A Swallow's Bite Act 02

"Comrade General. It is my fear that grave danger looms for Mother Russia. After Vladivostok, Dmitry hinted that he had uncovered Intel about a secret Asian organization who's investing heavily in some of our oil fields."

Viktor glances at her.

"Then Dmitry goes over to the other side. Before his sudden demise, Rostislav mumbled two words in what sounded like English. Durr and tee. That can only mean -- dirty -- and that can only mean one thing -- dirty bomb. The logical conclusion is that al-Gama'at al-Islamiyya has obtained a nuclear device and will not hesitate to use it to achieve its ultimate goals."

Viktor's steely eyes rise from his shoes, pause on her breasts, and then with some effort lift to her face. "Your conclusions are quite correct Patroph."

Dominika's eyebrows rise. "Do know this to be factual?"

"We're certain of it. Because you see, Dmitry Rostislav stole at least six atomic devices from us and smuggled them to Afghanistan."

"For what purpose?"

"Solve that mystery and you'll win a cookie. Patroph, what I'm about to tell you must not leave this room, understood?"

"Of course."

"These aren't just dirty bombs. They're codenamed Cobra Fangs. The devices contain extremely powerful plastiqué explosive. After the initial blast, there's a secondary explosion that expels clouds of the highly radioactive element plutonium 557."

As he'd spoke, Dominika felt a fine sheen of sweat appear on her skin. "Go on."

"Intercepted chatter has indicated that Rostislav's black operation was possibly a dry-run. We believe that al-Gama'at al-Islamiyya moles will infiltrate and plant the devices within the Russian Federation, perhaps even the Kremlin, possibly this very building."

Dominika rolls her eyes. "I'm moving to another country."

Viktor chuckles. "That's not very brave Patroph. Now then, our penetration efforts will be codenamed Quick Fix. I will go to Afghanistan, and you Patroph, will . . ."

"Hold on Comrade General. I'm puzzled. If the target is the Motherland as you say, for what purpose does this T. Kasawara travel to Amerika?"

"As a decoy, obviously."

"A decoy? I wonder."

"Use your head Patroph. The Yakuza never deploy a woman to do a man's job."

"With all due respect Comrade General, I suspect Kasawara is more than a decoy. The Yakuza modeled themselves after the Sicilian Mafia and use threats and extortion to achieve their ends. If they're financing Arab militants, the danger is very real. I am now a Hard Man and wear the Za otvagu. If it pleases the Directorate, deploy me to Amerika. There, I will find this T. Kasawara, and interrogate her."

He thinks for a moment. "Petroph, how old are you?"

"Twenty-two. Why?"

"Could you kill the Kasawara woman?"

"Ask Dmitry Rostislav."

"He's dead."

"Need I say more?"

He nods. "I get your point. If so ordered, how would you carry out the task?"

"Cleverly."

"How cleverly?"

She shrugs. "I like grotesque accidents, the more grotesque the better."

His eyebrows rise. "That's pretty gutsy."

"I am gutsy."

"Arrogant too. I like that in an operative."

Dominika puckers her lips and blows him a kiss. "When do I depart?"

AFGHANISTAN, 73 MILES NORTH OF JALALABAD.

Pinnacles of treeless peaks scratch the cobalt sky. A battered beige Nissan pickup chews its way along a rutted rocky road. An Afghan tribesman is at the wheel. Yakamitsu Niguri sits in the passenger seat. Without warning, there's an ear-splitting thud and blinding yellow fire-flash obliterating the vehicle and its occupants. The blast's echo Ping-Pongs between the stark mountain peaks.

THE RUSSIAN EMBASSY, WASHINGTON D.C.

Slants of dusty sunlight rake across the stuffy office. In one corner stands a red bag of golf clubs vigilantly guarded by a huge portrait of President Vladimir Putin.

"Welcome to America Miss Patroph," the dark-suited Russian says, his gaze falling from her face to her shoes and back.

"Thank you Mister Assistant Ambassador."

"Here, let me take your coat." He slips the coat from her shoulders. "Oh and please, call me Boris."

In a smooth motion, Dominika lowers herself into a straight-backed chair fronting his desk. She pauses to let the mystery settle then crosses her legs at the knees. She smiles at his faint but oh-so-predictable reaction. Her hip-hugging royal blue micro-skirt, the tightly tailored gray sweater and smartly cut jacket all emit a mix of feminine directness and just enough subtle sexiness to milk Intel from a stodgy Russian bureaucrat with a butt is as broad as a bench.

