The Patriot Paradox Read online

  “Come back to bed, Alexy,” the woman purred when she realized he was watching. Oksana, and everyone else in Moscow for that matter, knew him as Alexy Katadin, a wealthy expat businessman with money to burn and a bone to pick with the Moscow government. She lifted the sheets to give him a look at what he was missing, then ran a hand down her milky-white thigh and into the damp patch between her legs in a not-so-subtle invitation.

  For a brief moment, Fish considered going another round with her, but truth be told, he was sore from fucking all night. More importantly, he had things to do. He and Magamod Gasanov had a meeting in two hours.

  “Not now, Oksana,” he said in flawless Russian. “Maybe later.” She pouted for a moment, and then slipped from the bed and padded off toward the bathroom. Fish couldn’t help but admire her perfect ass as she walked away from him. It was her best feature, after all. He felt a slight stirring in his loins. Maybe I should fuck her again, he considered. Then he shook his head, turned, and took another drag.

  The toilet flushed, and Fish turned back to watch Oksana emerge from the bathroom. She looked different. She had brushed her hair and scrubbed the sleep from her face.

  She came to him and draped her arms around his neck, fingernails teasing the skin at the base of his neck. She pressed her naked body against his. He felt himself twitch, but pushed her away. “I said, not now.” He couldn’t fault her for trying. He had promised her an enormous bonus for her services after all.

  She put her hands on his cheeks, and then leaned in and pecked him on the lips. “Okay then. I will go.”

  Fish said nothing. His thoughts were already on his meeting with the Chechen.

  Oksana went to the bed and scooped up her clothes. She slipped into her cocktail dress and pulled on her shoes, somehow making even such a simple motion look seductive. Her panties went into her purse. With one last smile, she let herself out of the apartment.

  As the door clicked shut, Fish made for the shower. Oksana, unfortunately, would be his last dalliance before the big event. After his meeting with Gasanov, things would move very fast. His job for the day was to ensure the device was in place and that the Chechens understood how to operate it, then to get the hell out of town. He had a seven o’clock flight to Madrid, from where he planned to watch the fireworks. The bomb was set to detonate less than forty-eight hours from now.

  The timing of the explosion was far from random. Fish had used every negotiating tactic in his book to convince the Chechens to wait until the sixteenth of July, the day when the entire leadership of the Russian Federation was in Moscow. Impatient bastards.

  He scrubbed himself, washing Oksana’s scent from his body. The hot water drilled needles in his back as he ran through a mental checklist. He finished his shower and stepped out, grabbing a thick terrycloth towel from the heated rack to dry himself.

  Then he returned to his bedroom where he pulled a shiny black suit, a black shirt, and a pair of polished snakeskin cowboy boots from the closet. It was a carefully crafted image, designed to both intimidate and impress.

  He dressed quickly, finishing off the uniform by slicking his hair back and wrapping a chunky Rolex Submariner around his right wrist. He did a quick turn in the mirror. Satisfied, he went to the bedside stand and retrieved his mobile phone. His meeting with Gasanov wasn’t scheduled to start for another hour. Plenty of time.

  Fish scanned the room one last time, and then headed for the door. This place, like most everything else in his life, was disposable. He had lived in the apartment for a little over two months. It was completely off the agency books, unknown even to Jack. That type of discretion was necessary when operating this far undercover. Even his agency phone, with its built-in beacon, was kept powered off when he got within a five-block radius of the building. In the event that something went wrong, he needed the ability to walk away, to deny any involvement if the shit hit the fan.

  Fish took the elevator to the ground floor and exited into the secure basement, where he kept his black Mercedes E350. Twenty minutes later, he pulled up to a decrepit warehouse a few blocks from the Lubyanka prison in north-central Moscow. The warehouse was four-stories tall, covered in rust, and appeared abandoned from the exterior.

  Almost before his tires stopped moving, a two-story door trundled open on rusty wheels. Fish blipped the gas, squirting through the door and into the cavernous space. Behind him, the doors rolled shut again, casting him into darkness.

