“They say this is where Jason brought the Golden Fleece,” Shaefer said, gesturing vaguely at the seacoast. Scorpion didn’t answer. For a time they just walked.
“You took care of al-Zuhrahi?” Shaefer said.
“He was working with al Qaeda. He was responsible for McElroy and Peterman,” Scorpion said, pulling his collar up against the chill. “What about this guy, Ramis?”
Shaefer grimaced. “Don’t ask. Fucking pickle factory,” using one of the insider slang names for the CIA.
Scorpion stopped walking, and Shaefer did too.
“Who’s protecting him? Not Harris?”
“Not Harris,” Shaefer agreed, and they started walking again. “You heard about Kulyakov?”
“I saw something about a mutilated body found in one of the old Stalin tunnels in the online Kyiv Post.”
“Whoever it was took their time. They spent two days and nights cutting pieces from him before they burnt him alive. There’s a rumor it was a Syndikat hit. SBU was buzzing, then suddenly the case was closed,” Shaefer said, glancing sideways at Scorpion. “Must’ve cost someone a pretty penny.”
“Couldn’t have happened to anyone more deserving,” Scorpion said.
They walked on along the promenade. A young Gypsy woman was sitting on the pavement by the rail overlooking the sea. As they approached, she got up and came toward them.
“Pleaka!” Shaefer snapped. Go away! For a moment she kept coming, then looked at his expression and how big he was and stopped. She watched them walk by, her dark hair blowing in the wind. “Gypsies, beggars, and thieves. That’s this whole country. You know the joke? You’re traveling on a train in Europe. How do you know when you’ve reached Romania?”
“How?” Scorpion said, a faint listening-to-a-joke-smile on his lips.
“Keep looking at your watch. When it isn’t there, you’re in Romania,” Shaefer said. “Look,” he pointed at a dilapidated blue building with a faded sign. “There’s a café. It’s crap, but we can get out of this wind.”
They went into the café and sat at a table by the window. At that hour there were only two other customers, an old couple who were sitting at a table reading newspapers and not talking to each other. Music came from a radio on the counter; a male singer was singing a bizarre combination of Romanian doina and Eurotrash rock. Scorpion looked out the window at the empty promenade and the choppy gray water against the gray sky and wondered if this winter would ever end. The waiter came over.
“You want some brandy?” Shaefer asked.
Scorpion indicated no. “Just a Turkish coffee.”
“Doua cafea Turceasca si cozonac,” Shaefer ordered. He turned back to Scorpion. “How are you doing?”
“I’m okay,” Scorpion said. “It took a while, but I’m all right.”
Shaefer leaned toward him. “It was the job. I had no choice. It was either lie to you or blow the mission. For the record, I hated it. Every minute.”
“I wasn’t too crazy about it myself,” Scorpion said.
“I’m sorry,” Shaefer said.
The waiter put down the coffee and two brioches on the table.
“How’s Iryna?” Scorpion said after the waiter left.
“She’s heading the opposition in the Verkhovna Rada. She’s making a name for herself. But things are deteriorating. You heard Kozhanovskiy’s in Lukyanivska Prison?”
“My old stomping grounds.”
“He’s been charged with taking bribes. A bit ironic considering he was probably the only politician in the country who wasn’t on the take, but there it is.”
“Gorobets is consolidating his power,” Scorpion said.
Shaefer nodded. “Russia’s happy. Washington’s happy. Brussels is happy. NATO didn’t fall apart, so everybody still has a job. Akhnetzov’s happy. Even you. You made money and found out you weren’t blown. Everybody wins,” he concluded, raising his coffee cup and taking a sip.
“Not everybody,” Scorpion said, thinking of Alyona and Ekaterina and Fedir and Dennis and the look on Iryna’s face when he boarded the flight to Frankfurt at Boryspil.
“No, not everybody,” Shaefer conceded. “What will you do now? Take some time off? Take out that boat you told me about? You deserve it.”
Scorpion looked out at the sea, a single ray of sunlight glittering on the water. The last time he’d thought of his ketch it was a fantasy of him with Iryna as he lay in his cell, waiting for a bullet in the head.
“I’d like that,” he said. “Why?”
Shaefer leaned close. “The Israelis are dying to talk to you. They said it was urgent.”
“What are you, my agent now? Why the hell is everybody coming to you?” Scorpion asked.
Shaefer shook his head. “Not everybody. Rabinowich. The Mossad must’ve figured he’d know how to reach you.” Of course, Scorpion thought, Rabinowich had liaised with the Mossad during the Palestinian operation.
“Do you know what it’s about?”
Shaefer shook his head. “Only that Rabinowich said they were desperate. Something big. ‘Special Access Flash Critical’ level for both the Israelis and the U.S. Not that you need the money.” He shrugged. “I heard that after this last one, you were pretty well fixed.”
Scorpion stared at his coffee. He put a sugar cube in and stirred, but didn’t drink. Special Access was the highest top secret classification, and Flash Critical meant an imminent emergency.
