The Kremlin Phoenix Read online

  Soon the outskirts of Belgrade appeared on the horizon. As expected, the capitol city was blacked out, which was no defense against satellite navigation, but it made the defenders feel less vulnerable. Off to the south, he saw ground flashes from HARMs, launched from high altitude, striking their targets. It occurred to him that his support team had drifted a little far to the south, although it might mean there weren’t air defense radars along his flight path. Streams of triple-A laced the sky to the south as anti-aircraft guns threw a wall of shells up at the high flying fast movers, but there were no flashes in the sky indicating hits.

  His map display indicated he was coming up on his aim-point. At various locations across Greater Serbia, other F117s were approaching similar points on their flight plans as part of a coordinated attack on Serbia’s electrical power infrastructure. It would be hard for the Serbs to continue their ethnic cleansing of defenseless peasants without electricity.

  Jack opened the bomb doors and armed his payload, a BLU-114/B. The super secret ‘soft bomb’ was not a conventional explosive. Its purpose was to scatter a carpet of submunitions over the target area. When the submunitions detonated, they spread a cloud of chemically treated graphite filaments over critical electricity distribution equipment, causing them to short circuit while inflicting very few civilian casualties. He knew tonight the world would discover the existence of this new, strange weapon, a weapon which had never before been used, and was about to bring another murderous dictator to his knees.

  A radar alarm sounded in the cockpit, warning that ground radars ahead had suddenly activated and were searching for him. He quickly began the process of activating the cruise missile that would carry the soft bomb to a large substation in northern Belgrade. If successful, a quarter of the city would be blacked out. A second alarm sounded, one he’d never heard while flying a Nighthawk.

  Missile tracking? he realized. They must be firing blind.

  Jack knew he wasn’t invisible, but he was certain the Serbs had nothing that could track him well enough to get a lock. What he didn’t know was that the Serbs had discovered they could detect an F117 if they operated their radars at unusually long wavelengths. They didn’t have a perfect fix on his Nighthawk, but they knew where he was and where he was heading. With his bomb bay doors open, his observability increased enough for them to fire.

  He completed the cruise missile’s pre-launch check, then released the weapon. The missile alarm was blaring in his ears now, so he threw the Nighthawk into a sharp turn, hoping to break away from the missile, but the Russian SA-3 Goa was closer than he realized. For a fraction of second, it sensed his bomb bay doors and glimpsed the interior of his bomb bay. Almost immediately, the missile’s onboard computer realized the target was close enough for a proximity detonation. The missile exploded more than thirty meters from the F117, sending shrapnel flying outwards at supersonic speeds. One piece tore through his wing, striking his starboard engine. Fire alarms sounded in the cockpit as electrical systems failed. Jack tried to kill the starboard engine, hoping to limp home on one engine, but the fire was already out of control.

  She’s not going to make it, he realized as the aircraft began a death roll.

  He braced and ejected, for a moment feeling as if he’d been fired out of a cannon, then his chute opened and he hung in the air, watching flames snake along the starboard side of his stealth bomber as it rolled over and nosed into the soft ground ten kilometers away. There was no explosion, but fires burned all around the crash site, starkly illuminating the blacked-out landscape.

  Jack watched expectantly, knowing as soon as the air force realized the stealth plane was down in enemy territory, they’d destroy it to prevent its precious technology falling into enemy hands. He saw the ground coming up fast, but kept his eyes fixed on the fire in the distance, marking where his stricken plane had gone down. He hoped to see the explosion that would signal the destruction of the remains of his aircraft, but no flash appeared in the distance.

  He hit the ground hard, and was dragged over damp tilled soil as the breeze caught his chute. Jack clawed at the release catches, then shrugged off his harness and stood up. After quickly checking his pistol, radio and survival rations, he got his bearings. A small collection of stone buildings with thatched roofs perched at the edge of the field. Already, several men had gathered in the middle of the village and were yelling and pointing toward him. Others began emerging from nearby houses, curious at the commotion outside.

