Dead End

by R. J. Patterson

  Chapter 14

  SERGEI BAZAROV STARED at the photo of Alexander Negovsky’s dead body. He squinted as he tried to read the note placed on Negovsky’s chest. One of his lieutenants handed him a plastic bag containing the note.

  “Here,” he said. “It might be easier to read it this way.”

  Sergei snatched the bag and pulled out the piece of paper, which had become stained with blood. The words were neat, written with a pen in Russian. He read the note aloud.

  “Take care of your sons. Sons are precious,” Sergei repeated. “I swear that bastard doesn’t know who he’s messing with.”

  Niko walked into the room and took a seat next to his father. “Everyone knows who they’re messing with when they go up against you, Papa. It just seems that Ivan Mortuk isn’t concerned.”

  “He won’t live long to regret that mistake.”

  “Of course not. So, why get so worked up about this again? I can’t stay by your side and try to calm you down every time Ivan Mortuk tries to intimidate you.”

  Sergei handed the note to Niko. “Read it.”

  Niko read the note and exhaled slowly. “Is this supposed to scare me?”

  “I don’t know, but the more I look at it, the more I want to order a hit on that bastard right this very minute.”

  “Papa, we’ve been over this already. We cannot be driven by emotions. Allowing such things to interfere with our plans will get us killed. But I know you already know that.”

  Sergei nodded at his son and slapped him on the back. “You’re a good man, Niko. That’s why I need you by my side, helping me avoid such needless pitfalls.”

  “Thank you, Papa. You know I only say these things out of concern for you. I would do anything for you.”

  “I know, Son. And since you would do anything for me, I have a special request of you.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “Your mother called this morning, and she’s having a difficult time.”

  “What could possibly be so difficult about her life? She might as well be royalty the way she lives.”

  Sergei unleashed a hearty laugh that ended when it broke down into a wheezing cough, which he sought to remedy with a shot of vodka. “It’s best you keep comments such as those to yourself when you go visit her tomorrow.”

  Niko furrowed his brow. “Visit her? Tomorrow? Is that what you just said?”

  Sergei nodded, studying his son’s face. Niko had become adept at lying to most people, but Sergei possessed a paternal truth serum of sorts. One way or another, Sergei would get the truth.

  “She left for the cabin this morning and called me in tears. I can’t be there to comfort her, but you can go in my place.”

  “But, Papa—”

  “You just said you’d do anything for me. Was that a sincere statement or just a hollow gesture?”

  Niko took a deep breath. “You’ve known me long enough to know I mean what I say.”

  “Good. Your mother will be expecting you tomorrow. I’ll have a car ready for you first thing in the morning.”

  “Are you sure you don’t need me for the rest of the preparations?”

  “Be with her for twenty-four hours then return. It will make her day—and make things easier on me.”

  Niko walked toward the doorway before stopping and turning around to look at Sergei. “Just remember our conversation, Papa. Don’t lose your head over what one of Mortuk’s men did to Alexander. Besides, it will all be over in a few days anyway.”

  Sergei let out a long breath and leaned back in his chair, interlocking his fingers behind his head. He gazed upward and waited for his son’s footsteps to fade down the hall. Satisfied that he was out of earshot, Sergei turned toward one of his lieutenants sitting at the table.

  “Call Peter and tell him to assemble a team,” Sergei said. “I’ve got a score to settle, and I refuse to wait any longer.”

  Chapter 15

  CAL WINCED AS THE ODOR of the cloth sack over his head reeked of sweat. From the mere smell alone, he knew he wasn’t the first person to have this bag wrapped around his head. But the speed and precision with which his abductors worked—not to mention their stealth—signaled they were consummate professionals. And that, more than anything, terrified Cal. This wasn’t his turf, and he had no idea what scene he’d awaken to once his bumpy ride ended.

  Cal sat on the floor of a van, hands bound together. The men said nothing, working in utter silence, which added to the mystery. Were they Russians? Chechen? Ukrainian? Middle Eastern? There was no clue.

