Black operator complete.., p.1
Black Operator--Complete Box Set (Books 1-6), page 1
BLACK OPERATOR – COMPLETE BOX SET (BOOKS 1-6)
By Eric Meyer
Copyright 2017 by Eric Meyer
Published by Swordworks Books
www.facebook.com/ericmeyerfiction
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.
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BLACK OPERATOR: THE RUSSIAN ASSASSIN
By Eric Meyer
Copyright 2017 by Eric Meyer
Published by Swordworks Books
www.facebook.com/ericmeyerfiction
Prologue
The bitter northeast wind blew hard and cruel across the ancient cobblestones of Red Square, Moscow, Russian Federation; the focus of absolute power since the days of the Czars, and overlooked by the forbidding face of the Kremlin. They said the square always felt cold, no matter what the season. Red Square, the public face of the dark and bitter years of the Soviet era, before everything changed.
A new democracy dawned, and people looked for the end of their suffering under Communist rule. At first, the Russian Federation was the new hope for Eastern Europe and for much of the world. That hope died when the hard-faced men in the Kremlin took back the reins of power in their iron grasp. Yet more than half the population refused to accept the new reality, declaring they would not be bullied into silence. These were the women of the new Russian dictatorship, and they’d taken enough.
She climbed onto the rostrum, and the shouted chants increased in volume.
“Ma-Ri-A. Ma-Ri-A!”
Slim, erect, and determined, she waited for the tumult to die down. This was a woman of the new era, tough and proud, an inner core of sprung steel, thinly veiled by the attractive, dark-haired public face. Her classic high cheekbones and oval face could only belong to a modern Russian woman. She surveyed the many thousands of people who’d come to listen to her words. Most were women, but many men were also in the crowd. Waiting to hear their lives were about to change for the better.
She held up her hands for silence. Slowly, the chants died down, broken by the faint, distant wailing of sirens as the Moscow Militia answered emergency calls, or stopped vehicles to shake down the drivers. Or maybe on the way to Red Square. They would come, sooner or later. They always did.
After a pause, she spoke into a microphone, and her voice echoed off the gray stones of the Kremlin wall.
“Women and men of Russia, I address my words to all of you. All who value freedom and equality. To those who suffer the beatings and brutality, whether delivered by partners or those policemen paid to protect us. Those who despise corruption at all levels of our society, from the bottom to the very top. To those who believe the darkest days of the Czars and the Soviet Empire are already upon us. The madness must stop. We must take back the nation in a bold, new revolution to strip the abusers and bullies of their powers!”
The shouts began again. “Revolution! Revolution! Ma-Ri-A! Ma-Ri-A!”
She held up her hands, and silence fell again. “You may have heard those in government who say I am not a Russian citizen, and therefore have no right to interfere in politics.”
She smiled and held up a passport that everyone recognized as Russian. “Here is the proof, and if you want more, there is this.” She held up another document, and those nearest to her could it was a birth certificate. Also Russian. “I was born less than ten kilometers from Red Square, and I will post these documents on my website, in case anyone has been misinformed.”
At this point, she smiled. “Especially those government officials who are determined to ignore the truth.”
They laughed then, and the noise was a susurration, rolling and swirling in the air. They chanted, “Ma-Ri-A. Ma-Ri-A.”
She began speaking again. “I have decided to stand for President of the Russian Republic.” Cheers and shouts of acclaim greeted her announcement. “The man who presently occupies that post is determined to stop me, and he will use every means, both legal and illegal to prevent my standing for election. They tell me speaking publicly in this place is illegal, and I should have first obtained a police permit.” She paused, “In my own country!”
She waited, and they laughed at the absurdity. She doubted they’d laugh if they knew the truth. That she was a short step from arrest, a severe beating, and long imprisonment for some trumped up charge. She’d go the way of so many of the President’s opponents, and at worst, would disappear forever. The isolated, frozen wastes of Siberia were still a long, long way from Moscow.
Her chief bodyguard, Yuri Golovin, tapped her on the shoulder in a discreet gesture, and she turned her head a fraction.
“We don’t have much time, Maria. The cops are starting to assemble on the far side of the Square. Another few minutes, and you know what’ll happen. A baton charge, and if they’re in a bad mood, they could even open fire on the crowd. They’ll do anything to stop you.”
She stared at him in dismay. “You think they’ll start shooting?”
“They’re scared, and frightened people do stupid things. We must get you away from here.”
Her face was rigid. “Impossible. I must finish saying what I’ve come to say. These people have come here to listen, and I won’t let them down.”
He frowned. “Five minutes, no more. Any more and I’ll carry you away.”
“I’ll be quick, Yuri.”
