Death and Treason

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Death and Treason Page 43

by Seeley James


  Cyprus was a story we kept inside Ms. Sabel’s inner circle. We don’t have leaks. Which meant he gleaned it from our enemies.

  “Still not motivated?” Yuri asked. “I have the orders from Popov to Strangelove for her murder. He wanted Alan Sabel motivated like Jallet.”

  That tipped the scales pretty hard. “Let’s pretend she’s interested. How does your little fantasy play out?”

  “You find something Popov needs, I broker a trade at a neutral location.”

  The second car full of goons was looking for the bar’s back door. I knew something the goons didn’t: there was no back door. The bar had a side door, and I was looking at it. The backup squad would be delayed. My window of opportunity was thirty seconds long.

  “What good does a neutral location do me?” I pushed out of the nook and started for the bar.

  “You get advance notice.”

  “You’re a trustworthy man. Probably.” If not for his accurate map of Strangelove’s offices in Kaliningrad, he would’ve been listening to dial tone. “I’m not making any promises.”

  “You’re a capable soldier. Your girlfriend—I mean soul sister—is a resourceful woman. I am a dangerous man. Figure something out.”

  He clicked off.

  Bianca texted me. “He used an IP relay-phone. We only found his transfer point, a bar in Nicaragua.”

  Damn.

  I slid back in through the side door and stood in the shadows. Mr. Stalingrad and three Russians stood near the front, searching the crowded room. While I watched, their eyes passed over Sylvia and her crew.

  Sylvia saw me and waved. Which brought Mr. Stalingrad’s attention to me. I smiled and nodded at him. Sylvia looked disappointed that I didn’t acknowledge her first.

  I wanted to fall in love with her. She wanted to fall in love with me. But the gods—and Mr. Stalingrad—were keeping us apart.

  She crossed the short distance to me while my brand-new enemy tried to push through the bar’s tangled partiers.

  “Trouble.” I nodded Sylvia toward the Russians. “They’re after me. Go straight to the van and take it to Vilnius tonight. Have the pilots leave the minute you get there. Don’t wait for me. Go right now.”

  I backed out with both Sylvia’s, and Stalingrad’s scowls fixed on me. Not the image I’d prefer to leave with, but I had no choice. I ran down the brick street looking for options.

  Mr. Stalingrad took the bait. He was coming for me, not Sylvia. I could hear them a corner behind, tromping after me.

  I ignored my ringing phone and looked for a way out. I try to be a good boy—until I’m facing eight-to-one odds. Then it’s survival mode. No matter what you see in the movies, no one can take on eight men and win. Stealing a car was not out of the question.

  I rounded a building and saw the proprietor of a small motorcycle dealership closing up. A few quick steps later, the muzzle of my Glock was hard against his neck. We did an awkward dance back inside. He relaxed when I whipped out my American Express Centurion Card. On seeing the black titanium, holding a gun to his head was easily forgiven.

  In less than a minute, I was exiting his showroom on Sabel Security’s newest company vehicle: a BMW R1200 RS sportbike.

  I’m no stranger to motorcycles, but I was a bit rusty and nearly hit the building across the street. I walked it back and pushed off the sidewalk just in time to see a car full of big men in my mirror.

  We were in old town Riga. The bike’s navigation display, crisp and bright as it was, was written in Latvian. On my right was the Sv. Petera baznica … whatever. It looked like a big old church to me. With a twist of the throttle, I pulled away and rounded a bend. I used a lane tight with traffic to weave my way clear of my pursuers.

  One of the Russians was waiting for me on the other end. He stood calmly with a gun at his side while the pedestrians on the sidewalks pointed and screamed. I ducked down and zigged left before zagging right. I peeked over the handlebars. He wasn’t intimidated or raising his weapon. He held a phone to his ear. I revved it up and aimed for him. He calmly stepped out of the way and let me by.

  I could feel his pistol aiming for the back of my head.