  Jack turned and started to run away from the village as a bullet whizzed past his shoulder. Angry voices yelled at him, then another bullet struck the soil beside him. He considered drawing his pistol and returning fire, but at that range, he knew he wouldn’t hit anything. He took another step, then his leg screamed in pain and gave way. It took him a moment to realize he’d been shot. He tried to stand but his leg wouldn’t obey. When he pressed his hand over the wound, he felt a warm wetness seeping through his fingers.

  The thump of heavy boots on muddy soil sounded from the dark as Serb peasants rushed toward him. Soon he was surrounded by farmers holding shovels and brooms. They began beating him angrily until an old veteran wielding an AK-47 barked an order, forcing the enraged peasants to back away. They continued hurling abuse at him as the old veteran sent a teenage boy back to the village to call the authorities.

  Jack sighed, raising one hand in surrender while his other hand pressed on his wound. Ignoring the angry peasants, he gazed towards where his F117 had crashed, unable to understand why he hadn’t seen a bomb destroy it. He hardly gave a thought to his wound, or the fact that he was now a prisoner of war. His only concern was to see his downed stealth bomber destroyed before the Serbs could carry it off.

  Soon, a Serb Army truck arrived to take him away. Even as he was dragged from the muddy field, he continued to look expectantly towards the crashed F117, despairing that it was still largely intact. Unable to walk, the soldiers lifted him into the truck, then several climbed in after him. He listened as the truck drove away, hoping to hear an explosion signaling the destruction of his stealth bomber, but it never came.

  * * * *

  Present Day

  Why would they lie? Craig wondered for the hundredth time as he sat in his office, staring at the photograph. The Defense Department had told them his father’s aircraft had been destroyed in a devastating operation that had disabled seventy percent of Serbia’s electricity system in a single night. It was an amazing victory that had cost Craig’s father his life. At least, that’s what they’d been told. His mother, Joan, and himself had attended the funeral. She’d received the flag and had saved Colonel Balard’s medals and photos, but had never once considered the possibility that he’d survived the crash.

  Craig’s phone rang. “Yes?”

  “You have the photograph?”

  “Yes. What do you want?”

  “A trade. I will tell you what happened to your father, in return for everything you have on one of your clients.”

  “Client information is privileged,” Craig said automatically. “I can’t giving you anything.”

  “Then you will never know the truth about your father.”

  “Is he still alive?”

  “I will tell you nothing until you give me what I want. Do you need time to consider my request?”

  Craig hesitated. If he did what this man asked, he could be disbarred, or face criminal charges, and if he didn’t, unanswered questions would haunt him the rest of his life.

  “Mr Balard, do you need time to consider my offer?”

  Craig cursed silently. “Which client?”

  “Marcell Laurence Incorporated.”

  Craig had never worked on MLI, but he knew the name. “Why them?”

  “That is not your concern. I will call you later today to arrange a meeting. Tell no one about this.”

  Craig replaced the receiver, leant back in his chair and rubbed his temple. After a minute, he picked up the old black and white photogr
aph again, and stared at the dirty, bloodied face of his father, wondering what had really happened to him.

  * * * *

  Detective Rick Harriman wore a plain grey, inexpensive suit. His top button was undone, his tie loose and his black shoes scuffed. Strands of grey flecked his unkempt hair and a perpetual stubble covered his chin, but as he entered Jerry Goldstein’s office, his eyes swept the room with an intensity that missed nothing. Goldstein lay on his back, halfway between the desk and an open liquor cabinet, eyes staring vacantly at the ceiling. A single bullet hole penetrated his forehead, smearing his face and saturating the surrounding carpet with blood. An empty glass lay on its side, not far from Goldstein’s open hand.

  Harriman circled the forensic team, now busily at work, noting the neatly ordered piles of documents on the desk, the sophisticated computer and the expensive hand carved teak furniture. When he had a feel for the scene, he approached Dr Benjamin Chaing, the white coated forensic scientist studying the body. “Morning Ben. Got anything for me?”

