The Kremlin Phoenix Read online

  The Kremlin Phoenix

  By

  Stephen Renneberg

  Copyright

  Copyright © Stephen Renneberg 2013

  ISBN: 978-0-9874347-6-0

  All Rights Reserved.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the copyright owner.

  License Notes

  This eBook is licensed for your personal use only. This eBook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should purchase your own copy from a licensed eBook distributor. Thank you for respecting the author’s work.

  This novel is a work of fiction. Names and characters are the product of the author's imagination, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  DEDICATION

  For my mother, Lesley,

  for always believing

  Author's Web Page

  http://www.stephenrenneberg.com/

  ALSO BY STEPHEN RENNEBERG

  The Mothership

  The Siren Project

  Chapter 1

  Vitaly Ilia Nogorev was an assassin of rare ability.

  The few words he exchanged with the cab driver as they headed towards New York’s Financial District revealed the barest hint of an East European accent. When the taxi pulled over to the curb a block from Wall Street, Nogorev paid the exact fare. No tip. One look at his passenger’s angular face and muscular physique silenced any protest from the driver.

  Nogorev adjusted his tie, then dialed a number on his cell phone as he approached a gleaming glass and steel tower. When the connection was made, three beeps sounded, signaling a virus had been uploaded into the tower’s security system. He pocketed the phone and walked calmly through the automatic glass doors toward the elevators, flashing a perfectly forged ID at the guard behind the front desk.

  The guard barely glanced at the ID as he tapped the security screens arrayed before him, wondering why they now were filled with static. The virus had taken down the tower’s surveillance system, ensuring there’d be no recordings later for the police to review. The guard picked up the telephone to report the camera system’s failure as Nogorev strolled unhurriedly towards the elevators. He knew by the time a technician arrived, the virus would have erased itself and the cameras would inexplicably be working again.

  Nogorev swiped a card through the elevator’s electronic reader. The virus ensured the card was recognized, and that no trace of it would appear in the system log. He absently brushed his hand over his pin stripe suit, feeling the gun holstered beneath his shoulder, then waited patiently for the elevator to arrive.

  * * * *

  March 4, 2276

  “Are you sure you have the right coordinates?” Captain Tom Wilkins asked.

  “As sure as we can be,” Dr Mariena Del Rey replied as she stepped onto the holo-sensor platform. It was a slightly raised circular dais, surrounded by tiny optical scanners, and located at one end of the communications center. Like the metal walls, floor and ceiling, it was pristine white, but immersed in shadow because the ambient lighting had been dimmed to conserve power. Dozens of display panels lined the walls, but most were inactive as there were no longer any signals being received to display on them. “The temporal coordinates are based on the New York Police Department’s forensic report. We used the building’s architectural drawings and satellite imagery of 21st century Manhattan to calculate the spatial location, and we’re orienting the hologram based on pictures of the office from the police report.”

  “But we’ll have no way of knowing if he gets the message?”

  “I won’t be able to see or hear him,” she said, “if that’s what you mean. This is strictly one way communication.”

  “We have the temporal sensors,” Commander Zikky said from the L-2S’s control room three levels up. “They’ll detect if there’s a timeline reset, which would prove he got our message and acted on it.”

  “Will we remember the reset?” Wilkins asked.

  “No way to know,” Zikky said.

  “No one’s ever done this before,” Mariena said, “but in theory, it depends on the magnitude of the reset.”

  “So how much will you tell him?” Wilkins asked.

  “As little as possible,” she replied. “If he knows too much, he might not do what we want.”

  “So no warning?”

  “Definitely not. He might run. I’ll just tell him not to give them the master list. That’s all.” Mariena knew there was no point trying to save a man who had been dead for two and a half centuries.

  “Will he know what that is?”

  “He should. He created it.”

  “What was his name again?”

  “Goldstein,” she said. “Jeremiah Goldstein.”

  * * * *

  Present Day

  Jerry Goldstein, a balding, corpulent lawyer, stood sipping bourbon as he looked out over the lights of New York City from his opulently furnished office. A large cardboard box filled with document folders and computer disks sat on the desk. It represented more than twenty years of work for an intensely secretive and staggeringly wealthy organization about which he knew almost nothing.

  MLI was undoubtedly a front company, but he’d never discovered what for. He knew his firm, Goldstein, McCormack & Powell, had done a good job for their client: profitably investing their funds, delivering consistent returns and avoiding trouble with regulatory and tax authorities – services for which they’d been extravagantly well paid. It had been a gravy train of epic proportions, but all that was coming to an end, although he had no idea why.

  He was sure it wasn’t because of anything he’d done. It had to be something specific to the client, a secret Goldstein was not privy to. All he knew was a man with a slight accent had called and identified himself with a MLI recognition code. The man had ordered Goldstein to hand over all important documents and destroy everything else. There’d been no explanation, no discussion, no possibility of reprieve. The man had promised to ring at midnight with instructions on where to ship the files to. He’d been very specific. Goldstein was to wait for his call, no matter how late.

