by James Lepore
“He has no cousin on the island,” Chris said, “with or without a skiff. No family here.”
“Who was he?”
“Someone who got paid to do a job, to demonstrate to me how easy it would be to abduct my daughter.”
“How did Dravic get your cell number?”
“He called Christina’s phone.”
“How would he have that number?”
“He must have scanned it from your phone. There are devices that can do that.” Dravic’s second mistake, Chris thought.
“What did he want?”
“To mislead me in some way, I’m sure.”
“About what?”
Chris did not answer. He looked out at the bay and then to his right, where he heard footsteps on the tiled terrace. Christina approached with a cell phone, which she handed to Chris.
“Mr. Max,” she said.
“Max,” Chris said, after taking the phone from Christina and putting it to his ear.
“It worked,” Max said. “We have Nico and his partner.”
“Andrei, you mean.”
“Yes.”
“Are they talking?”
“Not yet, but I haven’t really tried. What should I do?”
“Start with the girl. Then confirm with Andrei.”
“You know we’re at the bottom of the food chain here.”
“Get me to the top, Max.”
“How much time do we have?”
“A couple of days.”
“There’s a complication.”
“What?”
“The girl’s hurt. Matt shot her in the leg. Also, Sal broke his leg jumping on Pugach. I’m sorry, Kamarov.”
“Did you get her a doctor?”
“He’s on his way.”
“Max, someone made a play on Tess yesterday.”
“What? Is she okay?”
“Yes, it was a warning.”
“Connected to the diamonds?”
“I don’t know. Yet.”
“I’m on it.”
“Thank you, Christina,” Chris said, handing the phone to Christina after clicking off. “Are you still upset with me?” he asked her. He had to shade his eyes with his hand to be able to see her against the glare of the morning sun. “The dinner was good.”
“Not so good,” Christina replied. Then she turned and spat on the terrace and walked off. She probably spat in Dravic’s food, Chris thought, watching her walk away.
Chris turned to Tess, who he knew from watching out of the corner of his eye had been listening intently to his side of his conversation with Max French.
“Who’s Max?” she asked now.
“I want you to do me a favor, Tess,” Chris said.
“What, Dad?”
“I want you to take some time off from graduate school.”
“And do what?”
“I want you to go to a special school.”
“What kind of school?”
“Weapons training, hand-to-hand, survival training, awareness training. Other stuff. It’s geared toward women.”
Chris watched his daughter’s eyes as she reacted to this. No surprise, which was pretty surprising. What then? Enlightenment? Confirmation? Did she know something like this was coming? Maybe she wasn’t a girl anymore. Maybe he’d misjudged her.
“How long?” she said.
“It’s a one year commitment.”
“Dad…”
“Yes.”
“I don’t have a choice, do I?”
“Not after last night, no.”
“Where is it, the school?”
“In the desert in Arizona. And then Europe.”
“When does it start?”
“A couple of weeks. Until then I want you to stay here. Costa’s people will keep an eye on you.”
“Can I date?”
“Tess.”
“I’m kidding, Dad.”
“Good.”
“I have a picture of Patriki, if that means anything, on my phone.”
“Send it to me, you never know.”
“I will. Dad, I’ll go to Arizona if you tell me what you really do.”
“I run some businesses that your grandfather passed on to me, that’s all.”
“Dad…”
“You have to go, Tess.”
19.
Jackson, New Jersey, August 25, 2012, 5:00 a.m.
Matt and Anna sat on folding beach chairs on the concrete slab that served as a front porch for Wall Storage. The rain had stopped, leaving the small asphalt parking lot glistening under the twin pole lamps that straddled the front gate and the night air cool and smelling of pinesap and ozone. Anna, dressed in jeans, sandals and a dark blue polo shirt had made a pot of coffee, which sat, with their cups and spoons and a sugar bowl, on a white plastic table between them. They had a good view of the front gate and the long, quiet road that led to it through the forest of scrub pine from Route 195, a major highway about ten miles away. Matt, watching the road, fingered his bruised right knee, which had been iced and bandaged by the same Air Force doctor who had set Sal Visco’s broken ankle and tended to what had turned out to be a flesh wound in Natalya’s leg. He looked at his watch. The flight from McGuire to Warsaw was scheduled to leave at 6:00 a.m. He had told Max he would be back in time but he doubted he would. To make the plane, he would have to leave now, which he would not do.
“Are you sure he’s coming?” Matt asked.
“No.”
“What did he say?”
“He said that he had enough. He was coming over.”
“Does he know where your friend lives?”
“He thinks they are here with me, the kids.”
“Does he own a gun?”
“Not that I know of.”
Anna had brought a pack of Marlboro Lights out with her on the coffee tray. She tapped one out now, lit it with a plastic lighter, inhaled deeply, tilted her head back and blew a long slow stream of smoke out into the air above her.
“What happened tonight?” she asked, when she was done.
“They wanted the cash.”
