by Roger Weston
Now, on thick stubby legs he continued pacing the salon. He padded by the table without a glance. He saw nothing of his yacht’s luxurious salon because his mind was anchored in the past.
In the military, he had risen quickly through the ranks. In Chechnya he had been the youngest general in Russian history, but his greatness came as no surprise to him. His rise had amazed his comrades just as his jump had awed the people along the Neva River all those years ago.
He’d continued to amaze everyone right up until the dark day when he fell prey to conspiracy—the scheming of jealous men who knew nothing of greatness. Nausea flooded his intestines. Rage flashed through his brain.
His neck muscles bulged, and he snarled his nose. They had shamed him. He went through three years of hell because of them. One day, they would pay for their transgressions. He would get revenge on the men who had destroyed him, but for now he had more pressing problems.
There was no doubt in his mind that the current set of circumstances demanded decisive and pitiless action. When a man—through his own rare skills in executing plans and overseeing campaigns of domination and ruthless suppression of resistance—when such a man approaches the summit of greatness and power at a young age and then has his glory stripped away by inferior schemers working in unison in dark conspiracy, it scalds his very being in ways that can never be reversed. Of this, the general was certain. He was equally positive that a great man like himself would not be held down for long because his name and nature could be summed up in a single word, and that word was victory.
He walked back-and-forth in the salon, marching past the wooden pillars as he did. Then he stopped and stared at the coastline through the floor to ceiling wall of glass. He reflected on the plan that was being executed at that very moment. As usual it would be executed perfectly. He could count on his men. Now he only needed to hear from Mika that the mission was a success. Resuming his march through the burdens of greatness, his eyes burned with excitement. He wiped the sweat from his broad forehead and brushed his stubby fingers along the surface of the finely-polished table. He turned and retraced his steps, shuffling over the hard-wood floor. He paced for over an hour before he heard yelling out on the deck. Mika stepped up to the sliding glass door and stopped at the threshold. Mika, with the lean and cruel look he always exhibited, stood with his head bowed, respectfully waiting for the general to invite him into the sanctum of power, like a lion that knows to obey its trainer.
And Mika was a lion.
Back in Chechnya, he’d boasted of all the killing he did, including the women and children. And the body count was high enough to catch the attention of even the most hardened veterans. He’d been a renegade warlord accused of clandestine links with the Russian special services. While he was not trained by Russian military intelligence and never officially served them, he certainly had led a band of ruthless criminals who did whatever they pleased and took anything they wanted. Mika had secret alliances as well. He had served General Lazar in lucrative criminal enterprises.
“Come in.”
Mika entered, carrying a black attaché case, which he set down by the door. His face was gaunt, cheeks hollow.
“Your mission was a success?” Lazar asked, his voice calm.
“We took care of the bodyguard.”
Lazar advanced toward Mika slowly. “What about Maria?” he said as his short, thick legs bulged with each step he took forward.
The hollow in Mika’s cheeks deepened. His face twitched. “There was a slight complication in our plan.”
Lazar’s face darkened. He stalked across the ship’s salon with his thick arms flared out. His feet thudded on the floor as he bridged the gap between them. “What happened?”
“Some guy showed up out of the blue. He grabbed Maria and escaped in one of the rally cars.”
Lazar stood within an inch of Mika. “You’re telling me a man shows up out of nowhere like some apparition, and then vanishes, taking Maria with him?”
“Yes, sir.”
Lazar’s black eyes lit up with anger. “I trusted you to take care of this, but you couldn’t handle it?”
“Taking out a man during the Costa Brava race was risky, but at least we got him. Trying to take Maria alive with all those bystanders around was near impossible. I told you that. It was a tricky operation.”
“We planned for all contingencies. The problem was you didn’t follow the plan!”
“The guy was too quick. There was no way we could have prevented this.”
“Who was he? I want to know. Who did this?”
“We don’t know. We’re working on identifying him now. I’ve contacted the Policia.” They’ve set up a road block. We will get this straightened out soon.”
“Where’s the road block?”
“To the north in that little town, uh … Sant Feliu de Guixols.”
Lazar’s eyes shifted from left and right. “The mountains between Lloret de Mar and Sant Feliu are filled with dirt roads that splinter off and cross the mountains. They could be anywhere along the coast.” As Lazar brought his face within inches of Mika’s, his body began to shake. When he looked up at the taller, thinner man, Lazar resisted the urge to break his thin neck. “Bring her to me,” he whispered through clenched teeth.
Mika gestured toward the thick black attaché case that he’d set down near the door. “She left that behind.”
“I want her back now. Find her!”
“Yes, sir.”
“As for the man, bring him to me. Nobody messes with my plans. Nobody!”
Ten minutes later, General Lazar sat in an antique chair in the Volga’s elegant captain’s quarters. Before him on the floor was the opened attaché case. Priceless relics spilled out of the leather case, and Lazar’s short bulky frame was hunched over the ancient treasures. Several of the pieces were spread out on the floor before him. His bushy eyebrows furrowed as he moved the pieces around. He studied each one intently. Then he unfolded a letter written in his daughter’s handwriting. It was addressed to the ambassador. In the letter she promised to deliver more artifacts and thanked him for his help in selling the merchandise. Lazar crumpled the paper and threw it furiously at the floor. “Damn you,” he shouted.
