Then Fedir called after Ivan.
“And, Papa.”
Ivan stopped and turned around. “What, Son?”
“Don’t waste the tickets.”
Chapter 17
CAL FLASHED HIS CREDENTIALS to the security guard manning the parking lot gate and drove toward the closest spot available near the entrance of Cosmos Arena. Samara’s sparkling new stadium had barely been operational a month before the World Cup started, hardly enough time to get all the operational kinks out. The fact made it even more surprising that Cal’s was one of only a half dozen other cars parked in the lot. He figured there’d be at least several hundred personnel combing through the stadium to ensure that it was in pristine condition. But it was a virtual ghost town.
Attempting to use his credentials to get inside, Cal was met at the gate by an armed guard standing watch over the entrance. He waved Cal away without uttering a word. Cal held up his access badge and smiled, but the guard didn’t flinch.
“I’m covering the World Cup for a newspaper,” Cal said.
“Move along,” the guard said in his best English.
“Can’t I just take a little peek? You know, for my story?”
The guard shook his yet. “Nyet.”
Cal let out an exasperated breath and turned and walked away. After a few seconds, he looked back over his shoulder and saw another guard had joined the one Cal had just encountered. Lost in conversation, neither of the men appeared to be paying much attention to Cal.
Seizing the opportunity, Cal redirected his course toward another entrance on the other side of the stadium. He walked quickly around the facility until he could no longer see the guards. Once he reached another gate, Cal scanned the area before scaling the fence. Once inside, Cal surveyed the support columns on the middle level before making his way down to field level.
If Sergei Bazarov was going to raze a packed Cosmo Arena as Yuri Listyev’s documents suggested, Cal wanted to inspect it first. Cal didn’t know what to expect or if he’d find anything. It was a mission in due diligence, if anything. While he wasn’t sure he’d find anything, he at least wanted to tell Buckman that he scouted out the stadium to see if any of this were true. It’d be a single line in the article—“A cursory scan of the stadium’s interior on Tuesday by a Times staff member did not find any suspicious explosive devices”—but it’d also include the caveat that this wasn’t a search conducted by Russian authorities. But the point was to spur Russian law enforcement into inspecting the stadium to keep fans and players safe from any terrorist threats. Cal hoped by printing the story, a new vigilance would arise as it pertained to stadium security. He didn’t care that he’d likely be ridiculed for writing such a piece by the global media, especially if nothing ever reportedly came of the search by Russian authorities. All Cal knew was that Sergei Bazarov was a dangerous man—and Cal wasn’t keen on the idea of walking into a stadium that he knew was supposed to be rigged to blow by one of Russia’s top mafia bosses.
Cal had inspected the entire middle portion of the stadium and three quarters of the field level when he came across another person for the first time. The man was an armed guard who eyed Cal cautiously. The man didn’t move for several seconds, leading Cal to believe the man was considering his next words in English.
“What are you doing?” the guard finally asked.
“I wanted to see the stadium before the game,” Cal said, holding up his credentials. “When the game kicks off, I’ll never get to roam around and see how beautiful of a place this is.”
The guard forced a smile and nodded. “It is beautiful, but I think you know you’re not supposed to be in this portion of the stadium.”
Cal threw his hands up in the air. “Guilty as charged. I just wanted to see what she looked like.”
“It looks like you are—how do you Americans say it?—casing the joint?” the guard quipped.
Cal smiled. “You have a good understanding of the English language. But I promise you I’m not casing the joint. I’m just admiring your Russian architecture.”
The guard nodded and smiled back, pleased with Cal’s generous compliment. “You need to leave, sir.”
“I’m on my way out now,” Cal said as he spun and headed toward the unguarded gate he’d climbed over.
The guard clucked his tongue and wagged his index finger. “Not that way. This is the way out,” he said as he pointed in the opposite direction.
Cal knew exactly where it led—the gate secured by the armed guard who’d earlier denied Cal access.
