Combat Machines
Though hacking was Tokaido’s area of expertise, he had been encouraged to delve into data analysis. While training him in the cryptic art, his boss, Aaron “the Bear” Kurtzman, had stressed that it was as much art as science. “Connecting what seems like disparate events into a cohesive picture can often rely on your gut instinct as much as the hard data you acquire. The trick is knowing when to go with your feeling about a particular situation, and when to rely on the evidence as your primary lead.”
With a sigh, Tokaido saved his data and rose from his chair to go find Kurtzman. Even if he was wrong about all of this, it would be a good theoretical exercise for them to discuss, and he could get some pointers to refine his analytical skills.
He was just heading for the main doors to the Computer Room when they slid open and Kurtzman wheeled himself into the room.
“Hey, Bear, I—” was all Tokaido said as he popped an earbud out to talk before he was forced to step out of the way of the other man as he zoomed his wheelchair over to his workstation.
“Akira, have you got anything unusual on the Russians this morning?” Kurtzman asked without even a perfunctory greeting as he began looking over his own monitors.
“I...well, I don’t know if it’s unusual, but I did notice what looked like some Federation-based activity over the past twenty-four hours. Why?”
“I want you to have whatever you’ve got ready to present in five minutes. A US senator was just shot and wounded in Paris an hour ago, and the assailant seemed to be of Russian origin. We want to know what’s going on over there, and if it ties into anything larger, and if so, how.”
“I’m on it.” Tokaido ran back to his station and began typing with lightning speed.
* * *
“AND THOSE ARE the correlations between the various events, as I see them,” Tokaido said, hoping he didn’t sound too nervous.
Normally he served as support staff, assisting Mack Bolan or Able Team or Phoenix Force with their missions in the field. There, he was rock-solid, the calm voice in the team members’ earpieces giving them up-to-the-minute security intel, or defeating a security system from the other side of the world.
He could count on one hand the number of times he’d actually been involved in presenting a briefing to the head of Stony Man Farm.
Currently, Hal Brognola was staring at him like a bulldog eyeing a particularly juicy steak. Tokaido didn’t take it personally—he knew the big Fed regarded anyone who had what he wanted in exactly the same way. The Justice Department honcho was director of the clandestine Sensitive Operations Group, based at Stony Man Farm, and was Stony Man’s conduit to the White House.
Tokaido shifted his gaze to Barbara Price, Stony Man’s mission controller, the person who handled oversight of the Farm’s missions. She nodded at him and smiled, indicating he’d done a good job on his summary presentation.
That was confirmed by Brognola. “Nice work, Akira. Good to see Bear’s program is bearing some fruit.
“Okay, people, what does this seeming blitzkrieg of terror attacks mean? Are they really related, or are these just random acts that are occurring close enough together to draw our attention?”
“Given the increasing severity of the incidents, and the fact that Interpol, MI-5, and the Bundesamt für Verfassungsschutz have all gone to high alert internally, I don’t see how we can’t view this as anything but some kind of coordinated, if erratic, assault on the European Union as a whole,” Kurtzman replied.
“And the US, don’t forget.” Brognola snatched the soggy cigar from his mouth and jabbed the unlit end at Kurtzman. “I never liked that pompous ass Richard DiStephano, but no one deserves to be shot.”
“Says here that the assailant sped by on a motorcycle as DiStephano was heading to a meeting with his counterpart in the French government,” Price said. “The attacker fired at least two dozen rounds from a small submachine gun as he sped by, hitting DiStephano and killing his aide.”
“That’s a damn shame,” Kurtzman said. “What’s DiStephano’s prognosis?”
“Stable, although it was touch and go for a while,” Price answered. “They say one of the gendarmes providing security wounded the shooter, making him crash his motorcycle, but he still got away.”
Kurtzman grunted as he reviewed the data on the French attack. “DiStephano’s one of those hawks beating the drum for military intervention in Sudan, isn’t he?”
Brognola nodded sourly. “Yeah, mostly to counter what he feels is the increased Russian presence in the country. He’s amassed a small group of right-wing chuckleheads—mostly first-termers—and they’ve been trying to fire up a larger coalition to put a bill forward to send troops over there. Of course, they’re ignoring the very real threat of ISIS in the region, as well.” He shook his head. “The damn fools spend as much time putting their collective feet in their mouths in the media as they do actual governance.”
“Given the other attacks we’ve confirmed, this seems to link them all into a strong covert Russian operation,” Kurtzman said.
“But to what end?” Price asked. “Several of these obvious links—that one or more of the supposed perpetrators behind these incidents may be of Russian origin—are still so weak that they might be a sophisticated ploy to fool us into thinking Moscow is behind all of this. What if we’re looking at an elaborate false-flag operation meant to make us chase it back all the way to the Kremlin? With US-Russian relations so strained at the moment, we need to make absolutely sure that we’re correct about our intelligence pointing to whoever’s behind all of this.”
“Barbara’s absolutely right,” the fifth member of the conference said from the large monitor on the wall. “And the best way to do that is by putting some boots on the ground—mine.”