  “Hi Rick,” Dr Chaing replied with only a glancing look. “Not much so far. The entry wound indicates a small caliber bullet. No abrasion ring around the wound, so they were quite far apart when the shot was fired. Precise shot, right through the center of the forehead. Considering the distance, I’d say the shooter is quite an expert.”

  “Found the bullet?”

  “Got a few pieces.” Chaing stood up. “It’s a hollow point, shattered on contact with the skull. Blew the back of his head right off.”

  Harriman gazed at the large blood stain on the carpet, and the broad splatter pattern behind the victim. “Professional hit?”

  “Maybe.” Dr Chaing pointed towards the door. “He shot from over there. Low light conditions. Target might have been moving. Clean, very clean.”

  Harriman grunted appreciatively. “Any idea of the time?”

  “Around midnight.”

  Hal Woods, Harriman’s tall, fair haired partner, came into the office. He edged past the forensic guys and fell in beside the senior detective.

  “Thanks Doc,” Harriman said. “Let me have your report -”

  “Yeah I know, yesterday.”

  Harriman turned to Woods, who flipped open a small notebook. Hal Woods was only a few years out of uniform, twenty years Harriman’s junior, and full of enthusiasm.

  “The vic’s name is Jerry Abraham Goldstein,” Woods began. “Lawyer, married, two kids, fifty six years old. Ivy League type. Has an apartment on the Upper West Side.”

  “Was he expecting any visitors last night?”

  “There was nothing in his appointment book.”

  “Did building security see anyone enter the building around midnight?”

  “There was a man who came in about eleven fifty. He had ID, but the guard didn’t get a good look. Tall guy, well built, dark hair, suit. Could have been anyone. No security pictures, no record of him using the elevator.”

  Harriman looked puzzled. “I’ve seen at least a dozen security cameras since I walked through the door.”

  Woods gave him a knowing look. “The whole system was down from eleven forty five to twelve thirty last night.”

  “That’s convenient. Get one of our IT guys to have a look at their security system.” He turned back to Dr Chaing. “Ben, was he carrying his wallet?”

  Dr Chaing nodded. “Yeah, four hundred in cash and credit cards. He’s still got his Rolex and solid gold cuff links.”

  “Thanks,” Harriman said, gazing at the second glass sitting on Goldstein’s private bar. He was already sure it wasn’t robbery. “He knew his killer, but he wasn’t expecting to be killed. We’ll start interviewing his partners, and work our way down. Get his secretary to get us a conference room.”

  “Anything else?”

  “Yeah. Where’s the coffee machine?”

  * * * *

  The Marcell Laurence Incorporated computer files were stored in a secure online system. Craig could access some of the general business files from his own computer, although not the confidential material handled by the partners. To his surprise, he discovered all of the MLI files had been deleted, and the system log told him Jerry Goldstein had done it.

  Was this why he was murdered? he wondered.

  Considering MLI was the golden goose, Craig was shocked to find it had vanished from the firm’s computer system. When he checked the cabinets in the fire proof vault, where paper files and signed documents were stored, he found the MLI drawers were empty. He returned to his office and worked half heartedly while his mind raced, wondering how his father’s disappearance could possibly relate to the loss of his firm’s golden client, and perhaps to Goldstein’s murder.

  In the late afternoon, the man with the thick accent called again. “Do you have something for me?”

  “No. The MLI files are gone.”

  “Don’t play games with me, Mr Balard.”

  “I swear. Nothing’s left.”

  “That is unfortunate.”

  “I tried to get what you wanted. Why don’t you just tell me what you know about my father?”

  “That is not possible.”

  “I’ll pay you.”

  “I have no interest in your money, Mr Balard. If the files are gone, we have nothing more to discuss.”

  “Wait! Look, I don’t know what’s happened, but give me a little more time.”

