The Man From Belarus (Corps Justice Book 16)

by C. G. Cooper

  Alek could only stare in wonder. He’d seen the papers. He was one of them, passed down through his mother’s side. He hadn’t known his own grandparents, and maybe that was why. So many things clicked into place, like the way certain elders treated his parents. Like the way he was chastised by a particularly crusted teacher at school. Had it all been because of this? His family’s past?

  “But why me? Why now?” he asked, wanting desperately to know the link that brought this puzzle together.

  Orlov continued to stare at the flames, the light danced in his eyes like faerie fire. “The Soviet’s time is ending. We’ve done what we could, which is much.” Alek wanted to ask what, but apparently now was not the time. “A new era is coming. The West grows strong while the Soviets lose ground. There will be a void to fill.”

  “I don’t understand. What void?” He was still young to the intricacies of politics and international intrigue.

  “We need men and women with strength. But this strength will not be outward in appearance. It will grow like a sly weed and slither through the ranks of our enemies until we’re so intertwined that the host is choked.” Orlov finished the rest of his pipe then set it on his lap. His eyes left the fire and locked on to Alek. “You are our future, Alek the Wolf. It will be you who takes down the enemy of our forefathers.”

  Chapter Ninety

  WEST BERLIN — 1986

  “Thank you for coming.” Stokes stepped from the shadows and flicked his cigarette to the ground. He needed to get rid of the habit.

  “Do you have any more of those?” the Soviet spy asked. Stokes tossed him a near full pack. “There are nights that I prefer your American brands. My masters would probably kill me for saying so, but something tells me you won’t tell them.”

  Stokes didn’t trust the man. Not a mile. Not an inch. But there was said to be honor among spies. He was about to test that theory on the man whose life he’d saved.

  “I’ll get right to it,” he said. “I need a favor.”

  His adversary didn’t look surprised. He was young in the game but already building a reputation for being cold and calculating. The man had ice in his veins that was on full display now. But he surprised Stokes with his next words.

  “Name it. I’m happy to repay the debt.”

  Stokes was leaving Germany anyway. Time to cash in whatever chips he had left. He figured showing his cards was worth the risk too. If the Soviet didn’t already know the truth of his disgrace, he soon would.

  “Someone set me up. They wanted to get rid of me, and they have.”

  “You want help saving your job.”

  “I don’t care about that. It’s time to go home.” Stokes found that every word he’d rehearsed on the way over was now lodged in some hidden place of his brain. “I need to clear my name. I’m sure you understand how important a name is, what it means for a man, for a warrior.”

  Stokes was slipping out on the thinnest of ledges, hoping beyond hope for a shred of honor in the man watching him with glacial eyes.

  “You’ve been wronged.” A long suck of smoke followed by a thin-lined exhale. “Tell me, was it one of your own?”

  “It was.”

  The Soviet nodded like he’d foreseen it in a crystal ball. He was good. “This business, it’s full of thieves of the worst of mankind. It’s no wonder you and I... share a mutual admiration for one another. What did he do? I assume it was a he?”

  “It was.”

  “And?”

  Stokes didn’t dally. He laid out what he remembered. Locations. Faces. Possible names. When he was done, his supposed enemy just nodded, slowly, over and over.

  “What would you have me do, Major? You’re an honorable man. It’s impossible for me to conclude that you would like the guilty parties taken care of.”

  “No. That’s not what I want. I want the man who framed me to pay.”

  This meeting felt like it was slipping through Stokes’s hands. He was a planner. A thinker. A systematic winner. This felt like he was playing amateur in an arena full of veteran gladiators, and he was standing there with nothing more than a plastic fork.

  “You don’t want to kill him. And I assume you don’t want him physically harmed. I will reserve my thought on the naïveté of that decision. If what I think has already transpired, that this man, this rat, has sent charges to your superiors, I am not sure what can be done.”

  He was right. Why had Stokes come? Why had he risked what might be left of his career, his life, and this piss-poor excuse for a Hail Mary pass? He felt like Amerigo Bonasera going to Don Corleone asking for justice.

  “If I may offer a suggestion?” the Soviet said. Stokes couldn’t believe he nodded. Maybe it was the desperation, something he’d felt once, possibly twice in his life. “I know this establishment of which you speak. I believe I have met the young woman. A pretty thing. What if I were to get you proof of involvement? Do you have friends who might listen, who might take this information and help you?”

  Calvin Stokes wasn’t a call-in-a-favor kind of guy, but this was new territory for a man who some said walked on water up to this point in his career.

  “Yes. I have friends who could help.”

  “Then it is settled. Can you give me two days?”

  Two days seemed like a millennium. With the Marine Corps in the house, and a summary court-martial hanging over his head, time was tight. He’d have to twist the truth with his superiors to get more time.

  “I can do two days.”

  “Very well. You’ve given me half of the story. Now tell me the other. What is the name of the man who wronged you?”

  “Edmond Flap,” Stokes said, and was sure he saw a giddy twinkle in the Soviet’s eyes when he said it.

