Brian Drake - The Glinkov Extraction

Six hours later with a rest stop or two in between, Ravkin finally arrived at St. Petersburg Port. He drove along the frontage road to the east end of the port and through the open gate beside an empty office building. He aimed the car at the water ahead, which rippled in the jetties. Ships sat in the ports, cranes for the shipping containers stretching into the sky, but no bodies lurked at this late hour. When Ravkin parked and shut off the car, the silence made the hair on the back of his neck stand up. The water made its splish-splish noise, but that was all. Not even the wind carried any hint of life within a mile of his spot.

He’d parked in the space between two buildings which let him see part of an empty port, moonlight reflecting off the water. That was the spot the American was expected to emerge from. They would exchange a crude signal phrase and make the long drive back to Moscow. Ravkin’s heart raced as he sat still.

THE FUSELAGE door opened and cold air rushed in. Stiletto stepped toward the opening. He’d checked his rig a hundred times; there was nothing more he could do except trust the gear and leap into the void.

And void was the correct word. As he stood framed in the doorway waiting the co-pilot’s signal to jump, the sea below and the sky above appeared pitch black. He was jumping into nothing. Then the lights of the port appeared on his right.

Stiletto’s tote bag and weapons were strapped to either leg, tied tight to prevent them from going bye-bye during freefall. He also wore a facemask to keep his eyes from being sucked out. The rubber seal on his left cheek felt a little wonky, though, so he expected that to fail and let air in. As long as the Plexiglas portion didn’t fail, he’d be fine.

The co-pilot gave him to “Go!” signal as the plane flew over their designated drop zone. All doubts exited Stiletto’s mind as he stepped through the opening and began his high-speed fall back to earth.

THE COLD wind but through Stiletto’s jumpsuit and pulled at the mask. The left cheek seal indeed broke a little, and the extra chill on his face invigorated him. He steered his body to the right, the miles-long port below, all lit up and him falling like a bomb at 120mph.

He straightened his body and aimed at the eastern side of the port, where there was a marsh and relatively shallow water. The person Number One said would meet him, a man named Ravkin, should have arrived.

Scott had decided on the parking lot as his primary landing spot with the marsh as back-up. His trip would be over really quickly if there were FSB agents waiting to arrest him rather than a contact waiting to pick him up. And it was too late to reconsider. Way too late. Stiletto would have to play whatever hand he was dealt. But the old man had gone about the briefing with confidence and Scott knew the man was no fool. They would not have bothered sending him if they’d knew the effort was hopeless, or, worse, compromised. A good agent could turn a hopeless situation around; a compromised operation was doomed from the start.

Number One had not said much about Ravkin other than that he was a Cabal member and part of the effort to overthrow Putin. Not all of the coup plotters were Cabal people, but there were enough salted in the organization to keep the information flowing.

Stiletto continued his rapid descent, the landing zone growing larger by the second, and he pulled the rip cord. The parachute billowed out of the pack and deployed into a perfect canopy, pulling at Scott’s harness, the violent jolt rocking Scott’s entire body. As he grabbed the control risers he looked down at the packs strapped to either leg. They were still there.

The ground rushed to meet him and he pulled the risers sharply, slowing his drop a fraction more as his feet hit hard on the pavement. He didn’t fall. Ahead of him, headlights flashed on and off. A sinking feeling took over but he bundled the ‘chute in his arms anyway. Best not to leave a mess even if he did get carted off to the bowels of Lubyanka.

The car approached slowly and Stiletto breathed easier. The FSB would have brought more than one vehicle.

The car stopped. The driver’s window powered down. The man had both hands tight on the wheel and nervous eyes which locked on Scott’s as Scott removed his facemask.

“This is an odd spot for a vacation,” the man said. His voice shook a little.

“It’s my Number One choice,” Stiletto said.

“Ravkin.” The Russian stuck out a hand.

“Later,” Scott said. “Pop the trunk.”

With the ’chute stowed in the back, Stiletto joined Ravkin in the car, and the Russian steered for the exit.

DAVID McNEIL hadn’t made a covert pick-up in years. He sat in the back seat of the dark embassy car, street lights flashing into the cabin as they traveled, holding a tray containing two cups of steaming coffee.

The back seat of the sedan was quite plush, the insulation making the drive quiet. When the driver finally pulled over, McNeil looked around, a little uncertain of where they actually were. He had no guard and no side arm. But he wasn’t expecting the meeting to go south. Of course, he hadn’t expected to lose his leg either.

McNeil cleared his throat as the door opened. A small man in a black coat slid into the car and pulled the door shut. The driver started off again. McNeil passed the man one of the coffee cups.

“Thank you,” the man said. He took a sip. “Odd you wanted to meet so late.”

“I figured it was best,” McNeil said. “Did you have a chance to look into what I asked?”

The small man sipped his coffee again. He had short-cropped black hair and dark eyes, the rest of his features obscured by the darkness of the cabin. The flashing street lamps highlighted small features, and McNeil couldn’t look away from the man’s crooked nose.

Anatoly Petrov worked in the Ministry of Justice. The Agency had recruited him years ago, when his daughter was sick and having a hard time getting the medicine she needed in a country still transitioning from Communism. The local embassy case officer stepped in, the girl got what she needed, and the Americans got a new deep-cover asset.

He hadn’t flinched when McNeil asked him about any intelligence that could tie Vladimir Putin to the Russian Mafia and whether or not he used them as his personal group of assassins.

“No hard data,” Petrov said. “A lot of rumors. Nothing we can substantiate. Nothing that Putin puts on paper. If he’s doing it, it’s all done by proxy.”

“Of course it’s done by proxy but we need something tangible.”

“It’s not there.”

“Who might have something?”

“The mob.”

“Really?”

“They’re stupid like that,” the Russian said quietly. “They think they’re protected from on high. But we can’t get anybody inside.”

“Why?”

“They always get tipped off. We’ve lost three undercovers trying.”

McNeil let out a breath and looked out the window. “You probably have the same answer to my other question.”

“Yes. If Putin is using the Russian mob overseas, there’s no indication on our end. He knows the diplomatic risk.”

“Another proxy.”

“Somebody will talk one of these days.”

McNeil turned back to the Russian. “I can’t wait that long.”

“You’re thinking of the Zubarev case.”

“Exactly.”

Petrov only nodded. “You can drop me anywhere. I’ll get a cab back.”

“THERE’S NO way we can go after the local mob bosses,” Joe Wilcox, McNeil’s contact at the U.S. Embassy, said.

“Our people might get further than the FSB,” McNeil said. “You can’t betray somebody you don’t know about.”

“You’re right, but first you have to convince your boss, who will have to convince the director, and when he asks you why, you’ll have some explaining to do.”