The Black Key: The Hunter series, #2

By Rick Jones

During military exercises in the Sea of Japan, rogue missiles are launched from a U.S. naval battleship and head directly to the heart of North Korea.

During a return trip to Washington, D.C., Air Force Two disappears over the Rocky Mountains.

President Jack Meacham was once the former director of the CIA who was instrumental in the collapse of the Soviet regime. Now, nearly three decades later, his past comes back to haunt him with a single message: "Are you willing to sacrifice your life for the good of the whole?"

The volley of missiles and the disappearance of Air Force Two were mere flexes of muscle from one man who wielded The Black Key, a tool that is capable of controlling nuclear arsenals and weaponry systems. It can control and manipulate economies. And it could be the most damning weapon the world has ever seen with a simple push of a button.  

Forced to make a choice, the president finds himself at odds with a former operative who seeks to end his life with a single twist of The Black Key. In the 'Most Dangerous Game in the World,' President Meacham is given two options: "You have forty-eight hours to end your life for the greater good of the whole . . .  Or the United States will become a no-man's land for thousands of years to come."

With time winding down, the president turns to Jon Jericho, aka The Hunter, and his Special Operations Group, to locate and neutralize the man behind The Black Key. But the team quickly find themselves going up against a sophisticated military unit who protects the man behind the Key.

With the fate of the president and an entire nation hanging in the balance of five men, Jon Jericho and his team must stop a man who has the widespread capability to wipe out an entire superpower with a single turn of a key.

If Jericho's team fails, then the president must face two critical choices: Do I live and allow the United States to be destroyed? . . . Or do I kill myself for the greater good of the whole?

The clock is ticking.

And it's almost zero hour.

From the bestselling author of Night of the Hunter and the Vatican Knights series.

• Language: English
• Publisher: EmpirePRESS
• Release date: Jan 15, 2017
• ISBN: 9781386654537

Book preview

PART ONE

MOSCOW BLUES

PROLOGUE

Gorky Park. Moscow, Russia

1200 Hours

March 27, 1989

Grigori Durov sat on a bench in Gorky Park with one leg crossed over the other. In the backdrop was the main portal, which was the park’s version of the Arc de Triomphe. The day was cool and brisk with a snap to the air, and the sky, for the most part, was uniformly blue with the exception of a few renegade clouds.

Durov was sitting twenty meters from the pond’s edge watching the ducks swim in lazy circles. With the collar of his jacket hiked and the brim of his fedora lowered, his features were cast in half-shadow and half-light, making the man’s face difficult to discern except for his angular jawline. Beside him was a folded edition of the Pravda newspaper.

Walking along the pathway with a newspaper wedged beneath the crook of his arm, a young man in his mid-twenties with the fresh-scrubbed look of a choirboy and conservative hairstyle, stopped along the pond’s edge.

Several breeds of ducks were swimming in the water. I do like the color of the mallards, said the young man. The green head, the yellow bill.

Durov uncrossed his legs. I prefer the Chinese spot-billed duck myself, he answered.

It was a prearranged exchange with ‘mallard’ being the designated code signifying that he was Durov’s contact and the response of Chinese spot-billed a confirmation that the man on the bench was Durov.

William Janzski, a CIA operative, took a seat next to the Russian and placed his folded copy of the Pravda on top of Durov’s. It’s all there, he told the Soviet agent. Five hundred thousand rubles.

The KGB agent peeled back the top of the folded newspaper, spotted the thick envelope underneath, then folded the newspaper back over. Grabbing the Pravda and wedging it beneath his armpit, he said, You’ll find the periods to the question marks quite interesting.

Microdots?

The Soviet smiled. The most dangerous game in the world, he said.

Without saying anything further, Durov stood up and walked away with Janzski’s Pravda in his possession. Picking up Durov’s newspaper, Janzski unfolded it to reveal a sealed envelope that held a single sheet of paper inside. Grabbing the envelope, Janzski placed it inside the pocket of his jacket, got to his feet, and walked in the opposite direction of Durov.

