by Jack Arbor
She retrieved the book from the floor and set it next to her.
A slow nod from the man. “I see.”
Something about this guy’s voice. Nasal, but in charge. The boss. Is that a hint of German? Or Austrian? I’ve talked to this man before. But where?
The man consulted his notepad. “Let’s go back a few years to when you were CIA station chief in Moscow. Do you remember the time?”
Visions of her younger self floated through her subconsciousness. She was energetic, her career was on the rise, and her side was winning the cold war. Gorbachev’s reforms were taking hold while Yeltsin was drinking and losing his grip. The Soviet Union was crumbling, and the wall was about to fall. Yes, I remember.
She glanced at the book on the couch next to her. What page was I on? Damn it.
The interrogator smiled. “Recall a man you worked with. A Russian—no, a Belarusian, hmm? A senior man in the Belarusian KGB. Big bear of a fellow. You recruited him as an asset. He provided you with years of intel on the Russians.”
The craggy face of Andrei Asimov materialized in her mind. Hair wild and unkempt, lips full and red, skin weathered gray. Hard eyes that saw everything, and hands that could rip a phone book in half. Disillusioned with the promise of communism. I got a lot of information out of him, didn’t I? I was on top of my game.
The interrogator nodded and beamed. “Good, good. I see recognition in your face. We know he provided you a lot of intel over the years. Information that helped dissolve the Soviet Union. But he also entrusted you with some of his personal secrets. Something classified that was important to him. Information about his personal war with a group known as the Russian petroleum council. Ring a bell, hmm?”
I’d like to help. But this means nothing. Nothing. I’m empty. She shook her head.
The man scribbled something on his pad before removing a watch from his pocket. It was the old-fashioned kind with a chain like men used to carry in a vest pocket. Light glinted from its etched gold surface. Leaning his elbows on his knees, the man dangled the watch in front of her. “We’re going to get into the depths of your mind, Kate, just like before, hmm? All you have to do is follow the watch and listen to my voice.”
The door opened, and a man dressed in a suit made for the tropics walked in holding a panama hat. He leaned against the wall. Her eyes left the moving watch and inspected the man’s face.
Hey, I know you. Hello… Wait, what’s your name? And what are you doing here?
The man with the watch snapped his fingers and directed her to look at the swinging timepiece, which she did.
No, I don’t want to look at that. Can’t help it. Damn it.
Forty-Three
Salzburg, Austria
Whenever, Nikita Ivanov went out in public, he was forced to drag along a phalanx of security. Long ago, he made a life choice that prevented him from enjoying restaurants, cafes, cinema, theater, and other activities like the general public. Or more accurately, the decision was made for him. It was his heritage, his lineage, that forced him into this life. A life of controlled celibacy from all life’s enjoyments. And so he maintained a monk-like discipline over his natural urges. There was too much at stake for it to be any other way.
So it was with mild trepidation that he watched the streets of his beloved Salzburg speed by through the thick tinted windows of his limousine. Ahead of his car and behind it came his Land Rovers bristling with bodyguards. They sped down the 155 until the Salzach River came into view, crossed over the wide body of water, and exited into the Altstadt—Old City—where they ground to a halt in heavy traffic. Soon, he’d have to leave the vehicle and proceed by foot through several pedestrian streets to his meeting.
To distract himself, he reviewed what he knew about his killer for hire. Disturbingly, little was known. Born in China and orphaned at birth, she floundered through several institutions until disappearing from the system at age eight. She reappeared three years ago after the deaths of four highly placed Japanese Yakuza bosses. The Japanese media caught wind of the killing spree, linked all four deaths, and dubbed the murderer The Sushi Killer because all four slayings took place in sushi restaurants local to the boss’s neighborhoods. Of course, the Japanese authorities never identified the killer.
Ivanov’s team established contact. Since then, she had performed several jobs for him, all successful, and all for vast sums of money. She was a pain in the ass—impetuous, rash, and prone to violence—but deadly effective and worth every penny.
