by Seeley James
Bastards.
Out of the clear blue sky above, Miguel’s big paw grabbed my wrist. He yanked me back to the land of the living. Emily screamed. Miguel and I ended up toe-to-toe, staring at each other for an awkward second.
“Refill?” Miguel asked.
“Sure.” I swung my glass into position.
He was nice enough to pretend my hand wasn’t shaking and went to grab the wine bottle.
Mercury stood in the empty space Miguel left behind. Navajos can fuck up a wet dream, you know that? Estsanatlehi can kiss my ass.
I said, Who?
Estsanatlehi. Changing Woman. She walks to the east and meets her younger self and changes into a young person. Your main man Miguel there is in tight with her. She calls him Monster Slayer. The two of them can take a flying—
“Hey, they’re waking up.” Miguel stood in the sliding glass door. “Ready?”
Watson was still out cold. He was smaller than the other two; the sedative would last longer. The bigger Russian was coming around first. I had Miguel carry the others into separate bedrooms off the living room. While he moved the bodies, I observed how large the suite was. Everything in leather and glass and silver. Nice. Extremely nice. I wondered how he was planning to explain it on his expense report.
I splashed cold water on my prisoner. “Why did Viktor steal my dog?”
His eyes focused on me. I repeated my question. He squinted. I repeated it a third time.
When he finally heard me, his face blanched. He knew who I was: the man who had crept into the Russian Embassy’s private living quarters and shot his boss’s boss in the leg. In an organization the size of the SVR, a story like Viktor’s could not stay secret long. Which worked well for me. My prisoner tried to look unfazed, but the beads of sweat on his brow gave him away.
“I was going to ask you a series of questions.” I checked my pistol’s magazine and gave him a smile. “I expect you’ll refuse to answer—because you’re a professional. So, I’ll skip the formalities and go straight to the part where I blow a hole in your leg just like Viktor’s. I mean, why not? You’ve earned it. Probably.”
I pressed the pistol to his shin and watched his eyes blow up like balloons.
“Wait.” The sweat on his brow formed rivulets that dripped down his temple. “I answer what I know.”
I lifted the muzzle and nonchalantly waved the gun around, always keeping the inside of the barrel in his direct line of sight. “How do you know Watson?”
“Who?”
“I knew it would be a waste of time.” I pressed the muzzle back to his shin.
“Zhdat’! Wait.” He took a deep breath. “I need … how do you say, escape sheep?”
I rolled his phrase around in my head for a minute. “Scapegoat? You need someone to blame as the source? Yeah, I got you covered there, buddy.”
Most professional killers punch a clock for the secret police in some country or another. They’re not living the Mafia dream or a consumed by religious fervor. All they want is plausible deniability and a reasonable expectation of going home at quitting time. My guarantee of giving him a fall guy was almost what he needed to hear. But he still gave me a skeptical glance.
I pulled out the oldest insurance package available to men of our kind. “I give you my word, soldier-to-soldier, no one will ever learn my source.”
He nodded. “He work for the Chuck Roche.”
A genuine smile grew on me. The Russians purposely mispronounced the weasel’s name the same way we did: roach. None of that fancy row-SHAY nonsense. They might not be such bad guys after all. Then I remembered who stole my dog. I kept the Glock in place and gave him another serial-killer smile. “Duh.”
“He … he is important man.”
I looked at his leg, then at him. “Watson comes to Barcelona?”
The guy nodded furiously. “Last summer. He come with Roche first time. He comes now, weekends, big meetings.”
I gave him my soldier stare. He gave me the same right back.
Voices were coming from the other room. Miguel’s hostage wasn’t as chatty as mine. But then, the big guy didn’t have my street cred working for him.
“What does Watson do?” I asked.
“He work on project with big general. Maybe kompromat on Alan Sabel.” He referred to the Russian’s love of getting or creating compromising pictures or documents on their targets for continuing extortion.
