The Hunt

by Jack Arbor

  “Yup. Controlled by the Russian government through a holding company. He’s Rosneft’s chairman.”

  “Close ties to the Russian president,” Max rolled over and grinned at her. “Got anything good on him?”

  “Not much. Typical Russian oligarch who made crazy money when the Soviet Union collapsed. Early on, he aligned with the Russian president, which saved him when the president went after the other oligarchs who called for reforms and challenged his power.”

  Max grunted. “I have no sympathy for those guys who made billions, but lost it when the Russian president forced them to sell back.”

  “That was a power play, right? Goshawk asked. “Those that failed to sell were either forced from the country or convicted for tax evasion on fake charges?”

  The Russian president, a dictator in all but name. “Or outright killed.” He rolled to his side, flinched as pain shot through his ribcage, and held his head up on one hand, taking in her long and bronzed figure. “By letting the mafia run wild, he’s turned the towns of inner Russia into little criminal enterprises where the civilians are left with nothing. No jobs. No prospects. Not even the old Communist party benefits they used to have. Guys like Petrov are enabling the problem.”

  “The rich get richer.”

  “Exactly.”

  Goshawk rolled onto her back and shielded her eyes with a hand. “Petrov’s got the usual stuff. Dacha in Sochi. Couple of mistresses. Dabbles in cocaine. Collects Ferraris. Owns part of an American hockey team. Houses in Italy and France. A few private jets.”

  Max’s hand wandered across Goshawk’s long bare thigh. “Sounds promising. Discovered an angle yet?”

  “No. I’ll keep digging.”

  His fingers drifted up to graze one of her apple-sized breasts. Her nipple became hard at his touch.

  She snickered and dragged her nails down his chest, drawing more blood. “You ready for another round, big boy?”

  He bit back a yell from the pain in his rib as she swung a leg over him and arched her back until he was deep inside her. His eyes closed, and all he heard was the roar of the ocean and the crescendo of her moans.

  It took six hours for Goshawk’s algorithm to break the pin and another hour for her to fight through a firewall built into the device. While she worked, Max showered, shaved with Goshawk’s pink razor and flower-scented cream, and fixed them a plate of meats, cheeses, and rice wrapped with grape leaves called dolmas. Spencer reappeared from his walk as Max set out the food.

  Goshawk rolled her chair to the tiny coffee table and speared a hunk of chevre with a small fork. “This is weird.”

  Max shoved a prosciutto-wrapped chunk of cheese into his mouth. “What is?”

  “Well, a ten-digit pin is rare on these things.” She stabbed a piece of meat with her fork. “It requires a sophisticated code-breaking program. But the firewall was child’s play. Any high school kid in his parents’ basement could get through it. The only reason it took me so long was because I was watching for traps. Made me think there was some kind of trojan horse or trigger that might wipe the device.”

  Max tossed a fig into his mouth. “So, what was on it?”

  Goshawk’s eyebrows shot up. “This is where it gets interesting.”

  Eleven

  Corsica

  “For fig sake, just tell me.” Max took a swig of green tea.

  Goshawk squinted. “Are you trying to clean up your language?” The hacker rolled her chair back to her computer and brought up a webpage. “At today’s prices, you found a little over a million dollars of bitcoin.”

  Max snorted. Money had never much mattered. He always seemed to have enough. Growing up, his father’s position as assistant director of the Belarusian branch of the KGB meant they lived well. As an adult, he made enough through his freelance business or his jazz bar. If he needed money for an operation, he always found it. “Not bad.”

  “That’s all you can say to finding a million bucks?” Goshawk let out a breath. “You might want to sell. The cryptocurrency market is crazy volatile and has rocketed up in the past couple of months. It’s a huge bubble with tons of speculators.”

  Max glanced at Spencer, who avoided his gaze. “Fine. Convert three quarters of it and stuff it into two of our operational accounts. Let’s use Panama and Seychelles. Leave the remainder in bitcoin in case we need it for some reason.”