Mack Bolan, aka the Executioner, was connected to the War Room via an encrypted satellite feed. He and Jack Grimaldi had been returning from a successful operation in northern Africa when this situation had arisen.
“Fortunately, we’re not too far from Paris,” Bolan said, “and I can begin my investigation there, since that has direct American involvement. Looks like we’re about four hours away from Charles de Gaulle, so I’ll have Jack drop me off, and I’ll see if I can pick up the assassin’s trail.”
The Executioner picked up a tablet computer and flicked through the data he’d been sent. “DiStephano had been on his way to a meeting when he was assaulted. Are there any other events in the next twenty-four hours I need to be aware of, especially ones with high-value targets? Even wounded, this assassin may try to strike again if the payoff is of high enough value.”
“Plus, given the timing of these incidents, we should assume we are dealing with at least three to five individuals,” Price said. “It is possible that the wounded attacker won’t even be there tonight but one or two of the others may be.”
“How about a visit from the Austrian president?” Brognola asked. “He’s in Paris, and what’s more, he put out a statement saying he’s not leaving until he’s concluded his business with the French government—and guess what that is?”
“A conference to discuss a coordinated response to the recent aggressive actions of Russia?” Bolan replied.
“Jesus, what do you have over there, the meeting itinerary?” Brognola asked. “That was almost word-for-word.”
The black-haired man smiled. “What can I say, Hal. I’ve been listening to you gripe about the Foggy Bottom boys and their BS for too long.”
“He just arrived this morning, and a welcoming dinner is planned at the Hôtel de Marigny, the traditional housing for visiting heads of state in France. It’s right next to the Élysée Palace, so security will be heavy regardless. The event is scheduled to begin at 1900 local time this evening,” Price told him.
“Well, considering we still don’t have a solid lead on any of these operatives, even with their previous assault, right now they still possess the element of surprise,” Bolan said. “And if they’re still in the area, the chance to take down a sitting president is something they probably won’t pass up.”
“We’ll make sure you’re added to the guest list and we’ll alert both Interpol and French intelligence, who will be overjoyed to see you, I’m sure,” Price said.
“As long as we can take down these bastards, I don’t care who I have to work with to get the job done.”
Chapter Four
Avenue des Champs-Élysées
Paris, France
Alexei Panshin drove the Renault sedan through the narrow streets with ease, staying within a few miles of the posted speed limit, following every traffic law, alert to the occasional uniformed police officer directing traffic through a particularly busy intersection. If he and his companions had been stopped, the officer doing so would have had a career-making arrest, given the various weapons and other illegal equipment inside.
Assuming he survived the encounter, of course.
As he drove, eyes flicking from one side of the street to the other, Panshin said, “You both have the plan and timetable down?”
“Yes, Alexei, we will be there with plenty of time to set up what we need,” the slender woman in the passenger seat replied. Of a similar build and general appearance to the man beside her, the woman, Amani Nejem, also swept her gaze across their surroundings, missing nothing.
Panshin looked into the small rearview mirror, and met the gaze of Nejem’s backup, Kisu Darsi, staring back at him. “Don’t worry about me, Alexei. I’m not even feeling any pain.”
The team leader’s eyes flashed. “You’re just fortunate we were able to get the bullet out. You are certain you can complete this operation?”
Still holding his gaze, Darsi raised his left arm until it was outstretched and level with his shoulder—something he shouldn’t have been able to do, given that three hours earlier there had been two bullets in his upper chest. But he evinced no sign of discomfort as he did so.
“All right, then. You both know where you are supposed to be,” he said as he pulled the car over in a neighborhood of converted apartment buildings. “I will see you both there.”
Panshin got out, and moments later Nejem was behind the wheel and the sedan was pulling away, heading toward the hotel that would host the state dinner. Casually looking around as he headed to a structure at the end of the block, Panshin made sure no one was taking any interest in him as he walked up the steps to a four-story apartment building and tried the electronically locked door. It didn’t budge.
Panshin thought about trying to contact his target through the intercom, but decided against it, as he didn’t want to risk spooking him. Instead, he pulled a trick he had been assured would work in neighborhoods like these, filled with students and young, working-class professionals. He simply ran his hand down the entire line of intercom buttons.
Within seconds, one of them buzzed the door, and he opened it and slipped inside. His target’s apartment was on the top floor, and Panshin took the stairs, not wanting to be seen by others in the building. He reached the floor quickly and started down the hallway until he found the door he was looking for. After glancing to the right and left to make sure no one was around, he knocked softly.
The muffled sounds of movement came from inside. “Who is it?” an annoyed voice asked in French.
“It’s Reynard,” Panshin answered, giving the name of one of the apartment dweller’s coworkers.
“Reynard?” A chain rattled on the other side, and the door cracked open. A young man peered at him. “What do you—Wait, who are you?”
By then it was too late. As the young man struggled to make sense of the man who was nearly a mirror image of himself, Panshin grabbed the edge of the door and pushed hard.
