by Brian Drake
Stiletto took in the large, high-ceilinged room, mostly of white walls and furnishings, but he didn’t linger on details. His focus was the dining table on the left side of the room, where Viktor Plotkin sat, staring bullets at Scott. He made no effort to get up and say hello.
Zolac said, “I hope you don’t mind a detour before we play, Mr. Cooper. I had some business to attend to and missed lunch.” He led Stiletto and Elisa toward the table.
“Fine with me,” Stiletto said.
Stiletto sat across from Plotkin. Zolac and Elisa sat at each end of the table.
“So you’re looking for work,” Zolac said.
“I’m looking at options,” Stiletto said. A servant brought cocktails. Stiletto took a drink of the martini. Perfectly mixed—and quite powerful—gin and vodka with a twist of lemon peel.
Elisa watched him with a gleam in her eye. Viktor fiddled with his silverware.
“Tell me how you joined the movement,” Zolac said.
“I’m not an idealist,” Scott said. “I work for money and go where the money is. One movement or another makes no difference to me.”
Plotkin finally looked up. Zolac’s smile faded.
“You aren’t concerned with the Jewish menace and its continued iron grip on the world?”
“If I wasn’t concerned I wouldn’t offer my services, but a guy needs variety.”
“These two,” and Zolac gestured to his Russian companions, “have the same attitude. About making money. Nobody fights for ideals anymore. Causes mean nothing. It’s a shame. I still think the cause is worthwhile. But we need good people. Our strength wasn’t what it once was. We need experienced operators.”
Stiletto drank his martini.
The servant who brought the drinks returned, bookended by two others, and they placed salads in front of the three at the table. Zolac made small talk about his journalism days, focusing his attention on Stiletto while the two Russians sat and listened. Neither intruded on the conversation.
The servants carried the dinner plates next, lamb cutlets, new potatoes dressed with oil, and green beans.
They ate quietly for a while and Zolac spoke again.
“It’s not just the Jewish problem,” he said. “We are performing a needed humanitarian purpose.”
“Which is?”
“Control.”
“People?”
“Not controlling people in the traditional sense. Not keeping them in cages or having border guards face inward. I mean giving people control. Establishing order. Most people simply aren’t equipped to handle the affairs of their own lives, so providing an environment where they are told what to do and when and how without the burden or stress of thought is what people like us can provide. That is the ultimate goal of our efforts. ‘New World Revolutionary Front’ is not just a name. It’s a philosophy. A vision.”
“It’s much more ambitious than average,” Stiletto said.
“Exactly. And where our comrades have failed. They focus on the Jews only. They miss the greater importance of our cause.”
“So if the majority want control—”
“Need it. Deep down they are waiting for us to show them the way. I learned when I worked for the progressive newspapers, the kind the conservatives rail against so much. The working class and the poor aren’t stupid, but life is too hard for most of them. They need their trivial obsessions, their drink, drugs, and sports, to keep their mind off the agony of having to fend for themselves. And here I come bringing a solution, the hand that will feed, in exchange for loyalty and a little of what they produce. I’m not asking much.”
“What about those who might refuse?”
Zolac shrugged. “What do you think? There is a reason we need people like you.”
AFTER THE servers cleared the dishes, Zolac led them to a corner table. Presently a table dealer with a poker set arrived from downstairs and sat at the head of the table.
Zolac sat across from Stiletto while Elisa was to his left, Plotkin directly across from her.
Zolac leaned toward Scott. “Us against them?”
Plotkin let out a low laugh.
Stiletto said, “What happens when it’s just us?”
Zolac shrugged. “I’m sure you’ll be a good loser.”
“Let’s play some cards.”
Stiletto bet the big blind on the first hand and folded when the clock came around to him again. He’d been dealt two low cards and the others bet too heavily for him to participate. Plotkin took the hand and as the dealer cut the deck for the next round.
Stiletto clicked his stack of blue plaques as the dealer dealt. He looked at his cards as Zolac bet and Elisa called. Plotkin folded. Stiletto considered his cards some more.
