Gambit

by David Hagberg

  Susan was amused. “Screw you,” she said.

  The bell rang, and Susan, wearing a bikini and gossamer wrap, let the two FBI agents into the suite. They were dressed almost identically in dark suits.

  Hammond, in white linen slacks, a short-sleeved, brightly patterned silk shirt unbuttoned halfway down, and no shoes, joined them in the entry hall. “Welcome to Monaco, though I’m not all that surprised you’re here. May I see some identification?”

  Bender and Sherman showed their credentials. “May I ask how you knew we would be showing up?” Bender asked.

  Hammond smiled. It was the first question he’d wanted to be asked. It would immediately establish the relationship. “It’s my business to know who’s coming after me and why,” he said.

  He led them to the dining area, where he and Susan sat across the small table from the two FBI agents. The view from the big windows to the Med was nothing short of magnificent.

  “Would either of you care for coffee?” Susan asked.

  “No, thanks,” Bender said.

  “Then be brief, if you would,” Hammond said.

  “We’d like to ask you a few questions about the death of Ramos Rodriguez, who was in charge of your offices in New York.”

  “It’s actually a liaison unit that did most of its work with the financial advisers to the various UN delegates across the street. I’m sure you know that I have business interests on both sides of the Atlantic, including South America.”

  “Perhaps with Russia and China as well?” Sherman asked.

  “Naturally,” Hammond said. “But if you’ve come to ask me about poor Arturo’s death, I’m afraid I can’t help. In any event, I was told that it was an accident, and I sincerely hope you’re not here to tell me otherwise.”

  “There is some evidence that it may have been the result of foul play,” Sherman said. “Especially coming so soon after the death of a Russian diplomat your man met with earlier.”

  Hammond had to keep from laughing. The stupid bastards were so oblivious it was almost painful. “I read about it—Kuprik, I think. Arturo told me that they had been trying to put together some sort of a project.”

  “What sort of a project?” Bender asked.

  “Something to do with cell phones, but I’m not sure of the specific details except that it had promise. Are you suggesting there may have been a connection?”

  “It’s too early to say.”

  Hammond looked away for a moment as if he were gathering his thoughts. Susan sat straight-faced.

  “I have to say that Arturo’s death came as a shock to us all.”

  “Is that why you closed your office in the middle of the night?” Sherman asked.

  “The place was hemorrhaging money without producing anything concrete. Actually, I decided several months ago to move those liaison duties to my main office in LA.”

  “Why move out so abruptly?”

  “It’s the way that I do business.”

  Sherman started to say something else, but Bender held her off.

  “Would you have any idea why Mr. Rodriguez may have been murdered?”

  “If it was murder and not an accident, I can think of a dozen possible motives and suspects,” Hammond said. “Starting with the Chile’s ANI—that’s their intelligence agency. And of course North Korea, Pakistan, and, believe it or not, Russia. Someone in Moscow might have thought we were stirring up a hornet’s nest with the cell phone deal.”

  Again, Sherman started to say something, but again Bender held her off and stood up. “Thank you for your cooperation, sir,” he said.

  “Anytime,” Hammond said.

  The FBI officers went to the door, where they paused and Bender turned back. “Does the name Kirk McGarvey ring a bell?”

  It was the one question Hammond had expected. “Yes. The son of a bitch screwed me out of a significant amount of money a couple of years ago. And it pissed me off.”

  * * *

  On the way down in the elevator, Sherman was the first to speak. “What do you think?”

  “He’s involved, I’d bet my retirement account on it,” Bender said. “Now let’s go talk to Mr. McGarvey.”

  SIXTY-ONE

  The afternoon was getting on, and Vetrov stood looking out the small window to the left of the aircraft access door at the comings and goings of the airport, normal for a capital city, though nothing had taken off or landed during the long night.

  His people were well trained and patient, and he was proud of them. His worries that they might lose their edge over a twenty-four-hour delay, after the emotional upheaval on base, had been unfounded, and he was glad.

  They’d thrown themselves into the calisthenics through the day and played poker almost straight through the last twelve hours, showing absolutely no signs of being keyed up for the coming op. If they had any remorse over agreeing to dishonorable discharges, none of them had showed any signs of it so far.

  The provisions aboard were either microwave meals or reconstituted items of the same variety cosmonauts still took into space, including powdered eggs, but again, none of the men had complained.

  Ilich Silin came across from the aircraft with a bottle in hand.

  “Where’d you find that?” Vetrov asked.

  “In one of the secured lockers,” Selin said, grinning. “It’s not vodka, but it’s a credible French cognac.”

