The Spy Devils

by Joe Goldberg

  “She can take a punch. I will give her credit for that. Tough bitch,” Rudenko said, laughing too loud for the room.

  Pavlo glared at him.

  “Do not look at me, fat fucker.” Koval slapped Pavlo hard across the cheek. Blood began to drip from his nose.

  “We should visit her again. Tinka? Finnish girl—” Rudenko said.

  “I like Finnish girls,” said the other man, laughing.

  “No!” Pavlo shouted, as he tried to break his restraints.

  “Go show ‘wet pants’ that we are serious,” Koval said to Rudenko.

  Pavlo watched Rudenko get up and turn toward the door.

  “No. No!” Pavlo screamed. His hands jerked frantically. Sweat rained off his face, and his urine splashed under his feet as he struggled to stand.

  Rudenko opened the door, stopped, and turned. “I’ll be back,” he said in a bad Arnold Schwarzenegger impersonation. He laughed again and closed the door behind him.

  Koval showed Pavlo the screen. Tinka looked up in total terror when Rudenko walked into view. He glanced over his shoulder at the camera with the look of absolute evil. He raised his hand and swung it down. She jerked, then was still. Rudenko smiled back at the camera and walked out of view.

  Pavlo sat fossilized. Nothing moved. His eyes were wide. His upper teeth had bitten into his lower lip, causing a small line of blood to run down his chin. Koval put the phone in his pocket and walked to avoid the puddle on the floor. He leaned against the wall to Pavlo’s right.

  “That’s enough,” a voice said with authority.

  Pavlo startled when he heard the words. His head swiveled, looking to see where they had come from.

  “Pavlo. I know you are a little upset, and I want to help.” He saw a silhouetted shape hidden within the glare of the floodlights. “Understand? But I need you to help make that possible, Pavlo. Can you do that?” the voice asked.

  The lights increased to a blinding brightness. Pavlo flopped his head to his chest. Snot and drops of blood trickled from his nose onto his shirt.

  Rudenko came into the room and grinned at Koval.

  “These men are serious. I want them to stop, so you and Tinka can leave. I can only hold them off for so long. And then I can’t stop what they do to Tinka, or you. Now is the time. Not a minute from now. Not ten seconds. Now.”

  “The bank. In the basement,” Pavlo whispered immediately.

  The lights dimmed more.

  “We need to go get it. Can you help with that?”

  Pavlo nodded.

  “Excellent. Don’t worry about Tinka.”

  “I…I want…to see her…see Tinka,” Pavlo panted each word with heavy breaths.

  “She will be fine, as long as you help me.” The voice was closer. Pavlo looked up to see a man in a cap standing over him. “Tell me all about the case and the bank.”

  Pavlo nodded again. He was broken.

  38

  Truth is Stranger than Fiction

  Over the Atlantic

  When Peter opened his eyes, he felt like he had fallen asleep in the boring black-and-white corporate intelligence world and awoke in the magically colorful world of espionage.

  It was right out of a Daniel Silva novel.

  The future of his company and perhaps his career rested on his assignment to locate some mystery case from an evil oligarch in Kyiv. He was working with an even more mysterious bunch of spies named the Spy Devils. The man who created the private intelligence consulting industry—and in some spheres was considered one of the most powerful men in the world—was treating him like a colleague.

  “My home in the sky,” Chapel told Peter, as he glanced around the tans, browns, and polished wood accents of his Bombardier Global 7500 private plane.

  “Quite a home. It is bigger than my split-level hovel in the Chicago suburbs,” Peter quipped. “Saying ‘this is nice’ is an understatement.”

  “It does serve a purpose. My life can be somewhat hectic.”

  Chapel smiled, then picked up an already open bottle of red wine, filled a glass, and handed it to Peter. He filled one for himself and set the bottle down.

  “Never too early,” Chapel declared. “It is a simple Louis Jadot Pommard 2010. A full-bodied red. Look for the hint of raspberries, spices, and mint. Cheers.”

