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Just outside Kurgan City Vanderhoof was dead. The big Dutchman’s lifeless body slumped over the wheel of the UAZ-469, the larger Russian equivalent of the legendary U.S. Army Jeep. His assassin had poured a good quantity of cheap vodka down the man’s throat a few minutes before to make sure that some of the clear liquor made its way to the stomach. Then he tucked the bottle carefully into the hand of the deceased, careful not to leave any prints. Giving the patrol vehicle a good once-over to ensure there had been no sign of a second person in the truck, the gloved killer threw the transmission into gear and watched the -469 go over the embankment and into the rocky ravine below. Contrary to what people saw in American action movies, cars did not generally explode. Add to that the lateness of the hour and the remote location of the ravine, it almost ensured that he would not be detected immediately. He counted on this to give him as much time as possible for his escape. Conservatively, he estimated that he had no longer than half an hour before his failure to report would raise suspicion. Kampov would alert base security forces to begin searching and would call in those police officers loyal to Rasprava to search nearby Kurgan City. Covert agents unknown to all but Kampov would be activated to monitor the city’s transit centers. In less than an hour, a net would drop on Kurgan City. Even in a population of nearly 350,000 there was only so long one could hope to avoid running into someone that ultimately worked for Rasprava. The black sweater and battle-dress pants worn by the Rasprava security forces helped him blend in to the night as he hurried across the road and into the grassy lowlands of the Kurgan Oblast countryside. Had he been spotted, the townspeople would have easily identified him as one of “those men from Shturmavaats,” the elite security firm that had boosted the area’s sagging economy. Under normal circumstances, his uniform would have given him preferential treatment. Tonight, it could ultimately be a death sentence. After making sure to re-lock the tiny shack and cover any footprints leading to the river, he pulled a thin rope and watched as his heavy-duty raft inflated. He loaded everything inside and cast off, paddling for the center of the river where he could ride the current, silent and undetected for a time. The man once known as Ganya Filov stayed low in his dark boat and let the river take him southwest, away from Kurgan Oblast toward Kazakhstan.
“Alert our people in the police and have them watch the roads and train stations. Get someone on any trains that have left and search them. Check the airport as well for anyone matching his description! Do I have to do all of your thinking for you?!?” Graf Kampov shouted into the microphone of his headset, wrenching it from his head and slamming it down in frustration once he cut transmission. “Communications!” the old man shouted across the control room, his voice reverberating off the walls of the stone walls of the former monastery. During the Second World War it had been used as a supply depot, sending materiel to Stalingrad (now Volgograd) for the victorious Russian Army defenders. Now, the facility served another purpose. “Yes, Graf Kampov” the reply came immediately. “Key the Padslooshivaats program to recognize and locate Filov’s voice. I want ‘Eavesdropper’ online and running in five minutes. If he calls someone from the area, I want to know who he calls, what he says, and where he is” “Yes, sir.” The technician’s fingers began flying across the keyboard in front of him to comply with the order. Kampov’s eyes narrowed and the wrinkles around them turned into deep crags as he reviewed the commands he had just issued. “Disrupt text, e-mail, and internet services in the area as well,” he added. “I don’t want him sending out any messages.” “Yes, sir,” the communications man affirmed, still working feverishly at his console. “How is the search proceeding, old friend?” “It isn’t,” Nicolai Kampov said, turning at the sound of the woman’s voice behind him, “which convinces me even more that Filov is more than he seemed. He has left very little behind for the security team to pick up on. That tells this old spy that he has been very well trained.” “Perhaps you trained him too well,” the woman, dressed head to toe in a sleek body suit, said encouragingly. “Filov was infantry. We never trained him in espionage or fieldcraft. Somebody else did.” The tall brunette woman drew the shaska in a flash from its scabbard around her waist. The cavalryman’s blade was about two-and-a-half feet long, forged from some glistening, argent metal that seemed almost translucent at times. She tapped the blade’s blunt side against her thigh distractedly. “What does he know? Who does he work for?” the woman asked quietly. Her eyes were afire and she continued to play with the sword in her hand. Graf Kampov did not fear the woman or her sword. She could have killed him years ago when they first met or any time since. She still may, the former KGB officer mused silently. No, the old Russian was not afraid of the woman or her wrath. His age and