“A limited number of squadrons are on the short list to supply aircraft for these missions. It’s very hush-hush. They provide a fully flight-checked aircraft, our contractors walk on board and fly them away, returning them later. Nothing is recorded.”
“Fucking spooks,” said Sanderson. “So now what?”
“We obviously can’t trust the CIA,” said Bauer. “They set up the flight.”
“With the help of the White House,” Sanderson chimed in.
“Maybe, maybe not. Someone high in the Department of Defense is definitely in on this, though,” said Bauer.
“Let’s cross the DOD, White House, and the National Security Council off the Christmas card list for now,” said Sanderson. “Except for Bob Kearney.”
“I don’t know,” said Berg. “He’s pretty close to the president.”
“Bob has been my man on the inside for a while now,” said Sanderson. “He warned me about the raid against my compound back in 2007. This information obviously stays between the three of us.”
“I always wondered,” said Berg.
“I trust Bob with no reservations, but I don’t trust that his office, house, car… all of it, is clear of bugs. He’ll get in touch with me discreetly when he hears what happened.”
“If he ever hears about it,” said Bauer. “Ascension Island is in the middle of nowhere.”
“We’ll figure out a way that doesn’t involve Farrington setting the autopilot for Cuban airspace before they bail out. They have three hours to figure it out.”
“Don’t cross the option off the list,” said Berg.
“Wouldn’t that be a fucking sight to see?” said Sanderson.
“We’re better off if everyone involved in this conspiracy thinks they ran out of fuel and crashed at sea. When they get to Brazilian airspace, they should declare a fuel emergency and claim their navigational equipment malfunctioned. Point north before they bail out over land. That will send the aircraft into the middle of the North Atlantic. It’ll run out of fuel at some point and crash. End of story.”
“I’ll pass that plan along,” said Sanderson. “What else?”
“The Petroviches split,” Berg informed him. “Snuck off without saying goodbye.”
“That’s disappointing, but it doesn’t surprise me. They were on the brink of vanishing from my radar when you passed the news about her mother.”
“I guess we were lucky to have them while we did,” said Bauer.
“You mentioned still having a Russian problem?” Berg prompted.
“The Russians were behind Galenden’s murder. There’s no doubt about that. They just showed up in town,” said Sanderson. “With a small army.”
“Then get the hell out of there,” said Berg.
“No, I need to put an end to this,” said Sanderson. “Solve my Russian problem.”
“That’s not the kind of problem that goes away permanently,” said Berg.
“Not usually, but I have something different in mind.”
“Keep us posted,” said Berg.
“If you don’t hear from me again, you’ll know it didn’t work.”
“In that case, while I still have you on the line, what about Munoz and Melendez?”
“Send them south to pick up Reznikov’s trail.”
“Could be bullshit, just like Africa,” said Berg.
“We can’t ignore the possibility that it’s real. If Reznikov is in the United States, he’s here by invitation, and we need to find out who invited him.”
“I already know the answer. And so do you.”
“I sincerely hope we’re both wrong,” said Sanderson.
Chapter 57
Mihail Osin got into the beat-up rental sedan and glanced into the backseat at the two Spetsgruppa Omega snipers chosen for the reconnaissance mission. Their orders were simple: determine if Sanderson was at the location provided by Galenden and indicated by his records. Thermal satellite imagery confirmed the presence of a group at the site, consistent with the suspected size of his remaining force, but the thick tree cover prevented satellites from taking high-resolution daytime photos to prove Sanderson was among the group.
Sanderson was the primary target, and if the sniper team located him at the site and the shooting conditions were entirely favorable, they would be cleared to take him out. Ardankin much preferred the quiet use of two men to accomplish the mission rather than a direct assault by thirty. Colonel Levkin would set up an ambush on the isolated road leading out of the site, just in case the sniper team failed. A squad of Omega commandos hidden along that road, backed by anti-vehicle mines, would be more than adequate, according to Levkin. Satellite imagery showed no more than a dozen of Sanderson’s people at the site.
He looked back at the darkened Quonset-hut-style warehouse serving as their base of operations. The rusty, neglected building cost them a small fortune to rent, most of the outrageous fee designed to buy them privacy and discretion.
“Let’s go,” said Osin. “Stay around the speed limit.”
“Nobody drives the speed limit around here,” said Vadim Dragunov, the only Zaslon operative assigned to the task force.
“Then drive like everyone else. Just don’t get us pulled over,” said Osin, a little bit annoyed.
Dragunov tore out of the dirt parking lot. He had soured after the Galenden mess. They were supposed to have time to devise a discreet plan to grab the Argentine businessman. Follow him for a few days, determine his routine, map his routes, and analyze the man’s security detail. They always found a weakness, but it took time. Time they didn’t know would be snatched away at the last minute, forcing a different, unavoidably messy approach that burned their careers as covert operatives.
Once they walked through the front doors of Galenden International’s glass and steel high-rise and announced themselves as Galenden’s four-thirty appointment, they’d banished themselves to a career at headquarters. Osin wasn’t happy about it either, but they still had a job to do.
They quickly connected with a smooth four-lane highway that circumvented the city to the west. In about twenty minutes, they’d be on Route 9, heading north out of the city toward the drop-off point roughly eight point nine miles away. Barring a flat tire or some other kind of unforeseen holdup, Osin and Dragunov should be headed back toward Salta in less than a half hour.
For all practical purposes, their mission ended after this drop-off. They would remain at the warehouse to coordinate the timely and rapid departure of Levkin’s Spetsgruppa and possibly dispose of a body or two if Levkin’s commandos ran into any overzealous or incorruptible police officers along their travel route to and from the target. Beyond that, they would be in sit-and-wait mode for however long it took to eliminate Sanderson. He really hoped the sniper team ended this quickly.
The mostly deserted highway wound north, turning abruptly east to connect with Route 9 in the northern part of the city. They drove along the quiet, sporadically lit outskirts of town until they broke out into the countryside north of Salta, where the highway became a winding, two-lane rural road.
Route 9 snaked through the hillside, the streetlamps becoming less and less frequent the further they drove from the city. The less light the better. Far too many houses dotted these hills. The last thing they needed was a nosy night owl observing the drop-off. Osin checked his handheld GPS unit. One point two miles to go. A minute and a half at most.
“About a minute,” he said.
Levkin had picked the drop-off point, which gave his sniper team the shortest point of approach to the target area. Short being a relative term. They had a ten-mile hike through thick forest ahead of them. He didn’t expect to hear from them until late tomorrow afternoon.