Terror: Zeb Carter Series, Book 4 Read online

  Meghan, frowning, flicking her hair back, biting her lip unconsciously, fingers dancing on the keyboard.

  ‘Anything we can do?’

  ‘Stay away,’ Beth smirked and then her smile faded. ‘You see this, Meg?’

  ‘Yeah.’ Voice strained. Eyes wide. The elder sister looked up at Zeb. ‘There’s a self-destruct program running here. Countdown’s begun. Twenty seconds. Don’t know if there are explosives in the office.’

  Zeb was moving even before she had ended. Running past her office to the large windows on the wall. The first one, outside of which were their ropes.

  He reached down to his thighs and brought out a plastic explosive charge. Leaped up as high as he could and stuck it against the glass. Jammed a detonator in it as Bear and Bwana attached more charges.

  ‘Ten seconds.’ Beth called out.

  ‘Come on,’ Chloe shouted at them.

  A second more and then Meghan raced out of her office, closing her backpack, yanking Beth by the hand, urging her to run.

  ‘NOW!’ Zeb ordered and triggered the explosives.

  Flash of light. Dull sounds. Glass shattered and blew out until nothing stood between them and the night and then more explosions in the office, alarms going off, red flashes as the kill program spread throughout the floor.

  A body swept past Zeb. Meghan, her arms reaching out to the cable, gripping it and then she disappeared out of sight. Beth followed. Chloe. Bwana, Bear, Broker who thumped his shoulder as he leaped.

  ‘COME ON!’

  Zeb looked back one last time. Hollywood couldn’t have staged it better. A ball of fire raging in the office, sparks and flashes racing towards him as the desktops exploded, furniture burned. Water sprinklers had turned on but they were waging a losing battle.

  ‘ZEB!’ a cry reached him from far down below. He turned to the broken window, climbed on its ledge and reached out to the cable. Gripped it with his gloves and let his body-weight and gravity do the work.

  Down, sliding fast, past dark office windows and then the building seemed to tremble as an enormous explosion reached him. A shout alerted him. He looked up. Flames on his cable. It’s fire resistant was his first thought. But maybe the heat’s so intense it can’t hold out.

  He looked down. The ground was approaching fast. Five, or six more floors to go. He urged himself to go faster, felt the cable trembling in his hand and then it gave way and he was falling and made himself relax.

  He fell on top of his team who had chained their hands to break his fall. They collapsed from the force of his fall. Someone groaned. Broker.

  ‘Can we get a refund on that cable?’ Roger chuckled as he got to his feet and dusted himself off.

  Nothing broken, Zeb assessed himself swiftly. He caught Meghan’s hand, pulled her to her feet. Helped Beth rise. ‘Anyone injured?’

  ‘Nope,’ Bwana sighed, ‘but don’t make a habit of this.’

  ‘Let’s get out of here. This place will be crowded, soon.’

  As if on cue, more windows exploded on the building.

  Zeb joined the sisters who were ahead, racing towards their getaway vehicle.

  ‘You got something?’

  ‘We got something,’ Beth assured him.

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  ‘Hyde,’ Beth announced, later in the day.

  They had returned to their Arbat safe house, showered and climbed into bed. Regrouped when the sun was high in the sky and a warm summer day in Moscow beckoned.

  ‘Who or what’s that?’ Bwana mumbled; his mouth full. The remains of his breakfast on his plate. Operatives lounged in the living room. Meghan on a window sill, sunning herself.

  ‘We don’t know,’ she said. She went to her screen, punched the keyboard and turned the screen to them.

  It was blank.

  ‘What are we looking at?’ Broker asked softly.

  ‘This,’ she said bitterly. ‘Beth and I copied the hard drives from those machines. But there must’ve been a self-erasing program in them. As soon as we launched our machines, they destroyed everything in the files.

  Silence. A woman’s liquid laugh reached them through the open window.

  ‘Wait,’ she said on reading Zeb’s expression. ‘Like Beth said, there’s something or someone called Hyde that’s connected to these killings. There was a draft email, never sent. Happy with Hyde. In Russian.’

  ‘Who’s email?

  ‘Tverskoy’s’

  Zeb nodded. Writing draft emails and never sending them was one of the most secure ways of exchanging intel. If both sender and receiver had access to the same account.