He took a deep breath and changed directions.
As Cal approached the gate to exit the stadium, he kept his head down, hoping the guard wouldn’t recognize him. The man at the gate swung it open and barely glanced at Cal. Exiting without pausing, Cal strode toward his car and only glanced back at the stadium entrance through his rearview mirror. The guard hadn’t been the wiser as he remained standing at attention at his post.
Cal considered himself fortunate to escape and determined to get to work immediately on his story, keeping his fingers crossed that Buckman would find it acceptable and print it.
CAL LOCKED THE DOOR TO HIS ROOM and spread out his laptop and notebook as much as he could on the small hotel desk. Musing to himself that Russia could have a more robust literary scene if the desks were larger, Cal hammered away on his story. Cal had done everything he could to verify the facts—Yuri Listyev’s death, the operation of Sergei Bazarov, the threat of a bomb at Cosmos Arena. But at the end of the day, it was little more than a speculative tapestry, woven together by a thin common thread. The most elusive question that Cal—and no one else he talked to—could answer was why. Why blow up the stadium? If this was Sergei’s way of sending a message, who was the recipient? The world?
After finishing his story, Cal called Roman Denikin and invited him to dinner. Roman readily accepted, eager to discuss the upcoming match and some of the surprising results from the first round of games during the tournament. However, Cal was more interested in discussing other matters. They agreed to meet in the lobby in a half hour.
He then called Kelly to check in with her and Maddie. Though it was still early in Seattle, he figured they’d already be up. And he was right.
“How are things going?” Kelly asked.
“My cell reception has been stable for the most part, and I haven’t been thrown in jail yet,” he answered.
“Sunny days in Mother Russia, eh? I’ve heard Russian cell phone service is about as reliable as a crack addict for an 8:00 a.m. job, and the prisons aren’t exactly the most hospitable of places.”
Cal chuckled. “Have you been watching mobster movies again?”
“Of course not.” She waited a beat. “There was a mention of Russian prisons in the latest Nicholas Sparks novel I’m reading.”
“Nicholas Sparks,” Cal said, shaking his head. “I’ve failed as a husband if you’re still reading that worthless drivel.”
“The Notebook was not worthless drivel. Still one of my all-time favorites.”
“Okay, okay,” Cal said, his tone relaying his obvious surrender. “There are some redeeming qualities to his work. I’ll grant you that.”
“Is this why you called? To critique my authors?” she snapped.
“Of course not,” Cal said. “I just wanted to check in on you and Maddie and see how things were going.”
Her tone softened. “So far nothing has broken like it normally does when you’re out of town.”
“That’s refreshing.”
“Your trip has interested Maddie in world geography though,” Kelly said. “She’s always asking me to show her where you are on a map. She also is making me teach her about different countries. She’s quite fascinated by it all.”
“I’ll definitely be bringing her back something, as long as I make it out of here alive.”
“What? Make it out of there alive? Your penchant for hyperbole can be irksome, you know?”
“I’m seri
ous, Kelly. I mean—sort of serious.”
“What kind of trouble are you getting yourself into this time, Cal?”
“Oh, it’s probably nothing, but I’ve got a bad feeling about this next game, like something is going to happen at the stadium.”
“Now is this just some crazy premonition you have or do you have proof?”
“That’s a hard question to answers, which is why I’m going to send this story to Buckman and let him sort it all out.”
“You must not want it printed then.”
“Of course I do. Buckman will give it a fair shake.”
Kelly laughed softly. “Cal, you are one confident reporter, perhaps even a bit over confident.”
“What do you—?”
On Kelly’s end, the line went dead.
Meanwhile, Cal was struggling to escape the grasp of two large men, who wore masks and had little trouble commandeering Cal. Twisting and writhing to break free, he gave up after about a minute of struggling. One of the men prepared to take his mask off, but the other man stopped him with a single word. “Nyet.”
