Operation Barracuda (2005) by Tom Clancy
“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.
HOW come 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-clop sound 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.”
NOW dressed 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 what sort 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 ruff in 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 ruff again, 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.
Next I open the desk drawers and filing cabinet but find nothing of interest. I then spot a small wall safe next to the desk and get down on my knees to examine it. Normally I would use one of my disposable picks—lock picks with explosive charges in them—to open a safe. They’re quick and dirty, but unnecessarily noisy. When I have to keep quiet, the device I call the Safecracker is the next best thing. It’s the size of a cigarett
I attach the device to the safe and set it to work. Four minutes go by before the first number appears on my OPSAT. Damn, it’s taking too much time. I’m not comfortable with this. Harry forgot to tell me how long those tranquilizers last. I sure don’t want Fido coming in here after me.
Another three minutes and the second number pops up. Just one more and I can see if the Safecracker did its job correctly. But as I’m counting the seconds I could swear I hear something outside the office. I hold my breath, freeze, and listen carefully.
Come on, make another sound. Confirm what I heard the first time.
But there’s nothing. I exhale just as the third number appears on the OPSAT. I quickly turn the knob, trying the combination the Safecracker has provided to me.
The safe opens, revealing a few file folders.
I’m able to read some of the Cyrillic and make out that one file is devoted to Russia’s nuclear inventory. And China’s too!
“My God,” Lambert says. He can also see the papers through my trident goggles. “That document lists the location of every nuclear device in Russia and China.” I don’t risk answering him vocally but I continue to study the file. It dates back to the eighties, when the Soviet Union was a bit friendlier with its Asian neighbors, so it could be terribly out of date. The pages go on and on . . . uh-oh. There’s a page listing missing nuclear devices. Twenty-two of them. Holy shit. The general has scribbled coded notations beside these entries. There is a date on this page and it’s recent.
“Snap some shots of that, Sam,” Carly says. “I’ll work on making sense out of those notes.” I quickly do so with the OPSAT.
Another file seems to concern a Chinese general in the People’s Liberation Army by the name of Tun. I’ve heard of him. He’s a controversial figure in China, a real hawk. Tun likes to rile up the government with emotional speeches, inciting them to take action against Taiwan. I’m not sure what kind of power or influence the guy has these days but through most of the nineties he was considered a bit of a crackpot. Prokofiev’s file on the man is pretty extensive. Photos, biographical info, and . . . damn, lists of arms that Tun appears to have purchased from Russia. No, wait. Not from Russia. From the Shop! It has to be. These are purchase orders for arms, worth millions of dollars, that Prokofiev has signed off on.
I quickly snap more photos and then carefully place them back in the safe. I close it, spin the combination knob, and stand.
“Good work, Sam. Now get the hell out of there,” Lambert says.
That’s when the office door opens. A woman, dressed in a nightgown and resembling Boris Yeltsin in drag, sees me and screams like a banshee.
6
I jump toward Mrs. Prokofiev, grab her by her massive shoulders, pull the woman toward me, step to the side, and place my hand firmly over her mouth. This muffles her scream to an extent.
In Russian, I say, “Please be quiet. I won’t hurt you!” I mean it, too.
But the woman is huge and strong. She wrestles out of my grip and swings an elbow into my stomach. The suit protects me but this woman means business.
She starts to run from the office and I tackle her. Her bulky frame falls to the carpet with a heavy thud as she screams again. I move over her and put my hand across her mouth again.
“Listen to me!” I shout in Russian. “I work for the government! I’m here to help you.”
But it’s like holding a 280-pound wild boar. Because I’m pulling punches and don’t want to hurt her, she throws me off of her and manages to get to her feet. I hang on to one leg—it’s like hugging a tree trunk—and she pulls me along the carpet back into the office. Damn, she’s going for the guns.
“Wait!” I shout, but she pulls the Winchester off the wall, cocks it, and aims it at my head.
I raise my hands. “Mrs. Prokofiev,” I say, “please calm down and just listen to me.”
“Who are you? What do you want?” she demands. Her voice is deep and hoarse.
“I’m a private detective,” I blurt out. “I work for the Russian government. I’m gathering information about your husband’s extramarital activities!”
This gets her attention. “What did you say?”
“Please, may I stand?”
She keeps the rifle trained on my forehead. I don’t doubt she would pull the trigger if provoked. Only now do I notice that there are curlers in her gray hair and she’s got cold cream on her face. Hideous.
“All right, stand up, pig!” she shouts. I do so but I keep my hands high. I’m sure I could disarm her and send her to Dreamland if I wanted to, but I have a better idea.
