Wolf's Vendetta

by Craig MacIntosh

  “Affirmative. I’m gonna try Nash again. Say hi to Reggie.”

  “Roger that. Watch your six, Wolfman.”

  “Always, Sam.”

  Chapter 107

  Nash still wasn’t answering. Grabbing a beer and sandwich, Wolf sat glued to the television, watching the Sunday morning talk shows. Toggling back and forth between NBC’s Meet the Press, CBS’s Face the Nation and ABC’s This Week, he listened to the usual pompous blather. Apoplectic congressmen, apologetic presidential surrogates, and turgid academics praised and dissected the Times story in turn. Fox News and CNN were doing their best to stoke the fires. All the shows had raided the capital’s retired military aviary for hawks and doves alike. Lindgren called again, cackling with glee about some Agency colleague he was sure was due for sacking as a result of the news.

  “You sound much too vindictive, Gunny. Especially for someone who claims he’s no longer in the game.”

  “It’s a case of chickens coming home to roost.”

  “Care to elaborate?”

  “My smiling lips are sealed. But let’s just say justice is being done.”

  “Call me when you’ve calmed down,” said Wolf. They both laughed.

  Hanging up, Wolf went online. The BBC was reporting Russian television condemning the West and hinting of darker CIA plots yet to come. In Ukraine, some of those named in the Times reporting went into hiding. Devoting a day of live programming, Parliament’s official channel, Rada TV, showed politicians of all stripes trading insults with one another. One by one, florid-faced speakers rose to denounce Russian stations for saturating the country with distorted news reports. He was right. The story had legs.

  That evening, the president interrupted a family vacation and fundraising tour in Savannah drawing rooms to make a brief appearance at a hastily called press conference at Ft. Stewart. Professing outrage at the alleged plot to use Russian Mafiya money in an ill-advised effort to combat pro-Russian forces in eastern Ukraine, he promised a full inquiry. Congress, he pledged, would be asked to work hand-in-hand in a bi-partisan investigation. All would come to light, he promised. Those responsible would be called to account for their actions. Delivered with his best stern expression in place, the president’s remarks were brief. The press rose as one to hurl questions but he ignored them. Beating a hasty retreat, he left behind a hapless assistant press secretary as sacrificial lamb. Turning on the decoy, the press savaged him.

  Chapter 108

  Nash finally called.

  “I’ve been trying to get hold of you,” scolded Wolf. “You must have been holed up at the cabin all this time.”

  “Yeah. Sorry. Bad reception. I’m good now.”

  Wolf heard traffic in the background. “Where are you, Rome?”

  “Utica,” said Nash. “On my way down to the city to take care of business.”

  “The loft?” Had Nash taken the money after all?

  “Correct. I took the money.”

  “Good choice. What’s next?”

  “I decided not to rebuild. I’m selling. I’ve got a buyer.”

  Wolf sat down. “A buyer? That was quick.”

  “Yeah. It’s ironic. The CEO of a small chain of coffee shops likes the spot. He’s in town for meetings and asked to stop by.”

  Wolf laughed. “Great. Just what the planet needs, another coffee shop.”

  “Well, the lot’s not big enough for a Walmart. Anyway, I’m meeting the buyer and his property acquisitions agent this afternoon. We’ll sign the papers after they take a last look.”

  “And then?”

  “Back to Santa Barbara.”

  “Wise man. You been following the uproar over the story?”

  “From a distance. I went in to Florence to pick up a copy of the Sunday Times. Read the piece two or three times. Woulda changed a few things, but overall I was pleased with it. It’s bittersweet, of course.”

  “Yeah, but you nailed them all, Nash. There’s still a lot of fallout. And it ain’t over yet. There’s a long line of fat ladies waiting to sing.”

  Wolf heard Nash laugh. A good sign, he thought. It had been a while.

  “I’ll call you when I’m done with the paperwork. You can come back up here. I’d consider it an honor to help you put Royce where he belongs.”

  “Roger that. Thanks for calling, Nash. I’m heading out for a three-mile run to work off some stress.”

  “Did you get to make your house call?”

