Savage Son

by Jack Carr

  Grey expected the security men would look like club bouncers in leather jackets, but the vory bodyguards who protected the mob boss were clad in finely tailored business suits. The neatly groomed men could have passed for agents of the FSO or Federal Protective Service and, in fact, some of them had history in that organization. Four of them moved into the room and joined the stoic figure already watching over him. Grey was frisked for the third time, thoroughly and professionally. A few seconds later the door opened, and two more bodyguards entered, stepping aside to flank the opening.

  Though Grey was familiar with the details of the man who walked through the door, thanks to his former duties as a senior analyst on the Russian Desk at the CIA, he was not at all prepared for who entered the room. Written reports and long-lens photographs from surveillance footage only told you so much, which is why Grey had always envied the men and women on the ground who gathered human intelligence; the people who looked their subjects in the eye. Instead of an imposing figure who instilled fear, he beheld a man of slight build and of medium height; this was no track-suit-wearing thug. Ivan Zharkov was also older than Grey expected, with a handsome face and thoughtful blue eyes.

  A wolf in sheep’s clothing?

  Grey expected false bravado and swagger, but instead Zharkov walked with grace and poise. He wore a suit of thick charcoal cashmere with a burgundy silk tie knotted neatly at his throat. His beard was trimmed, his mustache purposefully bushier and more prominent. His hair had gone almost white. It was combed and parted neatly above his right eye. Grey couldn’t help but think that Zharkov looked much the way Czar Nicholas II might have looked in his sixties had he not been shot by Bolsheviks in a basement alongside his wife and children.

  His handshake was firm and his expression was warm as he invited Grey to take a seat. It seemed somewhat odd to Grey that he wasn’t offered coffee or tea, though after his journey across the globe, he wasn’t quite sure if it was time for breakfast or cocktails.

  “Thank you so much for meeting me, Pakhan.” Grey spoke first using the Russian term for “boss” and showing off his command of the Russian language that he’d spoken exclusively in his childhood home in Pennsylvania.

  “It is I who should be thanking you, Mr. Grey. You have come such a long way.”

  “It was nothing,” Grey lied.

  “I was very sorry to hear about Colonel Andrenov’s death. He was a friend of my business, and I know that he was like a father to you. You have my condolences.”

  “Thank you, Pakhan, that means a great deal to me. The colonel spoke highly of you.”

  “He exaggerated, I am sure. He did the country a great service by removing our president. He was a weak man who was selling us out to the Americans. I know you played a significant role in the operation. Blaming it on the Muslim savages was a touch of genius.”

  Grey nodded, taking credit for what had not been his idea.

  “What has brought you from such a warm and pleasant climate to such a cold one? You have risked a great deal by making this journey.”

  Oliver had practiced his pitch many times during the past weeks. “I have, Pakhan, but it will be worth it, for us both. I know the capabilities of the U.S. intelligence community. I spent my entire career using all of their tools to track and analyze Russian people of interest. I’m offering that expertise to you. The Americans trained me well, Pakhan. I know everything there is to know about your rivals, about your critics in Moscow, and about the weaknesses of the Western nations’ law enforcement efforts.”

  “You have my ear,” the mafia leader acknowledged.

  “I know where your rival organization, the Solntsevskaya Gang, is exposed and I know which members of your organization are working with the FBI and CIA.”

  Zharkov spoke without shifting his eyes from Grey. “Order some breakfast for our friend here.”

  One of his men nodded in response and swiftly left the room.

  “Go on, Oliver.”

  The shift to his given name was not lost on the wayward spy.

  A hearty breakfast was rolled into the room by one of Zharkov’s bodyguards within minutes, the waiter having been stopped and searched by the security men in the hallway. Zharkov took only coffee for himself but an impressive spread of vegetables, cold meats, eggs, and pastries was presented to the famished CIA man. Grey ate quickly and drained the Bloody Mary as soon as he realized that it contained more than tomato juice. Zharkov ordered his bodyguards to keep the drinks flowing. When Grey put down his fork and took a breath, Zharkov continued the conversation.

