Surly Bonds

by Michael Byars Lewis

  “Knock,” Vince ordered when they reached the door.

  The man obeyed and rapped twice. Nikolai opened the door, his pistol fitted with a silencer pointed at the man’s chest. The pair entered the room, and Vince shut the door behind them.

  “Search him,” Nikolai turned on the light, the gun still aimed at the American. Vince removed a wallet, two sets of keys, and a money clip from the man’s pockets.

  “Secure him.”

  Vince pushed the man into the chair and tied his hands together behind the chair before he secured them to the chair itself. Then, he tied the man’s ankles to each leg of the chair and placed several loops of rope around his chest and arms. The man could not move. As soon as he was secure, Nikolai searched his wallet.

  “Well, well, well,” Nikolai said, “Agent Greg Johnson, Federal Bureau of Investigation. I must apologize for not knowing who you are. My personal specialty is the Eastern Hemisphere members of the CIA. No doubt you know who we are.”

  “It is a routine surveillance of a Russian official on American soil. It’s for your own protection,” Greg said.

  “Don’t toy with me, Agent Johnson, I don’t have time for it. How many of you are there?”

  “Just me.”

  SMACK! Nikolai backhanded Johnson. His head snapped to the right as blood spewed from his busted lip. “I told you I don’t have time for games. Who are you reporting to?”

  “Just my boss in Oklahoma Cit—”

  SMACK! Nikolai backhanded him again. “Liar! What will it take for you to cooperate with us Agent Johnson? You have had us under surveillance all afternoon. I want to know, why?”

  Before he could speak, Vince moved over to Johnson and threw a right cross that connected squarely with Johnson’s jaw and snapped his head to the side. When his head returned to center, Vince came back with a left. The process continued for several more punches. Johnson tried to anticipate the blows and roll with them, but he had no ability to maneuver. The blood from Johnson’s swollen face dripped on to his shirt. His head fell forward limply on his chest, like a rag doll.

  “It sounds melodramatic, Agent Johnson, but would you care to talk now?” Nikolai asked as he lit a cigarette.

  Johnson struggled to lift his head. His bruised and bloody head was difficult to move. “I got . . . nothing to say . . . that I haven’t said . . . already.” Blood and saliva pooled in the corner of his mouth and fell on to his pants leg.

  “Very well.” Nikolai glanced at his watch. “Perhaps we made a mistake.”

  Nikolai turned away from the battered agent in the chair and took a long drag on his cigarette. “If we made such a mistake, I don’t think we could justify our actions to our superiors. How could I explain kidnapping an American FBI agent and questioning him under false pretenses?”

  Johnson shook his head, but the attempt made him sway. “I don’t know.”

  Nikolai twirled, the 9mm with silencer firmly in his hand. “I can’t.” Nikolai raised the pistol to the man’s forehead and squeezed the trigger.

  Johnson’s head exploded, blood sprayed across the room as his body went limp. Still tied to the chair, his chin came to rest on his chest. Nikolai walked to the bed and gathered Johnson’s wallet, ID badge, and keys. Nikolai stuck the wallet in his coat pocket and tossed the hotel key to Vince. “Grab your clothes. We must go now. Before you leave town, check out this man’s room. Eliminate any problems that might exist.” He handed Vince the pistol with the silencer.

  Vince tucked it in the front of his pants and picked up his suitcases. The two Russians, bags in hand, left the room and headed for their vehicles.

  “If you are discovered, the implications are far beyond your depth of understanding. We will all suffer.”

  “Yes, sir,” Vince replied. In his own mind, he must succeed and return as a hero or spend the rest of his life in a gulag in Siberia . . . if they let him live.

  “Good luck, Mako. I hope to see you in two weeks. You will receive a hero’s welcome upon your return.”

  Vince nodded as he climbed into his truck.

  CALDWELL AND JASON SAT in the small hotel room, reviewing some papers. “Here’s another form where you promise not to disclose any information you might have seen or heard involving this operation. Normally, I would have had you sign them first, but this will be okay.”

  “Didn’t I do this already?”

