Extreme Faction

by Trevor Scott

  Jake didn’t flinch. “I don’t know what in the hell you’re talking about. Agency? I’m no journalist.”

  The man laughed. “I’ve heard you have a sense of humor, Mr. Adams. But I’m sure you know what I’m talking about.”

  Jake thought about the voice again—the inflection, the accent, and the way he said he had heard about him. It was the same man who had picked him up, brought him to the warehouse, and had his men beat him. He felt the pain in his ribs again just thinking about it.

  “How do you know anything about me?”

  “I have my sources.”

  “And you are?”

  “A concerned businessman.”

  Jake looked around and noticed a dark Mercedes slowly making its way up the street from the direction of the train station. He pointed his Glock at the man’s head. “I’d tell your driver to stop right there.”

  The man waved his hand toward the Mercedes and it came to a halt a half a block away, but the engine remained running.

  “What exactly do you want from me?” Jake asked.

  The man became more relaxed. He had that smirk on his face again. “I think we’re on the same side here, Mr. Adams. You were the last person to talk with Tvchenko before he died. You were old friends I understand.”

  Jake lowered the gun to his side. “Hardly. We had met a few times. What do you have to do with his death?”

  “I’m just curious.”

  Yeah, right. “So, how does Chavva fit into all this?”

  The man smiled. “Yes, she has told me about you. But I have other sources. Chavva is a wonderful young woman. A bit ambitious, perhaps. But then aren’t we all? She’s not involved with this. She’s simply another associate of mine.”

  Now there was a line of bullshit. Jake knew Mossad when he saw it, and Chavva and this man had it written all over them. They were at least agents of that organization, if not outright officers.

  “I’m going to tell you once and only once...I know nothing about Tvchenko’s death. We didn’t even get a chance to speak. Even if we had, there wasn’t a thing he would have told me. We had only met a few times. My only concern now is with the bastards who killed my employers. I’ll find out who killed them. I owe them at least that much.”

  “And what about Tvchenko’s recent project?”

  Jake shrugged. “What’s it to me? My job here is basically over.”

  “And you don’t care what could happen to millions of innocent people?”

  “Is anyone really innocent? Children perhaps.”

  “Children have died by gas before,” Sherut said.

  Jake studied the older man now, and wondered if that was a warning of past atrocities by zealots or fascists. He shuttered remembering the contorted faces of young children huddling with mothers in Halabja. The horror and certitude of death was imprinted in their tiny eyes. That was innocence. For their only crime was having been born a Kurd. “Yes, children.”

  “Stay out of it, Mr. Adams. You’re a smart man. I’m sure there must be someone in this world who cares about you.”

  It was interesting he should say that, because Jake was feeling quite the contrary right now. As if everyone was out to get him. It was a paranoid notion, but something he had no real control over. It was also interesting, because he had told this man at the warehouse he had nobody.

  “I’ll do what I have to do,” Jake said. “You stay out of my way.”

  Slowly, Jake wandered off toward the park. He heard the faint sound of a car door slamming, and the Mercedes pulling away from the curb. He knew now that he would find the guilty bastards who killed MacCarty and Swanson, those who had gunned down Petra, and those who had killed Tvchenko. Someone had made the game more personal, and he would make sure he won.

  31

  ISTANBUL, TURKEY

  By the time Sinclair Tucker knew what he was doing, he had followed the two men to the Odessa airport, taken the quick flight to Istanbul, and was now pretending to read a Turkish travel magazine while he watched the two men over the top.

  The men looked like brothers, dressed in nice slacks, shirts buttoned down the front and leather jackets. Their hair was longer than most others in the terminal, and had not been combed, Tucker realized. Above all, they were calm.

  Tucker had barely had enough time to call in his actions to his associates at the bogus communications company in Odessa, who had switched his call through to London. He was given a number for an Ankara contact, another MI-6 officer, who would arrange to help him once they were on the ground in Diyarbakir, which is where the men had bought tickets to.

