"Is the house guarded?"
"Only when the general's at home. All other times the place is looked after by their very well trained German shepherd."
"Oh, boy."
"Right. As I understand it, the dog is fearless and will attack anyone it doesn't know unless the general or his wife orders him down. Now. I've prepared something that will help you out in that department." Dagger stands, goes to the back room again, and returns with a small box. Inside are three oddly shaped bullets that look to be the size of ammunition that my Five-seveN takes.
"These are tranquilizers," he says. "Load your handgun with them before you go inside. They won't harm the dog--much--but one will knock him out quickly. Just make sure you shoot him before he sees or hears you!"
Dagger goes back to the folder on the table and removes a floor plan. "This is it, the ground and top levels. Prokofiev's home office is here on the ground floor. As you can see, it's on the opposite side of the house from the bedrooms, which are over here on the second floor. See?"
"Uh-huh."
"What do you think?"
"I think my best bet is to go over the fence to the back and break in through the door here." I point to an opening leading to a courtyard behind the house. "What about the security system?"
"It took some bribing to get the goods from the company that installed it. Inside the door you'll find a keypad. The code to shut off the alarm is 5-7-7-2."
"Thanks." I continue studying the floor plan. "I think once I'm safely through the door, I'll go past this living room area, into the dining room, and down this hallway. From there it's a straight shot to the office."
"Sounds like a plan. What are you driving?"
"Nothing at the moment. I had a company vehicle from the embassy in Kyiv but I returned it."
"I can't let you use my car. The Russians know it. Let me make a call and I'll rustle up something for you. It might be old and used, but it should run."
"Isn't everything old and used in Russia?" I ask.
Dagger's expression turns to mock indignation. "I resent that remark!" he says as he pours another glass of vodka.
HOWcome no U.S. agency can provide a car in Russia newer than 1996? I'm driving a 1995 Ford E-350 van that Harry's friend must have driven to Siberia and back at least six times. There's 167,000 miles on it and it runs with a distinctive clop-clopsound in the engine. But it moves.
They call this part of town Outer East Moscow, but it's still well within the boundary of the Moskovskaya Koltsovaya Avtomobilnaya Doroga, the highway ring that designates the city limits. I've spent a lot of time in Moscow through the years and I've found I enjoy this area. Even in the winter it's scenic. Kuskovo Park was once some important count's huge country estate. It resembles a mini Versailles, with a lot of elegant buildings and formal gardens. Of course right now everything's covered in snow. The district known as Izmaylovo is definitely upper-scale for former Soviet homeowners. It's not surprising that General Prokofiev's private residence is here. Izmaylovsky Park, just south of the region, was once a royal hunting preserve next to an expansive, undeveloped woodland. It's remarkable that this exists within Moscow city limits because it feels as if you're out in the country.
While it's still daylight I do a simple reconnaissance around the general's neighborhood. His estate is set back from the road, surrounded by an iron-bar fence. Snow covers leafless shrubs and trees and I can imagine the place looking magnificent in the spring and summer. The two-story house, what I can see of it, appears to be perhaps seventy or eighty years old but it's well kept. The driveway leading from the gate to a three-car garage runs past the side of the house where Prokofiev's office is located. Unfortunately, it's impossible to tell if anyone is home. I'll just have to return after dark, find a place to park the van, and, as Harry puts it, "do what I do."
NOWdressed in my uniform, this time a black one, I easily climb the iron fence and quietly move through the snow to the back of the mansion. Leaving footprints can't be helped so I deliberately create unreadable tracks; that is, with each step I wiggle my foot to create unshapely holes and walk unevenly. This way it's difficult to say just whatsort of animal went through the grounds.
"Satellite reception is fuzzy, Sam," Lambert says in my ear. "Cloudy sky."
I glance up and reply, "Yeah. Once I'm inside you can watch through my trident goggles."
"As always. Good luck."
I'm now in the courtyard and can see the bedroom windows on the second floor. Perfect timing--the light in the wife's room goes out. Once again I walk like a deranged alien to create unrecognizable prints and make my way to the back door. I remove my set of lock picks from my leg pocket, examine the lock, and determine which picks might work best. The door opens in two tries.
I immediately step inside, find the keypad, and punch in the security code that Harry gave me. It works. I quietly shut the door and stand still for a moment. The house is silent. No sign of a dog anywhere. My night vision goggles are in place and I have no trouble navigating around the furniture in the living room. But as soon as I enter the dining room I hear a muffled ruffin another part of the house. The dog is upstairs. I quickly draw the Five-seveN, already fitted with the flash and sound suppressor, and return to the living room. I can see the staircase beyond an archway at the other end of the room, so I duck behind the sofa. Sure enough, I hear the sound of four paws padding down the stairs. I can see the animal now--he's huge and looks more like a wolf than a German shepherd. The beast halts at the foot of the stairs. He's staring into the living room but doesn't see me. He knows something's wrong, though, for he's growling quietly. The dog moves forward slowly, not sure what it is he senses. The growling grows louder. I have one chance at this, for if he sees me he'll alert the whole neighborhood.
In a smooth, fluid motion, I rise, aim, and squeeze the trigger. The dog spots me but he's so surprised that I think he forgets to bark. The bullet hits him just above the front right leg. He yelps slightly, turns, emits a low ruffagain, and then drops to the floor. The animal is still breathing--he's just stunned. In a few seconds he's sound asleep.
Carly can see everything I can through the trident goggles. "Poor doggy," I hear her say with sarcasm. She can be a kidder when she wants.
The house remains quiet so I stand, go back to the dining room, and find the hallway leading to the office. I find the general's door locked, so I utilize the lock picks again. This one's more difficult than the house door; I guess the general is more protective of his personal things than he is of his wife. It takes me nearly three minutes to open the damned thing because there are two dead bolts on the door along with the standard lock.
I'm finally inside. I shut the door and the first thing I see is an awesome collection of antique pistols and rifles mounted on the wall. I recognize one as an Austrian Matchlock caliver from the 1600s. There's a single-shot muzzle-loading pistol from the early 1800s, probably Russian, that looks brand-new. There's even a Winchester Model 1873 lever-action repeater rifle. Amazing. They must be worth a small fortune.
I move to the desk, which is impressively neat and tidy, and boot up the computer to take a look at the contents of the general's hard drive. Since I don't want to spend too much time in here, I simply plug the OPSAT into one of the computer's serial ports and upload everything onto it. I then beam all of it to Washington; I'll let them sort through the files.