She continued addressing the crowd, and now her message was more hurried. She talked of the abuses she’d suffered in her campaign for justice and equality. Of harassment, and endless official corruption trying to force her to stop. She didn’t stop, for Maria Tereshkova had much to say, and her strident voice carried to the furthest corners of the square. She was almost shouting, consumed by passion for her cause, her ideas to sweep away the dark cloud hovering over present-day Russia.
As the minutes ticked by, her bodyguards grew increasingly nervous. Searching for signs of a growing threat to the woman they guarded, and waiting for the inevitable attack. She glanced aside as Yuri took a firm hold of her arm.
“They’re moving into the square. Maria, we must leave. Now!”
“I’m nearly finished,” she murmured. “Just another few minutes.”
He was dragging her away. “We’re out of time,” he snapped, looking at the other bodyguards hovering anxiously around her. “Get her out of here!”
They moved in, and Maria felt her body grabbed by one man, her arms and legs by two others, and they were bundling her away. They jogged the platform steps, but they didn’t head for the armored BMW Seven series she’d used after several previous assassination attempts. Instead, they entered the crowd.
People panicked after her hurried departure, milling around in confusion. Tereshkova felt the knocks and bumps as they carried her through tightknit knots of people, and then she heard it begin. What they’d all feared, the blast of whistles, shouted orders, and screams of terrified people. The Moscow Militia had arrived, attacking the crowd, forcing their way in, trying to reach her.
The bodyguards kept pushing through the almost impenetrable mass of people. They’d had no choice, using the car would have given the Militia a chance to ambush her with a simple roadblock. So they used the tens of thousands of supporters as a smokescreen and a barrier between her and the Militia.
The screams became louder, and a single shot cracked out. Then another, and a noise like exploding firecrackers erupted in the square. Assault rifles firing on full auto, and the shouts of panic became screams of the wounded and dying. The Militia was fighting hard to reach her, and when they failed to part the crowd, they used extreme force. Gunfire, and innocents were dying.
She wanted it to stop, wanted to try reasoning with the Militia. Even if it meant her arrest, with all the consequent cruelties the State could muster. She shouted and pleaded with Yuri to slow down, to allow her to intervene. He was deaf to her entreaties, squeezing and pushing their way through the terrified stampede. They stumbled upon the first bodies. Two people, a man and a woman, their bodies riddled with bloody bullet wounds.
Yuri and his men ignored them. They had a single mission, to guard their principal. The woman many regarded as the last great hope for the Russian Federation. Who had frightened the men holding the reins of power inside Russia, and the man who issued orders to his Militia and Army bullyboys that often resulte
The dizzying journey became a blur of colors and noise, a potent cacophony that made her feel she was almost going mad. She heard Yuri’s voice telling them to slow down, and they descended a long flight of stone steps. The echoing noise was familiar. She was in a Moscow Metro station, descending deeper and deeper underground. She searched for a station name to know where they’d taken her.
“This is Okhotny Ryad Metro Station,” Yuri said, reading her mind. “Two stops and we’ll be close enough to reach the safe house without risking the open streets. When the heat dies down, we’ll make secure arrangements for your journey to the United States.”
“That’s five days from now,” she flared. “You can’t keep me in a tiny apartment for all that time. I have business to attend to, people waiting to meet with me. Yuri, they’re relying on me. I can’t let them down.”
They emerged onto the platform, and in an uncharacteristic gesture, he took hold of both her arms and held them tight. “Maria, you don’t get it. Those bastards have had enough, and today they’ve decided to stop you. Permanently. Someone authorized them to open fire, and grab you at all costs. They came close. If we’d tried for the car, they’d have taken you. These people are not amateurs, and they’re not all Militia.”
“Then who?”
He shrugged. “I don’t know for sure, but I’ll give you a few names to play around with. FSB, internal security, maybe even SVR, foreign intelligence, they like to stick their noses into internal business. Even GRU, military intelligence, Glavnoye Razvedyvatel'noye Upravleniye. It could be anyone. You know how the Czar operates. He clicks his fingers, and the people around him jump, whether it’s legal or otherwise. You must stay safe until you reach America. I doubt they’ll try to hit you over there.”
She gently extracted herself from his arms as a rumbling in the tunnel announced the imminent arrival of the train. “Very well, I’ll do as you say. I don’t pretend to like it, but if you think I don't have a choice, so be it. But won’t they stop me at the airport?”
He gave a grim shake of the head. “I’ve mapped out a different route. We'll travel by car to the border with Belarus. Once we’re across, we’ll take a flight to Amsterdam, and change planes for Chicago. The journey will be longer, but with any luck, we’ll stay below their radar. Stay safe.”
“We?”
“I’ll keep you safe,” he smiled, “I’m coming with you. Wherever you go, I’ll be with you. Looking after you, no matter what.”
She moved closer and gave him a brief hug. A small gesture of thanks, knowing the tough bodyguard would do whatever it took to protect her life, including taking a bullet for her, if the occasion demanded. Amid her despair at the massacre she’d witnessed in Red Square, she felt warmed by his devotion. With men like him supporting her cause, she had a chance against the enormous power wielded by the Kremlin. A slight chance, admittedly, but better than no chance.