  He pulled forward a few yards, and then killed the ignition.

  He saw four men. He knew that there were at least four more. That was how Magamod Gasanov worked. All of the men carried guns and had the bored, yet lethal, expression Fish had come to expect from private military contractors.

  Fish took a deep breath and pasted a wide smile on his face. He opened the door and hoisted his bulk from the car.

  Sixteen

  Magamod Gasanov emerged from a dim room at the far end of the warehouse and strode toward Fish. The heels of his boots clicked on the oil-stained concrete like a woodpecker on crack. “Alexy!”

  At a hair over five-feet tall and a hundred and twenty pounds soaking wet, Gasanov looked more like an over-excited schoolboy than a battle-hardened Chechen rebel.

  That was at a distance. Up close, it was an entirely different story. Bat-shit crazy about summed him up, Fish had decided long ago. Gasanov had a mysterious air about him that inspired fierce loyalty from his friends and an almost paralyzing fear from his enemies, of which he had many. Something wasn’t right with him, something at the very core of his being. Looking into his eyes was like staring into a dark cave on a moonless night.

  Gasanov had earned his reputation as a field commander during the second Chechen war in 1999. Once the fighting ended, and the Chechen drive for independence crumbled, he shifted focus and used his new influence to seize control of the majority of the criminal enterprises in his region, expanding his holdings to include arms trafficking, opium—mostly from Afghanistan—and prostitution. He also dabbled in low-level terrorism for hire, contracting his seasoned fighters to assist in the fight against the Americans in both Afghanistan and Pakistan. He was personally responsible for a large portion of the infamous foreign fighters present during the Iraq conflict.

  Fish put a smile on his face and took a few steps forward, meeting Gasanov halfway. He slipped into his best Russian, and said “Privet.”

  Gasanov beamed, his tight little weasel teeth gleaming in the fluorescent light from above. “My friend!” he responded, in English. He put a hand on Fish’s elbow, guiding him toward an enormous wooden crate.

  “It is here,” Gasanov said with a gleam in his eye. “I wanted to give you the honor of unwrapping our little present.” He’s like a kid on Christmas morning, Fish thought. He had never seen this side of the warlord before. Fish opened his mouth to protest, but Gasanov held up his hand.

  “I insist. It is only fair that you participate in this momentous occasion. After all, we would not be here without your hard work.”

  Fish smiled a tight, efficient grin.

  Gasanov nodded, then picked up a long pry bar leaning against the crate and handed it to Fish. He picked up a second one for himself.

  Five minutes later, the men had broken the entire crate away, revealing a battered metal box within. The box was eight feet long by four feet wide by three feet tall, olive green, and liberally stenciled in yellow Cyrillic glyphs. The universal symbol for radiation was plastered conspicuously on each side. Three bulky metal latches lined the edge closest to the men, with an additional latch on each end.

  Gasanov wasted no time bending to the latches and undoing them one by one. Fish held his breath while Gasanov lifted the cover of the box. The two closest guards, cradling Kalashnikovs, took an involuntary step forward, unable to resist the mystery.

  There it was.

  Five feet long and cone-shaped, the warhead, a 150-kiloton Russian SS-20, was nestled in dense black protective foam. A sheaf of manuals and sever
al bundles of wires hung from inside the lid of the crate.

  “Pytor!” Gasanov barked. A nervous-looking man of about seventy shuffled forward and peered at the device. Fish hadn’t met him before.

  “Acceptable?” Gasanov asked in Russian.

  The old man extracted a Geiger counter and waved it over the weapon, checking the meter and making notes on a small note pad as he did so. He unscrewed a plate on the top center of the device and examined some internal electronics with a small handheld computer.

  He hummed while he worked, some sort of Russian folk tune.

  The inspection took less than five minutes. When he was done, Pytor gestured at Gasanov with his hand, and then took a step back, waiting for his next instruction.

