A/N: The longest chapter!(?) Just a word of warning, there's some shooting and gore here. Whether you think it's dark is up to you.
August 13, 2011
0809 Local time
"Not yet, Comrade Fedorova. It is still too risky."
"But the Chairman orders it, Comrade Kulyuchev. The man must be investigated."
The door to Kulyuchev's office opened, and the colonel stepped out with a woman. "Ladies, this is Colonel Ekaterina Fedorova, aide to Chairman Andropov." And who else should Colonel Fedorova be but the Director herself, neat and prim in her Red Army dress uniform, with various decorations on her chest, chief of them the blood red ribbon and the golden star of the Hero of the Soviet Union.
"She wants to talk to you two about special matters," said Kulyuchev. "I think I should leave."
"Ladies," said the Director, "now that we are quite alone, I think it is time to return to an important matter." She then handed Carter and Rosie pictures of a well-dressed businessman. "Anastas Mamnoff," she continued, "Russian arms dealer, responsible for bringing weapons to almost every paramilitary organization in the world. In fact, even legitimate armies have approached Mamnoff for military supplies."
"Sounds well-connected," said Carter.
"Your observation couldn't be more closer to the truth, Ms. Mason. Mr. Mamnoff is currently in Kandahar, in the new building of his most recent acquisition, Afghani Electronics. Your tickets have already been secured."
Their ride was an Afghan Air Force Antonov An-32, and it was a full flight, with lots of pallets of relief goods for the reconstruction of Kandahar. There was only enough room in the back for the two of them, and they also had a KGB agent with them on Kulyuchev's recommendation.
Rosie watched uneasily as the old Russian plane rocked back and forth with the rough winds, a result of the mountainous terrain they were currently passing through. Beside her, Carter was already fast asleep, as if the harsh rocking of the An-32 was some sort of mature lullaby. It always amazed Rosie how Carter was able to sleep through even the worst possible storm.
"First time on a plane in bad weather?" asked the KGB agent.
"I've been through worse," replied Rosie.
"Haven't we all? I think for your friend, the worst won't even bother her." The agent then fingered his weapon lightly. Aside from the standard-issue AK-47, he also had an obsolescent German MP-40 submachine gun, the very weapon that his ancestors had shown as one of the symbols of the hated Fascists that had invaded his country all those years before.
"Want to know how I got this?" The agent did not miss Rosie's curious glance. "The budget for the KGB is so tight these days, even our weapons can't breathe. So, of course, we had to make do. I picked this up from an old warehouse."
"I see. What was your name again?"
"Umbelievich."
The Antonov landed on Kandahar without incident, and two the PPP agents slipped out of the plane unobserved, along with their bodyguard Umbelievich. They stared around the airport, uncertain of what to do next.
"What did the Director say about our sleeper?" asked Carter.
"Only that he would be here, and that he would be noticeable."
They should have seen him immediately. The sleeper was in the usual Afghan wear, so that the only interesting thing about him was that he was standing beside a black, battered Citroen. He was holding up a sign that said "Kabul to Kandahar."
"You have got to be kidding," said Carter. The sign was obviously meant for the two of them. "Umbe, why don't you go enjoy Kandahar? We can take care of ourselves. I'm sure you only have little time left to take in Afghanistan."
"Actually, I've been posted here since the break-up of the Soviet Union. I've served twelve different rezidents. I think I still have time in my hands when it comes to tourism." Nevertheless, he turned for a door to the right and emerged in an Afghan Army uniform.
"Sometimes I think that the KGB is just an unrecognized PPP," muttered Rosie as the two of them headed for the man with the Citroen.
"Glad you two can make it on time," he said. "My name is Achmed, and I will assist with whatever it is you are supposed to do."
The trio climbed into his car, the two women sitting in the back. Achmed handed over another stack of folders. "All recent and updated information on Anastas Mamnoff," he said. "You know, I actually had him ride in my taxi the day before yesterday. He was a generous tipper. By the way, the last section is about your cover. It should provide interesting reading."
