The Man From Belarus (Corps Justice Book 16)

by C. G. Cooper

  “You know what, you can shut your hole. Your exhaust is polluting this sacred office that the President of the United States himself entrusted to me. Entrusted. That’s a word for you. Come to think of it, someone entrusted you with running this CIA Station. Well, you’ve had an impressive run, Edmond. At least on paper.” Grant opened a drawer and pulled out a thin folder. “This scrap of paper, as a matter of fact. It’s all I could dig up on your past. But I’m tenacious, Edmond. I’ve got a friend that not even you know about. Something tells me that once I’ve made some calls, I’m going to find out that you’ve built your hefty reputation on the backs of your hardworking CIA brethren.”

  “Sir, I resent—”

  “I told you to keep your mouth shut, Edmond.” Grant pointed at the door. “Those two Marines would like nothing more than to hog-tie you and toss you in one of our fine cells. Don’t make me do that, Edmond.”

  Flap was not a man who perspired. He didn’t have the glands for it. But at that moment, a drip of sweat formed on the back of his neck and started a slow, itchy journey down his back.

  “Now, as I was saying,” said Grant, “we’ll get to the center of your rotten core, Edmond. You probably won’t care for the process, but regardless of what you might think, the United States of America believes in good people. You, Edmond, are about to find out what it does to bad people. Now get the hell out of my office before I hog-tie you myself.”

  Chapter Ninety-Four

  STOKES — LOCATION: UNKNOWN — PRESENT DAY

  “So, I’ve been thinking. Once this is done, maybe we can... well, you know... we’ll have a little time...”

  Diane answered with an arched eyebrow. “Are you asking me out on a date, Marine?”

  Their back and forth had been cordial up until now. It helped that Cal made sure they’d never been alone together. This was his first opportunity, one that he’d had many hours to stew on.

  “Yes,” he said. “Would you go on a date with me?”

  He felt like middle schooler asking his crush if she wanted to dance to the latest slow jam.

  “What do you want to do?”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “On the date. What are we doing?”

  This wasn’t going at all the way he’d planned. Stupid to ask. Abort or push ahead? And why the hell was he doing this when they were scalp-deep in operational quicksand? If Brandon found out what Wilcox was doing with President Yegorovich, they were all toast, including, probably, Diane.

  “I don’t know. Maybe go out for Italian, or I heard of a nice bistro they opened in Georgetown.”

  Diane made a face like she’d just sucked on a lemon against her will.

  “What?” said Cal. “You don’t like Italian now?”

  “It’s not that, it’s Georgetown. The last time I was there I got hit on by two drunk Wall Street-types visiting from the big city.”

  Cal felt his insides twisting, again, like that same middle schooler who’d just been told a jock from a rival school hit on his not-yet-steady girlfriend.

  “So no, I don’t want to go to Georgetown.”

  Abort! Abort! his brain bellowed. He resisted the flight urge.

  “Okay,” he said slowly. “How about a hike?”

  Her eyes perked up at this. “That’s a great idea! How about back to Grounds? I’ve missed UVA so much. Especially the walking. I never had a car when I was there. Made me walk everywhere. I loved it.”

  “So, it’s a date?”

  Ah that smile of hers.

  “It’s a date.”

  She stuck her hand out and they shook on it.

  He had just released her blessed-soft hand when Top walked into the room.

  “He’s close,” Top said.

  Neither potential love bird needed convincing. They got up from where they were sitting and followed Top into the control room.

  Game time.

  Chapter Ninety-Five

  YEGOROVICH — THE ARCTIC, WESTERN CANADA — PRESENT DAY

  Every inch of his skin tingled with anticipation. How he loved the hunt, the smell of the blood that was to come. He relished it as much as he had the first time, hunting for bear with his father, a war hero long dead and buried in an unmarked grave. At least the old bastard had taught him to shoot.

  The president motioned for his bodyguards to hold back. This was going to be his triumph. And he wanted to savor it without their ever-watchful gaze. This was his.