“Yes, but the other man, Max. Who is he?”
“I just met Max. Sal, you know.”
“You are not answering.”
“Max is a new friend. Please don’t ask me anything else about him.”
“What happened?”
“Max and Sal were waiting for them on the roof.”
“Why?”
“Max wanted to talk to them.”
“Why?”
“I’m not sure, Anna, I’m really not.”
“Did you know they were up there? On the roof?”
“I knew they’d be in the area, that’s all.”
“Where did you go?”
“I can’t tell you.”
“Why are you here?”
Why am I here? Matt thought. Then he looked over at Anna, picked her beautiful face out of the gray, pre-dawn light, and remembered their lovemaking, the smell and feel of her unbelievable body, her moaning beneath him, his sudden, convulsive climax. It made him dizzy, this memory. That was the reason, that memory, for the rush he felt when she called him on his cell. It all came back to him when he heard her voice. He could no more say no to her than he could stop himself from breathing. That’s why you’re here, Matt.
“Because you asked me to come,” he replied, finally.
“And you came.”
“Yes.”
“Like that,” she said.
“Yes.”
“It’s just the sex,” she said.
“Maybe. But what’s wrong with that?”
“Nothing.”
“Tell me about Skip,” Matt said. “How did he try to kill yo
u?”
“With a baseball bat he keeps in his truck.” Anna stood and lifted her blouse, revealing the lurid remains of her twelve-inch by twelve inch, Rorschach test of a black and blue mark.
Matt looked.
“He was going to hit me again,” Anna said, “but he was drunk. He swung at my head, slipped on one of my son’s toys and hit his head on the corner of the kitchen counter. I had already called 911. The police arrived and took him away.”
“Was this the first time?”
“A year ago,” Anna answered, and then stopped, as if this were all she was going to say, her mouth grim. Then she went on: “He tried to run me over with his truck. I ran. He hit the fence. He had started drinking again. He was also using the meth. A friend of his makes it. Crystal meth, the cops called it, such a nice name for such a bad thing.”
Before he could respond, Matt heard the sound of a car and, looking up, saw headlights approaching the gate. As they drew nearer and stopped, he saw it was a red pickup, its fenders and sides streaked with mud.
“I guess this is him,” Matt said, eying the driver, who was stabbing with his index finger at the keypad mounted on a post at the entrance. Matt got to his feet as did Anna.
“If he is drunk,” Anna said, “he will be nasty.”
Matt watched Skip Cavanagh park his truck in a space near the front gate, exit and walk over to them. He was bigger than Matt had expected, six-three, a couple hundred pounds, cut, a weightlifter, tattoos on both of his forearms. His hair was long, well below his ears, and straggly, his square face darkened by a two- or three-days growth of beard. As he came closer Matt could see the sneer on his face and the meanness in his eyes.
“Who are you?” Cavanagh asked when he reached the porch.
“I’m Anna’s friend,” Matt replied. “Matt Massi.”
“Matt Massi. Am I supposed to be impressed? Who the fuck are you?”
“I told you, I’m Anna’s friend.”
“You are not allowed to be here,” Anna said. “You are drunk.”
“I want to see the kids.”
“You can’t.”
“Oh no?” Cavanagh turned as if to walk away, then turned back with a pistol in his hand, which he pointed at Anna and then Matt. “Go get the kids, Anna, or your new boyfriend’s a dead man.”
“Wait,” Matt said, “let’s talk. Here, have some coffee.” As he said this, Matt reached for the glass coffee pot, held it up to his chest as if it were a chalice filled with wine, or nectar, a peace offering, and then, using both hands, flew it at Cavanagh’s face. Anna’s husband, his eyes widening, stepped back to avoid the coffee pot, but not quickly enough. The pot thumped against his forehead, spilling hot coffee onto his face and chest. It broke into pieces with a sharp crack when it hit the ground. Matt pulled his Glock from his belt and stepped toward Cavanagh who, reeling backward, aimed his gun at Matt. Then Matt heard a shot and Cavanagh went down, his gun clattering to the ground. Turning quickly, Matt saw Anna holding her Glock out in front of her.
“I thought you never used it?” he said, turning back just as quickly to face the man on the ground.
“He was going to kill you,” Anna replied, moving to stand next to Matt. “And then me.”
They watched as Cavanagh, bleeding from his right thigh, grunted, sat up and began groping for his gun, which was at his feet. Matt stepped forward and kicked the gun away in one swift movement, then fired a round directly into Cavanagh’s heart.
About to die, Skip Cavanagh stared at Matt for one mad second and then fell backward, blood oozing from his wounds, his arms splayed in supplication.
Matt pulled out his cell phone and dialed a number.
“Uncle Frank,” he said when his call was answered. “I have a problem.”
20.
Skopelos, August 25, 2012, 10:00 a.m.
