by Mike Maden
It was a modest house with a priceless view, high on the ridge of a finger of land thrusting into the Black Sea.
Vladimir Vasilev owned many more houses far grander and with even more magnificent views all over Europe, but Bulgaria was home and he had wanted to die here.
Each morning, Vasilev woke to a shimmering sunrise above a wine-dark sea, the light pouring through his plate-glass window. The dawn was not so much a promise of the day to come as it was a sparkling reminder that he had managed to survive one more fearful night. Another day to realize his last and final wish.
The short Ghanaian contract nurse changed his catheter with practiced economy, neither smiling nor frowning as she completed the intimate task. Her large breasts strained against her tight-fitting green scrubs, which were barely able to contain her enormous posterior. Exactly the kind of woman Vasilev favored. Even just a year ago, he would have taken her with a seduction of Ossetra sturgeon caviar and a fine champagne on his yacht, or, if she resisted his charms, raped her as she wept. But he felt no stirring in his loins this morning, despite her gloved hands fingering his flaccid manhood.
She finished her work, removed her gloves, and cleansed her hands with antiseptic gel before asking him if he needed anything else in nervous, lilting English.
Vasilev shook his enormous head, his withered jowls stubbled with white. His flesh was pale gray and mottled brown with moles, like a mushroom cap. He had no appetite, only an unquenchable thirst from the cannula constantly blowing oxygen into his nose. Drinking fluids directly nearly drowned him. He could only soothe his parched throat with ice chips from the large cup on the table beside him.
“Is he here yet?”
The nurse nodded. “He arrived fifteen minutes ago. I thought you would prefer for him to wait until—”
“Send him in now.” He was paying her too much to be polite.
“Of course.”
Vasilev elevated his bed with a remote control as his number two appeared, a tall Czech—Sudeten German from the Ore Mountains, in fact—with brittle, yellowed skin like old parchment. The lifelong smoker was only five years younger than Vasilev, and despite his cadaverous appearance, healthy as an ox. Never a day in hospital in all the years Vasilev had known him.
The Czech took the chair near the bed, removing his felted green Tyrolean hat. “Vladimir, how are you feeling this morning, my old friend?”
“I dreamed last night my body was full of crabs, clawing out my guts with their giant red pincers.”
The Czech shook his head, frowning. “My wife died from cancer. I know how painful it must be.”
“Drink a bottle of battery acid and then shit out a box of roofing nails, and then you might have a glimmer of an idea of how painful it is.”
“I’m so sorry.”
“No, you’re not. You’re relieved it isn’t you in this bed and me sitting in that chair.”
Vasilev winced with a sudden stab of pain. He jabbed the morphine button in his hand, dosing himself again. It was having less and less effect. When the pain finally eased, he asked, “What news for me regarding Rhodes?”
The Czech’s eyes dropped for a moment, thoughtfully fingering the red-speckled feather tucked in the hatband.
Not a good sign, Vasilev knew.
“Still no luck, I’m afraid.”
“Luck? Luck has nothing to do with it. How hard can it be to kill a man trapped in a prison cell?”
“An American prison cell,” the Czech protested. “A federal one, at that. And he is a former senator, so he is closely watched.”
“You don’t need more luck,” Vasilev said. “You need more money. Increase the bounty. Make it five million dollars.”
“That’s a lot of cash.”
“I haven’t much patience. I’m flying to the Paris clinic tomorrow.”
“Then five million it is.” The Czech raised an eyebrow. “How long will you be gone?”
“Two months, at least. But what choice do I have?”
“It’s a smart move. And it’s Paris.”
“Bah,” Vasilev said, waving a veiny hand. “It’s a medical facility in the suburbs, trapped in a quarantined cage with no guarantees of success. Still, my doctor says without this new experimental treatment, I would be fortunate to last another six months.” The old Bulgarian winked. “He nearly pissed his pants telling me that, so I suspect it would have been less.”
“You’ll make out just fine. I read up on this CAR T treatment. It’s the very latest Western medicine has to offer.”
