FOREWORD Read online

  As the boat came to shore, Gerasimov’s two lieutenants tied it to its moorings and jumped aboard, where they were met by men who had become familiar acquaintances - if not quite friends - over recent months. Greetings and handshakes were exchanged. They promptly disappeared below deck. Not Gerasimov though. He stayed on the shore, waiting.

  A blonde man in jeans, black t-shirt and blue baseball cap stepped ashore and smiled cockily at the Ukrainian, exposing perfect white teeth. He shared a brief embrace with the Colonel. Gerasimov knew his contact only by the codenameFalcon . He was an American; and, although his accent betrayed his origins as Texan, he spoke Russian like a native. Gerasimov imagined he’d learned that at the CIA’s language training facility in Virginia. It was said that their teachers were among the best in the world.

  “You’re late,” the Ukrainian told him in perfect English. His choice of tongue was a deliberate reminder to the American that not all Slavs were barbarians.

  “I’m sorry, Colonel. We got held up by a Russian frigate coming out of Gornostaypol’.”

  Gerasimov’s eyes widened in concern.

  “Don’t worry,”Falcon reassured him. “They didn’t find anything. We told them we were shipping medical supplies.” He brandished the papers that would have given credence to that claim had the Russians bothered to check “I figure the Russkies have got bigger fish to fry these days, anyway.”

  Gerasimov, who knew that he was one of those fish, dismissed the American’s observation. “Good,” he nodded, his taut, alert eyes scanning the horizon for danger. “You have everything I requested?”

  “Check it for yourself.” The American jerked his head back towards the boat, where the men who had disappeared below deck moments earlier were emerging with three large wooden crates, each weighing over two hundred pounds. They heaved them onto the riverbank then returned to the boat to fetch some more.

  Gerasimov took a crowbar and a hammer from his backpack and jimmied the first crate open. His mouth curled upwards. He produced two M-60 machine guns and handed them to his lieutenants. They inspected them with glee, mentally picturing what their new toys would do to any Russian soldier who got close enough.

  “Eighty units with ammo,”Falcon confirmed. “As requested.”

  Gerasimov nodded briskly and opened the second crate. This one was filled to the brim with small packages that proved rather impressible to the touch. There was enoughplastique here to wake up the Gods, he realized with no small degree of satisfaction.

  The third crate contained about three hundred rocket grenades, neatly packed in polystyrene. That would lift the troops’ morale, he thought. Rocket grenades had proved the most effective weapon against Russian convoys heading south. The best tactic against convoys, he had taught his men, was to take out the lead vehicle, creating an obstruction that would stall the following vehicles, thus making them sitting ducks for Ukrainian artillery.

  “I need more supplies,” he told the American.

  No need to thank me,Falconthought bitterly. “What do you need?”

  The Ukrainian handed him a list. Falconarched his eyebrows as he scanned it. The order was unconventional, to say the least, but the American knew that it was not his place to question its contents. He pocketed the list and nodded to the affirmative. “Might take a few weeks. We’ll be in touch, huh?”

  “Don’t take too long.”

  Gerasimov made a gesture to his men, who closed the crates, loaded them onto a truck, and covered them with a dark green tarpaulin. Within half an hour, the new shipment of weaponry would be securely packed in the town armory, a building which until quite recently had been Ivankov’s sole police station. With the Ukrainian Army now maintaining a heavy presence in the town, there was no longer any need for police.

  He shook hands with the CIA operative, turned on his heel and climbed into the front passenger seat of the truck.

  FALCONreturned to the boat, grumping to himself about how ungrateful these damn Ukes were. He didn’t understand why the US government was covertly assisting them, given that Washington was publicly maintaining a neutral stance on the Russo-Ukrainian conflict, but he reminded himself that it wasn’t his job to understand the logic of his political leaders. His role was merely to do his masters’ bidding, and that was perhaps the most exasperating aspect of what he considered to be an otherwise rewarding job. As he always told new recruits, the lot of a CIA field officer could be a pleasant one, providing that one enjoyed foreign travel, being shot at and occasionally getting to kill the odd bad guy.

