82
Present day
Driscoll and Chavez had moved forward through the trees on the northern and southern ends of Hugh Castor’s lakeside property; they were just twenty-five yards away from the back of the chalet, and they were well hidden. Chavez had a line of sight on Ryan via a large glass window. Through his binos he clearly saw Ryan seated on the sofa with Oxley, and in front of them was an elderly man seated by a fireplace.
A two-man security patrol walked back and forth on the rear deck of the property, so there was no way for Ding and the others to get any closer without risking detection.
He realized that even though he could see Ryan, Ryan was still on his own.
Dom Caruso was closest to the water, hidden between a pair of oil drums and the boathouse near the pier. As he looked through his binoculars at the building up the hill in front of him, he heard a faint rumbling over the water. The engine of some sort of skiff, by the sound of it. He looked out into the darkness and fog and saw no approaching light.
A moment later the faint sound disappeared, as if the engine had been cut.
He whispered into his Bluetooth headset: “This is Dom. I’ve got some sort of watercraft approaching the pier. It’s not using any kind of light, and it’s cut its engine.”
Chavez said, “Sounds like trouble. I want everyone out of sight. Let me know what we’re dealing with as soon as you can, Dom.”
“Roger that. Any way we can warn Ryan if this turns into trouble?”
Chavez said, “Yeah, I can start shooting. Short of that, there is not a damn thing I can do to alert Ryan.”
—
While Hugh Castor talked, Jack could not help imagining the sixty-eight-year-old as a young intelligence operative. He was self-assured and intelligent; he seemed to Jack like some sort of long-lost uncle, so comfortable was the conversation, even though the topic involved Castor’s deceptions that ultimately led to the attack on Jack.
He realized the man had all but absolved himself of any sort of impropriety. He didn’t know if Castor really believed it, or if he was just an incredibly gifted liar. Jack figured it was often like that in the spy world, where nothing was cut-and-dried.
“Everything you do at Castor and Boyle is designed to protect the Russian government,” Ryan said, trying to get Castor to admit that he was, if not a traitor, at least a stooge.
Castor shook his head. “No, not at all. Am I remunerated for passing on information to key business leaders from time to time? Yes. Guilty of that, I’m afraid. Industrial espionage.”
Ryan said, “The business leaders happen to run the FSB and the government.”
“Do they?” Castor asked, with a sly smile. “I work closely with officials in Gazprom and its affiliates. What they do when they are not at board meetings is none of my concern.”
Ryan asked the question in the forefront of his mind now: “What are you trying to accomplish by telling me all this?”
Castor said, “Very soon, key individuals in Russia will get word that the man in Corby you met with was in the same gulag where Roman Talanov had his typhoid attack and made a confession in the medical ward. At that point, they will infer that I misrepresented my leverage over them. They might well determine there never was proof, there was only hearsay. As soon as they decide Oxley and myself exclusively have information that could prove to be their undoing, there will be no reason to allow us to walk the earth any longer.”
Ryan translated the man’s legalese. “Now that Talanov knows about you and Ox, he’ll figure out that you’ve been bullshitting him about having a videotape. When that happens, he’ll send goons to kill you.”
“That is my predicament, unfortunately. He isn’t the sort of man who will have a good belly laugh at the irony of being tricked. He is usually the one doing the tricking. I can surround myself with guards, but sooner or later Talanov will get to me like he did to Golovko and Zueva and Biryukov and all the KGB and GRU leadership he dispatched twenty years ago.”
“What do you want?”
“I am willing to barter certain information I have collected throughout the years in exchange for immunity from prosecution and protection by your government.”
“The American government?”
“Yes. I have committed, as I said, some industrial espionage. But I am no spy, I am no traitor. I can more than redeem myself with the information I have. Obviously, your father will not go against the wishes of the United Kingdom, but I feel certain he could encourage the UK to drop any investigation into me that might arise.”
“And you will tell my dad what, exactly?”
