The Mercenary Read online

  * * *

  DAWN CAME AS glowing warmth through the window. Garin was aware of bright sunlight on his face. He sat up and saw Petrov, Olga, and the boy still asleep. The boy lay across his mother’s lap. Petrov’s mouth was open, his head leaned back. A great exhaustion and the uncomfortable worry of the next day’s unknown kept them from stirring.

  Garin looked out the window at the great steppes that disappeared to the far horizon. Then there was the restless rumble underneath as they crossed a trestle bridge over a surging river, and out the window he saw the beginnings of russet hills that glowed in the early-morning light. They had passed through Kiev, and now the landscape changed to fertile flatlands, scar, and ravine. They would be on the train all day, and half a second night, before ending the long journey.

  Garin left the compartment for the passageway, lighting a Prima, which he drew on deeply. He gazed out the window at the passing landscape and contemplated the land of his father. He tried to imagine the man he had never met. It was at times like this that the American graft on his Russian heart gave him great pain.

  The train made its slow, wending way south and west through terrain dotted with farm villages. He saw diesel-starved tractors with hoes being pulled by horses. A kind of serene stupidity came over him. The hours of travel had softened his face and brought him to a comfortable reckoning. He was lost in thought gazing at the passing landscape, and in the moment, he was a young boy again looking at the far horizon of his life, leaving behind the weary man living his future. The changing landscape and the train’s rhythm subdued him. He had the face of a boy who knew the evil of the world and how he would cheat it.

  26 UZHGOROD

  THE CONDUCTOR ANNOUNCED THE TRAIN’S arrival with three loud raps on the compartment’s window, waking the sleeping family. They had succumbed to exhaustion during the thirty-two-hour journey, and sleeping quieted the anxiety of what lay ahead. They were arriving in predawn darkness. It was 2:56 A.M.

  Petrov was startled awake by the sudden announcement. Outside, the night was punctuated by streetlamps on the outskirts of the border town. The train was slowing, and its steel wheels screeched on the sharp curve that carried it past warning lights and the clanging bell of a street crossing. There were three short bursts from the locomotive’s whistle. Half-asleep passengers outside their compartment sat on their luggage and made sullen remarks. Only the boy, Aleksey, sedated, slept.

  Garin leaned to Petrov and Olga and reminded them of what they had to do.

  “No one knows we are here. If the border guards look at you, it doesn’t mean they are looking for you. It is their job to stare and make you uncomfortable. The driver will be parked with his Mercedes two blocks from the station. You will know him because his trunk will be open.”

  Uzhgorod was not a typical border town. It was the point of entry to a Warsaw Pact country, and no less heavily defended. Travelers crossing the border were rigorously challenged. Most of the traffic to and from Western Europe crossed the border at Chop, fifteen miles away, so the bulk of the movement at Uzhgorod was local business and civilians passing between Czechoslovakia and Ukraine, where wars had repeatedly altered the political boundary.

  Uzhgorod Station’s clock tower chimed three times in the darkness, marking the early hour, and everywhere tired, zombie-like men and women ignored the dozens of alert, gray-uniformed guards.

  Garin emerged from the station’s bathroom, where he had changed his clothes. He wore a gray business suit, narrow tie, black shoes, and wire-rim glasses, which he stopped to clean as he passed two border guards resting their arms on Kalashnikovs, and he confirmed the guards had no interest in him. Petrov left the station carrying his sleeping son on his shoulder, and Garin walked behind, Olga at his side, giving the appearance of a couple.

  Garin found the driver and his parked Mercedes where he’d been told they would be. Streets in the medieval town were narrow cobblestone alleys that twisted in unpredictable ways along ancient routes built around old homes. Windows were dark at that hour, doors locked for the night, and the streets were empty.

  “You’re late,” the driver said. He looked skeptically at the family. “This is the package? I was told there would be one.”

  “Change of plans.”

  “What’s your name?”

  “Alek,” Garin snapped. “What’s yours?”

  “Boris. Okay. Plans change. A patrol drove by two minutes ago. Get in.”