  “Sort of. This is a different topic.”

  Jason looked at Caldwell with trepidation. “Is this going to commit me to some type of job requirement or something?”

  “Yeah,” Caldwell chuckled, “your ass will belong to the CIA for the next hundred years.” Caldwell went straight to the ice chest and pulled out a Coke. “You want one?”

  “Sure.” Jason finished reading the paperwork and signed both sheets. Caldwell gave him the chilled soda, and Jason drank half of it in one gulp.

  “I called your OSI buddy in San Antonio earlier. He seems to think you’re a squared away guy.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah. I’m sure we both have info the other guy doesn’t know, but the bottom line is he thinks you’re trustworthy. So, I’m going to in-brief you on what I believe might be going on. There is a huge NAFTA conference in San Antonio this week. Both Republicans and Democrats will be there to debate the merits of the program. There will be media coverage everywhere. Mexico’s economy is one of the worst in this hemisphere. The labor secretary will be at the NAFTA conference instead of the president.”

  “Why would the Russians want to kill the labor secretary?”

  “I don’t think they do.” Caldwell walked across the room and picked up the newspaper. He tossed it on the bed in front of Jason.

  PRESIDENTIAL HOPEFUL AGAINST NAFTA, the headline read. Underneath the headline was a photograph of his father, Senator Jonathan Bowman, waving to a crowd.

  “You think he’s going to kill the senator?”

  “Yes.”

  “But why? He doesn’t have any direct control over foreign policy, does he?”

  “Not yet. But he is heavily favored to win the Republican nomination and the election. It’s in Russia’s best interest for Senator Bowman to lose the election and keep the current administration in place. Russia’s economy is bad and decreasing steadily. The current administration continues to support Russia financially and continues to downsize the US military. We’ve been watching Russia’s domestic issues in recent months. Some of the leaders are unhappy with their government. We suspect a coup is possible within the next two years, if not sooner. If the coup is over quick with minimum bloodshed, we are confident the current administration would go along with the new government.”

  “I understand. If they eliminate Bowman, there’s not another candidate strong enough to defeat the president.”

  “Right. I’m sure the Russians are counting on Congress and the American people to rally around the president When the Russian coup occurs. That would keep the new guys in place, because the current administration is all talk. That’s my theory. Let’s hope I’m close, at least.” Caldwell grabbed the newspaper and stared at the picture again. “Look, I know it’s been a long day, but this is almost over. I think we have the situation under control. I’ve notified the FBI in OKC, and they should be arriving within two hours. As soon as my federal warrant is faxed in, I’ll head over to the Ramada Inn and join my partner in his surveillance. It’s better if you stay here until we bring in Andrews.”

  Jason nodded. “He’s my dad, you know.”

  “Who?”

  “Senator Bowman. He’s my father. Little known fact outside a few small circles. He and my mom divorced before I was born. We haven’t stayed in contact because my mom wanted it kept out of the press, so I wouldn’t get hassled over the years.”

  “We’ve got to contact him immediately.”

  “I’d like to,” Jason said sullenly. “But I met him about a year ago for the first time.”

  “Really?”

  Jason
explained his family situation. “I tried calling, but apparently he’s changed phone numbers again. Mom says it’s due to the election. Bottom line, I can’t reach him. Not right now anyway.”

  “Can your mom call him?”

  “She could, if I could reach her,” Jason said as he stood and walked to the bathroom. “She’s traveling around Europe right now. Where? I don’t know until I receive a post card a week later.”

  “Not a problem,” Caldwell said as Jason shut the door. “I have ways to reach him.”

  VINCE PULLED INTO THE PARKING LOT of the Holiday Inn on the southern edge of Enid, east of Vance. It wasn’t long before he found the room number that matched the key in his hand.

  He crept up to the room, scanning in all directions. The lights were on. With his ear against the door, he couldn’t hear anything inside

  The Russian assassin moved the key toward the lock in the door. The metal key slid into the grooves of the weathered door handle lock. Pistol in his right hand, Vince took a deep breath and he gripped the key and doorknob. In one swift movement, he unlocked the door and flung it inward.

