“Now that we have a solid lead, I brought him in,” Gurka continued. “He has confirmed what our American detectives learned.”
“I know there is something big going on tonight,” Victorovych told his fellow officers. “Something besides Udar’s entry in the Beat Down event. I was not able to discover many details, but they concur with what Mr. Parker and Ms. Steele have found. Udar typically uses a white van for deliveries. We may see one at the loading docks tonight.”
Everyone started to murmur.
“And what do we do if we see this van?” asked the man who had driven them to the river the other day.
Gurka clapped his hands and brought everyone back to attention. “Once you see the activity we expect, you will close in and make an arrest. But you must be careful and ensure you have backup. These people are vicious criminals. Armed and dangerous. They will kill with abandon if it suits their purpose.”
The room fell silent.
“How will we identify these people as Udar employees?” someone Miranda didn’t recognize asked.
“Officer Victorovych will be able to help with that. And Mr. Parker and Ms. Steele will also be able to identify them.”
Say what? That wasn’t part of the plan.
Gurka pointed at the officer with the sandy blonde curls. “Oleg Romanovych.”
“Yes, Inspector?”
“You will be in charge of Unit One.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Officer Victorovych will be in charge of Unit Two. During the next few hours, I suggest you check your weapons, review the maps, and make sure you are prepared for anything.”
As the officers shuffled out of the room, Parker made his way over to Gurka.
“Inspector?”
Gurka shut off the projector and began gathering papers. “Yes, Mr. Parker?”
“We intended to leave Ukraine after delivering that flash drive.”
“Oh?” Gurka looked at him as if he’d said he was working for Udar. “What about the name in the spreadsheet? The one you said worked for a group the FBI is investigating?”
“That’s the FBI’s business.”
Miranda shoved her hands in her pockets. It was their business, too. But she and Parker would have to work out what to do about it after they got home.
“Besides,” Parker added. “You haven’t been able to give us any further information on Anatoly Tamarkin.”
“Nothing that you do not know already,” Gurka admitted. “So you will not be joining us at the mixed martial arts event tonight?”
“I’m afraid not.”
“All we need is for you to identify the principals. Once that is done, you may leave.” Gurka wasn’t taking no for an answer.
Once more, Parker put on a smooth tone. “As much as we’d like to help, Inspector, how can we? Udar employees know who we are. They know we took their flash drive. Last night the manager, Irina Voloshyna, chased my wife over the rooftops near Udar, shooting at her. She almost killed her.”
Nodding, Gurka rubbed his mustache a long moment. “In that case, we will have to get you both a disguise.”
Chapter Forty
It was just before six-thirty that evening.
A crowd of twenty thousand shuffled into the All Sports Arena in downtown Kiev. The crisp winter night air crackled with excitement and the anticipation of mortal combat.
Inside the fans were greeted with a dazzling light show, loud rock music, and huge screens suspended over the cage to televise the action to those in the upper stands.
In a champagne blonde wig cut to her chin line, a pair of dark jeans, and a navy goose down parka with a fur lined hood, Miranda made her way up the stairs to their seats in the nosebleed section. In front of her, Gurka led the way dressed in his black wool coat and his signature astrakhan hat.
Coming up behind her, Parker kept a watchful guard. He also had on jeans and an insulated black leather jacket, but he sported a pair of tortoise shell glasses and a fake black mustache that made him look breath-takingly mysterious.
No hiding those toe-curling good looks.
Gurka located their row and shuffled into the third seat from the aisle. Miranda settled in next to the Inspector, while Parker made a final sweep of the surrounding spectators before taking the seat on the aisle.
He leaned close to her ear. “I don’t see anyone from Udar up here.”
“Me, either.” But then, they didn’t expect to. They’d be down in the dressing rooms, prepping their fighter.
That indicated no one from Udar had gotten word they were coming, thank goodness.
Miranda took off the dark knit cap Gurka had given her as part of her disguise and stuck a finger under the base of the wig to scratch her itchy scalp.
After the meeting that afternoon, the Inspector had taken them to dinner and given them a talk about duty and freedom and protecting his city. It had made her feel guilty and inspired at the same time.
She hadn’t cared for being manipulated into this stakeout any more than Parker had, but she wanted to help catch these criminals. So she hadn’t put up much of a fight. After all, wasn’t this what she and Parker were meant to do with their lives?
Her mind went back to that spreadsheet and the name Alesander Antonenko. What had these people done with Sasha? They would probably never know, but sending them to jail would give her some satisfaction about his disappearance.
And she knew Parker wanted to help put away the woman who’d shot at her last night.
And so they’d caved, Gurka had won, and here they were.
She scanned the backs of the heads in the sea of people below her. She didn’t see anyone familiar. Everyone on Gurka’s team was outside, stationed at various spots, waiting for the truck with twenty-four million dollars of contraband to arrive.
“We are just about to start,” Gurka said to her in an unenthusiastic tone.
He reached into his pocket, checked his cell and passed it to her.
A text from Oleg told him everyone was in position outside. Miranda showed the phone to Parker. He glanced at it and nodded just as the main lights went down.
