Kremlin Storm, page 9
part #4 of Sokolov Series
Colonel Lisovsky’s laptop had turned out to be a treasure trove of intel. Using a trick he’d learned from a former tech wiz friend, Sokolov had bypassed the computer’s password protection by entering recovery mode. From there, he’d been able to access every file in storage. He’d spent the better part of his flight to Berlin reading classified GRU documents. He’d found out that Lisovsky had been a high-level officer running Russian covert activities in Europe. He’d also uncovered the target of the mission involving Asiyah, and the venue. The Brandenburg Club meeting at Palais Pannwitz.
Asiyah had already arrived there by the time of his plane’s touchdown at Schönefeld, so he was playing catch-up.
A soft probe of Grunewald required stealth and mobility. During the S-Bahn trip from the airport to the city, he’d browsed the local marketplace listings and found the online ad for the Vespa. The seller—a man inked with more tattoos than a rock singer—had been offering the Vespa in mint condition for a fraction of its real value, helmet included. The catch? He’d had no registration papers for the scooter, claiming that he’d lost them. Just the keys for cash. They’d made the exchange outside Berlin Central Station. No paperwork, no ID, no trail. Whether the man had been the actual owner or a bike thief was a whole different story. Sokolov didn’t mull over it. But he knew for a fact that the Vespa was a popular choice among street criminals.
He, too, appreciated its maneuverability as he scouted the area around the Schlosshotel.
The hotel premises were off limits behind heavy security. Asiyah was unreachable—if she was there. He couldn’t be one hundred percent certain without visual contact.
He had no other leads to follow. His best bet now was to watch and wait. He wouldn’t fail to identify her on the way out of the hotel.
Finding a suitable stake-out position proved to be a challenge. The rows of detached houses were inaccessible, and, shielded by trees, none offered a decent view of the street anyway. He couldn’t spend too much time scouting the surroundings, though. Beneath Grunewald’s pleasant appearance, the neighborhood was tight security-wise. It was a fancy district of homeowners, car owners, and dog owners. Any outsider cruising around would stick out like a sore thumb, even on a scooter. The residents wouldn’t hesitate to call the police.
He picked out a spot further down Richard-Strauss-Strasse. He came across a tall three-story edifice which belonged to a dermatology clinic. Its rooftop jutted above the dense foliage, facing Palais Pannwitz directly across the street.
He only had to figure out how to get in. It was late, well past the private clinic’s business hours. The gate, topped by a pair of cherub statues, was locked.
He parked the scooter curbside, shut down the engine and took off his helmet. Then he approached the aluminum fence and tossed the helmet over the side. No alarm sounded when he heard it hit the ground. So far, so good. He scaled the fence and leaped down, landing on his feet. He picked up the helmet, attached it to the strap on the backpack, and went to the back of the house. Using the fire escape, he climbed to the roof. Next to the slanting attic, it had a flat section where Sokolov set up shop.
Peering through the binoculars, he had to give credit to the Brandenburgers. They couldn’t have chosen a better location for the conference. The treetops obstructed the line of sight even from his vantage point, perched on the highest building in the area. Only the red roof tiles of Palais Pannwitz were visible. Whatever went on inside remained completely hidden. He had a clear view of Brahmsstrasse, however, so he concentrated on the surrounding activity. It was a mundane task but Sokolov was up for it. If necessary, he could spend hours lying prone on the rooftop. His backpack was stocked with enough supplies to last for a few days. The deteriorating weather was his only concern. Ominous gray clouds were rolling across the sky, pushed by an increasing wind. If it came to worst, the nylon sleeping bag was supposed to be waterproof.
He had to address a far more pressing issue while he waited. He pulled out the laptop and woke it from sleep mode. It connected to a wireless data network, and he logged into his anonymous messenger account. He’d already messaged Constantine back on the train to let him know that he was alive. He checked the inbox again. Still no reply. It was not usual for his brother to go offline for several hours, but this time his gut feeling told him that something damned serious must have happened to Constantine after the crooked policemen had stopped their car.