That didn’t make sense. They wouldn’t waste time looking for kompromat on Pia and Alan Sabel, who led exemplary lives. Given what we knew of Watson’s mission, there was no way in hell that scumbag would get dirt on the Sabels.
Yet Roche had planted him in our midst, and Viktor Popov had gone to extraordinary lengths to retrieve Pozdeeva’s drive. Roche and Watson held secret meetings with Russians in Barcelona. Watson carried the message about #HuntersFail back to Roche. They were smart enough to make it easily deniable. But why take the risk?
With the election a handful of weeks away, we needed concrete proof soon. I’d already mailed in my ballot. Most Sabel employees had. The voters deserved to know about these connections. But where could we find verifiable evidence?
“Who’s the big general?” I asked.
The Russian shrugged. “Important man, very secret. Above my payment class.”
I squinted. “Pay grade?”
“Da.” He shrugged. “Only thing I know sure: from Kaliningrad.”
Mercury tapped me on the shoulder. Dude, can I have a word with you?
I said, I’m in the middle of something.
Mercury said, I might have found a reprieve for you. Getcha second chance, ya feel me?
You worried I might start working with the Navajo gods?
Ah homie, don’t be throwing them in my face. You don’t want to hang with them. Ask Miguel. Scary as hell. Dancing around the bonfire, big ol’ masks, and all that. He shivered. Minerva and Ceres were interested in your shrine offer.
“You are drinking?” My Russian’s face scrunched up as if he’d seen something he shouldn’t have.
I looked at him and tilted my head while I wondered if I’d been using my outside voice again. There was no reason not to be honest with him. I tapped the pistol to my forehead. “My bad. When I talk to the gods, I forget no one else can see them.”
A look crossed his face as if his borscht had gone bad.
Someone knocked at the door. The knock repeated, and a man announced himself as the hotel manager coming to check on the balcony. Apparently, my high-wire act was visible from the street.
I pulled my other gun and fired a Sabel Dart in the Russian’s leg. I heard the same pop coming from Miguel’s room. I stripped the remaining duct tape off the guy and let the manager in.
“You are all right, señor?” the manager asked. “No one is hurt?”
“Nah, fine.” I kept him in the vestibule. “Your railing wasn’t built very well.”
“I have workmen on their way up to secure it. I would offer you another room, but you are in the Extreme Wow Suite now. Anything else would be a downgrade. Would you like to look at options?”
Once again, my mind wandered to how and why Miguel picked this room and how much it cost. But his expense report wasn’t my problem. Besides, it came with a free bottle of wine.
“May I come in?” he asked. “To inspect the damage?”
Without a good excuse handy, I waved him in through the rooms, hoping to lead him out to the wrap-around balcony before he noticed the Russian. It didn’t work. He froze.
“Is your friend OK?”
“He’s not a friend, and he’s not well. We were going to party with these guys, but they got into drugs. We need to dispose of them. Drop them off at some addict-infested dump. Can you recommend a really bad neighborhood?”
“We will take care of them for you, señor. Right away.” He pulled a walkie-talkie from his jacket and barked instructions in Spanish.
His willingness to dispose of overdosed guests
without asking questions brought my attention back to the cost of the room. Dumping bodies didn’t come cheap in any hotel. And this guy didn’t bat an eye.
“How many?” he asked.
“Three.”
CHAPTER 20
Yuri read the requirements for a new mission spelled out in an email on his computer in the banda’s office. He pursed his lips as he thought how he would go about it.
What still bothered him was who benefitted. None of the American presidents liked the Russians. What difference would it make if a Russian-hating Republican or a Russian-hating Democrat became president? Even if the new NEXT USA party succeeded in their long-shot attempt to keep Veronica Hunter in the White House, what would change?
The American intelligence agencies loved Russia because to them, the SVR was the rival professional team. They respected each other. The SVR and CIA could go at each other the old-fashioned way: honey traps, booze, and money. No one in the Kremlin would want that to change. Middle Eastern jihadis considered torture at the hands of Americans or Russians a badge of honor that brought them closer to God. Russia should stick with the Americans as archenemies; it was easier.
