Extreme Faction

by Trevor Scott

  Jake thought about watching Tvchenko die right in front of him, twitching much like she had described. “What were his suspicions?”

  She sat back farther into the sofa, as if she were a turtle hiding inside its shell.

  Jake turned quickly toward the door. He thought he heard something.

  A clicking noise.

  He started to turn his head toward Petra, when the door burst open.

  Jake dove to the ground, drawing his Glock.

  Two men with silenced Uzis started spraying the room. Bullets hit the wall with thuds.

  Jake returned fire, emptying half a magazine.

  One man dropped, the other backed away.

  Jake rolled across the floor behind a chair and listened, but all he could hear was ringing from the shots he had fired in the close quarters.

  He rose quickly and made it to the side of the door, peeked around the corner, his gun pointing the way.

  Nothing.

  A door down below slammed and he could hear a car pulling away, its tires squealing. He turned to check the man lying on the floor on his back. He had a bullet in his forehead and another had taken out his mouth. A third bullet had penetrated his chest.

  Then he remembered Petra, and he ran back inside.

  Petra lay slumped back against the arm of the sofa, her hair covering her face. Jake checked for a pulse, but she was dead. She had been hit at least three or four times. It was hard to tell with all the blood.

  Now Jake thought of Helena. She would be awake, hiding, frightened.

  “Helena,” he called out. “It’s Jake. I’m coming in.”

  He went into the bedroom, and she ran and collapsed into his arms.

  “What happened?” she asked.

  Jake tried to find the words to say that Petra, her best friend, was dead in the other room. “Helena, I’m sorry. Petra is gone.”

  She peered up to him. “Someone has taken her?”

  He shook his head. “No. She’s been killed. I’m sorry.”

  She didn’t believe him. She hurried to the living room and went immediately to Petra. She sat next to her friend, placed Petra’s flaccid head on her shoulder. “You’re all right,” she said. “I’m here now. Everything will be fine.”

  Jake stared and became angrier with each moment. How could someone do this? She was a scientist’s assistant. Whatever it took, he’d find the other man who did this, and especially the one who had hired them.

  26

  TEXAS

  By now Baskale guessed every road in west Texas had been cut off. Which is why he had driven to the dirt airstrip, parked the Suburban alongside the twin engine Beechcraft, and was preparing for take-off.

  The airstrip wasn’t on any map, since it belonged to the Chihuahua drug dealer. The dealer had used the private airport to run product across the border, and to fly in American goods that he couldn’t find in Mexico. The dealer had told Baskale about the place and given him the keys to the plane just prior to being shot. Baskale couldn’t have someone staying behind and giving up his position. Especially someone as weak and pathetic as Kukulcan.

  His three men had helped load the bomb onto the plane, and then they had split up into two teams. Baskale and the biggest of his men would fly off in the plane, and the other two would leave in the Suburban, quickly ditch it for a tiny car, something that could never carry a five hundred pound cluster bomb, and then meet again at the predetermined location. The authorities were looking for four terrorists in a large truck with a deadly bomb. Now the two in the small car would be a couple of Israeli tourists touring the American west. At least that’s how their passports would read. Baskale and his most trusted man had become Americans. They had drivers’ licenses with a Dallas address, social security cards, Visa and MasterCards, and even pictures of wives and children, which they surely didn’t have. They were entrepreneurs who had opened a business five years ago, where they converted old homes into stately estates, at a considerable profit. They had just bought the plane off an old man who had lost his pilot’s license due to his eyes. Their cover wasn’t perfect, but then Baskale didn’t think he’d have to explain it to anyone.

  In a few moments they were airborne, and Baskale watched the other two men driving away in the Suburban. He would beat those two to the next location by a good four hours, maybe more. He only hoped they wouldn’t run into any trouble.