***

Grigori Durov had been a KGB agent for nineteen years. The man was in his late forties and was beginning to show the telltale signs of muscles turning doughy. Another significant feature that he was aging too quickly was his raven hair evolving into shades of silver and white, a testament to playing the most dangerous game in the world. For nearly two decades he had served the church of the Kremlin by combatting anti-communist political and religious ideas, and the nonconformists who promoted them—all of which were dealt with as a matter of national security to discourage any influence of hostile foreign powers. But Grigori Durov had a second side to him as well, the man serving in the dual capacity as a double agent on behalf of American interests. There was no particular reason why he instituted himself into high-end activities of jeopardy. He was not a malcontent within the KGB or its hierarchy. He did not romance the excitement or dream of cloak-and-dagger-like missions where contracts were agreed upon in the shadows of distant lands. What Grigori Durov wanted was something that was beyond the policing of dissidents within the state.

In the eyes of American principals, he was a hero and a man of dignity. But more importantly, he was the living subterfuge who aided America against their rival in the Cold War.

Though he had met with other U.S. operatives in the past, this was the first time he had met with William Janzski, who, in the scheme of espionage, was not only young and green but also a man of potential.

For 500,000 rubles he had sold out the Soviet’s aircraft program that would counter the American efforts. He had proffered classified intel of the Sukhoi’s Su-27, which was the Soviet’s answer to the new American aircraft of the F-15 and F-16. The Su-27 was developed for air superiority missions with a launch point combat radius of 750 kilometers. And though it was outmatched by its NATO competitors in this technological area, the aircraft was leap years ahead of the F-16 in terms of speed, which the Su-27 could hit at 2,525 km/hour compared to the F-16’s 2,200 km/hour. It was also developed to carry a wide range of air-to-air weapons such as the R-27R1, a medium-range missile with a semi-active radar homing warhead. And with Russia waging war in Afghanistan, such weaponry, if developed in time, could be the marked advancement needed to achieve victory not only on the Afghanistan Front but also against U.S. political policies that were in support of the Middle East country. It was important that the United States balance the scales so that the Cold War could go on indefinitely with the ‘most dangerous game in the world’ having no boundaries and no end.

Grigori Durov believed that he was making a difference on a monumental scale.

Walking along the streets of Moscow with the Pravda clutched beneath the bend of his arm, he could sense the thickness of the package and envision the wad of ruble notes spread across his mattress. Sometimes, he thought, capitalism was good for the human soul. Somehow, it seemed to elevate a person’s spirits.

Grigori Durov. The voice was harsh and caustic.

When Durov turned, he saw two men a few meters behind him. They were beefy and roguish looking with thick necks, bald heads, and gym bodies that stretched their KGB-issued leather jackets.

You are Grigori Durov, yes? asked the larger of the two, who stood about six-four.

I see by your dress that you are KGB as well as I am. Durov removed a wallet and showed them his credentials.

That man you just spoke with at the park, began the larger operative. Who is he?

Durov thought his heart was about to misfire in his chest. He didn’t realize that he was being watched, didn’t think he gave a clue to warrant his monitoring. But here they were, a wetwork team.

Just a passerby, he told them. Someone who admires the park as much as I do.

The smaller of the two men, and not by much, took a step forward and pointed to the newspaper in Durov’s possession. Odd that you would exchange newspapers like that in such an open setting, he said. Complacency, Durov, is the downfall of men. You should know this since you are KGB, yes? He took another step with his hand out to receive the Pravda. The paper.

Durov shuddered internally. The man was right. He had been complacent by believing that he was not being watched. This was Russia. Everyone was being watched. Worse, he knew that these beef-necks were aware of his activities. They only approached someone when a case against them had been built to support their claims. And because of this, Durov realized that playing the ‘most dangerous game in the world’ was about to come to an abrupt and violent end.

Please, said the operative, his hand still out to receive the newspaper.

Behind him, Durov could see the large man push back his jacket to remove a suppressed weapon from his side holster.

Durov handed over the paper.

The agent opened the newspaper, removed the envelope, tossed the Pravda to the ground, and ripped open the packet. Inside were ruble notes valued at 500,000.

The man held up the notes. The man in the park gave this to you. Why?

Does it matter at this point? I’m KGB. I know what happens to people like me.

Who was that man in the park?

Durov ignored him. Instead, he said, If you don’t kill me, then you will send me to a gulag or a prison to be mined for information. You will strip me down to madness and little else. This I know.

