The First Order

by Jeff Abbott

  Miami

  HIS THIRD TRIPLE kill in a few days had put him behind schedule. Messes were time-consuming. The bodies were dumped. The house had been cleaned with bleach. The men had arrived in a Toyota SUV that Judge had driven and abandoned in a dismal neighborhood with keys dangling in the ignition. He had walked until he had reached a street where a cab was readily available and then he’d taken it to within a mile of his house, and then walked the rest of the way.

  He packed a bag with what he needed. He checked the passport and yes, Shaw had done as planned—there was a stamp showing entry in the United Kingdom two weeks prior. Right now, Robert Clayton was in London and no one was the wiser that he was not. He took the Robert Clayton papers, packed them inside a set of books, and overnighted the package to an address in London. For a moment he considered sending them to the man he knew as Jimmy Court. But then he decided against it. He had paid Jimmy well for another, equally important job; there was no need to confuse the issue by asking him to do more. He had another acquaintance in London who knew him by another name—a woman he had helped by ridding her of a troublesome husband, a violent criminal the police did not look too hard for once he’d vanished. She would keep the papers safe for him until he returned from Russia, with the news of his deed blazing across the world.

  When he got home, he opened his laptop. It was not difficult to find where Katya Kirova was in her Caribbean jaunt—the tabloid sites were paying a bit more attention to her, what with the Russian summit approaching—and she was still in Nassau, on her father’s yacht. With Stefan Varro.

  Considering he’d had such a bad day yesterday, he felt he’d grabbed a bit of luck here. This was perfect. At a travel site he found his flight to the Bahamas for later that afternoon. He decided he’d pay cash for both his airline ticket at the airport and for his hotel room in Nassau. He would be Philip Judge for only a few more days. The phone call from the man who watched the village in Afghanistan made him uneasy. Eyes might be on him.

  He locked up the house and headed to the airport.

  30

  Manhattan

  NO SIGN OF Mila at the bar. Sam tried her phone again; no answer.

  So he went into vanishing mode.

  Sam checked into a small boutique hotel in the heart of Manhattan. On the hotel room’s wall, using tape he had taken from the hotel’s business center, he re-created the circle of photos. A face-recognition app on his phone identified first Katya Kirova. She was in the magazines regularly, a minor celebrity. From there it was easy to identify the rest of the players, as they all connected to her. Russia’s two most powerful oligarchs—Yuri Kirov and Boris Varro—Stefan Varro; and Irina Belinskaya, the widow of the once Big Man named Sergei.

  Online, he found articles and went to the Belinsky Global Security website. The firm provided security to corporate and celebrity clients in Russia, its historically allied countries, and Europe. No offices in North America.

  His brother had been taken in by a Russian ex-spy who provided protection to other ex-spies turned billionaires. But Sergei hadn’t been working a protection job in Afghanistan—it was the last place a Russian oligarch would go.

  He unfolded his copy of the letter that had been in Anton’s pocket, retrieved from the grave:

  S is losing control of the [section too damaged to read] he should simply [section too damaged to read] he checks my phone. So burn this. I don’t think he realizes that the brothers will kill him if he does this. He would listen to you. They must never know. A.

  Could Anton have been writing to one of these Russians? Anton was dead. Sergei was dead. But this would have been sent to someone that Sergei would listen to. His wife, Irina, or one of his clients? And…did you just offer a strange man, an American living under a false name, twenty million to do a job? Wouldn’t you work with someone you knew of? Would these people know of Danny, under his false name, due to the Sergei connection? Or had he been Sergei’s secret?

  Is one of them Firebird?

  In the hotel’s tiny business center, he’d printed out histories and news articles on the players, trying to quickly piece together the web of relationships Danny had apparently already spent a good amount of time studying and mapping.

  Anton. He soon discovered in the news accounts that Boris Varro had a dead son named Anton, vanished, never found, presumed dead. It could be his Anton. But why would a billionaire’s son risk the dangers of Afghanistan?

