The Spy Devils

by Joe Goldberg

  “Shut up, Danny.”

  “It is just an observation, May.”

  “If you think that—then leave.” Her voice was ice cold.

  “No, I—”

  “Shut up, Danny.”

  She was looking over Chapel’s shoulder at her signed Norman Rockwell lithograph collection.

  May loved Norman Rockwell. He was a New Englander, like May. She appreciated the irony that she had sacrificed her life and her family to protect ideals and people represented in his paintings. Plus, her father liked Rockwell. The memories of being with her father appreciating the covers of The Saturday Evening Post when she was younger were vivid and comforting. She found she needed comforting more often as she got older.

  Her eyes focused back on Chapel when he subconsciously ran his hands over his trademark bright tie.

  “Where are we with Kirkwood?” she said, glancing back at the wall.

  “Mr. Schaeffer is proving to be quite adept at collecting information. He has obtained some materials that, if analyzed correctly, could prove embarrassing to our friends at Kirkwood.” He ran his fingertips along the outside edge of his glass.

  “It was Kirkwood who wanted to have one of their people involved for some crazy notion of plausible deniability—god, I hate that Cold War phrase,” she said. “Does anyone know how hard it is to create an operational plan that is successful at plausible deniability? They are reading and watching too much espionage fiction crap. It takes planning and experience. Not an MBA.”

  “I have an MBA,” Chapel said in an expressionless voice.

  “You are proving my point.”

  “You are one of a kind, May. A sexy, cold-hearted—aging—spy.”

  She curled her fingers tight around her wine glass.

  “Kirkwood wants Schaeffer to be the plausible deniability fallback—if needed?” she asked.

  “Yes, and that is in motion, if needed. I am leaving in the morning to meet them for a meeting to discuss that very topic.”

  “Focus. Everything has to come together, and soon.”

  “It will.”

  She turned her body on the couch to look at the darkness of the outside world. The room was night-time quiet. The sounds of the outside filled the inside. The wind rushing through the trees. The faint sound of water in the distance. The occasional cricket.

  “Are you sure you want to do this?” Chapel said, his voice breaking the silence with a layer of compassion.

  “What?”

  “You know what. You have a tactical weapon that you use as an instrument to execute on broad, long-term, strategic initiatives that may come in conflict with another strategic, operational consideration. Bridger, as you know, can be unpredictable and—” he pointed to her phone on the nightstand “—as he just showed, disobedient. He can cause this all to come tumbling down, and that will not benefit either of us.”

  “You are thinking too much like a strategic consultant. Bridger will do the right thing. I programmed him that way.”

  “Maybe, but there is a cost. Bridger is a wild card. I said that when you decided to bring him into this.” Chapel caught a glimpse of himself reflected in the window behind May. He ran his fingers through his hair like a comb. “You don’t have complete control of this anymore. Things are moving and you can’t guarantee he will move in the direction you want.”

  “Shut up, Danny, and I can guarantee things will move in the right direction. I am his mother.”

  She picked up her phone and sent another text to Bridger.

  It went unanswered.

  34

  The Bank of Viktor Bondar

  Kyiv, Ukraine

  Two murmuring women passed by, shaking their scarf-covered heads, as Li Chu examined the burn spots on the road. The spots looked like two massive birthmarks on the skin of the street.

  Two days earlier, Li Chu, under the alias Yi Wang, a journalist for the Xinhua News Agency, checked into the Dnipro Hotel—a middle-of-the-pack, older hotel where a traveling Chinese businessman could reside without suspicion. Li Chu had never been to Kyiv, and his first impression was he hated it. It was old. Dim. Brown. Gray. Cramped. There may be a nightlife, he had read about it on Travelocity, but he wouldn’t see it.

  He was not there for that. He had one purpose in mind.

  “There is a package for you, Mr. Wang,” the Dnipro Hotel front desk manager said.