Chris shaded his eyes and looked out at the harbor. Eleftheria had moved during the night to an anchorage just inside the rocky spit of land that formed the southern pincer of Panaramos Bay. Sheltered as she was, she could still be at sea in under five minutes. He took his cell phone from the front pocket of his white linen shirt and tapped a speed dial screen.
“Anadochos,” Costa Vasiliou said.
“Costa, the picture you showed me, Andrei Kamarov.”
“Yes.”
“He also goes by Nico Pugach. He worked on the Scorpion with Matt.”
“Yes, Anadochos.”
“I need to know who he is. His family, everything.”
“It will be done.”
“And Mr. Dravic, the same.”
“Ochi problima, Nonos.”
“And our waiter friend? Was I right?”
“Yes, Nonos. A drifter.”
“Any friends?”
Silence.
“Just Tess.”
“Yes, Nonos. He was hired to do a job.”
“Has he returned?”
“He will not return. His body will be dumped at sea.”
“I agree. Thank you, Costa.”
Chris powered his phone down and put it back in his shirt pocket. He had woken up thinking of his conversation with Marko Dravic over coffee last night. Now he went over it again in his mind:
What does the Kremlin want of me, Mr. Dravic? I am just a businessman.
They want you to help stop a terrorist attack.
Who are they?
GRU. I assume you know who they are.
No, tell me.
It is Russia’s military foreign intelligence agency. Its civilian counterpart is SVR.
What do they think I can do that they can’t do themselves?
The attack will take place in Prague. GRU has certain information that could help prevent it. You have business interests in Prague. You will be the intermediary between GRU and SIS. Do you know SIS?
It must be the Czech domestic intelligence agency.
Yes, correct.
Why do they need an intermediary?
They hate us in Prague. They will not believe us.
If it works out, you could mend fences.
They hate us. You know why of course.
You had your boot on their throat for fifty years. Two generations.
I see you are an idealist, Mr. Massi. A rarity in your line of work.
Chris had let this pass.
Are you interested?
Does U.S. intelligence know about this?
They do not believe it to be credible.
Who have you spoken to?
Ah, that is a murky world, Mr. Massi. I have spoken to no one. But others have.
Who’s behind the attack?
GRU believes Caucasus Emirate. Do you know them? Chechen Islamists?
There are lots of groups that I hear about.
Yes, I’m sure.
How do I reach you?
Here is a number to call. Just leave a message. “Prague Yes.” Simple.
It won’t be me who leaves the message.
I understand.
And if I say yes?
Ah yes, the payoff.
Chris had remained silent. They were in a sitting room next to the north terrace, facing each other in the linen-covered minimalist lounge chairs that had been a housewarming gift to Chris from a client in Morocco. An intermittent breeze coming in through the room’s open windows and French doors cooled them and occasionally brightened the flames of the simple black candles that Christina had lit on the small marble table between them when she brought the coffee. In the candle glow Dravic’s pale face had been pleasant enough, his blue eyes not without warmth, but rarely was anyone cast to type in Chris’s world, where villains could and often did look like angels and angels like circus freaks.
Until now Chris had kept his distance, suggesting by the quietness of his g
aze and the stillness of his body the temperament simply of a cautious businessman listening to a proposal, an exotic proposal, but just a business proposal, nevertheless. Now he looked carefully at the fifty-something, clear-eyed, sandy-haired Russian sitting across from him sipping Christina’s coffee from the house’s best espresso cups, his manners and his English impeccable.
Let us say, Dravic had finally said, you will be left alone.
21.
Panaramos Bay, Skopelos, August 27, 2012, 10:00 p.m.
“Have you spoken to Matt?” Max French asked.
“Yes. He’s coming here tomorrow.”
“What happened?”
“The woman at the storage place.”
“I thought so,” Max replied, remembering the image of Anna Cavanagh in her low-necked T-shirt, gun in hand, yellow hair falling randomly to her shoulders, like something from the soldier of fortune magazines he read when he was a boy. He loved those fucking magazines. And then there was that bad eye. How sexy was that?
“What did he tell you?” Chris asked.
“He told me he had something to do, that he’d be back for the flight. Sal couldn’t go with him. He never came back.”
“The woman. You met her. Who is she?”
“She’s a Czech national,” Max replied, “who married an American. Two young kids. One eye is cocked. She’s tall and blonde, thirtyish.”
Max paused to gauge Chris’s reaction. He was waiting for more.
“Yes, she’s good-looking,” he said.
“What else?”
“I only saw her for a few minutes.”
“Nothing?”
Max paused again. This is why I like working for this guy, he thought, he knows me for the freak I am.
“She has a secret,” Max said, finally.
“Good. Find out what it is.”
“I will.”
Max French had met Chris Massi in 2004 and, though he had worked with him three times since, this was only the second time he had been face-to-face with him. He eyed him now across Eleftheria’s mutely lit below-decks lounge, trying, with little success, to assess the changes in the man whose father had been a professional killer and who had himself gotten away with murder in 2003. When Massi did not reply after a long thirty seconds, Max decided to speak.