He was about to contact Klimov, tell him about Constantine’s detainment, and ask him for help.
He never did.
Suddenly, a chat bubble popped up.
Constantine: I’m OK. Call me.
His joy quickly evaporated, replaced by apprehension.
What if the message was fake? The FSB might have hacked the account or forced Constantine to send it under duress.
There was only one way to find out.
He tapped the video call button.
Only when he saw his brother’s face did he let out a sign of relief.
“Gene! Thank God! Are you all right?”
“Still in one piece. You?”
The poor lighting made it impossible to make out any background detail.
“I’m fine. Don’t worry. I’m at a friend’s place.”
“You’ve made lots of new friends recently.”
“It’s a long story. Where are you?”
“I’ve traced Asiyah to Berlin.”
“Berlin? Hmmm. What about those goons you had on your back?”
“Not far away. And you were right, they’re planning something big. I need your help.”
“Do you want me to make a reservation with Hilton?”
“That’d be great. I’ve tried to check-in at the Schlosshotel, but it’s fully booked. I’d appreciate a room where I could get some rest and drop off the stuff I’ve picked up along the way. Some of it makes for interesting reading.”
A diesel engine roared in the street below. Then came the jarring crash of metal as a pickup truck smashed into the Opel. Muzzle flashes erupted from the truck’s cabin, shattering the silence of Grunewald with a chatter of shots. The Polizei officers were chopped down before they could react.
“Gene? What’s going on over there?”
Another burst of automatic fire finished off the downed policemen, their blood splattering on the Brahmsstrasse pavement.
“It’s a terrorist attack,” he said soberly. “They’re here.”
22
At the wheel of the Toyota pickup, Vlad Panin felt a jolt of adrenaline together with the impact of the truck battering the police car. As the two policemen standing next to it scrambled clear of danger, he unleashed a full magazine through the open window, testing the AK on live targets. With desired effect, it ripped holes through Polizei flesh. The narcotic effect of a fresh kill washed away Panin’s fatigue. He’d come to the end of a seven-hour haul from Serbia, first crossing the Bulgarian border, then flying a chartered plane to Leipzig, and finally driving to Berlin until he reached Grunewald. All he had to do now was cross the finish line: the threshold of Palais Pannwitz. With renewed energy, he yanked the wheel and stomped the accelerator, powering his way through. The truck rammed the iron gate.
The second vehicle, a fake DHL delivery van, followed close behind. Umar directed it in front of the Toyota and braked sharply.
The van’s doors burst open and a group of masked, AK-wielding men rushed out.
There were eight of them and they were chomping at the bit, desperate to shed the blood of the infidels. All eight were immigrants from Central Asia, sleeper cell members of the Islamic Levant, a terrorist organization created by the GRU. In Leipzig, Panin had delivered the weapons and picked the best fighters.
Alerted by the gunshots in the street, a trio of dark-suited guards faced the intruders, weapons drawn and firing.
One of the jihadis went down, spewing blood from the hole in his throat, a terrible gurgling noise drowning out his Al-lahu-akbar! in mid-cry.
Panin didn’t give a damn. They were expendable. Some would die clashing with the main protective detail inside the hotel. He’d rather they got the bullets instead of him.
The three security operators took cover behind the massive stone pillars that supported the balcony above the main entrance. Outgunned, they popped off shots from their semiautomatics and a single FN P90 compact submachine gun. It was enough to deal with a mob of protesters or a lone madman. Against a full-blown military assault, the sheer firepower overwhelmed them.
The jihadis unleashed 40mm frag grenades from the launchers attached under the barrels of their AKs. The projectiles blew up in clouds of smoke and dust, pockmarking the stone façade and disintegrating glass in the tall window panes. Screams echoed the thunderous explosions as fragments sizzled through flesh. A fusillade of slugs tearing into their bodies killed the security men off.
