“Got something,” he said. “Gotta be it. It’s the only one. Call coming in to a dacha outside Moscow, one of Kargin’s lines. Well, this is strange. Call was placed from the Omni Houston Hotel at Westside. But it’s not a smartphone. Long distance using the room phone.”
“Why the hell would he do that?” asked Grim.
“Maybe he thinks he’s been compromised already,” said Fisher. “Didn’t want to use his own phone. Maybe that phone was the trigger.”
“Either way we would’ve traced him, so it doesn’t matter,” said Charlie. “I’m already in the hotel, bringing up the security cameras.”
“Flight deck, change course. Get us to Houston,” said Fisher.
“Roger that,” said the pilot. “Any plans to land or just recon?”
“I’ll let you know. What’s our ETA?”
“We’re already in the gulf with a significant tailwind. You want me to crank it up, I’ll get you there in less than twenty minutes.”
“Roger that. Top speed.” Fisher swung around to regard Grim. “Any of the trucks near Houston?”
“No. Not sure why he picked that location. Just random, maybe. Wouldn’t matter where he was if he planned to remote detonate via cell or satellite phone.”
“Check this out, guys,” said Charlie, transferring the hotel’s security camera footage to the overhead screens.
A group of three men were hurrying down a hallway. They were dressed in designer suits and were led by a fourth, an older man, at least sixty, with a gray widow’s peak and carrying a briefcase.
Charlie froze the image and zoomed in on their faces.
“That’s him,” said Kasperov, pointing out the gray-haired man. “I know him only by his nickname, ‘Chern.’”
“Facial recognition in progress,” said Charlie as the image was immediately cut and lifted out of the footage to run against hundreds of thousands of others captured within the Russian Federation.
“Wow, this guy’s really underground,” said Charlie. “Usually get a hit within seconds.”
“He’s supposed to be member of SBP, Presidential Security Service, but he serves unofficially as President Treskayev’s courier. I suppose even this is not true anymore. He’s left to work for oligarchs.”
“And to be honest, sir, I don’t think he ever worked for the SBP,” said Charlie. “We’ve got good records of that organization, and if he’s been there a long time, trust me, we’d have his face.”
Charlie switched to the exterior views from the hotel, and they watched Chern and his men climb into a slate blue Infiniti G37 luxury sedan. Charlie ordered the camera to zoom in and got the tag number. “Rental car out of the airport. Got the record here. Bogus ID and credit card.”
“Charlie, we can’t lose him,” said Fisher.
“We could have local authorities pick him up,” said Briggs.
“He’s already spooked, and he’s too important to trust with some local yokels. Plus we’ve got operational security to consider. Let’s see if we can get to him first.”
“I agree,” said Grim. “We’ll keep Houston police and the local feds on standby.”
“They’re on I-10,” said Charlie. “Just got him on the traffic camera. But they’re heading west, away from the airport.”
Grim zoomed in on the SMI’s map. “The executive airport’s about eighteen miles west of the hotel.”
“Flight plans of everything coming in and out of there,” said Grim.
“I’ll pull those,” said Briggs.
Kasperov rose from his chair and, still staring at the monitors, drifted over to Fisher and muttered in Russian, “This is quite a team you have.”
Fisher nodded. “If you would’ve told me last year I’d be working with them, I would’ve laughed at you.”
“And why is that?”
“Being a team player’s not exactly my MO.”
“I understand. I spent most of my life alone, behind a computer — and now I’m beginning to regret it. But I guess it’s not too late… for either of us.”
“No, it’s not.”
“Hey, Grim, there’s a private charter on the ground that’s fueling up right now,” said Briggs. “Flight plan shows it’s heading to Denver.”
“And from there they fly up to Anchorage and on to Russia,” said Grim.
“Flight deck, get us to the Houston Executive Airport,” said Fisher. “Briggs, get ahold of that charter pilot. Tell him I want to speak to him.”
“You got it.”
“Sounds like you have a plan,” said Grim with a gleam in her eyes.
28
Ten minutes later, as twilight washed a pale crimson across the western sky, Fisher and Briggs leapt from Paladin and plunged into the cold air over Houston. After a brief free fall, they popped chutes and floated soundlessly toward the pair of hangars on the airport’s northeast side.
Houston Executive Airport covered an area of about 1,980 acres split by a single asphalt runway designated 18/36 and measuring more than 6,000 feet by 100 feet. The runway ran north — south, and on its west side lay a pair of taxiways joining in a Y shape to form a single road leading to the main hangar/service center and its fuel farm. This, according to the broad placard hanging over the hangar, was Henriksen Jet Center, named after the airport’s founder and owner, local pilot Ron Henriksen.
Fisher took note of the targets below as the pilot’s voice buzzed through his subdermaclass="underline" “Standing by. Final approach on your mark.”
“Roger that,” answered Fisher.
“Sam, Charlie here. Just spoke with the charter company’s owner. He says the Russians are really pissed off. Pilot says he’s not sure he can stall them any longer. Turns out one of the Russians is an airplane mechanic himself and they’re having a hard time bullshitting him about the engine malfunction.”
“Just need another five minutes. Grim, we need to time this perfectly.”
“Understood.”
“Briggs, how’re you feeling today?”
“Feeling pretty dangerous.”
“Good. Just remember. We keep the old man alive.”
“No lead poisoning for grandpa. Gotcha.”
Fisher steered himself behind the hangar and came to a gentle landing fifteen seconds ahead of Briggs.
Leaving nothing to chance, they’d donned their tac-suits and goggles and had brought along both their primary and secondary pistols as well as SIG516 rifles slung over their backs. The rifles had 10.5 inch barrels and were fitted with thirty round magazines of 5.56mm ammo. Better yet, those rounds were factory fresh, not reloaded by Russians whose fingers were covered in peanut butter. The rifles were also fitted with grenade launchers, but said grenades had been replaced by the less-than-lethal sticky shockers like the ones Fisher had used with his crossbow.
They stored their chutes and vanished into the lengthening shadows behind the facility. The pungent scent of jet fuel hung heavy in the air, reminding Fisher of the Kasperov jet’s crash.
Pistols drawn and with Fisher on point, they darted along the hangar walls, moving across the building to the corner, where Fisher hunkered down, signaling Briggs to halt.
Goggles over his eyes now, Fisher zoomed in on the charter jet, a Citation CJ2 that had been fueled and moved to just outside the hangar. A maintenance panel had been opened on one of the engines, and a mechanic in coveralls stood on a rolling ladder, speaking with one of the suited men Fisher had seen in the hotel camera video. Charlie confirmed that he was one of Chern’s accomplices.
Fisher raised his hand and made a circular motion in the air.