While the music grew louder, Miranda handed the phone back to the Inspector and settled in for a long night.
Down below, various sections of the audience became illuminated in the yellow and blue of the Ukrainian flag, sparking a loud patriotic reaction.
As the crowd cheered, a man in a suit came to the center of the cage with a microphone. While spotlights danced over the excited spectators, the man screamed into the mic, pumping them up even more.
He spoke in Ukrainian, but Miranda surmised he was telling them something like they were about to witness the greatest event of their lives.
Bikini-clad women began to prance around the cage, announcing the first fight. Down below doors opened, and the first contestant emerged with his entourage to loud cheers from the crowd.
Must be a favorite, Miranda thought. She hadn’t heard of any of the fighters on tonight’s card, except the single name she’d heard at Udar. Egor Kluka.
The fighter’s opponent entered from the opposite side of the arena in a similar fashion, and soon the two stood facing each other in the cage.
The music stopped, the referee gave instructions, the horn blared, and the battle began.
From her vantage point, the pair was smaller than a couple of Rock ‘Em Sock ‘Em Robots, but Miranda could see their moves on the big screens overhead.
The fighter on the right had a dark brown Mohawk. The other’s head was bald. Mohawk was in gray shorts. Baldie’s shorts were black. Both outfits were plastered with flags and advertisements.
The pair danced around the cage, wiggling their bodies and throwing fists in the air, until Mohawk rushed Baldie and landed a punch on the chin. Baldie took a step back, recovered, and answered with a hard kick to Mohawk’s thigh. Mohawk stepped back, came in again.
A few more exchanges and the round was over.
There was a short break and the fi
ght started up again. This time Mohawk was more aggressive and by the end of the round, Baldie had a bloody nose. After the third round, the judges declared Mohawk the winner.
The second fight was between two lightweights, a guy from Italy with tattoos over his back, and a guy from Yugoslavia with tattoos all over his front. Throwing jabs to the body and the head, they bopped and skipped around the cage. A few intermittent leg kicks broke up the monotony, but most of the contest was pretty boring.
This one went three rounds as well, and the judges gave the decision to the front-tattooed Yugoslavian.
As she watched the fans in the crowd cheering the winner, Miranda wondered if the two three-round fights would throw off Irina’s timing.
The next break seemed to last forever, but at last the ladies in bikinis made their appearance, the music died down, and the announcer introduced the contestants for Fight Three.
This was it.
Miranda turned her attention to the big screens, and the Udar logo appeared. She held her breath as she watched a giant of a man trot down the aisle in a black hoodie, swinging his fists in the air for his fans, surrounded by his team and security.
The crowd went wild for the local boy.
Squinting, Miranda could make out Sergei’s tight red curls among the other tree trunks. A range of emotion swarmed in her stomach as she spotted Sokol’s hook nose and black beard. Finally Irina brought up the rear with a confident stride, her black ponytail swishing back and forth across her dark tank top.
There they were, all to support their man, Egor Kluka.
Resolve burned inside her. By the end of the night, every last one of them would be in a Ukrainian jail.
At the end of the aisle Kluka pulled off his hoodie and shook hands with his team. A trainer checked him out, Sokol greased him up, and he climbed into the cage.
The fighter was bigger than Sergei. A heavyweight at two-sixty-five, he was a mass of muscle. His black trunks were splattered with the Udar logo, and every bit of his torso was covered in tattoos. Seemed to be a theme for Udar personnel.
His opponent was introduced to mild cheers and a few boos. He was a huge Swede, a full head taller than Kluka. He stood in his corner, unmoved by the crowd’s reaction.
His well-toned body was fair and free of tattoos, his Nordic hair was light and short, his cauliflower ears were large and looked odd in contrast to his tapered flaxen beard.
Miranda twisted in her seat. Could this guy whip Kluka’s ass? She’d like to see that.
The referee gave his instructions, the fighters touched gloves, the horn blared, and the match began.
They went after each other right away. No waltzing around the cage this time. Fists were flying.
The Swede landed a jab to Kluka’s face, drawing blood. Kluka countered with an uppercut to the jaw. The Swede swung for Kluka’s head and missed. Kluka moved away, but not in time to stop the Swede from charging him.
The next second, he had Kluka in a clinch and down they went. Miranda could hear the body slam all the way up here.
The crowd roared.
For a while the Swede laid his full weight on top of Kluka, socking him in the ribs a time or two. Kluka struggled beneath him, swung at the Swede’s nose.
Suddenly the Swede was on his knees in a full mount, his arms swinging, his fists pummeling Kluka’s face. Ground and pound.
Kluka went limp.
The referee rushed over, stopped the fight, and declared the Swede the winner.
The crowd went wild, most jeering and booing, while the Swede’s supporters cheered.
Awake now, Kluka got up and pranced around the cage, barking and pointing at the referee as if he thought the call was unfair. But soon Sokol put an arm around him and ushered him out of the cage.
As the music came up again, Kluka and team retreated in defeat down the aisle to the southeast end of the arena. The side the loading docks were on.
