by D S Kane
By the time she entered the coffee shop in the building’s lobby, she looked like a hungry tourist. She ordered and ate a Kobe beef hamburger and a diet soda, watching the restaurant’s window to see the action following her kill. People were shouting and running. She smiled. When she had finished the burger, she paid the bill, swallowed the last bit of her drink and left, walking past the policemen who were starting to rope off the area around Maru’s headless corpse.
Casselton hummed “Macavity,” a tune from the Broadway musical, Cats, as she walked to the subway station. She took a train to Tokyo Station, to rejoin the rest of the team on their way out of Tokyo.
* * *
The Tokyo team arrived at their prepaid rooms at the Tokyo Station Hotel and waited for Casselton. Shimmel handed them each documents and reminded them, “Leave the papers I have here in your rooms. Scatter them around and make it look like you left in a hurry. Pack everything else.” The mercs returned to their rooms and each put on surgical gloves. They “cleaned” their rooms, and then left a paper trail of traces—evidence—leading back to the Saudi Ministry of Petroleum and Mineral Resources, implying the Ministry’s guilt in the Maru’s assassination. Shimmel hoped that this might be the final straw to draw the Yakuza and the Saudi Ministry of Petroleum and Mineral Resources into a war that neither could win.
It took less than five minutes before they all returned to the lobby. Just then, Casselton entered the lobby and headed back to her room. She cleaned her room and picked up her packed luggage. Now all were ready to check out. The Japan team left the hotel, each taking the JR Narita Express to the Narita Airport. There, they found their “tourist” hotel and simply walked in to spend the night.
* * *
Houmaz impatiently drew the phone to his ear. “Yes?”
From outside his office, his receptionist said, “Phone service is restored.”
Houmaz looked up from his desk and replied, “But my phone has been working, Shariff. I’ve had two calls. You called me twenty minutes ago to let me know that the Brewster Jennings consultants arrived.”
“Director Houmaz, our domestic service was operational but international service was down for almost a half hour. International service is now working again.” The receptionist hung up his phone.
Seconds later the phone on Houmaz’s desk began to ring again.
From the reception area outside his office, Houmaz’s receptionist answered the phone. Shariff buzzed the intercom and said into the telephone receiver, “A man named Nikita Tobelov wants to speak to you. He says he has personal information you might want to hear.”
“Tobelov? I know no one by that name.” Houmaz began to hang up the phone and then thought better of it. “Okay, Shariff, put him through.”
Tobelov said, “I have heard you have an interest in the death of Cassandra Sashakovich.”
“How could you know my business?”
“We have spies among the other crime syndicates. We are interested in everything that can affect our organization.”
“Who are you?”
“Russian mafiya. Vladivostok. Sashakovich sent a team of mercenaries who stole two conventional World War Two vintage submarines from us two weeks ago. I just found out that you want her dead. So do we. One sub is the S-13, about 600 tons, and the other is larger, the S-56, about 840 tons. I don’t know where they are or why she wanted them. Maybe our intel can be useful to you. If so, and you do kill her, we’ll be grateful. Consider the intel free.” Tobelov terminated the connection and Houmaz slowly dropped the phone back into its cradle, wondering what relevance this “intel” could ever possibly have for him. He’d found the idea of becoming intimate with the Yakuza repulsive, but having a relationship with the more brutal Russian mafiya was especially frightening.
Houmaz saw the message light on his phone begin to blink. He picked up the phone and keyed his password. A voice he barely remembered said, “Director Houmaz, this is Omasu Maru. I just wanted to thank you for sending me your team of experts on Saudi bidding and building. I have scheduled a meeting this afternoon. It will make our dealings much easier, and is a great show of good faith.” As the message ended, Houmaz heard the time when the message came in.
Maru’s message was over an hour old. He grew alarmed, wondering what it meant. He’d sent no one to speak with the Yakuza kingpin. Before he could draw any conclusions, the phone rang again.
“Who? Oh yes, put him through.”