  “Very good.” Gasanov reached out to touch the bomb, running his hands along the sleek metal housing and down to the tip. He turned to his other men and dismissed them with a curt wave. They broke apart and returned to their posts.

  Turning to Fish, Gasanov continued in English, “Come. Let us get a drink to celebrate,” as he strode toward the room he had come from. As Fish followed, he cast a quick glance over his shoulder and noticed that the old man had returned to the bomb.

  “Close the door,” Gasanov said, motioning at him with a bottle of Vodka held in his left hand. Fish did as he was told, then settled in a hard plastic chair across the desk from Gasanov. Gasanov popped the top from the Vodka. Swedish.

  He poured out two glasses and pushed one across the desk. “To the future,” Gasanov said with a sly grin.

  “Salyut,” Fish responded.

  Gasanov grimaced as he took the vodka in one shot. He chased it with a second, while Fish stuck to one.

  Gasanov then opened a laptop sitting on his desk and turned the screen so Fish could see it. “Now, it’s time to complete this transaction.”

  On the screen, Fish saw the logo for the Royal Bank of Dubai. Gasanov pressed Transfer, and in a flash, fifty million Euros disappeared from his account balance.

  Fish suppressed a smile. This was the second and final payment for the device. Twenty million was his. Twenty went to Jack, and the rest covered operational costs. He considered his share his severance package from the Agency.

  His phone vibrated, startling him. He held up his hand, stopping Gasanov. “Just a second.” He pulled out his phone and opened his email. There were three new messages. He only cared about the first. He had arranged for his bankers to send him an email when deposits over one million Euros occurred. This mail showed fifty million.

  Satisfied, he closed the phone and slid it back into his pocket. “I believe our business is done then,” he said, allowing a small smile.

  “Yes. Yes it is,” Gasanov agreed with a grin of his own. “I recommend you get as far away from this city as you can in the next day. I expect the weather conditions will become rather unfavorable.” He chuckled at his own joke, then winked.

  “I understand. If you need any further assistance...”

  The laugh died in Gasanov’s throat. His eyes narrowed. “That won’t be necessary. Pytor can handle things from here. He was in the Strategic Rocket Forces, you know?”

  Fish raised an eyebrow. This was news to him. “I trust you have plans for your men?” Fish added. He didn’t like it that Gasanov’s men had seen his face. Standard procedure would be to eliminate them.

  “That is not your concern.”

  Fish felt his face grow hot. It was most definitely his concern. “I respectfully disagree with you on that point.”

  “Don’t worry. I will take care of it. There will be no… how do the Americans say it? Loose strings.”

  Fish blinked. “Good.” He would have to trust Gasanov for the moment.

  “In that case…” Fish got up and turned for the door. “I have some business to attend to before I leave town.”

  “I’ll escort you out.” They walked briskly across the warehouse to Fish’s car, and Fish left without another word.

