Extraction Read online

  Cooper had to resist the urge to reach up and touch the little pieces of plastic and silicone that changed the shape of his skull—to a camera—just enough to make him different from himself. Between his close cropped hair—he was practically bald—the goatee, and second-gen augmented reality glasses Oakrock had provided, he looked like a different man.

  To the casual observer.

  Cooper took a breath. All he had to do was fool the customs official, currently busting the balls of a British journalist and his family. He just needed time to get to a safe place and contact Beslan.

  “What do you mean I don’t have the correct page stamped? It’s right bloody there,” the reporter complained, leaning toward the agent’s both and tapping his passport.

  The agent sighed and looked down at the passport. “Nyet, this is page two. I need to see page three.”

  The journalist looked at his wife and teenage daughter in exasperation. “But page three is sodding blank—they told me when I left here last week to use only page two. We’ve been through this twice already—”

  “Apologies, but regulations—”

  The reporter threw his hands up. “Bollocks!”

  Cooper watched impassively through the AR glasses as the reporter’s body temperature rose.

  Dude, back down. A quick look at the customs agent showed the man inside remained calm as ice.

  “George, whatever does he mean…?” asked his wife.

  Cooper glanced down at his own passport—page three was completely blank. Cursing under his breath, he pretended to pay no attention to the drama unfolding before him. Behind him, the line for customs snaked into the distance. This hour of the night, airport officials must not have deemed a full crew of agents worthwhile.

  He just needed to get past this booth and then he’d be free to escape the airport—free to contact Beslan. If the wily Chechen was half as good as he’d appeared the last time Cooper had worked with him, there wouldn’t be much of a problem getting supplies.

  Cooper grinned, thinking of their last meeting during the buildup to Tehran. Beslan had proved to be one wild-ass freedom fighter. He operated on the edge of legality—and sanity. Charlie once joked that working with Beslan was like a surgeon using a blowtorch instead of a scalpel during and appendectomy.

  Two agents in oversized military hats stepped around the corner carrying clipboards. As Cooper looked on, the AR glasses outlined them in red as potential threats and highlighted the weapons they carried at their sides. He knew the micro-computer hidden inside the glasses had evaluated the density, color, and shape of the agents’ outfits to surmise that they were armed, and where—and what—the weapons were, but it still amazed him that it could be done so fast. He knew right away they were armed, but if he had to guess, he’d have assumed they wore standard hip holsters. But according to the AR glasses, they wore shoulder rigs under their coats.

  Brent wasn’t kidding around when he said the V2.0 model was a significant upgrade from the prototype I used in Los Angeles.

  Cooper subvocalized the word “tag,” barely moving the muscles in his throat, without making a sound, and the AR glasses highlighted the two armed guards in a dashed red outline. As he turned to casually observe the waiting area—they had twelve booths available, yet only two were open to process passengers…typical.

  He subvocalized “tag all hostiles.”

  Cooper blinked in surprise as over a dozen people glowed with the same hashed red outline. Some stood in line, but most ringed the walls. Cooper frowned. He hadn’t seen the man in the corner by the dead ficus tree, in its ridiculously large, ornate pot. The passengers marked as threats were curious—he’d love to know how they’d smuggled firearms on their planes. He personally hadn’t taken the chance. No sense in blowing his mission before it started.

  The adjacent line shuffled forward. Several people glanced at the irate reporter, but looked away quickly, as if not wanting to draw attention to the fact that they had even noticed the drama. The two newly arrived agents took note of the furtive glances, however, and approached the first people in the next line, holding up their clipboards and examining the men as they walked. One turned to look at Cooper’s line as the reporter and the agent raised their voices.

  Cooper got a glance at the paper on the agent’s clipboard: an Interpol “wanted” fax, featuring one Cooper Braaten. The AR glasses recognized the image and took a snapshot, superimposing his face over the right lens for him to stare at the evidence.

  “Clear, dammit,” Cooper subvocalized, trying to keep his anger in check. The picture vanished.