  “You’ve promised much, Oliver, and I’m willing to pay a fair price for the kind of information you claim to have. My father was a grain buyer when the communists were in power. He could have rubber-stamped the purchases, but he took pride in his work and only bought the best crops. He demanded a sample from every bushel that he could inspect. I need a morsel, Oliver, a sample of your wares.”

  Grey was prepared for the challenge. “I understand, Pakhan. I have information on Melor Sokolov of the Solntsevskaya Gang. Despite appearances, he is a homosexual.”

  “Interesting.”

  “He’s a suka, too, a bitch.”

  “As much as that kind of behavior disgusts me, Oliver, men who have been in prison do such things. This is not shocking.”

  “I agree, Pakhan, but the man who puts him on his belly is a flight attendant for Air France. He is also an asset of DGSE. He’s French intelligence. They know every move that the Solntsevskaya Gang makes and report much of it to the U.S.”

  “Now that, Oliver, is fascinating,” Zharkov confirmed.

  “I believe in long-term relationships, Pakhan.”

  “As do I, Oliver.”

  “I would like to become a permanent asset to you, to your organization.”

  Zharkov’s bushy gray eyebrows arched upward before his eyes followed them to the ceiling, considering the proposal.

  “I must ask you, Oliver, and I hope that you will forgive me for being direct, how can I be assured that you will not betray me the way you betrayed the Americans? How can I know that this is not an elaborate ruse to put a mole inside my business?”

  Oliver was prepared for this as well. “I will not betray you because I am Russian. My mother was Russian. My grandparents who raised me were Russian. My soul is Russian. No, I will not betray you, Pakhan. Besides, where else would I go?”

  Zharkov stared at Grey for a long moment, his eyes studying him for any hint of deception. There was no blink, no darting of the eyes, no twitch of the tiny facial muscles, nothing.

  “What do you propose?”

  “Just a fair stipend and an apartment with a view.”

  Zharkov considered the proposition.

  “Twenty million rubles a year and a comfortable flat in one of my buildings where you will be safe.”

  Grey would have taken less but didn’t want to seem overly eager. Twenty million rubles was roughly $300,000 U.S. Not bad for a wanted man.

  “That is very generous of you, Pakhan, but there is one other thing.”

  “Which is?”

  “I want a man dead.”

  CHAPTER 4

  Kumba Ranch, Flathead Valley, Montana

  REECE SETTLED INTO THE cabin and put what few possessions he had into the bedroom’s dresser drawers and closet. He was struck by how quiet it was. He liked it. There was no television, Wi-Fi, or cell service. The Hastings family used two-way radios to communicate on the ranch, as they were the only reliable means of staying in touch. Repeater stations placed upon various peaks and ridges ensured that one was usually in range.

  He opened the French doors that led toward the lake and walked toward the shoreline in the crisp, clean air. There were a pair of Adirondack chairs near a stone fire ring just feet from the water’s edge. Reece took a seat and admired the view. Who would occupy the other? His pregnant wife, Lauren, and their daughter, Lucy, had been gone for almost two years now, murdered in their home as part of the cove
r-up of a deep-state medical experiment gone wrong. Avenging their deaths had brought him closure. Or, had it? His mission accomplished; what he hadn’t expected was to live. He’d thought he was dying, a tumor slowly killing him from within. He had counted on joining his wife and daughter in the afterlife.

  Africa had taught Reece to live again, but the Agency had tracked him down in Mozambique, sending his old sniper school partner Freddy Strain to recruit him. The carrot was that he could have his life back; the stick was that those who had helped him would go down. Reece chose the carrot. He had done what was asked of him; he’d killed the terrorist leader whose attacks had put the continent of Europe under siege, as well as the former GRU colonel who had masterminded the campaign of terror in an attempt to pave the way for his triumphant return to lead Russia back from the brink. Freddy had died saving the life of the president of the United States, taken by a sniper’s bullet, a sniper who still walked free. A sniper Reece planned to kill. Reece would find him and the CIA mole who had provided the intelligence for the operation. In time, both would die.

