Operation Barracuda

seventy or eighty years old but it’s well kept. The driveway leading from the gate to a three-car garage runs past the side of the house where Prokofiev’s office is located. Unfortunately, it’s impossible to tell if anyone is home. I’ll just have to return after dark, find a place to park the van, and, as Harry puts it, “do what I do.”

* * *

Now dressed in my uniform, this time a black one, I easily climb the iron fence and quietly move through the snow to the back of the mansion. Leaving footprints can’t be helped so I deliberately create unreadable tracks; that is, with each step I wiggle my foot to create unshapely holes and walk unevenly. This way it’s difficult to say just what sort of animal went through the grounds.

“Satellite reception is fuzzy, Sam,” Lambert says in my ear. “Cloudy sky.”

I glance up and reply, “Yeah. Once I’m inside you can watch through my trident goggles.”

“As always. Good luck.”

I’m now in the courtyard and can see the bedroom windows on the second floor. Perfect timing — the light in the wife’s room goes out. Once again I walk like a deranged alien to create unrecognizable prints and make my way to the back door. I remove my set of lock picks from my leg pocket, examine the lock, and determine which picks might work best. The door opens in two tries.

I immediately step inside, find the keypad, and punch in the security code that Harry gave me. It works. I quietly shut the door and stand still for a moment. The house is silent. No sign of a dog anywhere. My night vision goggles are in place and I have no trouble navigating around the furniture in the living room. But as soon as I enter the dining room I hear a muffled ruff in another part of the house. The dog is upstairs. I quickly draw the Five-seveN, already fitted with the flash and sound suppressor, and return to the living room. I can see the staircase beyond an archway at the other end of the room, so I duck behind the sofa. Sure enough, I hear the sound of four paws padding down the stairs. I can see the animal now — he’s huge and looks more like a wolf than a German shepherd. The beast halts at the foot of the stairs. He’s staring into the living room but doesn’t see me. He knows something’s wrong, though, for he’s growling quietly. The dog moves forward slowly, not sure what it is he senses. The growling grows louder. I have one chance at this, for if he sees me he’ll alert the whole neighborhood.

In a smooth, fluid motion, I rise, aim, and squeeze the trigger. The dog spots me but he’s so surprised that I think he forgets to bark. The bullet hits him just above the front right leg. He yelps slightly, turns, emits a low ruff again, and then drops to the floor. The animal is still breathing — he’s just stunned. In a few seconds he’s sound asleep.

Carly can see everything I can through the trident goggles. “Poor doggy,” I hear her say with sarcasm. She can be a kidder when she wants.

The house remains quiet so I stand, go back to the dining room, and find the hallway leading to the office. I find the general’s door locked, so I utilize the lock picks again. This one’s more difficult than the house door; I guess the general is more protective of his personal things than he is of his wife. It takes me nearly three minutes to open the damned thing because there are two dead bolts on the door along with the standard lock.

I’m finally inside. I shut the door and the first thing I see is an awesome collection of antique pistols and rifles mounted on the wall. I recognize one as an Austrian Matchlock caliver from the 1600s. There’s a single-shot muzzle-loading pistol from the early 1800s, probably Russian, that looks brand-new. There’s even a Winchester Model 1873 lever-action repeater rifle. Amazing. They must be worth a small fortune.

I move to the desk, which is impressively neat and tidy, and boot up the computer to take a look at the contents of the general’s hard drive. Since I don’t want to spend too much time in here, I simply plug the OPSAT into one of the computer’s serial ports and upload everything onto it. I then beam all of it to Washington; I’ll let them sort through the files.

Next I open the desk drawers and filing cabinet but find nothing of interest. I then spot a small wall safe next to the desk and get down on my knees to examine it. Normally I would use one of my disposable picks — lock picks with explosive charges in them — to open a safe. They’re quick and dirty, but unnecessarily noisy. When I have to keep quiet, the device I call the Safecracker is the next best thing. It’s the size of a cigarette pack and is equipped with suction cups and a transmitter that sends signals to my OPSAT. It records the minute sounds the lock mechanism makes within the safe and then creates a fairly accurate estimate of the combination needed to open it. It doesn’t always work. If it’s a really complex mechanism, I don’t have a prayer.

I attach the device to the safe and set it to work. Four minutes go by before the first number appears on my OPSAT. Damn, it’s taking too much time. I’m not comfortable with this. Harry forgot to tell me how long those tranquilizers last. I sure don’t want Fido coming in here after me.

Another three minutes and the second number pops up. Just one more and I can see if the Safecracker did its job correctly. But as I’m counting the seconds I could swear I hear something outside the office. I hold my breath, freeze, and listen carefully.

Come on, make another sound. Confirm what I heard the first time.

But there’s nothing. I exhale just as the third number appears on the OPSAT. I quickly turn the knob, trying the combination the Safecracker has provided to me.

The safe opens, revealing a few file folders.

I’m able to read some of the Cyrillic and make out that one file is devoted to Russia’s nuclear inventory. And China’s too!

“My God,” Lambert says. He can also see the papers through my trident goggles. “That document lists the location of every nuclear device in Russia and China.” I don’t risk answering him vocally but I continue to study the file. It dates back to the eighties, when the Soviet Union was a bit friendlier with its Asian neighbors, so it could be terribly out of date. The pages go on and on… uh-oh. There’s a page listing missing nuclear devices. Twenty-two of them. Holy shit. The general has scribbled coded notations beside these entries. There is a date on this page and it’s recent.

“Snap some shots of that, Sam,” Carly says. “I’ll work on making sense out of those notes.” I quickly do so with the OPSAT.

Another file seems to concern a Chinese general in the People’s Liberation Army by the name of Tun. I’ve heard of him. He’s a controversial figure in China, a real hawk. Tun likes to rile up the government with emotional speeches, inciting them to take action against Taiwan. I’m not sure what kind of power or influence the guy has these days but through most of the nineties he was considered a bit of a crackpot. Prokofiev’s file on the man is pretty extensive. Photos, biographical info, and… damn, lists of arms that Tun appears to have purchased from Russia. No, wait. Not from Russia. From the Shop! It has to be. These are purchase orders for arms, worth millions of dollars, that Prokofiev has signed off on.

I quickly snap more photos and then carefully place them back in the safe. I close it, spin the combination knob, and stand.

“Good work, Sam. Now get the hell out of there,” Lambert says.

That’s when the office door opens. A woman, dressed in a nightgown and resembling Boris Yeltsin in drag, sees me and screams like a banshee.

6

I jump toward Mrs. Prokofiev, grab her by her massive shoulders, pull the woman toward me, step to the side, and place my hand firmly over her mouth. This muffles her scream to an extent.

In Russian, I say, “Please be quiet. I won’t hurt you!” I mean it, too.

But the woman is huge and strong. She wrestles out of my grip and swings an elbow into my stomach. The suit protects me but this woman means business.

She starts to run from the office and I tackle her. Her bulky frame falls to the carpet with a heavy thud as she screams again. I move over her and put my hand across her mouth again.

“Listen to me!” I shout in Russian. “I work for the government! I’m here to help you.”

But it’s like holding a 280-pound wild boar. Because I’m pulling punches and don’t want to hurt her, she throws me off of her and manages to get to her feet. I hang on to one leg — it’s like hugging a tree trunk — and she pulls me along the carpet back into the office. Damn, she’s going for the guns.