  His boat headed west. Within three hours, he was in the city of Zhitomir, where he assumed the cover of a German journalist working for theBerliner Morgenpost newspaper. His German, although rusty, was spoken with an East Berlin accent, and his fake papers would survive close scrutiny. He had to hand it to the boys at Langley; they really knew their stuff.

  In Zhitomir, he headed on foot towards the train terminal. On the way, he collided with an innocuous looking man in shabby overalls and a wooly hat. Apologies were exchanged, and, in the same instant, Gerasimov’s shopping list was slipped into the pocket of the man’s overalls. The chance encounter was an ordinary accident, nothing to arouse suspicion. And the handover was so slickly executed that even a trained eye would have had trouble spotting it. Falcondidn’t know what would happen to the list, but an educated guess was that it would end up at Langley, via the US Embassy in Kiev.

  Falconcaught a train to Kiev, where he used a UK passport in the name of Douglas Nevin to catch a British Airways flight to London and back into friendly territory.

  After that, he didn’t offer much thought to Gerasimov or any of the other Ukrainian men and women who were using American weapons to kill Russian troops. His only thought concerned the prospect of spending a couple of well earned vacation days fishing in Maine.

  HOUSTON, TEXAS

  Dr Jake Bremner saw it every day, especially in this part of town. It never ceased to amaze him that, no matter how much you tried to educate them, teenage girls still had unprotected sex without allowing any thought to the consequences. This neighborhood was full of young, single mothers who were unable to support their babies. Hell, most of these kids couldn’t even read or write yet, never mind find a job. The babies themselves were, of course, raised in the same culture of poverty and welfare dependency as their parents. And thus the vicious circle was perpetuated. It was enough to test any man’s faith in human nature, but Bremner had long since become immune to his miserable surroundings, largely by constantly reminding himself that he was a doctor, and not a sociologist.

  This particular girl’s name was Tabatha Canning. A pretty and intelligent 14-year-old, she might have made something of her life had fate dealt her a better hand (or a better neighborhood, Bremner reflected sadly). She was the eldest of four children, all of whom had been sired by different fathers. Two of her younger siblings were girls, and Bremner expected that they would probably soon enough end up in the same predicament as their big sister.

  Tabatha’s grades were excellent and, like most of her peers, she was acutely streetwise. Despite this, she had still succumbed to peer pressure and - well, Bremner knew the rest. If he’d seen it once, he’d seen it a thousand times. Whatever her potential had been, it would probably remain forever unrealized.

  “Okay, Tabatha,” he said, having completed his examination. “You can put your clothes back on now.”

  Once she had dressed, she sat down opposite the doctor. He was scribbling notes on her file.

  “Well, Tabatha,” Bremner intoned softly. “You’re going to be a mother.” His feigned cheerfulness concealed the sadness he felt for her.

  No matter how many times he’d said those words to girls that were no more than children themselves, it still distressed him to see the effect it had on them. Of course, they all reacted differently; some were distraught, others overjoyed. But most were just stunned into silence, unable to comprehend how this could have happened to them.

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p; Tabatha, falling distinctly into the latter category, stared at him with incredulity. She blinked and shook her head with vigor, as if trying to wake up from a bad dream. “But he said…”

  “That he was sterile, right?” Bremner finished the sentence for her. Bastard, he thought bitterly. The things some guys will do to get a girl into bed. “I’ve heard that one before.”

  “Yeah, sterile. That’s it.”

  Bremner shook his head in dismay. Not as streetwise as I thought. “And you bought that?”

  She couldn’t look the doctor in the eye. Her head was hung in shame at her own stupidity. “Not at first, I didn’t, no. But, him bein’ so important, an’ all, I didn’t think he’d bullshit me.”

