Terror: Zeb Carter Series, Book 4 Page 8

  ‘Grigor knows about him?’

  Grigor Andropov. Head of a secretive intelligence outfit, the Agency’s equivalent in Russia. A good friend.

  ‘Yeah,’ Meghan snorted. ‘He’s got a file on him that he updates each month, sometimes each week.’

  ‘You know this how?’ Bear raised an eyebrow.

  ‘We have access to their system.’

  Zeb looked at her suspiciously and then broke into a reluctant grin. Access! I bet Grigor doesn’t know of it.

  ‘Why hasn’t he acted on it?’

  ‘Protection,’ the older sister said evenly. ‘There’s one recording in that file of a high-ranking minister in the Kremlin ordering Andropov to back off. Focus on threats against the country, not petty criminals. Those are his exact words.’

  ‘How high a minister?’

  ‘Very high.’

  Zeb nodded. It figured. His friend wasn’t one to be dissuaded by mere threats, but if the instruction came from someone close to the President…

  ‘How do we do this? We take his help?’ Bwana, grinning at the way Beth was digging her toes in the soft leather of the Gulfstream’s seats.

  The aircraft was a gift from a Middle-Eastern king who was grateful for Zeb and his team saving his family from an assassin. He had wanted to give them a B2 Stealth Bomber, but they had dissuaded him and had finally accepted the aircraft after the royal refused to take no for an answer. The younger sister loved its luxurious interior and never failed to appreciate its seats.

  ‘No,’ Zeb said. ‘It would put him in an uncomfortable situation. We go alone.’

  At which, Bwana and Roger fist-bumped. Going by themselves in a country that had turned hostile to Americans, against a vicious mafia gang…they liked the sound of that.

  * * *

  Zeb lay awake for an hour as his friends slept. Watching the rolling news coverage from Dallas, Berlin and London. The TV host mentioned the previous killings as well. The media and the wider public still believed the incidents were random, unrelated, and no one from the intelligence community corrected them.

  If they know, there will be more chaos. He crossed his arms behind his head looked unseeingly at the ceiling. Russia had meddled in the last US presidential elections. It had manipulated Britain’s Brexit referendum. It had interfered in several European elections. There was no disputing any of that. However, proving it, holding specific people and Russian agencies accountable, was a different matter.

  But these killings…what will they get out of it? A weak West was in Russia’s interests. It helped its President move attention away from the country’s domestic economic and political issues. Russians will see the US and the West as the enemy. A modern version of the Cold War without the arms buildup. But why India, Indonesia, Mexico and Bagram? How do those incidents help the Russians?

  He thought about it for long but got no answers.

  ‘Zeb?’ Meghan, from up front. ‘I can hear you thinking. Sleep. We’ve got a long day ahead.’

  He slept.

  * * *

  A Moscow summer was hot and dry, with the mercury usually hovering in the seventies during the day. That summer was no different. The operatives hailed two cabs at Sheremetyevo International Airport and went to Arbat Street in the city center.

  It was the oldest street in the capital and had turned into a hub for artists, boutique stores and tourists.

  An apartment, an Agency safe house, above a bakery. Smells of bread and muffins greeting them as they alighted. Meghan pressed her thumb against a metal post and when a screen glowed, punched numbers in. Beth shielded her, casually, from any curious onlooker.

  Seven large bedrooms. Seven baths. Furnished. Electronically secure but nevertheless, they swept the accommodation. It was clean. The sisters took one room. Bear and Chloe another. The rest of them occupied a room each.

  The sisters set up shop immediately. Screens came out of their bags. They connected to Werner and started running various programs. Broker went to the kitchen and brewed coffee for them.

  Zeb and Bwana removed a panel beneath a window and unloaded weapons. HK416s, Glocks, light-weight body armor, stun grenades, knives. They spread them on the floor and let the operatives pick and choose. Meghan came last. She selected armor, removed her jumper, donned it and put back her outer layer. She fingered a Glock, rooted around until she found a shoulder holster.

  ‘Cab booking’s made. I told the ride-share company we specifically wanted Azarov.’ She snapped the harness on and made sure her gun could be drawn smoothly. ‘He will be coming soon.’