Umar led the charge into the building.
Panin smiled. So far, everything was going as planned. The surprise attack had breached the Brandenburg defense, allowing the jihadis to break in.
Umar was shouting commands as the swarm of Islamic fighters invaded the hotel lobby. Inside, screams mixed with blasting gunfire as they met another wave of security operators.
Now, maximum damage had to be inflicted before the security force could regroup. In the raging chaos and confusion, Panin had other business to attend to. He put on a full-face mask respirator, got out of the Toyota, and circled the hotel building.
The terrorist attack merely served as a distraction.
23
The Brandenburg big shots were enjoying after-dinner drinks in the Cigar Lounge, relaxing on Chesterfield sofas of brown leather. The aroma of quality Cuban tobacco filled the air, carrying faint notes of flowers and manure. Harry Richardson sat puffing on a Cohiba while Count de Grenier was nursing a cognac. Senator Fairchild joined them with a tumbler of Scotch on the rocks.
“I’ve had a most unfortunate conversation with one of our Club members,” Dmitry Ivanov was saying. “She approached me with an outrageous offer to falsify the results of my report in Russia’s favor.”
“Are you talking about Asiyah Kasymova, by any chance?” asked the Senator.
“It doesn’t matter,” Richardson said, blowing wisps of smoke and rolling the tip of the cigar on the edge of the ashtray. “Don’t get me wrong, your research is ground-breaking. You showcase the level of Russian weather-manipulation efforts in astounding detail. But it’s just another red line the Russians have crossed. Your report is just the icing on the cake. There is enough incriminating evidence against Russia’s misdeeds that nothing could tip the scale in Frolov’s favor. The decision has already been made. No disrespect, but your findings merely reaffirm it. Brilliantly, I might add. Our Club members will see that for themselves tomorrow.”
“Thank you,” Ivanov said with a hint of a Soviet accent, which he struggled to shake off even after decades of life in America. “So, are you implying that I should’ve taken the money?”
A few soft chuckles sounded.
“What course of action against Russia do you advocate?” Senator Fairchild inquired.
“Full-blown sanctions coupled with covert activities. No more half-measures,” Richardson said. “Hit the Russians where it hurts and hit ’em hard. Beat them at their own game. Turn their biggest weapons against them. Energy, finance, cyber warfare. Ban all imports of crude oil and natural gas from Russia. Seize the dirty money stashed by Kremlin officials in Western banks. Retaliate with cyber-attacks to cripple the Russian infrastructure.”
“Now that’s a plan I can get behind,” the Senator said.
Count de Grenier nodded. “As Chairman, I can attest that a lot of our members share your enthusiasm. They will support this new policy in their respective countries. The three-pronged strike will force Frolov to back down. Otherwise, his regime will crumble in a matter of months, if not weeks.”
He was cut off by a cacophony of sharp, rattling cracks echoing from outside.
“What’s all that racket?” Fairchild growled. “Fireworks?”
“Some folks must still be celebrating the Fourth of July.”
“No, it’s something else,” Ivanov said. “Gunshots.”
Then they heard the screaming.
It pierced the terrified silence that fell in the room.
The sounds of shooting intensified, resonating from the lobby of red brocatello. Only an ornate double door separated it from the Cigar Lounge.
At the other end of the room, the head of Brandenburg security burst in through the Spiegelzimmer entrance. Two ex-SEALs accompanied him, their odd-shaped machine pistols ready for action.
“We’re under attack!” he announced, pressing a finger to his earpiece. “You must evacuate immediately. Stay calm and follow me, please.”
Splinters flew as a volley stitched a row of bullet holes in the double door, adding extra urgency to his words. The attackers might break in at any moment.
The screams in the lobby died down.
Consumed by panic, Ivanov bolted toward the Spiegelzimmer, ignoring the others as they were shepherded by the security men away from danger.
He didn’t make it too far ahead of them.
