Love Is for Tomorrow

by Michael Karner

  Rose nodded. Today she would clear her conscious.

  “I’m praying for help to withstand a big threat,” she began.

  Her family probably wondered about the particular words in her prayer. Rose had always tried to keep family and job separate. Now the past had caught up with them. Rose continued to listen to her children’s life and issues at school. They finished their meal and while her children had dessert she excused herself with her husband.

  They walked to a side room and when they were a safe distance away Rose turned to her husband and said, “Tanya Sharipova. She has returned.”

  Rose glared. Her husband cleared his throat, then composed himself.

  “I thought we would never hear that name again,” he said. “All our leads ran dry, especially after you left.”

  Rose thought back to her time when she headed up the task force to hunt down Tanya after Tanya’s assassination mission in the UK. They never got her and Tanya got away with it.

  “Let’s just say, without her, our careers would have gone better,” Derek said.

  “I never seemed to be able to get into her mind.”

  “You also never seemed to get her out of your mind. Promise me one thing, you will not obsess after her. With the MI5 full resources it was not enough and you cannot stretch your manpower too thin.”

  “I have an agent who is friends with Death himself, another finer than any double O we had and hackers that make CIA firewalls look like first year school assignments.”

  “I do not doubt your staff’s ability. I am concerned about chasing multiple targets. Yes, whatever Tanya has planned is probably not good, but there is still a bomb on the loose. And we do not know how she thinks. Evidence showed she was the one responsible for the transport of nuclear material in our plutonium case in two thousand nine.”

  “After that, she disappeared.”

  “Until now,” Derek said. “You’ll find her.”

  Rose felt him hold her trembling hands and relaxed. With her husband’s support, she could face her nemesis.

  Rose looked at her watch.

  “My love I have to go. We have a mission starting soon. It’s our last lead on Tanya.”

  ***

  Belgrade, Serbia

  Under the cover of the night, Antoine and Kovac moved towards Kalemegdan Fortress from the riverside.

  Smith went into position on the riverbank, taking the fortress into aim through his infrared scope. A fortress’ use was to be invulnerable from the outside. That this one was publicly accessible made it anything but. Entries were open until late night, giving them easy access.

  “I have some fond memories about this place,” Kovac whispered. “Used to bring my girl here back in the day.”

  He led Antoine down a compartmented passageway.

  “Romantic,” Antoine said. The bench where Kovac indicated had a view of two rivers, the Sava and the Danube meeting at the confluence.

  He ran over the soft grass, leaving no trace thanks to his sound suppressing boots.

  Kovac signaled him to stay low, as they sprinted to a waist high and well-lit stone wall.

  Antoine braced his hand on it and flicked his body over. Leaves crunched as dust kicked up. He pressed his back against the building and slid into cover next to an entry door.

  Kovac took a step back and regarded it curiously.

  “This shouldn’t be open,” he said.

  “Well maybe we are finally going to have it easy. I see this as a good sign,” Antoine replied.

  Kovac pushed the door open with his foot. The light was on inside.

  “Someone is in,” Kovac said.

  “It must be Khabib,” Rose said, her voice ever present in their ears. “He beat us to the fortress. I just spoke to Derek and MI6 know of him but came up with nothing but body bags when trying to chase him. Expect him to have prepared for you. Be vigilant.”

  “Great,” Antoine thought. They were on a suicide mission and out of time. He slid in through the gap watching out for booby traps. Kovac followed him in, his night vision goggles already on.

  “Kovacs, I hope you remember your way around here,” Antoine said.

  “It has been a while,” Kovac said. “Antoine, stay close. Rose, I have no plans on dying today.” They ghosted down the corridor watching their step with the safeties off and their trigger fingers ready.

  They raced down till they reached a wine cellar.

  Stopping, Kovac pointed at the barrels that were there and turned to Antoine and said, “If only we had more time.”

  They continued through the doors on the other side, examining them for trip wires before progressing.

  “What is that sound?” Antoine said hearing noise coming from the room ahead of them. They carefully opened the door. The red gleam of fire brought them to a halt.

  “Somebody beat us to it,” Kovac said next to him. “The painting won’t be here anymore. They are covering their tracks.”

  “We have to get Khabib,” Rose commanded from her seat in Vienna. “The trail will go cold without him and the painting.”

  Antoine ducked down, while the smoke drifted above. He wrapped a cloth around his mouth.

  Through the flames he could see a shape leaving the room in the other direction.

  “Speaking of the devil,” Kovac whispered.

  It was Khabib.

  “Target acquired,” Antoine reported over radio. “He set the room on fire. We are going to double back and engage him outside. Smith look out for him. He has a crate. It must be the painting.”

  “Understood,” Smith replied. “Locked and loaded.”

  “We cannot afford to lose Kovac. Pursue him!” Rose said.

  Antoine looked at the flames. Every part of him thought it was a bad idea. Kovac looked at him, shaking his head.

  “In pursuit.”

  “You do not give two Schnietz!” Kovac swore running in the opposite direction of Antoine.

  The room Antoine was in had started to fill with smoke. He reached the end where he had seen Khabib. The fire was too intense to cross.