“I will prove that Dmitri Nesterov, the man who was funneled one-point-two billion U.S. dollars by the Russian government, is none other than a Seven Strong Men capo who operates under the alias Gleb the Scar.”
Jack looked at Oxley, then back at Castor.
“You’re sure about this?”
“Very sure.”
“That’s good, but it’s not going to be enough.”
“That’s only the tip of the iceberg, lad. Talanov’s control officer is still out there, and he is in play.” Castor grinned, he looked like the most confident man in the world. “But that’s my trump card. I’ll tell your father, face-to-face, when I am safe in the USA.”
Jack started to reply, but just as he was about to speak, a security officer ran in from the kitchen. In heavily accented English, he said, “Herr Castor. We have reports of men approaching the chalet from the lake. We have to get you upstairs!”
—
Caruso watched the men in black leave the boat at the pier, then race past the boathouse, over the small retaining wall, and up the hill toward the back of the house. They fanned out as they advanced, keeping themselves low and moving in two-man fire teams.
Dom presumed the men to be Russian; he couldn’t think of any other likely scenario. Whether they were here for Ryan, Oxley, Castor, or perhaps all three, he couldn’t say for certain. But he did see they were armed with submachine guns and they moved like a confident and well-trained fighting force.
Dom whispered into his Bluetooth. “They are past my position. If you want, I can open up on them from here.”
“Negative,” Ding said. “We get in a gunfight with these fuckers out here in the open and the Swiss will just fire down on us all from the chalet. They’ll target every muzzle flash in the dark and waste everybody.”
Chavez was shielded from the house by a grouping of pine trees. He said, “I’m going to fire one round in the air as an alert to Ryan. Do not engage. Repeat, do not engage.”
Chavez raised his weapon to fire, making sure the flash would not be obvious from the chalet. Just as he put his finger on the trigger, the rattle of automatic rifle fire ripped through the night.
It was a single security officer on the driveway at the side of the house, firing down on the attacking force, which was now spread out wide on the hill.
Ding lowered his weapon. “All right. If the Russians make it inside, we go in right behind them and engage any hostiles until we get Ryan out of there. Until then, we hold our positions.”
Sam and Dom responded in the affirmative over the radios, but it was difficult for Chavez to hear them now, because a raging gunfight with nearly two dozen automatic weapons had begun.
—
The security officer ushered Castor, Ryan, and Oxley up a staircase and into a back bedroom. Once they were there, he handed Castor a pistol, then headed back downstairs.
Castor held the pistol by his side, and he looked at Ryan. The Englishman’s confidence, so evident a minute ago, seemed to be faltering. “You brought friends?”
Jack replied, “Those guys aren’t with me, which makes me think they are probably Russians. Talanov figured out you’ve been lying to him even more quickly than you thought he would.”
The Englishman’s face morphed quickly, as he realized young Ryan was correct.
“My men will stop them.”
“Sure
they will,” Ryan said. “Your Swiss security men here are better than an FSB Spetsnaz unit.”
Oxley must have known his own life was in danger, but he just laughed at Castor’s predicament.
“Help me,” said Castor. The terror was obvious.
“Give me the gun,” Ryan replied.
“No.”
“You don’t look like you know how to handle that pistol, so I guess you’ll have to talk your way out of this shit.”
Castor looked to Oxley now, hoping for any lifeline from the man.
Ox was still smiling. “What he said, ya cunt.”
Just then a window overlooking the back of the property shattered. The three men were well out of the line of fire from below, but still Castor spun toward the sound. Ryan started to go for the gun, but the old man recovered quickly and turned it back on the young American.
He said, “Look, Jack. I can tell you anything you want to know. Everything. Call your father. Have him send forces.”
“Send forces?” Jack just shook his head. “You think you can bargain for your life when killers are at the fucking door?”
Booming gunfire emanated from the kitchen below them now. Castor jumped and pointed his weapon at the door. Jack started to move toward him again, but once again the jittery weapon turned back to him.
