Wolf's Vendetta

by Craig MacIntosh

  “Commander, that’s just the point. After what’s occurred we want to make sure you return home safely. These are rather awkward times between our two countries. Surely, as a military man you can appreciate the situation.”

  “Feels like overkill to me. Taxpayers’ money and all.”

  Taylor hovered over the legal pad, avoiding Wolf’s eyes. “Never mind the cost. It’s my job to make sure you are returned home without further incident. We’ve got to get you out of Russia for your own good.”

  “We were attacked. We didn’t do anything to provoke those guys.”

  Taylor fiddled with his pen. “Understood. I just have a few questions you might help me with, please. The ambassador is anxious to know the details of this outrage. We’ll want to file a diplomatic protest, of course.”

  “As if that will do any good.” Pushing from the table, Wolf wandered the room. “Let’s see your credentials.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Your credentials, Mr. Taylor. You obviously know who I am. I want to see who you are. No ID, no answers.”

  Wolf’s flustered visitor produced a flat wallet and handed it to him.

  “Looks in order,” said Wolf, handing back the wallet. “The Russkis have always been good at this kind of thing, but I’m willing to give it a shot. Okay, let’s get this over with. Then I want to see Colter.”

  Taylor regained his composure and read his questions.

  “How do you know Dan Colter?”

  “We’re both navy. Served together. Crossed paths like everyone else. Ever served, Mr. Taylor?”

  “Never had the privilege.”

  “It is that.”

  “So I’m told,” said Taylor, arching an eyebrow. “What exactly were you two doing in Russia?”

  Wolf hid his anger at the younger man’s implied disdain. “We were invited to Baikonur to watch a fellow officer, astronaut Roger Keller, ride a Soyuz to the International Space Station. Check with the folks at NASA. They offered the invite.”

  “These men who attacked you—”

  “Mafiya goons. Thought we were easy pickings.”

  “I see. Could they have been government agents?”

  An odd question, thought Wolf. Why ask that?

  “Didn’t occur to me. I figured they were doing a smash and grab. Maybe we looked vulnerable.”

  “Well, you certainly disabused them of that notion. Anything else?”

  Wolf shook his head.

  “Well, I think that does it for now, Commander. I regret having to rush you out of the country at such a late hour, but as I said, it’s for your own good. We are trying to keep a low profile despite provocations like this.”

  “I’d like to check on Commander Colter before I go.”

  “Not possible. We’ve been told he’s in surgery. I can assure you we will look after him. I will personally guarantee his return to the states as soon as he’s able to travel. Oh, and we have your luggage. I must tell you it has been treated rather badly. I suppose the powers that be thought it worth going through. Not to be unexpected these days. I’ll have that put aboard your flight as well. And the embassy will hold Commander Colter’s belongings until he’s ready to return.”

  “Why the rush? I’d prefer to stick around until Dan’s good to go.”

  Taylor’s brow narrowed. “Not an option, Commander. We intervened to make sure you were being treated well, but it’s not possible to prolong your stay. The Russians want you on your way. We’re determined that they not change their minds and hold you in some sort of detention facilities to embarrass us.”

  “Hey, let’s not forget we were the ones who were attacked.”

  “I didn’t mean to minimize the unpleasantness, but frankly, we don’t know what the Russian mindset is these days. We can’t take the chance they’d put a different spin on what happened and detain you further.”

  “You play hardball when you have to, don’t you, Taylor?”

  He smirked. “I abhor pulling rank, Commander, but as an American government representative, my instructions are to see you safely home.”

  On his feet, Taylor put away his legal pad, snapped shut his briefcase and held the door for a skeptical Wolf. Outside the police station, the two got into a black Escalade with a driver and two unsmiling passengers who sandwiched Wolf in the backseat.

  “Commander Wolf, this is Mr. Charter and Mr. Gentz. Their job is to get you home in one piece. Your luggage is in the back. We’re going back to Domodedovo. This time you’ll be in good hands.”

  Sizing up the two as contractors, Wolf pretended to doze. He thought of Colter. Not my choice, Dawg. I’m outnumbered, outflanked, and outplayed this round. Stay strong.