From thousands of miles away came the voice of the Saudi Ambassador to Japan, a man that Houmaz had seen and met only twice before. “Director Houmaz? This is Ali Samid Al-Zhomah. We met in Mecca the year before last.”
“Yes, Ali, I remember you. We were on Haj together at the tomb of the Prophet in Medina. How are things in Tokyo?”
“Ah, not good. Less than a half hour ago, the police arrived at the embassy. They just finished here. A man named Omasu Maru was murdered early this afternoon by a sniper in Tokyo. And, a man named Chiro Hashimora claims to have witnessed the assassination. The Tokyo police have uncovered evidence that leads them to believe it was you who ordered his killing. Uh, Director, the worst, uh, well, the worst is that according to the police, Hashimora is one of the ranking members of Maru’s Yakuza branch. He was second in command, and now Maru’s successor.”
Achmed Houmaz reached the point of panic and without thinking raised his voice almost to the point of shouting into the telephone. “How do you know all this?” And then, in panic he yelled, “Was it on the news?”
“No, Director. The police told me during their visit. They arrived within minutes of Maru’s assassination, as if they had been alerted before the shooting. I don’t understand it. The police were here for only a few minutes. They told me they believe the Yakuza will start a war with our officials on Japanese soil. They posted extra guards outside our embassy entrance, as if they expect trouble to start any minute. The officer in charge received telephone records from Hashimora containing a list of Maru’s phone conversations and there are several phone calls between you and him. Please, sir, tell me what is going on.”
“Ali, all this is news to me. Yes, I have talked twice to Mr. Maru, about what they might do to bid successfully on projects in our country. He and I never met. I just spoke to him out of courtesy. Could someone have hacked these telephone records?”
“Sir, I don’t know. But if you really have no connection to Maru and the Yakuza, you will have to prove it to the King. The Tokyo police claim that the evidence they have is conclusive. According to them, there’s a lot more than just a few telephone calls.”
“What else?”
“Director, I’m sorry but the police have not let me see the evidence.”
“Uh, I see. Of course.” But he didn’t see. Rage blinded him. He needed to calm himself before he said something that might incriminate him further in a killing he hadn’t committed. “Ali, let me think about this. Of course, I’ll talk with the King so he can say what he requires of me. Thank you for letting me know what is coming.” He didn’t wait for a response. Houmaz hung up the phone and pushed his chair back from his desk.
His head dropped into his hands and he took several unsteady breaths. His mind slowly cleared. He looked at his desk as if it held the answer, and then saw the report that the consultants had left for him. With growing concern, Achmed Houmaz opened the report. His jaw dropped when he found the first page was blank. So was the next page. The entire document was nothing more than blank pages. They’d never intended him to live long enough to see the report. But, something had gone wrong.
He slammed the document back on his desk and picked up the telephone. “Shariff, get me Saudi state security. No, I don’t have the telephone number.” He waited for over a minute wondering if it was too late. “This is Achmed Houmaz. Can you find the consultants from Brewster Jennings anywhere in my building? They left in a taxi? Stop them! Don’t let them leave the country until I have the chance to question them.”
Houmaz sat
back in his chair, trying to assemble pieces of the mystery. The last time that international telephone service went down, my brothers were assassinated. I’m sure there’s a connection. I was set up. Why didn’t they kill me when they had the chance? Well, they didn’t even need to assassinate me. Yakuza. I’ll be dead soon now, anyway. My head is spinning. He considered his options.
He knew he had to flee. He opened his office door, speaking to his receptionist over his shoulder as he jogged toward the elevator. “Shariff, I must leave now on urgent personal business. I won’t be back today.” Houmaz thought, and not tomorrow either, as he watched the elevator doors close with him within. Maybe never. As the elevator rode to the lobby, he began to craft a plan.
* * *
As the taxi approached the airport southwest of Riyadh, Lisa Orley asked Schmidt, “What went wrong?”
“The jet injector failed. Battery out. I checked it this morning and it was okay then. And there’s no way to manually override it.” Schmidt scowled, “Fuck!”