  The door flew all the way open and Vince entered in a low crouch. Quickly scanning the room, his eyes fell on the lone figure sitting on the far edge of the bed nearest the other wall. The man’s eyes widened as he focused on the assassin who now stood before him.

  “YOU!”

  Vince lined up the man in his sights and fired off three quick rounds. The muffled shots struck home, and the man twisted and buckled as the bullets hit him.

  No sooner had the man’s body fell to the floor; a car pulled up and parked close by.

  “Damn,” Vince said.

  He tucked the pistol in his pants, closed the door, and walked to his truck. He was angry at himself for being careless. Surely, the driver didn’t see him. Could he have seen the gun? Vince cursed to himself as he cranked the engine. The dirty truck roared to life, and he backed out of the parking space, his eyes locked on the room he just left.

  45

  September 11, 1995

  * * *

  JASON TURNED OFF THE WATER in the sink as he reached for a towel. The noise sounded unusual; perhaps it came from the television. “Hey, Agent Caldwell, what are you doing out there?” he yelled from the bathroom as he dried his face.

  He finished with the towel and placed it on the rack, as he opened the bathroom door.

  “Oh shit,” he exclaimed at the sight of Caldwell’s motionless body on the floor. Blood pooled on his chest, spilling over his sides. Jason scanned the room. No sign of disturbance. They were alone.

  A car door shut, and an engine started outside. Jason dashed to the door. A familiar truck backed away . . . driven by Vince Andrews. They were both shocked as their eyes locked. Then Vince smiled, waving his pistol in a salute as the truck sped away. Jason glanced up and down the sidewalk at the hotel.

  A family, twenty yards away, pulled up in a minivan, and another couple two rooms away climbed into their car.

  That’s why Vince left. Otherwise, he, too, would be a dead man.

  Jason dashed back inside and knelt beside Caldwell. “Hey, buddy, can you hear me?” Nothing.

  He checked for a pulse and breathed a sigh of relief when he found one. Quickly, he examined the body—three bullet wounds spilled blood everywhere. Caldwell’s once white shirt now had a deep scarlet pool. Jason leaped for the phone and dialed.

  “Nine-one-one, how can I help you?”

  “Yes, a man’s been shot.”

  “Is the man still breathing?”

  “Yes, he’s still alive, but send someone here fast.”

  “What is your location?”

  “I’m at the Holiday Inn on Van Buren, room 132.”

  “Stay calm, sir. We’ll have someone there soon. What is your name?”

  “Jason . . . Jason Conrad.”

  “Okay, Jason, what kind of wound is it?”

  “Uh—I don’t know. Bullet wounds. Three of them. Two in the chest and one in the stomach.”

  “Is he making gasping noises when he breathes?”

  “No. Look, I’m not a doctor. You’ve got to send help right away. The killer is getting away, and I’ve got to stop him!”

  “I thought you said he’s alive? Jason, we need you to stay by the—”

  Jason hung up the phone as he knelt by Caldwell. Time slipped away. He grabbed a pillow, stuck it under Caldwell’s feet, and treated the wounded CIA man for shock. After he folded some towels, he pressed them to the wounds.

  “Hang tight, Caldwell, help is on the way. I’m gonna borrow your vehicle for a while. I’ll get back to you.” There was no response from the bleeding figure on the floor. Jason found the car keys and Caldwell’s pistol, and bolted for the door.

  When Jason reached the car, he saw how bloody his hands were. Blood was everywhere. Nausea crept over him, as he noticed the blood covered his pants and shirt. Once in Caldwell’s sedan, he stashed the pistol under the seat, and cranked the engine. He found a towel on the floorboard and wiped the blood off his hands. No sooner had he pulled out of the parking lot than he heard the sirens. Once on Van Buren, he drove south, and took a quick right toward Vance AFB. He could see police lights flashing in the distance behind him.

  What was he going to do? For the first time, he realized everything Caldwell told him was true. Vince was a Russian agent. Vince had somehow found out about Caldwell and eliminated him.