"How is Viktor?" he asks taking a seat behind his desk.

"He is well. He sends his best."

"Viktor and his team have always been respected and liked in the Kremlin."

"We try to please. Shall we get down to business?"

"Of course. According to the latest field report, CIA surveillance teams have tracked the Kasawara woman to Utah."

"Can you be more precise?"

He slides a manila folder across the desk. "This is a summary of the CIA's surveillance activities. As of nine this morning, they've trailed her to a ski lodge in the mountains east of Salt Lake City. Moscow has told me nothing. Perhaps you can tell me why there's such intense interest in this young Japanese national?"

"I could, but then --."

His lips form a tight O. He slides a piece of paper across his desk. "This just came for you by encrypted text message."

She looks at the typewritten note.

To Gypsy Danger: Urgent Commo Fr Busy Bikini ref Quick Fix|Be at Stargate Hotel | Rm712|tonight | eighteen-one-five-zulu | end.

"What is this all about Miss Patroph?"

"Just routine, Mister Ambassador."

"GRU operations are never routine. T. Kasawara must be big game."

"Do you have anything else for me?"

"Only that the CIA has advised me that unless we can show tangible proof that the Kasawara woman is a threat to U.S. interests, their agents will abandon surveillance in 24 hours."

Dominika nods. "That's enough time for me to get to Utah and interrogate her."

His eyes narrow. "Heed my warning, Miss Patroph. It is Kremlin policy that we maintain good relations with our former Cold War adversaries. GRU operatives do not enjoy diplomatic immunity here. Therefore, be cautious while operating in America."

"Sir, I am a trained penetration agent of the Twelfth Directorate. I am fully aware of such matters."

"Penetration agent? Ha, you are a Swallow."

"Yes, and I do my job with great pride and finesse. Thank you for your time, Mister Ambassador." Dominika watches his hopeful gaze drop as she prepares to stand. "I'll see myself out." Giving him another treat serves no purpose. She turns and walks toward the door.

"Nice ass Patroph."

She stops. Coddling up to do-nothing chauvinistic bureaucrats has no place in Dominika's programming. She turns around. "Correction Mister Ambassador. I don't have a nice ass, I have the perfect ass."

Her directness visibly takes him aback for a moment. He rises to his feet and smiles. "You'll have to show it to me sometime."

"I will. But, I also remind you that I speak four languages without accent, have been awarded the Za otvagu for bravery and scored a nine-point-seven-five on the GRU's field test for marksmanship."

He raises and lowers his shoulders. "Such things mean nothing here. So see that that perfect ass stays out of trouble. If there is any, this Embassy will deny any knowledge of you or your operations. Is that clear?"

"Perfectly clear."

"Do svi danya."

She smiles at him. "Do svi danya," and go stick your dick in a fucking lawnmower, she adds mentally.

THE STARGATE HOTEL, ROOM 712, WASHINGTON D.C.

Raindrops trickle down the wide window overlooking the darkening Washington skyline. On a bedside table, the luminous face of the digital clock reads 8:10PM. Dominika nervously flips the pages of Glamour Magazine. The ring of the phone freezes her fingers. She lifts the receiver to her ear.

"Hello?"

"Dom darling how are you?" Sveta says in English over the scratchy, hissing long-distance phone noise.

"Sveta? Where the hell are you?"

"Afghanistan. Viktor shanghaied me. Boy, you must have fucked him but-good 'cause you're in a posh hotel room while I'm shivering in a cold cave with a disgusting Afghan who stinks worse than his camel and the camel's got a better disposition."

"Fun and adventure is why you joined the GRU darling. So what's this urgent commo?"

"The Niguri threat is neutralized. Cold Juice did the nasty."

"Was my Object of Interest as we suspected?"

"Right up her Yakuza asshole. Now cherish this Intel babe, 'cause to get it, I had to let my pet Afghan strip me down, tie me up, and piss in my face."

Dominika laughs. "Talk about a funky bacterial bath. Did his camel get to watch?"

"I'm in the butt-hole of the world and you're trying to be humorous? These cave dwellers are dorks. Hell, they'd snitch on their own friggin' mothers for a hunk of ass. I managed to milk this hot Intel out of my pet Afghan. al-Gama'at al-Islamiyya is financed by the Yakuza. They've organized a sleeper cell somewhere in Utah and they're alarm clock is about to go off."

"Strength?"

