Renamed Gorky by Stalin to honor the author Maxim Gorky, the city took on a new role, as a center for Soviet military research and production. Foreigners were banned for security reasons. As a “closed city,” it remained largely off-limits to non-Soviets until the communist regime collapsed.
Open again to international trade and commerce, Nizhny Novgorod was still home to some of Russia’s largest and most important scientific and military research labs and factories. Chief among them was the Nizhny Novgorod Research Institute of Radio Engineering (NNIIRT). Operating out of a collection of unremarkable brownish-gray concrete buildings, this firm, part of the huge GKSB Almaz-Antey defense conglomerate, was responsible for the design and manufacture of highly advanced radar systems — including the target acquisition radars and software used by Russia’s S-300 and S-400 surface-to-air missile units.
Not far from the institute, a pale blue UAZ delivery van sat parked along a quiet, tree-lined side street. Its driver, a morose-looking middle-aged man with a drooping mustache, sat placidly behind the wheel. From time to time, he took a drag on his cigarette while idly flipping through the pages of a local tabloid. Sandwich wrappers and a thermos on the seat beside him suggested that he was on a meal break.
The cargo space behind him appeared packed from floor to ceiling with shipping crates, boxes, and other packages. Those appearances were deceiving. All of the jumbled boxes and crates hid the entrance to a small concealed compartment.
Inside this tiny space, two people sat hunched over an array of computers and other electronic gear. Small fans hummed quietly, providing ventilation and cooling. Crumpled disposable coffee cups filled a wastebasket to the brim.
At last, one of them, a bleary-eyed young man, took his hands off a computer keyboard. He turned to his companion, a good-looking redhead, and shrugged his narrow shoulders apologetically. “Sorry, Sam. But it’s no go.”
Samantha Kerr frowned. “You’re sure?”
He nodded. “Oh yeah. I can get into the business side of NNIIRT’s computer systems without any problem, but the firewall for the software lab is just too darned good. I could probably break through by brute force hacking… but doing that would leave traces their IT guys would zero in on in a heartbeat.” He spread his hands. “And I assume that would be bad?”
“Incredibly bad,” she agreed wryly. “As in career-ending, up-against-wall ‘you’re going to be shot, treacherous Amerikanskaya Scion spies’ bad.”
“Yeah, so I’d kind of like to avoid the whole getting-executed-for-espionage thing,” the younger man said. “It would upset my mom and dad and look bad on my résumé.”
“Can the Russians pick up what you’ve done so far?” she asked.
“No way,” he replied. “It’s like I tried to pick the lock on that lab firewall, but only using nanoscale tools. Sure I left some traces, like scratches on a physical lock, but they’re so small you’d have to know exactly where to look to spot them. A routine security scan won’t pick anything up.”
“Good,” she said, leaning forward to peer over his shoulder. “So we’ll do this another way.”
“Meaning?”
“If we can’t hack into the software lab from the outside, then we’ll have to come in at the other end.” She narrowed her eyes in thought. “You said you can hack into the institute’s business systems, right?”
He nodded.
“So you can get inside their conference-scheduling software?”
“No problem,” the younger man said. “What do you want to look at?”
“Every meeting set over the next week or two.”
“I’m on it.” His fingers flew over the keyboard. Dates and times and names scrolled rapidly across the computer’s large LED display.
“There!” she said, pointing to a conference scheduled a few days out. “That’s the one.”
The younger man raised an eyebrow. “You’re kidding me?” He looked closer. “‘Systems Demonstration for FAVORITE/TRIUMF Target Acquisition and Identification Software Upgrade 19.17c’? Really?”
She grinned. “Sounds fascinating, doesn’t it?” Her grin widened as she took in his mystified look. “Check out the official guest list.”
His eyes widened as he scanned through the list. “Whoa! Lots and lots of heavy hitters there. Geez, including some of the top brass for Russia’s aerospace forces.”
“Exactly,” Samantha Kerr said with satisfaction. “So now I need you to add just one more name to that list.” She opened a drawer and took out a set of identity cards, rapidly flipping through them until she found what she wanted. She handed it to him. “This one.”
NINE
Warsaw’s rush-hour commute was in full swing, with cars, buses, and trams choking the major streets. Sidewalks teemed with people streaming to work in office buildings, corporate headquarters, banks, and other businesses. Though temperatures hovered just above freezing, several days of intermittent rain had at last given way to a bright, sunny morning.
Strolling arm in arm, Brad McLanahan and Nadia Rozek joined the hurrying crowds, moving just fast enough to avoid being jostled. They were out of uniform, dressed in civilian clothing — warm winter coats, sweaters, and jeans. Martindale’s message summoning them from Powidz the night before had stressed that they should be ready to travel “inconspicuously” and at short notice.
This morning, faced with an overseas trip of indeterminate length, Nadia had decided to clear away some of the chores that had been piling up in her absence. Her service as one of President Wilk’s military aides and as his personal go-between with the Iron Wolf Squadron left almost no time for everyday routines like paying bills, laundry, and shopping.
Brad’s smartphone buzzed. He took it out and looked at the text message displayed on its screen: Helo@Belweder. 1030. Flt out MinMaz 1100. No bags. M.
“Ah, hell,” he muttered, quickly entering an acknowledgment.
“Martindale?” Nadia asked quietly.
He nodded. “We’ve got a chopper flight out from the Belweder Palace in ninety minutes.” The palace was the site of Piotr Wilk’s working office. Given the Polish president’s preference for fast travel, helicopter landings and takeoffs from its forecourt were fairly routine — not something that should draw a lot of attention.
“A helicopter flight to where?” Nadia asked.
“The air base at Minsk Mazowiecki, where we catch a plane to… well, who knows? But our final destination should be Battle Mountain in Nevada,” Brad told her. He grinned uncertainly. “That’s my old hometown, you know.”
“So there go most of my errands,” Nadia said, frowning in mild irritation. “Straight into the dumpster.”
“I’m afraid so,” Brad said. He showed her the text. “But, hey, at least we don’t have to waste time packing. No luggage allowed, see?”
Nadia raised an eyebrow. “I’m being asked to fly to a foreign country without fresh clothes or even toiletries, and this is supposed to console me?” Her eyes flashed. “You have much to learn about women, Brad McLanahan!”
He winced. “Oh yeah… I guess that’s true.”
Laughing, she took pity on him. “Never mind. I am glad to be your instructor.” She checked her watch. “If we hurry, perhaps I can unscramble the mess my bank has made of my direct deposits. There’s an ATM just off Aleje Jerozomliskie.”