  The aging lawyer shifted his gaze to the box regretfully. What a treasure!

  “You must not give them the master list.”

  Goldstein spun around, surprised. He’d heard no one come up in the elevator, no doors opening, no footsteps. Mariena stood in the center of his office, facing his desk, as if he were seated there. She was of medium height, late thirties, with shoulder length black hair and dressed in a light blue jump suit decorated with markings he didn’t recognize. Her English was perfect, yet he couldn’t quite place her accent.

  He stepped toward her curiously. “How did you get in here?”

  Her eyes continued to look towards his empty desk, as if she were unaware he stood to her right. “Do not give them the master list. If you do, everything you love will be destroyed.”

  Goldstein hesitated, oblivious as to what she was talking about, but the urgency in her voice and the desperation in her face were compelling. “Who are you?”

  “Place the master list in the top drawer, on the right side of your desk.”

  “How do you know about the master list?” he asked, alarmed that this stranger had penetrated their security. Was this why he was losing his most valued client – a security breach?

  She look
ed to her left, towards the bookcase, yet Goldstein sensed she didn’t see his leather bound books. “Is there anything else I should tell him?”

  Goldstein followed her gaze, puzzled as to who she was talking to.

  Mariena nodded, then turned back to his desk. “Lock the drawer, and leave the key in your liquor cabinet. Hurry Mr Goldstein, you must trust me.”

  Goldstein walked behind the woman, growing more certain that she couldn’t see him. “Why should I trust you?” he asked, then as he stepped towards her, she became transparent and vanished. He looked around, wondering what kind of trick it was, then gulped down the last of his bourbon and poured another. Goldstein raised the glass to his lips, but didn’t drink. Instead he put the glass down and opened the box. Lying on top was one white page – the master list – the single most valuable document on Earth.

  The old lawyer hesitated, hands shaking, wondering if after all these years of loyal service, he dared betray his benefactors. Impulsively, he snatched up the master list, considered placing it in the drawer as the apparition had requested, then decided if he was going to steal it, no one else could know. He carried the page out to his secretary’s desk, slid it into an envelope which he labeled for filing in his private archive, then slipped the envelope into a stack of folders on her desk. He wasn’t sure why he did it, but the strange apparition’s urgency and his own anxieties impelled him to seek insurance.

  The elevator bell dinged.

  It was too late for the cleaners or staff, leaving him to wonder who could be arriving at this hour. Goldstein returned to his office apprehensively, listening for any sound as he gulped down the bourbon to calm his nerves. He tried to remember if he’d ever seen the woman before, then the heavy glass front door rattled as someone tested it. Suspecting a break-in, he called security, then listened anxiously as the phone rang and rang, unaware that a virus had routed his call to an empty office. The front door was secured by the best computer coded locking system money could buy, and the glass was more heavily armored than a Presidential limousine. There was no way anyone could get it, he silently reminded himself, then he heard a dull metallic click as the locking bolts slid open.

  “Answer the phone!” he murmured impatiently.

  He heard the front door open. Suddenly, the sound of his own breathing grew strangely loud in his ears as the telephone continue to ring.

  “Put the phone down, Mr Goldstein,” Nogorev said.

  Goldstein immediately recognized the accent as a dark figure stepped into his office. Slowly, he did as he was told. “You’re the one who called!” It was the first time he’d ever been face to face with a representative of his secretive client. He stepped past the desk, offering his hand in welcome, but Nogorev showed no interest in accepting his greeting.

  Goldstein motioned nervously to the box. “These are the files you asked for. Everything’s there! The old records have all been destroyed, just as you instructed.”

  Nogorev nodded slowly, his cold emotionless eyes moving from Goldstein to the box.

  “If there’s anything we’ve done you’re not satisfied with, I’m sure we can fix it, if you’d just tell us what it is. Your organization is very important to us.”

  “It’s not about the money.”

  Goldstein walked to his private bar. “Would you like a drink? Perhaps we can discuss how we can help your organization in the future.” Goldstein shakily poured a whisky, then offered the glass to his visitor and froze.

  Nogorev held a silenced gun, expertly aimed at the old lawyer’s head, his face impassive and detached. “There is nothing to discuss.”

  “I don’t understand. What have I done?” Goldstein asked, half questioning, half pleading, gripped with terror. “Please. For God’s sake, I have a wife and kids!” Goldstein held up his hand, as if it could shield him.

  “Why? . . .” Goldstein begged, confused.

  Nogorev never answered.

  * * * *

  Craig Balard arrived for work early next morning, cappuccino in one hand, brief case in the other and a copy of the New York Times wedged under his arm. With sandy colored hair, light brown eyes and a bent nose from a high school football accident, he was masculine rather than handsome. The fact that he’d graduated in the bottom third of his class at Harvard disguised the fact that he had a sharp intellect and a stubborn streak that had gotten him into trouble too many times to count. He dropped the paper on his desk, slumped into his comfortable leather chair and gulped down two headache pills with his coffee to keep his hangover at bay.