  ‘Bear and I will take him,’ Bwana growled.

  ‘We want him alive, able to answer questions,’ she replied, drily. ‘Not die of a heart attack on seeing you.’

  * * *

  The Russian arrived an hour later.

  Chapter Thirty

  Azarov was of medium height, a white shirt, sleeves rolled up to reveal tatts on his forearms. Dark beard, neatly trimmed. He leaned out of the window on spotting Meghan.

  ‘Elena Yeremkov?’ he asked.

  ‘Da,’ she replied and opened the passenger side door and got in beside him. His jaw dropped when Beth appeared from behind Zeb and the two climbed in behind. He swiveled his neck to get a better look at her.

  ‘What?’ the younger sister rolled her eyes. ‘You haven’t seen twins before?’

  ‘Sorry,’ he apologized. ‘You’re going to The Retreat?’

  ‘Da,’ Meghan answered. It was an upscale hotel on the edges of the Tverskoy district, near the Third Ring Road. Secluded. Approach was through a wooded part of Moscow. It was rumored that the Mafia boss often held his meetings there. And why wouldn’t he? It was also said that he owned the establishment.

  ‘Posh hotel,’ Azarov commented. ‘You’re staying there?’

  ‘Why would you pick us up from Arbat if we had rooms there?’

  The Russian grinned, unabashed. He had a stunning woman next to him. Another in the rear seat. Sure, there was that man with her, but that dude looked bored and was gazing out of the window. A cab driver had to maximize his good luck.

  ‘You’re visiting Moscow? Tourists?’

  ‘Da.’ That was their cover. Sisters and a friend from Saint Petersburg, visiting the capital to take in the sights. They had credentials, driving licenses, and bus tickets to prove who they were and where they had arrived from.

  ‘That’s a Mafia hotel?’ Beth asked from the back. ‘We’ve heard some rumors. Will we see any gangsters there? Will they carry guns?’

  Azarov looked nonplussed for a moment and then burst into a laugh. ‘Mafia? That’s nonsense. I’ve heard that too, but it’s owned by some businessman. No gang connections. And you won’t see any guns there. Maybe the security at the gate will have weapons but no one else. Moscow is a safe city. I can show you around, if you wish.’

  ‘We’ll think about it.’

  Moscow didn’t have a conventional downtown but the importance of the Kremlin and the historical buildings around it, made the neighborhood a central point.

  Azarov left it behind as he drove past the Garden Ring, a circular road around the heart of the city. He pointed to landmarks and important buildings as he navigated the afternoon traffic. A one-way conversation since all he got from his passengers were nods and monosyllabic responses. That didn’t deter him and it was only when Meghan unholstered her Glock and mounted a quick-detach silencer that his commentary stopped.

  ‘What-?’ he swerved in shock, corrected himself and snapped a quick look at her. ‘WHAT ARE YOU DOING?’

  ‘Oleg Azarov,’ Meghan turned sideways, the weapon pointing to the floor bed. ‘You lied about The Retreat. It is owned by Nikolai Tverskoy. Your boss.’

  ‘WHAT? WHAT ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT? WHO ARE YOU? I AM STOPPING. GET OUT OF THE CAR.’

  ‘Stop once we are in the woods, near the hotel,’ she told him. ‘That’s where we’re going to interrogate you.’

  ‘’QUESTION ME?’ Anger and fear bat
tling on the driver’s face. His eyes shifting from her to the rear mirror, checking if the other passengers had weapons too. A bead of sweat rolled down his forehead. He wiped it away impatiently with a hand and dried his palm against his thigh. ‘WHY? WHO ARE YOU? WHY DO YOU HAVE THE GUN?’

  ‘You’ll know soon enough,’ Meghan told him calmly. An interrogation could be conducted in many ways. Hard and aggressive. Or slow buildup. Another way was to use silence. They were going with the quiet, menacing approach and it seemed to be working by the way Azarov was responding.

  He was raging but they could also smell his fear and the twitching on his face, and nervous darts as he drove, spoke of his fright.

  His eyes latched onto a police cruiser in the middle lane ahead. His hands tightened on the wheel.

  ‘Don’t,’ Meghan said. Her Glock moved an inch. ‘You don’t want to get hurt, do you?’