"About six hard-core and an undetermined number of sympathizers. The objective is Uncle Sugar, repeat Uncle Sugar."

"When? Where? Detailed specifics?"

"Precise target's unknown. All my pet Afghan would say that the nasty will go down somewhere in America, possibly Utah, Texas or Louisiana. Now here's the kick in the rump. They've smuggled in unknown numbers of Cobra Fangs and your Object of Interest might, repeat MIGHT just hold the match."

Suddenly, there's a sick feeling in the pit of Dominika's stomach. "CIA assistance?"

"They bail as of zero-nine-hundred Zulu tomorrow. So I'm afraid you're on your own doll."

"Cold Juice?"

"Gone missing."

"Missing?"

"Yup, he vanished right after blowing Niguri to smithereens. That's why the lights in the Aquarium are burning all night and I'm sweating sheep-shit. Now this is direct from Iron Hand. You're the only GRU agent in country. They figure there's 3 days to neutralize al-Gama'at al-Islamiyya's American operation. They're paranoid about you being a woman. They're demanding to know if you have the balls to handle it."

Dominika is stunned. She feels a trickle of excitement too. Somehow, pull this off, and who knows where a girl's espionage career might go.

"Dom? Dom -- are you there?"

"I'm here. Sveta. Commo these precise words to Iron Hand. Gypsy Danger may not have balls but DANGER is my fucking name. Therefore failure is not a fucking option."

"Dom, you do know who you're talking to, don't you?"

"I know exactly who I'm talking to. And Sveta, commo the Aquarium. Advise com-center to keep the emergency phone and text messaging active, 24/7."

"Check. Holy shit-bucket he's comin'. Gotta go. Do svi danya and good luck sssssss . . ."

The hiss turns into a crackle then sputters into distant static. As she returns the phone to its cradle, reality strikes like a hot branding iron on tender flesh. Viktor's been captured and maybe killed. Now Iron Hand has dumped a major international operation right into the center of her lap. She looks at the digital clock. The red-eye to Salt Lake City leaves in 30 minutes.

MID-MOUNTAIN WARMING HUT, CEDAR VALLEY SKI RESORT, UTAH.

Pale morning sun shines through a veil of white that promises new snow by nightfall. Dominika grinds her snowboard to a skidding stop. A large man, face hidden under a black balaclava, tips the top of is head toward a doorway marked WOMEN. As Dominika releases her boots from the snowboard, he hangs an Out of Order sign on the door. He scratches his ear. She returns the signal. He skis off.

Inside the public toilet, Dominika's ski boots clunk on the cold cement floor. It's empty except for a pair of legs visible below the door of the third stall. She tenses her shoulder muscles to prepare them for impact. In one swift motion, the door explodes. Dominika twists Tomiko from the toilet seat, wrenching the stunned girl to her knees.

"Good afternoon Miss Kasawara," she growls into Tomiko's ear. "President Vladimir Putin sends his greetings." Grabbing a handful of hair, she forces Tomiko's head just above the toilet bowl. "Now you and I are going to have a nice friendly chat."

With a powerful push, Dominika shoves Tomiko's face into the piss-filled toilet bowl. "They know about you in Moscow and Washington. We know about your sleeper cell, your Yakuza pals, the dirty bomb, all of it." Dominika jerks Tomiko's head out. She coughs up a mouthful of yellowish piss-water. "Your little plot fizzled. Now we need to know where you've planted those atomic devices."

"I ain't tellin' you nothin'," she gurgles, kicking and wrenching trying to squirm away.

"I'd rethink that stance Miss Kasawara. Your boy Niguri got his ass captured by our agents in Afghanistan. Now unless they hear from me in twenty minutes, they'll start cutting off his fingers, one by one. When they run out of fingers, they'll a take a pair of pliers and twist out his tongue." Gripping her by the ears, Dominika shoves Tomiko's nose and mouth in again then yanks her out. "Am I getting through?"

Vomit explodes from Tomiko's mouth. "You're bluffing," she whimpers through dribbles of coughed up puke and piss.

"Bluffing? Oh how you misjudge me." Dominika pushes on the back of her head. Tomiko's nose bends against the edge of the bowl. "GRU agents have no code of ethics. We NEVER bluff. You see, I specialize in disfigurement. Fuck with me and I'll pour sulfuric acid into your eye sockets. While acid turns your eyeballs into sizzling goop, I'll smash your knees with a pipe wrench. You'll be blind and crippled for life. Get the picture?"