  Chapter 19

  Alexandria, Virginia

  Weary from failed attempts to sleep on the way home, a haggard Wolf was dropped at his condo in pre-dawn darkness. His two escorts were all business right up until they saw him to his door. They left him with his luggage but with no update on Colter’s condition. Wolf’s earlier attempts to get them to talk during the flight had been fruitless. Somewhere over the North Atlantic, he had abandoned the effort for fitful sleep.

  Colter and Yana filled Wolf’s head. The whole business, so promising at the start, had ended so badly. Excitement about his Russian adventure had been tempered by Kozuch’s abduction. His dalliance with Yana couldn’t overcome Baikonur’s depressing remoteness. Even the thrill of the Soyuz launch had been overshadowed by the bloody business with the Tatars.

  And Colter’s wounding. That was a freakish thing. Should have been me in that bunker, he thought. Could have been me. Too confining a space. Only one man was coming out alive.

  Maybe we should have taken them in the open. No. Think about it. That would have been bringing knives to a gunfight. Never a good idea. Still…Got to check on Dawg first thing.

  The airport debacle. Colter’s coming to his rescue despite the risk. The interrogations that followed. Valuable time wasted going over the obvious. His impotency in the face of bureaucracy—theirs and ours. Things out of his control. Not a feeling Wolf had experienced before.

  Wolf left a trail of clothes on the bedroom floor and headed for the shower, his first in days. The hot water pummeled his muscles as Wolf leaned against the tiles, feeling ancient. His body cried out. Every ache accumulated in the last two weeks surfaced, reminding him of his limits. Wolf stood under the showerhead until the hot water ran out, then wrapped himself in a towel and shuffled to his den. He thought of checking his computer but opted for sleep.

  Tomorrow, he told himself. In the morning I’ll check my emails, then drive to Colter’s condo. Got to rest.

  Wolf pulled back the covers, grateful for the familiar feeling of his bed. He slept for ten hours, Colter’s words haunting him.

  Is this what it’s like to get old?

  An incessant ringing rudely shook him from his slumber. A groggy Wolf groped for his alarm and hit the snooze button twice without success. The irritating sound would not cease. Cellphone. An unfamiliar number on the tiny screen. Clearing his throat he rasped, “Yeah?”

  “Commander Tom Wolf?”

  “What?”

  “Good morning, this is Robert Nells from the State Department.”

  In no mood to talk, Wolf propped himself on an elbow. “And?”

  “I’d like to talk to you about your recent overseas trip.”

  “What the hell? I already did the drill with your embassy man, uh…” He had forgotten the name.

  “Chase Taylor.”

  “Yeah, that’s him. Been there, done that.”

  The voice dropped. “Well, we have a complication.”

  Wolf sat up, his feet planted on the floor. “Say again.”

  “A complication.”

  Wolf dreaded the words he knew were coming.

  “It’s Commander Colter.”

  “What? What’s happened?”

  “I’m sorry to report that he has expired.”

  “Expired? H
ell, use real words! You mean Dan is dead?”

  “Exactly. Commander Dan Colter has ex…has died.”

  Rubbing a hand across his face, Wolf asked, “In a Russian hospital?”

  “Yes. We received confirmation earlier this morning.”

  “Details?”

  “Not much to add.”

  “You have to do better than that.”

  “Sorry. Our information is a bit incomplete. Our people over there are doing what they can to find out.”

  “Taylor was supposed to keep tabs on this. What happened?”

  “We’ll have more answers in due time.”

  Wolf sagged, barely hearing his caller’s follow-up.

  “Perhaps if you’re willing,” said Nells, “we’d like to do some follow-up with you about this matter. Would it be possible to schedule an interview at State? At your earliest convenience, of course.”

  “What? You want me to come down there?”

  “That would be preferable.”

  “Give me a number. I’ll call you back when I’m upright.”

  “Of course. I understand. The sooner the better, of course. You know, while events are still fresh in your mind.”

  “Yeah, yeah. The number, dammit.” Wolf scribbled on a pad, repeated the number, and ended the call.