Miranda saw Irina check the time on her phone.
Had her fighter thrown the fight on purpose to keep them on schedule? Was the truck with the two hundred and forty kilograms of drugs about to arrive?
Beside her, Gurka got to his feet. “It is time.”
It sure was.
She and Parker rose and stepped into the aisle. As if they were heading for the restrooms, they made their way down the steps, through the lobby to the exit. Outside they passed a group of young girls who were smoking and laughing under the lights.
They headed to the spot where their vehicles were parked, passing a few others going to their cars.
With a nod to Gurka as he walked toward his Prius, Parker helped Miranda into the BMW and hurried around the driver’s side.
Inside, he started the car, waited for Gurka to pass him, and they drove slowly around the building to the loading docks.
Chapter Forty-One
Lit up with color against the cold night sky, the circular stadium reminded Miranda of a huge spaceship. But as they followed Gurka’s taillights around its glass-and-steel perimeter, she couldn’t keep her stomach from quivering.
Twenty-four million dollars worth of drugs. What would Udar’s people do to protect that? Lie. Cheat. Maim. Kill.
She hoped Gurka and his men were up for whatever they had to face in a few moments.
Parker must have been thinking the same thoughts.
“Weapons,” he said, his voice dark and low.
He’d been quiet all evening, mentally preparing himself for battle, she assumed, as she reached into the glove compartment.
She took out the two Fort-17 loaners from Gurka, checked their cartridges, and handed one to Parker.
“It’s going to be okay,” she told him, slipping the other gun into the pocket of her parka.
“I hope so.”
She could tell he still didn’t like the idea of being involved in this police matter. But his sense of justice wouldn’t let him walk away. Neither would hers.
They rounded the corner.
Under the street lights, a snowy bank on the opposite side rose to a long stone building with a turret at its end. Must be for storage. They passed another elongated building that looked more modern. Far away across the street, classical eighteenth century buildings shimmered in the darkness. The ancient and the modern blended together to form the contemporary European city Kiev was trying to be.
Helping that cause made her feel their work tonight had meaning. Especially after failing at their primary task.
At last the bays of the loading dock came into sight.
The row of dark, ominous looking entryways stood in silence. No activity. A couple of buses were parked off to the side. She could see the hood of an eighteen wheeler behind it. No sound of a running truck engine.
Gurka pulled into a spot across from the dock. Parker found one a few spaces away.
Miranda stared at the empty docks. “I don’t see any trucks in the bays.”
“No.”
“That is what that document meant, didn’t it? That a truck would pull into one of those bays, and people from Udar would unload the contraband, most likely into other vehicles?”
“It’s the most inconspicuous plan.”
Right. In Plain Sight. “Are we early? That last fight ended fast.”
Parker didn’t answer. His sharp eyes were scanning the area. “There’s officer Romanovych standing near his vehicle.”
Miranda turned her head and spotted Officer Oleg, the policeman who had taken them in a few nights ago. He stood in the shadows next to another officer, waiting. For a moment, Miranda thought they were smoking. Then she realized it was their breath.
She glanced at the temperature on the dash. Minus eight, centigrade. “They must be cold.”
“Yes.”
They waited about ten minutes. The next fight was already underway. Icy fingers began to creep up Miranda’s spine. Something was wrong.
Suddenly Parker’s phone buzzed.
He held it up and they both read the text fro
m Gurka.
Activity in the underground car park. Everyone head there now.
Her heart sank. “They changed the plan. What else would Irina do after I took her flash drive?”
She saw Officer Oleg and his partner climb into their vehicle and head off in the opposite direction.
Another vehicle followed.
Parker’s phone buzzed again.
One at a time. We cannot look like a procession.
“Good point,” Miranda muttered.
Parker watched Gurka’s Prius roll slowly past them.
He waited until the car was at the far end of the building, then pulled out of the spot.
Chapter Forty-Two
The underground garage was off the north end of the stadium.
Parker eased the BMW along the curve, circling the arena’s huge sloping steel spaceship beams, then headed for a covered ramp plastered with signs in Ukrainian that must have indicated this was where to park.
At any rate, one sign had a big capital P on it.
Miranda held her breath as Gurka’s taillights disappeared into the concrete hole.
Parker slowed a moment, then down the ramp they went, the car bobbing.
After they splashed through a puddle of slush, yellow poles ushered them onto the first level. A row of economy cars sat along a concrete wall plugged into chargers. The garage was dark and sinister looking. The overhead lights didn’t produce much illumination.
They rolled through the shadowy forest of concrete beams and diagonally parked European sedans, and at the end of the row, found a big green sign marked with the number one.
One down, two to go.
Parker turned, and they cruised down another long curving ramp, Miranda’s stomach protesting all the way. At the bottom of the ramp, a dip rocked the car, telling them they had reached the second level. There were few empty spaces here and no activity. Everyone was inside watching the fights.
Gurka’s Prius was disappearing around a far corner.
Speeding up a bit, Parker traversed the succession of shiny bumpers and descended down another ramp.
Vanishing Act Page 18
