100.’ ” Dimitry caught the landmark but his English missed the pun. The gravel road wound through the trees, his headlights catching the movement of small clusters of white-tail does who rose from their beds as he steered among the thick pine trunks. The landscape finally opened up to a lakefront clearing with a cluster of structures arranged near the waterfront. There was a sprawling main house, two smaller cabins, and a large barn, plenty of room to accommodate his team and their equipment. Best of all, the closest neighbor was miles away.
Dimitry backed the van up to the doors of the barn and shut off the engine. A tall man with a shaved head walked toward him, his eyes squinting in the headlights. He opened the door of the van and stepped out, just as the figure reached him.
“Dimitry?”
“Da.”
“I’m Vitya.” The men shook hands, sizing one another up like a pair of male lions assessing dominance. Vitya was taller and thinner than the new arrival but looked to be close in age. Losevsky Vitaliy Vasilievich was a Saint Petersburg native who had served in the GRU, Russia’s military intelligence agency, attached to a spetsnaz commando unit. He was trained in collecting intelligence in forward areas, helping some of Russia’s fiercest warriors access and exploit their targets. He had served in South Ossetia in 2008 and, after returning to civilian life, found his skills were marketable to Ivan Zharkov and the Tambov Gang. He had been sent to Brighton Beach, but bounced around the United States, living primarily in Miami and Los Angeles. Unlike most of the Brotherhood, Vitya had no criminal record, so he was able to move freely on his own passport rather than one procured by Zharkov’s son.
“Any trouble with the weapons?” he asked.
“No problems. Come help me unload them.”
Dimitry opened the back doors of the van and dragged one of two long Rubbermaid tubs toward the bumper, nodding for Vitya to take hold of the other end. Each tub was loaded with a half dozen rifles that had been smuggled across the southern border. Ammunition was easier to acquire in the United States and Vitya had bought a sizable quantity in Nevada on his way up from LA. The men stacked the two weapons containers next to three wooden crates stenciled with a mixture of Cyrillic and English markings. Each crate held two 700-round sealed metal “spam cans” of 123gr. FMJ ammunition with lacquered steel cases. The ammunition was loaded in Russia by Barnaul and exported worldwide to feed the millions of AK-series rifles built during the Cold War. The guns and ammo, often carried by illiterate child soldiers, fed insurgencies, dictatorships, and drug wars, and helped keep women subjugated across the developing world; the Soviet Union’s everlasting gift to humanity.
Dimitry pulled a tarp over the arsenal in the unlikely event that someone might wander into their secluded training site.
“There has been a slight modification to the plan,” Vitya said.
“Oh?”
“We now have two targets.”
Dimitry nodded. “We will have enough men to take out triple that.”
“Let’s have a vodka, friend.” Vitya motioned toward the main house.
Dimitry didn’t argue. It wasn’t in his nature to turn down a drink.
CHAPTER 23
SVR Headquarters, Moscow
THE PHONE ON ALEKSANDR’S desk rang twice and then went silent. Thirty seconds later it rang once and then ceased. He looked at it and sighed. He was tempted to ignore it but knew that he was not yet at that stage.
He pushed himself back in his chair and marched from his private office. As deputy director of Directorate S, he didn’t owe anyone an explanation of where he was going.
Aleksandr made his way toward Gorky Park, named for writer and activist Maxim Gorky. Stopping to gaze into shop windows from time to time, he used the glass to look for tails. He doubled back twice, but didn’t notice any familiar faces, even ones hastily disguised with a different hat or sunglasses.
Aleksandr missed the old park. It was so much easier to conduct business back before the vacant buildings and crime-ridden paths were transformed into clean and Wi-Fi-enabled eco-friendly family zones.
The intelligence officer fished a phone from his pocket and dialed a number.
“What do you know about an American family named Hastings?” Aleksandr’s father did not waste time with pleasantries. It was important for him to maintain his dominance.
“Context?” Aleksandr inquired curtly. It was also imperative for him to establish that this conversation was about business and not about being controlled by a domineering father, head of the