  The bike burned rubber nicely when I made my radical U-turn. I shot up the street, weaving between stalls hawking handmade Christmas gifts. The second car full of Russians rounded the bend ahead of me. My only option was to stay in the pedestrian lane. But it poured onto a busy street. I leaned the bike hard. My knee brushed the bricks as I swung in front of a small white delivery truck. The foot soldier ran after me. I left him in the dust. Or snow in this case.

  Weaving through crowded plazas, I scraped a car here and there before finding a multi-lane bridge. I opened it up and flew across a wide river.

  I whipped down an alley behind the national library, cut the lights, and called her.

  “Did you get to the van?” I asked when Sylvia picked up.

  “Yes, but …” There was an odd grunt and a strange mewling.

  “Sylvia?”

  Her voice came out hushed and strained. “Jacob—help!”

  My soul collapsed like a soda can under a boot heel. Stalingrad was smart, I had to give him that. He’d left someone to watch my girl.

  Mercury crossed his arms. She and her buddies stayed to finish their drinks. That’s what kind of girl she is. I’m telling you, bro, you don’t need—

  I said, I got this.

  I asked her. “Did he hurt you?”

  “No. He says he’s going to.” She spoke to someone behind her in French. “He wants whatever you took.”

  “Let me talk to him.”

  An incoming call tried to reach me again. I ignored it.

  “He doesn’t speak English, only Russian and French.” She spoke to him in the background again. “I suppose you’re a one-language American like everyone else?”

  “Arabic and Pashto, thank you very much. Saved my ass in the war.” I reined in my harsh tone. I was mad at Mr. Stalingrad, not Sylvia. “Translate for me, word for word. I have what he wants. But I’m not dumb enough to walk into an ambush with it. We meet in neutral territory. Somewhere neither of us have been before. Like a warehouse with a big parking lot. I’ll be in plain sight at a distance. When you and the crew are safely off the lot, I’ll deliver the package.”

  She discussed something with him before coming back to me. “I know a place. Bialystok, Poland. We shot an indie film there. There’s an abandoned warehouse on the far end of town. Farmland all the way around. He’s never been to Poland.”

  “Perfect. I’ll be there.”

  “Don’t do it, Jacob.” She choked, then whispered, “He’s planning to kill you.”

  CHAPTER 62

  After his call with Jacob, Yuri rose from his pew in the empty airport chapel and joined the throngs of people moving through Roberts International Airport in Monrovia, Liberia. He spotted a young boy lagging behind his family. In a few quick steps, he was right behind the child. His burner slipped neatly into the boy’s slightly open backpack. When the NSA and FSB tried to locate him, they would find a very surprised Liberian family vacationing in Paris. Yuri turned on his heel and joined Roman heading for the street.

  “It went well?” Roman asked.

  “We will see.” Yuri marched to the curb to hail a cab. “Sabel is only half the battle. Popov will need motivation as well.”

  “You’re sure this will work?”

  “No.” Yuri directed the cabbie to the hotel. “Everything in life is a gamble. We have forty-eight hours to put this together.”

  “While we’re traveling?”

  “When is the flight to Albania?”

  “In the morning. First stop is Doha, then Athens.” Roman calculated in his head. “Thirty-six hours before we’re in Durrës.”

  “Then we have twelve hours left over.” Yuri smacked his friend’s knee. “Plenty of time.”

  “Perhaps we should reach out to Yeschenko.” Roman’s voice was weak with uncertainty. “His email sho
wed he valued us. We could use an ally.”

  “You think the rich care about you, Roman?” Yuri glared at his man. “He would help us only if we dance for him—like his slave girls. And only then if the Kremlin approves. That means Popov.”

  Roman shrugged.

  Salty, humid air blew from the beach across the Cape Hotel’s tiled patio. They sat in the shade, sipping lemonade and working through the trove of Popov’s emails. Reading such tomes of hastily-prepared communiqués was almost as bad as reading someone’s tweets. But they pressed on in the growing heat.

  In the third hour, as dusk became imminent, a boy struggled off the beach and walked below their terrace carrying a heavy box.

  Yuri summoned him. “What do you sell?”

  “Protection for da white man.” The boy ripped open a big, bright smile.

  “Do I need protection?”

  “You—dangerous man.” The boy looked him over. “Da big men think you da threat. They challenge you. Are you ready?”