  The two men he was following were Turks. Kurds he suspected. Tucker had followed them to the safe house where Jake Adams was watching the two Ukrainian women. When the second car pulled up and two other men quickly exited toward the building, Sinclair had been nervous but unable to do a thing about it. He couldn’t call Jake in the room to warn him. There was no phone, and he didn’t have one either. That’s what had streaked through his mind. After he heard the shots, and only one man had returned to the car, before it screeched off, horrible thoughts had gone through Sinclair’s mind. He had wondered if Jake was all right, was still wondering. And he had realized that Jake had probably taken at least one man out.

  Then Tucker had had only a split second to make up his mind what to do. He could follow the two remaining men who had done the shooting, or he could stick with the Kurds. He had chosen the later. Strangely enough, he had not even considered looking in on Jake. He had made that mistake the last time, when the men had kidnapped Jake and beaten him in the warehouse. Jake had been serious when he wondered why Sinclair had not followed the men. That was standard practice, after all. Yet, he couldn’t help wondering if he had left Jake in that safe house bleeding to death.

  There was also no way Sinclair Tucker could have known the men he was following would leave the country in such a hurry.

  The Kurds picked up their small carry-on baggage and headed out the door to the ramp area. They would be getting on one of those interesting looking commuter planes, where the turboprop engines seemed to dwarf the rest of the plane, and where everyone got a window seat, whether he wanted one or not.

  Dammit. He wanted to call Jake Adams. See if he was all right. He had promised to keep Jake informed. But there was no time now.

  Sinclair flipped the magazine to the table and followed the men outside.

  32

  ODESSA, UKRAINE

  The ninth floor hallway of the Maranovka Hotel was in near darkness, and Jake crept along one wall, sliding his left hand along a wooden border, while his right hand gripped his 9mm Glock tightly.

  He didn’t like being followed by the Israeli. How had he found him at the train station? Now he even wondered if Helena was safe.

  The Israeli had made him think long and hard about the entire case. He wasn’t sure if Tully O’Neill and Quinn Armstrong had told him everything about Tvchenko and Petra. The strange appearance of the Israeli businessman, if that’s what he was, ripped his mind back to Chavva. She was a link to that man, and perhaps even knew more than him.

  Which is why he was sneaking along the hotel hallway in the early morning with his gun drawn.

  Jake reached room 902 and grasped the door handle. It was locked, of course. Should he knock? No. The hotel was old and the locks just as decrepit. Besides, he wanted her on his terms. He holstered his gun and slid out two small tools. Within a minute, he was inside the room with the door closed behind him, and he was standing against the wall waiting for his eyes to adjust to the darker room.

  He had been in the hotel before, having stayed on the seventh floor while still with the Air Force inspection team. So he knew the layout of the rooms.

  In a moment he could see everything in the room. There was a large bed in the center, a bureau on the far wall, and a small table with two chairs against a mirror on the wall he leaned against. The bathroom was in the far corner, where a dim light escaped from a half-crack
ed door.

  There was a figure on the bed and it had just moved and settled again.

  Jake moved closer. Was this the right way to approach her? What if she had nothing to do with the case? She could have him arrested, for one thing. But he couldn’t let that stop him. After all, people had already kidnapped him and broken his ribs, tried to blow him up and shoot him, and the Israeli had followed him and warned him. No. This was the only way.

  He stepped forward and the floor creaked.

  He froze.

  His heart raced and he waited a moment for it to settle down.

  Moving forward again, he selected each foot placement as if he were climbing a rock cliff without a rope.

  Now he was right over the bed and could just make out Chavva’s beautifully sculpted face, with the lone sheet snuggled tightly to her neck.

  He didn’t want to do this, but he had to.

  With one fluid motion, he jumped into the air and landed across her body, his hand over her mouth.

  Her eyes opened in horror.

