Wolf's Vendetta

by Craig MacIntosh

  “How could I forget? Gary was born in Hawaii. Grew up there.”

  Wolf was intrigued by the Hawaiian connection. “Sam told me you’re a third-generation Russian-American. Where does Hawaii fit in?”

  “My grandfather was Russian, my grandma Uzbek. Not sure how that happened. They were just teens when they fled to Austria right after the war.”

  “The original odd couple,” volunteered Schmit. “Gary’s a United Nations poster child.”

  “Yeah, I am that. My grandparents settled in Cleveland, where my dad was born. The youngest of five, he joined the Air Force out of high school, ended up at Hickam, and met my mom. She’s Chinese-Hawaiian. I was born in Honolulu.”

  “We affectionately call him ‘Poi Dog’ behind his back,” said Schmit.

  Kurskov playfully slapped the back of the tech’s head.

  Wolf leaned forward. “Sam says your Russian’s excellent.”

  “My grandparents used to speak it at home. My ancestry interested me in college. Seemed to come naturally.”

  “His Russian is good as gold,” interrupted McFadden. “He’ll handle the decoding. Anything you want to add, Wolfman?”

  “Only that I appreciate what you’re doing.” Wolf passed the camera’s memory card and a note with a scribbled algorithm to Schmit. “The info on this cost a good friend his life. Seven other people died because of it. I’d like to think this is the end of the line.”

  Planting both hands on his desk, McFadden stood. “This is a ‘your eyes only’ situation, guys. I’ve signed on as well. Work on this in the evening for starters. If you need daylight hours let me know and I’ll okay your time. Anything we learn stays here. Got it?”

  The solemnity of the moment settled in the office. McFadden broke the spell. “Okay, let’s get on it.” He and Wolf shook hands with Schmit and Kurskov.

  When the two had left, McFadden read his watch. “Hey, Wolfman. If you’re up to it, how about some target work? Whadaya say we find ourselves some open lanes?”

  “Now you’re talking my language, Sam.”

  Chapter 36

  “So, what are you going to do about Verlov?”

  Ivanov took a long pull of vodka and passed the chilled bottle to his left without answering. Helinski tried again, adding a warning. “I know you well enough to know you’re thinking about Verlov. The longer he goes unchallenged the harder it will be to take him down.”

  Ivanov stirred. “Who said anything about taking him down?”

  Emboldened by alcohol, a swaying Ivor Sergov said, “Sergei’s right. It’s only a matter of time, Dimitri.”

  Ivanov took another long swallow. “You speak like jealous schoolgirls. So Verlov has the boss’s ear. I serve the boss, nothing else matters.”

  “He killed Sasha,” said Helinski. “Or had his bodyguards do it.”

  “You know nothing. Sasha made his own bed.”

  Helinski, fueled by vodka, grew bolder. “Wake up, Dimitri. Your turn may come tomorrow or the week after. We won’t be around to help you. Verlov will eliminate us one by one, leaving the boss surrounded by new faces. He worms his way into Levich’s heart right under your nose.”

  “Yah, and who needs heartworm,” hissed Sergov.

  The two giggled at the play on words. The pair, young ruthless boyeviks from Ivanov’s crew, had joined him for a night of drinking on the nearly deserted boardwalk. Ivanov turned up his collar against the night chill and stared at the dark sea. The two loudmouths were doing his thinking out loud.

  Reckless to talk like this, he thought. They are right, but Levich has ears everywhere. He stepped off the boardwalk and plodded across the abandoned beach.

  Sergov tossed the empty bottle toward the water in a high arc. He and Helinski followed Ivanov. The two drunken soldiers caught up with him and fell silent. Light from windows in the high-rises lining the boardwalk cast the trio’s shadows on the sand. A solitary dog walker hurried along, throwing a suspicious glance at the three.

  Ivanov stood facing the sea. A stupefied Sergov fell to his knees, mesmerized by the waves. The briny air cleared Ivanov’s head. He spoke without looking at either man. “It would have to be done so discreetly that no one would point a finger at us.”

  Helinski cocked his head toward Ivanov. “Those two byki will be a problem. Verlov never goes anywhere without them.”