  After about twenty minutes, the van skidded to a stop on a dirt road. Two men yanked Cal out of the van and set him on his feet. They cut his bindings before ripping the sack off his head.

  Cal’s eyes adjusted quickly to the darkness. He glanced around and saw he was in a quiet wooded area with two men standing in front of him.

  “Sorry about the treatment, Mr. Murphy,” one of the men said.

  “You’re Americans?”

  The men nodded.

  “CIA?” Cal asked.

  “We can’t really discuss that,” one of the men said as he offered his hand. “Kyle Daniels. And again, I’m sorry about the way we had to do this.”

  Cal reluctantly shook Kyle’s hand. “Couldn’t we have just had a conversation on the phone? Or at a bar somewhere?”

  “Scott Melton,” the other agent said. “Trust us. It was better this way. The FSB has eyes and ears everywhere.”

  “But apparently not at the Samara practice facility,” Cal countered.

  “They do have their weak spots, and it’s our job to exploit them,” Kyle said.

  “Wait. Did you say Kyle Daniels?”

  Kyle nodded.

  “Senator Curt Daniels’s son?”

  “Guilty as charged,” Kyle said. “Please don’t hold it against me. My father and I don’t have the same political views, which can make for some interesting Thanksgiving dinners.”

  Cal threw his hands in the air. “Look, I don’t care about that right now. But what I want is why you kidnapped me and drove me out to this godforsaken spot in the woods.”

  “We needed to warn you,” Kyle said.

  “Warn me?” Cal asked with a furrowed brow. “About what?”

  “You’re treading down a dangerous path,” Scott said. “Whatever you know or think you know, we want to urge you not to print it, at least until the World Cup is over.”

  Cal studied their faces as best as he could in the dim light. “Are you two on the take? Is this a serious conversation? Because I’m not buying it.”

  “It’s very serious, Cal,” Kyle said. “There are some things going on right now behind the scenes that you don’t need to be meddling with.”

  “Like some illegal CIA operation in Russia?” Cal fired back.

  Kyle narrowed his eyes. “Everything we’re doing here is above board. But we’re on the verge of capturing one of the biggest illegal arms dealers to the Middle East, and we don’t need anyone spooking him. Is that clear?”

  Cal sighed. “Sergei Bazarov? Is that who you’re talking about?”

  “We’re not authorized to discuss specifics with you,” Kyle said. “Just know that it’s important you stay out of this situation. Don’t talk about it with anyone.”

  “And certainly don’t write about it,” Scott added.

  “Perhaps you don’t know what I know,” Cal said. “Because I learned about a terrorist plot that’s going to kill hundreds of people, maybe thousands, if that mad man isn’t stopped.”

  “We know about the plot,” Kyle said. “Just let us handle it.”

  Cal cut his eyes back and forth between the two agents. “And what are you going to do about it? Hopefully something to stop it.”

  “As I said before, we can’t discuss the our mission with you,” Kyle said. “But if we’re able to catch him, we’ll be able to cut off one of the biggest suppliers to ISIS and other terrorist groups in the Middle East. It’ll be a big win for the war on te
rror.”

  “That’s not my job,” Cal said. “If I find out about a plot, I’m obligated to report it.”

  “Consider what you know reported,” Scott said. “You’ve done a great service for your country and for humanity in general. And you’ll be doing an even greater service if you keep news of this out of The Times and any other publication that picks up your articles.”

  Cal rubbed his wrist and looked at the ground. Trees cast dancing shadows in the moonlight as a gentle breeze rustled the leaves above them. He contemplated his future as the frailty of his situation set in—alone in the woods with two trained CIA agents who could make him disappear without a trace. He figured the smartest move was to admit he’d comply, anything to get them to take him back to his car and forget this entire incident even happened.

  “Okay, I’ll keep my mouth shut,” Cal said. “Just promise you’ll throw me a bone when this is all over, give me some details so I can break the story.”