The train screeched to a halt, and the doors slid open. They stepped into the tightly packed car, and she smelled the odors of her fellow Muscovites. Unwashed bodies, soot, and the rank smell of clothes too long unwashed. Mingled with the fragrance of expensive French perfumes and leather designer handbags. People’s breaths bearing the fragrant overtones of last night’s expensive dinner.
The new Russia. For some, the crushing of hope, and the end of dreams. For others, the path to excess, to expensive foreign sports cars and apartments in the wealthiest districts. Wealth bled from the have-nots and the hopeless, and squandered in the pursuit of reckless luxury. Her soul cried out for justice, for equality. The country she loved was becoming one to despise.
* * *
They were sitting inside the Café Bosco, just off Red Square. The woman’s voice carried as far as the café, and when the door opened, they heard her clearly. The three men were at a table in the front window, watching the ebb and flow of the crowd, and measuring their response to the hard-hitting rhetoric. They didn't like what they saw. People were drinking in her words as though dying of thirst and then finding cool, fresh water. The Militia began their attack, and they watched the chaos that followed. Frowned at the failure to arrest her, and the escape of the woman they wanted dead. So be it, the attack had been a desperate throw of the dice, and it had failed. Now they needed to try something different.
The man who broke the silence wore an expensive, Western-cut suit that would have cost six months’ wages for the average Russian. He could have been anything, wealthy businessman, government hireling, even an oligarch. His name was Vladimir Ushakov, and his Kremlin role was a mystery to all but one man. The man they called The Czar, the former spy and FSB intelligence Supremo, who ruled Russia with an iron fist.
“She is growing more dangerous by the day. Something must be done to stop her, and soon.”
He meant his boss wanted something done about her. When Ushakov spoke, people assumed, rightly, he carried a message from another man. A message it would be wise not to ignore.
Boris Makeyev, Russian Deputy Minister of Defense, sighed. “You know we’ve tried to stop her on at least three occasions.” He meant to kill her. “The problem is the bodyguards. They're aware of the threats to her life inside Russia, and they guard her well. Her supporters afford her protection, too, which encourages her to disseminate treasonous poison like she was doing out there today.”
Ushakov leaned forward to speak quietly. “In which case you must try again, and next time make sure it doesn’t fail. My boss’ patience is not endless. He will not always forgive failure so readily.”
Makeyev paled a fraction, which was not unnoticed by the others. They all knew if he showed weakness, a replacement would soon be found for the post of Deputy Minister. It was in their power to make such a suggestion, and the man at the top would listen. The Deputy Defense Minister spoke quickly. “There may be an opportunity about to arise when her defenses will be weaker. You are aware she is to travel to the United States to begin a speaking tour. She will travel with a single bodyguard, and she will, of course, be outside the protection of her supporters. An opportunity for the right man to rid us of this woman for good.” He smiled. “We can blame it on a random shooting. They have no shortage of such crimes in America.”
Vladimir Ushakov intervened. ‘If you do this, your cover will need to be cast iron, lest you create an international incident. You are aware the President has said she is not to be overtly attacked?” After a brief interval, both men gave a reluctant nod, and he went on. “Too many political opponents have disappeared over the years. Should she become a martyr, it could turn into a rallying point for all those who oppose our President. In which case those responsible will spend the rest of their lives counting trees, is that clear?”
Counting trees was a euphemism that dated back to Soviet times. Political prisoners sent east in sealed trains, and they shot the lucky ones out of hand. Those less fortunate reached the gulags in Siberia. There was nothing to break the grueling monotony of endless, backbreaking slave labor and starvation rations, except to count trees, of which the frozen Arctic wastes had no shortage. Life was short, and death no surprise.
Makeyev shrugged. “You have nothing to fear, Vladimir. The world will never know. The President will be able to show his hands are clean.”
“You’d better be certain,” Ushakov snapped. ‘No overt Russian involvement, none. You know the alternative. It is not comfortable, believe me.”
Most Russians had seen or heard of the unheated cattle cars used to transport prisoners to the east. Stories of frozen bodies being removed from the railroad cars with pry bars when they reached their destination.
Makeyev attempted a confident expression, which almost succeeded. “I will brief my team to keep their activities secret, on pain of death.”
Ushakov brought his fist down hard on the table. People turned to stare, but he directed his hard, cold gaze at them, and they turned away. “No! You cannot send your own men. They would be too easily identified if they were caught. The only safe way is to use one man to carry out the hit, a man with no connection with our government, preferably not even to Russia. He must be the best, unstoppable, and who will never give up until he has completed his mission. And who will not divulge the identity of those who hired him.” He sat back and shrugged. “What we need is a killing machine.”