Cal looked up at one of the men, who’d taken to hovering over Cal. The assailant didn’t appreciate the gesture and drew back before delivering a wicked blow to Cal’s face. The man’s fist smashed Cal just below his cheekbone. Going numb in that area, Cal mustered up enough strength to cry out in pain. But it amounted to little more than a whimper when it came out of his mouth, mostly due to one of the men had clamping his hand firmly across Cal’s mouth.
Cal watched as the two men talked excitedly with one another for a few seconds before one of them grabbed Cal and turned him over, forcing his face into the bed.
Then Cal felt a needle slide into his neck before everything went dark.
Chapter 18
VLAD SURVEYED THE ROOM and wondered if either housekeeping had been absent that day or if Cal Murphy was the biggest slob he’d ever crossed paths with. Papers strewn about, clothes scattered on the floor and hanging out of the dresser, an unmade bed that looked as if it had been jumped on. It was an unusual scene for any hotel room at 6:00 p.m.
Based on the bug Vlad had planted in Cal’s room, the American reporter was supposed to be meeting Roman Denikin for dinner in the lobby. But Vlad figured that was no longer the case given the wallet and phone lying on the desk. If Cal and Roman were going to eat in the hotel restaurant, Vlad could see leaving behind a wallet since guests can charge meals to their room. But a cell phone? In the 21st Century, Vlad mused that most Americans would choose to have their cell phones over oxygen if forced to decide.
With his gloved hand, he picked up the phone and studied it for a moment.
This is a journalist’s lifeline. No way he left this intentionally.
While most of Vlad’s assignments consisted of coming up with permanent solutions to persistent problems, Cal Murphy was a simple surveillance operation. Ivan Mortuk’s network of embedded spies was vast, one that included two within Sergei Bazarov’s organization. Working like the equivalent of insider trading on Wall Street, Ivan’s spies delivered the contact information of Sergei’s most anxious buyers and beat Sergei to closing the deal. On the back of Sergei’s clients, Ivan had amassed a small fortune and captured them as his own. Using a disinformation campaign, Ivan poisoned those clients against Sergei and secured their business for the future. In addition to handing over hot leads, Ivan’s spies also updated their boss on anything else they found noteworthy occurring in Sergei’s organization. And Cal Murphy’s name had come up twice as someone who concerned Sergei.
Once Ivan heard from another source that the CIA had kidnapped Cal Murphy, the Ukrainian weapons dealer wanted to know if an enemy of his enemy was indeed a friend.
“Find out who he is and what he’s doing here,” Ivan had said. “I want to know what he eats for breakfast, who is family is, how he got here, and ultimately what he’s after.”
Vlad disliked such missions, mostly because he found them boring and beneath him. But in the off chance the assignment would be upgraded, he appreciated having finished the advance work necessary to complete the task. However, as Vlad scanned the room, he drew the conclusion that someone else had robbed him of any future missions pertaining to Cal Murphy.
Vlad shrugged and sat to examine the laptop. He plugged in a thumb drive with an automatic script that unlocked the passcode to the computer and began downloading files. Most of them appeared useless, reporter notes. Transcripts of interviews with professional athletes, archives of old articles written, notes about future story ideas. Why Cal Murphy had ever been a threat was bewildering to Vlad. From everything he’d seen, the American reporter was about as threatening as a young child with a water pistol.
Despite their benign nature, Vlad downloaded them. He’d operated long enough in his profession to know that even the most innocent piece of information could be harboring the key to a secret. While the files were downloading, he continued to sift through Cal’s laptop. That’s when Vlad came across a business card from a member of the U.S. embassy. He positioned it on the desk and snapped a photo.
Well, Mr. Embassy Man, you just gave your card to the wrong guy.