  “You cover sports,” Kyle said. “You’re not a foreign affairs correspondent.”

  “I might be a sports writer by name, but I’m a journalist first and foremost.”

  “All the news that’s fit to print, eh?” Scott quipped.

  “Something like that,” Cal said.

  “Fine. We’ll throw you a bone, but only on the condition that you don’t utter a word of this to anyone.”

  Cal nodded. “Deal.”

  He felt a twinge of guilt about lying, especially to a pair of CIA agents who could drop him in a hole in the ground and walk away without anyone ever finding out what happened. But he figured the guilt would eventually wear off, unlike the guilt he’d carry for the rest of his life if hundreds or even thousands of people died because he remained silent about the information he had. Cal concluded that it wasn’t his job to catch Sergei Bazarov. If he was that high value of a target, the concerned agencies needed to take action quickly instead of waiting for some arbitrary deadline to pass that would result in a tragedy unlike the sporting world had ever seen.

  Yuri Listyev would not die in vain, at least not on Cal’s behalf. Cal had been entrusted with the information of Bazarov’s plot for a reason. And Cal knew why. Yuri expected Cal to write a story, the kind that would open eyes to the danger lurking and maybe even catch such a monster.

  And Cal intended to do just that.

  “Can I go now?” Cal asked. “It’s late and I need to file a story still.”

  The two agents nodded, apparently satisfied Cal received the message they were directed to deliver. They each handed him their business cards and encouraged him to call if he had any questions about what to do or if he came across some information that might be beneficial for the American embassy.

  Cal climbed back into the van, this time unassisted and without a cloth sack over his head.

  “It seems like you’ve done that before,” Cal said, glancing down at the black bag used to cover his head.

  Scott nodded. “More times than I’d like.” He paused. “Again, I apologize about that treatment. Unfortunately, that’s how it had to be done.”

  Cal accepted the apology, but he never intended to give one to them for the story he was about to write.

  Chapter 16

  IVAN MORTUK STROKED HIS CHIN as he stared out the window of his SUV. His entourage consisted of a lead car and a tail, which stormed into the parking lot of the practice facility in Samara. Shirking protocol, he immediately opened his door once the vehicle came to a stop and started to walk toward the gates.

  “Sir! Sir!” one of the members of Ivan’s guard detail said. “Please wait.”

  Ivan ignored him and continued ahead. He was anxious to see the Ukrainian team’s morning training session and watch his son practice. While Ivan had spent most of his life plotting and planning to reach the position he was in, he also logged hundreds of hours on the soccer pitch, practicing with Fedir and dreaming about playing in the World Cup. The former was something he’d already achieved, while the latter was just two days away.

  Taking a seat halfway up the empty bleachers at midfield, Ivan sat on his hands and resisted the urge to clap or cheer every time Fedir executed a jaw-dropping move or delivered a pass right to the feet of a teammate making a run. Ivan teared up as he thought about all the time they’d practiced together to reach the pinnacle of the sport. Two billion people would watch the fruit of Fedir’s labor. And a rising nation would pin their hopes on the eleven players chosen to start against Turkey. As Ukraine’s leading goal scorer, Fedir would undoubtedly be among those selected.

  After the training session concluded, the players walked toward the locker rooms and carried on casual conversations. Ivan hustled toward the field exit and awaited Fedir.

  When Fedir neared the gate, he broke into a wide grin upon seeing his father.

  “Papa! You made it,” Fedir said, increasing his pace to a slight jog.

  Ivan held his arms out wide and embraced his son, who wallowed in the attention lavished upon him.

  “I wouldn’t miss this for the world, Son,” Ivan said. “You ought to know that by now.”

  Fedir drew back. “Of course, but I never know with you. Business never stops, not even for the World Cup.”

  Ivan shrugged. “Perhaps, but I can stop for my son. You’ve worked very hard to get here. I wouldn’t miss this for the best business deal ever offered.”

  Fedir glanced down at a ball and began juggling it with his feet while he spoke with his father. “Have you driven by the stadium yet?”