  Fuck me sideways. How the hell did that happen? Atkins said I had at least 48 hours before they’d get word I was coming…this is a hell of a way to start a mission.

  His mind raced as he listened to the desperate journalist switch to the begging tactic. He was a resident alien of Moscow, he had a house, he paid his taxes and never once complained about anything—despite never finding a decent blood pudding in the whole sodding town—why where they giving him so much grief? He’d made several trips before and never once had an issue.

  When the agent glanced over the reporter’s shoulder and made eye contact with Cooper, he figured the game was up. They were delaying. Giving reinforcements enough time to get into position before they took him down. A bead of sweat trickle down his spine.

  He cursed his luck that the only time he’d be unarmed on the entire mission was when he entered the airport and passed through customs. There just wasn’t any way around it. This was his most vulnerable time, and it looked like the FSB were going to catch him before he even got a chance to find the goddamned ambassador.

  His eyes darted around, looking for items he could use as improvised weapons. The woman to his right, waiting patiently in the next line, had a large messenger bag slung over her left shoulder. A glossy magazine stuck out the top. Cooper relaxed somewhat—at least he could make a baton with that. A rolled-up chunk of paper like that could ruin someone’s day if used properly on the face and neck. It was about as dense as a block of oak and felt much the same when used like a club.

  The agents working their way down the adjoining lines paused to look at each man, ignoring the women and children. They were definitely on to him.

  Cooper swallowed, adjusted his shoulders to prepare for a fight, and slid his feet just a little wider apart. He could disable the nearest agent and take his sidearm easily enough, but a stray gunshot might cause a riot—there were far too many civilians around for him to escalate the situation to full-on tactical. A lot of people were going to get hurt…

  His eyes found the nearest exit and the AR glasses locked the location on his tiny HUD. When they made their first move, he’d break through at that point and head to the next closest exit—marked halfway down the wall plastered in gaudy advertisements. The primary exit would be too obvious—especially because the AR glasses couldn’t get a heat signature reading from the other side of the door at his range. There could be a whole company of FSB officers on the other side of that exit, just waiting for him.

  No, the easiest thing would be to disable the closest agent—crush his windpipe in a surprise attack—and when he dropped to the ground, race round the booth directly in front of him. It might actually help the journalist if the ruckus caused enough of a distraction.

  Another pair of grim-faced agents appeared around the back of the booth and flanked the journalist. They murmured to the man in the booth and held a low-voiced discussion with the increasingly animated journalist. His wife hugged their daughter to her and looked ready to bolt.

  I don’t blame you lady. But they’re not after you. Just be patient.

  While he was watching the journalist, one of the agents working down the next line suddenly switched and moved over to Cooper’s. He had no time to prepare, no time to tense—the agent held up the clipboard and looked right into Cooper’s eyes. Cooper looked back with what he hoped was an expression of disinterested boredom.

&nbs
p; You’re a traveling businessman. You’re tired, you’re hungry, you’re finally home, but you’ve got to be patient and not rock the boat…

  The agent grunted and lowered the clipboard, moving on to the next man behind Cooper. He wanted to exhale, but the real challenge would be the agent in the booth. A causal glance from someone using a years-old picture as comparison was easy. The booth agents took their time examining passport photos.

  The exasperated agent in the booth raised his hands and signaled the two outside to remove the reporter. Cooper watched as the wife and daughter were ignored while the loudly protesting reporter was dragged off to a side room for questioning. The wife looked at the agent, then around at the other people in line as if someone was going to step forward and do something to help. Her heat signature spiked, and so did the kid’s. By now the reporter glowed almost all red-orange. He was pissed—as if Cooper couldn’t tell from the shouting.

  The agent in the booth muttered something to her, then gestured to get out of the way. She moved on wooden legs with a stiff gait to a crude holding area on a faded red carpet, sporting a crusting of ash and cigarette butts.