  Yuri and Roman exchanged amused glances.

  “What should I do to be ready?” Yuri leaned forward and looked at the boy’s wooden case.

  “Have da blade.” The boy dragged out the last word. He balanced his case on one knee and opened it like a magician doing a trick. He waved his hand in front of the knives encased in red velvet. “For you, da man expecting trouble: a ZDP-189 steel blade in a Harkins Triton.”

  His gesture stopped on a sleek-looking switchblade with a handle shaped like a coffin. Yuri and Roman shared another glance before leaning forward to get a closer look.

  The boy picked it out of the case and handed it to Yuri.

  It was heavy yet nimble and made him smile. A flick of the button slid the blade straight out of a titanium grip at high velocity. A second flick slid it straight back in. The action was smooth, powerful, enticing, almost erotic.

  He grinned. “How much?”

  “A thousand dollars. But for you, $995 US.”

  “No way.” Yuri sat up straight and frowned.

  “You’re not worthy.” The boy snatched the knife back and walked away. “You not dangerous at all.”

  Yuri could not believe the boy’s impertinence. He had a mind to beat the boy and take the knife anyway. He looked at Roman for support but found his friend with a smile on his face.

  Roman whistled to the boy. “Seven hundred.”

  The boy flipped him off without turning around.

  “OK. A thousand dollars, American.” Roman laughed.

  “Are you crazy?” Yuri faced him.

  “It is my gift to you. It made you smile, Yuri. You deserve it.”

  The boy came back. Roman peeled hundreds from his roll and made the exchange. As the boy turned to leave, Roman grabbed his arm. “If we meet any dangerous men looking for the rest of my money, you will discover we are not dangerous at all.” He gave the boy his meanest glare. “We are deadly.”

  The boy tore away from him, threw his chin high, turned his back, and walked away.

  “He’s not easily intimidated.” Yuri watched the boy disappear down the street. “Thank you, Roman. It is a tremendous gift.”

  “I left one very much like it in Brazil. They’re handmade by Jeff Harkins. Look closely at the blade. He’s engraved his signature on it.”

  Yuri examined it and found the signature. For the first time in ages, he felt an affinity for his new lieutenant that was difficult to express. He couldn’t remember the last time someone had given him a significant gift. Especially one as personally bonding as a switchblade.

  They enjoyed a dinner of questionable proteins and delicious drinks. Afterward, they returned to the hotel terrace and continued the laborious search through thousands of emails as dry and boring as the Gobi. Late in the evening, after an hour’s silent toil, Roman burst out laughing.

  “You’ll want to see this.” Roman pointed to his laptop screen and turned it to face Yuri.

  It took a moment to register as he read the screen. “Popov is using the account in real time?”

  “It’s a different account.” Roman could barely contain himself. “His passwords are simple variations of his original password. Petr cracked the code: add one letter or number to the end of the original password. Igor expects to get in all his accounts before we reach Albania. We might even crack his laptop camera.”

  “Our people are not just good hackers,” Yuri said. “They are the best.”

  The two of them shared a snicker, one of boyish delight at their triumph and the defeat of a hated foe.

  The latest incoming email came from a guard on Popov’s personal property. Sabel agents had overwhelmed them unexpectedly and taken something small but unknown. The head guard, Sergeant Tarasov, reported only one item appeared to be missing from the house: a small statue of Mercury, winged messenger of the Roman gods. He closed with a vow to track down the thieves at any cost.

  Roman pulled the laptop back. “What’s our next move?”

  Yuri sliced open a phone’s clamshell packaging with his new knife. “This is it. We can broker a deal now.”

  For the next two hours, he tried to reach Jacob Stearne with no luck. He still had to go through the switchboard at Sabel HQ to find him but went straight to voicemail every time. As the evening wore on, and the drudgery of reading meaningless field reports in Popov’s email became too much, he tried something on a whim. He called Sabel HQ and asked for Pia Sabel.

  After waiting on hold, she answered with the sounds of a harbor behind her and the breathing cadence of a brisk walk.

