American Influence Page 2

  Hardy opened the leather bi-fold and read his title: Special Agent Consultant to the Director. That’s a mouthful.

  “Now, about your first mission,” Jameson pointed toward the manila folder, “The details are in that file. Let’s go over what you need to do.”

  Chapter 4: Mission

  Thousands of feet above the Atlantic Ocean

  Hardy sat back in his seat aboard a Gulfstream V jet, flying high above the Atlantic Ocean. He was the only passenger on the flight. The FBI used the jet to transport agents around the world. The aircraft had taken off from Washington D.C. at 1 p.m.; its destination was Moscow, Russia. After the plane had leveled off and reached its cruising speed, Hardy unbuckled his seatbelt and picked up his new phone.

  He stared at the satellite phone. Even though it appeared to be exactly like any other smartphone on the market, it was a state-of-the-art piece of technology, capable of getting a communication signal where normal smartphones could not. Plus, it contained a Global Positioning System tracker that was accurate within one square block. He was not staring at the sat phone in awe of its technological advances, however. Before the Gulfstream V had taken off, Hardy made a call to Special Agent Raychel DelaCruz of the FBI. The conversation had not gone well.

  Special Agent DelaCruz, her colleagues shortened her name to Cruz, had been the lead agent investigating the explosion at the tavern that killed everyone, except Hardy. His first encounter with her was at the hospital after the explosion. He had been captivated by her from the moment he opened his eyes and saw her standing over his hospital bed. Twenty-nine years old, she was both beautiful and professional. She was tall, standing five-feet, eight inches. She had dark brown hair that fell below her shoulders. Her hair was paired with an equally beautiful set of dark brown eyes. She had a long face with high cheekbones and a flawless complexion.

  During the past week, Hardy and Cruz had been seeing each other, taking walks during her lunch hour and going out for drinks. Two days ago, they went out for dinner for the first time. They had a great time and made plans to go out again tonight, which made the call to her more difficult.

  Hardy had told her he was going out of town, which had prompted her to ask the usual questions—where are you going?, why are you going?, how long will you be gone? Since the President had made it clear his new job was top-secret, Hardy had to tiptoe around the inquiry, unable to get into specifics. Even though she sounded like she was okay, he had sensed she was not happy with his vague responses.

  Hardy closed his eyes and rested his head on the seat. He did not want to ruin what he had with her. In his line of work, it was difficult to have a serious relationship with a woman. He would be gone for long periods and he could not discuss where he had been. Since Cruz had spent long hours at her job, he had hoped she would be better able to understand his unconventional schedule. Still, no woman wanted to be separated from her man for long stretches.

  He put the sat phone in his pocket and reached for the manila file folder on an adjacent seat. I’ll take her somewhere nice when I get back. Shifting his thoughts to the mission, he opened the file and studied its contents.

  Director Jameson had spent the rest of the morning briefing Hardy on the mission. It was simple in nature. He was to locate Anton Rudin, a Russian bomb maker, and kill him. Rudin was a bomb maker for hire. He made sophisticated and powerful explosive devices and sold them to anyone, or any organization, for the right price. He may not have been a terrorist, but he supplied them. The theory behind the mission was stop the bomb maker from making bombs, and the terrorists have one less resource at their disposal.

  For the past five months, Russia had been experiencing a wave of domestic terrorist attacks, including several bombings in, and around, the city of Moscow. The Russian authorities suspected Rudin had supplied the bombs, but had not been able to find him. In a spirit of cooperation, Russia had contacted the White House and agreed to share the information they had on Rudin in the hopes of stopping further terrorist attacks. It was a real ‘olive branch’ of a gesture, since the two nations were not on the best of speaking terms.

  Hardy peeled back a sheet of paper, skimmed the page beneath it and let go of the paper. The dossier of Natasha Volkov, the Russian FSB agent he was scheduled to meet in Moscow, was lengthy.