  Picturing Nells on his knees, surrounded by colored glass shards, Wolf said, “I did.”

  “Work out the way you wanted?”

  “Even better than I imagined. I’ll tell you about it when I see you.”

  They finished the call. Wolf changed into sweats and running shoes. He went out the front door. A government-issue sedan and two Hoover suits were waiting for him at the curb.

  Chapter 105

  Neve Tzedek District, Tel Aviv

  Levich was on his roof when word came of Uri Koronsky’s death.

  Viktor brought the news along with a chilled unopened bottle of Gamia Brut and two long-stemmed flutes. He popped the cork and poured.

  “From the Golan Heights Winery, Boss. Appropriate, no?”

  Levich grinned, his eyes squinting against the dying sun. “I commend your taste in champagne and symbolism, Viktor.”

  “I am, as you say, Boss, ‘a diamond in the rough, eh?’”

  “Worth your weight in gold, old soldier.” Lifting his glass, Levich proposed a toast to his fallen competitor. “To Uri Koronsky. May he find no rest in Sheol.”

  “L’Chaim!”

  Levich moved to the shadows under the awning. “Now we move quickly before the vacuum fills. How many of Uri’s men can be brought under my wing?”

  Viktor downed his glass and poured another. “All of them save Teddy Nirov and his brother Ari. They fancy themselves leaders but they are spineless. They should be dealt with before they regain their senses.”

  “See to it, Viktor.”

  “I already have. They are both lying in a drainage ditch on a farm south of here. In the morning they will be found. The police will be called, of course.”

  “Of course,” marveled Levich. “You’re becoming indispensible, Viktor.”

  “That is my role, Boss. You give the orders, I make them good.”

  Arching an eyebrow, Levich said, “True. Except I don’t remember ordering the death of the Nirov brothers.”

  Polishing off his drink, Viktor poured another. “Of course not. But you were about to, yes? This saves me the trouble to arrange it and it saves you the trouble of—”

  “Ordering it done,” interrupted Levich. “You are a dangerous man, Viktor.”

  “Only to myself and the girls down at Gina’s club.”

  “Go, Viktor. Go enjoy yourself. You have earned it.”

  The Spetsnaz veteran got to his feet, his glass raised. “To the Boss!”

  “And to you, Viktor Alexander Askov.”

  “L’Chaim!”

  Chapter 109

  On the front steps of an Alexandria, Virginia condo fifty-eight hundred miles away, Wolf stared at the two dark-suited strangers coming up his walk. White, clean-shaven with short hair and serious expressions, the pair might as well have held signs reading “FBI.” Wolf met them halfway. His visitors reached inside their jackets for the badge ritual. He beat them to it.

  “You guys proselytizing?”

  They paused, hands in their inside pockets. The taller of the two said, “I beg your pardon.”

  “I said, ‘Are you proselytizing?’ Our association frowns on soliciting. Aren’t you Mormons?”

  The badges came out. “No sir, we’re with the FBI. Agents Callahan and Drummond.”

  Wolf grinned. “I’m just messing with you. What can I do for you? I was about to go for my afternoon run. Care to join me?”

  Callahan, the tall one, smiled. “Another time. We’d like to follow up with you about that shoot-out and arson in Brooklyn.
”

  “I told your other agents all I knew during the interview. I lost a friend up there, you know.”

  “Yes, we know. His autopsy report confirms that he died from smoke inhalation and complications from three bullet wounds.”

  “Royce was tough, gentlemen.”

  “The other four, all of whom were ID’d, were naturalized citizens living in Brighton Beach.”

  “I know that. I told your guys we were being targeted by the Russian mob from Little Odessa. It should all be in the report.”

  “It was. But we’re here about another matter.”

  “Is this going to take long? I’d really hate to miss my run.”

  Drummond, the shorter, athletic-looking one, moved closer. “Would you prefer to accompany us to the field office?”

  Wolf faced him. “What is this? Good cop, bad cop? You guys want to talk, fine. Let’s talk right here. But make it quick. And lighten up, Agent.”

  Smiling, Callahan shrugged. “Sure. We can talk here. We’re looking into an odd coincidence that happened several days after the fire and shootings.”