  His debt to America having been paid following the events in Odessa, Reece’s new boss at the CIA, Vic Rodriguez, provided a safe house in Annapolis that Reece could use while he prepared for, and recovered from, surgery. Vic was slowly turning up the pressure, continuing his personal recruitment efforts on the former SEAL, who remained noncommittal.

  Reece’s friend Katie Buranek was like a guardian angel; she’d been by his side as he was wheeled into surgery and stood vigil while he recovered. She lived nearby in Old Town Alexandria. There she could work the D.C. Fox News desk and commute to their New York headquarters. It also allowed them to pick up where their friendship had left off. She had helped him unravel the conspiracy that launched him on his mission of vengeance, and she had paid the price, almost losing her life in the process. Unbeknownst to the former frogman, the tough young journalist had questions she needed answered; in matters of the heart, trust was paramount.

  * * *

  Snow was falling on a morning when Katie came to see Reece after one of his physical therapy sessions. He was only a week out from surgery and would soon be leaving for Montana. Katie knew that Reece had a continued affiliation with the darkest side of the U.S. intelligence apparatus, though she hadn’t probed. She’d seen a man she recognized as the head of the CIA’s Special Activities Division with Reece’s doctor at Walter Reed. As a journalist, and with her family’s history with the Agency during the Cold War, she was not a believer in coincidence.

  She also knew there was a place Reece needed to visit before he left for the mountains. Reece accepted their destination in silent resignation. It was time to say good-bye to someone.

  Katie drove south, crossing the Potomac River, and traversed from Interstate 495 onto George Washington Memorial Parkway. The road wound through leafless oaks, the tall modern skyline of Rosslyn, Virginia, visible through the frosted passenger side window, Pierre L’Enfant’s iconic neoclassical tribute to the republic across the river to the left. Reece never tired of seeing America’s symbols of freedom: the Capitol dome, the Washington Monument, and the Lincoln Memorial.

  Planes on final approach to Reagan National Airport roared overhead as Katie exited GW Parkway and steered her 4Runner through a plowed asphalt path that would have, at one point, been in Robert E. Lee’s front yard.

  Reece had been a casket bearer for too many funerals at Arlington National Cemetery over the years; consequences of a life at war. Katie pulled her SUV curbside on Pershing Drive and shut off the motor. Reece let her lead the way. Neither spoke. He knew where they were going. The sound of their footsteps in the freshly fallen snow was a haunting reminder that beneath this hallowed ground rested generations of America’s bravest warriors.

  Reece paused among the granite headstones in silent recognition at the grave of Johnny “Mike” Spann, the CIA officer killed by Al Qaeda at Qala-i-Jangi in Afghanistan. The Alabama native had been the first American to die in combat during the War on Terror. In the nearly two decades since, he had been joined by a legion of heroes who had given their last full measure for the nation.

  Reece turned and looked toward Katie. She stood to the side of two headstones on the oak-shaded hillside. Reece approached and bowed his head at his father’s final resting place.

  THOMAS

  REECE

  JR.

  MASTER CHIEF PETTY OFFICER

  US NAVY

  SEAL TEAM TWO

  MAY 12 1946

  JULY 9 2003

  VIETNAM

  COLD WAR

  NAVY CROSS

  Reece had visited his father’s grave only once since the funeral in 2003. He could hardly believe it had been that long since he’d lost the old warrior. He pushed the mystery surrounding his father’s death to the side and slowly turned his head to read the marker just beside it, a newer slab of granite stabbed into the cold ground.

  JUDITH

  FRANCES

  REECE

  MARCH 2 1951

  APRIL 24 2018

  DEVOTED WIFE

  MOTHER

  Despite the cold, Reece’s entire body flushed with warmth. He fought back tears as he knelt in front of the stone tribute, a lifetime summed up by a few simple lines. His mother had suffered from dementia for several years and had lived her life in an Arizona nursing home after his father’s death. Reece had, in many ways, mourned her since the cruel disease had robbed her memory. He had secretly held out hope that some miracle treatment could bring her back to him; now she was gone forever, back at his father’s side. He treasured his last visit with her, when, in a moment of lucidity, she’d recognized her only son, reminding him of Gideon’s mission in Judges. “You’ve always been one of the few, James. Keep watching the horizon.”