  Volkov was twenty-seven years old. She had been working for the FSB for the last four years, serving in various positions. Her most recent appointment, which began shortly after the terrorist attacks had started, specialized in counter-terrorism. She was fluent in three languages, one of which was English. She graduated from Moscow State University before completing her training at the FSB Academy, where she was recognized for numerous talents, including marksmanship and criminal investigation. Hardy rubbed his eyes with his thumb and forefinger. Even though he had not met her, he could see she was an accomplished woman, at least on paper. Reading the file, he began the task of committing to memory everything the dossier contained.

  Three hours later, Hardy tossed the file onto the seat. He retrieved his sat phone and checked the time before reclining in his seat. He was tired and his eyes burned. The flight to Moscow was going to take nine hours, and there was an eight-hour time difference between Washington, D.C. and the Russian capitol. He would be landing at 6 a.m., local time. He closed his eyes and relaxed. He needed to get some sleep before his 8 a.m. meeting with the FSB agent.

  Chapter 5: Moscow

  After the jet touched down at Moscow Domodedovo International Airport, Hardy de-boarded the aircraft, cleared the customs process and made his way to the front doors of the airport. He was to rendezvous with an American asset, who would take him to the meeting with Agent Volkov.

  Outside the airport, Hardy scanned the area and spotted a man matching the description he was given. The man was tall and in his late thirties, leaning against a Volkswagen Polo Sedan, reading a newspaper. He wore a light gray suit, white shirt with a black tie and black dress shoes. On his head was a fedora-style hat, tilted backwards. Black sunglasses covered his eyes. Hardy strode toward the man. “Did the Tigers win yesterday?”

  The man lowered the newspaper. “Not only did they win, but they shut out the Yankees, three to nothing.”

  “Myself, I’m a Lions fan.”

  The contact information having been verified, the man folded the newspaper and threw it into the car. He held out his hand. “I’m Tom MacPherson.”

  MacPherson was an American asset stationed in Moscow. He worked out of the embassy. MacPherson’s American handler had contacted him and given him explicit instructions. He was to pick up Hardy at the airport, assist him during his time in the city and drop him at the airport when Hardy was finished with the mission. MacPherson was not to inquire about the nature of Hardy’s visit.

  The two men shook hands. “Aaron Hardy.”

  “Hop in.” MacPherson took Hardy’s suitcase and put it in the trunk of the car. He sat in the driver’s seat, started the engine and navigated the sedan into traffic.

  Hardy did not waste any time. “Were you able to get what I asked for?”

  MacPherson tipped his head backward. “It’s in the back.” He was given a list of items he was to acquire for his passenger.

  Hardy twisted in his seat, retrieved a duffle bag and plopped it onto his lap.

  “You’ll find everything you asked for is in there.”

  Hardy unzipped the bag and inspected the contents. “It looks good.” He closed the bag and pushed it to the floor. “How far are we from the hotel?”

  MacPherson scratched his chin. “About an hour, I’d say.”

  Hardy looked at the time on the dashboard of the car—it read 6:13. The café, where the meeting was taking place—Apartment 44—was only a few minutes away from his hotel, the Marriott. “Good. That’ll give me time to get cleaned up.”

  For the next hour, the two men made small talk, until MacPherson brought the sedan to a stop in front of the Marriott. He popped the trunk and jumped out. Handi
ng over Hardy’s suitcase, along with a room key, MacPherson motioned toward the hotel. “You’re already checked in, so you can go straight to your room.

  “Thanks.” Hardy accepted the items. “I’ll meet you in the lobby in twenty minutes.”

  MacPherson nodded before getting back into the sedan and driving away.

  Chapter 6: Marriott

  Inside his room, Hardy started the shower and stripped, laying his clothes on the bed. He waited until the steam began to rise over the top of the shower curtain before he climbed into the stall. The hot water hit him like tiny pellets, but it felt good. He had been stuck on a plane for nine hours. After another hour in a small car, this was like a therapeutic massage. Standing with his back to the showerhead, he let the water loosen his tight muscles. He took a few extra minutes to enjoy the moist heat, before lathering and rinsing his body and hair. He rotated the shower handle to the right. Stepping out of the shower, he picked up the towel he had left on the toilet seat and wiped the remaining beads of water from his body. He tossed the towel onto the floor and left the bathroom.

