Operation Whiteout

There existed no worse anticipation than the dread in the moments before stepping out of Sheremetyevo International in mid-December. Or so Caleb thought as he set foot outside the terminal. No amount of animal fur could protect him from the searing cold that met his face. Even the oversized beanie he’d purchased before boarding did him no favors. In navigating the crowd between him and the curb (taking the busiest flight preserved anonymity), he had time to regret not growing a beard in the weeks beforehand.

Looking around, he felt no envy for the others standing out in the cold, leaning into gypsy cab windows to bargain for prices. Still, the short walk from the terminal doors to his pre-booked vehicle seemed a lifetime too long.

“Привет,” the driver said as Caleb situated himself on the leather seats. “Куда ты идешь?”

If the driver had bothered to check his rear view, he’d see the contempt on his passenger’s face. Though Caleb had the advantage of sobriety, he felt just as hammered by the wind chill. His mind could hardly fathom the comfort of the heated vehicle, let alone a foreign tongue.

After a pause of uncertain length, he summoned a response: “ты говоришь по-английски?” He asked if the driver spoke English.

“Нет.” No such luck.

“Oh, this’ll be fun.”

It took a minute to comprehend that the driver was asking to confirm his name and destination. Tedious though it was, it pleased him to have that exchange in the warmth of a car’s interior. Caleb strapped in for the half-hour drive to the Four Seasons in the heart of Moscow. He said little to the driver in that time, and was delighted to hear nothing in return. Silence was a rare commodity with cabbies, which further convinced him that private hire was the way to go.

A classic rock playlist shuffled through his earbuds. Welcome to the Jungle came on first. The upbeat Guns n' Roses riffs contrasted the bleak vistas beyond his window. The landscape was a barren white. The forests and plains passing either side of the highway were caked in frost. The conditions threatened snow-blindness. Caleb tried not to stare too long, lest he bring it upon himself. This wasn’t his first rodeo in Russia, but definitely his first winter. It felt foreign all over again.

#

Caleb snapped a photo of the magnificent, crimson exterior to the State Historical Museum as his tour bus passed it by. Over the loudspeaker, the enthusiastic tour guide yammered of its greatness in surprisingly eloquent English. Only the bravest and most bundled tourists accompanied Caleb on the upper deck, where they were exposed to the open air. But as Agent California, he needed the view.

The camera he carried appeared like any ordinary DSLR, and functioned like one as well. It could pull focus, adjust exposure, and even take and store photographs. Any superficial inspection would identify it as nothing more than a digital camera. But Caleb knew this device to be another among Tinker's products. Prior to his departure, he recalled her explaining its properties in the lab.

“It only takes photos,” Tinker indicated. “If you push the record button, it will instead fire a nine-millimeter round right out the lens. I'd demonstrate on the range, but unfortunately these are a little too pricey to waste.”

“Waste?” Caleb asked. “What, do I only get one shot?”

“Yeah, just like that Eminem song. So use it wisely.”

“That hardly seems practical.”

“Its practicality is its concealment, Cal,” she rebutted. “But there's only enough room inside for one cartridge. Plus, without a proper chamber the entire unit is destroyed after that.”

“I rest my case. Not to mention, there's no way that bullet's passing TSA.”

“Of course not, but you can get a nine-mil anywhere. Surely you know Moscow well enough to handle that, right?”

Indeed, Caleb was plenty familiar with Moscow. Though his Russian was shaky, he knew enough to recognize which seedy, inner city dives the tour bus skirted around. Not six blocks from this road was a Tochka marketplace where one could purchase a night of pleasure, among other unsavory valuables. He knew he could procure a bullet around there, though he wished to avoid it if at all possible. The exotic drinks and other attractions were sure to tempt him. He needed focus. He had a mission. His target, Boris Yanovich, would arrive the next day.

As advertised on the route, the tour bus passed the FSB headquarters for a brief moment. Caleb's watch read 11am local time, the same hour the target would be headed there the next day. He had no intent of letting Yanovich so close to the building, but to be safe he photographed its exterior and surrounding streets, noting guard positions and surveillance. Intercepting a target en route to the home of Russian counter-intelligence would be no small feat, and he needed as much knowledge as he could gather.

The tour came to its end in the early afternoon. Caleb walked a circuit around the few surrounding blocks in search of shady figures to do business with. But without asking enough questions to risk whispers among the authorities (as an obvious foreigner probing for arms dealers would surely do) his search ended in futility.