  He crept forward with the large-caliber rifle cradled in his arms. The infrared night vision goggles he wore didn’t fail him. They’d been fitted to him perfectly. Not a fleck of fog. The occasional snow swell masked the way ahead, but he kept moving. He saw his quarry up ahead, and he forced the tingles of anticipation from his hands. They would be the extension of his weapon soon. He needed them stock still.

  The polar bear turned and could have sniffed the air. The Russian couldn’t see that level of detail. The wind blew in his face just as planned. He was upwind and moving closer. The bear went back to his business and the president took a moment to glance back at his guards. They’d maintained their position. Good. This wasn’t going to be spoiled, not even by them.

  The terrain shifted from mostly clear to littered with man-sized chunks of ice. Perfect for moving undetected. From one to another he moved, marveling at it all, his body, his breath, the way his heart kept to under one hundred beats per minute. Perfect. Just perfect.

  He looked out from the farthest spot he dared move to and was surprised to see the polar bear so close. He raised the scope to his eye. Fifty yards. Perfect again.

  He settled in now, seeing as how the bear seemed to be in no hurry. It lounged after gorging on a seal an hour earlier. Yes, it would make a perfect trophy. Maybe he would tell them to keep the seal blood on its face, or at least replicate it. That would be a nice touch in his dacha.

  The rifle bipods were set. The butt stock went to his padded shoulder, the parka not only providing defense from the cold but a little cushion from the recoil. Again, perfect.

  His eye came down to the scope, his covered cheek rested on the stock of the rifle. There it was, no amplification needed. He could not miss. He’d crept so close that he almost could’ve shot the thing with a pistol if he’d had one. Maybe next time.

  His right finger went to the trigger. He didn’t love that it was covered in fabric, but who wanted frostbite or to be stuck to a piece of metal?

  A deep breath in.

  A long breath out.

  His finger tensed, the trigger easing back just to feel the tension.

  One.

  Two.

  “What would PETA say if they knew what you were about to do?”

  The whisper was so close that the Russian almost pulled the trigger in surprise. He eased off with his finger but still let it rest. His heart thrummed faster, a fact that annoyed him more than the interruption. He was about to berate his distractor, but then he realized the truth. The whispered question hadn’t been in Russian. It had been in English. American-accented English.

  Chapter Ninety-Six

  WEST BERLIN — 1986

  Major Calvin Stokes stood at attention when the ambassador entered.

  “At ease,” the ambassador said quickly, looking harried as he took the opposing seat in the conference room. “I heard you had some trouble, Major.”

  Stokes didn’t know the man. He had no real need to. He was a lowly spy on loan, a lowly major. He’d only met the man during a cocktail party he could barely remember.

  “I’m not sure what you mean, sir.” He felt like he should still be standing at attention. He hadn’t taken his seat.

  “Is there something wrong with the chair?” Ambassador Grant pointed to the chair, a look of either amusement or annoyance on his face, Stokes couldn’t tell. His senses were off from the stress. The Marine sent from Eighth & I couldn’t be put off much longer. His greens were ironed and ready for his sure-to-be-speedy trial. “Sit down, please, Stokes.”

/>   The Marine major thought he detected a hint of sympathy in the man’s voice. Then again, it could just as easily be weariness. Maybe the ambassador was going to drop-kick him back to the States on the next embassy transport. Stokes wouldn’t blame the man. No sense having a cancer in their midst.

  “I said, please sit down, Major.”

  Stokes couldn’t believe he’d been daydreaming. He took his seat and folded his hands in his lap, absently touching the wedding band.

  Grant exhaled and Stokes braced for impact. He’d take it like a Marine. Quiet and humble. He’d earned it.

  “When was the last time you got a full night’s rest?” Grant asked.

  “I’m not sure, sir. Three nights, maybe four?”

  The ambassador grunted, like he knew the feeling. “Well, you look like shit, Stokes. And if I may say so, you’ve put me in quite the pickle.”