  Naked and standing by the bed, Hardy put on a pair of boxer shorts and blue jeans before adding a light brown t-shirt, white socks and brown hiking boot-type tennis shoes. Unzipping the duffle bag MacPherson had given him, he retrieved a Glock 19 handgun, holster, magazine pouch and two magazines. He tucked the small holster inside his waistband before attaching the clip over his belt to secure the rig. He picked up the Glock 19, retracted the slide to verify that the pistol was loaded and slid it into the holster. He put the magazine pouch on the other side of his belt and stuffed two fifteen-round magazines into it before draping his t-shirt over the gun and the magazine pouch. Slinging the duffle bag over his shoulder, he exited the hotel room.

  Entering the lobby, Hardy spied MacPherson, sitting in a chair and thumbing through a magazine. Noticing Hardy, MacPherson tossed the magazine onto the table next to him and rose to his feet. The two men left and got into the sedan. Hardy put the duffle bag in the back seat.

  MacPherson eased the sedan into traffic.

  Hardy twirled a finger in the air. “I want to make a slow trip around the café before we park the car. Go slow, but don’t make it conspicuous.”

  MacPherson acknowledged him.

  Less than ten minutes later, the sedan turned right down a narrow side street. MacPherson pointed. “The café is up ahead on the right.”

  Hardy’s eyes scanned the street and buildings for anything, or anyone, that seemed out of place. He did not have reason to suspect anything was going to go wrong. Being acutely aware of his surroundings was something that came natural to him; furthermore, this skill automatically kicked in whenever he was in unfamiliar territory. The street was mostly deserted. A few people mingled on the sidewalk, talking as they walked. Cars were parallel-parked on the right.

  After passing the entrance to the café, MacPherson gestured. “This street dead ends up ahead. I’ll have to turn around if you want to make a second pass.”

  “No, park up there, the last one,” Hardy said, referring to the row of parallel parking spots on the right. He did not want to risk another drive past the café, in case there was someone watching.

  MacPherson parked the sedan and shut off the engine. “How do you want to play this?” He removed his handgun from its holster. Pinching the slide near the muzzle between his thumb and forefinger, he pulled back the slide only enough to see a round in the chamber.

  Hardy shook his head and held out his hand. “Let me see your phone.”

  MacPherson flicked his eyes toward the outstretched hand. “Why?”

  “I’m going in alone. I want you to text me if you see anything on the street.”

  MacPherson relinquished his mobile.

  Hardy punched in the number to his sat phone and returned the man’s phone to him. After verifying his gun was loaded, he gave the street one more check before getting out of the sedan. He maintained a brisk pace toward the café, his eyes taking in every detail around him. Approaching the café, he swung open the door and stepped inside.

  Chapter 7: Café

  Apartment 44 was a small café. There were several round-shaped, wooden tables in the center. Matching wooden chairs with circular seats complemented the tables. Straight ahead was a dark mahogany bar. Bottles of alcohol lined a shelf behind it. A full-width mirror behind the shelf gave the illusion there were twice as many bottles. A few patrons sat at the tables. The bartender nodded at Hardy. He nodded back before choosing a table off to the side next to a large brick wall. On one side of the table were two chairs. The other side had booth seating.

  Hardy sat on the booth side, his back to the wall. He placed his sat phone on the table and removed a folded newspaper from his back pocket. He placed the newspaper on the table, making sure the section heading was visible and hanging off the edge of the table. His sat phone read 7:48. He glanced around the café, noting where the exits were located.

  A few minutes later, a young woman in her twenties showed up at his table, placed a menu in front of him and said something in Russian. He presumed she wanted to take his order. He tapped his finger on the rim of an empty water glass and smiled. The woman had a blank stare on her face for a split-second before she smiled back and nodded her head. She left, returned with a pitcher of water and filled the water glass. Hardy checked his sat phone again—7:55.