Vlad glanced down at the computer and saw the files had finished transferring. He yanked the drive out of the laptop and looked around the room once more for anything he could have missed. It was a thorough sweep, though it didn’t have to be. He’d learned that unsuspecting civilians who don’t hold the level of mistrust they should rarely go to any lengths to protect any important information in their hotel rooms. Vlad concluded that if Cal had something, it was on the flash drive.
Chapter 19
SERGEI BAZAROV MARCHED into the dimly lit warehouse where a group of twenty of his best men had gathered. With weapons slung across their shoulders, some of the men fiddled with knives or handguns while they watched Sergei climb atop a short stack of pallets. Sergei shied away from giving speeches, preferring to let his decisive action speak for him. But this time was different. This time, it was personal.
Sergei cleared his throat and scanned the crowd in front of him before speaking.
“I’m not one for giving big speeches, but I thought it was important for us to discuss the seriousness of this mission tonight,” he began. “I don’t need to tell you all that our livelihood is under assault. You likely already figured that out from the dwindling payout. I can assure you it has nothing to do with me putting more money in my pocket, but everything to do with that bastard Ivan Mortuk. He’s stealing our clients and poisoning them against us. This ends tonight.”
Several of the men yelled, signifying their agreement with Sergei.
“Take a look around the room.” He paused for a beat, allowing everyone to follow his directions. “Some of you may not make it back tonight. Our fight against Ivan and his minions will not be an easy one. But he’s the one who’s dared to steal our business. And now, he’s dared to come to Samara. Tonight, we will make him pay.”
The small crowd roared in approval.
“Let’s go take them out,” Sergei said before hopping down from the pallets.
He watched with pride as his men stormed toward the exit and raced to their vehicles. This was the only way he could continue to sell weapons. Most dealers operated with a level of mutual respect and never attempted to poach clients. But Ivan scoffed at the unwritten rules of their profession. Over the years, Sergei learned there was more than enough demand to go around for everyone. There was no place for greed, despite the fact that those who ventured into arms dealing seemed to be afflicted with such a vice.
While he couldn’t wait to make Ivan pay for his unforgivable sin, Sergei only wished his son could be there to see true leadership in action.
THE HOME IVAN MORTUK RENTED for his stay in Samara dripped of extravagance. Marble water fountains and a lengthy cobblestone drive were just a few of the amenities that made the sprawling house situated on the banks of the Volga River attractive to any potential customer with subst
antial means. But every private residence in Samara played second fiddle to Sergei’s home. It was a petty game of one-upmanship that he engaged in if anyone dared to challenge his position, but it was one he felt obligated to play. A Russian oil tycoon had built the place where Ivan resided for the week as he’d once sought to knock Sergei from his pedestal. That was how Sergei knew so much about the house—and how he knew the best approach was from the water.
Sergei guided his boat onto the shore and waited for the three other vessels to join them. One by one, crews beached and anchored. In a matter of minutes, all of Sergei’s men had assembled and were ready to execute their surprise attack.
“Do not take these men lightly,” Sergei warned before they embarked. “Nothing short of complete annihilation will be considered a success. All I ask is that you save Ivan Mortuk for me.”
Sergei’s team divided into four teams, three attacking from the north, south, and east, while the other provided support and cover from the shore.
Sergei narrowed his eyes as he marshaled five of his men toward the back entrance of the house. A pair of Ivan’s guards stood on the veranda, smoking cigars. Two shots were all that were necessary to send the men toppling over the railing, dead before they hit the ground.
The sound was enough to attract the attention of other agents employed by Ivan. However, they didn’t run into the trap like Sergei hoped. Instead, they utilized guerilla warfare tactics and remained hidden as they returned fire.
Sergei’s team dispatched to the south were surprised by a pair patrolling the grounds. After a brief gunfight, Ivan’s pair pinned down the only surviving member of the south approaching team.
The situation on the north side of the house didn’t fare much better for Sergei. Two of his men were killed while another was critically injured. The two men who’d escaped unscathed helped their injured comrade back to the shore.
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