  Ivanov’s eyes remained locked on the breakers. “They have to sleep sometime. Verlov has to be taken when he’s isolated.”

  Sergov fell back on the sand, his arms outstretched, eyes closed. “Maybe at one of the clubs. He likes to go out to play, you know. We could catch him at Caspian Nights.”

  Ivanov dismissed the idea. “No good. That’s Levich’s club. He’d never forgive that. Plus, there would be too many witnesses. Too crowded. Too many innocents.”

  “Since when do you worry about innocents, Dimitri?”

  “Sergei, do you even know what the word ‘discreet’ means?”

  “It means…whatever you want it to mean…I guess.”

  Ivanov tapped his temple. “It means ‘to think.’ We need to know Verlov’s routine. He appears each day at the boss’s apartment with his two bulls. I don’t know where he stays. Neither do you.”

  A voice from the sand. “He sleeps at Dagmar Danilev’s place.”

  Ivanov leaned over the sprawled Sergov. “How do you know this?”

  “Her nephew Yuri is friends with my cousin. They are studying together for their Bar Mitzvahs.”

  “She’s young enough to be his daughter,” snarled Helinski.

  “So? Maybe she has a thing for older men.”

  Kneeling, Ivanov gripped Sergov’s jaw. “You know this for a fact?”

  “Yes. He likes her. Yuri told my cousin Verlov brings her gifts.”

  “How long has this been going on?”

  Sergov shrugged.

  “Who’s at the home during the day?”

  “Huh, no one, I guess. Yuri’s in school and Dagmar works.”

  “When do the bodyguards come for Verlov?”

  “Don’t know.”

  “We need to know that,” said Ivanov. Wheels turned in his head. To Helinski, “This week you and Sergov make a visit during the day. Go on foot through the alley. Draw up a floor plan of the house. I want to know which bedroom is hers.”

  “Then what?”

  “Then we find out where his guys stay. What time they pick him up each day. Maybe where they go for breakfast before they come to Levich’s apartment. The boss is never up before nine.”

  Helinski said, “That would give us plenty of time.”

  Ivanov pulled Sergov to his feet with an assist from Helinski.

  “Speak to no one about this,” warned Ivanov. “None of the others must know what was said tonight. If I hear one word…”

  “Nothing,” swore both men in unison. “We say nothing.”

  “See that you keep your word. This is the kind of thing that can get you killed.”

  Chapter 37

  Downloading Wolf’s memory card took two days of Schmit’s time. Working nights, he isolated the embedded images from the originals on his office computer. Behind locked doors, the tech made backup copies of the originals and prepared his presentation for Wolf, McFadden, and Kurskov. Cornering Schmit in the company break room, McFadden asked for an update.

  Schmit finished off a can of Coke. “Wrapped up two hours ago.”

  “Okay, sorry to hound you. It’s just that Wolf is antsy to find out.”

  “Join the club. I know how to work with steganography but my Russian is zip. I’ll get the files over to Kurskov ASAP.”

  “Do that. I’ll call Wolf and have him come by at five. Good enough?”

  “Fine with me. I’ll brief you guys in your office.”

  “See you at five,” said McFadden.

  That evening, after leaving the range in good hands, McFadden cleared his desk for Schmit to work his magic. With Kurskov busy with the files from the Russian l
edger, Schmit was to explain his end of the operation to Wolf and McFadden.

  Wolf arrived with a cooler of beer and a fresh pizza. Taking over McFadden’s desk, Schmit popped a beer and snagged two pieces of hot pizza. The three ate in silence while Schmit’s fingers danced across the keyboard of his boss’s computer.

  “Where’s Kurskov,” said Wolf. “Shouldn’t he be here?”

  “He knows better,” whispered McFadden. “Give it a few minutes and you’ll see what I mean.”

  Opening a window displaying photos from the Russian trip—including the launch at Baikonur—Schmit led his two-man audience through his sleuthing steps: a Steganography 101 tutorial.

  “I dumped everything on your card. Three hundred-fifty photos. Some nice shots, lots of mediocre ones. You are apparently fond of redundancy.”