  During the next five minutes, more patrons entered the café. Each time the door opened, Hardy observed the new arrivals. None matched the description of his contact, the FSB agent.

  At eight o’clock, a woman in her mid-to-late twenties with long, blonde hair made an entrance. She stood inside the door and surveyed the people. She displayed a slender figure, five-feet, seven-inches tall, and was dressed in skin-tight blue jeans. A white short-sleeve camisole shell was tucked inside the jeans. When her eyes settled on Hardy, she paused. Dropping her cell phone into the right pocket of her black fitted knee-length blazer, she strutted toward him. Her long legs carried her across the hardwood floor with minimal steps, the hem of her blazer flaring. With each footfall, the two-inch chunky heels of her black pumps echoed in the confined space of the café. The patrons noticed her impressive entrance. They stopped their conversations and held their glasses in midair to glimpse the newcomer.

  The woman stopped at Hardy’s table. She put her right hand on the back of the nearest chair and eyed the newspaper. The section heading, ‘sports,’ was hanging off the edge of the table. “My money is on the Yankees this year.”

  Now that she was standing in front of him, Hardy saw her beauty. Her skin was white, almost like cream. Her blue eyes were set above a narrow nose and below impeccably manicured eyebrows. When she spoke, her full lips parted and revealed a set of white teeth, brilliant in color and perfectly aligned. Her photo in the dossier did not do her justice. “They’ll never make it past Boston.”

  “Boston’s bullpen is terrible.”

  Hardy stood and extended his hand. “I’m Aaron Hardy.”

  She shook his hand. “Natasha Volkov—it’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Hardy.” She slid the chair out from under the table and sat.

  “Likewise, Ms. Volkov.” He took his seat.

  “Please call me Natasha. I find Ms. Volkov a bit too…old…for my tastes.” She smiled and half-chuckled. “Perhaps if we meet again in forty years, you can call me, Ms. Volkov.”

  Hardy laughed as the young woman, who had brought him his water, spoke to Natasha. Natasha replied, and the woman left and came back with a pitcher of water and filled Natasha’s water glass.

  After the woman had left, Natasha directed her attention toward Hardy. He’s handsome. She eyed his facial features. He had light brown hair, cut short. His jaw was square. His chin came to a slight point and had a tiny dimple in the center. She was drawn to his deep blue eyes. They made her feel as if he was peering into her inner being. His physique was muscular. His biceps stretched the sleeves of his brown t-shirt to the poi
nt where she was expecting the fabric to split at the seam.

  She had always been intrigued by American men. They seemed to be freer and more relaxed than their Russian counterparts were, but every bit as tough. Inwardly, she laughed. Maybe she had seen too many American movies when she was younger. “My superiors tell me we’re to work together.”

  Hardy detected a sarcastic tone in her voice, but dismissed it.

  She opened the menu and pretended to be deciding on what to order. “So, let’s work together. You can start by telling me what you know about Anton Rudin.”

  Hardy did not appreciate this woman’s attitude; however, in this scenario, he was the visiting team and he wanted to get off to a good start. He opened the folded newspaper, took out a few documents and a map of a specific location in Russia. He placed everything in front of him. “A couple of weeks ago, the FBI uncovered and stopped a plot to blow up the Golden Gate Bridge during rush hour traffic. During the investigation, they captured the man who was going to set off the explosion. He had entered the United States from Russia, one week earlier.”

  Natasha closed the menu and set it aside.

  Hardy took a drink of water. “Fast forwarding a little…during the interrogation, the FBI discovered the identity of the man who was to make the bomb that was going to be used on the bridge.”

  Natasha crossed her legs and leaned forward in her chair. “Anton Rudin?”

  Hardy nodded. “The man in custody divulged the location of where he had met Rudin when he was in Russia.” Hardy twisted the map and pointed to a location and the address of the house where the man had met Rudin. “My people believe this is the best place to begin our search for Rudin.” Hardy slid the other documents across the table.