  ‘That would mean someone else would know his login?’ Bear ventured.

  ‘Not necessarily. He could have composed it, copied and pasted it in another account.’

  ‘What else did you get from his account?’

  ‘A lot of detail about his criminal enterprise. But,’ she shrugged helplessly, pointing to the screen, ‘it’s all in our memories now.

  ‘What’s Hyde’s connection to the killings?’

  ‘There was one more line in that email. Did you see Dallas, Berlin and London?’

  Roger whistled. Bwana nodded grimly. What more proof was needed?

  ‘There’s more?’ Zeb asked.

  ‘Move the four to Ukraine. Immediately. That was from Tverskoy. Before the Berlin killing.’

  Bear went to the fruit basket and peeled an orange. He tossed another one to Bwana who caught it expertly. ‘I’m finding it hard to believe that the Russian mafia,’ he bit into the fruit and wiped his lips, ‘would use email for comms.’

  ‘One,’ Meghan held out a finger. ‘That office was more like a tech office. It’s where they ran their internet crimes from. Software programmers occupied it. People who are comfortable with email, online messengers and chat applications. Two,’ a second digit straightened. ‘That last message wasn’t an email. It was a voice recording. Their system automatically records incoming and outgoing calls and backs them to a server.’

  ‘Who did he call?’

  Her ponytail jumped when she shook her head. ‘No clue. We got the time stamp and his voice. That’s all.’

  ‘Ukraine?’ Broker turned to Zeb. ‘You know anything about that? I thought this gang operated only in Russia.’

  ‘No,’ Zeb replied. ‘But I know someone who does.’

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  ‘You came to my country. You attacked the Tverskoy gang. One floor on Naberezhnaya Tower, destroyed. Damage to other floors. That’s prime property in Moscow. AND YOU DIDN’T BOTHER TO TELL ME?’ Grigor Andropov crashed his fist on his table on the last words. The window rattled. A water bottle toppled. An aide poked his head through the door and withdrew it hastily when he sensed the temperature.

  Zeb remained seated, calm. Beth and Meghan beside him. The remaining operatives ranged behind, leaning against the wall, making the Russian’s office feel small. Who in that instant was only rage and fury.

  ‘Are you done?’ Zeb asked softly.

  ‘NO! DO YOU REALIZE WHAT YOU’VE DONE?’

  ‘Found a few answers to a heck of a lot of questions.’

  ‘I WAS TOLD TO STAY AWAY FROM TVERSKOY.’

  ‘No one told that to us,’ Bwana chewed his gum expressionlessly.

  Andropov glared at him balefully. Bwana stared back. For a moment Zeb thought the spymaster would lunge across the room and throttle his friend. It would be impossible but the Russian, even in his sixties, was supremely fit and could land some damage. He tensed, ready to spring up and intervene but Andropov seemed to subside. He ran a hand through his short, steel-grey hair.

  ‘Pizdets,’ he cursed. He came around the table and rested his butt against it.

  ‘What did you find?’ he growled.

  A small sigh of relief escaped Beth. She resumed from where she had left off, when Andropov had exploded.

  ‘A reference to Hyde.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘We don’t know.�
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  In English because the Russian was fluent in it and could even put on an American accent if needed.

  ‘And what’s the proof…that these have something to do with the killings? You saw the news?’ he snapped his head up and bored each operative with his eyes.

  They nodded. That morning, a Russian male had opened fire in Lubyanka Metro Station, killing three people, injuring seven others, before he was overpowered by other passengers. He had refused to answer any questions from the police and stubbornly maintained his silence.

  ‘They found his computer. He was a neo-Nazi,’ Andropov said bitterly. ‘He visited all those hate sites, was active in message boards.’

  ‘Loner?’ Meghan asked.

  ‘Da. It can’t be a coincidence.’

  ‘No. Can you share everything you’ve got? Contents of his hard drive, his internet history, phone records –’

  ‘I am not the police.’ he growled.

  ‘Come on,’ Meghan rolled her eyes. ‘You’re one of the most powerful men in Russia. You make a call and the entire police force will come running to help you.’