  Wolf was silent, his expression neutral. The tag team kept at it.

  “What can you tell us about a body found across the street only three days after the loft battle?” said Callahan.

  “You mean the homeless guy they found?”

  Drummond again. “Who said it was a homeless guy?”

  Staying cool, Wolf rubbed his jaw. “I believe it was Detective Willis. Yes, I remember now. Willis was with the Seventy-third Precinct. That’s the local cop shop where the loft was located.”

  Callahan said, “Remarkable memory, Mr. Wolf.”

  “Training. I was in the Navy Special Ops for twenty years. We’re taught to be observant. It was a memorable event, gentlemen. I mean, coming on the heels of the arson and my friend’s death.”

  “Nothing else you remember about this body being found?”

  “What can I say? I didn’t visit the scene. Detective Willis asked if we had seen anything out of the ordinary in the building across the street. I said none of us had noticed any activity prior to our fire.”

  “The dead man was ex-army. Did the detective mention that?”

  “He did not. Lot of homeless veterans in our cities. It’s a shame.”

  “This guy was apparently not homeless,” volunteered Drummond.

  Locking eyes with the agent, Wolf said nothing.

  “We’re still looking into the circumstances of the victim’s cause of death. By the way, will you be staying in the city?” said Callahan.

  “Hard to say. I do a little contracting here and there. If it’s important you can always get hold of me through my lawyer.”

  Drummond sniffed. “We know where to find you.”

  Wolf couldn’t help himself. “You know, Agent Drummond, you seem to be trying hard not to be a likeable guy. And you’re succeeding. For a public servant, and an FBI agent at that, you’re kind of an asshole. I thought you guys had better manners.”

  Callahan, the peacekeeper, stepped in. “Okay, I think we’re done here. Thanks for your time, Mr. Wolf. We’ll be in touch.”

  Wolf bent down, pretending to tighten his laces. “Anytime, Agent Callahan. Have a nice day. Next time bring a different partner.”

  With the agents back in their car, Wolf trotted to the street and broke into a steady pace, taking out his anger on the pavement.

  Chapter 110

  Nash’s potential buyer and another man were waiting when the writer arrived at the site of his abandoned loft. The two were craning their necks and pointing at the charred upper levels. Pulling to the curb behind a town car, Nash hurried to the sidewalk. Apologetic, he held out his hand.

  “Mr. Rothstein, sorry to keep you waiting. Traffic was a bitch.”

  The building’s purchaser shook hands. “Ah, Mr. Nash, Stewart Rothstein. We finally meet.” Bundled in a silk scarf and black lamb’s wool coat, the gray-haired Rothstein smiled at Nash. Gesturing to his companion, who stood apart in a dark trench coat, he said, “Phil Sergon, my company’s accountant. The man who watches the money. He has the final say when it comes to buying potential sites.”

  Turning to his balding finance advisor, Rothstein waved. “This is Mr. Nash, Phil. Let’s take a final look before we sign the papers, okay?”

  Nash warned, “There are some unsafe spots, Mr. Rothstein.”

  Gripping Nash’s arm, Rothstein winked, said, “Not to worry. I’ve seen worse. In a year, you won’t recognize the place.” Glancing upwards, he said, “Before you got here Phil and I were discussing my options.”

  “Which are…?”

  “It might have to come down. All of it, Mr. Nash.”

  “I suppose.”

  Rubbing his hands in anticipation, Rothstein said, “The property is prime, of course. But all this brick and stone will have to go. I mean, look at the guts of the building.”

  Ushering Nash to the door, he said, “Just from a cursory glance I’m afraid I can’t salvage any of it. I mean, the walls, the floors, the beams. All weakened. Wouldn’t you agree?”

  “You’re right. The building’s integrity has been compromised.”

  They went through the door, the accountant close behind them.

  Sniffing the air, Rothstein wrinkled his nose. “Must have been quite the thing to experience.”

  “It was intense,” agreed Nash.

  “Is the elevator machinery a total loss? Might we take a look?”