  Chapel swirled his wine, looked at it, stuck his nose inside the glass. He inhaled, sipped, sucked it around his mouth, then swallowed. His face showed his satisfaction.

  “This won’t take long—a quick hop over the Atlantic. A stop at Heathrow to refuel, then on to Ukraine. From there, I will let you proceed with your plans. Until then, make yourself at home. Ms. Stead will take care of you. If you will excuse me, I need to take care of a little business.”

  Chapel turned toward the rear of the plane, opened a door, and disappeared.

  “May I get you something?” a pleasant voice said. Peter turned and was face to face with a smiling woman wearing a white shirt with Danforth Chapel Company sewn over her left breast. She was in her twenties and wore the look of someone who enjoyed her life flying the world with powerful people.

  “Maybe some peanuts?” Peter replied, trying to appear as if he was a regular on private jets.

  “Certainly.” Ms. Stead turned and walked to the galley.

  Peter sat in the most comfortable seat he had ever sat in on a plane. Moments later, Ms. Stead re-appeared with a white ceramic bowl filled with warm mixed nuts.

  “Anything else, Mr. Schaeffer?”

  “Um, no, thanks.” He didn’t know why he was surprised she knew his name, but he was.

  Peter found a card that described the jet and looked it over.

  Maybe I will get one of these someday.

  The interior was divided into four sections. The flight deck and crew suite were in the front. Next was a lounge and dining area where Peter was sitting. Eight leather seats facing each other in two sections of four. The third section—where Chapel was now, he figured—was an office and lounge with couches and desks. In the rear was a private master bedroom suite. The air smelled like a new car.

  Dinner was prime rib. Vegetables. Baked potato. Chocolate cake.

  The ride was so smooth he had to remind himself he was in a plane over the Atlantic Ocean and not sitting in front of his TV at home. Chapel spent most of his time in the office section and in his master bedroom. From what Peter could tell, he was on the phone talking, yelling, cajoling, and laughing. Peter figured lots of people needed the help of the world’s best fixer.

  Peter was impressed with Chapel’s stamina as he heard him on one call after another. Peter just wanted to sleep.

  The sounds inside the plane and interior design made it hard for Peter to eavesdrop on Chapel’s side of the conversation, but he still tried. There was a Hollywood star whose phone was hacked, resulting in sex videos being posted online. A senator was caught in an airport restroom doing something Peter couldn’t make out, but Chapel convinced the person not to jump off a ledge. A world leader was checking on his fortune before fleeing the angry populace of his country.

  Peter was a little jealous. His conversations with Chapel were mostly brief and causal. Chapel did the asking. Peter did the answering. Work. Family. Career. As much as he hoped he would, Chapel never mentioned Bridger or the Spy Devils.

  There was one exception.

  After the refueling in London and during the shorter hop to Kyiv, Peter realized he must have fallen asleep. It took a moment for the fog in his brain to comprehend where he was. Then he saw Chapel sitting in the chair facing him. His legs were crossed. His manicured hands were in his lap. His eyes were fixed on Peter.

  Peter quickly pushed the button on his chair to bring it from recline to a normal sitting position.

  “Mr. Chapel.”

  Chapel eyed Peter for a few more seconds.

  “Peter. Danny, please.” He flashed his mesmerizing smile.

  “Yes, Danny, sorry.” Peter cursed himself for making the same emb
arrassing mistake.

  “Peter, sometimes, truth is stranger than fiction—and riskier. You are involved in a very serious situation. I am certain you are aware of that. You should be cautious.” Chapel’s face morphed from a look of trusting best friend to the scolding school principal.

  “Um. I don’t—? Cautious? Of what?”

  “Very cautious. People’s lives and livelihoods depend on your professionalism,” Chapel said, one hand coming up to brush his bright orange and yellow tie. Without another word or change of expression, Chapel stood and walked back to his office.

  Peter searched his brain for any idea of what Chapel meant. Peter was wide awake for the rest of the flight until they landed at Boryspil Airport in Kyiv. When the plane finished its taxi to the private jet terminal, Chapel came out of his office. Peter stood, not knowing what to expect.

