The Consultant

by TJ O'Connor

  “Oh, no. What about—”

  “Kruppa.” Her voice was ice. “Bobby is gone.”

  CHAPTER 54

  Day 5: May 19, 1215 Hours, Daylight Saving Time

  Winchester, Virginia

  BOBBY GONE? If Khalifah had Bobby, he was as good as dead.

  As much as I begged, Victoria refused to allow me to tag along. Instead, I needed to get to Noor’s house. I hadn’t checked back in, and that was as good a place as any to wait on news of Bobby. Besides, there was no telling how many messages she’d left me last night through the wee hours of the morning. My phone had died a violent death last night, and LaRue gave me another burner phone so no one could trace me. She didn’t have my new number.

  I reached my rental when a dark blue Mercedes drove into the lot, around the last row of cars, and made a beeline for me. I gripped my .45 in the small of my back.

  Gunfights were becoming way too commonplace around here, even for me.

  When the Mercedes rolled to a stop and the driver’s window rolled down, I was shocked.

  Edik Yurievich Petrov.

  “Hello, Edik,” I said, releasing my pistol and walking to the side of the car. “What are you doing here?”

  “Looking for you, my friend.” His face was sweaty and pale. “Before it is too late.”

  Now, that was an ominous thing to say. Even given the last seventy-two hours.

  “Maybe you should explain that. Quick.”

  He sighed and kept his eyes moving outside the Mercedes. “I will try, Jon Mallory. Oh, forgive me. You are really Jon Hunter, CIA consultant and terrorist hunter.”

  My hand returned to my .45 and it made me calmer to keep it there. “What can I do for you?”

  Edik’s eyes caught something in his rearview mirror that made him pause. After the car he’d been watching stopped at the entrance of the hotel and an old woman with blue hair climbed out, he breathed a bit easier.

  He leaned out the window a bit. “Business is business, my friend. I told you, I invest. I invested in some land and a restaurant last year. I own some property in Sandy Creek.”

  “Sand Town,” I said. “Also very interesting.”

  He shrugged. “Yes, Sand Town. An ugly name, no? It was too late. These thugs, those barbarians, moved in and took over many of the families there. They were good families, too. Hardworking refugees who only wanted peace and safety. Then the outsiders came.”

  I thought about the families of the bombers at the mall and Union Station. All they wanted was their loved ones home. I told him exactly that and my words caused him to look away.

  I added, “Who were these outsiders, Edik?”

  His eyes, and his voice, hardened. “Iranian animals. They are not who they say they are. I fear the worst. I believe they are—”

  “IRGC. Iranian special operations.”

  “You know?” He eyed me, stopping his vigil around the parking lot. “Did Kevin inform you of these things?”

  Familiarity betrayed him. “You more than knew my brother well, didn’t you?”

  For a long time, I readied for his denial. When he spoke, his voice was just above a whisper. Was it embarrassment or caution? “Yes. I knew your brother well.”

  “Tell me.”

  Edik got a faraway look in his eyes, and for a moment, he sat looking through me as though I weren’t there. “Many things I know.”

  “What things?”

  He focused on my eyes then. “You are still CIA?”

  I shrugged. “Not really. Yeah. No.”

  His brow wrinkled and somewhere in his thoughts he must have decided it didn’t matter. “Tell me what Kevin told you. I will fill in the missing pieces.”

  “How do you know there are missing pieces?”

  He looked hard at me. “Because if there were not, then many bad things would not now be about to happen.”

  Time to reel him in. “Before he died, Kevin told me something about Maya in Baltimore and Khalifah. I need to know more about both. Much more. I need to find Khalifah and stop Operation Maya.”

  Edik’s face went pale, and he instantly began to sweat. His eyes darted from the rearview mirror out the windows. When he spoke, his voice was shaken and hallow.

  “You know much but still not enough,” he said. “I have put everything into my small businesses. Kevin and I, we had an arrangement.”

  Petrov was one of Kevin’s informants.

  “Okay, whatever it was, I’ll match it. Now, what don’t I know?”

  “I tell you and then it is over.” His eyes softened and he looked down. “Please? These are dangerous men. Saeed Mansouri is a puppet. He is not the real threat.”