The Czech’s investigation caused him both despair and hope. Despair because the revolutionary treatment had proven wildly effective in pediatric blood-cancer trials. The treatment removed a patient’s natural cancer-fighting T cells and genetically altered millions more into little homing missiles targeting the specific cancer when reintroduced into the body. Vasilev stood an excellent chance, theoretically. That meant more years of the old killer’s tyrannical rule, and he himself was not getting any younger.
The Czech’s only hope was that other clinical trials for solid, adult tumor treatments such as Vasilev required had been mixed. There was an even chance that the Bulgarian butcher wouldn’t survive after all. Vasilev’s kill-list madness would end, and the Czech’s ascendancy could begin.
“For the half million dollars a month it’s costing me? I should be more than fine,” Vasilev said, wheezing with effort. He grinned mischievously. “With this ‘miracle’ treatment, maybe I’ll live forever.”
“Nothing would please me more.” The Czech shuddered inwardly but hid his disdain with a smile.
Vasilev’s fixation on the kill list bordered on insanity. It had cost the Iron Syndicate millions, the loss of several vital assets, and unnecessary attention from state authorities. Fortunately, their organization had penetrated the police and security agencies of most industrialized countries years before, scuttling investigations into Iron Syndicate activities. Otherwise, they might all be in jail by now, or dead.
If he were in charge, the Czech thought, he would have abandoned the kill list before it even began. Revenge for its own sake was bad for business. But the Czech was resigned to his fate. As long as the targets lived and Vasilev breathed, the list would drive everything to the exclusion of far more pressing business opportunities.
The Czech briefly considered killing his Bulgarian overlord when this madness fell on him, but quickly dismissed the idea. Vasilev had a personal security system that amounted to “mutually assured destruction.” If Vasilev died of any suspicious causes before his time, a secret network of assassins would avenge his death, targeting first and foremost the Czech, the heir apparent to the coveted throne, even if he wasn’t at fault. This incentivized the Czech to guarantee Vasilev’s security at all costs.
The only other solution to end Vasilev’s kill-list madness was to finish the job as quickly as possible before it ruined them all.
Vasilev grunted a laugh. “You’re a good friend, and a good liar. The syndicate will be in good hands when you take the reins.”
The Czech nodded his appreciation. “Thank you.”
The Bulgarian darkened. “But know this: Rhodes must die before I do. Or else.”
The Czech nodded grimly, and what little hope he had drained away. “I understand.”
The death of Rhodes was clear enough. It was the “or else” that truly disturbed him. It was Vasilev’s cryptic promise to reach out from even beyond the grave and slaughter him and everyone he loved if he failed this last assignment.
He feared Vasilev more than any other man he ever knew, living or dead, despite their decades of friendship. His dying boss was the former head of the “Murder Bureau”—the highly secret assassination division within the now defunct Bulgarian Committee for State Security. Vasilev’s talent for killing was surpassed only by his raging vengeance against those who ei
ther betrayed or failed him.
Together he and Vasilev had formed the Iron Syndicate at the end of the Cold War, along with several other comrades in other security services in the former Soviet republics, transforming their murderous skills and intelligence resources into a vast criminal network that now included many Western colleagues. Vasilev had led them all from the start, and the Czech was now next in line.
But only if he completed this final assignment.
“And the last man? Do we have a name?” Vasilev asked.
The Czech leaned forward, smiling. “Yes. We learned of it just two days ago.”
“Who is it?”
The Czech told him. Also the man’s employer, and the direct connection to Tervel Zvezdev, Vasilev’s adopted son, butchered and parted out like cat food last year. The Americans found pieces of his massacred body fermenting in a kimchi jar—some sick kind of joke.
No one connected to Zvezdev’s horrific death was laughing now.
Vasilev had made a kill list of those he held responsible for Zvezdev’s death, including the North Korean who was shot by firing squad by his own government on an unrelated matter less than a week after Zvezdev was found. The inability to wreak his own vengeance on the Korean enraged Vasilev, and only made the killing of the rest of the list more urgent for him and, consequently, the entire organization. Ten had been disposed of so far. Only two remained. Rhodes, and this last man.
