by Paul Cave
Yurius sighed. “He didn’t make it.”
“Make what?”
“You know – dead.”
“What?”
“Not coming back alive.”
Viktor seemed as if he was going to pass out. His shoulders dropped and he looked deflated. “How..?”
“He took one in the head,” Yurius explained.
Viktor just gawped back. “Uh?”
The younger brother stood. “He’s dead – dead as a dodo.”
“What happened?” Viktor asked, swapping places with his brother. Now, Viktor sat on the sofa, leaning forwards, his face expectant.
“Everything went to hell. Heard it on the police scanner. They killed Krylov and then chased down Perkins on the train tracks. Guy definitely got a one-way ticket out of here.” “What of Ruebins – you tied up loose end?”
For the first time since his arrival, Yurius broke into a slight grin. He nodded, and said, “Put three into him, last one at point-blank range into his heart.”
“So this business is finished then? Both Ruebins and Perkins are out of the picture. Okay, losing Krylov is unfortunate, but we can handle that. So what has you so spooked, Yurius?”
Yurius stood still. Fear had taken up residence on his features. “This,” he said, withdrawing the letter.
“What is that?” Viktor quizzed.
“I do not know.”
Viktor stood again. The letter looked like any other. Simple envelope, brown and sealed, and its thickness hinted at just a single sheet inside. “Where did that come from?”
“Ruebins.”
Viktor’s hand stopped short, his fingers just a few inches from taking the letter. “Ruebins?” He looked toward his brother for an explanation.
Yurius didn’t have one. He stepped a little closer and pushed the envelope into Viktor’s hand. The Russian boss took the offering, cautiously, and then seated himself back down.
“What could this be?” he asked himself, turning the letter over. There was no address, name, postal stamp, or other distinguishable markings written anywhere on its surface. “You think they’re trying to plant evidence?” he asked, turning his attention away from the letter.
Again, Yurius shrugged. “Strange, if you ask me. I was just about to kill him, and he pulled that from his pocket and started telling me to take it.”
“It would be entrapment if they tried to plant something,” Viktor stated.
“Open it.”
Viktor nodded. Just a simple letter, right? What harm could a letter do anyway? He pushed his thumb underneath one corner and then ran it along the length of the envelope. The flap came away in a tattered and torn mess.
Viktor peered inside. A single sheet of folded paper was tucked inside, blank white and offering no hint of its purpose. Viktor paused. Should he go get a pair of gloves or tweezers, or something to help him extract the letter? Yurius drew nearer, expectant, and the Russian boss felt his brother’s eagerness. Viktor took a breath and then simply pulled the sheet of paper free.
He turned it over in his hand to examine each side: Blank both front and back.
“Open it,” Yurius pushed.
Viktor nodded. He pulled the sheet open using delicate fingers. No text or pictures came into view. Just a small amount of white powder had gathered within the fold that split the sheet into two halves.
Cocaine.
“Is this a joke?” Viktor quizzed, looking towards his brother.
Yurius shook his head. “That’s what Big Bear gave me. Insisted I take it.”
A frown creased Viktor’s brow. Were the authorities seriously trying to plant evidence? What good would that do? Curious now, he licked the tip of his finger and dabbed at the small pile of powder. The tip of his finger came away with a speck of residue fixed to it. Yurius leaned closer. His brother licked tentatively at the white substance. Viktor’s face scrunched tightly in a show of disgust. He shook his head and then sneezed violently, blowing the powder off the paper, turning it into a cloud of white dust.
Yurius caught most of it in his lungs. He expected the smell and taste of ammonia, clear indication of cocaine powder, but his chest went tight and the back of his throat contracted instantly. He retched and his eyes filled with tears.
Viktor sneezed again and, as he drew a deep breath, he too inhaled the dispersing cloud. He had just enough time to register pain, before his body went into spasms.
The strychnine, the most deadly toxin known to man, filled his lungs and was then instantly absorbed into the bloodstream. It took just seconds for the poison to reach his brain, where the toxin shut down all the nerve signals to his muscles. His arms and legs turned rigid, back arching off the sofa, and his face turned into a ghastly mask of agony. Jaw muscles clenched together in a cast-iron grin.
The Russian’s brother fell to the floor, his body twisting itself into a horrible contortion, his back bent all the way until his head touched the heels of his shoes. A desperate clucking noise left his throat.
Viktor began to choke. He tried to fill his lungs with air, but they refused to obey his command. Instead, he slipped sideways off the sofa to join his brother on the floor. There, they bucked and thrashed, until the strychnine stopped all respiratory input, leaving them brain dead within minutes of each other. The strychnine fell gently to the floor like a light fluttering of winter snow.
In an hour or so, an anonymous call would notify the authorities of the two bodies, warning of the potential dangers. And, before the two brothers had grown cold, a team of experts wearing biosuits would enter to find the pair locked together in rigid embrace.