  The agent gestured with a bored wave for Cooper to approach the booth, so he took a breath and stepped forward, resisting the urge to look over his shoulder and see where the guy with the clipboard went. The agent in the booth, his eyes hooded under half-closed eyelids and one of those ridiculously large, quintessentially Russian hats, reached out a hand, waiting for the passport.

  Cooper handed it over and offered a wan smile.

  “Welcome to Sheremetyeva International Airport. Anything to claim?”

  Cooper shook his head. “Not this time, no,” he said in flawless Russian.

  The agent glanced at page after page of stamped entries and exits. “Was your recent trip for work or pleasure?” he asked without looking up. So far just going through the formalities.

  “Business,” Cooper replied. Keep cool…

  The agent grunted and flipped to the page with Cooper’s altered photo, then held it up, scrutinizing his face. “What do you do?” asked the agent, turning the page in the passport this way and that to get a better angle to compare.

  As if you don’t already know. “I’m a writer.”

  That warranted a long look, and a cocked eyebrow. “That so? Did you enjoy your stay in America?”

  Cooper frowned. “No. What they call decent vodka, I wouldn’t give to pigs,” Cooper said in flawless Russian.

  The agent snorted, stamped Cooper’s passport and slipped it under the bulletproof window. “Welcome home.” He shifted his gaze to the line of waiting travelers. Throughout the exchange, the man’s body temperature didn’t so much as flicker. He was either an outstanding actor, or didn’t give two shits about the supposed writer standing in front of his booth.

  “Spasiba,” Cooper replied, ducking his head as he took the offered passport.

  “Next!” called out the agent as Cooper shuffled past.

  Cooper tucked the passport in his coat pocket, readjusted his bag, and walked confidently with the crowds toward the nearest exit. The secondary exit wasn’t an option now, and he tensed his shoulders to prepare to fight should the guards by the door try anything stupid. As he approached door, the space behind remained clear—its heat signature didn’t change.

  Okay, so if you’re going to ambush me, it’s going to be right now…

  He nodded at the two guards who flanked the doorway. They made eye contact with every male that approached the door, glancing up from their clipboards. They stared at Cooper until he drew even with them, then shifted their gaze to the next wave of incoming people.

  Jesus, they’re on high alert. How the hell did that intel leak?

  Cooper couldn’t shake the feeling that something bad had happened as he walked through the terminal toward the ground transportation and baggage claim areas. He didn’t want to stick around long enough to figure anything out—the Russians knew to look look for him, and only 13’s last minute advice to employ the special effects guy in Helsinki had prevented him from being in custody by now. Cooper knew what happened to political prisoners of the FSB. He wasn’t going to get caught—and if he did, he wasn’t going to some Russian gulag.

  Danika, he reminded himself. She goes by Danika.

  Now that he was through the hardest part, the first order of business was to get transport to the inner city, some 30 kilometers away. He carried his bag over his shoulder and smiled at a starushka waiting by the public restroom near the Terminal C’s main entrance. Her gnarled hands curled over an equally old walking stick. She nodded and offered a wrinkled smile, her face round under the handkerchief tied over her purple-gray hair.

  Cooper stepped outside into a cold, late-autumn night, which didn’t look all that different from any sufficiently large global city at night. Cars drove by, bright headlights chased by red tail lights. Streets glowed yellow from lamps that lined the roads and buildings sprayed light in all directions in the form of signage and windows. Cars honked, a handful of people bustled along sidewalks—it could have been New York or London as much as Moscow. Things were a lot more quiet than they had been before the attacks, but that was to be expected anywhere in the world. Less than a year ago, the airport had been turned into a massive, makeshift morgue. Cooper ahd seen pictures of the body bags, stacked like cordwood in the hundreds and thousands.

  Cooper glanced around as he walked toward the taxi queue. Where the hell did they put all the bodies?

  Across the street, two bald street toughs shouldered through the people crowding the walkway from a bus terminal. The AR glasses immediately identified them as threats. He ignored them and instead hailed the first cab he saw.

  “Destination?” barked the overworked, chain smoking cabbie, as Cooper tossed his bags into the back.