  Boris proceeded to remove a section of the back seat of his Mercedes S-Class. Garin made a judgment of the man as he worked, cigarette dangling from his mouth, grunting displeasure. Garin trusted the Agency’s Czech contacts, but he knew that local smugglers were a special breed of men who worked for money and had no political loyalties. At the first sign of danger, they were quick to switch allegiances for their own good. Garin adjusted the nine-millimeter Makarov pistol under his belt.

  “Throw that away,” Boris said. “If they find that, forget about getting across the border.” Boris shrugged and added casually, “Or you can keep the gun, but I’m not driving.”

  Garin dropped the pistol through a sewer grate. He had stuffed his Soviet Army uniform into the covered wastebasket in the station bathroom, where he knew it would be found, but by that time, they would be across the border.

  Boris hustled the family and its two bags into the car. He threw Olga’s duffel bag into the trunk and followed with Petrov’s, putting on a show of urgency. He directed Olga to get in the car. “Up front,” he said. “Next to me.”

  “You,” he said to Petrov, “in here.”

  Boris had pulled the back seat forward to reveal a specially fabricated compartment that sat between the trunk’s well and the back seat. It wasn’t large, just enough space for a grown man and a child—or whatever the week’s contraband. Petrov slipped in the small space and hunched against one side, his legs drawn to his chest. Aleksey, drowsy from the sedative, was placed in Petrov’s arms, his small legs stretched forward.

  “Keep him quiet,” Boris said. “If he talks when the guards look in the trunk, they’ll tear the car apart.” Boris looked at Petrov. He threw a handkerchief. “If he looks like he is going to talk, hold his mouth shut. He’s a nice kid. Don’t make him an orphan.”

  The space was cramped but ample, and air circulated through the sides of the back seat. Petrov took a deep breath as Boris pushed the false wall in place and reset the back seat.

  Garin sat in the back behind Olga. “I will tap once when we get to customs,” he said through the seat. “Twice when we are across.”

  “Names?” Boris asked. He glanced sideways at Olga. “They will ask me at the border. You want me to look stupid? Two passengers who’ve paid me to drive them four hours to Prague and they haven’t introduced themselves?”

  Olga gave the name on the Soviet passport and identity card that Technical Services had created, and Garin did the same. Boyfriend and girlfriend. Sports enthusiasts visiting European competitions going on in Prague.

  “I know the guard at the first checkpoint. That’s where he will open the trunk and dogs will circle the car. He is Ukrainian, and I provide him tips on the side. Sometimes a girl. So he looks the other way. Just answer his questions and we will be fine.” He looked at Garin in the back seat. “Do you want to listen to music? It might help. Everyone listens to music.”

  The Mercedes had begun to move while Boris fiddled with the radio dial, and he confidently sped up as he sought a station, accelerating around corners without headlights.

  “If we don’t have music we might seem like we’re smugglers,” Boris said. He played with the dial until he found a Czech station playing ABBA.

  “We’re six kilometers from the frontier. At the first checkpoint, we will be asked to get out. They check documents, car registration, ask a few questions, and they’ll look in the luggage. If we are cleared, we go to the second checkpoint. They look at us again, look at the documents, sometimes they put a mirror under the car. I say hell
o. They may ask you questions, but don’t offer anything. Yes and no. Understand? Then, if all goes well, they wave us through to the Czech side. It is sixty meters across no man’s land. We’re not safe until we are past the Czech border guards.”

  Garin settled into the back seat and looked out at the dark streets. Dawn was hours away, and the streets were deserted. Clouds had moved in and dense fog limited visibility, but distant lightning pierced the mist.

  * * *

  THEY ARRIVED AT the first Soviet checkpoint, a cluster of three cinder-block buildings alongside covered lanes that led to the frontier beyond. Two tall streetlamps cast a dim glow through the fog and lit red-and-white stanchions that blocked the road. Military kiosks stood on either side of the checkpoint. One sign read STOP, and a second, CTOП.