  ●

  Nelsen was dumfounded. He had cruised up to Interstate 10, was driving east at sixty-five miles per hour and listening to reports across his radio that they had still not found the men. He was beginning to question his own insight. Perhaps they had stopped somewhere to wait it out. Sit tight until dark, hide the bomb, split up into four directions, and return later for their precious nerve gas bomb. Or, worse yet, they could break open the bomb and split the bomblets four ways. It was possible, but not likely. So far they had kept on moving, staying one step ahead of him. He didn’t think they would change their pattern. They were in a hurry to go somewhere. But where? And why? That would take some thinking.

  Garcia had hitched up the laptop computer to the cellular phone and was accessing everything the Agency knew about the Kurds. Perhaps they would get lucky and figure out why they were in Texas with a nerve agent. His fingers clicked along across the keyboard.

  “You’re pretty good at that,” Nelsen said.

  “My mother is a journalist,” Garcia said. “She taught all of us to type before we could even scribble our own names. I must admit, it’s come in handy over the years writing up reports and searching databases.”

  “What you coming up with on the Kurds?”

  He clicked a few more times, and then punched the enter button. A history of the Kurds blinked onto the screen. Garcia scrolled up to more recent history, from 1980 to the present. On the right of the screen was a side bar with general statistics. “I had no idea there were so many Kurds. Shit, twenty million?”

  “That’s right,” Nelsen said. “I don’t think most people realize that. I spent some time in Turkish Kurdistan while working out of the Ankara office. The Kurds are a hardy lot. Goat and sheep ranchers mostly. Mountain people. The Turks simply called them Mountain Turks. They denied them their own language. They aren’t allowed to officially speak or write the language. But they do, and there’s not a damn thing the government can do about it. I scouted the area once after Turkish troops were sent in to stamp out a minor uprising. The Turks got their asses whipped trying to fight in the mountains. The Kurds are a tough people. But we’ve got the advantage here. They don’t know Texas and America like we know it. They’re on our turf.” He hoped he could believe his own words.

  Nelsen slowed the truck slightly as they ran into light traffic at the Fort Stockton exits. He noticed that there were city police blocking the on ramps, just as Nelsen had ordered.

  Garcia clicked away on the computer. “I guess they’ve got this area blocked off.”

  “Yeah, but they could be anywhere. Think. Think. What would you do?”

  Garcia shrugged. “I don’t know. Sit low. Assuming I don’t have to be someplace at a certain time.”

  Nelsen thought about that. He had been puzzled for the last few days on where the Kurds were going, what they were trying to accomplish, and he had been stumped over the entire case. There was no logical reason the Kurds should want to bring terror to American soil. Yet here they were. But just maybe... “Ricardo, punch up the Gulf War time frame.”

  In a few seconds the screen blinked the information. “What do you want to know?”

  “What does it say about after the ground war? March 1991. I seem to recall that the U.S. pulled up short, to the displeasure of many, and tried to let some of the internal forces finish off Saddam Hussein. It didn’t work of course, because Iraq had secretly held back and withdrawn some of its best trained Republican Guards. Hussein knew he was beat and didn’t want to have the coalition completely destroy his best army. I visited some of the safe havens set up within I
raq after the Kurds had been forced to retreat. It was a total zoo.”

  “That’s almost exactly what it says on the Agency database,” Garcia said.

  Nelsen smiled. “That’s because I helped write that portion. But in light of that knowledge, what could you conclude about the Kurds?”

  Garcia studied the screen as if he’d missed something. “I don’t know.”

  Nelsen slammed his hand against the steering wheel. “Dammit. I’ve been such an idiot.” He shook his head. “Me of all people. I should have figured it out.”

  “You want to let me in on your little secret?”

  “Bush. They’re after former President George Bush. He lives in Texas. Houston.”

  “Why would they want to kill Bush?”