  “A good hotel,” Cooper replied, trying not to cough at the overpowering smell of unfiltered Eastern European cigarettes. “I need a room for the night until I catch my connecting flight tomorrow night.” A glowing map appeared in the space between Cooper and the driver, depicting downtown Moscow. Hotels appeared as glowing blue lights.

  “Da. I know just the place—it’s close.”

  “I don’t want close—I’m a writer, I need inspiration. Take me downtown, yeah? I need to get work done before I leave.” The map adjusted automatically, swiveling to maintain true north as the vehicle moved away from the airport.

  The cabbie drove in silence for a moment, then snapped his fingers. “Okay, new place! You’ll like it. Lots of trees—but downtown.”

  Cooper wasn’t sure how ‘lots of trees’ would work for his present mission, but it was better than staying right next to the damn airport. First thing he wanted to do was contact Beslan and gear up, then get his bearings.

  Blue lights up ahead forced the cabbie to pull over. A large FSB paddy wagon rumbled by, heading for the airport.

  Hope that’s not the journalist’s new ride…

  “So what do you write?” asked the cabbie, merging onto the highway funneling cars south to the heart of Moscow.

  Cooper stared out the window, thinking about the ambassador and his wife, going over all the information he’d memorized from Oakrock’s mission briefing. He subvocalized “waypoint three,” and Beslan’s safe house appeared on Moscow’s northwestern outskirts, superimposed over the map floating in his HUD.

  He caught the cabbie looking at him in the mirror, waiting for an answer. Cooper grunted. “Books.”

  The driver was silent for a second then blinked. He guffawed. “I like you. Now, about this hotel…”

  3

  The Ghost

  Moscow, Russian Federation.

  Yevgeny Mikhailovich frowned as he stared out the windshield of his Mercedes. He gripped his mobile with such force he worried it would break before he could properly chastise his lieutenant.

  “What do you mean, he never arrived? I’m looking at the paperwork right here in my lap—he was on that
19:30 flight! You didn’t see him?” he asked through clenched teeth.

  “At all?”

  “Nyet. I’m telling you—he was not here,” replied his man in charge of the intercept team.

  “Pavel, this is ridiculous. Even the fucking airport cops got the alert. I saw it…they were looking for him at customs. They knew he was there, too. So I ask you again where did he go?”

  “Yevgeny, the only one they picked up was a journalist from England—”

  “Do not presume to call me by my first name,” Mikhailovich said, putting just the right amount of menace in his tone to garner a moment of silence. “Is that understood?” he asked.

  The men in the rear seat shifted in the uncomfortable silence.

  “Da. Crystal,” the worthless tracker’s voice echoed in the car on speakerphone.

  Mikhailovich pinched his nose and closed his eyes. Of all the times to go on a club tour—he hadn’t personally collected his tribute in months, he was supposed to be the pakhan, after all, and bosses don’t do the dirty work, right? But when the girls are so pretty and so willing…

  “What do you want me to do?” Pavel asked, ruining Mikhailovich’s decadent, vodka soaked memories. “The plane is already loading to take off again.”

  “Just shut up a second and let me think,” Mikhailovich said, hitting the mute button on the car’s in-dash display. “Options,” he growled over his shoulder.

  “This American is wily,” offered the low voice of his would-be operations spy. The man was in probationary charge of all Mikhailovich’s brigadiers, the unquestioned leader of the disparate thugs under his control. Sasha Petroval had a hard earned reputation for being loyal to a fault—and solid as a piece of steel. He didn’t speak much, but when he did, Mikhailovich had learned to listen to the ex-spetsnaz warrior.

  “Bah,” scoffed Fyodor Ivanov, Petroval’s counterpart, Mikhailovich’s longtime support spy. Ivanov was charge of all the financial and criminal elements of the gang, including most of the high level planning and execution of plots. He was a brilliant strategist and could usually be trusted to think a few steps ahead of Mikhailovich’s opponents. “So he gave us the slip, Yevgeny Mikhailovich—he’s one man, da? He won’t even find—”