  ‘I WANT YOU OUT OF MY CAR OR I’LL CALL THE POLICE.’

  ‘What if we are cops? You’ve got a lot to hide, Oleg Azarov, don’t you?’

  He moistened his lips. Snapped another look at her. Didn’t like what he saw on her face. Turned back to the road and put on a burst of speed.

  ‘I’ve nothing to hide. I am a cab driver. Nothing more. You’re confusing me with someone else.’

  ‘Nope. You’re Roman’s younger brother. He was a gunman in the Tverskoy Bratva. You joined the gang when he died. You are a low-level dealer for them.’

  More lip wetting. Brows furrowed. Eyes squinted as the traffic suddenly died away and the woods surrounded them. Thick foliage on either side. The car’s headlights turned on automatically in the relative darkness. No other vehicle ahead or behind.

  ‘I DON’T KNOW WHAT YOU’RE TALKING ABOUT.’

  But his words sounded forced. His head jerked as he tried to spot other vehicles.

  And then one shot out of a clearing ahead, to their left, drove right across the road and came to an abrupt halt, making Azarov stomp on the brakes, jerking them forward as the Toyota came to a shuddering, tire-burning halt.

  Gunmen spilled out of the other car.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  ‘MOVE!’ Zeb roared.

  He struck Azarov on the temple and knocked him out. Flung his door open and snapped a shot at the first gunman. A miss, but the round had the desired effect. The approaching shooters scattered. Some dived to the ground. Others darted to seek cover behind their vehicle from where they opened fire.

  ‘Seven of them,’ Beth muttered and navigated behind Zeb and ran to the back of the car as he provided cover. She dropped to the ground and started shooting methodically from beneath the vehicle.

  ‘Go,’ Zeb urged Meghan as rounds shattered windows and their Toyota rocked.

  ‘Hold up,’ she grunted. She freed Oleg’s seat belt. Shoved him below the dash, protecting him from the oncoming fire. The driver fell limply and then she burst out of the car, firing blindly and joined her sister.

  ‘There are too many of them,’ she yelled. ‘Get out before you get hit.’

  ‘Seven aren’t enough,’ Zeb unzipped the large carry bag he had carried. Brought out the grenade launcher. Armed it. Ducked and winced when a sliver of glass grazed his forehead. The shooters were firing steadily now, turning the Japanese car into a wreck. The Russians had taken cover behind their car and while they were held back by the sisters’ returning shots, they knew they had time on their hands. They just had to wait until the arrivals ran out of ammo. Or more gunmen joined them from The Retreat.

  None of them could see inside the Toyota or they would have spotted Zeb point the launcher through a hole in the windscreen. A second to aim, but no great firing skill was required since the opposing vehicle was less than fifty feet away.

  He pressed the trigger. A whump. The Mafia car was blown back several feet by the impact. Screams burst through the wood. Zeb raced from behind his cover. Firing at this body, that shooter, and when the destroyed vehicle had settled and silence had returned to the woods, all seven gunmen were out of the fight. Three dead, four immobile from their injuries.

  ‘We got lucky. They were overconfident. They underestimated our firepower,’ he said as he searched fallen men quickly and pocketed their wallets.

  ‘Azarov?’ he asked Meghan who was at the Toyota.

  ‘Alive.’

  ‘Does our car work?’

  ‘Only one way to find out.’

  They hustled the driver, who was groaning and coming to, to the back seat and secured him with zip ties. The elder sister smashed the remains of the windscreen with the gun butt, cleared the seat of glass and climbed inside.

  The engine turned. ‘Where to?’

  ‘In the woods. Away from the road. The bratva will think we have fled.’

  She drove off the road, the car rocking on its shocks as it bumped over uneven ground. Thick trees around them. Fallen logs. A dead silence.

  ‘It won’t last long,’ Beth murmured. ‘The Retreat would have heard the fight. The grenade launcher. Good shooting there,’ she smacked a palm on Zeb’s shoulder. ‘You’re bleeding. Forehead. Don’t move.’ She touched the cut gently and inspected it. ‘Nothing serious. No glass on the wound. It will heal. But your looks won’t improve.’

  ‘Not that he had any,’ Meghan drawled from the front.