He sat back and waited for the emotion to pass.
These artifacts were his most prized possessions, priceless relics that he had spent years securing, and his own daughter had tried to take them from him.
Among the relics was a copper-and-gold face mask adorned with a tall golden headdress. Next to that were life-size golden gloves that had once covered the arms of an Inca mummy. Lazar ran his hands over the smooth yellow metal.
He held up a skull that was encrusted with gemstones and gold. It was the skull of Chuchi Capac, 15th-Century leader of the Colla Indians of Bolivia. Gold ingots that had been imbedded in the ancient warrior’s teeth glistened in the light. The general looked into the vacant eyes of the once fierce enemy of the Incas. Pachacuti, a great Inca emperor, had defeated this rebellious foe in a violent battle. As a sign of his victory Pachacuti had Chuchi Capac beheaded. Then he had the top of Capac’s skull sawed off to allow the man’s brains to be removed. For an Inca king, it was a magnificent sensation to drink from the skull of a defeated enemy. The blood of the enemy was considered the ultimate source of power. Lazar sighed with relief. Everything was still intact. He still possessed his precious relics.
The general unfolded the letter again. He read it for the tenth time. Why was Maria trying to sell them? Fury overtook him. Rage filled his eyes.
How had she gotten a hold of them? How did she get them from his compound in Peru? Only his beloved wife had access to his vault. Only she had traveled from South America recently.
Lazar stroked the smooth bone of Chuchi Capac’s skull once again. He thought of his former enemies, enemies who now held positions of power in Russia. One day he would regain his former prestige in the motherland. He would rise up once more. The seeds of his deception were plan
ted long ago. He would walk the halls of power as he had before, and he never would be brought down again.
But for now, he would find his daughter … and teach her a lesson.
Lazar’s marriage thirty-five years ago had fulfilled one of his objectives. Although he was drawn to his wife Olga for her beauty, he had married her because of her glorious heritage. What he gained from her distinguished ancestry was far more valuable than her looks. Her beauty seemed trivial in comparison.
His personal glory was important to him, and his wife played an important part in fulfilling his destiny. Her father had been a loyal Russian with an iconic past. The man had played a key role in the war and was on the right side of history. Like Lazar, he understood what all great men knew—that to get to the halls of power you had to ride there on the backs of the ignorant.
Lenin and Stalin understood these things. So did Trotsky, the great Marxist revolutionary and founder of Russia’s Red Army.
Olga’s grandfather had also understood it. He had been a key aid to Trotsky in the 1930s during the Spanish Civil War. Actually there were two civil wars raging in Spain at the time. The first was between the Spanish Republicans who had the backing of the Communists. They were pitted against Franco’s nationalist forces that had Hitler’s support.
The second civil war in Spain was between Communist factions. Those who supported Stalin were locked in a mortal struggle with Trotsky’s forces. Each side hoped to save the Spanish Republicans and therefore become the spear tip for the World Communist Revolution. Ultimately, Trotsky’s forces were defeated, and Stalin’s agents killed off Olga’s grandfather and other Trotskyites like rats. Her grandmother, however, escaped with her daughter, Olga’s mother.
Fortunately, Olga’s grandmother escaped with over $700,000 in operational funds that her husband had taken from Trotsky’s secret coffers after his death. The matriarch had adopted a new identity and bought several ranches across Spain. She had been shrewd in her dealings with government officials and was able to purchase a lot of land, and as a result, Olga was raised in privilege. That’s how Lazar had found his lovely Olga. When, as a young man, he was assigned to the Foreign Department and stationed in Madrid, he frequented the diplomatic haunts. And there she was, Olga Natasha Schmirnoff.
She was a lovely young woman who had been raised on a constant diet of her grandmother’s Marxist leanings. The general always knew that a great man was nothing if not one to spot opportunity and seize it unhesitatingly. General Lazar saw that if his Russian horse was but a mule, then Olga’s family heritage was a stallion. He brought her back to Russia like a prized trophy. They bought a dacha and had Maria within the first year of their marriage.
Olga had been a good soldier of the Revolution and a good wife … that is, until she’d gotten religion, the opiate of the masses. Any other woman he would have gotten rid of for that fatal flaw, but her heritage was rich indeed and had served him well. As long as he kept her isolated and out of the public eye, this bit of shame could be controlled.
Olga and Maria were women to be reckoned with, but he would control them both as he always had.
Lazar wiped the sweat from his brow and put his prized relics back in the attaché case. Then he tucked it in the cherry wood credenza behind his desk. He lifted the ship-wide intercom handset and squeezed it hard.
“Nicolay,” he barked. “Come up to my office.” He took a deep breath. “Now!”
Lazar looked at the supple brown leather sofas that flanked his office, but he remained standing. He faced the expansive windows of his yacht and took in the view of the open sea. Soon it would be time to embark on his pre-ordained journey to greatness, but first he would have to deal with the man who dared to interfere with his plans.