  “Because they’re pissed off at him. Bush let the Kurds down. Everybody knows it. He should have intervened when the Kurds were being pushed back into the mountains of Turkey and Iraq, but he just let the situation take its course. He thought the Kurds were stronger than they were. Didn’t fully realize that Hussein had kept his best troops standing by. He didn’t respond to their plight until thousands had frozen and starved to death.”

  Garcia still looked confused.

  Nelsen jammed the accelerator to the floor. Then he grabbed the cellular phone, switched it back to voice, and punched in a number. He called CIA headquarters and was holding for the assistant manager of external operations. It was true that they were now operating on the turf of internal operations, but it had started outside the U.S. so they had first authority. In the old days, the FBI and CIA would be butting heads now. But now they were all on the same playing field. Internal and external would work as one. At first the assistant DO had thought that Nelsen’s story was incredulous, to say the least. But slowly, as Nelsen articulated his position, he shifted toward his field officer’s reasoning. It was incredible to think of terrorists trying to assassinate a former American president on U.S. soil with one of its own nerve gas bombs. Incredible, but highly likely.

  When Nelsen was off the phone with CIA headquarters and concentrating on the road, thinking about how they should proceed, a smile came to his face.

  “What’s so funny?” Garcia said.

  “The Kurds. They have an ironic sense of humor.”

  “How’s that?”

  “Face it. They could have easily just flown a few terrorists to Houston, armed them, and sent them loose after the former president. But they don’t. They go through this elaborate scheme stealing a nerve gas bomb, killing a whole bunch of people in the process. Then they spend almost a week on the high seas, probably puking their guts out, and land in Mexico. Then they drive north with the bomb leaving bodies in their wake. Why? It seems like an awfully complex assassination.” Nelsen smiled and raised his brows at his partner.

  Garcia considered it. “So, they want to kill Bush with his own weapon?”

  “Exactly.”

  As they cruised along the nearly deserted highway, Garcia gazed off to the scrub brush and sage to his right. Then he turned to Nelsen. “What if we’re wrong?”

  Nelsen gripped the steering wheel until his knuckles turned white. “I’m not wrong.”

  27

  ODESSA, UKRAINE

  Jake had hurried off with Tully O’Neill’s Volga and Helena in tow. After driving just a few blocks, he abandoned the car and slid onto a city bus, watching to see if they had been tailed. He got off near the train station and stole a cab waiting outside, while the driver was drinking coffee at a small kiosk. He had no idea where he was heading, only that to stay in one place wasn’t an option. He still wasn’t certain how the gunmen had known they were at that apartment. He was sure he wasn’t followed. Yet, somehow the men had found them, and he didn’t want to take any chances with Helena. The gunmen had to assume Petra had told Helena something, and they couldn’t chance leaving her alive. The same went for him.

  There was also no time after Petra’s murder to call Tully and Quinn to tell them what had happened. Part of him didn’t want to call. It would have been like an admission of failure, and he had experienced far too much of that in the past few days. He began questioning his own competence. Yet, deep down, he knew that it would have been nearly impossible to totally protect MacCarty and Swanson. He knew also that if an assassin or group of assassins wanted someone dead, they’d find a way to make it happen. All he needed to know was, why? Why were these people being killed?

  He was feeling pretty rotten about Petra, especially. After all, she had died right in front of him. He had reacted too slowly. From now on he would trust only himself, regardless of personal sensibilities and Agency priorities. If the Agency wanted his help, it would have to put up with his rules.

  Helena was resting against his shoulder in the front passenger seat of the cab. She had been incomprehensible the entire trip, mumbling in Ukrainian and Russian. Even in her great distress, Jake noticed she was beautiful. She was a lost little girl without her pacifying violin, which had been left behind at the last apartment as they left rather abruptly.

  The cab wound through the country road to the northeast, and the lights of Odessa were only a glow behind them now in the rearview mirror.

  ●

  In a few hours they reached the outskirts of Nikolaev. Jake found the train station and parked the cab a few blocks away, wiped his prints from anything he had touched, and got Helena out from the curb side.