The man tucked the notes inside the envelope, jammed the packet inside the inner pocket of his leather coat, and then beckoned Durov to come into his custody with a few quick flexes of his fingers. You can tell the Inquisitor why you did this. Right now, we’re to bring you before the council.

And what would I tell them? said Durov. I have no answer that would pacify them, you know that.

Not my problem. Another flex of his fingers. Let’s go!

Durov smiled. It was a good run, he thought, the game well played. Inside the sleeve of his jacket was a small pistol, a single-shot device that was attached to a spring mechanism that would eject the weapon from its carrier and into his palm, after a particular motion.

I think not, said Durov. With a quick twist of his wrist, the derringer-like pistol ejected from its device and into his palm. In a motion that was quick and fluid, he brought the pistol to his temple and pulled the trigger. As the man immediately fell to the ground as a boneless heap, the bullet was mincing his brain as it bounced off the walls of his skull.

The smaller of the two men stamped a foot to the ground in frustration. The principals of the KGB would not be pleased. They had been watching Durov for some time now, knew that he was a wealth of information to draw from. Especially when that wealth happened to be from the United States.

Dammit, he said, looking down at Durov.

The deceased agent appeared to be in gentle repose, as though he was completely satisfied as to how his life had played out to the very end. His time for participating in the ‘most dangerous game’ had come to an end.

But for another . . .

. . . the ‘most dangerous game in the world’ was about to begin.

***

William Janzski had worked in the Russian theater for two years now. To the communist regime, he was known as Alexei Kostonova, a simple factory worker. But to Grigori Durov, he was known as Red Disciple, a conduit to certain principals within the United States, with Red Disciple serving as the long reach of the CIA. He had been gathering data from the Russian front regarding arms buildup and new weaponry ever since the war in Afghanistan had escalated. More than 50% of Russia’s entire budget was going into the military, as war costs in Afghanistan and the cost of maintaining Cold War efforts were beginning to take an economical toll.

Now with Russia on the verge of bankrupting their system, the United States had seen opportunity in this. And William Janzski, AKA Alexei Kostonova, was the man who would push the Russian economy to the edge of the precipice, if not over it.

His apartment was small and spartan, and he needed little to fit in with the Russian ideology that owning material goods was the sin of capitalism. There was a kitchenette with a two-burner stove and a small-capacity oven. The bathroom had a shower but no tub, with black mold growing across the grout between the tiles. And his bed had a three-inch mattress with no bedspring.

He was sitting at a table with the letter that Durov had given him. It was in Russian, the letter simple. It read: "Как вы, Алексей? Хороший, я надеюсь. Работа на заводе по поддержанию связи с требованиями? Возможно, мы получите вместе некоторое время в ближайшее время. Ваш друг." How have you been, Alexei? Good, I hope. Is work at the factory keeping up with the demands? Perhaps we’ll get together sometime soon. Your friend.

The message was light with no true value in its meaning since the words did not contain any encryptions or codes. The value came from the letter itself.

Strapping on a jeweler’s loupe and grabbing a pair of tweezers, Janzski zeroed in on the periods beneath the question marks. Using the twin points of the tweezers, he carefully lifted the first of the two periods from the page and placed it on a blank sheet of paper. With the loupe, he examined the contents on the microdot. They were the schematics to the Sukhoi’s Su-27.

The second microdot contained numerous documents which examined Russia’s current affairs in Afghanistan, and how the Su-27 could benefit the war effort with the commencement of production.

He removed the loupe and eased back into his seat. On the blank sheet before him sat two microdots the size of periods, each containing vast sums of information. Just as he was about to place the microdots into a small envelope, the door to his apartment was kicked open and the wood from the doorjamb splintered and flew into the room, the shards skating across the floor.

Three men with gym physiques and thick necks entered the room. One man in particular, who stood six-five and weighed around 260, reached out and grabbed Janzski with a grip that choked off his air passage. With enough power to lift Janzski about six inches off his feet, the large Soviet carried the operative across the room and pinned him against the wall.

A second man, though not as large as the first but large enough, walked over and tapped the large Soviet on the shoulder. Slowly, Janzski was lowered to