  Li Chu did not open the DHL envelope until he arrived in his room. Inside was a note from Chen:

  Here are safe house locations, where you may find weapons, computers, maps, money, and cars. Also, the most recent intelligence on the situation. Attached is the list of names and contacts of your new team. You are reminded that you must avoid contact with anyone in the Chinese delegation in the country.

  The package contained limited intelligence—a few news articles about the American’s death had been translated into Mandarin. There was a brief MSS assessment of an oligarch named Viktor Bondar. There were a bio and photo of his daughter Ira, who helped run his empire. A shorter biography of his less accomplished son Oleksandr. There was a cryptic reference to a secret employee named Pavlo, a technical person, who might know about the device.

  In a few hours, Li Chu planned to leave the hotel and check into another, where Chen could not locate him. He would visit a safe house and take the weapons, communication equipment, clothes, and any other gear he would need. Li Chu would trash his phone and spend the day collecting a bag of burner phones. When he rendezvoused with the new team—men he didn’t know, or care to know—he would pass them the phones, weapons, and his instructions.

  Do what I say. Do it correctly. Do not talk to Chen.

  Chen was not the reason he had agreed to travel to the depressing browns and grays of Ukraine. It wasn’t for some mystery case. It wasn’t for the corrupt Standing Committee. It certainly wasn’t for China.

  Li Chu was there to kill Bridger.

  Li Chu tossed the file on his bed. He reached unconsciously to his right hip looking for a weapon that was not there. He would get it tomorrow when he visited the safe house for supplies.

  He rarely wasted his time watching television, but at the moment, he felt he needed a distraction. The set was modern—a mid-sized Japanese flat screen—and it worked.

  Li Chu instantly recognized the female’s face. He grabbed the folder to confirm it. Ira Bondar. She was talking in a steady, forceful voice to another woman who was asking her questions.

  He did not speak Ukrainian, but he liked what he saw—willpower and determination in her face and mannerisms. The characteristics of a person who got what she wanted. He knew what they looked like. He saw the same traits every time he looked into a mirror.

  Now he knew for certain his path to completing the mission. It ran right through Ira Bondar.

  The TV program looked like it was being broadcast live—or he hoped it was. He copied down the channel and network name and rushed to a taxi stand outside the hotel. It was a dreary night, but he didn’t notice.

  He communicated in broken English with the driver on where he wanted to go. When the taxi arrived outside the broadcast studios of 1+1 TV Channel ten minutes later, Li Chu stayed in the car watching the building's front entrance. To his annoyance, the driver liked to make small talk.

  The weather is normal for this time of year. 1+1 was very popular. The Television Service of News program was on now. He had to drive to feed his wife and six children.

  Li Chu let the driver rattle on as he scanned the darkened streets, hoping he was lucky and that she would come out this door. He was lucky. She came out forty minutes later. A car pulled up. She got in the back.

  “Follow them,” he told his chatty driver.

  The driver was good at his craft, Li Chu observed, as the man weaved in and out of Kyiv traffic to keep sight of the car. The driver assumed the role of a tour guide as he announced the history of the areas as they passed. “That is from the time of Stalin. That too.”

  “We
are heading toward the stadiums,” he said as the car ahead of them turned down a street, then quickly turned left down an alley. “I cannot go there. This is private property. Bank property. Dangerous bank.”

  “Dangerous bank?”

  “The bank of Viktor Bondar.”

  The bank was a four-story white and glass structure of a more modern design than the rest of the office and residential buildings on Dilova Street.

  Li Chu motioned for the driver to pull over. He drove a block past the bank and pulled the car to the side of the narrow street.

  “Stay, I will be back.” He started to get out.

  “Do not go,” the taxi driver warned, pointing to the bank. Li Chu closed the door behind him.

  He walked along the sidewalk opposite the bank, keeping in the shadows. He went to the corner, crossed the street, and walked back toward the bank, which was now ahead and on his left. His pace slowed as he reached an open courtyard with a big tree in front of the bank’s entrance.