  Chapter Ninety-One

  ATLANTA — PRESENT DAY

  “Welcome back, Mr. Vogel,” the customs agent said, handing the passport back to the man in the rumpled blue suit.

  “Hey, thanks. Is there a good coffee joint in this place? I think I got spoiled in Paris.”

  The agent thought it over. “Line’s always out the door at Starbucks. I’d recommend waiting until you’re on the road.”

  “Thanks,” the traveler said. “I hate Starbucks anyway.”

  They shared a knowing smile and the traveler was on his way.

  He liked his Mr. Vogel alias. Too bad it was the last time he’d use it. Poor Mr. Vogel was about to die a quiet death.

  The traveler rolled his carry-on through baggage claim and out to where a row of taxis waited. He was ushered to the first one. Lucky, lucky. He looked at his watch and smiled. He was making great time. The driver offered to take his bag, but soon-to-not-be Mr. Vogel shoved it into the seat next to him.

  “Where to, sir?” the cabby asked, not bothering to look back. The guy had three phones stuck to various spots on his dash.

  “Augusta.” He saw the hesitation on the man’s face. Going to Augusta would take the man far from home base. “I’m supposed to be meeting a friend to play the course. I’ll make it worth your while.” For good measure he slipped a $100 bill through the plexiglass slot.

  “Very good, sir,” the cabby said, starting the meter and cutting off all further conversation. It was one of the reasons he took cabs instead of Uber. If he wanted to chat, he’d make a new friend. But the traveler didn’t need any more friends. What he needed was to check for a tail. Yes, Augusta was out of the way. Once he got there he’d rent a car and continue on his journey.

  Until then, he’d settle in the back of the cab and watch Atlanta fly by. But instead of the scenery, all he was thinking about was the tripwire, and why the President of the United States had been the one to trigger it.

  Chapter Ninety-Two

  VOLKOV — THE SOVIET WILDERNESS — 1983

  “Happy Birthday, Alek!”

  Orlov handed him a package wrapped in brown paper. Alek couldn’t remember ever getting a present.

  “Thank you, sir,” Alek said, unable to take his eyes off
the package. He admired it like a man might admire his first drink of water after coming out of the desert.

  “You can open it, you know.”

  Alek’s face flushed. “Of course. Thank you.”

  “You already said that,” the man said, smiling.

  Alek opened the package carefully, not wanting to waste the moment. He tried to hide his quick inhale when he saw what it was. The Belarusian flag. The original. All red. No mark of the Soviets to be seen. He’d only seen it in books.

  “I will cherish it always.”

  “And you’ll keep it hidden, won’t you?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  He wished he could raise it on the world’s highest flagpole. He’d learned so much of his people. Their honor. Their troubled past. Their complicated relationship with the Soviets.

  “I have something else for you.” Orlov reached behind the chair he’d spent so many hours in teaching his young pupil. The rifle was so new it was gleaming. And yet, Alek saw that someone had taken the time to oil it just so.

  Alek reached out, but Orlov kept the weapon in his hands.

  “No, no, my boy. You have to earn this one.”

  “Tell me what to do. I’ll do anything.”

  They’d practiced with Orlov’s own rifle many times. Then there were the Soviet-issued pieces that Orlov got from the outpost’s small armory. The others rarely used them, though Alek did not know why. He hadn’t seen the others much since being called to Orlov’s home that first day. When he did see the other boys, some threw him jealous stares because he was attired in the latest winter gear while they wore mere peasant garb. Some boys tried their best to kill him with their looks. Mr. Pus Face being chief among them.

  “Come. It’s time your friends have a taste of what we’ve been up to.”

  Alek tried to push his nervousness down to his boots. Orlov had ordered the ski cadets to form a circle. The biggest problem being that Alek was left standing in the middle.

  “Comrade Kuznetsov!” Orlov barked, sending a murmur through the hundred-odd young men in attendance.

  Alek looked all around. He didn’t know a Kuznetsov.

  A head appeared from the back of the crowd and an uneasy feeling crept up Alek’s spine.

  “Yes, Comrade,” Mr. Pus Face said. This was Kuznetsov? Somehow, he looked meaner than Alek remembered. His face still hadn’t cleared.

  “You’ve been promoted, Kuznetsov.” Another murmur that Orlov cut off with a raise of the hand. “You’ve done well here, Comrade. Now it is time to prove to our masters in Moscow that you are indeed ready to go home.”

  Kuznetsov’s eyes gleamed. He punched a fist into his opposite palm. What did he know that Alek didn’t? He had at least a half a foot to grow to catch up with his former nemesis.

  Orlov walked over to Alek and leaned close to whisper in his ear. “This is your chance. Show them.”

  Too many thoughts were going through Alek’s head. Orlov had taught him that stealth was the epitome of strength and that it was better to use a rifle from afar than a knife up close.

  “I don’t understand. You taught me—”

  “I taught you to win, Young Wolf.” Orlov spoke even softer now, but Alek heard every word. “He hates you.”