“You know what was the worst?” he said. “Not the torture. The worst was knowing that people I trusted sold me out.”
“I know,” Shaefer said. “I had to choose: my country or my friend. We were the last two.” Scorpion knew he was talking about Forward Operating Base Echo, those last thirty-odd hours when they were pinned down by nonstop Taliban gunfire, the only two left alive of their entire team.
“FOBE?” Scorpion said; a peace offering. It was the job, he thought, wondering if he would have done any differently if he had been in Shaefer’s shoes.
“FOBE,” Shaefer said and nodded, letting out a breath. He smiled for the first time.
“Ask them to call me a taxi. Okay?” Scorpion said, gesturing at the café owner in the corner.
“Sure,” Shaefer said.
He called out something in Romanian to the owner, who took out his cell phone and made a call. The man finished the call and said something to Shaefer.
“Be about ten minutes,” Shaefer said. “So about the Flash Critical? You gonna do it?”
“I’ll think about it. I barely survived this last one with a penis.”
Shaefer grinned. “I hear you.”
They talked until the taxi came. Scorpion asked Shaefer to keep an eye on Iryna.
“You liked her?” Shaefer asked.
“Hell of a girl.”
The taxi pulled up in front of the café, and the driver came in and looked around.
“Take care,” Scorpion said, getting up.
“Keep in touch,” Shaefer said.
Scorpion left him sitting there looking like a man who was very much alone, an African-American as out of place in a corner of Romania as anyone could be. Come to think of it, he thought in the taxi on the way to the airport, he didn’t know much about Shaefer. He didn’t know if he was married, had kids, any of it. The truth was, none of them in this business knew much about each other.
As the taxi drove out of the city to the airport, Scorpion checked out flights from Constanta on his cell phone. Bucharest was the only major city he could fly to; a bare thirty-five minute flight. From Bucharest he could go anywhere. He could go to either Istanbul and on to Tel Aviv, or to Rome and from there to Civitavecchia and back to Sardinia. Go see that sexy Abrielle in Porto Cervo and get reacquainted with his dogs. Or talk to Rabinowich about the Flash Critical. Or go anywhere in the world. He’d had enough of winter. Maybe go someplace sunny, where the girls wore bikinis and drinks came with umbrellas in them. Going to Rome would give him time to decide.
While waiting for his f
light at Coanda airport in Bucharest, Scorpion checked the news on his laptop. In Yemen, fighting had been reported between the Hashidis and a force comprised of AQAP allied with elements of the Bakil and Abidah tribes. Meanwhile, in Ukraine, there had been a massive demonstration in Kiev’s Independence Square against the new president, Lavro Davydenko, after restrictions were announced following the country’s financial rating being downgraded by the IMF.
There had been riots and looting in Kiev and fighting in the streets between those backing Davydenko and supporters of Iryna Shevchenko, who was calling for a vote of no confidence against Davydenko in the Verkhovna Rada. A Jewish synagogue in Donetsk had been torched, and a gang of Black Armbands killed two Jewish college students in Lviv.
“Everybody wins,” Shaefer had said.
In the Horn of Africa, a famine had created a terrible humanitarian crisis. Millions of people were starving. There were images of potbellied children with shrunken limbs and dazed eyes. The Islamist extremist group, Al-Shabab, had banned international food relief efforts in the areas of Somalia they controlled. For some reason, Scorpion couldn’t take his eyes off the images of the starving children.
Later that afternoon, he boarded the Alitalia flight to Rome. It was a short flight, just over an hour. By the time he landed at Fiumicino airport, he knew what he was going to do.
About the Author
ANDREW KAPLAN is a former journalist and war correspondent covering events around the world. He served in both the U.S. Army and in the Israeli Army during the Six Day War and later provided military intelligence analysis for the Israel Defense Force. He has consulted with groups that advise a number of government agencies, and as president of a technical communications company, performed contract work for major U.S. corporations and government agencies. He is the author of four internationally bestselling novels: Hour of the Assassins, Scorpion, Dragonfire, and War of the Raven, as well as his most recent book, Scorpion Betrayal. He was also in the running to complete Robert Ludlum’s Bourne franchise and was one of the writers of the James Bond film, GoldenEye. He lives with his family in Southern California and is currently at work on the next Scorpion novel, Scorpion Betrayal.
www.andrewkaplan.com
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By Andrew Kaplan
Scorpion Winter
Scorpion Betrayal
War of the Raven
Dragonfire
Scorpion
Hour of the Assassins
Copyright
This book is a work of fiction. References to real people, events, establishments, organizations, or locales are intended only to provide a sense of authenticity, and are used fictitiously. All other characters, and all incidents and dialogue, are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real.
SCORPION WINTER. Copyright © 2012 by Andrew Kaplan. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
EPub Edition AUGUST 2012 ISBN: 9780062063793
Print Edition ISBN: 9780062063786
FIRST EDITION
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