  On March 11, Hodgin’s script suddenly became the less confident scrawl of a man in desperate straits. While Juan translated into Arabic, Eddie and Linc read the English over his shoulder. The date and precise military time preceded each entry.

  March 11, 0905: Ten minutes before rendezvous for midair refueling, aircraft suffered a catastrophic malfunction when struck by lightning during descent through clouds. Navigation and communication systems knocked out by electrical surge. Hydraulics still functional, but control panel magnetized by the lightning strike. Compass useless. Thought we had turned west toward Morocco but realize now that we had headed south. When fuel ran out, there was enough moonlight for a controlled descent in desert.

  Captain Gordon Insley, our navigator, and my copilot, Second Lieutenant Ronald Kurtz, were both uninjured in the crash. I must have torn something in my knee, making it impossible for me to walk for very long. Our emergency beacon was also damaged by the lightning. None of us can pinpoint our location. We will wait for rescue here.

  March 12, 0813: Our emergency rations are limited. Only enough water for two days, and that’s stretching it. Now I know why we took that survival course, but the Montana wilderness was never this hot. To stave off boredom while we wait, I had Insley and Kurtz check to see the status of our cargo. The carrying cases for the nuclear cores are still intact and the seals tight. No chance of a leak. At least we won’t die of radiation poisoning.

  The scrawl of Hodgin’s writing was getting increasingly shaky. Juan continued to translate.

  March 12, 2128: As hot as it is in the daytime, it’s even colder at night. None of us expected that in the Sahara. We have our flight jackets, and when the wind becomes merciless, we get back under cover of the canopy. But sleeping only happens in the twilight of dawn and sundown when the temp is mild. Sand is everywhere.

  March 13, 1053: Our eyes are starting to get bad. Hard to write. Blisters all over our faces from the wind and sun. Wearing helmets helps.

  Where are you guys? We keep looking for signs of an air search, but we haven’t seen a thing. We have our flares ready.

  March 14, 1134: It seems clear that rescue isn’t coming. I’ve sent Insley and Kurtz to look for help, heading due north. Hopefully, they’ll run across a road or town. If they keep walking long enough, we know they’ll hit the Mediterranean, but how far is that?

  March 14, 1945: I thought I knew what it felt like to be alone, but I was wrong. Now I know.

  March 15, 0717: I’ve been out of water for ten hours now. I gave most of my supply to Insley and Kurtz for their journey. Food is gone, too, not that I could eat. My mouth is as dry as this sand.

  Even though it’s only been a day, I have to assume they won’t be coming back. At least, not in time. I hope they make it.

  March 16, 0856: So thirsty. Don’t know if I can make it through another day. Tell my wife and boys I love them.

  March 17, 1129: So thirsty.

  “That’s it,” Juan said, smoothly pocketing the logbook. He could only imagine the pain, desperation, and loneliness Hodgin must have gone through. Who knows how far Insley and Kurtz got before they succumbed to the elements.

  Nazari didn’t seem moved at all by Hodgin’s suffering. “Now we know that the cases are still intact. Keep digging so we can get into the bomb bay.” He checked his satellite phone, then gestured at two men. “Come with me.”

  Juan looked at Eddie and Linc, then back at Nazari. “Where are you going?”

  “Why is that your business?”

  “Well, we’ve just found out that we’re going to be digging out nuclear weapon cores. I just wanted to know if there are any other surprises you haven’t shared with us.”

  Nazari stroked his beard in thought before speaking. “Al-Qaeda in the Islamic Maghreb wants this recovery as much as we do. They also know the location of this airplane and crossed over the Algerian border from Libya yesterday. We don’t know the size of their force, but they should be coming from the east. I’m going to that escarpment to scout for any signs that they are getting close.” He pointed at a bluff about three miles away.

  “We should all go,” Juan said, “in case we need to engage them.”

  “No. You five keep digging.”

  Juan was protesting for the sake of appearances. In reality, he liked the improved balance of forces. It would be him, Linc, and Eddie against Nazari’s remaining two soldiers.

  With his two men, Nazari walked toward a Scorpion, the number 3 dune buggy that was parked closest to the B-47. But instead of getting into the passenger seat, he hopped up into the top seat behind the .50 caliber machine gun. He swung the barrel so that it was pointed at Juan and racked the bolt.

  “Drop your weapons!” Nazari yelled.

  Juan exchanged surprised glances with Eddie.

  Linc looked coiled to go on the attack. “I’m pretty sure I don’t need a translation to know what he just said.”

  Juan put up his hands. “What are you doing?”

  Nazari didn’t blink. “I said drop them.”

&nbs
p; Juan nodded, and they did as they were told. Linc reluctantly unslung the AK-47 from his back, and Juan and Eddie unslung theirs slowly and threw them to the ground. Nazari’s men grabbed the guns and backed up, piling them on the hood of Scorpion 3.

  “Now that you know what we’ve come for,” Nazari said as he gestured for one of his soldiers to take his place at the machine gun, “you might get it into your heads to sell the nuclear cores for yourself.” He jumped down as another of his men climbed up and took position behind the .50 caliber M2.

  “If you don’t trust us,” Juan said, “why did you hire us?”

  “Because you had the only means to get us here before the Libyans. And since I need to go see if they are anywhere close, I can’t leave you with three-to-two odds. As I mentioned, you seem to be a man who will do what it takes to get the mission done.”

  “Your mission is the same as my mission.” Both the truth and a lie, depending on how you parsed the phrase.

  “Maybe. But I can’t take that chance when we’re so close. If you keep digging, I’ll let you live. If you try anything, Hasim is to kill you without hesitation.” He glanced at the man on the machine gun, who nodded, and then turned back to Juan. “Do you understand?”

  Juan backed up and picked up one of the shovels. “Of course.” Eddie and Linc followed his lead and lifted two more shovels. They started digging, joined by Nazari’s other soldier. Hasim stayed at his post behind the machine gun, his hands resting on the vertical spade grips, his thumb on the trigger.

  Nazari and the other two soldiers got in Scorpion 1.

  “I hate to point this out,” Eddie said, “but Nazari is taking our ride.”