  As he approached, two dark figures, each the size of his taxi, came out of the shadows to make their presence known. In the dim area, Li Chu could see the weapons slung over their broad shoulders. He walked on, making a note of the small hotel, storefronts, and offices nearby.

  In a few moments, he was safely inside his taxi. His plan was complete. Watch the bank. Follow Ira. Identify Pavlo. Wait for Bridger to do the same, as he knew he would.

  Then I will take the case. And then I will kill the devil.

  If Li Chu could have gone inside, he would have seen Ira enter the residence apartments that constituted the top floors of the imposing brick building behind and adjacent to the bank. He would have heard a brief conversation with her father.

  “Your interview was a disappointment. You made us look weak,” Bondar slurred his words as he sat in the low light of his private office.

  “I am sorry you thought that. I think it went well.” She saw a mostly empty bottle of vodka on a table within his reach.

  “I want the case.” His fists pounded on his desk. He tried to stand, but the alcohol wouldn’t let him.

  “Pavlo is still working on it.”

  His hands waved in the air like he was swatting flies.

  “I don’t care. I am calling Chen. The case will—we will get more business with them—fucking Kirkwood.”

  “We discussed this. We should—”

  “I want it. Two days. You have two days.” His fist slammed the top of his desk, causing the near-empty bottle of vodka to spill over. He ignored it.

  “You are drinking too much. Get some sleep, father.”

  His rage vanished as quickly as it had arrived. He sat in his chair with half-opened eyes.

  She shook her head as she walked across the office, opened the huge wooden doors, and left.

  Her father was changing for the worse. He was not managing the businesses as he had in the past—the debacle like the one that just happened in Serbia would never have happened. They were losing deals and being pushed around by the Chinese.

  And he killed Uncle Anton.

  She took an elevator down to the lowest floors, then walked through a long white hallway lit with bright safety lights every twenty feet. She punched codes into electronic locks on several doors and stepped into the subfloors of the bank.

  “Ms. Ira,” Pavlo spurted out with surprise and pleasure when he opened his door.

  “I was not sure you would be here, being that it is so late,” she said as she walked into Pavlo’s basement hideaway. She knew he would be there. “I believe you have an apartment?”

  “Yes. Yes, I do! Nearby.” He was thrilled she knew about that. “But I have work to do on your case. I have been working on it, as you asked. I did stop to watch you tonight. On TNS. You were very wonderful. It was obvious they are envious of you.”

  “Thank you, Pavlo. You are most kind,” she said with a certain amount of sincerity.

  She had agreed to appear on the popular evening news program to show that the Bondar family, and herself in particular, would not hide or be harassed into seclusion. She had become the face of the Bondar empire, so appearing on the most popular news program, and answering tough questions, served a purpose.

  But Pavlo was wrong. They were not envious of her. They feared her.

  The next day, she was confident the press would describe her as beautiful, poised, knowledgeable, and ruthless. People on the street would call her a “kholodna suka,” a cold bitch, and other less flattering insults. She was pleased that they would all be correct.

  A beeping sound came from one of Pavlo’s computers on the desk behind him. He scampered over and sat. After a few pecks at the keyboard and glances up and down from the screen to his fingers, he turned to Ira with a smile.

  “I have found him! I have found Mr. Oleksandr.”

  35

  Taste of Blood

  Kirkwood Headquarters

  Prepare to come to Kyiv.

  As Peter Schaeffer slowly ascended the stairs to the 10th floor of Kirkwood headquarters, he wondered what he should think, if anything, about the messages from Bridger.

  Was Bridger getting close to finding the case?

  Earlier that morning, he called MacBride to update him and get the approval to travel to Kyiv. Before he could call, his phone rang. It was Marilyn, MacBride’s administrative assistant. Peter was needed in a meeting on the 10th floor at 10 a.m.

