They passed a streetlight, which momentarily cast an orange glow through the sedan, followed by nothing but darkness for the next minute. Point two miles to the drop-off and not a hint of light ahead. Perfect.
“Point two miles. Slow down a little,” he said.
The car decelerated in a controlled manner for a few seconds; then he was thrown against his seatbelt.
“Dammit, Dragunov!” he snapped when the car rumbled to a stop.
Dragunov was out the door before Osin could process what was happening. Masked figures rushed the car from both sides of the street. Dragunov raised his suppressed pistol, instantly dropping to the road in a crumpled heap as the darkly dressed figures moved past him without slowing down. They instantly enveloped the sedan, their weapons pointed at the vehicle’s occupants.
Osin expected one of Levkin’s commandos to panic, but a few seconds passed without gunfire, convincing him they grasped the situation. A light metallic rap sounded against his window. He turned his head and saw someone signaling for him to roll down the window. A quick nod and he moved his hand to the button. He was surprised to hear perfect street Russian.
“Hands on the dashboard. The two guys in the back put their hands on the headrests. You get out first, then the guy behind you, then the remaining passenger. We have no intention of killing you. Understood.”
“Yes.”
“Do it,” said the Russian speaker.
They were herded out of sight of the road and lined up on their knees, hands above their heads. A quick pat down relieved Osin of a knife. The two Spetsgruppa commandos gave up nothing, their kits sitting useless in the trunk. One of their captors stepped forward and crouched in front of him, offering a hand.
“General Terrence Sanderson, retired, pleased to meet you.”
Osin hesitated, not sure if this was a trick.
“Take the hand,” said Sanderson. “If I wanted you dead, you’d be dead.”
Osin shook the general’s hand, placing his own back on his head. “How did you know?” he asked.
“This is my backyard, and news travels fast. Galenden, Russians at the airfield… it wasn’t hard to connect the dots.”
He remained silent, thinking he should have gone out like Dragunov. Now he was a bargaining chip, along with the two Omega Spetsgruppa commandos.
“I don’t expect you to say anything. In fact, I’d respect you far more if you didn’t. And I’m not going to torture you to death like you did with Galenden,” said Sanderson.
Osin swallowed hard.
“That’s right. I saw a video of you and your friend visiting Galenden International the same day he was found mutilated and dead.”
He wanted to say something. Even started to move his mouth.
“Don’t,” said Sanderson. “I don’t hold that against you.”
“What do you want, then?” asked Osin, genuinely unsure where this exchange was headed.
“I need to talk to the director of your Foreign Intelligence Service.”
“That’s not going to happen,” said Osin, expecting a rifle butt to the head.
“I’ll settle for Dmitry Ardankin for now, who I assume is your boss. Directorate S?”
Mention of Ardankin’s name was unsettling, but hearing the words Directorate S bordered on disturbing. He wasn’t naïve enough to think the Americans didn’t know their structure, but it felt entirely different to actually hear it spoken by his enemy.
“That’s not going to happen either,” said Osin.
“Is that because you won’t make the call, or because they won’t take it?”
“Both, but mostly the latter,” said Osin.
“I strongly suggest you try to get Ardankin on the line,” said Sanderson. “The lives of about thirty of your comrades depend on it. Security is sloppy over at the warehouse. No sentries. Pretty much an open invitation to drive a truck bomb right into the place. Or place a ring of claymore mines aiming inward and starting a gunfight.”
Osin kept a neutral face, or so he hoped. Sanderson’s information about the warehouse was dead-on. They had decided against sentries to avoid drawing attention.
“Even better, I could wake up the police commander for the Salta Province and inform him that an army of Russian mercenaries are sitting in a warehouse close to the airport. Wouldn’t take much convincing to shut down the airport. I’m sure the commander of the National Gendarmerie unit based in San Miguel de Tucuman would be interested in this information as well. Thanks to my late friend Ernesto Galenden, I have a direct line to both of them.”
He quickly weighed his options, coming to the same conclusion Sanderson had obviously reached. Colonel Levkin’s Spetsgruppa represented a devastating liability to Russia. Any course of action that pointed in the direction of their unhampered departure for Moscow was worth pursuing.
“I’ll make the call.”
Chapter 58
For the first time in his career as director of operations of Directorate S, Dmitry Ardankin sailed through the outer chambers of Director Pushnoy’s office without the slightest pause. Doors opened as he entered, secretaries motioned for him to continue, security stepped swiftly aside. It was a horrible feeling. Even the smallest diversion would be welcome on the express train to Hell’s gates. When he reached the inner sanctum, even the secretary he’d come to despise over the years had a look of pity on her face.
“The director will see you now,” she announced as he continued forward without breaking stride.
“Thank you,” he said, feeling small for judging her.
She sat at that desk, day in, day out, guarding a powerful man’s time, completely oblivious to the dark secrets and life-altering decisions made beyond those thick mahogany doors. It had to gnaw at her. Returning home every day, with the full understanding that her job was so close to the epicenter of everything, yet utterly disconnected from any meaning. He returned her look, a moment of understanding passing between them before he stepped into Pushnoy’s den of iniquity. The door closed quickly behind him.
“Let’s get this over with,” said Pushnoy, pointing to the chair he would occupy.
He didn’t bother with apologies or any obsequious flattery. He moved immediately to the chair next to Pushnoy’s desk and sat down. The director’s light blue eyes burned a hole through him, but he maintained his quiet composure.
“The silent treatment, huh?” said Pushnoy. “Incompetent, maybe. Stupid? Definitely not.”
The director pressed a button on his desk phone and placed both elbows on the desk, resting his chin on his hands.
“General Sanderson, it’s a pleasure to finally meet you.”
“Likewise, Director Pushnoy. I appreciate you taking my call.”
“Yes, about that,” said Pushnoy. “What do you propose?”
“Not much, in the grand scheme of things,” said Sanderson. “I want a truce. Your word that I’m off whatever hit list you keep over there.”
“And you’re going to hang up your jacket and never interfere with Russian Federation affairs again?”
“It’s hang up your hat, Director,” said Sanderson. “And yes, I agree to that term, with a few conditions.”
“And what might those be?”
“I need your help with something,” said Sanderson. “Something that concerns us both.”
“I can’t wait to hear what this might be.”
“It involves Reznikov,” said Sanderson.
“How so?”
“First I need you to answer a question.”