  A couple taps on her keyboard. “Consider it done. The device also has a flash drive.”

  Max ate a hunk of cheese. “And?”

  “And you need to see this.”

  Spencer’s eyes followed Max as he got up and made his way over to her machine. Displayed on the black command line window was a long list of files that included word documents, images, and several movie files. Goshawk clicked on one of the images. A window opened showing a stern-looking Caucasian male in his mid-sixties wearing the uniform of a general in the Russian army. The shoulder insignia showed the three stars of a colonel general, and his breast board was covered with rows and rows of colored accommodations.

  Max sucked in his breath. “That’s Sergei Fedorov.”

  Goshawk leaned closer to the screen. “Who is Sergei Fedorov?”

  Max rubbed his chin. “Director of Russia’s Federal Security Service, also known as the FSB. He’s also number seven on the consortium. What is this file doing here?”

  She folded her long legs under her. “Remind me what the FSB is and how it relates to the old KGB?”

  He paced while he talked. “The FSB oversees a subset of the functions of the old KGB, namely internal security, counter intelligence, and border patrol. The SVR, or Foreign Intelligence Service, handles espionage outside Russia. But the FSB handles surveillance of foreigners while they’re in Russia as well as media suppression and propaganda. The FSB also does the killing, when necessary, of the Russian president’s enemies. In every practical sense, the FSB is the same as the KGB. They are the same people with the same goal—suppression of discontent to preserve a dictatorship. What else is in there?”

  Goshawk clicked on three files. One revealed details of Fedorov’s financial assets, one outlined particulars of his wife and children, and one showed intimate specifics of his daily routine with logs of his daily appointments.

  Max leaned close to the screen while he read through the material. “It’s similar to the information we received on Spartak. Same file structure, same level of detail, same organization.” Max stretched his arms.

  The thin hacker opened more files. “Whoa. Here we go.”

  Max leaned over her shoulder. The screen was filled with pictures of Sergei Fedorov in compromising positions with other men. “Whoa is right. If these get out, Fedorov’s career is over. Being gay in Russia, especially at his level, is a big no-no.”

  Goshawk looked at him with furrowed eyebrows. “Why?”

  “Homophobia is rampant in Russia—part Christianity, part Stalinism, part Western decadence. And since the Russian president has positioned Russia against the West, voila. It’s in vogue to be anti-gay.”

  She opened more files, and they skimmed the documents.

  His pulse quickened as he read. The documents were assembled in the style of an old KGB hit file and were obviously designed to provide someone—Max guessed himself—an opportunity to get to Fedorov. Details of the times, locations, and identities of dozens of men with whom Fedorov had liaisons. Memos speculated about his future tête-à-têtes. The file included intimate narratives of Fedorov’s romantic interludes that resembled sting operations using male honeypots. There were blueprints and maps of the hotels and dachas Fedorov frequented with his boyfriends. Max couldn’t ask for a better set of files with which to plan Fedorov’s assassination. Once again, he was given the perfect setup to kill a member of the consortium. He sat back and rubbed the stubble on his chin, trying not to smile. But why? And who was providing this information?

  A squeal from Goshawk. “Holy shit, you gotta see this.” Her nose was pressed to her
screen.

  Both men stepped over. “What now?”

  Goshawk angled her screen revealing a video player on the large monitor. “Found this in an encrypted folder.” She hit play.

  The video was short, and the grainy recording was made with a low budget camera. It showed a tall woman in a track suit and a stocking cap jogging down a city street. A wisp of blond hair escaped from her hat and waved in the wind as she ran. Two beefy men, also in track suits, pounded behind her, struggling to keep up. As the woman ran up the street and turned left onto a tree-lined trail, she disappeared behind a long hedgerow, followed by the bodyguards.

  Max gaped at Spencer and pointed at the screen. “Is that who I think it is?”

  She played the video again.

  The video finished and Goshawk tapped to open a .jpg file that revealed a headshot of Piper Montgomery, the director of the Central Intelligence Agency. She was an attractive woman, smugly confident, with ivory teeth and a pair of fashionable glasses perched on a pert nose.