"Yeah-yeah, wide screen Technicolor."

"Good. Now where have you planted those bombs?"

An arm comes out of nowhere and clamps tight around Dominika's mouth. An ice-cold knife blade touches her neck threatening the tender skin just below her jaw.

"Let her go," a man's voice growls just above a whisper. "Nice and easy now, Blondie."

With no choice and no options, Dominika releases her hold. She makes a quick assessment of the enemy. He's large, well muscled, mean-faced and of Arab descent. Quick conclusion: If his IQ was six points higher, he could be a plant. "Mister, whatever she's paying you, we'll double it."

"Shut up," he snaps.

"Listen mister, if I don't contact my people in Afghanistan in ten minutes, your boss Niguri is dead meat."

"Bring her," Tomiko says as she jerks her pants up. "She can make the call from my room."

The Arab muscle nods. He grabs a fistful of toilet paper, stuffs it into Dominika's mouth and covers her head with a balaclava. "Okay Blondie, move."

Dominika moves.

ROOM 102, CEDAR VALLEY LODGE, 10 MINUTES LATER.

"Narmani. Kagdah? Da-da, Niguri kanyeshna, da-da, niet. Kak dolgah? Da vai. Do svid Aniya." Dominika hangs up the phone. "Okay, that buys you four hours. Now what?"

"Park your butt in that chair and keep your yap shut," Tomiko snaps. She nods at the Arab. He opens the door and leaves the two women alone.

UTAH STRATEGIC PETROLEUM RESERVE REPOSITORY.

An ice-foggy night settles over the Great Salt Lake Basin. A large canvas-covered truck turns into a back road leading to a sprawling complex of warehouses and dozens of massive pumping stations. Below, bored deep in the earth, are underground salt caverns filled to capacity with millions of barrels of crude oil.

In the back of the vehicle are five hardened faces -- Arab faces. Between their feet are several oblong boxes made of shiny aluminum.

Headlights sweep across an armed sentry as he steps from a red-striped guard shack. Brakes squeak as the truck stops. "Siphon extractor-pump delivery for Station 69," the truck's driver calls down from the cab. "Here's the paperwork."

The truck drives through a vast zigzagging maze of gleaming silver pipes, huge valves and silent spigots. There's a beep-beep-beep as the heavy vehicle backs up to a half-circular structure built from concrete. A solid steel rollup door keeps out unwanted intruders. Above, a sign reads:

PUMPING STATION 69

RESTRICTED AREA

ABSOLUTELY NO SMOKING

Five dark figures swing down from the truck and begin unloading their dangerous and deadly cargo.

ROOM 102, CEDAR VALLEY LODGE.

Flickering fire-flames dance on wood-hewn walls. Dominika leans against the back of a sofa. Tomiko paces. Both stare at each other like predators sizing up pray. She's small and probably not very strong, Dominika thinks. Jump her? The semiautomatic in Tomiko's hand rejects that idea. Suddenly Tomiko whirls around and slams her closed fist into Dominika's belly. Her rock-hard abdominal muscles accept the blow without objection.

"That's for shoving my face in piss-water," she growls shoving the gun to Dominika's cheek. "I ought to shoot you fuckin' dead."

"Do that and you kiss your boss's ass goodbye."

"That's the only thing keeping you breathing. I'm gonna change. You stay put."

In a few minutes, Tomiko comes out of the bedroom dressed in a scrap of black latex that poses as a miniskirt and a white blouse held closed only by one button. She jams her feet into a pair of black patient leather come-fuck-me boots. The phone rings once and goes silent. Tomiko tosses a plastic shopping bag toward Dominika. "Put these on. Then get in the bathroom and make yourself all pretty-pretty."

SAFE HOUSE, CEDAR VALLEY, FIFTEEN MINUTES LATER.

Snow showers sprinkle from the charcoal sky. A black SUV pulls into a circular driveway and stops near the front door of a large mansion. Tomiko and Dominika get out and go inside.

"That way," Tomiko says pressing the revolver's business end into Dominika's tailbone. They go through a double door. Wisps of warm steam rise from a bluish indoor pool. Next to a bubbling Jacuzzi is a bar. A man is perched on a swivel stool with his back to them. He turns around. Dominika's jaw drops on an indrawn gasp.

"Viktor?"

"Hello Patroph."

"Mother of God, what are you doing here?"

"Being a traitor," he says with a shrug and a cold smirk.

Dominika's heart thuds. Now, I have a madman on my hands.