It wasn’t a big movement, but it was enough to tear the chain from the wall and shove the boxers-clad man back from the door, sending him stumbling into the high-ceilinged one-bedroom apartment. His butt hit the stained Formica counter that framed part of the kitchen, and he winced even as he threw up an arm to try to fend off this unknown assailant.
“Hey—” was all he got out before Panshin had closed the door and was on him, moving so fast his quarry appeared to be crying out in slow motion. One lightning-fast hand batted aside his upraised arm, and Panshin’s other hand, fingers curled into a tight ram’s head position, shot forward into the man’s throat, crushing his larynx.
The effect was immediate. Gasping, the young man grabbed his injured neck as his windpipe swelled and closed, cutting off the flow of air to his lungs. Mouth opening and closing helplessly, he sank to his knees, face reddening as his brain became starved for oxygen. He grabbed at Panshin, who sidestepped him and let the dying man fall to the floor, where he thrashed helplessly and clutched at his throat before falling unconscious.
A startled yelp alerted him to the presence of someone else in the apartment. Panshin looked up to see a young woman in a spaghetti-strap tank top and panties staring back at him, a look of openmouthed horror on her face. He cursed inwardly. All of their surveillance data indicated the target should have been alone today.
As he started for her, the woman whirled and darted back into the bedroom, slamming the heavy door in Panshin’s face. He hit it with his shoulder just as she turned the lock. Stepping back, he raised a leg and pistoned it into the doorknob, smashing it apart, but the door still held. Cursing, he hit the same spot again, this time shoving the door open hard enough for it to fly into the bedroom wall and smash a hole in the plaster.
Panshin shot inside and saw the open window in the larger dormer. Running to it, he saw the woman, now dressed in a leather jacket and combat boots, carefully moving across the roof toward the next building. A feral grin creasing his face, he stepped out and gave chase, cursing her for putting him behind schedule, knowing every second counted now.
She had a decent lead, but for him, walking the three-inch pathway around the sloped roof was as easy as walking across a street, and he soon closed the gap. She glanced over her shoulder to see him gaining fast, and that knowledge spurred her to greater speed—straight toward the narrow alley between that building and the next. Fortunately, she was running too hard to draw enough breath to scream for help.
Panshin ran faster as well, wanting to cut her off before she leaped, but he just missed her, his fingers brushing her jacket as she desperately soared through the air. She landed hard and rolled, losing one boot, but was up and running again within moments.
He backed up a few steps, then accelerated to his top speed, easily leaping the three-yard gap with a few feet to spare. Unlike his quarry, he landed on his feet and kept running, easily catching up to her.
When his right hand grabbed her neck, the woman opened her mouth to scream, but he quickly cut her off by the simple expedient of clapping his left hand over her mouth and nose. Already panting from fear and the chase, with her air cut off, she panicked completely, tearing and beating at his iron-like hands as he dragged her out of sight behind a large air-conditioning unit.
Already her struggles were weakening, but Panshin didn’t let his guard down, and made sure she didn’t reach his face with her nails by using the hand that had been holding her neck to pin her arms—anything out of the ordinary now could interfere with the mission. He maintained his hold until she passed out, then carried her to the back side of the building and peeked over the side.
As he’d hoped, it was a narrow backstreet filled with trash receptacles and piled bags of refuse. With a quick look around to ensure that no one was watching, he grabbed her by the legs and held her upside down over a section of alley that was clear of garbage, then let her go, not even waiting for the impact of her head on the pavement to reach him. Her death was a foregone conclusion.
At the edge of the building, he made sure to find the loose boot and toss it toward where he’d dropped the woman. At this point, it didn’t matter if it also fell off the roof or stayed where he’d tossed it. Now it was just a clue pointing toward a young woman committing suicide.
He jumped back to the other building, reentered the apartment, closing and locking the window behind him, and walked to the closet. Hanging in a black garment bag was his disguise for the evening. Quick searches of the nightstand and the body produced the final pieces—Yves Montauk’s smartphone, his billfold with his driver’s license, and a government identification badge that would allow Panshin access to the Élysée Palace and the Hôtel de Marigny.
Chapter Five
General Directorate for
Internal Security Headquarters
Levallois-Perret, France
“Look, we can sit around here for the next ninety minutes or so and argue jurisdictions and whatnot, but the evidence we’ve obtained—and already made available to your department—indicates that the Austrian president is at risk of an assassination attempt tonight, and I plan to be there, with or without your government’s approval.”
“Be that as it may, Agent Cooper, our security has already been doubled for the function,” Captain Bellamy Lambert, of the Terrorism Department of the Direction générale de la sécurité intérieure—DGSI—replied. “Our people are among the best in the world at what they do, and I have no doubt that the president and the rest of the guests will be safe under their watch.”
The brown-haired man cleared his throat. “And while we appreciate your government’s sharing of the data you have uncovered, as far as I know, you are here to investigate the attack on Richard DiStephano earlier today. So then, by all means, please do so, and let us handle tonight’s event. Your presence there would be unnecessary, and even detrimental to our own established security protocols. It would be as if we had showed up to your White House and demanded to oversee the security details for your own President—hardly acceptable, n’est pas?”
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