  Nash followed Rothstein to the lift’s crumpled wire cage. “You can see the cables were severed by the explosion when—”

  Feeling the hard steel barrel at the base of his skull, Nash froze.

  “Do you know who I am?” Rothstein, his face twisted in a sneer, backed from the lip of the shaft where his companion had pinned Nash with a pistol against his neck.

  Swallowing hard, Nash felt sweat trickling down his back, soaking his shirt. Shaking, he managed a weak, “No.”

  “I am the devil,” said Rothstein, “here to see you sent to hell.”

  About to speak, Nash felt his head explode.

  Chapter 111

  “Sam, it’s me.”

  McFadden blew a kiss to Reggie and walked to the far side of the patio, out of earshot. “You’re down, Wolfman. I can tell.”

  “It’s Nash. He’s dead. Cops called ten minutes ago.”

  A long pause.

  “You still there, Sam?”

  “Yeah. Please tell me its not one of our own involved.”

  “No. The lead detective thinks it was a Russian mob hit. Payback.”

  “I’m sorry to hear about Nash. He was a terrific journalist, an honest reporter. A risk-taker.”

  “That he was, Sam. I hate to call you with such terrible news.”

  McFadden said, “Retaliation for those four byki in the shootout?”

  “Likely. To lose four of their soldiers in one fight was humiliating. My gut tells me Boris Levich put out the hit.”

  Phone to his ear, McFadden retraced his path along the patio. “The last time we talked you said the feds told you he’s in Israel. Their government will never give him up. He’s untouchable.”

  A long pause. “Nobody’s untouchable, Sam. Even in Israel.”

  Switching topics, Wolf said, “Got the final results from the autopsy. Off the record, the doc says he thinks Royce took out all the bad guys before he died, even though it was a toss-up between smoke inhalation and fatal wounds. Either one would have killed him. But I know he didn’t miss. He never missed. Shoulda been me, Sam.”

  “That’s not what Royce would say if he were still here.”

  “I know. Seems like everyone I’m close to ends up dead.”

  “It’s in the job description, Wolfman. I, for one, am glad you’re still alive and kicking ass. Reggie would say the same.”

  “I feel bad about getting you and Reggie involved, Sam. There’s no way to know what the mob will do…now, or in the future.”


  “We both know life’s uncertain. But I don’t want you looking back. It’s counter-productive. We’ll take it one day at a time, agreed?”

  “Roger that. You and Reggie are too good to me, Sam.”

  McFadden circled the pool. “Don’t wait too long before you come see us again. Welcome mat’s always out for you.”

  “Good to know. I’ve got all kinds of details to pull together out here before I can seriously think about moving on.”

  “What about Nash? He has no family, right?”

  “On his side, no. But his wife’s family still lives in Pennsylvania. I’ve been in touch. They said they’d have the funeral. His wife is buried in the family plot. That’s probably where he belongs. Don’t know what will happen to the Brooklyn loft or the Santa Barbara condo and the contents.”

  “And Royce?”

  “I’m taking his ashes up to Florence, New York. His ex-wife is okay with it. He wanted to be buried in the forest near the cabin. I have the spot picked out.”

  “I can hop a plane if you need me. Say the word.”

  “Stay with Reggie, Sam. I’ll call you when this stage of the game is done. After that…”

  “Understood, sailor. Watch your six.”

  “Always, Sam.”

  Chapter 112

  “Tell me again why I am visiting this dig?”

  Levich and Viktor sat in the middle seat of a white van, its tinted windows keeping out the sun’s glare, the air conditioning washing cool air over them. They had left the pavement of Highway 4, the old Haifa–Tel Aviv road, for a rough gravel track with little traffic. Somewhere farther west was Ashkelon and the sea. Leading deeper into scarred scrubland, the rutted route was testing Levich’s patience.

  Viktor said, “We visit because you support this small archeological project. The director’s brother is a high-ranking national police official. Your goodwill gesture will eventually pay dividends. For you it is five thousand dollars, a pittance. Without your support and the volunteers who do the work, this excavation would not happen. For the group making this dig, your money is the difference between continuing to search for ancient clues or folding up their tents and returning empty-handed.”