  “Oh man,” he muttered as he rubbed his temple. He knew he was drinking too much and sleeping too little since his relationship with Nikki Angelo had gone to the next level. She was a well educated banker, sophisticated and stylish with an appalling ability to drink him under the table. What was even more disconcerting was that she was increasingly on his mind, and he was even beginning to wonder if she was the one.

  Craig slowly began pulling files from his brief case when his direct line rang. “Balard speaking,” he said, balancing the phone between his jaw and shoulder.

  “Craig Balard?” The man asked with a thick accent.

  “The one and only.”

  “Your father was Colonel Jack Balard, United States Air Force?”

  Craig straightened, dropping the last file on his desk. “That’s right.”

  “Your father was shot down over Serbia, 2nd May, 1999.” A statement, not a question.

  “Who are you?” It had been a long time since he’d discussed his father with anyone.

  “Your father was a traitor and a coward!”

  “That’s a god damned lie!” Craig exploded. “My father was a hero. He was killed in action.”

  There was silence for a moment, then the other man spoke in a low, purposeful tone. “Your father was not killed in action Mr Balard, and he was a traitor.”

  “Bullshit!” Craig slammed the phone down angrily, thinking the caller was some kind of psycho freak trying to piss him off for his own sick amusement.

  He took a deep breath, calming his anger. He’d never really known his father, but he’d idealized his memory. Colonel Balard had flown in the 1991 Gulf War, and again in Serbia, where he’d been shot down. His body and the wreckage of his ultra secret F117 Nighthawk stealth bomber had never been recovered.

  Craig’s phone rang again. “Yes?”

  “I can prove it.”

  “Screw you,” Craig said, about to slam the phone down, but stopping at the last moment. “How?”

  “Look in the glove compartment of your car.” The caller said before hanging up.

  Craig placed the phone back on the cradle, deep in thought, then headed for the elevator.

  At the far end of the office, Jerry Goldstein’s secretary sat at her desk, sobbing. Craig glanced down the hall absently, wondering what was going on. Several people were gathered around her, comforting her. Ed McCormack, one of Goldstein, McCormack & Powell’s senior partners, stood beside her desk speaking into the telephone.

  Craig avoided the commotion by taking the back way out, then rode the elevator down to parking level three. When the doors opened, he hurried to his small black BMW, climbed into the passenger seat and opened the glove compartment. Inside was a medium sized envelope. He retrieved it, wondering how anyone could have broken into his car without triggering its sophisticated security system.

  Craig tore open the envelope to find a single, poor quality, black and white photograph inside. The picture showed a man in a USAF flight suit, kneeling and bloodied on a dirty concrete floor, his hands tied behind his back.

  Craig had seen pictures of his father in uniform before, but they’d been images of a cocky pilot filled with confidence and bravado. This was a picture of a broken man in a hopeless situation, a man desperate to survive.

  “They told us you were dead!” he whispered.

  * * * *

  May 2, 1999

  “Merk Four, this is Aviano Control. You are cleared
for take-off. Over,” the air traffic controller’s voice sounded over the speaker.

  “Aviano Control, Merk Four, Affirmative,” Colonel Jack Balard acknowledged, releasing the brakes, letting his F117 Nighthawk begin to roll down Aviano Air Base’s main runway. It was three hours past sunset when the Nighthawk climbed into the sky over north eastern Italy, and turned towards the Adriatic. The route over the sea was the long way around, but there was no alternative. Allied aircraft were not allowed to overfly Bosnia for political reasons. The restriction made their flight paths more predictable than good tactics demanded, yet it was the reality of fighting in a such a politically sensitive region.

  Jack leveled off at two thousand meters above sea level, settling in for a slightly bumpy, moderately low level flight to his target. The awkward shape of the F117, nicknamed the Wobbly Goblin, was designed to deceive radar, not provide efficient aerodynamics. She wasn’t a fighter, and she wasn’t pretty, but she hit her targets hard.

  Flying alone, he watched the lights of small Croatian coastal towns slide by until it was time to turn east and sneak across Montenegro into Serbia. Occasionally, he picked up Allied radio traffic, mostly NATO controllers and other combat aircraft, while he maintained radio silence all the way to Belgrade. Somewhere to the south was an EA-6B support jammer and a pair of F-16CJs carrying High-speed Anti-Radar Missiles. Their job was to destroy enemy ground radars threatening his Nighthawk. It was proving to be a task more difficult than expected. There’d been problems with the Serbs moving their ground radars, and with the mountainous terrain, which had made the suppression of enemy air defenses much harder than in the ‘91 Gulf War. That earlier war had been a walk in the park compared to the Serbian campaign. Even so, Jack was confident his support team had his six.