Oxley said, “Hugh. Put down the fuckin’ gun before you hurt someone. Pass it to one of us, and we’ll get through this, the lot of us.”
Castor shook his head. “I’ll keep the gun,” he said. “If they get through, I’ll need it.”
Oxley muttered angrily, “You’d do well to put the barrel in your bloody mouth right now.”
“If I die, you die, Ox.”
—
Chavez, Driscoll, and Caruso had broken cover and were on the move now. Each man ran toward a different entrance of the chalet. Driscoll arrived at the side door to the driveway; it was open, and a dead Swiss security man lay on his back on the pavement with his automatic weapon by his side. Driscoll hefted the weapon and reloaded it with a fresh magazine from the dead man’s chest, and then he entered the building.
Chavez was on the opposite side of the chalet, and he’d followed a two-man Russian fire team along the trees and watched them enter through a sliding glass door to a bedroom. It was dark here outside, no security officers had engaged the Russians as they approached, but there was gunfire throughout the ground floor of the house as soon as the fire team entered.
Ding started toward the sliding glass door, but submachinegun fire from the front of the property echoed through the night, and instantly he heard the snapping sounds as bullets passed by his head. He raced through the doorway, narrowly avoiding being shot to death by one of the Swiss.
Caruso had the longest to travel before entering the house, but he finally arrived at the back door on the deck. By now the glass had been shot out of the door and the windows around it, so he stepped through the glass, and he instantly encountered two Russians who were moving through the kitchen with their weapons held high.
Dom saw them first; they swiveled to engage him, but he fired twice, shooting them both dead. Just then he heard gunfire in the next room, and then shouts in German. Return fire from a pistol boomed, and masonry dust began bursting from the wall near where Dom stood. He dove to the floor behind a sofa.
—
Upstairs, Castor stood by the bed. His gun swiveled back and forth between Ryan and Oxley, who were standing eight feet to his right, and the door to the landing, which was dead ahead of him some ten feet away.
Jack saw the terror in the man’s eyes and worried his shaking hand might send a round cracking out of the gun.
Castor was still trying to leverage his importance to get himself out of danger. “Your father needs me alive. I have information.”
Oxley said, “You’ve been peddling your bloody information for your whole life. At the moment it won’t do you any good. Shut the fuck up and wait for the Russians to come up the stairs.”
But Jack tried to calm him. “Look, Castor. I’ve got three guys outside who will help us, we just have to hold out till they get the situation under control. I promise you one thing, though. If they come through that doorway and see anybody but me with a pistol in their hands, then they will shoot without hesitation.”
Castor replied to this by saying, “It was Volodin. I can prove it was Volodin.”
Jack didn’t understand. “What was Volodin?”
“I can prove that Valeri Volodin was Roman Talanov’s case officer. He ran Zenith back in the eighties. He stole the money from the KGB leadership. He had them killed when the Curtain dropped.”
Jack shook his head in disbelief. “Bullshit.”
“It’s not bullshit. Get me out of here and I will give you proof.”
Ryan looked at Oxley, and Oxley just shrugged. He did not know if the information was true or not.
Castor added, “Volodin knew that when the Soviet Union dissolved, the underworld would take over as the true ruler of the nation. And he knew the organized criminal gangs who populated the gulags, running the prisons with their own hierarchy there, would lead the underworld.
“He and Talanov came up with a plan. He had Talanov thrown into the gulag so he could establish his bona fides with the Russian mob. He was taken to the prison in the Komi Republic near Syktyvkar, and there he caught typhoid. The plan was scrapped for a few months while he recovered, but then he tried again. He was put in another gulag, and he spent four years there growing his power in the Seven Strong Men.”
Fully automatic gunfire raged throughout the ground floor of the chalet below them.
“When he was released from prison, he was set up at the top. He was made vory v zakonye, he had a small army of men who pledged loyalty to him, and he used this power to help the siloviki retake the government. He protected the siloviki as he grew his organization.