  “It’s Jake,” he started.

  But with one quick flip of her lower body and twist of her upper torso, she slipped to one side of the bed. Then her knee came up catching Jake in his leg next to his crotch. It was enough to throw him off balance and enough to free one of her hands.

  She slapped him across his left ear, knocking him to the floor.

  Then she was on top of him punching toward his face, which he had covered with his arms.

  He bucked her to the carpet and they wrestled. Then Jake realized she was entirely naked. He had grabbed her butt to twist her over and found a handful of flesh. Then he had her from behind, one hand across her breasts and the other over her mouth, which was trying to bite his fingers.

  “It’s Jake Adams,” he finally forced out. “It’s Jake.”

  She seemed to settle down slightly, but her muscles were still tense, her chest heaving with each quick breath.

  He couldn’t see her face to read what she might be thinking. But he wasn’t about to let go until he had a chance to explain himself.

  “I’m sorry to come to you like this,” he started. “But I was just warned by a friend of yours to stay out of the Tvchenko affair. I want to know why.”

  She didn’t move beneath him.

  “I’m assuming he’s your boss. If so, nod your head.”

  She still didn’t move.

  “If I let you go, will you scream?”

  She shook her head no.

  He released his hand from her mouth.

  “You fucking bastard,” she yelled. “You scared me to death. The first time we meet you end up dragging a young girl from a party, and now this. Do you like scaring the shit out of women?”

  He almost laughed at the way she said “shit,” but he held back. “I’m sorry, Chavva. It’s early. I couldn’t wait until morning. I was nearly killed last night. And I’m getting pretty sick of being used for target practice or as a punching bag. My employers have been killed...” He trailed off into silence, and she twisted her head toward his.

  He released her and she rolled to face him, not even attempting to cover her nakedness.

  “Someone tried to kill you?” she asked softly.

  “Afraid so.”

  “How?”

  He thought for a moment. He didn’t want to mention Petra, and especially Helena. “I was at an apartment with friends when two men burst in and sprayed the joint with automatic weapons. I...” He was going to say shot one of them, but didn’t know how she would react to that.

  “Why would someone do that?”

  “I don’t know,” he said. “Maybe they think I know more about Tvchenko than I do.”

  He could see her eyes, large and bright. Tears had formed at the sides of both and she wiped them away.

  “What’s the matter?” Jake asked.

  She nuzzled her head down to his chest. “I don’t know,” she sobbed. “I don’t want anything to happen to you.”

  That was interesting, Jake thought. They didn’t really know each other that well, yet he held her close to his body, his hand across the smooth thinness of her lower back.

  “I don’t understand,” Jake said. “Why should you care what happens to me?”

  She gazed up at him. “I don’t know. There’s something special about you. I knew it from the first time we met.”

  “In Istanbul?”

  She hesitated. “Yes. There.” She slipped up even with him and slowly pressed her lips to his. They were thick and moist and warm. She pulled back from him and lay on the floor, exposing her naked body to him. “Make love to me, Jake.”

  Her breasts were round and firm and rose from her perfect form, the nipples tight and hard. She reached over, took his hand in hers, and placed it onto her breast. And she moaned.

  She slid her hand to his pants and unbuttoned his jeans and slowly lowered the zipper. Then she had a handful of his hardness.

  They kissed as he quickly lowered his pants.

  He entered her slowly and they meshed as one.

  ●

  After a while, they lay on the bed, her face snuggled tightly into his chest. The sun was starting to rise over the Crimean Mountains, making it easier to see in the room.

  Jake had not come to Chavva to make love, yet he was profoundly glad he had. What was her relationship with the Israeli businessman?

  Stroking his hand through her hair, he watched her sleep. Her eyes were moving violently beneath the lids. She was shaking. Her lips tightened. Her breathing quickened. With one fast motion, her eyes sprang open and she screamed ‘No...’