  The other mystery was Sergei Belinsky. The Russian press wrote little about him because the journalists who wrote critically about him ended up dead in elevators or poisoned with radioactive substances. One article suggested he was a private weapon for the Morozovs during the Chechen war. Sam remembered—there were a series of bombings in Moscow, blamed on the Chechen separatists but never proven. Tenement buildings in the endless gray sprawl of Moscow bombed at night, their helpless sleeping residents killed outright or smothered in rubble. There had been three in a month, and the outrage revved up Russian support for the war. One persistent rumor held that Sergei Belinsky set off those bombs to make it look like separatists were waging a terrorist campaign.

  But there was never proof. And Sergei died in a car bombing, outside of St. Petersburg. It was suggested that he might have been moving another bomb when it malfunctioned. But the Morozov-led press painted him as a national hero murdered by terrorists.

  This was the man that Danny chose to follow, Sam thought.

  He looked at the photos of the oligarchs and reread his research.

  Five names: Irina Belinskaya, Boris Varro, Stefan Varro, Yuri Kirov, Katya Kirova. Danny thought one of them was Firebird. Maybe Danny was trying to identify his employer for his own protection.

  Sum them up in one sentence, like he’d had to do during Special Projects briefings. Cut to their cores.

  Katya was a party girl, famous just for being famous. She seemed more style than substance.

  Part-Russian Stefan was trying to be the face of the new, modern, less corrupt oligarch.

  His half-Cuban father, Boris, had never quite fit into the Russian elite but was a favorite of Morozov—suave and elegant, but seen as Morozov’s lapdog. Sometimes, though, a pet could bite.

  Kirov seemed to hover in constant disapproval from Morozov but always managed to land on his feet. His control of oil made him powerful, second only in economic power to Morozov himself.

  Belinskaya was the most feared woman in Russia, called the Black Widow. Her history after her husband’s death suggested she had not flinched from exacting revenge against the Chechen terror cell that was blamed, and no jury in Russia would have convicted her.

  Morozov was protected by the Russian Secret Service, not Belinskaya’s private army. But these five, any of them, could pave a road to Morozov for Danny. They were all close to him.

  Back in his hotel room, Sam paced. He thought. He read articles on the upcoming summit.

  Then he saw it—the crack in the door. The new détente meant much more interaction for this inner circle with Americans; there would be plenty of Americans vying to advise, befriend, earn a profitable favor with the Russians. Consultants, businesspeople, political advisors.

  One had to be his path, too.

  His gaze went to the picture of Katya Kirova. Her picture was in a lot of Western magazines and online celebrity columns. She liked movie stars, musicians, and athletes and she partied with them a lot. He found picture after picture of her in the trendiest nightclubs of Paris, Vegas, Moscow.

  Bars. She liked bars. Well, he had thirty of them to impress her.

  He searched her name again, with today’s date. He found a news item from yesterday in a celebrity magazine. Katya Kirova and Stefan Varro, posing with two young actresses, standing on her father’s superyacht in Nassau. Katya Kirova had a lovely smile but looked drunk.

  Nassau, yesterday. The accompanying photo caption said that Kirova and Varro—THE EXCITING NEW FACES OF RUSSIA!—were spending time in Nassau before the summit of
the two presidents.

  And the e-mail to Firebird had gone to a server on a boat, serviced by a Russian ISP that specialized in maritime services. Two members of the inner circle, in the Caribbean. Who owned a boat? Both Kirov and Varro did, he quickly confirmed by searching the website of a major yachting magazine. He searched news accounts; the press were reporting on every aspect of the oligarchs given the impending summit. Varro’s superyacht was in Greece at the moment. Kirov’s superyacht, the Svetlana, was trekking through the Caribbean, making stops in Puerto Rico and the Virgin Islands, with Katya and Stefan aboard, now in the Bahamas.

  He called Jack. “Has your friend had any luck in hacking that satellite modem?”

  “I was about to call you. He texted me an hour ago, but I was giving Ricki a prenatal massage. He said the GPS coordinates of that satellite modem were in the Caribbean, close to Nassau.”