  Important? A local drug pusher, perhaps? Bremner adopted his most reassuring tone. “You need to think about your future, Tabatha,” he advised. “You need to consider whether you’re ready for this. I won’t try to talk you into anything you don’t want to do, but make sure you know what you’re in for. No more partying. No more socializing. For the next twenty-one years, you will be entirely responsible for another human life. Do you understand what that means? More importantly, do you realize that youdo have a choice?” He gave this speech to every girl that came into his clinic with the same problem. It wasn’t a matter of being pro or anti abortion; it was more a matter of allowing every woman - or, in this case, child - a second chance to make something of her life if she wanted to take it.

  “’Course I know,” she snapped. “And I’m keepin’ the baby, y’hear?”

  Bremner pursed his lips and nodded sympathetically. She might change her mind once she’d had time to reflect on her circumstances, but probably not. “What about the father?” he asked. “Will he support you?” Dumb question, Jake, he told himself.

  She shrugged with indifference. “He’s back in DC now. I met him in a hotel bar. My cousin is a hotel bartender, see? He lets me sit at the bar and talk to him when things get rough at home. The guy who did this to me,” she pointed at her still flat stomach, “was a real hotshot. Older guy, said he was in town for a conference. He wore an expensive watch. A gold one.” She paused. “Hell, he probably doesn’t even remember me. He got me drunk and, well…” She shrugged, leaving the rest unsaid.

  “What’s his name? Maybe I could try to contact him.” It wasn’t something Bremner offered to do as a rule, but Tabatha was different. She had the potential to break out of this neighborhood, perhaps even get a college scholarship. That in itself made her worth the exception. Every soul saved…

  She smiled. It was a pretty, intelligent smile that made her look much older than her fourteen years. A detached part of the doctor’s mind could understand what might have endeared her to an older man. He immediately reproached himself for the thought.

  “I don’t think he’d take your calls either,” she told him.

  “Why not?”

  Tabatha revealed the father’s identity, certain that Bremner wouldn’t believe her.

  HARTFORD, CONNECTICUT

  Waxy’swas not an establishment noted for its friendly welcome or sophisticated ambience. Popular among the local biker community, it was rather better known as a place to get into an old fashioned bar brawl or ‘score’ a hit of illegal narcotics. Unsurprisingly, this made it the target of periodic raids by the Hartford Police Department who, more often than not, arrived too late to catch anybody breaking the law in any way.

  One of the regulars, however, was neither a biker nor a junkie. So far as his colleagues and neighbors were concerned, he was merely a quiet, polite guy who happened to teach at the University of Connecticut. A loner who showed no predilection to talk about himself or his past. Only those who studied his eyes - and knew what to look for - were given the slightest indication that he had ever been anything more than a mere teacher.

  His appearance was closer to that of a drunken bum than a Doctor of International Affairs. His leathery features were framed by scraggy, lank hair that looked like it hadn’t been washed in a week. Although his lean frame was powerful and deceptively muscular, you certainly wouldn’t bet on him winning a fight with a competent brawler. His olive skin and deep-set brown eyes gave him a slightly Mediterranean appearance, and he was the only customer in Waxy’s to wear a tie, albeit very loosely knotted around the open collar of an unironed shirt. Otherwise, there was nothing terribly distinctive about him. That was no accident. He enjoyed his anonymity.

  His name was Dr. Lewis Stein, and he was rapidly getting drunk.

  Propped at the bar, he took his last cigarette from its pack and lit it, dropping the empty packet on the floor.

  “You all set?” the bartender called over.

  Lewis considered the offer for all of a microsecond, and drained his fifth straight shot of neat Jack Daniels with an eye-watering swig.

  “Not now I’m not, Jim,” he growled, slamming his empty glass on the bar. “Hit me.”

  Lewis’s origins were betrayed by his accent. Despite having been a naturalized American citizen for over a decade, he had never lost the Estuary cadence that identified him as a former native of London, England. His family – which now comprised only his mother and a great aunt - still resided there, but his own memories of the old country were becoming foggier by the bottle. He still maintained contact with them, although these days contact was generally restricted to a brief phone call every month or so (yes I’m doing well, yes I’m eating well, yes I’m still teaching, please stop fussing like I’m a kid, I’m thirty-nine years old). He kept telling himself that he should visit them, having not done so for over two years. All that prevented him from doing so was a reluctance to let them see him in his current burned-out state. Not much for a mother to be proud of, am I?