  She was leaning against him as they walked toward the station. At the window, he bought her a ticket to Yalta. She had no idea why, but also had no strength to protest.

  The train would leave in fifteen minutes. Jake escorted her to a private compartment, sat her against a window seat, drew the curtains closed, and took a seat next to her.

  “Listen, Helena,” Jake whispered. “You’re going to Yalta. Here’s your ticket.” He stuffed the yellow stub into her coat pocket.

  “I don’t know anyone in Yalta,” she cried. She looked like a little girl who had lost her parents at a shopping mall.

  “Good. That’s perfect. No one would guess you’d go there. I want you to go to the Summit Hotel. It’s just four blocks from the train station. Pay cash for four days.” Jake slipped her a wad of cash. “I want you to stay there, eat there, sleep there, and don’t leave. If anyone questions why you are traveling alone, simply tell them you are waiting for your husband to return from sea. He’s a merchant marine. I’ll come there to pick you up.”

  She gazed up to him. “You won’t leave me there?”

  “Of course not. I’ll be there in four days. That should give me enough time to find out who did this to Petra and what they want.”

  She tried to smile, but her lower lip trembled.

  Jake thought about Petra and Helena being alone for all those hours before he and Quinn had found them. Had Petra confided in her? “I have to ask you something. Did Petra ever talk about her work?”

  She swished her head no.

  “What about Tvchenko. Did she talk about him?”

  She thought for a moment. “Only about how he made love to her. You knew they were lovers.”

  “I suspected it. So, Petra probably did know what Tvchenko was up to?”

  “Maybe, maybe not. Yuri was very secretive. He was a good man. I’m sure of that. I don’t see how he could have been involved with making bad weapons.”

  Jake stared at her. If circumstances were different, perhaps they could get to know each other better. He found himself extremely attracted to her, both mentally and physically. She was a delicate flower without any thorns.

  “Are you sure there’s nothing you can tell me to help me find out what in the hell’s going on. Think. It’s important.”

  Helena shrugged. “I don’t know anything. I’m a musician.”

  There was a last call for the train to Yalta over the speakers. Jake kissed Helena on both cheeks and started off. She pulled him by the collar and kissed him passionately on the lips.

  “Jake, please don’t
leave me.”

  “I have to go.” He didn’t want to, though. It would have been so much easier to simply take the train to Yalta with her, spend a few days making love to Helena in the hotel, and then.... “I’ll meet you in Yalta. I promise.”

  He pulled away from her, and she slumped back to her chair.

  Out on the loading gate, Jake was walking away but felt as though something was penetrating the back of his head. He turned to watch the train pull away. Helena’s face peered around the curtains, a desperate glare, as if her soul was reaching out for him. In a moment the train was out of sight picking up speed.

  Jake went back to a different window and bought himself a ticket to Odessa. He had an hour to waste, and he felt like a stiff drink of whiskey, even though he couldn’t stomach hard liquor. Besides, he needed a clear head. He was confused. In the last few days a prominent scientist had died in his arms, he had nearly been killed by an explosion in that man’s apartment, he had been kidnapped, shot at, and been forced to steal a cab. He had killed a man only hours ago, yet he felt nothing for the dead man. He was nothing. Nothing more than flesh and blood without a soul. Jake was protecting a woman he barely knew, and he was still no closer to finding out what in the hell was going on. His boss had been poisoned, and he had no real reason to stay behind and continue investigating. No reason but pride. He would never run away from a fight, like some whimpering dog that had been bit on the butt.

  Somehow his position at the apartment had been compromised. Someone had given him up for dead, and only Quinn Armstrong, Helena, or Petra knew where they were. And, of course, Sinclair Tucker. Jake hadn’t been careless enough to let someone follow him there, but it was possible. Especially if Tully’s Volga had been tracked somehow. It was more likely that someone had sold him out. His jaw clamped his teeth tight with that thought.