Operation Barracuda

not know he also hosts out-of-town spies and provides them with Moscow intelligence but so far he’s never had any trouble.

Now pushing seventy, Harry Dagger is exactly the kind of man you might find running an antiquarian bookshop in any American city. He’s fussy, a bit unkempt, and extremely knowledgeable about the publishing business and authors in general. He also knows a hell of a lot about Russian spy networks, the Russian Mafiya, government corruption, and anything else that a lowly Splinter Cell such as myself might be interested in knowing.

He also resembles Albert Einstein, which makes him quite a character.

“But that’s neither here nor there,” he says, sitting in the chair across the worktable from me. He takes his vodka, neat of course, and downs it in one go. He eyes me nursing my glass and says, “Oh, come on, Fisher, that’s no way to drink Russian vodka!”

“Leave me alone, Harry. I really don’t like Russian vodka straight like this.”

“Would you prefer a cognac instead?”

“How about some orange juice? Do you have that?”

“Orange juice? Where do you think you are? Miami?” He stands and goes into the back room, where he keeps a refrigerator, a small stove, and a food pantry. Harry lives above the shop and has a full kitchen in his flat but often “entertains” in the store. He returns with a glass of OJ and sets it in front of me.

“Here you go, tough guy,” he says. “Better go slow with that stuff. It creeps up on you.”

I laugh and thank him. He sits with another glass of vodka for himself and says, “Anyway, as I was saying. This Yvan Putnik is bad news. You really saw him with General Prokofiev?”

“Washington identified him in the photos I sent.”

Dagger pulls on strands of his uncombed long white hair. “Very interesting. We’ve always suspected Prokofiev of playing footsie with the Russian mobs but I guess this clinches it. When I learned for certain he’s with the Shop, I still had no concrete proof. Still don’t. But all my sources tell me he’s one of the four directors. I relayed all this to Lambert last year, you know.”

“I know.”

“If Putnik is working for the Shop now, it could put your and every other Splinter Cell’s lives in danger.”

“That’s nothing new. Last year the Shop had all the information they needed to take us out one by one. They nearly succeeded, too. Carly’s still trying to figure out how the Shop got our names.”

“Well, just because the Shop has moved out of Russia and her satellites doesn’t mean they’re going to stop trying to track you down. I’d say with a guy like Putnik working for them, their odds for success are greatly increased. He’s very good at what he does. I’d say he’s responsible for some of the most difficult political assassinations that have ever been attempted in this country. He’s an expert sharp-shooter and probably very handy with a knife, too. He’s known to use a Russian SV-98 sniper rifle with 7.62mm NATO ammunition. If you find yourself facing him, run away.”

“I’d never do that, Harry. You know that.”

“I know. I’m just saying…” Dagger downs his vodka while I take a sip of juice.

“So you have no clue where Andrei Zdrok is now?” I ask.

He shakes his head. “The Far East. That I’m sure of. It could be Thailand, it could be Singapore, it could be Taiwan, maybe Hong Kong or Macau, maybe Jakarta.”

“It’s interesting that Prokofiev is still here.”

“He has to keep up appearances. Prokofiev’s a top general.” With that, Dagger opens a folder and removes a map. “Okay, since you want to go through with your cockamamie idea, here’s where he lives.” Dagger points to a spot on the eastern side of Moscow. “Izmaylovo. Actually between Izmaylovsky Park and Kuskovo Park. Quite a lovely mansion in a well-to-do neighborhood. Lives there with his wife, Helena. Children grown and moved out.”

“And you’ve had your people watching the house?”

“Ever since I got your message. He hasn’t returned from his ‘business trip.’ I’d say it’s wide open for you to do what you do.”

“What about the wife?”

“My watchers claim she goes to bed early and appears to be a heavy sleeper. Maybe she takes sedatives. She and her husband have separate bedrooms. She’s a real battle-ax. Kind of looks like Boris Yeltsin in drag. It’s no wonder Prokofiev has a mistress in Ukraine. If I were married to Helena Prokofiev, I’d never go home either. She’s probably more dangerous than he is.”

“Is the house guarded?”

“Only when the general’s at home. All other times the place is looked after by their very well trained German shepherd.”

“Oh, boy.”

“Right. As I understand it, the dog is fearless and will attack anyone it doesn’t know unless the general or his wife orders him down. Now. I’ve prepared something that will help you out in that department.” Dagger stands, goes to the back room again, and returns with a small box. Inside are three oddly shaped bullets that look to be the size of ammunition that my Five-seveN takes.

“These are tranquilizers,” he says. “Load your handgun with them before you go inside. They won’t harm the dog — much — but one will knock him out quickly. Just make sure you shoot him before he sees or hears you!”

Dagger goes back to the folder on the table and removes a floor plan. “This is it, the ground and top levels. Prokofiev’s home office is here on the ground floor. As you can see, it’s on the opposite side of the house from the bedrooms, which are over here on the second floor. See?”

“Uh-huh.”

“What do you think?”

“I think my best bet is to go over the fence to the back and break in through the door here.” I point to an opening leading to a courtyard behind the house. “What about the security system?”

“It took some bribing to get the goods from the company that installed it. Inside the door you’ll find a keypad. The code to shut off the alarm is 5-7-7-2.”

“Thanks.” I continue studying the floor plan. “I think once I’m safely through the door, I’ll go past this living room area, into the dining room, and down this hallway. From there it’s a straight shot to the office.”

“Sounds like a plan. What are you driving?”

“Nothing at the moment. I had a company vehicle from the embassy in Kyiv but I returned it.”

“I can’t let you use my car. The Russians know it. Let me make a call and I’ll rustle up something for you. It might be old and used, but it should run.”

“Isn’t everything old and used in Russia?” I ask.

Dagger’s expression turns to mock indignation. “I resent that remark!” he says as he pours another glass of vodka.

* * *

How come no U.S. agency can provide a car in Russia newer than 1996? I’m driving a 1995 Ford E-350 van that Harry’s friend must have driven to Siberia and back at least six times. There’s 167,000 miles on it and it runs with a distinctive clop-clop sound in the engine. But it moves.

They call this part of town Outer East Moscow, but it’s still well within the boundary of the Moskovskaya Koltsovaya Avtomobilnaya Doroga, the highway ring that designates the city limits. I’ve spent a lot of time in Moscow through the years and I’ve found I enjoy this area. Even in the winter it’s scenic. Kuskovo Park was once some important count’s huge country estate. It resembles a mini Versailles, with a lot of elegant buildings and formal gardens. Of course right now everything’s covered in snow. The district known as Izmaylovo is definitely upper-scale for former Soviet homeowners. It’s not surprising that General Prokofiev’s private residence is here. Izmaylovsky Park, just south of the region, was once a royal hunting preserve next to an expansive, undeveloped woodland. It’s remarkable that this exists within Moscow city limits because it feels as if you’re out in the country.

While it’s still daylight I do a simple reconnaissance around the general’s neighborhood. His estate is set back from the road, surrounded by an iron-bar fence. Snow covers leafless shrubs and trees and I can imagine the place looking magnificent in the spring and summer. The two-story house, what I can see of it, appears to be perhaps