  ‘I wish it was as easy as that,’ he realized he was softening and thinned his lips. ‘I should refuse. Cooperation is a two-way street.’

  ‘Which is why we’re here.’

  ‘Back to your questions,’ Zeb intervened, ‘about proof. There was mention of Dallas and London, in what Beth and Meg saw.’

  Andropov was wearing a grey jacket, white shirt, dark trousers. Black shoes shined to mirror gloss. Standard attire for him. He looked like a businessman or a government worker. He seemed to deflate at Zeb’s words. Wearily removed his jacket and tossed it over his chair. Rolled his sleeves.

  'You'll get everything,’ he said in a clipped voice. ‘Ukraine? I know Tverskoy has a base there. Outside Chernihiv.’

  ‘That’s about two hours from Kiev?’

  ‘Da.’ He didn’t ask how Zeb knew the town. He knew the Agency’s methods. Every operative could speak several languages. World geography, large and small towns in various countries, especially the hotspots of the world, the operatives were familiar with small details.

  ‘He recruits there,’ Andropov continued. ‘Brings gunmen to Russia. His way of distancing himself if any of them are caught. Not me.’ He mimicked, ‘Those are Ukrainians. I am a proud Russian. Why would I employ them?’

  ‘That’s all he does? Recruitment?’

  ‘Nyet. Drugs. Women. Killing. He’s expanding in that country. And now you tell me he’s moved some tech people there…he’s probably running his internet crimes from there.’

  ‘How do you know this?’ Broker. Cream shirt, tan slacks, brown leather belt. As if he was coming off a modeling shoot.

  ‘It’s my business to know.’

  ‘But in Ukraine?’

  ‘Let’s just say I have an informer. Had.’ His face darkened. ‘He was killed in a fight with another gang.’

  ‘He was a gunman?’ Meghan asked surprised. ‘How did you turn him?’

  ‘Da. He wanted out. I found him one night, bleeding, on a street in Moscow. A drug deal had gone bad. The other gang members with him, they thought he was dead. They fled. I saw the opportunity. Nursed him back to health. No one knew. And he reciprocated. Now, he’s gone.’

  ‘They could have moved, Grigor,’ Zeb objected. ‘How old is this information?’

  ‘Three months. But they haven’t gone anywhere,' a sly look came over his face. ‘I visited Kiev last week, as a tourist. Tverskoy’s gang is there. Here!’

  He went to his desk, opened a cabinet and withdrew a packet of photographs. Passed it over to Meghan who spread them out.

  Close and long range shots of a farmhouse. A dusty track leading to it. Barren fields around it. A few vehicles.

  ‘That doesn’t look like a Mafia gang’s base,’ Chloe said doubtfully, as she held up one image.

  ‘This man,’ Andropov riffled through the photos and selected one. ‘Rapist, killer. Wanted in Moscow. He lives there. This one,’ he drew out another. ‘Gunman for the bratva. That man with the scar, a well-known Ukrainian drug runner. Has escaped arrest.’

  ‘Why didn’t you inform the Ukrainians?’

  ‘No!’ Grigor’s eyes burned. ‘Nikolai Tverskoy is mine. I will get him, one way or the other.’

  ‘They asked you to back off, didn’t they?’ Zeb pointed in the direction of the Kremlin.

  ‘Da. The call came from the highest level.’ He didn’t give any name and Zeb didn’t press him. ‘Tverskoy is the most dangerous mafia boss in Russia.’

  ‘Why?’ Bear asked curiously. ‘There are bigger gangs.’

  ‘Because he’s the smartest,’ Andropov said impatiently, as if it was obvious. ‘The other bratvas, their leaders…they are old school. Their enterprises are the same. Murder. Kidnapping. Drugs. Women. Nothing new. Tverskoy? He got into computer crime. He has hired some of the smartest programmers. Given them so much money that they don’t care if what they’re doing is illegal. He’s given them protection and he’s let them loose on the world. This,’ he jabbed a finger at the TV on the wall, ‘is the result.’

  He swung round to them, his eyes fierce. ‘I haven’t told this to anyone. Not even Clare, because I wanted to build evidence. You know why the Kremlin asked me to back off? It’s not for Tverskoy’s influence. Every bratva pakhan has that kind of influence. No. It’s for another reason.