  Claybourne e-mailed someone on Kirov’s yacht, he thought.

  “Does that help?”

  “You’re amazing, Jack. Tell me what Ricki wants most of all for the nursery,” Sam said, “and I’ll buy it for her.”

  After wiring Jack money for his work and payment for the other hacker, Sam went online, found a flight to Miami with seats available and a connection on to Nassau. He didn’t bother to pack; he’d pick up clothes from his bar in Miami. He didn’t call Seaforth. He tried to access the eavesdropping app, but Seaforth’s phone was off.

  Go. Find him. You’re running out of time.

  From a back corner of the lobby, Mila watched Sam leave. He stopped at the front desk, slid a key, waited for his bill to print, apologized that he’d only kept the room for a few hours, mentioned an emergency for which he had to return home.

  Mila went to the elevator and went up to his floor. The housekeepers were on duty, the service carts lining the hallway. She slid a master reader card into the key slot for Sam’s room and slipped inside.

  She hadn’t done any of the shadowing of Avril Claybourne that he’d asked her to do. Instead she’d gone to the British consulate and dropped off an encrypted file with Charity’s contact there.

  But it wasn’t the file Sam had stolen from Avril Claybourne. It was trash. Oh, carefully done trash—account numbers and fake companies’ names and money moved in interesting amounts. Jack Ming had given it to her when she’d asked him if he could provide a fake trail for someone to follow, and then lock it up very tightly.

  It would keep Charity busy. Then when Sam had called her, she had seen on the phone’s app that he was close to the Claybourne gallery. She knew she’d have to explain herself, why she hadn’t shadowed Claybourne.

  She looked for scraps of paper in the hotel room indicating his travel plans; it was most annoying that people could price and book all that on phones now. But there was paper in the trash can. Photos, several of them.

  She pulled them from the wastebasket, smoothed them flat, and studied them. Her heart began to grow cold. She knew three of the faces immediately. She held up the picture of Irina Belinskaya, the security chief.

  Don’t go near that woman, Sam. Her reputation…

  She searched through the printouts again. One showed Katya Kirova in Nassau, yesterday.

  That was where he would go. Either there, or Russia, and Katya would be an easier approach than the fortresses the oligarchs lived in.

  The door knocked, the room cleaner’s voice saying, “Housekeeping…”

  Mila got up and walked out past the startled hotel housekeeper.

  She activated a tracking app; it had last shown her the location of Sam’s phone. She guessed he was most likely on his way to JFK Airport. She hailed a cab.

  She’d bought her Miami ticket at the counter and gone through security, her newly issued UK passport passing muster with no problems.

  Sam sat in the corner, reading on his tablet. She sat next to him and leaned over. It was an academic article about the oligarchy in Russia surrounding Morozov.

  “When you get close to them, don’t let them catch you reading that,” she said. “It’ll be suspicious.”

  He closed the application. “I know you mean well but I need you to stay clear of this.”

  “I’m Moldovan. I speak Russian far better than you do. You want to work your way in with these people, you need me.” She gave him a smile, put her hand on his.

  “This is way more dangerous than helping me find my son. I don’t know what I’ll even find when I find Danny. Who I’ll find. What I’ll find.”

  And she saw fear in his eyes. He blinked and looked away.

  Let your brother be horrible. He must be broken after what he’s been through. Will that make it easier when I take him away from you? I am convincing myself that keeping him from you is saving you, Sam. But instead she said, “I know. Please. Let me help you.”

  He caved, as she knew he would. “Fine. But Jimmy won’t like it.”

  “I don’t care about what he likes right now,” she said.

  Sam closed his eyes for a moment and he was back in the village of ghosts. An execution that had not happened—and now he had to stop one with global implications. A man forged into a weapon for a ruthless Russian—and now he had to be a weapon as well, to stop his brother.

  They called the flight for Miami. He got up and headed for the gate, Mila walking beside him. For one odd moment he thought she was going to take his hand. But it was just his imagination.

  One focus, he thought. Stop Danny. Save Danny.