“We should have just slit his throat,” said Orley.
McTavish let them bicker. He kept looking at his wristwatch. The phones had come back on less than two minutes ago. The cab pulled to a stop at the airport hangar and they all bolted. The major tossed money at the cabby.
There would be no second chance.
Minutes later they had their seatbelts locked in place and the plane was moving from the terminal. The team was still squabbling, not used to failure.
As the aircraft taxied into position, McTavish looked out the window and saw the blinking lights of Saudi police cars grinding toward them at high speed. He shouted to the pilot, “Get us out of here now!”
The plane was now first in line and he felt it power through the runway. The police cars formed a barricade on the runway a few hundred feet away but the aircraft was already gaining altitude.
As the Cessna lifted off the runway, McTavish shook his head. How would he tell Sashakovich the Riyadh mission had failed?
* * *
The Tokyo assassination team enjoyed a celebratory dinner at a local sushi bar. The mercs were ebullient, especially Casselton. She made toasts with her green tea: “To the things we do for love! One shot, one clean kill!” And then, “To sharp aim!” She seemed intoxicated even though she hadn’t had anything that could make her drunk or stoned. None of the mercs ever drank alcoholic beverages or used drugs when working combat conditions.
The next day, shortly after dawn, they boarded jets from American Airlines, United, and Japan Air, and left Japan individually, using tourist identities different from either of those they’d used before. They were all flying indirectly to Reagan to await further instructions.
Shimmel sighed with satisfaction. The Japanese mission had succeeded.
He needed information right now. Had McTavish’s team been successful in Riyadh?
* * *
Cassie listened to William’s report, her face rigid. “So, he’s still alive and he might know we targeted him?” Her stomach lurched. It was likely Houmaz would go after Lee and Ann. Damn!
“Not heard yet from General Shimmel?” So things might be even worse. He head fell into her hands. “Okay. Thanks, William. We’ll figure this all out a bit later. I need to make a few phone calls.” She terminated the call that had brought her the bad news.
CHAPTER 36
November 5, 8:21 p.m.
Saudi corporate jet,
heading west over the Mediterranean Sea
Achmed Houmaz reclined in one of the plush seats of the Cessna corporate jet he’d hastily chartered for this trip. He moved his back off the leather sticking to him from the perspiration seeping through his shirt. He’d hastily packed a bag in his apartment, called to rent the jet and then took a taxi to the airport.
He’d found out from the airport flight control administrator that, just over two hours ago, the plane in which he sat had been in the same private terminal that the assassination team had used to leave Riyadh.
He tried to relax. He was, after all, alive.
He sipped a diet cola and tried to focus. He needed to quell the rage and fear he felt. His life had been stolen from him. He felt alarm at the irony that the same thing had happened to Sashakovich, and that’s why this was happening to him.
The plane zipped over the Mediterranean, edging toward the Atlantic Ocean at 325 miles per hour. He looked out the window at the turquoise blue waters below as he pondered what had happened to him. Houmaz felt like the near-death experience had caused something major to change deep inside him. He wanted vengeance for himself, not just for his brothers, not just for his father. It was personal now. She had taken everything from him but his life. And his own life was now forfeit.
He had started to craft a plan for revenge. He needed to play out the plan and probe it for weaknesses. He found it flexible enough to give him confidence that even though he might die, he would still avenge his father and his brothers,
He doubted he could find—let alone kill—Cassandra Sashakovich, but with this plan he could hurt her almost as much, even in the worst outcome. He smiled wickedly and closed his eyes. He’d need to be well rested for his project to succeed.
He visualized packing Sashakovich’s bloody head into a box, her severed neck surrounded by dry ice for the trip to his family’s burying ground. After several hours he fell asleep, exhausted. In his dream he fondled the locks of Sashakovich’s hair on her detached head.