“They assassinated enemies of Volodin, destabilized politicians in power to grease the way forward for him. Talanov took over as the leader of Seven Strong Men in secret, so he could enter government himself. He became a police commissioner in Novosibirsk, and then, when Volodin came to the Kremlin as PM, he put Talanov in as a regional FSB chief.”
Ryan said, “And now Valeri Volodin has Roman Talanov as the head of all Russian intelligence.”
Oxley started shaking his head back and forth. He looked at Ryan. “Impossible. The fucker is lying to save his skin. Telling you a fairy tale.”
“How do you know he’s lying?”
“Talanov would never have been made vory v zakonye. You have to understand how the Russian mob works. You can’t be a made man in the Russian mafia if you ever worked for the Soviet government. Trust me. It’s an organization with heaps of iron-clad laws, but that is at the very top of them. You couldn’t deliver the fucking mail for the Soviets and be made into vory, much less work for the bloody security services.”
Jack said, “But if Talanov was put into the gulag as a plant, then maybe he kept knowledge of his former life from them.”
Castor nodded wildly. “That’s it, lad! That’s how it happened!”
Jack said, “Ox, what would happen if the Seven Strong Men found out Talanov used to be KGB and then lied to become leader of their organization?”
Oxley looked at him a long time. Slowly, a sly smile grew on his face. He said, “They’d fucking kill the cunt.”
—
The door in front of them burst in, splinters and door frame flew away from it, and Castor spun toward the commotion. He raised his pistol, but Jack took the opportunity to leap at Castor. He grabbed the pistol in Castor’s hand and wrenched it away with a vicious yank. As Jack pulled back hard, he looked into the doorway. A man in dark clothing raised an automatic weapon at him. Jack realized the attacker had a clear shot; he spun and raised the weapon into a firing grip, but he knew he would not be in time to fire first.
Victor Oxley appeared on Ryan’s right, falling through the air, putting him
self between Ryan and the Russian coming through the door. A burst of automatic fire erupted, and the big Englishman jolted back from multiple impacts, then dropped down toward the floor.
Hugh Castor was unarmed now; as Oxley fell, he brought his own hands up to protect himself, but the Russian shot him through the chest and stomach, sending him tumbling away.
The Russian spun his gun toward the last standing target, and he pressed the trigger, but his hand relaxed and let go of the gun as a single round slammed into his forehead.
Jack had shot the man dead at a range of twelve feet.
Jack Ryan leapt over Ox and ran forward, kicked the gun away from the dead man, and then leaned out into the stairwell. Another Russian was moving up with his gun in front of him.
Ryan opened fire, shooting the man over and over until he fell face-first and slid back down the stairs.
Jack ran back to Oxley. The fifty-nine-year-old had taken three nine-millimeter rounds to the chest. He heaved and his eyes fluttered.
“Fuck!” shouted Ryan. “Hang on, Ox!”
Oxley squeezed Ryan’s arm, and blood smeared across the American’s shirt. Oxley coughed, and blood wet his lips and beard.
Jack pressed down hard on the man’s chest, but the wounds were too severe, the blood flow too heavy. He looked around for something to help him with the pressure. A towel or a coat, or a bedsheet.
There. A comforter was on the end of the bed. He started to reach for it, but Oxley squeezed his arm tighter.
He spoke, but his voice was so soft Jack had to lean into it: “It’s all right, mate. It’s good like this. You watch yourself, now. Watch yourself.”
His grip relaxed, and his eyes fluttered and shut.
—
Jack did not want to look away, but noise on the staircase forced him to swing his pistol toward the doorway to the landing.
A figure appeared at the top of the stairs.
It was Caruso.
Dom lowered his gun quickly, and Ryan did the same. Dom spoke into his headset: “I’ve got Jack. Upstairs. We’re clear up here.”
Dom rushed to Oxley and dropped to his knees next to Ryan, but he immediately saw that there was nothing that could be done.