  A story so farfetched, no one would believe it. Vince Andrews, second lieutenant, U.S. Air Force, was a Russian assassin. Now, Jason was involved, and Vince knew it. He was probably next on Vince’s hit list.

  Jason drove to the base, though he wasn’t sure why. Clean clothes were a must, no matter what else he did. He made the left to go into the front gate at Vance AFB as panic set in. What if the gate guard stopped him? How would he explain the blood? As he approached the gate, the guard talked on the telephone. Too late to turn around. Jason inched the vehicle forward. The guard stepped out of the small shack and put out his hand for Jason to stop. Only four feet away from him now, the light from the shack illuminated the car.

  The guard waved Jason through with a crisp salute and focused again on the telephone. Jason’s heart skipped a beat. I’d rather be lucky than good any day. He pulled into the dorm parking lot. Vince’s truck wasn’t there still, but then he really didn’t expect him to be. Jason ran to his room and locked the door behind him. He peeled off the bloody shirt and pants, jumped into the shower for a quick rinse, and put on some clean clothes. The blood drenched clothes were thrown in a plastic bag and took them outside to a dumpster.

  Jason returned to his room. He paced the room several times. Now, it was clear where Vince learned to fight. He was a trained killer. If that’s the case, why am I going after him? Am I going after him? He was confused, angry, shocked.

  Unsure of what to do next, he stood in the dark shadows of the hallway, and stared at the dorm across the parking lot. The lights in Vince’s room were still out. Several moments passed as he watched and waited. Nothing. He went back in his room and dialed Vince’s number. No answer. What was he going to do?

  If Caldwell was right, Vince was headed to San Antonio to assassinate his father. He could call the police; he should call the police and let them handle it from here. But he suspected they wouldn’t believe him. By the time they decided to check out Jason’s story, his father would be dead, and Vince would have disappeared.

  And the police would be looking for him soon, which meant they would eventually contact the base. The SP’s would close the base down and he wouldn’t be able to leave. They would consider his story a deflection from the shooting at the hotel.

  Maybe he could find a clue or something. If only he had some evidence to offer the authorities. It might make up for any trouble he caused with the test fiasco.

  “Screw it!” He could leave it up to those whose job it was to handle these things, but no one would believe him. By the time Jason conv
inced them his story was true, Vince would kill his father and be long gone. At this point, his Air Force career was over anyway. Jason marched outside, opened the trunk to Caldwell’s sedan, and pulled out his overnight bag. He flung the door open, threw his bag on the passenger seat, and slid into the driver’s seat.

  His escape from the base was uneventful, and he took a right on Fox Boulevard. When he reached Highway 81, he turned south—headed for Texas and the city of San Antonio.

  46

  September 11, 1995

  * * *

  VIKTOR HUNG UP THE PHONE in his office on the second floor of the Dacha Complex. His face in his hands, he no longer presented the image of a strong leader who would lead a second Russian Revolution. He received word that a CIA case officer had been killed in Enid, Oklahoma and another was in the hospital. That, coupled with the exposure of Mikeal Tolstoy and Palovich here in Moscow, said it all. The Americans were on to them. He tried everything possible to abort the mission, but Nikolai and The Mako were out of contact. If Senator Bowman were killed, the Americans knew that Russia was behind it. Perhaps the phone call he just made might stop The Mako. Their secondary operative would risk everything to stop the mission.

  The knock on his door snapped him out of his thoughts, and Viktor turned his head in that direction. “Come in,” he said. Viktor moved slowly, more out of necessity than desire. He was weak, and for the first time in his life, felt old. The door opened and in popped his old friend Aleksandr.

  “Good morning, comrade,” Aleksandr said. The general strutted in front of Viktor’s desk, his hands clasped behind his back.

  “What brings you here, old friend?” Viktor did not care. He was not interested in socializing.

  “I regret that it is business this time. The communications center detected an increase in radio and telephone traffic with the American embassy. It’s up three hundred percent within the past six hours. We received word the American Ambassador will be leaving within thirty minutes to return to the United States at the president’s request.”