Zolac said, “So?”
Stiletto called. Zolac smiled. The dealer dropped the flop, three cards in the center of the table. Stiletto now had a pair of nines, one in hand and one on the table. Not bad but nothing great considering the next highest card on the table was a jack. If Zolac or Elisa had another jack, or maybe a pair, he was already behind. The other card Stiletto held was a king; perhaps another nine or another king would show up in the river or the turn. Each of them bet and the dealer set down the next card. An ace. Zolac bet heavy and Elisa raised. Stiletto felt something touch his left ankle and move up his leg. He looked at Elisa. She smiled and moved her foot back down to his ankle. Stiletto folded. Zolac called. The dealer set down the last card. Another jack. Stiletto stifled a laugh. Zolac and Elisa turned over their cards. Elisa made a fist and cursed in her native language as Zolac scooped the chips his way. His two pair, jacks and aces, won the hand.
Zolac turned to Stiletto. “You gonna make me do all the work?”
Stiletto smiled and clicked his plaques. He played tight over the next several hands, winning a small pot with a high pair. He folded most hands, waiting for a big strike. Elisa suffered the most, her stack of plaques dwindling after a series of bad bets. Plotkin held steady. Scott had a sense the strike had arrived when the dealer handed him a pair of aces. Stiletto bet light to start, letting the others call and raise and not wanting to risk too much money so early. If no other pairs or aces turned up on the table, it was all for naught.
The flop turned up a king and two low cards. Zolac bet heavy, and the two Russians called. Stiletto raised. His aces beat what was on the table. The others took the bait and matched him. The dealer turned up another ace, and Zolac hesitated a moment, but bet anyway. Elisa called with what remained of her stack. “All in,” she said, licking her lips. There was a gleam in her eye. She thought she had the pot. Plotkin shrugged and called, as did Stiletto. Zolac hesitated again, then called. He still had a small stack left over. When they turned over their cards, Stiletto’s three-of-a-kind beat Plotkin’s two jacks, the next highest hand. Elisa cursed again. Zolac laughed quietly. Plotkin gave Scott an icy stare.
The dealer shuffled the decks. Stiletto and Zolac restacked their plaques. Stiletto felt Elisa’s foot move up his ankle again but offered no reaction.
Zolac said, “We make a fair team.”
“It’s you and me now.”
“I’m sure you’ll lose gracefully.”
The dealer offered the deck to Stiletto, and Stiletto cut the deck. The dealer whipped a pair of cards to each player. Stiletto glanced down. A pair of sixes, non-suited. He glanced at Zolac, who pressed his lips together as he examined his own cards. Stiletto had not seen him press his lips together before. He bet some reds and blues and Zolac called. The dealer dropped the flop. Two more sixes. Four of a kind for Stiletto, a good hand; the third card was a two, which meant nothing to Stiletto and wouldn’t help Zolac, either. Stiletto checked. Zolac bet. Stiletto called and raised. Zolac pressed his lips together again.
“You have the other sixes?” Zolac said.
“Maybe I want you to think so.”
Zolac called.
The dealer set down the turn. A jack. Stiletto tapped the table, checking; Zolac bet. At best, he had t
hree jacks, Stiletto decided, no match for his four sixes. Stiletto called. The dealer placed another jack on the table. Stiletto hesitated. If Zolac had the four jacks the hand was over.
Stiletto said, “All in,” and pushed his stack toward the center of the table.
“Really?” said Zolac. “You gotta get to bed early or something?”
Stiletto folded his hands and watched his opponent.
“Okay, I’ll bite.” Zolac pushed all in.
“Turn ‘em,” Stiletto said, flipping over his two sixes. “Four of a kind.”
Zolac’s smile never faded as he tossed his cards toward the center. “Nice play.” Zolac rose, and shook Stiletto’s hand again. Elisa clapped and Plotkin remained motionless in his chair.
They wound down the evening with more drinks and Elisa escorted Stiletto back to his room.
He stopped prior to opening his door and faced Elisa.