  Dan Colter dead? In a Russian hospital? Who do I call? Family? Somebody in Nebraska. Wasn’t that where Colter was from? What was the name of that town? Geez, I should know that. I’ll call someone from the teams. These people at State better have details.

  Wolf fell back against the pillows, hands over his eyes. What did State want from me? What can I tell them?

  Chapter 20

  When Wolf had shaved and dressed he called the number on the notepad and arranged a time to meet. He took the Metro to the Foggy Bottom Station near George Washington University and stopped at a café to refuel with coffee and a bagel. He hailed a cab and had the driver drop him at the State Department. Ten minutes late, but still angry about Colter’s death, he didn’t care about making some bureaucrat wait. He passed through security, signed in, and was collected by a frowning female functionary wearing an androgynous pantsuit. The two rode an elevator in silence to a lower level. She showed him to a pale green, windowless room with muted lighting, a table, and three chairs. Wolf thought of the police station in Moscow and his mood darkened.

  “Your appointment was fifteen minutes past the hour,” scolded the woman gently. “It is now thirty minutes past. If I might…a word to the wise. Punctuality is something Mr. Nells expects in others. He will be with you as soon as he finishes his current appointment—”

  Wolf interrupted the reproach by running a hand over the table’s polished surface. He pretended to study the inlay. “Huh, mahogany isn’t it? Good workmanship. Did you know most mahogany comes from Africa these days?”

  The aide reddened, flustered by Wolf’s non sequitur. “An appointment he was forced to move up in light of this morning’s…delay.”

  “Kinda makes me nostalgic for the South American stock. Course, that’s endangered, I believe.” Wearing an innocent expression, Wolf looked up. “Sorry…you were saying…?”

  “Mr. Nells will be with you shortly.” Turning on her heel, the frustrated woman marched from the room.

  Score one for us, Dawg. Wolf dragged a chair to the corner and settled in, a benign look on his face. Ten minutes passed. He thought of leaving.

  A knock. A round-shouldered, ascetic Brahmin in tidy tweeds and red bowtie entered the room. Wolf guessed Ivy League, likely student body politics, Phi Beta Kappa or Skull and Bones. Certainly chess. In his late forties, with thinning reddish hair, the officious bureaucrat extended a delicate hand.

  “Robert Nells, Commander. Don’t know how you managed it, but you rendered my usually unflappable assistant speechless.” Wolf shook hands.

  “Did she send you to the corner?” he asked, nodding at the chair Wolf had been sitting in.

  Wolf dragged it to the table. “I was just practicing a little mind control.”

  “Ah, wit and sarcasm. Another of your talents, I suppose.” Sitting opposite Wolf, Nells arranged manila folders in front of him. “Actually, I am one who appreciates a quick wit. In my job I see so little of it. You’re a man of many talents, Commander. I must say your file impressed me. And I am not easily impressed.”

  “And you appreciate punctuality, according to your apparatchik.”

  Smiling, Nells smoothed the papers in front of him. “Now there’s a word I haven’t heard in a long, long time. Takes me back to the old days.”

  “From my recent experience in Russia, I’d say the old days have returned in a big way, Mr. Nells.”

  “Oh, I shouldn’t be surprised if you’re right, Commander. The whole Crimea adventure showed their hand. And of course, Ukraine. Hopefully the Baltic states are not next. Now, to the purpose of our meeting.”

  Stealing the initiative, Wolf crossed arms, leaned forward, eyes locked on Nells. “That was a rather disturbing wake-up call.”

  “Yes,” admitted Nells, “suppose it was. Sorry about that. I wanted to let you know about Dan Colter’s death. Seems the doctors were unable to save him, poor fellow. Our man Taylor asked if I might contact you to pass the news. Our office extends our condolences.”

  “I should have been with him.”

  Nells softened. “Don’t be too hard on yourself. It wasn’t possible for you to stay given the circumstances. I’m glad we got you out of there as soon as we did. Downside, of course, was leaving Commander Colter behind.”

  Wolf stared at the table, silent. Across from him, Nells rustled papers and uncapped a gold pen. Propping reading glasses on his nose, he flipped through a report. “The airport brawl, Commander. Might we start with that?”