Caleb resigned himself to the only remaining recourse. Regrettable though it was, he could not help but feel the fluttering of butterflies in his stomach. An excitement, an anticipation, hijacked his senses. The flesh craved what his mind resisted. As soon as he settled the matter in his thoughts, his base desires moved him to scheme and act with deliberation to satisfy the need. He walked a few more circuits around the block to throw any possible tails. He avoided main streets and ducked through as many alleys as possible, keeping a keen eye over his shoulder with each turn. The active awareness which Atlas Intelligence, and the CIA before them, had drilled into his mind received its maximal use in the brief trek to his dark destination, as if there were more than local authorities he hid from.

#

Caleb knew the Tochka was a bad idea. But he did it anyway.

He awoke the next morning in a pile of his own drool, his face planted in the fresh hotel bed sheets. They smelled pleasant. But nothing felt as much. A familiar headache throbbed. Worse yet, Russian hip hop blasted his ears from the television screen, which must have been turned up near as loud as it could go. How he found any sleep with such noise painted an unflattering picture of his drunkenness. The girls – the ladies of the night he recalled hiring – were nowhere to be found. To Caleb there was much to berate those women of. How dare they interfere by tempting him so.

The market he found on Tverskoy Boulevard was a veritable den of criminal activity. He had little difficulty procuring the bullet he went in search of, but the accessories the dealer appended onto his purchase were enumerable. He recalled little of what came after, except that he did not return to his room alone, nor sober.

Somehow it wasn't the blaring music that woke him, as that had been on all the while. Instead, it was a hard pounding at his door. Caleb blinked and rubbed his eyes with one hand, and wiped the drool from his chin with his suit's cuff. There came a muffled, yelling voice on the other side. The voice of an irritated man. Whether this came from a clerk or a neighboring patron, he wasn't sure. But even amid the noise and the hangover he found the focus to comprehend the Russian words. The man demanded he lower the music several times. The man then pointed out that he could smell the stench of weed in the air, which was both against hotel policy and illegal, before threatening to call the police. Looking around, Caleb did notice a thin layer of smoke about the room. He'd never been one for cannabis before. Those promiscuous companions must've liked to party. He tried to utter back a calming response, but doubted the man heard his weak voice above the noise. The knocking and yelling ceased. The man likely departed to follow through on his threat. Caleb thought this a minor setback at most. He felt sure he could charm the hotel staff, and the Moscow police were notoriously corrupt and susceptible to bribery. He checked his wallet for the exorbitant amount of rubles Atlas had given him for this outing.

The wallet was empty.

It seemed there wasn't any time to recover. Caleb kicked into high gear and bolted around the room, gathering his belongings and reviewing the dossier on his target. Boris Yanovich would land at about 10am local time, at which point a black 2008 Ford Focus would transport him to the FSB headquarters, accompanied by one armed agent. Having flown commercially, Boris was unlikely to be armed. He would arrive at about 11am and be brought to a secure debriefing room, where he would no doubt tell everything he'd learned about Atlas's involvement in the bloody raid on the clandestine, state-sponsored, Russian cybercriminal hideout, which took place one month prior. The botched Atlas raid led to a shootout with Russian Armed Forces that claimed casualties on both sides. The responsibility for containing the horrid affair fell to Caleb, and the last loose end brought him here. Unglamorous though it was, he had found contentment with this janitorial role of his. The unclean hands of Atlas were his to wash.

Caleb still needed to secure transportation for intercepting the target vehicle. He checked his watch, which he'd dialed to local time. Already 10:35. More than a half-hour behind schedule. He drew the blinds, letting in the harsh natural light, which stunned his already dazed senses. After a moment of adjustment, he looked down on the street below. A police car had pulled up in front of the hotel, and an officer stepped into the front doors. The panic intensified. It was long past time to go. In the bathroom he drank a handful of water from the faucet. It did little to ease the headache, but it was better than nothing. He gathered his belongings and slipped an earpiece into his left ear canal as he left the room.

“Atlas Control, this is, uh... California, howya copy?”

“This is Atlas Control. We read you, California. Give us a sitrep, we were expecting to establish comms almost an hour ago.”

“Yeah, I know, I know. I know. I'm, uh... A little behind. I'm leaving the Four Seasons now. I need the, uh... Whatcha call it. ETA! How's Yanovich's flight?”