  Wolf and McFadden chuckled between bites of pizza.

  “Humor me,” said Schmit. “A brief outline of steganography. Ancient Greek word meaning ‘covered writing.’ They used to write secret messages on wood tablets and cover them with wax. New message gets scratched in wax and nobody’s the wiser. Guy sends off tablet. Recipient gets tablet, melts the wax and voila—secret message appears. You with me so far?”

  McFadden groaned. “Don’t dumb it down. We know the basics. Give us the Reader’s Digest version of the science.”

  Warming to his task, Schmit took a slice of pizza and said, “Patience. How often do I get a captive audience?”

  He hit a key and a picture of Moscow’s Red Square appeared. “So, using your innocent-looking tourist picture, let’s say we want to add another file to it. The original picture becomes a ‘carrier’ for our secret file. Normally, that would significantly increase the overall size of the file and call attention to a possible hidden message.”

  Wolf said, “Someone who knows the process might be able to pick up on that, right?”

  “Correct. If they had access to the original file they’d detect the hidden data by looking at the size.”

  Rolling his eyes, McFadden turned to Wolf. “This is why we never ask Schmitty for the time. He’ll tell you how the watch works, where it was made, and maybe the history of time as well.”

  Schmit frowned. “You’re stealing my thunder, Boss.”

  “I’m listening,” said Wolf.

  “Thank you. As I was saying…So, we replace bits of the original picture with new bits from our secret message. A digital image is made up of thousands of pixels. Those could be eight bit or twenty-four bit. With the eight bit you get 256 colors to create an image. For the twenty-four bit you get more color. Do the math. Each pixel is worth three bytes. The bigger number of bits, the more we have to play with when it comes to hiding a message.”

  “You’re making my head hurt,” complained McFadden.

  Schmit kept going. “When we convert the available bits into a binary code, we can simply replace the right side of that lineup—what we call ‘Least Significant Bits’—with the secret bits. That way the left side, which is the ‘Most Significant Bits,’ remains intact. So does the image. To the naked eye the picture is not altered significantly. You tracking with me?”

  “Sort of,” said Wolf. “One byte contains eight bits, and each byte is a color combination of red, green, and blue. RGB, correct?”

  “You paid attention.”

  McFadden frowned. “Cut to the chase, Schmitty. With all due respect, we don’t want to be here all night.”

  Schmit kept on, oblivious to his own chatter. Eventually, he wrapped up his presentation with the news Wolf wanted to hear. Using the algorithm Wolf had provided, he had discovered hidden files totaling 135 pages of notes, names, figures, and dates—all in tidy Russian script. Kurskov had the files and, according to Schmit, was already at home, hard at work.

  McFadden boxed up pizza scraps while Wolf chatted with Schmit about the tech’s Fort Huachuca days and Iraq sojourn. With the camera card back in hand, Wolf thanked him for his work.

  “Anytime,” said Schmit. “Hope we can make them pay for Commander Colter’s death.”

  Chapter 38

  Kurskov spent the better part of ten days decoding and transcribing the messages hidden in the camera images from Russian to English. Working mostly at night at home or in his locked office, he would not be rushed.

  Wolf used the interval to visit the SEAL training facility on Coronado, made contact with friends from his days in the teams. Later, at the naval base officer’s club, he reminisced with two of Dan Colter’s fellow SEALs. Nothing the pair said to Wolf shed light on the dead man’s background. Follow-ups to earlier phone calls he had made before coming west met a similar fate.

  During the week, after-dinner conversations ended in dead ends. Quizzed by McFadden about his Russian trip, Wolf could only remember generalities Colter had served up during their hours together. The blanks only added to his frustration. At the time, he told McFadden, he had not thought the gaps in Colter’s background important. Recalling their camaraderie during SEALs training, Wolf said, “We focused on surviving during that time. We were just glad to make it from one day to the next. I mean, we’d do a bit of small talk but who remembers it years later?”

  Sympathetic, McFadden said, “I know what you mean. Your mind gets fuzzy after a while. You concentrate on tactics and daily routine.”

  “Exactly. When you’re freezing your ass off in the ocean, even words take too much energy at that point. Then, training’s over and we go our separate ways. Different teams. Different platoons. Different coasts.”