  “Here we are, Peter! I don’t believe you have been to Kyiv before, right?” Chapel said all bright and happy. His demeanor gave no indication of the dire warning he issued just a few hours ago.

  “No, I haven’t.”

  “Then I hope you have the opportunity to get a chance to enjoy this historic city.” Chapel led Peter to the open door and the steps.

  “I hope so, too.”

  Peter descended the steps into the Kyiv night. A blue-and-yellow carpet led from the jet to the entrance of the building. Chapel followed him down.

  “Peter. I shall leave you here, as I have an urgent meeting at the Ministry of Defense. My staff will see you through the immigration process.”

  “Oh, okay. Thank you for the ride.”

  “Anytime, Peter. Anytime.” Peter watched Chapel walk a few steps toward a waiting black SUV, where a security guard held the door open. The engine was running. Chapel turned and looked back. “Say hello to the boys and happy hunting.”

  He smiled and entered the car. The guard closed the door and ran around to the other side. In three seconds, it sped away.

  Peter was alone—but not for long.

  39

  It Sucks to be Pavlo

  Kyiv, Ukraine

  Based on a photo provided by Imp taken from Peter’s Facebook page, Snake intercepted Peter when he walked in the main hall of Boryspil Airport.

  “Bridger,” was all Snake said.

  Peter nodded and followed. Traffic was light, so it was easy for Snake to check for surveillance on the drive to the warehouse. Peter dozed.

  The interrogation of Pavlo was over when Peter arrived. The Spy Devils were sitting around a cluttered industrial-sized rectangular table in the middle of a windowless room. Wires from a table full of electronics ran out the door in the direction of humming generators.

  The Spy Devils had taken over a deteriorating building near the port. Discarded boxes and fading labels revealed it had once been a canning and shipping facility for fruits and vegetables. Graffiti covered the walls. Mounds of trash and discarded drug paraphernalia covered the floor.

  “Come over. How was the trip?” Bridger asked Peter.

  “Chapel’s plane is pretty nice,” Peter said as they shook hands.

  “Yes, I know. It’s a Bombardier Global 7500. Nice ride. What I meant was, what did you best friends talk about?”

  “Not much. Just warned me to be cautious. Like my life depended on it. He says hello, by the way. He liked your info from Cyprus. Said nice things.”

  “He is such a sweetheart.” Bridger was still not thrilled Chapel was involved. “I assume he stuffed it into his pocket.”

  “Yes,” Peter nodded.

  “Like always. He will take credit for it. He always does.”

  “He is the new point of contact,” Peter said, rubbing his tired eyes.

  “Yeah. I heard.” Bridger said, making sure the sarcasm was obvious. “We are on a tight schedule, so this has to be quick.” Bridger waved his arm around the room. “You met Snake. These are most of the famous Spy Devils. Everyone. This is Peter. He works for Kirkwood.”

  Peter nodded at the people around the table. It felt surreal to Peter. They looked like normal people. A man. Woman. A kid. The Snake. Only one not normal-looking was the older mean-looking guy who was pacing. He looked scary. It was hard to fathom that they were a celebrated group of spies he had been following on social media for years.

  They looked tired and showed it in their posture and red eyes.

  “How’s business?” Bridger asked Peter. “Tell us. Anything more from your sources?”

  “Not much.” Peter briefed them regarding his conversations with Kirkwood management. How they wanted to take him off the assignment. Chapel offering to act as a point of contact.

  “Interesting,” Bridger said. “They tried to drop the whole thing, did they? I need to think about that. Anyway, we have been busy, too.”

  Bridger gave Peter a quick sketch of Pavlo’s interrogation. As he did, they watched a split-screen monitor showing Pavlo getting dressed on one side and Tinka’s now empty room on the other.

  “Aren’t you excited? We are almost there,” Bridger said, clapping his hands and looking at Peter with a smile.

  Peter was horrified by what he saw and concentrated on keeping a neutral face.

  “I’ll believe you. I feel sorry for him,” Peter said, as he watched a trembling man struggle to tie his sweatpants.