  Reece closed his eyes and whispered a silent prayer, asking his late mother and father to take care of his wife and daughter until he got there to take the watch.

  I love you.

  He wiped his eyes on his sleeve as he rose to his feet and felt Katie’s gloved hand slip inside the crook of his elbow.

  “I’m sorry, James,” was all she said before turning to walk toward her waiting vehicle.

  CHAPTER 5

  Central African Republic

  THE TRIP TO THE Ukrainian mines in the Christian-controlled district of Bakouma involved a two-hour flight east in the King Air turboprop. Two matching planes carried the envoy at 265 miles per hour toward their destination. Aleksandr had never hunted in CAR. Poaching and years of civil strife had decimated the game population, though he had hunted the jungles of neighboring Cameroon for bongo, sitatunga, duikers, and the elusive dwarf forest buffalo. He briefly entertained the thought of going after a giant forest hog while he was in the area, but the prospect of another rare game animal for his trophy room didn’t excite him as it had in his youth. Now he required something more.

  Aleksandr admired the rugged beauty of the African landscape. From the air it was easy to dismiss the reality on the ground, a place where the people had yet to progress past the foundation of Maslow’s hierarchy of needs. A thousand feet below, malaria remained the leading cause of death, sanitary drinking water was scarce, accusations of witchcraft resulted in mob justice, HIV/AIDS affected at least 5 percent of the population, and women not only suffered the highest percentage of genital mutilation in the world but also endured one of the highest maternal mortality rates. The Central African Republic was not kind to its people.

  Outside the few cities, the country remained embroiled in civil war, with fourteen separate factions of Muslim Séléka and Christian Anti-Balaka militias still vying for contested areas and set on wiping the others from existence. Ethnic cleansing in Africa was the default setting of strife, one that tended to turn on the swing of the machete.

  The two turboprops touched down on a small dirt strip and taxied to the mine administration building. Under the watchful eye of no fewer than fifty armed Russian soldiers, groups of m
en labored in the sun extending the runway and constructing additional infrastructure to accommodate the ongoing rape of natural resources. Aleksandr noted the handful of local militia who were clearly outmanned and outgunned by their Russian advisors.

  “We will see two mines today, Director Zharkov. We will start with the uranium mines and then move to the diamond mines as you requested.”

  “Da.” Aleksandr nodded, his mind working through the possibilities.

  The Toyota Land Cruisers they were being shuttled in were a far cry from the newer armored Hiluxes they’d used in the capital, but their low torque and unmatched reliability made them the vehicle of choice this far from civilization. Even with the windows down Dobrynin’s suit was soaked with sweat and Aleksandr wondered why the diplomat insisted on clinging to the formal trappings of Mother Russia. No matter; Aleksandr just needed to tour the operations, make his decision, then issue his directive.

  Their three-vehicle convoy was led by a camouflage Peugeot P4 manned by two of the Russian advisors and one of the local militia leaders. Based on the venerable Mercedes G wagon, the P4 was the French version of a “jeep.” Aleksandr smiled knowing Peugeot did not have an export agreement with Mercedes. Never trust the French. Trailing the convoy was an olive-drab Renault troop carrier with eight local militia members and four additional Russian troops. As they maneuvered the rutted roads toward the mines, Aleksandr noticed young men and boys turn away, ducking behind corners as the envoy passed. The counterinsurgency tactics of the spetsnaz were working; fear reigned supreme.

  They sped through local villages as quickly as the low-torqued machines allowed, the front and rear vehicles bristling with overt weapons. The message was clear: do not fuck with this convoy. The poverty was not shocking to Aleksandr: thatched roofs, the occasional malnourished cow, dirty ditches oozing with excrement, and old men and women hovering near death in the dirty streets. As in developing countries the world over, the only smiles belonged to the children playing in the grime.