experience had left fear behind many years ago. The only thing that motivated him now was desire to serve his mistress faithfully, to execute his duties well, to have a place in the new order when she succeeded… and to pit his revenge against the system that had proclaimed him and his talents obsolete. “He knows certain aspects about our Akhotnik operation, particularly as it pertains to Guardienne and her father. He was going to take lead when ‘Hunter’ went live in Seattle.” The Rasprava general paused in realization for a moment and looked his leader in the eyes. “He always seemed eager that we should act quickly in our revenge against the Wood family. I thought this was youthful enthusiasm, but in light of his treason, I now believe it to be something else.” It took a moment for his keen mind to crystallize his thoughts. “He wanted us to act before we were ready, to increase our chances of failure!” Kampov exclaimed, slamming his fist down into his palm for effect. “However,” the grayed and wrinkled man said after a moment, “we may be able to use that to our advantage.” “How so?” the dark-haired woman asked with intense interest. “There are no active criminal organizations we know of that have this level of sophistication or production behind it. Origins then are perhaps with SHIELD or one of their divisions, but almost certainly a well-funded law enforcement entity. “Let Filov tell his masters, then, that we are hunting Forte. Let him say that we intend to enable your final victory against the Wood family and their allies; that we are planning a swift revenge against Forte for the murder of your father. “Filov knows nothing of Viyechni Raduga. He was not briefed on ‘Eternal Rainbow,’ and I’m convinced that the operation is still compartmentalized. “Let him warn them to the ‘icing on the cake,’ while your true purpose lay beneath.” Kampov added with a chuckle, pleased with his own brilliance. “And yet Filov knows of our location. Surely he will tell his people where we are,” the woman mentioned. “We are not prepared for an assault.” “We will control what Filov tells others, because while dead men cannot talk, they can leave a note.” A thin smile drew across the lips of Valariya Savage.
Once outside the densely populated areas along the river close to Kurgan City, “Ganya Filov” used the special outboard motor he had hidden away with the raft in the ice fishing house to make exceptional time down the river. While it appeared like a normal fishing motor from the outside, the gearing and the fusion power plant plugged into the motor let him generate a lot more RPMs than one would expect from the old 1960’s 9.9 horsepower Whirlwind it appeared to be. A lot quieter, too. The frictionless surface on the hard bottom of the specially designed raft allowed for less drag and thereby greater speed. What should have taken the better part of a day for a craft the size of his took less than 8 hours, time that he made the most of. During the trip downriver, he exchanged his Rasprava uniform with clothes he retrieved from his dufflebag, clothes more befitting a German fishing enthusiast. He assembled a fishing rod and tackle to complete the disguise. His identification was shredded and put into a mesh bag kept in the duffle along with the uniform and a lead weight to send them all to the bottom of the river. He considered including his sidearm in the disposal effort, but hid the gun in his tackle box instead. “Ganya Filov” was now “Gerhardt Stromm” according to his papers, a vacationing regional sales manager for the MAN Nutzfahrzeuge Group out of Munich. A small problem with his motor on his fishing trip (“Much closer to go into Kostanay and buy a new motor,” he would say, “than to paddle upriver to my car and drive all the way back to Kurgan.”) and the promise of hard Western currency spent in Kazakhstan instead of Russia would get him over the Kazakhstani border now only a couple of hours away. Then he would discard that identity for another. Sunrise was only a half hour away. He cut the motor so his overly-speedy craft wouldn’t attract attention from any early risers and allowed the boat to drift with the current for a bit. Then he set the self-destruct sequence on the fusion generator and dropped it overboard. The device would settle on the bottom where the core would cool and a chemical reaction in the destruct mechanism elements would react with the water and turn the generator to a pile of slag. For the first time in twelve hours, and maybe for the first time since he took the assignment five years ago, he allowed himself to relax. A Thermos of coffee right now would be nice, he thought. There will be time for food at Kostanay Airport. Once in town “Gerhardt Stromm” would disappear, and Warsaw-born Marcin Kozlowski would assume yet another identity to make his way to the airport and board an Air Astana flight to Frankfurt. Once in Germany, Kozlowski believed, it should be safe enough to make contact with the Order of Light. (see Lightsedge). He left a successful five year deep cover assignment to let Jeremy Talix, Lightsedge, know that his Forte friends were in grave danger from an old enemy.
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