  “And you’re getting nothing from your old contacts?”

  “Spooky, huh?” said Wolf. “Somewhere out there is an ex-wife.”

  “Good luck with that, Wolfman. Best to let that one alone.”

  “Could be a clue.”

  McFadden snorted. “Could also make you sorry you asked.”

  Near the end of Week Two, after an afternoon workout in the pool, Wolf complained to McFadden. Resting in the shallow end, his crossed arms on the tiles, he said, “Hard to believe the guys in the teams know less about Colter than me.”

  “Check his service record. He’s got to have one. Or it could be his file’s been scrubbed clean. He could be a ghost, an invisible man.”

  “It’s possible. I’ll have to contact State when I get back.”

  “Wouldn’t put a lot of stock in getting answers from that quarter.”

  “I’m going nuts thinking about this, Sam. We were in some deep shit over there. Colter had my back and I had his. He didn’t return and I want to know why. I mean, he was hurt bad but someone has to know what happened to him once he left my sight.”

  “Give it a rest for now, Wolfman. I just talked to Kurskov. We’re meeting with him tonight.”

  “Finally. Did he give you a heads up on what he’s found?”

  “He’ll only say he found something fascinating. With Kurskov that qualifies as an understatement.”

  “It better be worth it.”

  McFadden tossed Wolf a towel. “Put it this way. I’ve never heard him sound more mysterious. Kurskov’s not exactly an excitable guy, but for once he was champing at the bit.”

  “Okay, if you were trying to get my attention, you got it.”

  Wrapping the towel around his shoulders, Wolf headed to his guest quarters, McFadden to the house.

  Chapter 39

  “I’ve got bad news…and bad news. Which do you want first?” Kurskov, his normally placid expression replaced by a worried frown, stared at Wolf and McFadden.

  “What gives?” said McFadden.

  “This is way beyond my pay grade. This kind of information can topple governments and get people killed.”

  Kurskov dimmed the lights and took a seat at the end of the table, his laptop connected to the projector.

  “Okay,” McFadden said, “give us the bad news.”

  “It’s all bad.”

  Impatient, Wolf said, “Start with the least bad news.”

  Kurskov tapped th
e keyboard. A vertical ledger page appeared, its tidy Cyrillic script and numerals familiar to Wolf. “Schmit found 135 pages with notes like this. The person who wrote these accounts was very specific, very detailed about the who, what, where, and when.”

  Kurskov aimed a penlight’s laser at the screen. “This is page one—just an example of what we’re dealing with. It took longer than I would have liked to get everything lined up. It’s hard to believe none of this was in code.”

  Wolf studied the image. “But you were able to figure out what this means, right?”

  “Yes. I did some cross-checking on the names. Just wanted to make sure what I was seeing. It added a couple days to the job.”

  “Impressive,” said McFadden. “Show us what the translations look like.”

  A tap on the keyboard and a second slide appeared showing side-by-side Russian and English versions. Running the laser’s red arrow over the figures in right-hand columns, Kurskov said, “I’ve converted rubles to dollars to make it easier to understand.”

  Wolf and McFadden stared at the listed amounts. “Someone’s moving a lot of money around,” said Wolf. “I’m reading bank names in English, but they don’t match with the Russian names on the same line. What’s that about?”

  Kurskov beamed. “It’s a primitive cypher. You see just names on the Russian version, but I was curious. I went down some rabbit trails before it dawned on me these fictitious names were being substituted for the banks. Some of the later stuff didn’t compute. That’s when I figured out the writer had switched to some kind of code for the banks. It took some doing but I was able to marry up most of these names using the bank numbers.”

  “Why do all that?” said Wolf.

  “You’d have to ask the writer. Maybe he got spooked and decided to hide what he was doing.”

  “Or took his secret to the grave,” said McFadden. Turning to Wolf he said, “You mentioned seven people had died because of this book, right?”

  Wolf shrugged. “That’s what Colter and I were told. Not sure if it’s true or not.”

  “But you had people trailing you,” said Kurskov. “Colter died as a result of having the book…or the information…in his possession.”