Vasilev’s eyes widened with hope. “And?”
The Czech hesitated, his smile frozen. “We have his place of business, his home, and even his favorite restaurant under constant surveillance.”
“And he’s still alive?” Vasilev suddenly coughed, the first of a long, jagged tear of seal barks and throat rattles as yellow sputum gurgled up out of his cancerous lungs. The Czech helped him sit up as Vasilev’s face reddened, long strings of viscous spittle dribbling from his thick lower lip.
The Czech reached for a plastic tray near the bed and held it up to Vasilev’s mouth, trying not to vomit himself as he watched the old Bulgarian spit up gobs of bloody mucus into the vessel.
The Ghanaian nurse suddenly appeared in the doorway, her eyes wide with worry. “Is everything okay—”
“GET OUT!” Vasilev screamed at her as he batted away the plastic tray, scattering the liquid filth across the floor, barely missing her.
“I’ll come back later,” she offered meekly, and dashed back out of the room.
Vasilev gasped for air with the exertion. The Czech gently lowered him back onto his bed, then reached for a tissue to wipe the man’s mouth, but Vasilev pushed his hand away.
“I want him dead,” Vasilev said, his chest heaving. His bloodshot eyes stared vacantly at the far horizon of the trackless sea.
The Czech carefully wiped the sputum from his own hand with the tissue. “The man travels. He could be anywhere—”
Vasilev’s bloodshot eyes narrowed. He was still gasping for breath. “I want his head . . . in a box . . . in my hands . . . before I die.”
“I have our best people on it.”
“Fuck your best people . . . and fuck you . . . if you don’t . . . do this thing.”
“I understand.”
Vasilev grabbed the Czech by the lapel with a liver-spotted hand, pulling him close.
“Do this thing for me . . . please . . . I beg you . . . and then . . . the Syndicate . . . is yours.”
“You have my word.”
Hatred narrowed the dying eyes again. He pulled the Czech even closer. “Yes . . . you will. Or you will suffer for it.”
Vasilev coughed again, and jabbed the morphine button.
“I’ll fetch the nurse.”
The Czech sped for the door, secretly hoping this was the last of Vasilev, but he knew better. The man’s unquenchable hatred was stronger even than his metastasizing cancer. The only course of action left to him was to complete the damned list.
Finish off Senator Rhodes.
And kill Jack Ryan, Jr.
7
NEAR VUČEVO, REPUBLIKA SRPSKA, BOSNIA AND HERZEGOVINA
The tour van was packed with eight happy Germans, outdoorsy twentysomethings, including two newlyweds. It barreled south down the two-lane asphalt road at the legal speed limit, towing a trailer carrying ten sturdy river kayaks. Forested hills were on either side of the asphalt road; the jagged peaks of the Dinaric Alps loomed in the distance toward the south.
The thirty-year-old driver, Emir Jukić, was a Bosniak from Sarajevo, and he’d been hauling adventure-seeking tourists to his favorite drop-in spot on the Drina River for several years. In fact, he was the principal driver for Happy Times! Balkan Tours. In his years with the company, he had driven passengers as far south as the Greek port of Piraeus near Athens, and transported tourists all the way north to Austria for ski vacation packages. He knew the roads and villages, the mountains and rivers of his native country like the back of his hand. His sparkling dark eyes, an infectious, bearded smile, and an encyclopedic knowledge of Bosnian history made him a favorite among tourists, with more repeat customers than any other driver working for the region’s most successful tour service.
Emir kept a two-handed grip on the wheel but raised one hand to wave at the 4x4 police vehicle heading toward them—two young Serb cops he knew by name. Just last week he had taken them kayaking with a couple local girls, along with bottles of sparkling wine and grilled sausages on the hibachi he kept stored in the back. All free, of course. The two cops smiled and flashed their headlights as they passed, the laughing German tourists unaware of the friendly exchange.