“Nightcap?” he said.
“What do you have?”
“Vodka.”
“I’d love a nightcap.”
She didn’t leave till morning.
Chapter Eight
ZOLAC’S SUITE quieted after Stiletto and Elisa left.
Plotkin remained, organizing his winnings, not making a lot of noise as he stacked the plaques. Zolac poured another drink and stepped out onto the balcony. Presently Plotkin joined him there. The ocean rumbled in the distance but the darkness had swallowed the view. All they looked into was a black void of furious sound.
The Russian outlined his concerns about the new man. “Elisa won’t listen,” he said. “I hope you will. We’ve come too far for somebody to derail us now.”
“You have a point. For all we know, he’s genuine but working for the Americans. You heard him. Whoever has the money has his loyalty.”
Zolac frowned. “I suppose. But he didn’t go for the safe?”
“We can’t waste any more time. You heard Staar today. He’s almost ready.”
Zolac sighed.
Plotkin pressed on. “And I’d like to know where our contact in the C.I.A. has gone. We haven’t heard one word from him.”
“Because he’s lying low,” Zolac said. “They’re investigating.”
“What do we pay him for if not to tell us about what the Americans are doing?”
“We pay him, Viktor, to not get caught. He’s no good to us dead or in jail.”
“You need to answer me, Heinrich. What do we do about our friend?”
Zolac shook his head. He finished his drink but made a sour face. “I liked him. It’s too bad. But I think you’re right. Don’t do it on the property. Get him on the boat and make sure you’re over deep water. No comebacks, Plotkin.”
STILETTO KILLED time at the roulette wheel the next day.
He didn’t pay attention to what he won or lost, but played steadily for several hours. When Plotkin came up beside him and said, “We need to see you,” Stiletto cashed in and followed the Russian across the casino. Then two others joined them, none of the NWRF soldiers he saw earlier, but a pair cut from the same mold. The security arrangements in the lobby prevented him from packing the Colt .45. Now he wished he’d found a way to circumvent those metal detectors. He had a feeling he’d need the gun.
Plotkin said they were taking Zolac’s private elevator as he unlocked a door marked Authorized Personnel Only and let Stiletto through. The troopers followed and waited for Plotkin. Stiletto stopped and watched the Russian. Plotkin shut the door and the automatic lock slammed home.
“Straight ahead,” Plotkin said. The troopers started walking. The elevator waited at the end of the bright hallway. The troopers were almost there; Stiletto fell in step slightly behind Plotkin. They neared the elevator.
“I didn’t know Mr. Zolac had a private elevator.”
“He doesn’t,” Plotkin said. He moved so fast Stiletto almost didn’t block the Russian’s right arm.
Plotkin pivoted, right hand close to his body, gripping a black stun gun. Stiletto brought his hands together, clamping them tightly against Plotkin’s wrists. The flash of blue electricity snapped between the front prongs and singed Stiletto’s shirt.
Scott sidestepped left, Plotkin’s momentum continuing to carry him around. Stiletto kicked Plotkin in the stomach, the Russian doubling over. Stiletto turned to face the on-rushing troops, grabbing one by the wrist and wrenching a pistol out of his hand. The man’s fingers cracked and he screamed, but Stiletto jumped back and raised the gun. He told the troopers to stop while he kicked Plotkin again.
The troopers halted, the one with the broken fingers wincing as he raised his hands. The other lifted his as well while scowling at Scott.
Stiletto’s aim didn’t waver. He said, “What’s going on, Plotkin?”
“Smyert spionam,” the Russian said, grunting as he rose. He repeated the words—“Death to spies”—and Stiletto saw the troopers starting forward. He fired one shot from the captured pistol. The bullet hit Broken Fingers with a wet smack but the man’s forward movement continued his lunge and before Scott could move the trooper’s body collided with his. Scott landed hard on his back, the trooper’s dead weight pinning him down. He stayed there and took aim at the remaining trooper, but the man kicked the gun from Stiletto’s hand. Plotkin moved in with the Taser. The bolt of blue electricity snapped to life and when the prongs punctured the fabric of his shirt and burned into his skin, Stiletto let out a cry and his body convulsed and his vision went black.