  “I know. It’s Khalifah.”

  His eyes closed. “No.”

  I let go of my pistol and knelt next to his door to lean in close and catch his eyes. “Look, Edik, I have to move fast. Tell me what you know.”

  Without warning, Edik Yurievich Petrov reached up and put his fleshy hand on my cheek. Russians, whether they grew up in New York or Leningrad, knew the art of communication with just a touch. They saw no weakness in this, no embarrassment, no risk.

  “I want out of this. I swear to you, I did not know anything before … Give me your number.”

  I rattled it off.

  He let go of my cheek and put the Mercedes into drive. A second before he drove away, his words were a whisper, but they chilled me all the same.

  “I will call you soon. Trust no one, Jon Hunter. They will kill you, too.”

  CHAPTER 55

  Day 5: May 19, 1215 Hours, Daylight Saving Time

  Western Loudoun County, Virginia

  GRIGORI SOKOLOFF LAY on the makeshift bed in the corner of the barren cellar room. Beside him, sitting on a small cardboard box, was a plastic pitcher of water and paper cup. The box was within reach of his left hand. His right was handcuffed to the metal bed frame, keeping him from venturing off the bed.

  Grigori had lost time. His isolation left him disoriented and weak. Except for the occasional sip of water, he lay back and tried to gain control of his emotions and body. His training had prepared him for much, but his masters had relied heavily on his tough upbringing for the rest. The SVR envisioned arduous interrogations, not isolation and sensory deprivation. How does one prepare for no interrogation—something that is nothing? No questions, no repeated abuse or even physical contact, no sound, no scents or stimulus or connection. Simply nothing. They believed they knew the limits the Americans would go, and they prepared their operatives well within those tolerances.

  But Grigori had never expected the heat ray.

  He’d never believed such a device existed nor had his masters believed the Americans capable, or willing, to use such a thing. After all, after simply using water and fear to interrogate terrorists taken from the battlefield, the Americans had grown meek and squeamish about such methods. In Russia, such things were child’s play to elicit the simplest of confessions. But with this new device, there was no preparation. No comprehension of such a device. When it was used, his skin felt as though it was melting. Yet afterward, no scars or burns resulted. What had this ray done to him? How macabre had the Americans become? He had trained on waterboarding and physical abuse. He could endure three times what most men could. But when the heat bubbled over his body, his training was no match. It was medieval. Simplistic. A penetrating torture that left no footprint. No mark. No evidence. No damage.

  The Americans were worse than he feared. Worse than even Moscow understood.

  The basement around him was dimly lit by covered casement windows that allowed faint, opaque light to filter in from above. There was no sound. When the upstairs door had opened before and the dim light shined in, he noticed the panels installed on the ceiling to deaden any noise. The floor was cold and hard. The cement walls were barren. There was just him and his metal cot, the cardboard-box table, pitcher of water, and cup. Nothing else.

  Briefly, he recalled his favorite boyhood book and
let his mind hide in its chapters—a technique that he’d trained himself to use when resisting interrogations. He loved Dumas’ The Count of Monte Cristo and his struggle at Château d’If. He laughed to himself. Could he be Dantès?

  There was nothing to know but him and the silence.

  No, that was wrong. Across the basement on the far wall were two doors he’d noticed before the American assassin hooded him. How many days ago? One of the doors had been open and the interior dark. Now it was closed and a heavy dead bolt secured it. Men had been moved into the rooms. Silent men. When the man, Shepard, had placed the headphones and hood on him again, there was no telling what treachery they had conducted in those rooms.

  He was no longer alone. Was there an Abbé Faria? Others?

  The upstairs door suddenly banged open and shook him from his thoughts. Voices grew loud for the first time. Light danced and fluttered down the stairs, casting shadows from the upper landing.

  Grigori sat upright against the cold concrete wall and waited. Something had changed. Something was about to happen that the Americans hadn’t done before.

  Fear. Was the heat ray not enough?