Achmed had no knowing that he was right upon that fact, although he wouldn't be around much longer to celebrate.
The new building of Afghani Electronics was anachronistic of the Kandahar suburb where it was located, an island of concrete in a sea of sun-baked clay. The sheer futurism of the structure so fascinated the locals that they were both awed and shocked at that Western extension in their own land.
"There it is," said Achmed, "Afghani Electronics. It was on the verge of Chapter 11 when Mamnoff came in and resurrected the poor bastard. Now they're employing about three to four thousand people, which is a huge percentage of Kandahar's working populace. This is as far as I can take you, ladies. I will, of course, wait outside until your return." He then brought the Citroen to a drifting stop before disappearing from view.
"What now?" asked Carter, staring at the bland, gray face of the building.
"What else?" replied Rosie. "Into the lion's den."
The receptionist was very enthusiastic in helping them once they had said the word "journalists," which had been their cover in Afghanistan ever since the beginning of the confusion. "I do need to remind you two, though," she added, "that Mr. Mamnoff insists on a maximum of ten minutes for every visitor. Absolutely insists it."
The ride to Mamnoff's office was quick. With only three floors, the elevator had had a few stops to go, and then they were ushered in to an anteroom.
"You must be the reporters from Random News," said the secretary. "Mr. Mamnoff is expecting you." She then opened the door, and in they went.
The office was strictly utilitarian, with none of the comfortable trappings expected of such men with wealth. Anastas Mamnoff was also a contradiction of the image that they had seen. Instead of a fearsome personality, he had the look of a cunning man hiding behind a calm exterior. And instead of an acrid cigar, he was smoking a Russian Trud, the only cigarette brand during the days of the Soviet Union.
"Mr. Mamnoff, the reporters from Random News," said his secretary.
"Thank you, Sohaila. You may leave now." He then looked at Carter and Rosie. It was hard to believe that this man was a hardened arms dealer. "Random News," he said. "Your magazine certainly lives up to its name and motto. The truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. And about your articles; they couldn't be more random. That piece you wrote about the possibility of war for the Spratly Islands, it was almost a novel in itself. The combatants were well-matched; communist Vietnam and democratic Philippines, although it's actually more of a war between America and China. But that's not the reason why you're here, I presume?"
"Actually," replied Rosie, "we've come here because Random News Magazine has chosen you as businessman of the year for your stunning revival of Afghani Electronics."
Mamnoff laughed. "Ah, yes. The very company we are standing on. Why don't you ladies take a seat? I can only talk business when I'm comfortable."
The interview went smoothly for eight minutes, until the topic shifted to Mamnoff's factories.
"How many factories do you own, Mr. Mamnoff?"
"A lot. They produce almost anything, from electronics to software. I even own a few armaments factories."
"Are you a licensed retailer?"
"Yes. I have production rights for the AK-47 and the AA-2 missile."
"How about explosives?"
"That I do not produce."
"Are you sure about that, Mr. Mamnoff?" asked Carter.
"What are you talking about?" Mamnoff was suddenly on guard.
"Are you certain that none of your factories produce explosives and such devices?"
"What in the world does that mean? I do not have a contract for such a thing!"
"I don't know, Mr. Mamnoff, but there is evidence that Air Afghanistan Flight 200 was bombed by an explosive of your own design."
"This is madness! Haven't you been watching the news? That crackpot baggage handler built that device all by himself! And, need I remind you, that I have hundreds of designers under my employment, and I do not tolerate such research in my facilities! Who are you people?" he asked in a low voice.
"Committee for State Security, Mr. Mamnoff. You are under investigation for the bombing of Air Afghanistan Flight 200."
Mamnoff realized that he was as good as dead. Despite the rumors, the KGB was still a feared organization by the Russian people, and they still had the ability to extract a confession from even the most innocent persons.
"What are you going to do? Shoot me? Frankly, I'm surprised that my secretary hasn't barged in to my office when I began shouting."