There came a brief pause. The operator was no doubt assessing Caleb's state. Atlas Control remained something of an enigma, even to its agents. Caleb never heard a different voice coming through his comms, no matter where or when. That same deep, resonant, perfectly enunciated, male American voice always spoke from the other end. Whether they assigned every agent their own operator, or else each one spoke through a synthesizer, or they were just all trained to sound alike, no one knew.

Atlas Control interrupted the awkward pause with a simple: “Standby.”

Caleb exited his room to the long carpeted hallway outside. In looking both ways, the area seemed clear. He started for the elevator, but after a few steps it rang with a ding and two figures stepped out: one a male civilian, heavy-set and wearing a wife beater, and the other a uniformed policeman accompanying him. That was fast. Caleb came to a full stop, turned around, and walked at a casual pace in the other direction, headed for the doors to the stairwell. A voice called out in Russian. Whether the civilian or the officer, he didn't know. He didn't look back. They called again. The firmness of the order suggested the officer. But he kept walking, pretending not to hear. The call turned to a yell as footsteps quickened behind him. Caleb wasted no time before leaning forward into a full sprint. His hungover stupor threatened to throw him off-balance, but he hadn't far to go before arriving at the door. He threw his weight into the push-bar and shoulder rammed into the stairwell. With a brief glance back he saw the officer barreling down the hall towards him, drawing his firearm. That officer was a fair distance away. Caleb had gotten a good head start.

“Atlas Control to California. Severe weather delayed Yanovich's flight thirty-two minutes. Given the distance from the airport, and local traffic reports, he'll arrive at the FSB headquarters in approximately ten minutes, assuming his chauffeur is on schedule.”

“Copy that! Keep me posted!”

Caleb rushed down as fast as he could. On one length of stairs, he tripped and slammed into the wall at the next landing. It hurt, but adrenaline superseded the pain. He knew he couldn't keep this up. The cop would soon enter the stairwell after him, and looking down the spiral would give that officer a clear shot from above. Given his apparent head start, Caleb instead made for the door to the next lower level and exited into that hall. Brushing past a waitress carting a room service delivery, he darted to the elevator on the other end. He mashed the button on arrival, as he kept an eye on the stairwell door. The elevator took some time. He worried it had been called elsewhere after dropping the officer off above. The stairwell door then flew open, and out of it came the policeman continuing his chase. He locked eyes with Caleb and yelled another command in Russian. But in the same second, the elevator doors opened and Caleb fled inside, pressing the button for the first floor repeatedly. The slow closing doors were another cause for anxiety, but they came to a firm shut before the officer could arrive in view.

The elevator music accompanying the stillness of the slow descent provided an awkward moment of respite for Caleb. But the moment didn't last. The doors soon opened to the first floor. Exiting into the bright elegant lobby, he walked across at a brisk pace, though trying desperately not to drawn any more attention to himself. This precaution meant taking longer than he would've preferred to get to the front. No doubt the policeman still gained on him. As he arrived, he pushed the clear glass door open and rushed out onto the sidewalk in the cold winter breeze. He spotted the white and blue police car, in which the officer first came, parked along that sidewalk, with what looked to be the officer's partner seated inside. He continued, keeping his eyes ahead and acting as inconspicuous as possible.

Caleb's mind raced ahead to the next steps. How would he get to Yanovich? How would he apprehend Yanovich? What if Yanovich was already at the FSB headquarters? The distorted sound of a voice through a radio interrupted these thoughts. The policeman's partner, seated in the passenger seat of the vehicle, responded to the radio in Russian before stepping out of the car and onto the curb. Whether or not he had just been compromised, Caleb didn't know. But he couldn't gamble on it. While the door remained halfway open and the policeman partly out, Caleb rushed in and kicked it shut on the rather rotund officer, trapping him between the door and the side of his vehicle. He drew his pistol from a side holster, but in his restricted mobility Caleb easily took control of his wrist and directed the muzzle safely outward. With one hand Caleb kept the gun pinned, and with the other threw vicious elbows to the officer's face. Even as he drew blood, he didn't stop. He couldn't stop striking until he felt the grip on the gun loosen. He must have thrown at least ten elbows before it finally did. He stripped the gun, a standard issue Makarov, from the officer's limp fingers and used it to throw one last strike – a pistol whip – to the cop's already battered face.

#

“California to Atlas Control, I think I have eyes on the target,” said Caleb as he waited, parked in the stolen cop car, at a curb a few intersections from the FSB headquarters. Ahead, stopped at a red light perpendicular to him, was a black 2008 Ford Focus with tinted windows. “Confirm license plate?”