  Part Two

  In Sunshine or in Shadow

  31

  Nassau

  JUDGE KNEW IT would be hard to get Stefan Varro alone; he was protected, as befitting a billionaire’s son. He rarely left the Svetlana, and when he did, he was with Katya Kirova, and they were trailed by Sergei’s widow, Irina, and her guards. Judge did not have Varro’s phone number.

  So after Judge arrived in Nassau, after he acquired a gun from an island contact, after he enjoyed a hearty breakfast on his balcony, watching the yacht, he waited for the Svetlana staff to take a break—from his hotel room he watched three workers leave the boat, dressed not in their uniforms but in casual clothes. Men, with a few hours off. He watched them amble past the confines of the exclusive marina and head in the direction of Shirley Street, a district where there were cheaper bars and weed to be bought and trouble to be found.

  He followed them. They ended up drinking beer and playing pool inside a cinder block bar that was cheap but clean. Speaking Russian amongst themselves, laughing. The regulars ignored them. They were used to international crews.

  He waited until two of them went off to the men’s room and the remaining Russian—older, balding prematurely, with a dour frown—stood alone at the pool table.

  “Hello. You’re with the Svetlana?” Judge asked in Russian.

  The bald man hadn’t expected to hear his mother tongue in this bar. “Yes. What do you want?” Caution colored his tone.

  Judge offered him a slip of paper with a phone number on it, wrapped up in an American one-hundred-dollar bill. “Give this to Stefan Varro. Alone. Ask him to call me.”

  The crewman didn’t take the money or the note. “And who are you?”

  “Tell him I’m Sergei’s friend. He’ll understand.”

  “Nothing more?”

  “He’ll understand.”

  The bald man took the bill and the paper and Judge paid for their next round of beers. Then he walked out into the sunshine.

  Two hours later, Judge stood in front of a coffee house and saw Katya Kirova and Stefan Varro walking together through the shopping district. Their bodyguards tailed them, three men in summer suits and sunglasses, clearly security. They stopped and Stefan said something to the men. One shook his head. Stefan shook his head and gestured.

  The three men, along with Katya, headed back toward the marina. Stefan walked past Judge and headed for the beach. Judge followed.

  He sat, as instructed, on a bench before the sand, watching the water. Judg
e sat next to him. Children screamed and played in the surf. Tourists wandered the beach and locals wandered after them, selling hair braiding and souvenirs.

  Stefan Varro glanced at Judge as he sat down.

  “Who are you?”

  “I was Sergei’s assistant.” It was an odd thing to tell the truth. “One he kept out of sight.”

  “Sergei is dead.” Stefan put his gaze out over the beach, the blue of the water.

  “Sadly. Yet I have carried on his work whenever needed. I am needed now before you all go to the summit.”

  Stefan glanced at him again. “I heard he had a pet…weapon. How do I know you’re telling the truth?”

  “Sergei did favors for your father—and for you. I need a favor in return.”

  “I don’t know you; I knew Sergei.”

  “But I know what Sergei did for you. The journalist in Moscow that was going to expose your father’s dealings with the Morozovs. That prosecutor who wanted to investigate your company. The girlfriend in St. Petersburg, Nadia, who made tapes of your pillow talk to sell to the Western papers to try to expose corruption at your family’s companies.”

  Stefan’s voice quavered, ever so slightly. “Ridiculous. I don’t know what you mean.”

  “There was a final message Nadia left for you before Sergei killed her. Sergei played it for you at your family home at the Nebo retreat outside Moscow, when you paid him the final installment of the contract for killing her. He asked her if she had anything to say to you before she died. You and I and Sergei are the only ones who ever heard it and you deleted it, told Sergei good job, and paid him.” Judge put on a high-pitched pleading tone: “Stefan, don’t, don’t, we will go to Sochi together and forget all this, please, Stefan, let’s go back to Sochi, please…”

  And Stefan’s face went pale. Judge explained, “I held the recorder while Sergei held the gun on her and she tried to bargain for her life.”