Two minutes later, a man with black rings under his eyes and a severe haircut entered the office. He wore a black nylon windbreaker and was wiping oil from his hands with a soiled towel.
“Is the helicopter ready to go?” Lazar asked.
“Yes, General.”
“Then get it up in the air. I want a thorough search of the coastal roads north of Lloret de Mar. Find those stolen race cars.” Lazar threw him a photo of the cars. “Find them!”
“Yes, sir.”
After Nickolay was gone, Lazar stayed in the office. He heard the helicopter engines fire up and the rotors beating the air. He watched as the bird lifted off from the helipad, raced towards the coast, and then banked to the north. He breathed a sigh of relief. His men would find them. Life was so simple in Europe, he thought. A helicopter could do search and surveillance runs without fear of being shot down. That was a far cry from his memories of the war in Chechnya, where he rose quickly through the ranks due to his genius in counter-guerilla warfare. Of course his rise wasn’t hurt when cars carrying multiple Russian generals exploded. Lazar had never felt any shame over the tactics he used. Genius was nothing if it didn’t succeed. War required nothing but success, and he had succeeded mightily—at wiping out the enemy and eliminating rivals for power. War was a jungle where only the strongest and the smartest survived. Lazar was a master of those qualities.
Now, he brought the skills he’d gained in Chechnya to the Western world, and he would be victorious here as well. The fact that his helicopter could fly up the coast without interference reminded him that he wielded virtually unchallenged power. Whoever dared to interfere with his operations would enjoy a horrible fate.
CHAPTER 3
Chuck Brandt inhaled the rich scent of pine trees as his feet moved across the rocky ground. He listened for the sounds of man, but fortunately all he heard was birds and distant waves. He and Maria hiked along a ridge and caught occasional glimpses of the shining blue water through the trees. Chuck figured that if his new enemies caught up with him, they’d make him swim in the warm sea with cement shoes strapped to his feet. With two of his three agents now dead, he had to find out what happened to the third, but first he had to take Maria to a safe place.
She was a few paces behind him when he came to the yellow wall of a crumbling cliff. He stopped to wait for her. He gave her a minute to catch her breath, then asked, “So who was the big guy with you at the cafe?”
She didn’t respond.
“Why was he shot? Who wanted him dead?” he asked.
She started to cry softly, but still did not respond.
“Maria, I need to know.”
Finally, she said, “How’d you know I would need you again?”
Chuck softened a little. “Come on, let’s go. We’ll talk when we get to a safer place.”
A wooded trail ran along the base of the cliff, so he led her down the path to a lonely, sandy beach. As they came out of the trees and onto the beach, Chuck squinted against the glare of the sun, which splashed bright rays on the water like a fountain of sparks from a firework. After his eyes adjusted, he quickly surveyed this isolated stretch of beach on Spain’s eastern coast.
The rugged cove was hemmed in by towering vertical cliffs that rose a hundred feet up from the bright, glimmering blue, green, and turquoise depths of the Mediterranean Sea. Offshore, three white sailing boats on mooring lines bobbed in the shimmering water.
After ensuring his Glock and other essentials were secure in a dry bag, Chuck waded into the warm surf. He looked back at Maria. She stood in the sand, not moving, her brown linen skirt rippling in the breeze. “Come on,” Chuck said.
“I don’t know how to swim.”
Chuck was shocked. How could anyone not know how to swim?
“Didn’t your dad teach you when you were a kid?” he said.
“My dad? I told you before that my dad is not like that.”
“Okay, come on. I’ll help you.”
She took a step toward him. “I’m scared.”
He reached for her hand. “We’ve got to keep moving.”
She took a couple more steps toward him. Her skirt started to float in the surf. She pushed it down with one hand and reached for Chuck’s with the oth
er.
He pulled her to him and held her tightly for one brief moment. The warmth of her skin soothed his soul. He did not want to let her go. Then he pulled himself away and said, “You see that sailboat up ahead? We’re swimming for it. Hold on to me.”
Fear filled her eyes as she slipped her hands around his brawny shoulders. “Please, don’t let me go.”
“I won’t. I promise. I will keep you safe.”
A few minutes later, Chuck climbed aboard one of the boats. It was a sleek forty-foot sailing yacht. He helped Maria over the rail. Her skirt clung tightly to her figure, and water dripped onto the deck. Maria squeezed the excess water from her skirt and started to shake as she stood looking back at the shore.
Chuck scanned the vessel. As expected, the cabin hatch was secured. He pulled his jackknife lock-pick set out of his pocket and worked the tumblers. Thankful for his countless hours of practice, Chuck easily opened the hatch. He descended three steps into the cabin.
There was no sign that anyone had recently used the boat. The galley table was clear. No moisture in the sink. He sighed with relief.
Walking through the galley, he called for Maria. “Come on down. Help me find the key for this thing.”
Chuck walked deeper into the boat. He opened the stowage locker, looking for the starter key.
In the galley Maria closed one cabinet and opened another. “It’s not here,” she said.