  Eighteen-wheel transports were parked at the far end of the largely empty lot, waiting for morning. A bright searchlight atop a tall, steel-girder watchtower swept the empty frontier.

  Boris pulled into the rear of the line of waiting passenger cars. Two Volkswagens, a gray Volga sedan, and a silver Mercedes were stopped in front of them. A camouflage-uniformed border guard, his arms resting on a Kalashnikov hanging around his neck, observed a customs agent addressing a driver. He was alert but bored, far into his night shift, but his eyes had the menace of soldiers everywhere. An armored personnel carrier with light machine guns was parked behind the customs kiosk. Another customs agent stepped forward and waved the Volkswagens through the raised barrier.

  Boris put his car in gear, moving forward until the guard raised his hand: “Halt.”

  Boris whispered to Olga without turning his head, “Keep quiet. I’ll answer his questions.” Then he lowered his window. “Good morning.”

  “Papers, please.” The guard looked up after scanning them. “Destination?”

  “Prague.”

  “Who are these people?”

  “From Moscow. I’m driving them to the games.”

  The guard lowered his head and illuminated Garin’s face with his flashlight. “Why didn’t you fly?”

  “Flights were sold out.”

  The guard nodded. “Wait here.”

  27 CHECKPOINT

  GEORGE MUELLER STOOD IN THE darkened office on the second floor of the Czechoslovakian Border Control building and looked out the bay window at the strip of empty frontier. Warmth had passed from the earth, and thickening fog obscured the Soviet checkpoint sixty meters away. A watchtower’s searchlight played across no man’s land, slowly sweeping the razor-wire-topped, chain-link fence along the road. Cool early-morning air brought with it wisps of ground-hugging fog and misting rain, and farther off there were lightning flashes from the approaching storm. The search lamp’s beam was leaden gray through the fog.

  Mueller raised his 12× binoculars and studied the scene at the Soviet checkpoint. Border guards were in the midst of a shift change. Fresh guards stepping in for the ones ending their duties, and there was a halt in activity as the new men took over.

  Mueller looked for movement through the shifting fog. The candy-striped barrier had been raised, and a silver Mercedes S-Class made its way toward the Czech side. Mueller saw the car enter the sorrowful darkness of the frontier, but when he looked through his binoculars he saw only the driver.

  Where is Alek? He looked at his watch. It’s time. The window was open for the light breeze, and it was open too for the rifle held by the black-ops Agency sniper who stood beside Mueller. The man observed the top of the watchtower through his German binoculars. His heavy-barrel .270 bolt-action Mauser rifle with laminated walnut stock and telescopic sight hung on his shoulder with a leather harness sling. The rifle was fitted with a Canjar trigger.

  The man was tall, like Mueller, but heavyset, and the large rifle looked small and toy-like on his chest. He wore a black utility vest and tan fatigues without identifying markings. He dropped the binoculars onto his chest and raised his rifle, sighting the cross hairs on the Soviet sniper who stood atop the watchtower.

  The Soviet marksman wore a black wool cap over thick hair that fell over his ears, and a kaffiyeh wrapped his neck, the ends tucked into his field jacket. His rifle hung around his neck, the barrel pointing down. He wore desert camouflage fatigues and an Afghan tour of duty service patch.

  The Agency sniper had his Russian target in the scope’s cross hairs. He knew the exact drop of his bullet in five-meter increments, and he calculated the distance it would have to travel. A clear shot across a short distance. It was the worsening visibility that was uncertain. Clouds were rolling in, coming intermittently, sometimes obscuring the target, and then unpredictably the air cleared, giving him a clean shot.

  “Stand down,” Mueller said. “It’s not them. There are no passengers.”

  Mueller glanced at the line of cars parked at the Soviet checkpoint, looking for a black Mercedes with Czech license plates, but the end of the line disappeared into fog.

  Rositske stood behind Mueller, and beside him Ronnie Moffat, who wore a wool car coat and an anxious expression. Rositske handed Mueller another cup of coffee.

