by Ed Kovacs
“They won’t do a damn thing to me,” said Bennings with contempt. “You didn’t go to the trouble of killing my mother just to bring me here and do the same.”
“No one killed your mother. That was an accident,” said Popov, checking his smartphone.
“It won’t be an accident when I shove that phone down your throat.”
“Your sentiments are duly noted. Regretfully, the abduction went bad. Your mother accelerated instead of braked, and crashed her car,” said Popov, matter-of-factly.
Bennings digested the possibility he was telling the truth. “Even if that’s true, that doesn’t erase your responsibility. She’s dead because of the actions of your people, who were following your orders.”
“She is of no use to me dead!” snapped Popov. “I’ve no leverage over you if she’s a corpse.”
Oh, crap. I didn’t warn Staci. Staci! Bennings’s mind raced. He had to protect Staci, had to agree to any demands or offers until he could secure her safety. But he couldn’t appear to be too anxious to cooperate.
“I’m starting to get the picture that you want me to marry your niece, and you’ll go to a lot of trouble to make it happen. Where is she?”
“You’ll be meeting her soon enough.” Popov gestured, and one of the men opened a laptop on a huge slab of butcher’s block and booted it up.
Kit wasn’t sure what the laptop was for; he simply had to steer away from his sister whatever was coming.
“You’ve kidnapped an American diplomat. I doubt the Kremlin would approve. In fact, they might kill you for this.”
“You’re correct in that regard. But I don’t think you’ll be filing a complaint or mentioning our new arrangement to anyone.”
Damn. Popov is so sure of himself. His people must already have grabbed Staci in California. “Let’s cut to the chase. Give me your niece’s passport, and I can get the visa done on the spot. She can fly out with me tomorrow.” Bennings spoke with the tone of a man who had some leverage in the deal and not someone who was chained to a chair, surrounded by amoral killers.
“Before, you said you could not get her a visa unless I gave you something juicy.”
“I lied. And I’m going to need lots of cash to cover the losses from my mother’s bank accounts. It was obviously your people who wiped out most of my family’s assets.”
Popov grinned slightly. The thug who had previously left returned with a chair, and Popov sat down, showing no sign of discomfort from the cold air. “So, now that your mother has died, you are for sale?”
If Kit hadn’t been restrained, he would have killed Popov with his bare hands on the spot. Instead, he ignored the remark and spoke without emotion. “Like you said at breakfast yesterday, everyone has their price.”
“Yes, and you said that even one hundred million was not enough to engage your services.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. Who wouldn’t sell out for a hundred million?” asked Kit. He was very smoothly trying to suggest the very opposite of the truth: that he was ready and willing to deal. “You said your offer to me of two hundred thousand for the fake marriage was a fair price, but I don’t agree. I could lose my military pension for marrying your niece, and that’s worth a lot more than a lousy two hundred grand. And since relations between our two countries are in the toilet after what your government has done in Crimea and elsewhere, do you think I’d be allowed to keep my security clearance if I married a Russian?”
Popov shrugged, as if the conversation had started to bore him.
“You mentioned the figure of one million American dollars delivered in cash. Make it two million and you have a deal,” said Bennings, salting a little desperation into the tone of his voice.
“This line of conversation leads me to ask you something. Perhaps one-tenth of one percent of Americans understand what perestroika was. Do you?”
Popov was a master of manipulation, including of conversations. Kit badly wanted to maintain some control of the dialogue, believing that his sister’s safety hung in the balance.
“We should be talking money now, not political history,” said Kit.
“Trust me, we are talking money. So what was perestroika?”
Since refusing to answer would only anger the general, Kit played along. “It was the program under your President Gorbachev that led to the collapse of the Soviet Union. It was a restructuring of the whole system.”
“And do you know why the nomenklatura—the government and economic and military elites of the Communist Party—went along with it?”
“Sure I do. They saw the opportunity to steal everything, not just the chunks they were already getting, but everything.”