The two countries were locked in an eternal love-to-hate relationship. No two countries could be more alike: relatively well-educated, predominantly white and Christian with large and diverse minority populations, and rapidly expanding economies. They were the first two countries to develop nuclear weapons. The first two countries to reach the moon. The first two countries to aim nuclear missiles at each other. They both rallied their populations to hate each other for nearly a century. They needed each other. One without the other would shrivel and die.
So why meddle in their election?
Maybe it was the Exxon deal to help Russia develop $4 trillion worth of oil reserves in the Arctic. Enough to double Russia’s Gross Domestic Product. That agreement went on hold when Russia invaded the Ukraine and occupied the Crimea. US sanctions stopped the deal, and neither Exxon nor Russia were making money. Is that what the Kremlin wanted, the end of sanctions? Hunter put them in place so they wouldn’t be excited about her campaign. The Democrat never got a word in during the debates. Which left Roche. A man who obviously knew nothing about foreign trade, sanctions, or America’s role in world politics. What good would he do them?
He shook the thoughts from his head. It didn’t matter. What mattered was Strangelove’s mission. Like it or not, understand it or not, he had to form a plan and execute his orders.
And then he needed to rid himself of Russia. Carefully. Just as he had explained to Roman in Switzerland. He’d begun by moving a few of Alexi’s accounts to new holding companies and banks. He’d researched locations and made a priority list. After manipulating a few more things, he would execute his plan right under Strangelove’s nose. A month, two at most. And then he would be free. Free of generals who stab their men. Free of nations who murder innocent Americans. Free to make money hacking those Americans.
He leaned back in his chair, his foot on the edge of his desk. When he needed to think, he needed music. He pushed his earbuds in and clicked on Thelonious Monk playing the energetic and optimistic Straight, No Chaser. What he liked about his job was the creativity allowed in executing Strangelove’s plan. It was just like jazz: improvise and riff off each other. That’s how he would do this one. He snapped his fingers.
Vasili rolled over to Yuri’s multi-screen workstation. Yuri pointed. Vasili read the mission objectives, then leaned back and joined him in thinking.
Yuri pulled his earbuds out. “The first stage is hardly a challenge, really. I say we let each man come up with a different plan and implement them all. We’ll reward the first man to get his story on front-page sites. A contest with a prize.”
“They would like that.” Vasili squinted as he thought. “But why do this? What is the point to all these fake news stories?”
“The biggest killer of Americans is other Americans. Over thirty thousand of them will be shot to death this year, as they are every year. The USA is the world-record holder for mass shootings. There have been 132 mass shootings in the US since 1966, five times more than any other country in the world. But it’s OK because all but three of those killers were born in America.”
Yuri stroked his beard and Vasili scratched his head as they thought for a moment.
“So,” Yuri said, “our people are bringing this angle because nothing binds supporters to a candidate like a common enemy. Medevtin made the Chechens the enemy. Everyone rallied around him. He was their hero because he saved them from those nasty Chechen terrorists. To Americans, these Mexicans must be like our Chechens.”
“Did they kill hundreds of children like the Chechen rebels?”
“I don’t think so.” Yuri frowned at him. “It doesn’t matter.”
“I will get the banda working on it right away.” Vasili started to roll back to his desk, then stopped. “But the second stage? We need to find a Latino and talk him into a rampage killing on a specific date? This is not possible.”
“You find me a mentally unstable immigrant, I’ll handle the rest.”
“You’re going to America?”
“I know the streets.” And he could take Andrine with him, but he didn’t need to tell Vasili that part.
“But we have a man there.”
“Concentrate on mentally-ill Latinos in New York City.” Yuri faced his lieutenant with a long, cold stare.
Vasili lowered his eyes and rolled his chair back an inch. After a moment of sulking, he said, “Why did you go to Zurich?”
Yuri watched the young man. “Why did I take Roman—is that what you really want to know? Because someone needed to watch the banda.”
