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year for his first break. Within several weeks he had enough information to formulate a theory. The July 23, 1985 incident was documented in the Soviet Army archives. The report detailed a successful TACAN spoofing, the downing of a NATO FB-111A and the successful retrieval of much of the technology. The report from Major Grigori Trubitsin of the 641st Fighter Aviation Regiment was quite thorough. Except for one thing. No mention was made of a recovered nuclear missile. And considering the forest was swept for every scrap of metal that could be retrieved, it was inconceivable that a tactical nuclear missile could be missed.
    Which led him to postulate that Trubitsin and his men had stolen the missile for themselves, most likely with plans to sell it on the black market. But something like that on the black market would have been detected years ago, so for some reason it hadn’t been sold yet. The plutonium was valuable in itself, worth millions, but a functioning nuclear device, would be worth tens of millions, if not more.
    And that required codes.
    A call to the Americans had confirmed the compromised launch codes, which is what had prompted the admission in Geneva to the Broken Arrow. Now both the Americans, and the Russians, knew a tactical nuclear weapon was in play, with launch codes, and no one knew where it was. The unit that had brought the plane down had disappeared after the cold war ended. It had taken months, but he at last had caught a break. Corporal Konstantin Lukin, Trubitsin’s driver in 1985, was monitored leaving Montreal on a fake Canadian passport, his photo and that of his comrades given to the Americans to see if they could have any luck finding them.
    As soon as he had heard Lukin was on a flight from Montreal, tracking him was easy. They had watched him for several months, in the hopes of him leading them to his accomplices, but instead he had spent almost his entire time visiting his mother during the day, then drinking and screwing hookers at night. He was booked on a flight the next day, making it clear he was meeting no one. He had yet to decide whether or not to grab him before leaving, and risk tipping Trubitsin off.
    But Yakovski was a different story. Where he was, Trubitsin couldn’t be far.
    Dymovsky’s men took up position outside the bar on Leningradskiy Prospekt, the pounding beats of competing clubs filled the air, drunken patrons stumbled from bar to bar, others leaned against walls as they puked their night’s drinks and bar snacks onto the sidewalk, while others tried to convince hookers to offer free samples. This is a true shithole! Dymovsky frowned at the sight as one luxury vehicle after another pulled up and whisked young ladies away. What has this country become? He agreed with capitalism, and certainly didn’t want to return to the old communist days of his youth, but crime was out of control. And now with the puppet master in control in Moscow, he feared it would be used as an excuse to bring back the old ways. Already freedom of the press and freedom of assembly were jokes. Freedom of speech was next. In fact, considering it was almost impossible to organize an opposition party now due to the draconian rules brought in by Moscow’s ruling party, freedom of speech might as well not exist. They had brought back the dictatorship, without anyone realizing they had done it. Well done, Vlad. I hope too many don’t die when the proletariat awakens to the realization of what you have done.
    “Everyone is in position, sir,” said his second in command over the earpiece.
    Dymovsky touched his ear, activating the comm. “I’m going in now.”
    He climbed from his car and crossed the cobbled street, the stones glistening from the light rain blanketing the area. He stepped up to the door and glanced around, spotting a few of his men about a block away. He raised his hand, pausing for a moment, then dropped it on the door handle and pulled the door open.
    The roar of the music