“Yes!” exclaimed Popov. “The entire government morphed into one big criminal outfit. It was complete and utter corruption of the state. The KGB ran out of people to control the stolen wealth. There was so much, they had to turn to the mob for help. Money—perestroika was all about vast sums of money, money, money.” Popov let out a long exhale.
“And you didn’t get much, did you? What was it, twenty million, maybe thirty? So many of your peers, people not as smart as you, became just filthy rich, didn’t they? That must be galling.”
“I’m still young enough to put billions to good use. Some of us just have to wait longer in life for our true destiny to unfold. But life is so … tricky. That’s why people have insurance. To make sure they will be kept whole.”
“Insurance is a scam, a legal scam,” said Bennings.
“That, my friend, is cynical. Insurance can be very effective. When one of my mob associates accepts protection money from say, a restaurant, you can be certain that no other bad guys will disturb that place. It’s a certainty. And since I believe that money, money, money does not really work as a motivational tool with you, Major Bennings, I need some insurance.”
Uh-oh. Kit had a bad feeling about where this was going. “I’m happy to take your money, but now I’m wondering if you can afford to pay me two million. No offense.”
“No offense taken. Don’t worry, I’ll give you some money, but you see, like you, I am a spy, too. And just as you knew my twin daughters were murdered, I know something about you. I’ve known from the beginning that just giving you money is not enough. I need some certainty that you will do exactly as I ask and won’t make trouble for me.”
Damn, he’s talking about Staci; we’ve come all the way back to Staci.
The man at the laptop looked up at Popov. “It just came in.”
Popov gestured, and the thug took the laptop over to Bennings and held it in front of him.
“Play the home movie for him.”
The thug clicked on PLAY.
Bennings steeled himself and looked at the screen with dread. Shaky camcorder footage showed the aftermath of the gun battle in Chino Hills. Kit sucked in air audibly as he watched footage showing the bullet-riddled bodies of Maria Carrillo and her husband, Rick. Then the screen went black, and new footage showed Staci being held by a man. Her face was bruised and she looked drugged. The man nudged her and she looked into the camera.
“Kit, they killed Mom and Rick and Maria. But don’t you dare do a damn thing for them!”
A blond woman then entered the shot, grabbed Staci’s wrist, and wrenched it; the sound of bones breaking rang distinct. Staci screamed in utter pain. As the man held her fast, the blonde delivered a crunching kick to Staci’s knee and then threw her to the floor, where she screamed and writhed in agony.
The thug turned off the video.
Bennings silently seethed with rage inside his shackled body. Popov was a dead man walking. He didn’t know how, when, or where, but he would kill the Russian bastard. But he had to be smart; he had to protect Staci; he had to make sure they didn’t hurt her again; he had to set her free. He decided then and there he would do whatever it took, regardless of the consequences to himself. Starting right now, Kit Bennings held no doubt that the course of his life had just been irrevocably altered.
Hi
s mother was dead and his sister kidnapped all because he was sent to Moscow on a mission he didn’t particularly want to be part of. The whole scenario made him unbelievably angry. And anger, not money, worked much better as a motivational tool for Bennings.
Popov nodded to a thug, who then stepped forward and administered a shot into Bennings’s arm with a syringe.
“A sedative that will wear off in an hour,” said Popov.
Bennings almost immediately felt deeply relaxed—too relaxed to move. The thug then cut loose the restraints, and two men lifted him to his feet.
“I’m told your sister is your last living relative. Call me at exactly ten o’clock tonight—not before, not after—and let me know if you want to keep her that way.”
CHAPTER 10
“I can have six men at your mom’s house in ninety minutes,” said Buzz Van Wyke emphatically. A slender man of medium height in his fifties, Van Wyke stood on a café patio talking into his cell phone on a breezy morning, just after 9:00 A.M. in California, with the blue Pacific Ocean just behind him.
“Buzz, I appreciate your willingness to help, but don’t BS me,” said Bennings over his encrypted sat phone in his safe room at his apartment. It was just after 8:00 P.M. in Moscow, and he was putting on his army mess dress uniform that was worn at more-formal social occasions. He washed down four aspirin with hot matcha Japanese green tea with a high caffeine content to shake off the grogginess from the sedative and tend to the throbbing pain from getting slugged with a blackjack. Bennings needed to be sharp, considering what he hoped to do at the ambassador’s ball in honor of Secretary of State Padilla.
