Brian Drake - The Glinkov Extraction

“Never heard of you,” Scott said.

“Exactly.” Number One smiled. “But we have certainly heard of you, Mr. Stiletto. We know what you’re doing. We’ve brought you here as our interests in Russia are mutual.”

“Do tell.”

“What’s happening there is of great concern to us, as we’ve sponsored a lot of the coup plotters’ activities. I don’t know if you’ve been watching the news, or even had time, but most of the plotters have been rounded up. There are only a few who remain free of capture. We’d like to help you get into the country.”

“What’s the catch?” Stiletto said.

“No catch. Find your friend. Help his family get out. We’d like to get what’s left of our people out, too. In return we’ll help you get in, provide cover, and help you get out. Any problems you have with the C.I.A. are up to you to handle. You made that bed.”

“I’m well aware of that, thanks. What I really want to know is how you found me.”

“We have people everywhere, inside and outside the intelligence community, who keep their eyes open for us.”

“That doesn’t answer my question.”

“Okay. Perfectly blunt. You should send Mr. Fleming a thank you note.”

“General Ike?”

“He issued the bounty,” Number One said. “All we had to do was wait until somebody called to claim it. You’re lucky we got here as fast as we did or, should I say, the embassy moved as slow as it did.”

“He’s part of your group?”

“For quite a few years. And I’ll get no thanks for telling you that.” Number One took a breath. “There are times when problems must be solved without red tape. Mr. Fleming is smart enough to know that.”

“Bastard talks out of both sides of his mouth.”

“You can’t really blame him,” Number One said.

“I’ll try not to.”

“You’ll work with us?”

Stiletto nodded. “Yes.”

“If the worst case happens, and you’re forced out of the Agency, you will be welcomed within our organization.”

“I thought you only recruited as needed.”

“We pay a stipend, of course. You won’t be kept from pursuing your own interests, either, should something come up. Or you can walk away entirely. I understand you have options in San Francisco?”

“I don’t know if they’re options , but something like that, yeah.”

“Do you need time to think it over?”

“No,” Scott said. “If my career goes belly up and you’re the only ticket in town, we’ll talk. But let’s get Russia over with first. We’re running out of time. My friend is running out of time.”

“I am very pleased to hear this. We have a few arrangements to make and you need to rest a little. Enjoy the room. Your bag is over there, and we’ll provide any other equipment you might need or replace what might be missing. Also, I’ll have some tea sent up. You look like you need it.”

The other two men, who had oddly remained silent during the entire chat, stood from their chairs and Number One bid Scott a good rest. Then the three old men filed out and shut the door quietly behind them.

Stiletto started to laugh, but that hurt, so he stopped laughing. Of all the twists that he could have tried to predict, this wasn’t one of them.

And he’d indeed have to find some way of communicating with General Ike. The old war horse had been on his side the whole time.

Stiletto tentatively stood, a hand on the wall. When he didn’t fall over, he made his way to the bathroom.

Moscow

DAVID McNEIL looked out the window on the passing street. Moscow had certainly changed in the last fifteen years.

He’d passed through on assignment now and then just after the turn of the century, watching the city and country rebuild from Communism, and the number of cars in the street suggested things were chugging along decently on the economics side. The lack of statues of Soviet pioneers was a nice touch, as was the explosion of color and the erasure of Moscow’s Soviet drabness that had been frankly depressing.

He stood in an office on the upper floor of the U.S. Embassy in Moscow, the property inside the walls busy with staffers and Marine guards.

He was in the office of the local agency attaché in charge of the in-country case officers who were, in turn, in charge of their various informants and spies within the Russian Government. Some things never changed.

The man behind the desk, Joe Wilcox, was a younger man with a full head of black hair and eager brown eyes. His tie remained snug in his collar. Wilcox’s glasses reflected the glare of his computer screen as he scrolled through files.

“I don’t see any mention of Stiletto or any other stray American in any of our reports,” Wilcox said. “Are you sure he’s heading here?”

“It’s our educated guess,” McNeil said, not turning from the window. “Nothing has come in from St. Petersburg or anywhere else?”

“Not during the time frame you’ve given me,” Wilcox said.

McNeil turned from the window. His artificial leg had set off the metal detectors when he’d entered the building that day, resulting in an awkward situation for the Marines as they made him show the leg. He didn’t mind. They had to check. At least nobody had tried tapping it with a night stick.

His cell phone had been confiscated per embassy policy (one in effect globally) so the only way he could reach General Ike or vice versa was through the landlines, which he didn’t trust, but Wilcox assured him they swept for bugs regularly and hadn’t had any incidents in the three years he’d had the post.

“What if something happened to Stiletto on the way?”

“I’d be very upset,” McNeil said.

The phone rang. Wilcox answered, told McNeil the call was for him.

General Ike said, “What’s your status, David?”

“No sign of Stiletto or any stray American in any of our regular reports,” McNeil told his boss. “Anything on your end?”

“Montreal,” Fleming said, and explained how Scott had been in custody for mere minutes before stealing a car. “Now we have no idea where he is.”

“If he knows about the bounty, he knows he’s blown. He’ll have no choice but to come back. Did Hammond keep the money?”

“Our embassy people exercised some force and reacquired the cash.”

“But what about Scott?”

“He’s made no attempt to contact us. If he wants to come in, he knows how to reach me. For now, we have to assume he’ll remain on the run long enough to find alternate means of transportation. If that fails, I expect him to call.”

“How long do you want me to stay here?”

“Until further notice,” Fleming said, “because I have a side job for you.”

Fleming took a few minutes to explain the “Olinov File” delivered to him by his F.B.I. agent niece and the details therein about the connections between Russian political leaders and the mafia—especially overseas. “Look into it. You might find Scott that way.”

“All right, sir. Moscow’s nice this time of year.”

McNeil hung up the phone. Wilcox’s eyes were glued to the computer.

“Something on your mind?” McNeil said.

“Just looking at a map. You mentioned St. Petersburg and that got me thinking.”

“It’s the best point of entry. The other routes would take him through Europe and Asia and he’s not going to do that.”

“I’m going to order a little more attention focused in St. Petersburg,” Wilcox said. “You might be right.”

“Just as long as the Russians don’t tip to what we’re doing. Are your informants trustworthy?”

Wilcox frowned. “Are you kidding? We have informants checking on our informants. We’re in Russia, for heaven’s sake.”