  “It’s beautiful, isn’t it?”

  “From the outside. But it’s still Russian. It might be held together with glue and string on the inside.”

  Ivan chuckled. “It’s all for the television cameras, right?”

  “Exactly. But they won’t be focusing on the latest feat of Russian engineering if we play like we’re capable of playing.”

  “You’ll do great, and I’ll be there to see every minute of it.”

  Fedir popped the ball higher in the air and caught it. He looked his father in the eyes. “Do you promise to be there?”

  “Of course, Son. I’d have to be dead to miss your match. How can you think for even a moment that I’d miss it?”

  Fedir cocked his head to one side. “Really, Papa? How can you ask that question with a straight face? Have you not forgotten how many times you’ve said you would be there and then never once appeared?”

  Ivan was taken aback by his son’s sudden aggressive tone. But if Ivan was honest with himself, he knew all too well the source of Fedir’s pain. It was more like a scab, one that Ivan had picked at his entire life when a lucrative deal trumped watching Fedir play. Ivan rarely made his son’s games, concluding that he’d catch the next one. With Fedir playing so often, Ivan figured his son would hardly notice. But as Ivan’s business grew, demanding clients required meetings all over the world with very little advance notice. When he dared to put one client on hold for Fedir, Ivan felt a sharp object poking into his back followed by a hostile escort out of the stadium. Ivan’s line of work forced him to make a choice he would’ve preferred not to make. However, it was the only one he could make—work over fatherly duties.

  As Ivan grew in prominence in the illegal arms trading business, so did his son’s fame on the soccer field. Both had reached the nadir of their professions earlier than expected, yet only Fedir longed for his father to be present and cheer him on. However, Ivan was begged to walk away and leave his job behind.

  “Papa, let someone else take over or simply drop it all together,” Fedir had once begged. “You have more than enough money. And if you don’t, I’ll make up the difference once I sign a big contract.”

  Ivan nodded in agreement but concluded it wasn’t so simple. He’d made a decision years ago to enter into arms dealing—and it was a field he could never truly leave. His clients would always haunt him, hunting him down for the next sale. And they wouldn’t be so gracious as to just walk away and find a new suppl
ier. In the world of thieves and madmen, trust was still a necessary commodity. Ivan had earned it with select clients, clients who would be less than thrilled about building up trust with a new supplier, clients who preferred a scorched earth approach to dealing with severed business ties.

  Fedir studied his father closely. “Are you still dealing?”

  Ivan turned his gaze toward the ground and nodded.

  “Why? Why must you continue this way? Go buy an island and build yourself a fortress. You don’t have to do this any more.”

  Ivan looked up. He could feel his face turning red as heat coursed through his body. Shame and embarrassment—the two things that stripped Ivan of his pride in the time it took Fedir to question his father. Ivan sighed.

  “Well, aren’t you going to say something?”

  Ivan shook his head. “What else is there to say? I made my choice a long time ago. I must live with it. I pray you don’t have to make the same choice in your life.”

  “You could’ve done anything—anything. But you chose a quick path to riches, a dangerous one at that. And it’s filled with dreadful consequences.”

  “I don’t ever expect you to understand, but I did it for you and your mother.”

  Fedir rolled his eyes. “Please, spare me the sacrificial sob story.”

  Ivan narrowed his eyes and reached across the railing, grabbing both his son’s shoulders. “You don’t think I’ve made sacrifices? I’ve made more than you’ll ever know.”

  Fedir jerked away from his father, loosening his grip. “True sacrifice is when you deny yourself for the good of others, not denying others for the sake of your own dreams and desires. How can you walk around like you’re the toughest man in the room yet know nothing about what true manhood is?”

  “I’m sorry, Fedir. All I can say is that I’m here now.”

  “That’s right. It’s all you can say.” Fedir tucked his ball underneath his arm. “I left your tickets at will call.”

  Ivan’s gaze lingered on his son for a moment, unsure of what to say. Instead, he just turned and walked away.