  “Why don’t you take a break?” Rositske said. “I’ll take over for a few minutes. You haven’t slept since Washington. You’re no good like this.”

  Mueller ignored the offered coffee. “They’ll be here,” he said. “The train arrived in Uzhgorod.”

  “If they were on it.”

  “They were.” Mueller turned. “He’s good at what he does. He’ll get GAMBIT across. He’ll come.”

  “When?”

  “When it’s safe. There’s no deadline. He’s not running to catch an airplane. He’ll wait until it feels right.”

  “He might have been blown by the smuggler.”

  “He doesn’t get paid until he delivers. He won’t risk his life, but I trust his greed.”

  “What about Garin?”

  Mueller paused. “I’m talking about Garin.” Mueller nodded at the black-ops sniper at his side. “That’s why he’s here. If there’s a problem.”

  A telephone rang. The one-note chime pierced the room’s quiet and startled the four Americans. From another room came the urgent sounds of a man speaking Czech. A uniformed officer appeared in the corner office’s door and nodded briskly at Mueller. Czechoslovakia and the Soviet Union were Warsaw Pact allies, but the Czech people still remembered the Soviet Army’s brutal repression of the 1968 Prague Spring uprising. The Czech intelligence officer who approached Mueller had lost his only son to a Soviet tank tread.

  “There may be a problem,” he said in English.

  “What problem?”

  “A Soviet transport aircraft landed in Uzhgorod airport an hour ago. The airport closes at midnight, but it was reopened for this airplane. Four passengers, three men and a woman, disembarked and took a waiting government sedan.”

  Mueller considered the meaning of what he’d just been told. An hour? “Where did they fly in from?”

  “Moscow.”

  Mueller rubbed his hands together against the chill and moved back to the open window. There was no backup plan. If the smuggler was stopped, they would be questioned, and Mueller had no idea if the wife’s nerves would hold up under stress or if the child’s cry would betray them. There was always a weak point in an operation—the single point of failure. It didn’t reveal itself until the crisis moment.

  Mueller considered the problem. If the car had been stopped, it was possible the waking son gave them away or the wife became nervous, triggering a search of the car. Or they might have seen a problem and abandoned the car, going on the run. They stood no chance against the border’s defenses: two rows of razor wire, machine gun towers every two miles, land mines dotting the strip of land between chain-link fencing, and round-the-clock patrols with dogs. Escaping across the border on foot was a dangerous and often fatal mistake. The muscles on Mueller’s neck contracted, and tension tingled his spine.

  “It’s too late if the smuggler has turned them in,” Rositske said.r />
  Mueller ignored his former deputy, but he was aware of Rositske standing at his side. They were both tired, both under stress. Mueller knew he was facing his test—this was his operation, and the full weight of a failure would fall on him. Mueller turned, sensing Rositske’s eyes on him, and the two men stared at each other.

  “Did you really believe you could trust him?” Rositske snapped. “A mercenary? He’s no better than the smuggler. If he’s desperate, he’ll do whatever it takes to save himself.”

  Old grudges between the two men rose up.

  “You think you know him,” Rositske went on, “but you don’t.”

  Mueller turned away. They both knew what would follow from a failure. Questions would be asked, a formal inquiry convened, and the careers of the men involved placed on hold until answers were given. He would no longer be in charge of his retirement.

  Rositske added, “The whole operation has been wrong from the start. The idea we could use one of their own against them. The game they’re playing has changed. He will become a Soviet hero who turned in GAMBIT. Have you considered that we’ve been played?”

  Mueller was ready to accept the mistake. It was possible that the best professional calculations applied to GAMBIT’s exfiltration—the studied gnomic briefings on what little they knew of the inner workings of the KGB and Headquarters’ meticulous effort to come up with a plan—were all in the service of a wildly ingenious enemy manipulation. But that didn’t feel right to Mueller. There was a long silence as both men contemplated the possibility.

  “The night isn’t over,” Mueller said. His eyes moved to the open window, and then he suddenly turned back. “He’s not that kind, but if he is… so be it.”

  “What kind is he?”