  Something heavy tumbled down the stairs and crashed into a pile at the bottom not thirty feet from him. The form rolled over and faced him. It was the man that had questioned him over and over. Shepard. Another man descended the stairs. At the bottom, he fired two shots into Shepard’s still form. The shots, muffled by an extraordinarily thick silencer, were still startling and sent shockwaves through him. His isolation had dulled his senses and the muffled gunshots shattered the air around him.

  Grigori moved to the edge of the bed and sat upright, trying to project strength and fearlessness. If he was to die, he would die with dignity. Death was death. Pride was all he had left. He would soon have both.

  “I am ready,” he said to the man dressed in dark clothing. “Do as you must. I am not afraid.”

  The man had hard features and dark eyes. His hair pulled back tightly into a stubby ponytail. He stood watching Grigori and tucked his pistol into a holster beneath his jacket. He surveyed the room and moved to the bed, stooped, and unlocked Grigori’s handcuff without a word.

  “What is this?” Grigori asked rubbing his wrist and remaining ready for some kind of trick. “Who are you?”

  “Caine,” the dark-clothed man said. “Khalifah sent me. Your situation has caused concern. He dares not contact General-Polkovnik Fedorov directly until Operatsiya Maya is concluded.”

  Grigori nodded and stood on wobbly legs. He reverted to Russian. “Da. Ya nichevo ne govoril.—I said nothing.”

  “Ja ponimaju—I understand.” Caine continued in English, “He knew you wouldn’t. Make your way to his safe house. Tell him this—exactly this—‘Wine grows best in the warm summer breeze.’ He will know it came from me and that you are secure.”

  Grigori tried to calm his nerves and memorize the code phrase.

  “Repeat it to me. Now.”

  “Wine grows best in the summer breeze.”

  “Nyet.” Caine grabbed Grigori’s arm, jerked him to his feet, and shook him. “Again. Wine grows best in the warm summer breeze.”

  “Da, da.” Grigori steadied himself. “Wine grows best in the warm summer breeze.”

  Caine looked at a small table near the stairs. Grigori’s cowboy boots, wallet, and old green military field jacket were there. “Da, you have it. Get your things and go. I’ll clean this mess up. The others will return soon. Go now.”

  “I know there are others here.” Grigori slipped on his boots and jacket and regarded Caine. Without another word, he went to the locked doors, levered the first dead bolt open, and pushed the door in. Inside was a hooded figure wearing headphones. The figure was strapped to a steel chair as Grigori had been days before. The figure was still.

  Grigori turned back to Caine. “One of mine?”

  “Da. They caught him at the school. He’s close to talking.”

  “The others?”

  Caine cocked his head. “Fariq and his brother, Azar. Hunter took him last night. I have a car outside, you go. I’ll clean up here.”

  “Nyet.” Grigori moved behind the figure. In one violent movement, he grasped the figure’s head, wrenched it to the right, and snapped his neck.

  The figure’s head bobbed forward. Then he went to the second room, went inside, and repeated the actions to two men lying on cots and bandaged from injuries.

  In a few seconds, all three men were dead.

  Caine watched Grigori emerge from the second holding cell. “You could have taken them with you.”

  “Nyet. The pissy camel lovers. Pawns. They need not live.” Grigori turned and went to the foot of the stairs. He stopped over his captor’s motionless body, reared back, and kicked him violently in the ribs. “I would like to kill you myself.”

  CHAPTER 56

  Day 5: May 19, 1240 Hours, Daylight Saving Time

  Noor Mallory’s Residence, Frederick County, Virginia

  PETROV HAD a key to Operation Maya.

  Following Petrov was not practical. If he caught me, I might spook him and he could change his mind about helping me and simply run. No, I needed to give him space. He came to me on his own. He would call me, and as fast as I could convince him, he’d tell me what he knew. I doubted Edik was a threat, either. If he’d wanted to harm me or help Saeed to kill me, he just missed his best chance.

  No, Petrov was a good guy. He just needed a little more time. It might cut it close, but I had confidence he’d come through. So, after Petrov left, I drove like a madman to Noor’s house. As I approached her driveway, I didn’t see the sheriff’s patrol standing watch. A tingle tiptoed up my spine. Maybe the events at the safe house, the missing Bobby Kruppa, and the other turmoil caused manpower shortages.

