Anneli walked up a rubber-mat gangway and was ushered into a salon that seemed like a small club. People were at ease in sofas and chairs, talking among themselves. A large-screen television set was tuned to a chart that was linked to live surface radar sweeps. Every vessel within ten miles was logged electronically. A similar chart painted aerial activity. Not a club; a war room.
Captain Dash made quick introductions, although almost the entire crew already knew Kyle Swanson and gave him a rowdy welcome aboard. Two rugged men turned from a window, both lithe and muscular. “Sir Jeff added these lads for the trip, Kyle. Thought they might be of some future use, eh? May I present Sar’nt Stanley Baldwin and Corporal Grayson Perry.”
“SAS snipers, Mister Swanson. Temporary duty on loan to you, compliments of Her Majesty’s government.” Baldwin shook hands. He was in jeans and a heavy sweatshirt.
“Heard a lot about you, sir. Pleasure.” Perry had eyes like a hawk.
“Excellent. Good to have you aboard, guys,” Swanson said. “I don’t have a project in mind right now, so just hang out and we’ll see what happens. Things may get interesting before we’re done.”
“At your service,” said the sergeant, who was checking out the girl beside Kyle. She was a beauty.
Swanson gathered Dash and the senior mate together with the snipers. “There have been some changes ashore. Young Anneli and I are wanted by the Estonian cops for murder.”
“Murder? Her?” Sergant Baldwin fought to keep his emotions in check.
“Yes. I had to do away with a couple of Russian spooks who came after her, and they are blowing it up into an incident. She was supposed to go to a CIA safe house tonight, but I want to get her completely off Estonian soil. Nobody will know she is aboard the Vagabond. Now you two SAS dudes can be her guards for a while. Don’t let anybody take her away from you. And teach her how to shoot.”
“We can do that.” Corporal Perry was quiet and confident.
“And Captain Dash, I have to leave now and catch a flight to Brussels. You may take the Vagabond out of the harbor while I’m gone. Steer clear of the Russian ships, and work toward the general direction of the U.S. carrier strike group in the Baltic.”
“Should we anticipate trouble, Kyle?”
“I don’t know. Just act like this is some rich man’s toy for a few days. Keep your ears up. I’ll be in touch.”
The captain bobbed his head, then ordered, “Master Samuelson, please make preparations for departure.”
“Aye, aye, skipper.” The mate left to begin the process of getting the boat under way.
Kyle put one hand on each of Anneli’s shoulders and looked her in the eyes. “There are no worries for you, not now. You know that I have to leave to go talk to Ivan.”
She leaned close and hugged him. “Calico, I mean Mrs. Markey, will be angry at me again.”
“Calico is always mad. I’ll deal with her. You stay out of trouble until I get back. And those guys you just met are your new shepherds. They are true warriors. Nothing is going to happen to you with them around.”
“What if you need me, Kyle? Aren’t I a good partner?”
He gave her a quick kiss on the forehead, like a father kissing a daughter good-bye on a school morning. “Then I will come and get you. This isn’t over yet, Anneli. See you soon.”
It was not until he trotted down the gangplank that he realized she had not mentioned Brokk.
Vladimir Vladimiroch Pushkin wore lifts in his shoes because he stood only five-foot-five-inches tall. In televised appearances, the president of the Russian Federation surrounded himself with short men and usually stood on a platform behind the podium. He was sixty-five years old and physically active in sports, although age had stacked on a few flabby pounds that he could not shed. Despite his physical stature, he was still the biggest man in Russia.
The sky had been a dark blue canopy when he had arisen before dawn on Tuesday morning and did his familiar set of judo exercises to loosen the muscles and tune up for the day. He had been doing judo since he was a child. The mandatory self-control and ability to read the strengths and weaknesses of an opponent had proven to be so useful in many walks of life. On a judo mat or at the United Nations, if a foe left a momentary unguarded opening, Pushkin would attack. Some snow had passed through Moscow while he slept, leaving a small and evaporating white carpet around the Kremlin. After the workout, he walked outside. It was still cold, even for mid-April, and the hardy weather pulled at his flesh and linked him with his ancestors who had prowled the Steppes. He ate a light breakfast, dressed and was in the office by seven o’clock.
After the usual round of global and domestic situation and security briefings, his first official visitor of the day was an old friend, General of the Army Pavel Sergeyev, the chief of the general staff. Pushkin remained in the big chair behind the desk while the general, wearing a civilian suit, angled his body into one of the gold-fabric high-backs diagonally across from the president. They exchanged greetings. Both were from the Leningrad region, and while Sergeyev had been rising to the top job in the military, Pushkin had clawed his way up through the old KGB intelligence service. The partnership worked and they did many favors along the way as they adapted to become new Russians with old dreams.
“What is on your mind, Pavel, that could not have been handled by telephone? I have a full schedule.” Pushkin held up a fan of papers and a flash of impatience crossed his face.
“Volodya,” said the general, using the president’s nickname to calm him. “We may have to make a change in the western military district.”
“The west? Why? I thought the commander in St. Petersburg was one of our best.”
“Colonel General Levchenko has disobeyed our orders, Mister President. You instructed all of the commanders to remain cautious and undertake no provocative actions while we analyze the impact of the defection of the bastard traitor, Strakov. You remember that.”
Pushkin removed his glasses and rubbed his nose in thought. “Yes. Yes, of course. No sudden moves.”
General Sergeyev came out of his chair and clasped his hands behind his back, taking a few steps around the carpet. His voice carried a taste of venom. “Instead of obeying that simple directive, Levchenko chose to launch Operation Hermitage on his own. By doing so, he unveiled the new Armata systems for our enemies to see and record. Stupid man! Plus he authorized unnecessary overflights in the Baltic and along the Estonia border. NATO is probably ready to pull the trigger.”
“Was there any shooting?” asked the president.
“Fortunately, no. Not this time.”
“What do you want to do?”
“We must discipline him severely, Volodya, my old friend. Colonel General Levchenko has become blinded by ambition. He is running his own kingdom out there in the western district while living like a tsar in St. Petersburg. He needs to be brought to heel.”
“What do you suggest?” The president calmly wrote a note on a yellow pad.
“I want to replace him with someone more reliable. We should bring Levchenko back to Moscow and make him work for a living at headquarters before he gets totally out of hand.”
President Pushin adjusted his glasses and returned his attention to the papers before him.
“No, I will not replace him, my friend. We will need a fighting commander out there in the coming tense times. Levchenko is impetuous, I grant you that, but he is an excellent field officer, which is why we gave him the job in the first place. I agree, however, that he probably needs to be reminded of his proper slot in the chain of command. I definitely do not like that he disobeyed our instructions. Pavel, I want you to order him back here so I can have a private word with him and clarify any misunderstandings he might have about his role.”