  As he rounded the first corner, he pulled his phone from his pocket and activated the internal encryption mechanism before punching in Jack’s number.

  ~~~

  In the spot where Fish’s car had been parked, Gasanov stood stock still, staring at his wrist. The second hand swept around the dial, approaching six minutes since Fish’s departure.

  With ten seconds left, he reached into his coat pocket and extracted a small black box with a white button on the top. He waited for the second hand to hit twelve, then he depressed the button and held his breath.

  He imagined the scene: A small light would pulse underneath Fish’s car. A millisecond later, an electrical charge would jump the six inches between the radio transceiver and a blasting cap stuck deep into a two-kilogram block of Semtex strapped to his axle.

  The explosion would vaporize Fish, along with his car and a section of the road about three feet deep and twelve feet in diameter. A roiling cloud of smoke would be the only evidence he had ever existed.

  Gasanov smiled as he felt the slight rumble reach him. He turned to Pytor. “Excellent work as usual, my old friend.”

  Pytor just grunted. He was neck-deep in the bomb. It was quite a bit more complex than the device he had wired to the axle of the big Mercedes.

  As for the money, it was immaterial. The bomb was priceless.

  Seventeen

  Amanda drove north on Finborough Road, hurtling along well over the speed limit. Upon reaching Redcliffe Square, she hung a hard left and pulled into a parking spot with a screech of her tires. She didn’t kill the ignition. Instead, she unclipped a set of keys and handed them to Kurt.

  “The blue one,” she said, nodding out his window.

  He was confused until he followed her gaze and realized she was talking about a townhouse. “You’re not coming?”

  She shook her head. “No. You’ll be safe here. Make yourself at home.”

  “I don’t know…”

  “Kurt, please. I’ll be back as soon as I can. Don’t answer the door. Don’t make any calls. In fact, give me your cell phone.”

  After turning over his phone, he opened the door and stepped from the car. He paused, his hand on the roof, and leaned back in. “Are you sure?”

  “Yes.” She looked up and down the street. “Now get inside.”

  He shut the door and took a step back. With a mash of gears, Amanda disappeared down the narrow street.

  He shrugged and headed for the townhouse. The building was old, yet appeared well maintained, with fresh paint on the exterior and decorative landscaping in most of the small yards. A set of four narrow stairs led up to the glossy black front door.

  Of the two keys Amanda had given him, only one fit the lock. He went inside and checked out the ground floor. The interior was ultra-modern, with several large windows, blond Ikea-style furniture, and tasteful decorations. Something was missing, though. Something he couldn’t put his finger on... Then he realized what it was; it didn’t feel as if anyone lived there. There was no mail on the counter, no dishes in the sink, no sign anyone ever used the kitchen.

  Either this woman is a complete neat freak, or—I don’t know, he admitted to himself. It didn’t make sense. Frustrated, he made his way back to the living room and took a seat on one of the sleek leather couches bracketing a glass coffee table.

  He leaned his head back, intending to get his thoughts in order, and closed his eyes.

  Just a minute, He thought. Until I figure things out.

  Then he was out.

  ~~~

  Amanda pulled into the underground garage of a squat, steel and glass building. She had to go down two levels before finding a free spot.

  As she got out of the Mini, she patted her pocket, verifying the memory card was still there. She made her way across the garage to the elevator, a small three-person affair, pressed the Up button, and waited.

  It didn’t take long. The doors opened with a bong, and she stepped inside. She studied the control panel. There. A microphone. Abov
e the buttons. She leaned in close. “Nigel. It’s Amanda.”

  After a brief wait, the elevator lurched into motion. Amanda felt a slight twinge of guilt at leaving Kurt behind, but she needed to move fast, and she didn’t feel like answering his questions. Not yet, at least. That would come later, after she had met with Nigel.

  The elevator chimed, and the doors slid open, revealing a sun-drenched room that stretched the entire length of the building. It was Amanda’s first time here since Nigel Hawthorne had purchased the entire ninth floor two years earlier. “Nigel?” she called out as she stepped from the elevator.

  Behind her, the doors snicked shut. She heard a low electric hum that appeared to be growing louder, and a moment later, Nigel Hawthorne zoomed into view from behind a rack of computer servers, his custom-built wheelchair skidding to a stop only inches from her feet.

  At first glance, Nigel looked nothing like a computer hacker. He had a full head of sandy-blond hair, piercing green eyes, and an easy grin on his wide face. His arms were huge, ropy and solid. It wasn’t until she looked below his waist that the picture changed. A light fleece blanket covered his withered, useless legs.

  At forty-two, Nigel had been in a wheelchair for only seven years, the result of a tragic rock climbing accident in the Pyrenees. By all rights, he should have died in the fall when he plummeted over a hundred feet after a handhold broke loose. Instead, he had spent nearly a year in the hospital recovering from a broken back, and he was now a paraplegic.

  “How are you?” he asked, opening his arms for a hug.

  Obliging him, Amanda leaned in for the hug, and then stepped back to take a better look at him. “You’re looking good, Nigel,” she said, meaning it. The last time they had met in person, he had recently completed physical therapy for his accident, and his outlook on life had been bitter.