  Maybe.

  I found Noor and Sam at the garage. They were arguing. Sam’s defiant, condescending arms were folded in front of him as he looked everywhere but at her. Noor’s face was tight and her eyes aflame. Her hands flew, her head shook, and twice she reached out and grabbed Sam by the shoulder and shook him.

  As I walked to them, Noor spun toward me. “Jon? What happened to you? I waited for you all night.”

  “I was working.” I stopped close to her and softened my voice. “Sorry, I should have called. What’s wrong?”

  “Tell him.” Noor thrust a finger toward Sam. “Tell Sam he should not go out without telling me where and when he will return. Tell him I need him to stay close.”

  “Sam, your mom has a point.” There, I told him. Now, a little diplomacy. “Noor, he is nineteen. Maybe a little halfway would work.”

  “No.” Her hand sliced the air. “This is my home. My rules. There is no halfway.”

  Sam reeled back. “Of course not. That’s what you told Dad, too.”

  Noor lowered her head and turned away. Sam looked at me with contempt dripping from his glare.

  I needed Sam’s help. “Sam, I need to talk to you about Bobby.”

  He suddenly blurted, “He wants to meet you in an hour at the old Darby Farm on Route 50.”

  “Oh, yes.” Noor’s voice boomed again. “The Darby Farm, Sameh? You would drink and smoke and do whatever boys do there that is wrong.”

  I held up a hand. “When did you hear from Bobby?”

  “He ran away from the FBI,” he said. “That’s what he wants to see you about, I guess.”

  “What did he tell you?” My thoughts were spinning. “Come on, Sam, it’s important.”

  “How should I know?” He flashed angry eyes. “He wants you, not me. That’s it. Go find out yourself. You two deserve each other.”

  “Is he all right?”

  “I guess. He didn’t say.”

  “When did you speak with him?”

  Sam shrugged. “About a half hour ago.”

  “I need to go to him, now.” I turned to Noor. “The deputy’s gone from the road. Call Bond and let him know.”

  She gazed down
the drive. “Gone?”

  “It’s probably nothing. But let’s check.”

  She nodded.

  I put a hand on Sam’s shoulder. “You know where this farm is. Can you show me? It’ll be faster.”

  “No. You’re the CIA man. You’re the liar and a killer.”

  I thrust up a hand. “Whoa, there, Sam. I’m no killer. Not the way you mean it.”

  “Whatever.” He looked at me, then Noor. “I’m not going anywhere with you.” He rattled off the directions to an old farm property about ten miles outside Winchester heading west into the mountains. He described an old country dirt road just a mile from us that would cut several miles off of the trip. “You’re on your own.”

  I made mental notes and turned to Noor. “Okay. But listen to me. Until that deputy returns, get your revolver and keep it handy.”

  She lifted the hem of her shirt and showed me her pistol. “Yes. I think that is a good idea.”

  CHAPTER 57

  Day 5: May 19, 1315 Hours, Daylight Saving Time

  Noor Mallory’s Residence, Frederick County, Virginia

  AFTER A FAST change of clothes, I headed out to meet Bobby. I wanted to reach him early in case Victoria’s agents were on his trail. Whatever Bobby knew that caused him to run from the FBI needed to reach my ears before anyone else’s. Once I had him, I’d turn him over to LaRue and Shepard.

  If Khalifah had found him in the FBI’s safe house, he could find him again.

  Two miles back toward Winchester, I found the shortcut Sam told me of. It was concealed beside a row of mailboxes that could have easily been mistaken for a private driveway. Once on it, I hit the gas and headed toward Route 50 and the old Darby Farm. Two miles farther on, amidst a swirl of dust, a sheriff’s cruiser came around the turn ahead of me. He’d come from the Route 50 end of the road, passed me, did a fast U-turn, and whelped his siren as he caught back up to me.

  “What the hell?”

  The cruiser’s siren whelped again. Its grill lights flashed and he clung to my bumper, laying on his horn.

  “You gotta be kidding me.”

  I braked hard and pulled the rental off onto a narrow edge of tall grass. When I released my seat belt and looked into the side mirror, a pistol barrel touched the side of my cheek.