“I’m in San Diego,” said Buzz. “Angel Perez came here with me—he’s inside finishing breakfast. We’re visiting my son, Randy, who, if you’ll remember, is on SEAL Team Three down here in Coronado. So it’ll be me, Angel, Randy, and some of his SEAL buddies.”
“I wouldn’t want your son and his friends to get into trouble for helping me.”
“Too late. I’ve told them some of the unsung things you’ve done in service to your country, and I happened to mention some of the times we’ve been in the soup together. Do you think I could keep them away if I wanted to?” asked Buzz.
“Well … please tell them I’m grateful,” said Kit humbly.
“We can make Chino Hills in an hour and a half, no problem. And we won’t go light,” said Buzz, meaning they would be heavily armed.
Buzz Van Wyke was retired from a distinguished thirty-year career with various federal law enforcement and intelligence agencies. But he still worked as a part-time CIA contractor, mainly as a pilot. A smart, levelheaded strategist, Buzz was often sought by Kit for his unofficial counsel on covert operations. A widower and father of three grown children, Buzz wore one of his trademark cardigan sweaters as he chewed on the stem of a pipe, looking more like a soft-spoken professor than a cagey field agent.
“Okay, sounds good,” said Kit. “I called one of my mom’s neighbors, who told me sheriff’s deputies are all over the place. The cops know I’m flying in tomorrow, but I haven’t spoken with them yet. Find out what you can at the crime scene.”
“Will do. I can get us a safe house, too, if that’s okay. The CIA has a few in L.A., and I can access one.”
“Unofficially?” asked Bennings.
“Very unofficially.”
“Do it.”
“Kit … how are you?” asked Buzz with fatherly concern in his voice.
“I’m focused, Buzz. I’m focused. See you tomorrow at LAX.”
* * *
Chino Hills contracts with the San Bernardino County Sheriff’s Department to provide law-enforcement services to its more than seventy-five thousand residents. Homicide Detail Detective Bobby Chan stood in the foyer of the Bennings house and shook his head as he surveyed the maelstrom of activity. Dumb like a fox, he stuffed an entire Snickers bar into his mouth, stuffed the wrapper in his pocket, and wiped his hands on his dark slacks held up with black suspenders.
There was a time when Asians and Asian Americans were generally of smaller physical stature than other races. Those days are long gone, as forty-one-year-old Bobby Chan stood testament to. He measured in at a hulking six feet three inches and was a combination of muscle and flab, weighing in at 285 pounds. He loved watching stand-up comics on TV and was always joking around, mostly as his way of processing the horrible results of violence he witnessed on a daily basis.
“I haven’t seen this much blood since my ex caught me cheating with that Eskimo hooker,” said Chan, trying to get a laugh from some crime scene techs.
“Yeah, but you don’t bleed red, Bobby. You bleed yellow from all the cheap beer you swill,” teased a female crime scene techie.
Chan turned around and saw Sheriff Jim McCain enter the house with an aide. Bobby figured the sheriff would be showing up about now, and he had a spiel ready for his boss.
“So, Bobby, what do you have here?” asked McCain, who sipped from a cup of gas station take-out coffee. The fifty-one-year-old sheriff wore a sharp business suit, colored his hair dark brown, and looked more like a lawyer than a cop.
“This ain’t the kind of crime we see in Chino Hills, that’s for sure, Sheriff. Hell, the last real investigation we ran here, and it’s been a few years, was that rancher who got pinned by his horses up against a gate and was crushed to death.”
“Skip the history and give me the current events.”
“Well, aside from the two victims here—Mr. and Mrs. Carrillo—bloodstains and trails going all the way down the driveway indicate three or four other victims were removed from the scene. Based on the amount of blood, I’d bet at least two, maybe three of them have assumed room temperature by now.”
