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  “Who are you?” Connor asked.

  “None of your business. Let’s just say I’m a friend of Vitali’s. And no friend of yours,” he added curtly.

  “Fair enough,” said Connor and remained quiet for the rest of the ride, casually looking out at the bland city passing by. The streets were wide and clean but devoid of a soul. The people looked worried, as if they were fighting for survival on a daily basis, because they most likely were. It was a wealthy place but more one of barter and subsistence. Soon they pulled into a side street off the main boulevard into a small parking area surrounded by ancient office buildings. They were three-stories-high, made of brick, and looked very Stalinist. The man parked the car, got out, and came around to Connor’s side of the vehicle. He opened the door.

  “Follow me,” he said. Connor did as he was told.

  They descended into a stairway at the front of one of the old buildings that looked to be an entrance to some type of basement structure. The paint was peeling off the walls, but the walkway looked well used. There was a sign over the basement door. Bacteria, it read, in English. Connor followed the man inside to a small pub of some sort. Several men were at the bar, speaking to the very attractive bartender and her friend. The driver of the SUV pointed to a table in the corner. Connor walked over and sat down. The man left.

  Several of the men looked at him occasionally but showed no interest. The bartender walked over and took his order. She was young and slim, obviously hired for her looks. He waited, and waited. An hour passed. Three drinks passed. The hour approached 2:00 a.m. and the crowd at the bar thickened.

  Eventually, a Slavic man walked up to his table, pulled back the chair, and sat. He was approaching fifty, had salty gray hair, but was muscled and trim. He spoke with a Russian accent.

  “Hello, Mr. Murray.”

  “Hello. Do I call you Vitali?”

  “You may. I obviously know who you are. So why don’t you tell me what you are doing here in Moldova of all places, looking for me. I’m extremely interested in the answer to this question.”

  “Yes, it is quite strange, isn’t it? The answer is I need information. I was told you may be able to help me find it.”

  “It’s possible. I guess it depends on the information you are looking for.” The man stopped talking as the bartender arrived to ask for his order. Vitali resumed when she left. The bar was now crowded and noisy.

  Connor pondered his situation at the bar. Perfect for this espionage stuff. No one can hear a word we are saying. Much less the microphone in the phone in the satchel on my hip. That’s a good thing.

  “Why don’t you tell me what you’re looking for,” Vitali suggested calmly, staring him in the eyes.

  Connor spoke. “A long time ago, I was a rescue helicopter pilot in Alaska. One day flying back from a milk run to the outer alert bases, we stumbled upon the carcass of a crashed P-40 Warhawk that had splashed in the mountains during WWII. We radioed our controller at Elmendorf Air Force Base, and they literally freaked out. All of a sudden, I had classified creeps crawling around my ass, trying to find something on the plane. I mean the thing wasn’t even defrosted yet. To make a long story short, they did eventually find something. A leather satchel. I need to know what was in that satchel.”

  “Why did you come to me?” Vitali said incredulously with a look of disbelief on his face.

  “Dave Blackman found the satchel.” That shut Vitali up. He said nothing for a few moments. “Blackman said you could help,” added Connor.

  Vitali thought for a moment. “Yes, I possibly can. But it’s going to take me a little time. I need to make some phone calls.”

  Connor leaned forward and stared at Vitali. “I don’t have a little time. Do you understand? This is a matter of life and death.”

  Vitali sat back in his chair. “Okay. I get your point. Meet me here tomorrow. Same time. I’ll have something for you. And by the way, I’m doing this because you’re a friend of Blackman. I owe him. He pulled my ass out of the jungle, literally, a few years back. Just so you know.” Vitali stood, walked out, and didn’t look back.

  Connor sat in the bar for another hour. Where else am I going to go? he thought. He was about to get up and leave when he felt the phone vibrate in his coat pocket. He pulled it out.

  We need an update. Text us progress now.

  Connor wrote back.

  I’m working on some leads. Nothing to report as yet.

  Just so you know we are not joking.

  Connor felt a buzzing in his arm. The capsule was vibrating. He was hit with a wave of anxiety.

  Don’t worry. We are not going to kill you yet.

  Great. Now I feel better. He left the bar and went back to the hotel.

  Peter Quinn sat in the secure room at the safe house, surrounded by senior Israeli intelligence officers. The mood was somber and grim. “He’s my friend. I’m willing to risk my life to find him, but I need your support,” Peter declared firmly to the men at the table. “He’s done a lot for Israel. He deserves your help.”

  “It’s not that we don’t want to help. It’s that there are many other lives and covert operations to consider. We can’t jeopardize these missions over the life of one man. Surely you can understand that?”

  “Where has he been taken? What do they want?”

  “Obviously they wanted him alive, or they would have just killed him. We don’t know what they are after, other than a normal interrogation to see what intelligence they could get on our activities. And we know they wanted him specifically. The tunnel was recently dug, since Connor and Natasha were relocated there a few months back. They were after Connor and they wanted him alive. The problem is we really don’t know why. As for where he has been taken? We know he has been taken out of Gaza. Beyond that, we can’t say for sure, although we have our ideas. Does that answer your questions?”