  “Here you go, Doc,” the bartender said, placing a fresh shot of Jack in front of him.

  “Nice one, Jim.”

  As he went to pick up his drink, he became aware of impending danger. He hadn’t exactly seen the two men approaching from behind, but his well-honed instincts had kicked in, causing the hairs on the back of his neck to stand on end. He gently placed his drink down on the bar and turned around.

  The two men that confronted him looked no different from any of the other lowlifes who frequentedWaxy’s . One was tall and grossly overweight, a beer gut peering over the waistline of absurdly tight leather pants. He would’ve cast an intimidating figure for anybody who thought that size was necessarily relative to physical strength. Lewis, however, was less intimidated than amused by the comically obese figure.

  His companion, also wearing leathers, was skinny and ugly as hell, exposing gaps in his stained, crooked teeth as he smiled. His features struck Lewis as bearing some resemblance to those of a rodent. A cigarette drooped from his mouth, and his dull, heavy lidded stare belonged to someone who wasn’t terribly bright.

  Fatboy and Ratboy, Lewis mentally termed them. That thought almost elicited a chuckle.

  “Cute accent you got there, pal,” Fatboy noted in a deep growl that seemed to rise from the bowels of his ample stomach. “You really a doc?”

  Lewis’s cold eyes appraised his new acquaintances. “Not the sort you need, pal,” he grinned, a mocking edge to his tone.

  “Hey,” Ratboy enthused to his larger friend. “We got us a Limey here.”

  “What you’ve got yourselves, boys,” Lewis corrected him, “is more trouble than you need. Now why don’t you leave me alone and drink your drinks, and everybody will be happy.”

  “Oh,” Fatboy said, mock disappointment. “That’s a shame. I was kinda hopin’ you’d help my friend here, you bein’ a doc an’ all. He needs a doc.”

  Lewis glanced at Ratboy, who was excitedly nodding agreement, a demented look in his eyes. Drugs, he realized with no small measure of distaste.

  “Evidently,” he sneered. “But, like I said, I’m not the guy you need.” His eyes adopted a fierce intensity that only those who knew him recognized as dangerous to the extreme. Unfortunately for Fatboy and Rat
boy, neither of them knew him, and even if they had known him, they probably wouldn’t have been smart enough to recognize the danger they were in. “In fact,” he warned quietly, “I’m thelast fucking guy you need right now, understand?” How many warnings do you need, you dumb fucks?

  Fatboy squared up to Lewis, trying to intimidate him with his sheer bulk. It had always worked for him before. The logic was simple; he was twice Lewis’s size. But the college lecturer remained unfazed, his eyes unblinking, peripheral vision alert to any danger that Ratboy or anybody else was likely to pose.

  “Hey guys,” the bartender implored. “Let’s all take it easy, okay?”

  “Fuck you,” Fatboy barked, not realizing that the plea had been aimed more at Lewis than the bikers. The bartender hadn’t seen Lewis in action before, but he’d heard rumors. Nasty ones. Enough to make him nervous for the bikers’ safety.

  Almost everybody in the bar had stopped what they were doing. Even the guys who had been shooting pool laid their cues on the blue baize so they could watch. Fights were not uncommon in Waxy’s, but this one had a definite twist. A drunk in a suit squaring up to two hard-ass bikers. Either he had a death wish, or he’d had too much liquor for his own good.

  Lewis began to sense a shadow of fear creeping into Fatboy’s eyes. This was obviously a guy who was accustomed to other men backing down in the shadow of his considerable girth. He wasn’t sure how to react to somebody who didn’t. Perhaps, finally, he’d recognized danger when he found it on a barstool.

  There was a lot at stake here. Fatboy couldn’t be seen to back off in front of his biker buddies. If he allowed a candy-ass doctor to face him down, he’d never be able to set foot in this establishment again.