  Spencer grunted and pointed to another file in the directory. “What’s in that text file?”

  A tap by Goshawk revealed two pages of detailed information about Montgomery’s security detail—the weapons they carried, how they rotated in six-hour shifts, and detailed surveillance logs of her movements accompanied by her bodyguards.

  Max whistled. “Whoever assembled these materials is preparing to either assassinate or kidnap the director of the CIA.”

  Spencer tapped Goshawk’s shoulder. “Can you send me that?”

  The hacker looked over at Max, who shrugged. She clicked with her mouse a few times. “Okay, sent. But I don’t understand. Why is this important?”

  Spencer stood and walked to the kitchen and deposited his empty beer bottle in the sink before returning to the living room. “Montgomery is the one most likely to know where Kate is.”

  The hacker’s eyes widened. “You don’t mean you’re going to—”

  Spencer hooked his thumb into a belt loop. “Got any better ideas?”

  The three of them looked at each other while Max’s thoughts jumped between the file on Fedorov and the separate dossier on Montgomery. They were different in tone and structure, with the Fedorov file matching something he might assemble himself while the Montgomery information was hastily compiled and limited in scope. The former was KGB style—thorough and complete. The Montgomery file didn’t inspire confidence.

  Spencer disappeared from the room and reappeared minutes later with his bag slung over his shoulder. “You coming?”

  Max leaned against the table with his arms crossed. “You sure that’s what you want to do?”

  Spencer spread his arms. “Montgomery was the one who ordered Kate’s arrest, and she’s the one who’s keeping her prisoner. The best way to find Kate is to ask Montgomery.”

  Max shook his head. “Best way to join Kate in the brig.”

  The ex-CIA operator walked to the door, his boots pounding on the wooden floor. “I’m not hearing any alternatives.”

  Max shook his head. “That dossier is thin. Better odds with Fedorov.”

  With his hand on the doorknob, Spencer frowned.

  Everything slowed while the faces of Max’s nephew and sister flashed through his mind. Kidnapping Montgomery is a bad idea.

  Goshawk sat frozen in her chair, watching the two men.

  Before Max thought of something to say, Spencer opened the door and disappeared.

  As the heavy steps on the wooden deck faded away, Max ran outside. “Spencer! Let’s talk about it.”

  But the lanky operative was gone, leaving behind only a set of boot prints in the sandy path.

  Twelve

  Vatican City

  The throngs of tourists and Pope-sighting hopefuls in Piazza San Pietro were thick despite the chilly temperatures. A dull sun shone overhead in a cloudless sky that took the edge off a crisp wind, but most of the visitors to the historic square were bundled in jackets and hats. Saint Peter’s Basilica rose majestically on the western end of the plaza, the large dome dominating the skyline and the fourteen statues decorating the roofline like sentries. Maderno’s fountain was to the right of St. Peter’s Basilica, its trickling water sparkling in the sunlight.

  Victor Dedov’s choice for a meeting spot was a good one. A busy plaza in the heart of a secure location with little chance of being noticed or overheard. Max took a fast boat ride with Carlu to the Italian port town of Ostia. A hired car took him to the center of Rome, where he performed an hour-long surveillance detection route before jumping on the metro and exiting at the Cipro station. Nothing odd jumped out at him except a raven-haired woman in a black watch cap wearing wraparound sunglasses on a pale winter day. The girl appeared twice in his SDR.

  Probably nothing. Another hour of meanderings revealed no sign of the girl, so he made his way on foot to Saint Peter’s Square.

  While he walked, he reflected on Victor Dedov. When Max’s father and mother were killed by a large chemical bomb hidden in a truck that mysteriously penetrated his father’s security team, Max suspected the job was planned and executed by inside operatives of either the Belarusian KGB or the Moscow FSB, and that Victor—former director of the Belarusian KGB—must have had a hand in the operation, either overtly or tacitly. Max’s suspicions grew when Victor publicly stated that Chechen extremists were behind the bombing, an assertion lacking factual support. The perpetrators of the bombing remained a mystery, although Max now knew that the consortium had pulled the strings behind the killing. He just didn’t know who had planned and carried out the attack.