  “Yes, some of them. Thank you,” Peter responded. “However, I’m still going after him. Unless, that is, you’re going to try and stop me. If not, I need your support.”

  “You will have our support and guidance,” the man who was obviously in charge said. “We will have for you some documents as well as a new identity, money, and so on by tomorrow.”

  “Thank you,” Peter replied heartily. “Where should I start looking?”

  “Where else, but Italy of course!”

  The Israeli defense minister entered the prime minister’s briefing room in Tel Aviv. He had two staff officers with him. Soon the briefing slides sparkled to life on the viewing screen. He began to speak.

  “As you well know, Mr. Prime Minister, the Russians have been selling Iran all sorts of weapons over the last twelve months. Most of the purchases have been for air defense, as Russia makes really good antiaircraft missile systems. The S-300, for example, is now being deployed throughout the Iraqi theater and parts of Syria with Iranian forces. The umbrella is very dangerous but not impenetrable. However, we would incur significant losses if we attempt to hit their nuclear facilities inside of Iran. In-country, if you will, nuclear processing continues as well as missile testing.

  “We believe the Iranians are within days of having an operational nuclear weapon. We also believe they have miniaturized the technology and will have the ability to deliver a multiple-warhead strike on Israel within six months. Their missile inventory is now robust. We have also observed some preparations for this type of attack. Our intelligence leads us to believe that missile support production has been increased as well as production activity at multiple nuclear sites. There has been increased activity in the acquisition of nuclear, biological, and chemical protection equipment. Civilian defense drills have also increased. Many new command bunkers and deep-level bomb shelters are being constructed. Conventional force activity, including troop movements and weapons placement, has also increased dramatically, mostly along the Iraqi border. Mr. Prime Minister, this type of activity can only lead to one thing. We believe Iran is preparing to launch a nuclear strike on Israel
.”

  Chapter Seven

  Connor’s phone buzzed. He glanced at the clock by the bed. Nine o’clock. Damn. Overslept. I’m going to miss breakfast. His head beat like a jackhammer from the alcohol the night before, and the bright sun streamed through the window. The mattress had a nice depression in the center from years of customers, and Connor really didn’t want to leave it. Maybe I can risk another few minutes of shut-eye. Angrily, he reached for the phone, picked it up, and looked at the text, expecting another threat from his ‘handlers,’ but the message was from Vitali.

  Coffeehouse down the street - 1 hour

  Good, at least I have time to eat. He sat up grudgingly, his head pounding.

  Connor threw some water on his face, dressed, and headed out the door to the elevator. The old, Soviet lift was moving slow this morning, but soon he entered the serving area on the second floor. The buffet breakfast was an assortment of Eastern European staples—buckwheat, yogurt, sausage, cheese, curd (an eastern cottage cheese), salads, and black bread. He devoured the food, which was either quite good, or he was really hungry, he didn’t know which.

  After quickly getting his fill, he asked the concierge in the lobby for directions to the nearest coffeehouse and was soon walking down the wide sidewalk on the busy main street outside the hotel, the drivers feverishly and aggressively honking at one another. For some reason, today this got on Connor’s nerves. Must be the stress. It’s starting to get to me. I’ve got to figure out my next moves, get ahead of the game. Do something unpredictable to get out of this fix. Connor looked around as he walked and wondered if he was being followed. Are they tracking me? They must be. Is this whole threat for real, or can I just rip this thing out from my arm and be done with it? I don’t know yet. That’s the problem. I need to get an expert opinion. Soon. Five minutes later, he arrived at his destination, a nondescript, quaint cafe; it was not one of the chains that permeated former Soviet cities. No expats were to be seen, only locals, and Connor found a small table in a dark corner, ordered a cappuccino, and waited. He was ten minutes early.

  His phone vibrated in his pocket. He took it out and looked at the message displayed on the screen.

  PUT THE PHONE ON THE TABLE. WE ARE WATCHING YOU.

  Shit. Connor did as he was told, his anxiety shooting up by a factor of ten.

  Vitali walked in at five after the hour. He nervously checked over his shoulder several times before spotting Connor then walked over and sat across from him, his back against the side wall and his eyes monitoring the door.

  “You’re quite a hot ticket, my friend.”

  “You don’t say?” Connor replied.

  “Everyone and their fucking mother is looking for you. To borrow a phrase from your Texas, they want you dead or alive, it seems.”

  “Well, that’s comforting. So what do you have for me?”

  Vitali nervously looked around one more time then started to talk softly. “It seems the information you have requested is highly classified, but I guess you already suspected that.”

  “I assumed so, yes.”

  “Here’s the deal. The Americans and the Russians, as you know, cooperated during World War II. Mainly, the U.S. provided equipment, but that was not the whole story. The rest is more, shall we say, sordid. They were developing weapons together as well. No one knew how far along Hitler was with a nuclear bomb or other weapons of mass destruction. It was a different time back then, kill or be killed. People were scared on both sides, scared for their very existence as a nation, and a people.