  “I’m sorry, sir. It was my—”

  Grant raised a hand for quiet. That’s when Stokes noticed it. The air of command he’d missed before. He wondered how many people had underestimated the man. He’d known more than his fair share of barely five-foot Marines who could tear into a grizzly bear if prompted. That’s the vibe he sensed now - a subtle power shift from the rustle of a curtain backstage.

  “I’m not saying I don’t like pickles. Quite fond of them actually.” He cracked one set of knuckles and then the other. “You ever do any boxing, Stokes? Not the pansy stuff. I mean real mano-a-mano stuff. Bare knuckle.”

  “I’ve gotten in a couple scraps, sir.”

  “Did you win?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Grant nodded like he’d expected the answer. “I got in more fights as a kid than I care to admit. Part of being small, I guess. Part of having parents who gave more of a crap about themselves than they did me. But I’m not complaining. It made me who I am today. Toughened me up and didn’t break me. Didn’t turn me into a bitter asshole either. That was more thanks to some friends than my own doing. You understand that, don’t you, Stokes?”

  Best to go along with whatever way this conversation flowed. “Yes, sir.”

  “The dilemma at hand today is your character, Stokes. Tell me about it.”

  “I failed, sir.” Stokes was surprised at how easily the words slipped from his mouth.

  “Tell me about your failure. Was it your fault?”

  “It was, sir. I accept full responsibility.”

  Grant sat back in his chair and looked at Stokes hard for a long time. Then, he poked at stubby finger right at the Marine.

  “Staff Sergeant Gonzalo was right about you. You’re a tough nut to crack, Marine. Don’t run into many of those these days. Easier to lie, cheat, and steal. Wouldn’t you agree, Stokes?”

  “A few days ago I would have, sir. But now… not so sure.”

  Grant bobbed his head. “I’ve been doing some checking up on you, Stokes. Everyone up and down the chain thinks you’re a stand-up guy. A real Marine’s Marine. Tell me, how the hell did you fall into Edmond Flap’s crosshairs?”

  “I don’t know, sir. Dumb luck?”

  Grant slapped the table. “Dumb luck is right.” He pulled a small journal from his pocket. “I’m giving you my personal number. Call me anytime, you hear? I know you have plenty of friends, but you never know what might happen in the future.” He tore a sheet from the journal and slid it across the table.

  “What’s going to happen, sir? When do I report for my court martial?”

  “There isn’t going to be one. Like I said, I made some calls. The commandant and I are old golfing buddies. In fact, the son of a bitch still owes me fifty bucks.”

  Stokes couldn’t believe it. The only thing he could think to say was, “Why?”

  At this Grant grinned like he’d been lobbed a melon slow pitch. “Because I like good people, Stokes. You’re good people. And because slime like Flap needs to be rooted out and stuck in a place that never sees the light of day. The hope is one day you’ll do the same for another. We all deserve a second chance. Hell, I got more than my fair share, and at the time I didn’t deserve them.”

  “What about Flap? What’s going to happen to him?”

  Grant threw up his hands. “Aw, you know, I read him the riot act. Did what I could, which pretty much begins and ends with getting him canned. I’ll follow up and make sure he’s never in a position of authority again. But who knows how the spooks do it. Not within my purview.” He got up from his chair and walked around the table, a sign that the meeting was at an end. Stokes rose also and took the hand the ambassador offered. “I hope you realize this isn’t a presidential pardon. There’s still the paperwork with your charges. I’ll do my best to see that they get buried but knowing you Marines—the full copy may never disappear.” He gripped Stokes’s hand hard. “Watch your ass, Stokes. And please call me if you need me.”

  Grant left in such a rush that Stokes didn’t get the chance to even mouth the words, “Thank you.”

  But the lesson would stick, and Stokes would never forget. Now, how to pull his life and career back from the brink.

