“Operations to Post One, Operations to Post One, come in, over.”
“Post One, copy, over,” Special Agent Pavel Kovalev replied.
“We have a problem,” said the watch officer in the operations command post located in the basement of the presidential palace. “Well, a possible problem.”
“Roger that, Ops. What’s wrong?”
“I just noticed that the drapes in the president’s study are drawn.”
“And?”
“Well, sir, I’ve never seen that done in the three years I’ve been doing this job,” said the watch officer. “The drapes are supposed to remain open at all times so we can keep an eye on the president and make sure everything’s all right.”
“They’re having a very private discussion, Ops,” Kovalev replied. “The president doesn’t want any disturbances or distractions until he leaves for the Kremlin.”
“Affirmative, Post One, but the drapes are supposed to remain open for his protection.”
“Are you saying there’s a problem?”
“That’s just it, sir—how would I know?”
“What was happening inside the study before the drapes were closed?”
“We’re reracking that video now. The problem is with all the snow, the condensation on the window, and the glare, the images aren’t clear. Everything’s hazy.”
“Switch to thermal.”
“Doing that now.”
“And?”
There was a long pause—too long for Kovalev.
“What is it, Ops?” he pressed. “What can you see?”
“CODE RED, CODE RED!” shouted the watch officer, the horror in his voice palpable, broadcasting on the emergency frequency for every agent in the compound to hear. “GO IN NOW—I REPEAT—GO IN NOW!”
The submachine gun was loaded and instantly accessible.
Relieved, Marcus flipped on the orange flashing safety light on the roof and began to proceed toward his target.
The airport maintenance team was doing a decent job keeping the runways plowed. This was Moscow, after all. They had plenty of experience with snow. Still, for whatever reason, the access lanes for baggage carts, fuel trucks, and other vehicles like his were taking longer. Fishtailing his way across the airport grounds, Marcus worried he might hit something or someone in the rapidly dropping visibility.
When he finally reached the helipad, it was empty. A ground crew was waiting. That was a hopeful sign, suggesting something was inbound. But there was no chopper visible, and Marcus’s stomach tightened. He began counting to fifty but heard the roar. Then he saw it, descending rapidly from the thick cloud cover amid a swirling, billowing spray of snow and ice.
Marcus positioned the security car as close to the helipad as he safely could so Oleg wouldn’t have to be exposed to the elements for a single second longer than necessary. He reached over and unlocked the passenger door. Then he stepped out of the car and into the bitter, whipping winds. As the chopper door opened, Marcus came around the car and stood by the passenger door, ready to open it the moment Oleg emerged. But Oleg didn’t emerge. Not right away and not for several minutes.
“We may have a problem,” he radioed Morris.
“What is it?”
“The chopper door is open, but the Raven has not emerged.”
“How long?”
“Too long. I’m going to check it out.”
“Copy that. What do you need from me?”
“Just make sure we’re ready to get off the ground the second we get back.”
Marcus strode to the door of the chopper, unbuttoning his overcoat as he did to make it easier to grab his pistol if he had to.
He had to.
Just before he reached the door, a gun went off inside the helicopter, blowing out a window. Marcus heard a woman screaming and a fight break out on board. Gun drawn, he raced up the steps only to find the copilot and Oleg wrestling in the tight confines of the cabin. Marcus didn’t think twice. He double-tapped the copilot, then pivoted and double-tapped the pilot. A woman, wrapped in a black cashmere coat and furs, was screaming hysterically. Marcus had never seen her before, but she posed no threat. He grabbed Oleg by the collar and hauled him off the chopper without saying a word. Throwing him in the backseat of the waiting car, Marcus slammed the door shut, then got behind the wheel and peeled off across the tarmac.
“They know! They know!” Oleg began yelling the second they were alone. “I don’t know how, but they know!”
94
Oleg was hyperventilating and risked going into shock.
But there was nothing Marcus could do about it. It didn’t matter how the FSB knew or how Oleg had managed to avoid being handcuffed or shot inside that chopper. Their only chance of survival was to get back to Morris and off the ground. Even then, he doubted they had better than a one-in-ten chance of making it out of Russian airspace without being shot down by MiGs, assuming they could even could get away from Domodedovo in one piece.
As he radioed back to Morris that they were inbound, Marcus could hear sirens converging from the north and the west. Then he noted the police band radio set where the AM/FM system usually was. He switched it on and the radio crackled to life.
Marcus couldn’t understand a word of Russian, but he instantly recognized both the fear and the urgency in their voices. “What are they saying?” he shouted to Oleg in the backseat.
“They just issued my death sentence,” Oleg said.
“What?”
“The dispatcher is telling every police officer and security guard in or near the airport grounds that I’m responsible for assassinating the president of the Russian Federation and the head of the FSB,” said Oleg. “The security services are unleashing everything they have to hunt me down along with anyone helping me. Shoot to kill. No mercy.”
Marcus switched off the security car’s flashing light and then for good measure cut the headlights, too. Given the dimness and swirling snow, he hoped that would lower their profile, making them nearly invisible. Whoever was hunting Oleg was headed to the helipad. The ground crew at the helipad had surely seen him pull Oleg off the chopper and into this car, but if the car was invisible, they still had a chance. It wasn’t much to go on, but that measure of confusion might buy them the time they needed.
Just then Marcus spotted a police car—red-and-blue lights flashing, siren blaring—racing straight toward them. He slowed a bit and veered right, out of the patrol car’s path, hoping it would blow right past them. Instead, the driver hit the brakes and tried to follow them but hit an ice patch and spun out of control.
Marcus accelerated, zigzagging dangerously through planes and food service trucks.
“They’ve spotted us,” Oleg said, continuing to translate what he was hearing over the police band radio. “An officer is giving a description and our heading.”
“What else?”
“Now they say I’m with one suspect, armed and dangerous, and that we’re heading toward the private aviation terminal.”
Well, they had that right, Marcus thought as he spotted the G4. Then Oleg pointed out two more patrol cars converging on them. The one behind them was coming up fast.
“We’re going to be at the plane in about fifteen seconds,” Marcus said calmly. “When we get there, I want you to bolt out the right side. You hear?”
“Yes.”
“Get up the stairs and into the plane as fast as you can.”