“My name is Vladimir Stravinsky and I work for the Russian government,” I say. “Your husband is in some trouble. I’m here to see what I can find. I honestly thought you weren’t at home.”
“What did you do to Ivan the Terrible?” she snarls.
“I beg your pardon?”
“Ivan! My dog!”
“Oh. He’s just asleep. It was a tranquilizer. He’s not harmed, I promise.”
She squints at me and frowns. “What’s this about Stefan?”
Stefan? Oh, her husband. “Mrs. Prokofiev, are you aware of your husband’s extramarital activities?”
“His what?”
“May I lower my hands?” I ask as politely as possible. “I can show you some, um, pictures.”
She glares at me, unsure whether or not to trust me. Finally, she nods her head but keeps the barrel in my face. “What are you talking about?” she whispers.
“Your husband has a mistress in Ukraine. In Kyiv, to be exact. A fashion model.” I decide to rub it in. “She’s in her twenties.”
The woman’s eyes flare. I swear they turn red for a moment. “I don’t believe it!” she says.
“It’s true. I’m afraid this affair he’s having is causing some concern in the Kremlin. The general has been neglecting some of his, er, duties.”
“You lie, pig!” She lifts the rifle to her eye, taking a bead on my nose.
“I can show you pictures!” I say.
Mrs. Prokofiev slowly lowers the gun again and jerks her head. “All right. Show me.”
I hold out my wrist and reveal the OPSAT. “They’re on here. This is like a digital camera. Look.” I quickly bring up the shots I took in Kyiv and display them to her, one by one. Her facial expression exhibits incredulity at first and then her pallor changes from white to red, even through that awful cold cream. If she could breathe fire, she would.
“I’ll kill him,” she mutters. The woman lowers the rifle and commands me to stand. She appears a little unsteady, so she moves to the desk and sits in the general’s chair. “What is going to happen to him?” she asks.
“I don’t know. I’m just gathering information for now.”
“You don’t need to do anything,” she says. “I’ll kill him first.”
I figure this is anger and bravado talking. “That’s not necessary, Mrs. Prokofiev. I’m sure that—”
But I’m interrupted by the sound of cars moving past the office window. I remember that the driveway leading to the garage is on the side of the house directly next to the office.
“My husband!” she says, standing. “He is home!”
I curse to myself. “I’ll have to hide.”
She waves her finger at me. “No. Do not hide. Go out the back door. I will keep him occupied when he comes in. Hurry!”
I nod, thank her, and leave the office. Ivan the Terrible is beginning to wake up. He sees me and growls sleepily. I jump over his body and he springs to his feet. When he barks, Mrs. Prokofiev shouts, “Ivan! No!” The dog whimpers slightly and sits. He apparently knows who his master is.
I go out
“Sam, you’re not alone,” Lambert says. “Man at three o’clock.”
Sure enough, a uniformed guard comes around the house to the back, apparently performing a routine security sweep for the general’s arrival home. He sees me and shouts for help. As he draws his pistol, I forget about the footprints and rush him. I slam into him head-on and together we fall into the snow. I punch him in the face as hard as I can but the man is well trained. He plunges his knee into my side, sending a jolt of pain into my kidney. I roll off of him and attempt to get to my feet but the guard whips his arm out and stiff-hands me in the neck. If the angle had been a little better for him, he would have broken it. As it is, I fear he’s destroyed my larynx. I struggle for breath but the pain is intense.
The guard stands, draws his weapon, and points it at my head. I’m on my knees, helpless and groveling before him, but I do have the presence of mind to clutch handfuls of snow and pack them together.
The guard says, “I should go ahead and kill you but I think we’ll see what the general has to say about you.”
Suddenly there’s a loud gunshot inside the house. The guard stiffens and looks up. I use the opportunity to throw my slush ball into his face. It’s one of Krav Maga’s basic tenets—use whatever you have available in order to gain an advantage. I then spring at him, pushing off with my legs like a jack-in-the-box. I ram him in the abdomen, knocking him down once again. His pistol, a Makarov, flies into the air. This time I don’t give him a chance to rebound. I jump and bring the soles of my heavy boots down on his head. I twist, land with legs on either side of his temples, and then I give him a solid kick in the right cheekbone.
He stops squirming.
I pause for a second and a half to make sure I’m not leaving anything behind and then I take off toward the side of the house. As I run past the office window, I hear angry voices inside but it’s impossible to identify them. And I really don’t care. My throat is on fire and I just want to get the hell out of there. I got what I needed, I think.