  Jake wrapped his arms around her. “It’s all right, Chavva. It was a dream. Only a dream.”

  She snuggled under his chin. “I’m sorry.”

  “For what? We all have bad dreams.”

  She smiled. “I guess you would know.”

  He looked at her in wonder. She was a beauty. A complex beauty. He had to ask her. “What are you doing in Odessa?”

  Turning away from him, she said, “What do you mean?”

  “Your boss. Omar Sharif?”

  “Omri Sherut,” she corrected.

  “Whatever. He’s definitely Mossad. He reeks of it.”

  She look puzzled. “What?”

  “You know. In the encyclopedia you look up Mossad, and his picture is there.”

  She giggled. It was the first time Jake had heard her laugh. She had always seemed serious before, but this was an endearing side of her that he had not seen. He liked it.

  “You are funny as well as handsome, Mr. Jake Adams,” she said. “And, of course, you have other talents.” She slid her hand to a new hard on.

  “Whoa... But what about Sherut. What do you really do for him?”

  “Not this. If that’s what you mean.”

  “No.” She was stroking him, and he was finding it difficult to concentrate on what he needed to ask her.

  “Sometimes it’s better not to talk at moments like this,” she said. “Maybe later. But right now I think we better find a place to put this.”

  He couldn’t argue with that logic.

  33

  After leaving Chavva’s room that morning, Jake wandered down Primorski Boulevard, sat at a park bench watching the boats move about the harbor, and tried to put some perspective into his current situation. He was confused by the factions involved in the case, and by his own late-night encounter with the beautiful Israeli woman that he knew very little about. Maybe that was the attraction. Sometimes the heated passionate tryst was just what a person needed to feel alive again. Yet, Jake couldn’t help wondering how this time had been different. Chavva seemed so familiar. So comfortable with him. It was as if they had made love a hundred times before.

  She had told him very little about herself and the man she purportedly worked for, Omri Sherut. He was in reality an Israeli businessman, but his involvement with Mossad was uncertain as far as she knew. Jake had no idea if she was telling the truth.
She had said that things were not always as they appeared. Perhaps that was her way of reversing or recanting her story. Jake knew that when he worked for the old agency, under the cover of a businessman, he had often denied any involvement with any American government agency. It was a little lie that all intelligence officers had to give. Security over sanctity.

  ●

  Jake ate a scant lunch from a street vendor and wandered around the city. It was a gorgeous day. Windy, with dark clouds swirling overhead, and only a slight possibility of rain showers from the west. He knew he better take advantage of the fresh air now, because he’d heard on the radio that thunderstorms were moving into the area that evening.

  He thought about Tvchenko and Petra, and how MacCarty and Swanson tied into their deaths. But he was drawing a blank. He knew there was a connection. Only time would tell what that was. MacCarty had talked about a deal he was working with the Ukrainian Agricultural Minister, Victor Petrov.

  Standing before an old granite government building, Jake gazed up at the thirty-foot columns across the front. There were wide steps, the width of the building, leading up to tall wooden doors. The place resembled a typical American county court house built around the turn of the century.

  Inside, Jake found the room number for the Agricultural Ministry on a directory, and he headed upstairs toward the third floor.

  The third floor was marble and wood, some of which needed a good shellacking. The ministry office was through a wooden door.

  Considering it was a Thursday afternoon, there were very few people walking about. The office had a reception desk and four wooden chairs with a coffee table cluttered with old magazines. It seemed that waiting rooms were waiting rooms regardless of country.

  Jake stepped up to a young woman at the desk and smiled. “Good afternoon,” he said in his best Ukrainian. “I’m Jake Adams here to see Victor Petrov.”

  “You are American,” she answered in English. “I am glad to know you.” She held out her hand to shake.

  Jake shook her strong hand. She was a fairly attractive woman in her late twenties, but her grip resembled that of someone who had worked a farm herself for years. Perhaps milking cows by hand.