  Last time I heard that was when this whole mess started. But this time, I know more, a lot more.

  Jessup and MacBride were standing outside Jessup’s office when Peter opened the stairway door and entered onto the 10th floor. He saw Danforth Chapel shaking hands with two Asian men. As usual, Benton sat in a chair in the waiting area outside the office. Peter stopped several feet away and waited. They locked eyes.

  “Hey Benton, sorry. I don’t have any donuts on me,” Peter said, making sure his mockery was unmistakable.

  “Thank you, gentlemen. We will be in contact with Mourning Dove shortly.” Jessup escorted them to the elevator.

  Benton opened his mouth to reply, but he was cut off.

  “Come in, Peter.” MacBride motioned him inside Jessup’s office. Peter grinned and gave Benton an exaggerated wink as he walked. Peter heard a growl as the door closed behind him.

  The men were already on the couch in Jessup’s sitting area.

  “Peter, sit, please.” Jessup pointed to a chair across from the couch. “We are all eager to know about your progress.”

  Peter cleared his throat.

  “Well, we have made progress.” Peter felt their reactions. Mostly doubt. “The money was siphoned through a bank in Cyprus. We are working on getting the data.”

  The men all looked at each other.

  “That is amazing, Peter, just amazing,” MacBride said with an expression that Peter could not decide was good or bad.

  “Well done, Peter, but I am a little skeptical.” Chapel’s voice was friendly with a hint of condescending.

  Peter pulled a sheet of paper out of his pocket—a printout of the screenshot Bridger sent the night before.

  “Here is a partial screenshot of a spreadsheet.” He handed it to Jessup, who looked at it, then passed to MacBride, then Chapel, who studied it carefully.

  “This is fabulous, Peter.” Chapel folded the paper and gently placed it in his suit pocket.

  “What about the case? The case was a priority, too.” Jessup sounded like the case was an afterthought, not the main target of the operation. Peter was beginning to know better.

  Peter flicked his eyebrows up in excitement. He knew he had to keep the Spy Devils out of the conversation. He leaned forward, rested his elbows on his knees, and flicked his eyebrows again.

  “You mean Hillcrest?”

  Peter’s senses flared red from MacBride and Jessup’s direction. MacBride swiveled to face Peter just a little too quickly. Then he looked at Jessup, who was absentmindedly picking at an invisible speck on the sleeve of his
pristine white shirt. His eyes glanced up at Chapel.

  “It is still in Kyiv as far as we can tell,” Peter answered.

  “Can you provide some insight?” Jessup asked with his best reassuring lawyer voice.

  “I’d rather not. I have some sources working now.”

  Peter looked at Chapel, who looked both amused and stoic.

  “Gentlemen, Peter here is doing the right thing by protecting his sources and methods, as it is called. I can tell you they are highly trained in these types of situations. I trust them.” Chapel smiled at Peter.

  Peter was shocked by Chapel’s comment. How did he know about the Spy Devils? Bridger did say they knew each other. Are they working together?

  Jessup was in full lawyer mode as he stood like Atticus Finch in To Kill a Mockingbird. He looked at his Kirkwood colleagues. Then he turned to Peter.

  “You have done an outstanding, miraculous job finding the funds and what appears to be the location of the case.” Then his supportive tone went dead serious. “However, I think we should bring your efforts to an end.”

  Peter was stunned. He sat forward on the edge of his chair as if getting inches closer to the source would help him understand if he heard Jessup clearly.

  “Why? Don’t you want…the case…the money?” He had trouble putting his thoughts together. His hands were moving in circles in front of him.

  “You are disappointed,” continued Jessup, ignoring Peter’s direct questions. “I can see the look of a hunter in your eyes, the taste of blood is in your mouth. You are close to the goal, but we just can’t allow you to continue. Thank you again for all your hard work.”

  “I don’t understand this. Can you explain why?” Peter said. He looked at MacBride, who quickly looked away toward Jessup.