  “I have reached dead end.” He turned to see Kovac rolling an oak wine barrel towards him. “Some help,” Kovac called out grabbing one end of the barrel.

  Antoine hurried to the other side. Together they tipped over the barrel and spilt the wine towards the flames. A huge cloud of smoke rose with a loud hiss.

  “Alcohol is always the answer,” Kovac said. They ran through the entrance. Antoine looked back at the passage they had come through and saw the flames rekindle. He realized they had reached the point of no return. If there was no way out ahead, they would die here.

  The passage narrowed and they saw a door at the end of it.

  “This must be the exit,” Kovac said.

  They attempted the door. It was locked. Antoine held his breath and tried the door again. It did not budge.

  “This is not where I planned on meeting my friend - the Grim Reaper,” Kovac said. The room filled with smoke and the flames grew closer.

  “Not today.”

  Antoine tapped Kovac on the shoulder to get him to step aside. He aimed at where he thought the lock would be. The smoke blocked his vision. He emptied his clip into the door. Kovac’s figure disappeared. The smoke was so black, Antoine couldn’t see what was happening but he heard two bangs.

  The smoke flooded out.

  “Are you coming?” Kovac coughed.

  Antoine did not hesitate. He rushed forward and felt fresh air on his face. Antoine stumbled out into the open gasping for air. His eyes still stung from the smoke in the room.

  “Hey guys, if you’re where the smoke is coming out, there’s a truck heading that direction. I think it’s Khabib. Someone came out of there just minutes ago,” Priya said in the comms. “Smith, contact with suspect vehicle.”

  Antoine spit out black mucus and his heart drummed. Even the little smoke he inhaled made breathing difficult.

  “I can’t see it,” Smith said.


  “It is imperative that we do not lose him. Priya you have to find him now,” Rose said into the comms. Rose, usually calm under pressure was agitated that they had not apprehended Khabib.

  “I am moving out of position,” Smith said. “Team Alpha let me know your new position.”

  “Priya,” Rose said “Check the road cams. Khabib would have a getaway car somewhere close.”

  Antoine climbed to the top of the stairs still catching his breath. Kovac did not seem affected by the smoke.

  His radio crackled.

  “Got him,” Priya said. “Sending you the coordinates now.”

  “I got it,” Smith said.

  Antoine checked his portable display. It showed the last position of the truck.

  “It’s moving on the road towards the river,” Priya said.

  “I can’t get a clear shot from here,” Smith said.

  Antoine signaled Kovac.

  He crouched low to the edge of the wall, held himself onto the ledge and let his feet down. It was about a two meter jump. Antoine dropped and landed on the embankment. Next to him Kovac hit the ground with a grunt.

  Antoine ran down the slope, leaving a trail of dust behind him. Kovac followed in close pursuit. They reached the foot of the hill beside the fortress walls and crouched down to remain hidden. The truck would pass in just a few moments. The street was only a dozen meters ahead and already in Smith’s field of fire.

  “Khabib is headed towards the docks,” Priya said.

  “Direct us there,” Antoine said.

  He pushed himself up from the crouch and crossed the street with Kovac.

  “You are about four hundred meters from the dock. It’s to your east,” Priya said. “They’re loading a crate onto a freighter. Getting the ship’s name and registration.”

  “Alpha Team, we must get to that ship. We cannot afford to lose it. Smith provide eyes and cover,” Rose said. Antoine had never seen her pursue something in such disregard of the risk.

  “On it Ma,” Smith said.

  Out of the tree line, Smith and his sniper rifle came into view, outlined against the dark.

  “I hope you got your breath back, we have to hustle to the docks,” Smith said to Antoine and Kovac who were still panting.

  Antoine could see the harbor area, containers and port houses lit by streetlights. The spaces in between were deserted. They halted at a cyclone fence. Smith threw his bag over the top. It got caught in the barbed wire. Antoine half climbed, half ran up the fence and put his body over Smith’s bag. He jumped down and turned, searching the wall of the nearest building. Kovac followed him, then Smith. Antoine stalked the shadows from house to house. Behind them, Antoine heard the faint footsteps of someone treading on metal. Smith slung his hands around a drain pipe and climbed up a corrugated iron-shack, his rifle protruding from the silhouette of his back.

  The docks were relatively quiet until a ship engine started. The horn blew and echoed against the fortress walls.

  Antoine darted around another corner he could see a man smoking and supervising the loading of a boat.

  “Eyes on target,” he told the others.

  “In position,” Smith said.

  The ship’s engine was already running, drowning out most of the other noise which would make moving towards it easier, yet communication harder.

  “Tactical?” Antoine asked.

  “Too many hostiles, engagement not advised,” Smith said.

  “We have to go in,” Antoine said.

  He looked at Kovac. His friend nodded.

  Antoine moved closer. They weaved their way through the docks, using barrels and containers for cover. When they got close enough, they waited until the men were on the ship. The one with the cigarette still guarded the empty truck.

  Antoine looked at Kovac and said, “Teamwork. I will take him down. You put him to sleep and out of sight.”