Chapter Fifty-Three
Cold wind snapped at ankles. The hems of pant legs flapped about like the fluttering of flags. A group of bent figures made their way towards the stationary aircraft. The small private airfield was deserted except for this small group and the LearJet. The first member reached the short flight of steps that led to the cabin. He pulled himself inside as the rest gathered around the foot of the steps. The passenger reappeared a moment later. With a wave of his hand he beckoned for the rest to board.
Like their comrade, the next three to enter all wore dark blue suits. And even though the sky was clouded over, dark sunglasses hid their eyes. The fifth member to board was dressed in simple casual clothes, his head bowed submissively to the harsh winds that tore across the airstrip. He pulled himself to the top of the stairs before turning to look back. He stood poised for a second, looking out at the panoramic view. He took a few moments, contemplating recent events, scanning the grey horizon. Finally, he nodded to the two who remained, before disappearing inside. They ascended the steps, paused momentarily to look about them, and then reeled in the short retractable steps.
The whir of engine noise began. Within seconds it had grown to a deafening roar. The aircraft rolled onto the blacktop. More power was added to the twin engines, the roar growing quickly towards an ear-piercing scream. Now, as if freed from a catapult, the jet raced away, tearing down the runway. The plane took to the skies, quickly cutting towards the heavy clouds above. In a matter of seconds the jet had disappeared, ready to deliver its cargo back home.
Nikolay unbuckled his belt. He turned towards the window and gazed at the thick clouds below him. They rolled by like the white surf of crashing waves. He wiped at his brow and his palm came away with a layer of sweat.
The guy sitting opposite him laughed gently. “Not one for flying, Nikolay?” he said, in a flat American accent. His eyes were soft and filled with compassion and understanding.
The old man grimaced slightly. “It’s been a while.”
“Too long,” replied his companion, smiling.
Nikolay nodded. He’d worked in New York for almost ten years, not once making the return trip home. Yet, in just fourteen hours, he’d feel the soil of his homeland beneath his feet.
The guy opposite leaned forward to pat Nikolay’s hand. “It’s good to have you back,” he said.
The old
man nodded again. It would be good to be back. He looked his companion in the eye. “What of Viktor?”
The guy opposite offered a dismissive wave of his hand. “Taken care of. Not to worry, Nikolay. Business is back in order.”
“And the FBI and FSB?”
The guy shrugged. “Those not committed to our homeland still pose a threat. But we must remain one step ahead. As always.”
“As always…” Nikolay echoed.
They were interrupted by one of the other passengers, who almost filled the aisle with his bulk. The bite of the wind had turned scar tissue, which ran from nose to lip, into a bolt of white lightning. Agent Vitos spoke to Nikolay’s companion in a thick Slavic accent. “We will land in Moscow in fourteen hours. You need anything, Boss?”
Nikolay’s companion opened his mouth to speak. He paused for a second, as his face underwent a drastic transformation. The gentle demeanour that had been Edward Jones evaporated instantly and the soft, sensitive eyes turned hard. He coughed heavily, as if trying to shift something that was lodged at the back of his throat.
The old man shifted slightly in his seat. This was the real boss he’d left behind over a decade ago: cold and calculating, with the heart of a poisonous snake.
“Nothing needed, Comrade,” Sergei Mikhailov said, in his native tongue.
The heavy nodded and then quickly returned to his seat.
Sergei Mikhailov turned his attention outside. He sighed wistfully. He’d had a pleasant and productive trip. He’d been busy, sorting out first the Colombians and then, more importantly, Viktor and his pet rat. Still, he hadn’t been overseas for quite some time and the change had done him good. He felt invigorated and was now looking forward to his return home.
Nevertheless, he’d been forced to use every help available. His contact at the Bureau had had to first get him manpower, pulling a few agents from the field and assigning them directly to Sergei. These agents had come willingly, ready to help their homeland, eager to prove that their ‘repatriation’ had not been wasted.
Luck had played its part, too. They had intercepted Edward Jones’ call to his father, and then traced it to the accountant’s place of hiding. Now, there would be no trial. The authority’s star witness had been silenced once and for all.
Viktor had been Sergei’s prime reason for coming. Now, that problem had been resolved, with the added bonus of ridding the world of Viktor’s uncontrollable brother, Yurius. It was just a shame Sergei had not got to Viktor before innocents like Henry Jones and Joseph Ruebins had been involved. Still, these innocents had played their part in helping Sergei achieve his objective. And now, thanks to their unwitting intervention, business was back to normal.
Sergei’s smile widened slightly as he remembered a song he’d heard the day before. It had been played out over the radio during the return trip from silencing the accountant.
Sergei Mikhailov grinned happily, catching Nikolay’s attention. The Russian Mafia boss opened his mouth and sang…
"…Back in the U-S-S-R!"