  As Max spotted Victor across the busy plaza, he was reminded that he didn’t trust the man despite his sister’s attachment. What she saw in him Max didn’t know, although he guessed it had more to do with stability than love. He grudgingly admitted appreciation for the secure and safe home Victor provided for Arina and Alex at great cost to himself. But the now-retired KGB director was always scheming on something, and now Max found Victor in the middle of the Turkish desert attempting to purchase weapons illegally from a high-ranking member of the consortium.

  Is he still running clandestine operations with some nefarious or illicit ambition? My instinct is he’s involved in this somehow. But how? What is he up to?

  “Victor.” Max nodded once.

  Dedov greeted him in return using Max’s given Belarusian name. “Mikhail, how are you? Imagine my surprise when I received your message.”

  The former director wore a down jacket with a Western logo, wool trousers, and a flat cap to keep his balding head warm. His eyes were slits, and his face wore a hard expression.

  Max smiled. “Arina says you’ve been traveling a lot lately. I assume now that you’re retired, you’re out seeing the sights.”

  Victor raised his arms and gestured at the buildings around them. “Is there anywhere more splendid than this? We’re standing among some of the world’s most marvelous architecture.” He grinned and cocked his head. “So you want to make a deal? Something about olives?”

  While the two men strolled to the basilica, Max took out a soft pack of Italian cigarettes and ripped off the plastic wrapper. “I have some goods you might be interested in. Something I think you tried to buy recently?”

  Dedov gave him a sideways glance. “So it was you out there in the scrub. Why were you there?”

  A scan around at the milling tourists revealed nothing alarming. No one was in earshot. “It should be obvious,” Max said. “I could ask you the same question.”

  A smug smile from Victor. “Well, I supposed our aims are each our own. Mine is simple—I need to protect something extremely valuable.”

  Max stroked his chin as he pictured Arina and Alex going about their daily life in a castle full of armed guards, a necessary by-product of their fight to remain alive. “Quite, which is something I’m also interested in. I have the…er…shipment of olives and would like to donate them to the cause. Assuming we can come to an arrangement.�
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  They reached the broad stone stairs leading to the front entrance of St. Peter’s Basilica where there was a line of visitors waiting to enter the church. Dedov stopped and turned. “Are you suggesting a deal?”

  Max lit a cigarette using the lighter with the burnished Belarusian flag that he received from his grandfather. “I might be. Two questions.”

  Dedov shoved his hands in his jacket pockets. “I’m listening.”

  Max blew out a plume of smoke. “How did you come to be out there in a transaction with him? You know my objectives.”

  “Not beating around the bush, are we?” Victor stared across the enormous plaza at the Via della Conciliazione, the road leading east into the heart of Rome. “I have to be honest, Mikhail. I didn’t know who I was dealing with until the last minute. One must go where the fish are, so to speak. I was as surprised as anyone. But by the time I knew, it was too late. I had to go through with the transaction.”

  Anyone who says they have to be honest means they’re not being honest.

  Victor faced Max. “As you probably know, there aren’t a lot of options when it comes to getting a hold of…um…that flavor of olives. We need more of them around the house.” Victor shrugged. “What was I supposed to do?”

  Max flicked ash from his cigarette. “How did he know I was out there?”

  The former KGB director faced the front of the basilica. “How do I know? When the shooting started, we got out of there. I thought it was the Turkish military.”

  Max exhaled a large plume of smoke. “Any speculation?”

  While slowly shaking his head, Victor pursed his lips. “I’m as stumped as you.”

  Max ground the cigarette out on the ground. “Right. Just thought I’d ask. How about I have the olives delivered directly to you? My contribution to the…um…household.”

  A wide smile appeared across Victor’s face. “I was hoping you’d see it that way. This can be a win for both of us after all.”