  Wolf threw a curve. “What are the burial arrangements for my friend?”

  “His body will be shipped back home. My office can contact you as soon as relatives are notified if you wish. Did you know his family?”

  Wolf shook his head. “Funny, I couldn’t remember his hometown. Some place in Nebraska. Not sure. We roomed together during BUD/S; graduated in the same class. Did more training together, then were assigned to different platoons, different teams.”

  “An admirable career, Commander. Both your records show it.”

  Wolf sighed. “Dan Colter outdid me in a lot of ways.”

  Nells read from the papers in his hands. “Were you aware he specialized in the Russian language? Graduated top in his class at Monterrey’s Defense Language Institute.”

  “Yes, but he didn’t brag about that kind of thing. Ran into him in San Diego after that. Said he was into a more sophisticated line of work.”

  “How about you, Commander? What were you doing at the time?”

  Wolf laughed. “I was more of a crash ’em and bash ’em kind of guy. You know, huff and puff; blow the door down. Shoot bad guys in the face. My job was to make people fall over.”

  Nells smiled condescendingly at the bravado and continued reading from the paperwork. “Your records show you were cited numerous times for your bravery. Again, most admirable.” Pausing a beat, he said, “Was your friend part of the Iraq and Afghanistan years?”

  Wolf pointed at the folder in Nells’s hands. “We all were. Read the paper trail and you’ll find the answer.”

  “Hmm, he worked with the International Security Assistance Force—ISAF. What does that mean to you? Did he ever explain what that entailed?”

  Wolf shrugged. “Not really. You must have that. Matter of fact, you seem to know a lot about both of us. And why is State so interested?”

  “Our curiosity stems from that episode in Russia, Commander Wolf. We believe you and Commander Colter were targeted, not by mafiya as you supposed, but by the government.”

  “Why would they do that? Makes no sense. Why risk an international incident like that in front of hundreds at the country’s biggest airport?”

  Nells steepled his hands, lo
oked at Wolf. “True. That’s the missing piece of the puzzle. We haven’t figured that out yet. That’s the reason for our little chat today. If you’re willing, let’s start with you and Colter first being contacted by NASA to be part of the launch group.”

  “It’s a long story.”

  “I have time,” said Nells.

  Wolf couldn’t resist. “Not according to your assistant.”

  Nells huffed, “Leave her out of this. She’s suffered enough at your hands for one day.”

  A stenographer was summoned to take down Wolf’s every word. Careful to leave out incriminating points he wanted to keep to himself, Wolf talked for an hour. Nells probed skillfully. Knowing how interrogations worked, sometimes Wolf answered truthfully; sometimes he parried.

  After sixty minutes of cordial fencing, he left with his secrets intact.

  Chapter 21

  New York City

  Just two hundred twenty-five miles distant, Brooklyn’s Brighton Beach and Washington DC might as well be continents apart. Beginning in the seventies, an incoming tide of immigrants from the Soviet Union flooded the seaside neighborhood and changed it forever. Heavily salted with criminals, the new arrivals turned their refuge into an incubator for the Russian mafia.

  Slow to recognize the threat, federal and local law enforcement left the newcomers alone. Studying at the knee of fourth-generation Sicilian mafia, Russian gangsters grew exponentially like tenement cockroaches. In some cases, they joined forces with the Italians. They adapted to the New York families’ loan-sharking, prostitution, narcotics, money laundering, and murder. The fall of the Soviet Union only exacerbated the problem. Inevitable internecine warfare followed, culling the ranks. Among the survivors was the wily Brighton Beach godfather, Ukranian Boris Levich. An agnostic Jew, Levich was a cunning, grim-faced veteran of the gulag who had outlived most of his peers by murdering them.

  Levich held court in a heavily fortified penthouse done in gilded Czarist-bordello style, ruling with a hand the Romanovs would have recognized. Balding, cadaverous, and pale, he studied the contents of a sheet of paper in his palsied hands. Levich eyed the letter, hand-delivered that morning by a courier from Moscow. “This is most important. Do you understand what you are to do?”