* * *
Cassie paced the sub’s ready room, impatient and frustrated. She looked at the gray bulkheads as she held her cell phone to her ear. “Yes, I know that it leaves Lee and Ann more exposed. But this way I may be able to end the problem for them once and for all.”
Shimmel had arrived in Washington less than an hour before. She spoke with him while he drove the rental from Reagan to Sashakovich’s house in Chevy Chase. He said, “What you propose is dangerous. We still don’t have McTavish’s entire report, just a two-minute conversation. Rebalancing our tactics while blind is a bad idea. Your plan is sound, but if Houmaz has figured out that he’s in danger, well, he might flee and try to get to your family. Don’t do this, Sashakovich.”
“Avram, I’m tired of being the fox in the hunt. Every step of the way I’ve been the intended victim. I want to do the hunting now. If it works, Lee and Ann will be safe forever. If I’m to die, I want to take out the people who want me dead. So maybe I’ll die together with all of them. I know that it’s not rational. But what we’re doing now isn’t working. I have to try and save my family.”
She could tell from Shimmel’s voice he was near exhaustion, and yet he seemed to understand how empty she felt.
“Cassandra, you’re speaking in circles. What you plan on doing will expose them more. And it offers us a minute window for success. Are you sure you want to accept the risks?”
She took a deep breath, trying but failing to center herself. “Yes. After tomorrow night, send the mercs at my house to Boston Harbor, to await the arrival of the small sub. Keep one merc at the house, to guard Ann and Lee. I’ll call Lee and tell him what I want him and what I want Ann to do. Wait with the mercs for me at Baltimore Harbor. I’ll be there soon. And, have William call me as soon as he can. Keep the large sub within ten feet of the surface and drag the antenna. Cassie out.”
* * *
Ann Silbee Sashakovich stood facing the paper target at the Washington Gun Club and squeezed the trigger of Cassie’s old .25 caliber Beretta. She worried about her mother. Two days had passed with no word. She’d awakened every night shaking from nasty nightmares. As she woke and bolted upright last night, she’d felt her heart pounding. Visions from the dream lingered: her homeless, forced to return to the tunnels.
She lowered the gun and scanned Lee’s face. He seemed to have aged years in weeks. He seemed consumed with fear for Cassie. But there was nothing to be done.
She aimed and exhaled, squeezing the trigger again. This time she missed the target compl
etely, ending her practice session. Her hand was shaking. She cursed silently and emptied the spent shells into the recycle bin. As Lee watched, the target rolled back to them.
She’d hit the bull’s-eye once and grazed the target with three perimeter shots. She’d taken fourteen shots to do that little damage. She shook her head. Ten shots were total misses.
He smiled. “It’s a minor disappointment. Next time you’ll do better. Next time.”
She doubted that she’d do better the next time she picked up a gun. As he’d taught her, she removed the clip, then chambered a bullet in the gun. Then she filled the empty clip with bullets and put the full clip into the gun. Finally, she clicked the safety on. Now there was one additional bullet in the gun’s chamber. Last, she filled the spare clip.
She handed him both the spare clip and the loaded gun. She wondered if he worried about her inability to focus. She hated pistol practice, and still wasn’t sure whether she liked Lee, but the smile she granted him was necessary, she knew, if this pseudo father-daughter relationship was to have any chance of working. She turned away.
She’d left the school grounds for lunch break about a half-hour ago and she’d been here at the club for twenty minutes. He touched her shoulder. “C’mon, Ann, let’s get going.”
She walked behind him from the basement shooting range to the lobby and then out into the parking lot. They got into his government issue Ford Hybrid Escape and he backed the car from its parking space when his cell phone rang through the Bluetooth connection to the car. “Lee here.”
“It’s Wing. Cassie called. She’s moving the guard dogs. After tonight, you’ll only have one merc at the house. It’ll be Sylvia. And no bodyguards, either. Should I send Sylvia to school for Ann at the end of the day?”
“Uh, yeah, William, I’m taking her back to school right now. Have Sylvia be there when the school day ends. Have her surveil the area, waiting in the car until Ann arrives.”