  Chapter Ninety-Seven

  LENA — LOCATION: UNKNOWN — PRESENT DAY

  Usually, time behind the rifle scope gave her space to think. She’d thought of much through the years. First it was impressing her father. Then it was wondering who killed her father. So many thoughts swirled around that one. The sorrow. The rage. The questions.

  And now she didn’t know what she should be thinking. Lena was not some robot to be pointed at the enemy and told to shoot. True, she was her father’s daughter, a sniper coming into her prime, but she was not yet a cold-blooded killer. She’d killed a man. That had been for her father.

  Yes, time behind the rifle scope was good. It gave one time to calculate and decipher. But where a man in his thirties might always have his moral code stamped, Lena was still a child in many ways. And because she was barely reaching into her post teen years, her brain functioned as it should. It questioned. It questioned her father’s reappearance. It questioned the future. Most importantly, at this very moment in time, it questioned why she should kill the man named Stokes who would soon walk through her tiny window of death.

  Chapter Ninety-Eight

  YEGOROVICH — LOCATION: UNKNOWN — PRESENT DAY

  “Did you kill my men?”

  The American didn’t speak. He handled the small aircraft with a delicate hand, as careful as a nursemaid.

  “Because if you killed them it won’t matter. The crew wasn’t expecting us back for another day. I often go on long treks, you know? For vitality.”

  Still no words from the American. He had to be an American. The audacity of the act was impressive. Even the Russian could see that. For the time being this was an adventure. If he was supposed to be dead, he would be dead. That would be that. He was not afraid of death. On the contrary, there were days that he would have welcomed it. Not in a suicidal way. But when you broke bread with the Iranians, the Syrians, and that egomaniacal fool in North Korea, it was impossible not to court death.

  “What is your name? Or if you’d prefer I will make one up for you, I am happy to do so.” He looked out over the blank slate of white. They were flying in a vaguely eastern direction. He would’ve thought south was a good idea, given the probable nationality of his kidnapper, but who really knew?

  His wrists were tied behind him and his ankles bound in shackles. He was not uncomfortable, and there hadn’t been an attempt at interrogation. While that may come, the former KGB officer was ready. He knew pain. He’d almost died in the Lubyanka, twice. He saw those experiences as his rebirth. He thanked his interrogators for their part in his maturity. Then he killed them.

  “Not that I think you care, but I have money. More money than you could ever dream. All it would take is landing the plane and letting me go. No hard feelings, as you Americans like to say. The issue will be forgotten.”

  The face obscured in winter camouflage paint did not turn.


  Yegorovich exhaled and settled in for the ride. He’d just closed his eyes, resigned to the temporary discomfort, because what idiot would kidnap a president and think he could get away with it, when the pilot finally spoke. His drawl was straight out of a Western.

  “Hold on to your drawers, cowboy. Looks like it’s gonna be a bumpy landing.”

  With this, he pushed the throttle all the way forward, shoving the Russian’s stomach into his throat, and plunging the tiny aircraft straight toward the ice-encrusted earth below.

  Chapter Ninety-Nine

  VOLKOV — THE SOVIET WILDERNESS — 1984

  Almost a year of planning. So many hours tracking, watching, scheming. Here they were. The mentor and the pupil. And the object of their great hunt.

  He was 18-years-old. A man. A killer. And as he looked down at the man bound and gagged, he no longer felt fear.

  Instead, there was only the sweet salve of revenge.

  His mind ticked back the seconds, the minutes, the slogging hours, days, and months. And they edged him back a year into the frozen past...

  The images flashed over and over in his mind like a strobe.

  The way Kuznetsov attacked. The way Kuznetsov’s sneer snapped to a frown. The way his fist slammed again and again at his taunter’s neck, Adam’s apple crushing first, the gurgles coming next. And still he slammed. The cheers and jeers from the crowd turned to whispered murmurs. He heard one boy throw up.

  When he finally came to, Alek was covered in blood. His heart thudded in his ears, all he felt was the complete consumption of anger of hate.

  It was then Orlov came to him, towel in hand.

  “Clean yourself up, Young Wolf. There is work to do.”