  He did not wait for Kovac’s reply as he ran out from the corner and approached the man. Antoine crashed his shinbone into the back of the man’s knee. He ran on as the hostile went down. Before the man could react, Kovac put him in a sleeper hold. In three seconds, Kovac was up and running again.

  The ship crew had raised the gangplank and pulled in the ropes. The freighter was moving. Antoine jumped over the edge of the quays.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  NO FRENCH QUARTER GIVEN

  “Everybody takes care of each other.” - Delta Burke

  Belgrade, Serbia

  He landed on board and ducked behind some boxes. Kovac was right behind him.

  Khabib was somewhere on the ship, together with a dozen other men.

  A shout rang out from the prow of the freighter. Then another. They were calling a name.

  The man they had taken out would be missing. Their window of opportunity would close as soon as they realized he wasn’t responding on the comms.

  Two search teams came walking back at the sides of the cargo ship, waving flashlights.

  He saw the container from the truck. The painting had been crated for transport, but the ship’s engines were enough to cover the sound when he opened it. It made Antoine think of his wife’s paintings.

  “If we can’t get Khabib, we tag the art piece,” Antoine said.

  Kovac nodded in agreement.

  Antoine put a location tracker on the back of the painting and activated it.

  “Priya, you should have it on your satellite uplink,” Antoine whispered into his microphone.

  He went out and they closed the door of the container.

  Agitated voices, steps and flashlight beams were close.

  Antoine and Kovac dove into the water. The engine noise and bow wave masked the splash.

  They swam to land under the cover of the night.

  “Guess you didn’t learn that at Westpoint.” Kovac snorted out some water, while he fought against the current.

  “It’s called improvisation,” Antoine replied.

  The boat had taken them a considerable distance downstream.

  “Again, I have to ask,” Kovac said. “You gave up the trust fund life for this?”

  “Unlike my brother, I chose the hard life over the good life,” Antoine said.

  Antoine checked the riverbank for movement. Aerial tree roots at the edge of the river were like hands to pull him ashore. Something stirred in the undergrowth. It was a real hand, Smith’s.

  “Damn, you always have to do it your way, don’t you?” the master sniper spat, as he pulled first Antoine and then Kovac out of the water.

  “We got a tracker on the art piece,” Antoine said, dropping his wet clothes on the shore.

  Smith scrutinized the two of them. “I never said you didn’t do a good job, lads.”

  ***

  New Orleans, The United States of America

  In New Orleans Jefferson Parish, Don enjoyed a sunny day. With cricket chirps hanging in the air, he left his car to stroll in the residential neighborhood. He passed a two-story colonial style villa. Weeping willows covered by Spanish moss guarded the entrance. It was the right address.

  It didn’t take him long to find the pale blue van in a side alley. No one was in the front seats. Don knocked on the back door. He heard a buzz of electronics inside, radio static and low voices.

  “It’s me,” he said, holding up a paper bag. “Brought something for you.”

  He waited a second, before the backdoor opened. A pale young man stretched out his head. His hair was unkempt and unwashed. His haggard face reminded him of the typical secret service IT stereotype seen in magazines reporting the Citizen Four leaks. He was one of those eager young hotshots who signed up for Special Forces who broke their frail legs at practice and then spent the rest of their careers behind a computer screen.

  “What did you bring?” the man said, though he looked more like a boy to Don.

  “Beignets.”

  The boy didn’t look too excited about it.

  “Yeah, we’ve been eating them for
weeks.”

  “Oh, I’ll just eat them myself,” Don said as he shoved the first Beignet into his mouth and climbed inside the van.

  Every square centimeter of the back was filled with consoles, screens and surveillance gear. There was even a line back to Langley and a direct channel to chief Brenneman. It made Don wonder why he had to be here in person.

  Another lad sat in the mobile spy post. He didn’t look much different from the first.

  “That’s Johnny, IT security specialist,” said the man who had let Don in.

  Don gave him a salute by tapping on the brim of his hat.

  “You two are living the James Bond lifestyle,” Don observed.

  “Yes we are.”

  Don chuckled then frowned. He had known some who did. It didn’t last long. It was what had brought him back to drinking and therapy. If his boss ever found out, he’d be gone.

  Don noticed a printout picture stuck to the wall. He had seen the face before.

  “So that’s the pig’s wife,” he murmured.

  The way it was displayed reminded him of pictures of soldiers’ girlfriends in their billets on overseas assignments.

  “Kerrie Carter,” Johnny said. “Our center of attention.”

  “She’s hot, I give her that,” Don said, gobbling down the last piece of his donut. “Looks Puerto Rican.”

  He touched the picture with his hand and left a fat stain with his finger.

  The man who let him in seemed visibly displeased by that, but Johnny didn’t seem to notice.

  “Jamaican,” the young man corrected him, rubbing away the spot.

  Don turned to Johnny and offered the bag. “Beignet?”

  “What?”

  “Nothing,” Don said and began to eat the second donut.

  “Her husband Dwayne was reportedly killed on an undercover mission a year ago.”

  “Meaning he was one of us?” Don said, licking his fingers.

  “Rumour is he turned on his colleagues,” Johnny said, as if talking about a legend. “Killed all of them and faked his own death to get away. At least that is what I heard.”