  “He always has and I don’t know why.”

  “You know why.”

  That’s when it hit him. Everything he’d learned. His country’s past. Orlov’s secret passed on. The Lebensborn. The unwanted.

  “Because I am Belarusian.”

  “Yes. Because you are Belarusian.”

  His nerves hardened along with his fists. “What would you have me do?”

  “Beat him.”

  Alek nodded. Kuznetsov outweighed him by at least fifty pounds. Fifty pounds of muscle. But he was the Wolf. And Orlov was about to add something to the pot that would all but ensure victory.

  “One more thing, Young Wolf. Kuznetsov’s father, he’s an important man in Moscow. He has the ear of the president.” Alek hung on every word. They’d talked about Moscow late into many nights. The dream was to infiltrate and kill it from the inside. Was this the first step? Orlov’s voice was so low now that Alek strained to hear over the chanting of the other boys. All were chanting for Kuznetsov.

  “Kuznetsov’s father had your father killed, Alek,” Orlov said, his eyes full of muted flame.

  Alek had thought of his mother and father in dour terms. But Orlov showed him that their plight was predestined. Because of their connection to the Lebensborn, because of the Soviet Union’s stranglehold over Belarus, because they never had a chance, Alek’s mother and father were victims, not willing participants. Alek saw that now with a clarity made possible by the happy memories of youth, memories dredged up and washed by his mentor. Memories to be cherished. Playing soccer with his father in the park. Helping his mother make pastries and getting into a giggling flour fight. The three walking along a green-lined river in the middle of summer, picnic basket in hand. They were good people tainted by the stain and stench of another country. By Kuznetsov’s country.

  Every memory. Every tear. It all bubbled up from Alek now. A volcano building to burst. He let it go and embraced it all at once, and the Wolf sprang as if loosed from a century of chains.

  Chapter Ninety-Three

  WEST BERLIN — 1986

  He didn’t like the looks of the Marines who’d come into his office without asking. He liked the hungry-for-fresh-meat look in their eyes even less.

  “May I help you, gentlemen?”

  The lead one spoke. The Hispanic. He hated this one especially. Something about the way he spoke.

  “The ambassador would like to speak with you, Mr. Flap.”

  “Oh? I didn’t receive a call.”

  The Marine’s smile held no mirth. “He wanted us to escort you there personally.”

  Flap’s usually unflappable mind searched every move he’d made in the past week. His conscience was clear. His ass was covered. So why were these morons here?

  “Why don’t I call the ambassador and see what this is all about?”

  The Marine’s hand slid to his sidearm. How dare he? Did he not know who Flap was? He’d lodge a formal complaint, maybe concoct a story that would have the kid’s mind spinning as quick as his ass back to whatever brig they sent these fools.

  “Mr. Flap, I was told to escort you personally.”

  “You already said that.”

  “What I left out was the other part.”

  “Other part?”

  The Marine’s smile changed to one of delight. “The ambassador told me to drag your ass in kicking and screaming if need be.”

  No need for that.

  Ambassador Ulrich Grant was facing the opposite direction when Flap was escorted in. It was a dreary day outside and the view was limited because of the clouds. So really there was nothing for Grant to look out on—another idiot with a small brain, in Flap’s opinion. How these simpletons love drama. Flap preferred a silent stab in the back with a knife he was holding.

  “You requested my presence, sir?” Flap said, receiving another nudge from the Marine behind him. He’d have that one canned as well, just for being part of this.

  “I was hoping you’d come kicking and screaming, Edmond.” The ambassador’s chair swiveled around. Grant was a small man with a booming voice, like nature had allowed him one grace because of the lack of the other. “Did he give you any trouble, Staff Sergeant?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Very well. Why don’t you and Corporal Denning wait outside. I’m sure this won’t take long.”

  The Marines left and Flap relaxed immediately. He’d dealt with Grant on many occasions and found him to be lacking where at least his predecessor had been cunning. A bureaucrat with friends in high places. They were as thick as molasses in Washington.

  “How may I be of service, sir?”

  Grant tented his stubby fingers together. “You don’t think much of me, do you, Edmond?”

&n
bsp; “I hold the ambassador in the highest esteem, sir.” He wasn’t usually as cavalier with compliments, but something about the escort here had loosed his customary steadiness.

  “Tell me, Edmond, was it the CIA, Army Intelligence, or your own defected upbringing that taught you how to be a compulsive liar and cheat?”

  “I beg your pardon, sir?”

  “I must admit, when I first took this post, I admired you. My predecessor had so many glowing things to say about you. The missions you’d accomplished. The men and women you single-handedly turned. I’m surprised I fell for it.”

  Flap realized he’d miscalculated. He’d never seen this side of Grant. He’d casually forgotten that the man was a self-made millionaire going on billionaire. And it wasn’t from daddy’s inherited money. Grant came up the hard way, and that hard way was what Flap saw staring across the desk at him now.

  “I don’t know what you’ve heard, sir, but I can assure you that whatever disinformation—”