"Our colleague is taking care of her. Besides, I don't thin anyone will hear your screams."
Mamnoff was taped to his chair with duct tape. He was powerless to stop the KGB agents from accessing his computer. Luckily, he had planned ahead for such a thing.
"Damn!" said Rosie. "It needs a password."
"What's the password, Mr. Mamnoff?" asked Carter.
He had also planned ahead for his. He waited for the woman to cock her gun before he replied. "Vladimir Lenin."
"Vladimir Lenin? Is that it?"
"I'm in!" said Rosie. The two then began to scroll through pages of files, from business orders to vehicle blueprints to the mother lode itself: the designs for the notorious Stinger bomb. There was also another folder, but its contents were encrypted.
"Time," said Carter.
"Got it." Rosie removed a small flash drive she had inserted into Mamnoff's computer. As she walked to the door, Carter took Mamnoff's phone, dialed a number, and left the headset on the table.
"What was that for?"
"Later," said Carter. Then to Mamnoff, she said, "Thank you for your time." The arms dealer can only arch his eyebrows in response.
"Mr. Mamnoff is currently on the phone right now," she told his secretary as they went out of his office. "He asks that he not be disturbed until the call ends."
"How did it go?" asked Achmed, who had picked them up as soon as they got out of the building.
"Just fine."
"Good. What in the world?"
Their path was blocked by three jeeps bearing the seal of the city of Kandahar. Achmed got out of the car. "Don't worry, I'll handle this."
The two sides talked for about five minutes. Finally, Achmed nodded at something the officer said before turning back to his Citroen. He winked his right eye at the two, a signal that all was well.
Two streaks of crimson suddenly burst from his chest. Achmed's face was contorted in shock, pain, and disbelief at what happened to him, and then he fell facedown on the ground. Only then did Carter and Rosie realize that the police officer's features were more Slavic than Arab, and that he was holding a suppressed pistol. The officer began to walk towards the car, firing his gun in the process. A single bullet hole appeared on the Citroen's windshield.
"I don't think so!" shouted Carter. She removed her pistol's bulky suppressor, jumped into the driver's seat, placed the gun's barrel in the hole and fired. The officer's head was forced back by the impact, and a fountain of blood gushed from the wound. He was dead before he fell.
The Citroen quickly backed out, and then turned away from the jeeps, which quickly picked up the pursuit. The Citroen's top speed of eighty kilometers per hour was nothing compared to the UAZ-469's 120 kilometers per hour. Their only advantage was that Kandahar was full of narrow streets and tight corners, which the lighter Citroen negotiated easily. One of the jeeps miscalculated a turn and flew up a ramp, landing upside down in the process.
One down, thought Carter.
The chase brought them to the center of Kandahar, an area full of people. The Citroen made a drifting turn, causing the jeep behind it to crash into its rear. The third jeep rammed itself into a tree trying to avoid the pileup.
The driver of the second jeep moaned in pain as he watched a woman step out of the Citroen, gun in hand.
"For Achmed," said Carter, pumping two rounds into the man's chest. A faint trickle of blood oozed from the corner of his mouth, and he died on the spot.
"It's just madness," she said later on the way back. "There's no good reason for them to kill Achmed. He was supposed to be just another person in Kandahar. How could they have known? Tell me, Rose!"
"Maybe he was just in the wrong place at the wrong time," replied Rosie. "Anyway, I think we need to take a closer look at what we got from Mamnoff." She then inserted the flash drive into a laptop and retrieved the contents. She immediately went for the encrypted folder.
"There's a total of five encrypted files in here; namely Nerushimy, Bezzavetno, Polkovnik, Bessmertnykh, and Bor'ba Zemlya. The first two don't make sense when translated literally into English, but the last three are more logical operation names. Colonel, Immortal, and Fighting Land, one can only guess at what they really mean."
"They must be desperate to protect those things," said Carter. "Those were not the file extensions I remember seeing in Mamnoff's office."
The two of them had no idea of the importance of those files.