  “All I can tell you is that there was a weapons lab set up in Siberia that the U.S. was feeding information and technology to, in hopes that Russia could take down Hitler before he got the bomb. It seems the Soviets had a spy inside the German scientific community, deep inside, who knew all the secrets on WMD development. Somehow, the Soviets secreted him out of Berlin and set up the lab in Siberia. The deal with the U.S. was that they would share information. It was couriered back and forth via the Bering Strait in Alaska through the lend-lease program in disguise. You seem to have found one of the couriers frozen in the ice. Obviously, that’s the kind of state secret Washington really wouldn’t want to get out. And the results of that research would be something any rogue government or terrorist would love to get his hands on, no matter how old it is.”

  Connor let out a low whistle and sat back in his chair, silent for a moment. “I know who wants it,” he murmured.

  “Indeed, I’m sure you do,” responded Vitali coldly. “I most definitely don’t want to know. One more thing. I understand one of the Soviet WMD labs was in Provideniya, on the coast. This facilitated naval access and was about as far from Germany as possible; it was protected by the American navy as well. Maybe you can find some answers there.” Vitali passed a small piece of paper across the table. Connor picked it up and flipped it over. There was a name scribbled on the opposite side.

  “Who is this?” he asked.

  “Start your search with him. He’s still alive. In Provideniya that is. Good luck, mate. Don’t call me again.” With that, Vitali got up and left the cafe. Connor remained sitting in the dark corner, lost in thought. A few minutes later, his phone vibrated.

  What is the name?

  Connor typed the name, Gennady Ivanov and hit send. He had no choice.

  Peter Quinn was hot on the trail, Connor’s trail that is, courtesy of the Mossad. He left the lobby of the small bed and breakfast in Brindisi, Italy and looked up at the clear, blue sky that covered the fields of olive trees. There was a comfort here that he would love to come back and enjoy at some point, hopefully with someone of the opposite sex. Connor, however, was nowhere to be found.

  He spoke to the proprietor of the establishment and confirmed that Connor had been there for one night. He seemed to be in good health, but she had noticed blood on his forehead and arm. She admitted being somewhat concerned about that discovery. She said Connor seemed upset, worried, tense. She didn’t have much more to offer. At least he’s alive, but, why isn’t he contacting us? It doesn’t make sense. And for God’s sake where are you now, my friend? I can’t help you if I can’t find you. Peter had no idea of where to look now. All he had was that Connor was headed towards the train station. He could have gone anywhere. Peter pulled his phone out of his sport coat pocket and dialed a number in Israel.

  Connor was tired, tired of flying that is. He was in a sleepless daze after all he globetrotting over the last twenty-four hours. The vibration of the small prop plane kept him awake however. The droning seemed to be on a cycle, going up and down, like the handle of a water pump gyrating in ancient times. He didn’t know how much longer he could take it. Hopefully it would all be over soon. He realized he now knew what Chinese water torture was like, the steady drip of an unacceptably annoying sound and vibration.

  He had grabbed a quick flight from Moldova to Frankfurt and then a direct, long flight to Anchorage, Alaska. After arriving in the largest state in the union, there was the Boeing 737 to Nome, Alaska on the Bering Sea. Nome was a native Alaskan village that was completely isolated, dependent on air freight and barges from Anchorage for food and supplies, when the weather allowed. The natives supplemented this with centuries-old subsistence hunting, when they weren’t drinking of course. Alcoholism and suicide were rampant.

  Now Connor was flying in a dual-engine turboprop and was approaching the Russian Siberian coast. His body didn’t realize what time it was. All he knew was that he wanted to get out of the aircraft as soon as possible. Thankfully, he felt the aircraft begin to descend, and the droning changed octaves at least. His right leg was asleep from the vibration.

  Soon Connor was flying low over the land along the coast, toward the airfield outside the town, which was backdropped by a range of snowy white mountains. The deepwater, military port of Provideniya loomed in the distance along the water. The town was situated at the mouth of a fjord and was protected from the brunt of the ocean’s wrath by the mountains. Carcasses
of old ships and industrial waste dotted the landscape from the occasional visits of the Soviet and now Russian navy.

  Connor stared at the vast, desolate, snow-covered tundra passing beneath him as the sun headed for the horizon. .

  Peter Quinn walked the streets of Chisinau. He was out of leads. Looking around the barren streets, as much as he knew Connor, he could tell his friend would like the city. It was just nondescript enough that one could melt into the woodwork, although Westerners tended to stick out like a sore thumb. There’s no way I can fucking find him if I don’t know where to look. The Mossad had figured out through a Palestinian informant that Connor had traveled to Chisinau. They had someone deep inside of Hamas. “He is making quite a show over there. Go find him,” they admonished. The source could not tell them any more at the moment regarding his whereabouts however. Peter was frustrated. He decided to duck in to a bar and have a drink and think. That’s what Connor would expect him to do. He smiled, thinking of his friend.

  Peter was alone in this endeavor. He felt naked, exposed, vulnerable. The Mossad had basically cut him loose. Connor was not their priority, although they offered to help Peter as best they could with support from afar. Where are you, my friend? He downed a shot of local vodka and asked for another. He needed to calm his nerves. What was Connor looking for here in this place?