After her fight with Magnus, Kira refused to meet him in private. Instead, she picked a small church in a tourist section of Salzburg. Surrounded by three of his men, Ivanov made his way down a pedestrian mall and into the empty church.
“You’re late. And leave those Neanderthals outside.” Her husky voice came from the shadows near a rack of prayer votives.
Ivanov signaled his men to wait by the door. “Discourage anyone from coming inside.”
The church was small and empty. Five prayer candles were lit causing shadows to flicker around the nave, but otherwise the lights were off.
“Take a seat on the front pew.”
Ivanov bristled but did as he was instructed. “Why all the theatrics?”
“Why do you think?”
“Still angry about the Magnus thing, I see.”
“Angry is the wrong word.”
She was a tiny silhouette in the shadows, one hand playing with her shoulder-length hair.
Crossing one leg over the other, Ivanov put his arm along the back of the pew. “You should thank me for letting you get it out of your system.”
“Could have gone either way.”
“It didn’t, so let it go. What do you have for me?”
“Asimov found Kate Shaw.”
The news jolted him to his feet. He took a step with his arms outstretched. “And?”
“Don’t come any closer.”
“You wouldn’t kill your golden goose, Kira.”
“Try me.”
“Damn it. Enough with the games.” He took another step.
“I’m serious. There’s a pistol pointed at your stomach. Stay the fuck over there.”
He froze. “Fine. Where is she?”
She told him.
By the time Ivanov strode from the church with a bounce in his step, they had agreed to the bones of a plan.
Forty-Four
Somewhere in Bavaria
Kidnapping a Russian oligarch is not easy. Logistics for the operation took weeks and required Ivanov’s small team to utilize one of their pre-canned plans called Case White, named after the Nazi’s fourth enemy offensive against Yugoslavia during World War II. The target’s name was Andrey Pavlova, and he was one of the Russian president’s closest cronies, number three on Ivanov’s council, and the CEO of Russia’s largest oil and gas conglomerate. The snatch had to look like it was carried out by a lone individual, and later, when the body washed ashore, the killing had to look like the work of a highly effective assassin.
Ivanov’s team took advantage of Pavlova’s trip to Munich where the CEO attended a summit on the proposed expansion of a natural gas pipeline from Russia, through the Baltic sea, to the shores of Germany. On the second night of the conference, several of Pavlova’s bodyguards were mysteriously stricken with incapacitating bowel cramps and diarrhea. In the ensuing chaos, a gunman entered the hotel and killed the three remaining security personnel and a prostitute using a silenced .22 caliber pistol. Pavlova was drugged, bound, gagged, and snuck down the service elevator in a laundry cart to a loading dock, after which he disappeared into the Munich night. Later, German authorities found a keycard belonging to a housekeeping supervisor in the dumpster and discovered that all the hotel’s security footage from that night was missing.
“Hello, Andrey.”
Ivanov strode across the blue mat, now cleaned of Magnus’s blood, and regarded his captive. The billionaire sat naked, his pink skin quaking, strapped to a device called the Ir
on Chair. A gag made from duct tape prevented him from speaking. Felix stood to the left and behind Pavlova. Otherwise the room was empty.
“Welcome to my training room. I trust my colleague here has explained why you’re here.”
Pavlova’s eyes were wide, and blood trickled down the backs of his legs and made little pools at the chair’s feet.
“Are you aware of how these contraptions work? You can nod or shake your head. I have no stomach for screaming, so we’ll leave the gag on.”
The billionaire shook his head sending drops of sweat flying onto the blue mat.
“Right. Not many people do. It’s called an Iron Chair, or in some circles, a Chinese Torture Chair. As you can feel, the five hundred little spikes you’re sitting on are designed to only slightly puncture the skin. Even a man of your…ahem…girth. Those metal bars across your thighs and chest can be tightened, which will push your body into the spikes.” When Ivanov walked around his captive, the astringent odor of urine assaulted him. “The diabolical thing about this device, Andrey, is that the spikes will keep the wounds cauterized until you’re released from the chair. At which time, you’ll bleed to death.”