  “Why?”

  “He looks—abused.”

  “Abused? Not at all,” Bridger said, without displaying any remorse. “He works for a mob thug who, in some way, killed your CFO. He helped them steal money from your company. I don’t care about him at all.”

  Peter kept his eyes on the man struggling to put on some shoes. “What happens when they find out he gave us the case?”

  “They can cook him,” Imp said from the other end of the table. “They can cut him up and barbeque him for all I care. It sucks to be Pavlo.”

  “You want him cooked just because you are jealous,” Snake said.

  “Jealous?” Imp said, his voice rising in disbelief. He pointed to the screen. “Of that?”

  “Him!” Milton pointed to the screen.

  “It worked like a charm, fool,” Imp said indignantly.

  Peter looked at Bridger. “That’s Imp. Whiz-kid geek. Touchy. The other is Milton. Engineering genius.”

  Imp’s trojan virus buried in Theo’s email should have granted immediate access to the Bondar network, but Imp was surprised. Pavlo’s network, he discovered, was an impressive display of computer expertise. Imp encountered a sophisticated ring of security partitions. After a few hours, he was finally inside the files and retrieved the information they needed.

  The other Spy Devils noticed Imp’s struggles and quickly used it as a way to mock the self-absorbed kid.

  “You can all eat shit,” Imp said. They let out an exhausted laugh.

  “This is going to take forever. This clay will never come off,” Beatrice said, rubbing spirit gum remover across her forehead.

  “Beatrice. Disguise. Technical. She has had a long couple of days,” Bridger said to Peter.

  Beatrice was at the table looking into a mirror, vigorously wiping her face with tissues and creams. A dozen bottles, jars, puffs, tissues, and towels were spread out in front of her. A wet brownish wig was in a bag on the floor. Milton was next to her, making sure all the trash was collected for disposal.

  “Would you rather be tackling the makeup right now or spend some more time kissing our pal here?” Imp jerked his thumb toward the screen. Beatrice looked at him, flipped him the finger, then turned back to the mirror. Milton grinned.

  The door opened, and Peter saw two large men walk into the room.

  “Olegs! Bridger said.

  “Spy Devils?” Peter asked.

  “Friends of the Devil.”

  Bridger exchanged a handshake with each man. “You guys were great.”

  “It is not too hard, as you saw, Mr. Bridger,” said Oleg Koval.

  “We thought he might shit his pants,” Oleg Rudenko added.

/>   “I thought he had,” Imp said, as he tapped on his electronics.

  “We are available for you any time,” Rudenko said.

  “Great. The money is already in your accounts. Once we are gone, you can scrub this area and pack up the equipment and put it back in storage.”

  “Yes, sir, and thank you. We appreciate your generosity,” Koval said. “You are a valued customer.”

  “Make sure you tell Lana and Anna hello. And those kids of yours.”

  “Thank you,” they said in unison, as they walked out the door.

  “I love Oleg,” Imp said.

  “Which one?” Milton asked.

  “Oleg,” Imp said with emphasis.

  “He’s the good one,” Milton agreed.

  “Time to check on another one of us,” Bridger said, as he took out his mobile phone and launched the Signal app.

  As it connected, he hit the speaker button and put the phone on the table.

  “Beast? We are about ready here. What’s your status?”

  “Status? It is still dark if you can’t tell. I’m in my room. The street lights are on. I can see cars parked everywhere. The usual Kyiv parking chaos. Same cars and scooters as before, generally. I will head for the restaurant when it opens at six—in about forty-five minutes. I will have a better view of the sidewalks and the street.”

  Since they departed Cyprus, Beast had worked solo gathering intel on the Bondars and their facilities. Traveling as a businessman, he stayed in a boutique hotel next to the Ukraine Standard Bank, a prime location to surveil the bank and adjacent residence location. He noted the times and which doors they used to enter and exit the buildings. Beast observed the cars and drivers that parked or passed by the bank more than twice. He memorized who was on the streets each day and at what times, looking for patterns of plain-clothed security. He reported his intel back to Bridger three times each day.