A kilometer later, Emir slowed the vehicle onto a dirt track that led down to a wide flat bank near the river. It was the second day of their kayaking tour, and the group knew the drill. Everyone, including Emir, pulled out their gear; pulled on wetsuits, safety vests, and helmets; and began unloading the stacks of kayaks and setting them near the water.
Two of the German girls, tall and muscular, reached for the tie-downs on a kayak up on the highest rungs of the trailer. “Please, not that one,” Emir asked politely. “I don’t want you to get hurt.” Shorter than both of them, he had a gentle voice that belied his stocky boxer’s build. They happily complied as he helped them unload the one just below it, affirming what every tourist to the area knew: Bosnians were the friendliest people on earth.
Minutes later, they were all paddling in the gently flowing turquoise water, Emir leading the way with promises of hot lunches and cold beer waiting for them at a beach six kilometers downriver.
As soon as they made the first bend, a battered green Škoda Octavia wagon pulled up next to the van. A young man in a blue Denver Broncos T-shirt and tan cargo shorts jumped out of the passenger seat and climbed into the tour van. Moments later he pulled the van and the trailer with the lone kayak back onto the asphalt and headed north for six kilometers to another dirt track leading to a village deep in the forest on the far side of the mountains bounding the road.
The man driving the Škoda was another Bosniak, wellgroomed and in his thirties; a chemistry teacher who’d immigrated to Germany and returned in the past year, leaving behind his wife and two young daughters for safety.
He kept the wagon a discreet distance back from the trailer. The bricks of C-4 packed into the kayak on the back of the trailer wouldn’t explode without a detonator, owing to the unique nature of the chemical bonds within the explosive and the high amount of inert binding agent. Bouncing the C-4 on the pavement or even setting it on fire wouldn’t cause it to blow. Only a rapid infusion of high energy from an exploding detonator cord or blasting cap could break those chemical bonds, releasing the enormous stores of energy inside the compound in a violent eruption. The combination of stability and lethality in such plastic explosives made them highly favored by all freedom fighters everywhere, his group especially. It wouldn’t be long before the shipment wo
uld be put to good use.
There was even less concern regarding the ten kilos of premium Afghan heroin also packed into the kayak. At fifty dollars a gram on German streets, that amounted to half a million dollars—a nice addition to their operating budget.
But still, he was a careful man, and he hadn’t survived this long without taking precautions.
Inshallah.
HEATHROW AIRPORT, LONDON
Jack hadn’t thought about Paul Brown in a long time, he realized, when he boarded the United flight from Dulles to London ten hours before, and now he thought about him again as he stepped into the terminal at Heathrow. He and Paul had landed here for a connecting flight to Singapore last year, and spent the better part of a long and frustrating day in this very terminal, waiting for mechanical repairs and a missing flight crew to finally resolve themselves.
Gerry had been right. Paul had been a guy worth getting to know. Jack was just sorry he hadn’t known him longer.
The crowds of passengers shuffling past him on the way to baggage claim had no idea that the portly accountant sacrificed himself to keep the world economy from crashing that stormy night, and saved Jack’s life. Jack firmly believed now that most of human history was composed of such unwritten chapters, full of nameless heroes known only to God and the privileged few who witnessed their sacrifices firsthand.
Paul deserved better than a passing thought from him. Jack recalled the wasted hours the two of them had spent at Heathrow. Jack wished he’d used that time last year to run into the city and see Ysabel, a former lover he’d met while on the Iranian assignment—another relationship doomed by the demands of their respective careers. Jack would always put his country first before his personal desires, but a wife, a home, and a couple kids someday were high on his list.
Jack thought about that when he was getting ready to board at Dulles. He had another long layover again tomorrow when he landed, and he was determined not to make the same mistake twice.
While the flight attendant lectured on the proper deployment of the seat belt, Jack pulled up Ysabel’s Facebook page. What he saw felt like a punch in the gut. Ysabel cradled her newborn baby daughter in her arms as she stood next to her handsome Anglo-Iranian husband, both of them beaming. A striking couple. For a brief moment, Jack imagined that it was him standing next to her in that picture.