Pavlova screamed through the gag, making a sound like a horse stuck in a barbed wire fence. Felix slapped him and the man went silent.
“Now, now, Andrey. There’s no need to scream. If you just tell me the truth, I can spare you the pain. Are you with me?”
Emphatic nodding.
“Great. My team uncovered digital voice transmissions between you and Ruslan Stepanov that paint you in a negative light. Do you know what I’m referring to?”
The billionaire nodded his head and tried to talk through the gag.
Ivanov signaled to Felix, and the utility man ripped the tape from Pavlova’s mouth.
“Yes, yes,” Pavlova panted. “Anything. I’ll tell you anything. Just don’t—”
Another signal and Felix replaced the tape and turned a series of cranks on the back of the chair. Pavlova screamed through the cloth in his mouth.
Ivanov grimaced as Felix turned the crank a second time, tightening the bars across the captive’s thighs. Blood ran in rivulets down his legs. When the screaming subsided, Ivanov continued. “You’re probably wondering why we did that. It’s important for you to have a good understanding of how the Iron Chair works. It will ensure we’re as efficient as we can be, no?”
The captive nodded his head hard enough to send his hair, soaked with sweat, flying.
“Good. Now that we’re done with the demonstration, we can get down to business.”
Felix removed the gag as Pavlova sobbed and his chest heaved.
“Ruslan wants you dead,” Pavlova sputtered. “He wants the chancellorship. He won’t stop until he’s in charge.”
“I know that, Andrey.” Ivanov’s arms were crossed and his feet planted. “What I don’t know is how he intends to accomplish it. What can you tell me about that?”
“I…I…I don’t know.”
Ivanov signaled to Felix, who walked behind the chair.
“Wait! Wait…Don’t…I’ll tell you what I know.”
With a motion of his hand, Felix stopped.
Catching his breath, Andrey Pavlova hung his head. “He’s going to have Fedorov arrest you, and they’re going to jail you in Russia on tax evasion. While you’re in jail, they’re going to have you killed.”
Right out of the Russian president’s playbook. Ivanov paced. “And how are they going to get me?”
“On your way to next month’s Komissariat.”
The location of the Komissariat for the Preservation of State’s monthly meetings was a closely guarded secret, as was Ivanov’s route to the meeting venue. Even as a minister of the Komissariat, Ivanov was forced to take draconian measures to preserve secrecy. If Ruslan planned to take him down en route to the meeting, it meant Ruslan had inside help from the Komissar himself. Which meant the Komissar wanted Ivanov off the Komissariat for the Preservation of State. No changes were made to the governing structure of the Komissariate or the various sub-councils without the Komissar’s approval. Ivanov stroked his chin and forced himself to remain calm while he paced.
“Felix, get the details.” Ivanov stopped with his hand on the doorjamb. “Then toss his body somewhere it will be easily found.”
Forty-Five
Over the North Atlantic
“Not good, Max. Not good.”
Baxter paced the aisle between the caramel-colored leather seats of the Lear while Max sat cross-legged with a cup of tea. Cindy, as usual, was hunched over her laptop. The MI6 man repeated himself over and over as he strode back and forth and madly yanked his goatee.
Max chuckled. “Is this getting too deep for you?”
Coming to an abrupt halt, Baxter glared at Max. “Let me summarize. We’re in a race to find an ex-CIA officer who is held captive against her will alongside the abducted CIA director and another former ex-CIA operative. Your sworn enemies, along with a half dozen intelligence agencies—that we know of—are in race to find these people. We’ve learned via a video from a dead man that this ex-CIA agent has information hidden in her head that everyone wants. Hidden in her head, for bollock’s sake. How is that even possible?”
A shrug from Max. “That dead man is my father. Pretty good source as far as I’m concerned. Isn’t this what you wanted?”