The window next to the marble fireplace smashed into shards as a metallic object sailed through the air. It landed on the polished wooden floor with a clunk and spewed fumes which contained particles of tear gas and smelled nothing like a Cuban cigar. Then the pyrotechnic device exploded.
The detonation knocked Ivanov off his feet. As it went off, the stun grenade blinded him with an eye-searing flash, burning at a luminous intensity of a few million candela. Apart from disrupting his balance, the deafening 170-decibel roar also caused temporary hearing loss. He lay on the floor for thirty seconds, his senses disoriented. Then, overcoming the throbbing in his head, he opened his eyes to take in the scene of sheer horror that unfolded around him in a blur.
It was carnage.
Automatic fire shredded the leather upholstery of the sofas and the slumped form of Harry Richardson. Next to him, the former Navy SEAL collapsed, shot through the forehead.
Senator Fairchild’s corpse lay in a pool of gore, his face unrecognizable.
Count de Grenier’s bloodied body sagged against the wall, riddled with bullets.
Crimson rivulets smeared the prone figures of the other security guard and his boss. Looming over them, two gunmen wearing camo suits and full-face respirators finished them off from fire-spitting Kalashnikovs.
Through the haze of cigar smoke and tear gas, it all seemed like a nightmare that was impossible to wake up from.
The killers turned to Ivanov.
Ivanov was screaming at the top of his lungs, hearing no sound. He tried to pick himself up from the floor, but dizziness got the better of him.
The barrel of an AK pointed at him. Tears ran down his face, either from the gas or the raw fear that churned in the pit of his stomach.
He hadn’t expected to die today. And yet there he was, a finger twitch away from the rifle belching brain-splattering death. What a waste that would be, he mused. His mind probably held the key to the fate of the entire world.
Do you even know who I am? he wondered, perhaps aloud.
They did. They most certainly did.
The realization petrified him. He suddenly found death more appealing than the possible alternative.
A nylon hood was pulled over his head and secured around his throat. Plastic cuffs locked around his wrists and ankles.
Then the terrorists half-dragged him across the blood-slicked floor.
24
Asiyah shed her dress in the locker room of the deserted spa and gym. She pulled on the Nike sports bra, leggings, sneakers, and zip hoodie, left there by the hotel staff as per her request in the thank you note. She slipped the Saint Laurent handbag—which held the Serbian passport and some cash—over her shoulder and retraced her steps.
She emerged into the cavernous indoor pool area. Light shimmered on the white-painted walls, reflecting off the cobalt-blue water surface. Columns surrounding the enormous swimming pool gave it the appearance of ancient Roman baths. She was heading back toward the garden entrance when sharp pain stabbed her scalp. Someone had grabbed her hair from behind and yanked her head back violently. She cried out. An arm wrapped around her neck in a head lock.
“Where do you think you’re going?”
Grishin. She sensed his foul breath as he brought his face to her ear.
“Looking for Hans? He’s dead. Your plan was too obvious.”
The choke hold tightened, constricting her windpipe.
“Let go,” she gasped, digging her fingers into his forearm. It was useless.
“You really thought we’d trust you to handle Ivanov, huh? How stupid. Don’t worry, your real job is quite simple. All you have to do is die.”
He applied more force, like a python crushing its prey. Her vision began to fade.
With shaking fingers, she unclasped her dangling handbag and groped for the steak knife. Seizing the handle, she thrust the blade up and sliced the wrist that was strangling her. The serrated edge carved flesh open, cutting through tendons and arteries. The excruciating damage forced Grishin to ease his death grip. Instantly, she wriggled free, spun around, and slashed the knife again at Grishin. The blade struck his carotid artery. Blood squirted. With seconds to live, Grishin’s eyes widened, his good hand clawing at the gun in his belt holster. Asiyah planted the sole of her sneaker into his abdomen, pushing him away. Grishin staggered back and splashed into the pool. Red mist diffused in the water around him as his body floated like a piece of debris.