STILETTO WOKE up and vomited on the deck of a large boat.
“How lovely,” Plotkin said. He sat nearby on a metal box holding a short-barreled Kalashnikov AK-74U, with Scott’s gun sticking out of his belt. They must have gone back to his room to remove any trace of his being there before getting on the boat.
Stiletto’s hands were tied behind his back. He scooted away from his mess, sliding easily on the floor of the deck. He scooted closer to the wall and leaned against it.
They were well out to sea, the boat pitching up and down as it crested each wave. Salt tickled Stiletto’s nose. His stomach turned over but he didn’t retch. Why did they have to put him on a boat? He looked over at the frothy waves slamming into the hull.
The surviving trooper from the hallway manned the helm behind glass in the elevated bridge.
“Why are you doing this, Plotkin?”
“You’re a spy.”
“I am not. You know who I am.”
“Thing is, I don’t believe you. Elisa does. She thinks you’re perfect. But I don’t. I convinced Zolac, and here we are.”
“What will you do when Elisa finds out?”
Plotkin shrugged.
“She’ll be even more upset you went over her head.”
“Office politics. There are more important things to deal with.”
“What would it take to change your mind?” Stiletto said. “To convince you.”
“Go back in time and show up six months from now.”
Waves rocked the boat. Stiletto groaned. Plotkin remained seated.
Stiletto felt for his belt and the hidden pocket where the razor blade waited.
“I can help with whatever you’re doing, even your boss said so.”
“Right. By being dead.”
The trooper at the helm cut the motor. The boat stopped but continued to undulate with the waves.
“And now we have reached the end,” Plotkin said.
“So you’re going to shoot me?”
“Yes, now that we’re out far enough that your body doesn’t wash ashore and disturb the tourists.”
Stiletto closed his mouth. Plotkin and the man at the helm exchanged some words, but he ignored them. They continued moving further and further into the ocean.
Presently, Plotkin stood and raised the AK-74U. He approached Scott, who braced himself against the wall, his face defiant, Plotkin’s eager as he lined up his sights. Scott pulled his legs back, then shot his feet forward. His heels hit Plotkin’s left knee and the Russian
screamed, staggering back, falling onto the deck as the boat crested another wave. Plotkin started yelling as he scrambled to his feet, the helmsman turning to look, and that’s when Stiletto threw himself over the side into the cold water.
STILETTO INHALED as deeply as he could.
The cold shock of the water quickened his heartbeat and he wanted to open his mouth for more air but instead pressed his lips together as hard as he could. He had the razor in hand and began sawing through the rope around his wrist. His body slowly sank.
The water surface above rippled as sunlight filtered through the waves. The boat remained where it was, a looming threat as deadly as a shark.
Stiletto’s descent started to slow. His wrists pulled free. He let the ropes go and bent forward to slice at the ropes around his ankles. His body started to rise. His lungs burned.
The second set of ropes fell away. Stiletto twisted and aimed for the rear of Plotkin’s boat.
STILETTO BROKE the surface, water splashing over his head.
The motor coughed and rumbled to life as he swam for the rear ladder. He pressed his lips together hard enough to hurt. He needed air, fast. Stiletto reached the boat, grabbed the rungs and pulled up enough to expose his head. He gasped, the rumbling motor covering him. Water splashed into his mouth; he spat it out. Peeking over the side, he saw the trooper back at the helm and Plotkin watching the water, his weapon at the ready, looking for any sign of life.
Stiletto swung his legs over the back and rushed Plotkin, the Russian turning as Stiletto landed a blow directly at his right kidney. The Russian started to yell, but Scott wrapped a hand over his mouth, clamping the other hand at the base of Plotkin’s neck. One hard twist and the neck snapped. Stiletto let Plotkin fall and scooped up the AK-74U and jumped back. The Russian landed on the deck with a thud, loud enough to make the trooper at the helm spin around.