“Vehicle registration number on the target transport is A560PX799.”

They matched.

Caleb didn't hesitate. He slammed on the gas pedal, driving the cop car right into the side of the Ford Focus. The collision nearly knocked the Ford on its side, leaving a concave imprint the width of his bumper in its doors. The seat belt caught Caleb as he rocked forward. The sudden impact worsened his already splitting headache, but he was long past caring. It was time to go to work.

Gunshots shattered a side window on the Ford as the driver took shots at the police vehicle with what sounded like a nine-millimeter handgun. For a moment it shocked Caleb to see that they were so prepared to be intercepted that shooting at cops wasn't out of the question. He kept behind the police car's door as he swung it open. A few shots sparked off the hood, but he would not be deterred as he produced the stolen Makarov and returned fire. He held the gun one-handed at first, laying down suppression to frighten his target, then when there came a pause in the shooting he took hold with two hands and placed three calculated rounds through the window. From what he could see, the suited figure in the driver's seat appeared still and unmoving.

Caleb went out from behind the cover of the door and approached the Ford, both hands holding the Makarov in a low ready position. He couldn't see anyone else through the tinted windows, but knew his target to be inside.

“Get out of the car, Yanovich!” he yelled. “Get out now!”

Sirens echoed through the dense city blocks from the distance. They had been searching for a missing cop car since the hotel, and this very public commotion no doubt brought word of it.

Within a few seconds, a tall sturdy figure in a dark suit, with well combed brown hair, a stubble beard, and a hardened gaze, stepped out from the Ford with hands raised. Caleb knew his options were limited.

“Hands on the car!” Caleb commanded. He repeated the command in Russian, but Yanovich seemed to understand well enough the first time as he turned around to place his hands against the windows. “California to Atlas Control. I have the target alive, but the police are on my back. Track my signal and get me an escape route, ASAP!”

“Copy that, California. Standby.”

Caleb pulled a pair of white zip ties from a pant pocket and tied Yanovich's hands behind his back, before shoving him into the Ford once again. Caleb threw the driver's body out onto the pavement and took the front seat. Restarting the ignition proved troublesome, with the sirens drawing nearer every second. He turned the keys once, twice, thrice to no avail. From his peripherals he saw a caravan of flashing red and blue sirens rounding the corner, coming directly towards him. Then, with the fourth turn of the keys, the engine roared to life. As he peeled away, he grabbed the Makarov once again and fired the remaining shots out the shattered window at the incoming police cavalcade. A few bullets pierced the windshield of the foremost vehicle. He couldn't tell whether or not he hit the officer inside, but the driver seemed to lose control as the car swerved side to side, before finally crashing into a fire hydrant at the corner of the intersection. The hydrant exploded into a violent geyser of water, catching the underside of the car and propelling it into a corkscrew spin through the air before screeching across the street, nearly colliding with the Ford before Caleb drove out of its destructive path. He raced down the streets, swerving around the civilian cars in his way. In his rear view mirror he saw Boris Yanovich, hands restrained, whipping back and forth with the car's hectic maneuvers, as well as three more police vehicles still in pursuit. He heard the police yelling Russian commands over the loudspeakers on their cars. He threw the empty Makarov aside as he focused both hands on steering.

“Where am I going, Control?!” Caleb demanded.

“How many are on your tail?”

“Three cars!”

“We have an operative on a speedboat ready to extract on the Moskva River. But first you need to throw those pursuers. Take a left into the alley just before the next light.”

Caleb spotted the alley at the last minute and slammed the brakes to turn sharply into it. Two of the chasing police cars slowed well enough to catch it, but the last of them swerved out of control attempting the maneuver and crashed into a nearby storefront. The alley was narrow and crowded with dumpsters, forcing the two remaining pursuers into a single file line as Caleb raced through it.

“Take a right at the alley's end,” said Atlas Control, whose calm demeanor juxtaposed the surrounding chaos.

Caleb brought the Ford up to an incredible speed in the straight line of the alley, then went into the turn with a hard swerve, oversteering and drifting out onto the next street. One of the cop cars mimicked the same turn, narrowly getting out in front of a hulking orange garbage truck speeding down the lane. The second police vehicle hadn't the same luck. As it swerved into the street, the massive truck crashed into its side, sending it rolling end over end across the asphalt, flinging broken chunks of metal with each rotation.

“I took the right,” Caleb reported.

“Continue on this road until you reach the river bank, then ditch the car and get to the boat on foot.”