Resuming his pacing, Baxter muttered under his breath so Max almost couldn’t hear. “And now we’re flying to Cyprus, a country the Turks and the Greeks have been fighting over since the seventies.”
Max grinned. “Lots of rich Russians there.”
Cindy cleared her throat. “I wondered about the hypnotism, so I did some research and called around. According to a guy I talked to at Harvard, it’s possible to hide information in someone’s brain using simple hypnosis techniques. Retrieving it usually requires a specific trigger phrase.”
Baxter harrumphed. “We don’t know what this information is, nor do we know how to obtain it. We don’t know who is holding them, and we don’t know whether they’ve already obtained the information and have disposed of her. Turns out, none of this knowledge is known by the assistant director of America’s cyber warfare military department, who by the way, we just broke about a hundred laws by abducting and torturing. All we know is her location, which, of course, we obtained from a man under extreme duress who might say anything to end the pain.”
Max blew on a cup of hot tea before reaching into his pocket to retrieve two round white pills. He tossed them into his mouth and chased it with a gulp. “I know who has her.”
The MI6 man stopped pacing and whirled. “You what?”
After another sip, Max looked up. “You heard me.”
Slapping the leather seat, the MI6 man took a deep breath. “And?”
Max said nothing.
“Out with it, damn it.”
Max shook his head. “I ran a little side operation. It’s only a guess.”
Baxter sputtered and cursed. “And how long will you keep us in the dark? We have a team we can put on it.”
Max shook his head again. “No. Intelligence agencies leak like, how do you say? Sieves? The less people who know the better.”
Baxter threw up his hands, stormed down the aisle, and disappeared into the lavatory.
Max’s Blackphone buzzed in his pocket. Cindy had helped him connect the device to the Lear’s Wi-Fi which ran off a satellite data connection. A message had come in from Goshawk. There was a brief line of text followed by a link.
Cyprus dossier is available.
Max tapped on the link, which opened up a secure browser and prompted him for a password. After supplying the required credentials, a set of files appeared, including a country report on Cyprus. The other files contained a briefing prepared by the CIA on Russian influence over the tiny country and blueprints for the compound where Kate was being held. He began reading through the information.
He glanced up to see Cindy stari
ng at him. As he caught her eye, her blue irises flickered to the right before returning to Max’s. He followed her gaze. Baxter had finished in the bathroom and fallen into a chair. His chest moved slowly as he snored gently. When Max looked back at Cindy, her forefinger was up against her lips.
He returned to his reading. A minute later, a floral scent caused him to look up. Cindy was crouched next to him. He tried to hide his Blackphone, but she had already glimpsed the screen. He narrowed his eyes at her.
She jerked her thumb in Baxter’s direction and whispered, “Sorry, but something has happened that I think you should know.”
Max raised his eyebrows and caught another whiff of her hair as she put her lips next to his ear. Her warm breath on his neck caused a pleasant distraction.
“Callum had me prepare a report of what we learned from Bluefish. He asked me to blur over the details of how we learned the information.”
“Okay. Not surprising.”
Cindy’s lips brushed his ear. “He intends to send the report to C before we land in London.”
“But we’re not going to—”
Baxter stirred, and as Cindy pulled away, her eyes caught Max’s.
They aren’t heading to Cyprus. Baxter told the pilot to land in London. A slow burn started at the base of his neck and traveled to his forehead. Damn it, Baxter.
The MI6 officer shifted again, and his breathing settled into a soft purr.
After a moment, Cindy touched Max’s arm. “He’s planning to get Vauxhall Cross to lead up the search for Kate with us in support. He thinks MI6 beating everyone to the punch would be good for Great Britain.”
“Why are you telling me this?”
She shrugged. “Not sure, but you can’t let on that you know. Otherwise he’ll know I told you.” She winked at him before sitting back down to hunch over her laptop.
MI6 will screw it up. There will be a leak. Too much red tape. There isn’t time. Kate will be dead or compromised by the time they get there. A vision of the disappearing motorcycle taillight crossed his mind, and he rubbed his face with this palm.