  ‘I could be dying,’ Zeb mock-protested.

  ‘You aren’t. Quit whining.’ She looked back and judged that they were far away from the scene of the fight. The road wasn’t visible. Silence filled the woods when she turned off the engine.

  She got out and grabbed Azarov. Dumped him on the ground unceremoniously and slapped him when he made to shout.

  ‘You saw what your friends did,’ she jabbed her Glock’s barrel in his shoulder. ‘They opened fire without any warning. They didn’t care if you died. How did you warn them?’

  ‘A panic button,’ Beth, crouched next to the driver’s seat. ‘Hidden in the cushion. Smart. It goes to some command center where the vehicle’s location can be tracked. I guess it has to be used only as a last resort, because those shooters were meaning business.’

  ‘You survived that shooting,’ Meghan looked down coldly at the cab driver. ‘Do you want to die at our hands?’

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Oleg Azarov didn’t need more prompting. He was scared, his wet trouser leg indicating the extent of his fear.

  Doesn’t look like a hardened criminal, Zeb thought as the sisters hunched next to the Russian.

  ‘I just sell drugs,’ the driver stammered, ‘Nothing more. I don’t know anything else.’

  ‘Start at the beginning,’ Beth prodded him coldly. ‘How did you get into the gang? What do you know?’

  ‘Don’t kill me. I’ll tell you everything.’ He pleaded and then launched into his story.

  Two brothers growing up in a single parent family. Father missing. Mother working several jobs to make ends meet. Died early from pneumonia. The gang proved an attractive home to Roman. His natural vicious streak bloomed in the bratva and he became a shooter, an enforcer. Oleg became a cab driver and stayed away from the Mafia until his brother was killed. The bratva looked after its own and offered him to join. He did. A supplemental income was always welcome and he had no qualms about breaking the law. Nikolai Tverskoy’s juice was well known. He never let any of his men stay arrested.

  ‘Only drugs, I told them,’ Azarov said brokenly. ‘I didn’t want anything to do with the girls, killing or other stuff. They agreed. But they said I should report anything I heard in the cab. They have many people like me. We are their ears.’

  ‘What about the message board? In the darknet?’

  The Russian paled. ‘How do you know about that?’ he breathed.

  ‘We know enough to keep you living,’ Beth threatened, ‘but not for long. Not if you keep anything from us.’

  ‘They found I was good with computers. Nothing special. I repair them. Build simple websites. I advertise online and in local newspapers and g
et some business that way.’ He shrank when Zeb rose silently, went to his bag and returned with a water bottle. He drank from it gratefully, and wiped his lips. ‘They told me about the site,’ he said hoarsely. ‘Asked me to monitor it. Watch who posted what and report back.’

  ‘That’s all you did?’

  He nodded so fast that the bottle shook, spilling its contents on the ground.

  ‘What about your posts?’

  ‘Oh gospodi,’ he gasped. Oh God! ‘Wait,’ he shrieked when Beth racked her slide.

  ‘I didn’t mean those. I deleted them immediately,’ he cried.

  ‘You been watching the news? Some Moscow people, have been busy,’ she quoted his post. ‘What did you mean by that?’

  He blanched even more. Trembled. His hands shook as he returned the bottle. ‘I…heard…the pakhan, Nikolai…one night,’ he began, hesitatingly.

  ‘I thought you were very low in the gang,’ Zeb narrowed his eyes. ‘How did you get close to him.’

  ‘Nyet, nyet,’ he shook his head vigorously. ‘I haven’t ever met him. I am not senior enough. This was accidental. I was waiting for a passenger, there.’ He looked beyond the woods, in the direction of the hotel.

  ‘At The Retreat?’

  ‘Da. It was night. I was waiting in the parking lot. No lights that day. It was dark. I heard a man walking towards a car. I began to get out when I heard his voice. It was the pakhan, on his phone. He thought he was alone. I sat back in my car…he was loud. I couldn’t help overhearing. He was talking about some program. I didn’t understand it at first. Then when he said computers, I realized. It was software. And then he said Indonesia, India and England.’

  ‘What did he say about those?’ Beth, the Glock forgotten, grabbed him by the shoulder as if she could shake the words out of him.