Caleb, checking his rear view mirror, saw the pursuing cop car closing in. Its bumper rammed into his in an attempt to run him off the road. Caleb gritted his teeth. He had until the end of the road to lose this one. With his right hand he searched his person, feeling every pocket for something of use. But as he searched he noticed on that same right hand a certain wrist watch, which Tinker had given him before. With his teeth he pulled the strap loose, taking the watch in his hand and clicking in the button nearest the two. He had only one shot.

Five... Four... Three... Two...

Caleb dropped the watch out the shattered window. A half-second later, a brief flash lit his rear mirrors, followed by a dark cloud as an explosion launched the tailing police car into a somersault.

#

A block away from the river bank, Caleb swerved into an empty alley and disembarked from the battered car. He coughed up some of the smoke emerging from its engine as he went to the backdoor.

“Out of the car, Yanovich,” he called out. There came no response. He saw nothing beyond the tinted windows. Sirens still roared in the distance, drawing closer. He hadn't any time to waste. Knowing his hostage to be restrained, he reached for the door handle to let him out. “I said get out of the –”

The door flew open, slamming Caleb to the ground. Out of the doorway came Boris Yanovich, who mounted atop Caleb on the grimy ground. Evidently he had gotten his tied hands out from behind his back during the drive. Yanovich shoved both clenched fists down on either side of the spy's neck, choking him with the plastic cord of the zip-tie between. Caleb felt his blood flow constrict. He knew from his training he had a matter of seconds before consciousness would cease. In a desperate panic his hands searched his pockets. But his last resort he found still slung around his shoulder. The camera. Clinging to it, he brought the lens right up to Yanovich's chest. And with a click of the red record button – a resounding crack echoed through the streets. A small flash shattered the lens, as well as much of the camera's body, into pieces. The pressure alleviated from his neck. On the other side of the camera, Yanovich's shirt was blood stained around a bullet wound, right over his heart.

#

Off the sidewalk nearest the Moskva River bank lied a concrete staircase leading down to a platform, level with the water. Floating on the river, tethered to that platform, a speedboat captained by Agent Ursa awaited. The spy, a Russian native clad in thick winter clothes and a full beard, relaxed in his seat as he listened to the symphony of gunfire, explosions, and crashes in the distance. He checked his watch. Control had given him an upper limit. If California didn't show within the next sixty seconds, his orders were to leave him for dead.

Within thirty seconds, he saw a figure in a dirtied suit descend the stairs. It very well could be his awaited ally, but given the figure's drunken wobble he dared not presume. He rose from his seat, adjusting the ushanka on his head as he spoke a customary Russian greeting, feigning obliviousness.

“All the world's a stage, agent, now get me out of here!” The figure demanded in English.

The Atlas Intelligence motto had become a common code to identify friendlies among their clandestine members. Ursa immediately cut the rope mooring them to the platform and sped the boat down the river. California slumped in the backseat, breathing heavily. There were loose towels spread about the back, which he used to cover his distinct clothes to obscure visual recognition.

“Agent Ursa,” said the driver in a rather thick Russian accent, testing to make doubly sure he had the right man. “You?”

“California.”

“I was expecting to pick up two. You complete your objective, California?”

“Yeah. My mission was to stop Yanovich from going on record with an eyewitness account of an Atlas op. I did.”

Ursa caught the implication. “HQ was hoping to pick his brain. You think they'll be happy?”

“They'll be content.”

The rest of the boat ride went on in silence. They traveled far down the river, got off at another platform, and made their way to Ursa's apartment where they laid low for the following days. They spoke little more than was necessary in those days together. Caleb recognized the cold glare of judgment from his temporary roommate. Everyone knew how he was. They knew why this operation went awry. He couldn't hide it. The shame of this coworker's glare did little to faze him, but he knew it was only a preview of the feelings to come at the next AA meeting. Surviving against impossible odds came easy to him. Accountability was harder. But who was he to speak of accountability? His line of work had none. He spent his days as the nameless face of a shadowy employer, who killed in the name of its own secrecy between fights for the preservation of humankind. He occupied the space of a pawn in the world's game. The reports of this day would go down in blacked out documents, and so too would his vice. At the next meeting, he wouldn't even be able to explain where he was.

The unclean hands of Atlas were his to wash. He only wished he could do likewise with his own failures.

As soon as the the airports and highways reopened, and the manhunt died down, California booked a flight. His debriefing awaited him at the American headquarters. But he knew what to expect. Somehow he always got away unpunished.