  ‘What?’ Bwana asked.

  ‘I think he’s involved in your elections. In the meddling. The social media ads, the algorithms, his people are behind it.’

  Someone gasped. Beth. Meghan jerked instinctively. Zeb didn’t react. He watched his friend. Noted his anger, the rage simmering inside him.

  Andropov was proud of his country. He didn’t like the direction its political leaders were taking it. But in his position, he has to do what they say. Take down threats against the state, or stay away from particular actors. The election interference, that’s possible. All the investigation Stateside, it identified some companies, some people, who played a hand, but nothing came of that. The Kremlin denied any involvement. Grigor’s admission is the first link to the Russian Mafia. And all the gangs have political backing.

  ‘How sure are you, Grigor?’ he switched to Russian.

  ‘I don’t have proof. This is something I have put together. Listening. Cultivating snitches. I was going to come to you and Clare soon. But now, after what you’ve told me…it looks like Tverskoy has moved in a different direction.’

  He straightened. An air of command coming to him.

  ‘You’ll go to Ukraine?’

  ‘Da,’ Zeb replied.

  ‘What do you need?’

  Zeb looked at the photographs. At the farmhouse and the empty fields around it.

  ‘Balloons.’

  Meghan’s head swung towards him. Her jaw dropped.

  ‘We aren’t going to a party!’

  Her teeth snapped with an audible click when Zeb explained.

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  ‘Da,’ Nikolai Tverskoy picked up the buzzing phone from the bedside table. He wrapped a sheet around him and went to the window.

  Paris. A boutique hotel near the Arc de Triomphe.

  His handsome face tightened when he received the news. ‘We have people everywhere,’ he hissed at his aide in Moscow. ‘You’ve found nothing about that attack?’

  ‘Nyet, pakhan. Whoever was in our building, knew what they were doing. They penetrated our system –’

  ‘Enough. I know the details. Those cables from the roof. Can’t you trace them?’

  ‘No. They are available in any outdoors store.’

  ‘These weren’t ordinary burglars.’

  ‘Da, pakhan. We are looking. I am sure we’ll find them. No one in Moscow can escape our clutches.’

  ‘Did they get anything? Do our people know?’

  ‘Nyet. The self-destruct programs went off as they were designed to. I am confident they found nothing.’r />
  ‘They had better not,’ Tverskoy warned him, menacingly. He dealt with failure simply. He shot those who had let him down. Or sometimes knifed them till they bled. Or raped their wives or girlfriends before killing them. He was savagery personified. Everyone knew that, which was why his people seldom failed him.

  He tossed the phone on the bed. A sound of protest as it hit the mound under the blanket. A tousled head emerged, sleepy eyes blinking.

  ‘Go back to sleep, babe,’ he told his latest girlfriend, a French actress. ‘I’ve got to make some calls.’

  Another burner phone. A call to Chernihiv.

  ‘Andrei,’ he barked at his lieutenant in the Ukrainian base. ‘Is everything okay.’

  ‘Da, pakhan. Why?’

  ‘No strangers, no snoopers?’

  ‘Nyet. Everything’s good.’

  ‘Those programmers, they are working?’

  ‘Da. They have sent you more names.’

  ‘I haven’t checked. Be alert. You’ve heard what happened to our office in Moscow.’

  ‘Yes, pakhan. No such thing will happen here.’

  Tverskoy hung up and went to the bathroom and showered, taking the time to organize his thoughts.

  He wouldn’t call Phil Williams, he decided. What was there to tell him? That his Moscow office had been attacked? Williams knew that, in any case. The men had exchanged messages right after the explosion. The spymaster had demanded to know how compromised they were. The pakhan had given him his word. Not at all.

  Even now, we aren’t, Tverskoy thought to himself. The software people are safe in Ukraine. Whoever hit my building didn’t get anything. No need to tell him anything.

  But he decided he would turn Moscow upside down to know who the intruders were. Even if it meant starting a war with other gangs. Because who else could it be? Some other bratva wanting to encroach on his territory.

  Decision made, he went to the bed and slapped his girlfriend’s rump.

  Chapter Forty

  Williams, Leslie and Smith met, this time in Mexico City with the last man, the organizer and the host.