Vasili’s looked unconvinced. Yuri patted his shoulder. “I showed you the paperwork. I sent it to Strangelove months ago. He’s said nothing.”
“I’ve done everything. I should be captain by now. I should be the one going to Zurich when he needs something. He thinks of me as your accomplice for the keylogger.”
There was nothing Yuri could say to that. So he said nothing. He waited for an appropriate amount of silence to pass before changing the subject.
Yuri caught his man’s gaze. “What do you think of the group therapy?”
Vasili nodded thoughtfully. “It is good. I feel better after each session. I sleep at night now.”
“Yes, but you and I are soldiers.” He lowered his voice to a whisper and nodded over his shoulder at the other men. “They are not used to spilling blood. Could we have trouble?”
“What kind of trouble?” Vasili leaned in, concern creasing his brow.
“I don’t know. Maybe someone sneaks off in the night and reports us to the Americans or the Norwegians in exchange for immunity. Or maybe someone is overcome by guilt and commits suicide.”
“Alexandr never speaks about his feelings.” Vasili nodded as he thought. “But no. This is impossible. No Russian would do such a thing.”
“What about you, Vasili? You are not worried about the risk we took?”
“If we are caught, then we are caught. On a battlefield or in an office makes no difference, we accept our fate. We die like soldiers.”
Yuri took a long look over his shoulder at the others. “Will they?”
“If I hear talk of betrayal, mutiny, or treason, I will tell you right away.”
Yuri laughed. “And what if it is me?”
Vasili frowned. “I would tell Strangelove immediately.”
Yuri patted the lieutenant’s arm. “Just a joke, Vasili. I would never abandon my men.”
Wheeling his chair back to his workstation, Vasili gave him a noncommittal nod over his shoulder.
Yuri pursed his lips, regretting saying anything to the humorless lieutenant. He rolled his chair over and slapped Vasili’s shoulder. “Focus on the new orders. I want ten stories about Mexicans killing Americans all over Facebook by nightfall and on page one of major newspapers by morning. Extrapolate, sensationalize, m
ake them up if you have to.”
“Did you see where they want them planted?”
“What do you mean?”
“They want specific areas targeted for these stories. Specific voting precincts.”
Yuri pulled up the targeting database and scrolled through the data. He began to understand Vasili’s concern. “This is American voter data.”
“The kind their political parties keep. This could only have come from an American—inside a campaign.”
“Or we hacked it.” Yuri smiled.
“We are the banda that would’ve hacked a campaign database.” Vasili lowered his voice. “This came from an American.”
“The Americans listen to phone conversations all over the world. It’s against Turkish law for the Americans to record phone conversations in Turkey—yet they do it every day. It’s illegal in Germany, Qatar, Japan, in fact, it’s illegal in all countries, and still, the Americans do what they please because they’re in America.” Yuri leaned back. “And now someone gave us their voter rolls. It would be illegal in America—” Yuri laughed “—but we’re in Norway.”
“You’re going to New York.” Vasili grabbed his arm and glanced left and right. “If they track you down and interrogate you for this, they might discover #HuntersFail.”
“Are you serious?” Yuri clenched his teeth as he pulled out of Vasili’s grip. “You’re accusing me of cracking under questioning? Never insult me again. You know me. I would eliminate any threat to my men.”
He grabbed his jacket and strode out the door. Despite Vasili’s insult, Yuri was in a great mood. He would finally have something worthy to offer the beautiful Andrine: a trip to New York, New York. The city so nice they named it twice. She told him she wanted to go there. Now he could take her.
On the street, he strolled up the wharf with his earbuds in, listening to Ned Goold playing Car Alarm. Would she even go with him? So far, they’d only flirted. A trip abroad was a big step. He would get separate hotel rooms. She would like that. Her father would like that. Why was he so nervous? He’d had plenty of women. He’d cleaned up with American girls because he knew how to dance. Those foolish, awkward American boys were too stiff. He turned up Kirkegaten and felt like whistling.