“What?! You’re saying maybe five homicides here?”
Chan nodded. “Staci Bennings, age thirty-one, is missing. That’s her Audi out front. The Benz belongs to the dead couple here. Forensics will tell us if Staci’s blood is here in the house. If so, chances are she’s worm food, because she didn’t get taken to any area hospitals. But there was a gun battle here, and I’m guessing the other two or three missing bodies are bad guys.”
“Christ almighty, was this some kind of drug beef?”
“No indication of that right now, Sheriff. Bennings and the Carrillos co-own an aviation company out at Chino Airport. Were they up to no good? Give me some time and I’ll tell you.”
“Any neighbors see anything?”
“No, but the neighbors are in agreement they heard maybe fifteen shots. Fifteen to twenty maximum. But we’ve found sixty-seven shell casings and counting. Different calibers. That tells me suppressed weapons. The phone line was cut, the alarm systems are off-line. The attackers shot open the front door. This was one hell of a whack job. A big-time professional hit with enough shooters to make sure the bad guys would win. The perps came in through doors and windows all around the house.”
“So, Bobby, if this Staci Bennings’s blood isn’t present in the house … hell, even if it is, we might have a kidnapping here.”
“I’ll give those knob jobs at the FBI a heads-up. Oh, Staci Bennings has a brother named Kit who’s active-duty military overseas. He called a neighbor and said he’s flying in to LAX tomorrow. I already called DHS and got his flight number,” said Chan, referring to a scrap of paper that contained the flight information provided by the Department of Homeland Security.
The sheriff moved in close to Chan and spoke softly. “I don’t have to remind you that I’m up for reelection, and a whole lot of rich campaign contributors live here in Chino Hills.”
“I’d like a new big-screen TV, so I’m happy to know you’ve authorized unlimited overtime,” said Chan.
“I’m not just talking about OT. I’m signing off for you to bust the budget on this one. Do whatever it takes, and do it yesterday. Send some people to meet Mr. Bennings at LAX and bring him in for questioning.”
“I might just go myself.”
“Take Ron Franklin wi
th you. Partner up with him on this case. I want to know what the hell was going on in this house.”
* * *
Six heavily armed men in two vehicles reconnoitering a busy crime scene on a quiet residential street were the ingredients for a recipe Buzz Van Wyke didn’t care for. So, having arrived in Chino Hills before noon, he sent his son and the other three navy SEALs to the safe house in El Monte, about thirty minutes away. The SEALs were loaning the use of weapons, ammo, radios and communications gear, optics, audio and video surveillance equipment, and other exotic goodies you can’t find at Walmart.
So only Van Wyke and Angel Perez, an army master sergeant currently assigned to the Activity and a longtime friend of Kit Bennings, went to the house in Chino Hills. While Perez waited in the car, ironically enough at the same turnout the killers had used, Van Wyke simply jogged up in running shorts, sweating like a pig, and showed fake credentials, identifying himself as a retired police officer, to a deputy standing at the driveway leading to the Bennings house.
Buzz also pretended to be a local homeowner and soon enough got the deputy talking. Within ten minutes he had most of the same details the sheriff had been given by Homicide Detective Bobby Chan. And what he heard, he didn’t like at all.
CHAPTER 11
For the last eighty years, Spaso House, on 10 Spasopeskovskaya Square, has housed American ambassadors in Moscow. An opulent neoclassical mansion, the residence is ideal for entertaining. Over the decades the historic building has hosted countless meetings, balls, receptions, parties, dinners, concerts, and ceremonies. Bennings had attended two cocktail parties there during the past few months, and so he knew the symmetrical floor plan well.
His first stop was the Chandelier Room, where the gigantic crystal chandelier cast a warm topaz glow from wall to white wall. A pianist tinkled a strain of bossa nova—the secretary of state’s favorite music. The light, lilting melody of Antônio Carlos Jobim’s “Waters of March” rang as counterpoint to Bennings’s heavy, overburdened mind-set. He made a beeline over the lush Oriental carpet centering the room and steered right toward the bar.