  “I apologize for the intrusion, Ms. Sabel, but I’ve tried getting hold of Jacob Stearne for—”

  “He’s busy, Major Belenov. I’ve been briefed on your proposal. The answer is no.”

  Yuri turned down the brightness on his laptop and let his eyes adjust to the night around him to better focus on Sabel. “I’m disappointed to hear that. I thought you’d be interested in getting Kasey Earl’s trove of documents. The ones that bear Chuck Roche’s signature on what amounts to your parents’ death warrants.”

  The auditory clues on her end indicated she’d stopped walking.

  A moment later, she said, “You have to answer for Flight 1028.”

  “If there is a God, I will answer someday. If there is no God, then nothing matters.”

  She said, “I make things matter.”

  He felt an unexpected chill despite the heat. Something rustled the bushes behind him. He snapped his fingers at Roman, but his lieutenant didn’t understand.

  Yuri had to focus on his conversation. “It was brave of you to take on Viktor Popov. I’m impressed by your valor.”

  “You know we’re tracing this call. We will find you.”

  “I apologize in advance for your team’s impending disappointment.” Movement in the dark shadows caught Yuri’s eye. “All you’ll find is an innocent travel agent in Singapore.”

  “I just got out of a submarine, and I’m about to get on a jet. This call ends in thirty seconds.” She paused. “Why did you call?”

  “The question is not about me.” He saw more movement in his peripheral vision and twisted in that direction. “Rather, the question should be: who do you want, Ms. Sabel? Viktor Popov or Chuck Roche?”

  “I’ll worry about them.” From the background noise, it sounded as if she were on the move again.

  He snapped his fingers at Roman and pointed into the dark. Roman rose and walked to the edge of the tiled terrace.

  “What about both of them?” he asked. “You can have kompromat on both Popov and Roche.”

  “Bold claim. Prove you can deliver and you get another ten seconds.”

  “I’ll throw in a bonus to help your legal team defend you against your own government: I have the email from Popov to Strangelove ordering your murder.”

  “My attorneys have that handled.” She spoke with confidence but a hitch in her voice betrayed her interest.

  From the edge of the lighted area, Roman shrugged
. Behind him, another shadow moved. Paranoia? The Americans? The knife-boy returning with friends for the rest of Roman’s cash?

  “My people hacked Popov’s email. I just read the field report about your daring adventure in Jurmala. Eight Russian soldiers subdued. A French film crew distracted them. So very clever. I’m in awe. But I’m dying to know, Ms. Sabel, what was on the shelf? What did you steal from Viktor?”

  It was only a split-second of hesitation. He’d won her attention. Mission accomplished.

  Sabel said, “What’s your proposal?”

  “I’ll be in touch.” He clicked off.

  The shadows bothered him. Nothing good came out of flickering shadows. Yuri slapped his laptop closed. He rose and pushed Roman. He pointed inside and waved for his friend to follow. He strode quickly through the empty lobby. Roman grabbed his laptop and trotted to catch up.

  Beyond the hotel’s front door, on the street side, more shadows lurked. He turned and jogged through the kitchen.

  “Wait, Yuri,” Roman called from the lobby. “Where are you going?”

  There had been times in his life when he had overreacted. There were other times, like this one, where he knew his doom was seconds away. He could feel it in his skin. His life depended on moving quickly.

  He shoved his shoulder into the kitchen exit and stepped into the darkness. Two men ran toward him. He backed into the kitchen, grabbed a large iron pot, burst back into the night, and smashed it with all his might against a head. The man went down with a bleeding gash on his pale forehead.

  His other adversary caught the backswing in his hands and fought for control of the cauldron. Yuri tried to pull it back, and when the tug-of-war reached full exertion, pushed it hard into the man’s face. At the same time, he landed a swift kick to the man’s groin. A second smash from the pot put the assassin on the ground.

  Roman ran to the door and stopped in the opening.

  “Popov found us.” Yuri pointed as he panted. “Let’s go.”

  “Why do you say Popov?” Roman stammered for his next word.

  “Sabel had no idea where we were. If Americans knew our location, she would be the first to know. C’mon.”

 

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