  “If the files I want have been taken, you will never see them again.”

  “Give me one day. If there’s anything left, I’ll find it.”

  “Very well. You have twenty four hours.”

  * * * *

  Mack’s was a family owned steakhouse tucked away behind an old theatre on Fifty Second street. Ed McCormack ate there once a week, but tonight he’d not even glanced at the menu. The fat little lawyer had spent his time keeping an eye on the door and checking his watch. Both he and his partner, Phil Powell, had spent over an hour each being grilled by Harriman, although neither had given the detective any clue as to why Goldstein was dead. He fidgeted nervously while he waited, practicing what he’d tell Powell. He no longer cared about the money, he just wanted to get out. He wanted to stay alive.

  When Powell entered the steakhouse carrying a plastic bag, he strolled confidently to McCormack’s table. “Is it dark enough for you?” Powell asked sarcastically as he sat opposite, noting they were in the gloomiest corner of the restaurant and the candle on the table was out.

  “I didn’t know if I was followed!”

  Powell gave him a disgusted look. McCormack was a good lawyer, but a disgraceful coward. “They’re not going to gun you down in a crowded restaurant.”

  “You don’t know that! I don’t know that. I’m not taking any chances.” McCormack’s voice had an hysterical edge to it.

  “You know what you need?” Powell asked.

  “Yeah, a stiff drink and a new identity.”

  “You need confidence.” Powell opened his coat to reveal a gun in a shoulder holster. “Meet my new best friend, courtesy of Mr Smith and Mr Wesson.”

  McCormack’s eyes widened. “You’re crazy!”

  Powell placed the plastic bag on the table and pushed it across to him. “Any son of bitch who crosses me is going to get his head blown off. They’re not going to do me the way they did Jerry.” Powell spoke with a cold anger McCormack had never seen before. “Yours is in the bag.”

  “Mine? No, I don’t want it. I couldn’t!” McCormack pushed the bag back towards Powell.

  “You take it! You load it! And you damn well wear it! And if some bastard comes at you, shoot first.”

  “I don’t know how to shoot. I’ve never held a gun in my life.”

  Powell pushed the bag all the way across the table. “If you want to live, learn fast!”

  Slowly, McCormack reached for the bag and glanced warily inside. “I’m leaving New York, the partnership, everything.”

  Powell gave McCormack a scornful look. He regretted having such a weak man
for a partner. Goldstein would have had more guts.

  “You can’t leave.”

  “Yes I can. I’m getting out. I’ve made a lot of money and I want to live long enough to enjoy it.”

  “It won’t matter where you go. If they want you, they’ll find you. You can’t hide from people like this.”

  “We don’t know that,” McCormack said. “We don’t even know who they are.”

  Powell smiled sourly. “We know enough.”

  McCormack looked confused. “What do you mean?”

  “We know where the money is.”

  “So?”

  “The MLI computer files are wiped. All the documents are gone. Everything! Jerry must have done it. They must have told him to.” Powell’s fist was clenched. “They’re removing all trace of the money. The only way they can do that, is to get rid of us.” He tapped his temple, adding, “And what we know.”

  “But we’re not going to tell anyone anything. It’s privileged. And why now, after all these years? It makes no sense.”

  “People like this don’t care about privilege. That means nothing to them. That much money means one thing only, raw power.”

  “But we’ve worked so hard for them. No one could have done a better job than us.”

  Powell smiled cynically. “And we got very rich. Now we’re the money trail: you, me, and those other guys overseas. We’re all dead men!”

  “Maybe we can make a deal.” McCormack ran his shaking hand through his hair.

  “With who?” Powell asked sharply. “All we’ve got is a post box in Berlin. Besides, these sort of people don’t make deals.”

  “Then we should go to the cops, right now! We’ll tell that detective – Harriman – that we need protection.”

  “Really? How long can the police protect you? Will they still be there in six months? In a year?”

  McCormack was sweating heavily. “We could join the witness protection program.”