  He passed the half-empty bottle to Vetrov, who took a deep draft. It was good.

  “How much have the men had to drink?”

  “This was the only bottle.”

  “Dawbruhy”—Good—Vetrov said. He took another draft, then tossed the bottle end over end toward the corner, where it smashed on the concrete floor.

  “Yeb vas,” Silin said, but he shrugged. “Just as well if this American son of a bitch is as good as you say he is.”

  “His wife is also a trained CIA agent, and by all accounts, she’s pretty good herself.”

  “Is our brief to take her out, too?” Silin asked, the dour look back on his face.

  “No, but I think it will be inevitable.”

  “What are our orders concerning civilians who might get in the way?”

  “We’ll be jumping at 0200, so I suspect there won’t be many out and about at that hour.”

  “I meant afterward, when we’ve changed clothes and show up in Livadi for our reservations on the morning ferry?”

  “We’re leaving without weapons,” Vetrov said.

  Silin started to object, but Vetrov held him off.

  “If we have to kill the crew and passengers and hijack the ferry for whatever reason, we won’t need force of arms.”

  “True,” Silin said.

  “I want a total equipment check in thirty minutes, after which we’ll have something to eat and then hit the rack. The crew will be back around 2400 to prep, and we should be wheels up at 0100.”

  “Yes, sir,” Silin said, saluting. He did an about-face and went back to the Gulfstream.

  Vetrov turned inward. Not everyone would survive the mission if McGarvey actually lived up to his rep. The former DCI was fifty, about the age when a man began to lose his edge, but they couldn’t count on him being slow.

  Vetrov had given a lot of thought to having his wife join him wherever he ended up. Finland, he thought, or perhaps Norway or Sweden. Even Ukraine, where he could offer his services.

  * * *

  Pete had found some canned oysters in a lemon-and-olive-oil sauce, along with a Spanish potato salad, a package of pita bread in the freezer, and a jar of tzatziki sauce in the pantry. It was late afternoon, the day still warm, but with a pleasant breeze off the Aegean that reached all the way up the hill to them. And they sat outside by the saltwater pool enjoying their scratch supper with a bottle of Retsina wine.

  “We’ll need to restock the fridge and pantry pretty soon,” Pete said. “I could take the Mini Cooper into town and be back in a jiffy.”

  McGarvey had been thinking about the next attac
k, which was why he had decamped here, where any collateral damage would be minimal. The islanders—and there were only around fifteen hundred of them, a lot of them spread out in hillside homes, with almost no one in the hot, dry interior—had no idea that anything bad was about to happen. Because nothing bad ever did happen since the Romans used it as an island for exiles.

  The lighthouse was at the end of the peninsula that jutted out into the city and looked down over the deep, almost unreal blue water of the bay and back toward Livadi. Only a few buildings were between them and the base of the peninsula and road, the last section of which he had built, that led down into the town.

  So far, whoever was directing the attacks had a good source of intelligence, so they knew where the lighthouse was located. If someone was coming, it would be at night.

  “We’re sticking together,” he said.

  “You think it’s going to happen tonight?”

  “Yes, before we get a chance to settle in.”

  Pete looked down at the bay, beautiful and peaceful just now, and she shook her head. “They’ve got some goddamned good intel and a lot of balls to come after us,” she said. “But who and why?”

  McGarvey phoned Otto, who answered as usual on the first ring. It was just before noon in Washington.

  “How are you guys?”

  “We’re at the lighthouse having supper. But I think whatever’s going to happen will be tonight. The question is, where the hell are they getting their intel? Has Lou come up with anything? Even a hint?”

  “To this point, she has a fairly high confidence, near 60 percent, that whoever is behind this shit has access to a government-level intelligence source. She’s actually lowered Hammond’s probability because she doesn’t think even someone with his money would have that kind of a connection.”

  “What does it smell like?”

  “The GRU,” Otto said without hesitation.

  “Then let’s take a look at Hammond’s business connections with anyone in Russia. Especially business deals that have gone bad in the past—in which case, someone might owe him a favor—or business deals in the making that could make use of Hammond’s connections anywhere in the world outside Russia’s borders.”

  “That could take a while, but I’m on it,” Otto said.

  Pete held up a hand.

  “Hang on,” McGarvey told Otto.

  “You’re assuming that Hammond is behind this thing,” Pete said. “But we don’t have a shred of direct evidence. So you guys had better not narrow your vision so that you ignore something else that might be staring us in the face.”

  “Did you hear that?” McGarvey asked.

  “Yes, and she’s right,” Otto said. “And it’s my fault. I’ve given Lou too short a leash. She’s not completely AI yet, which means she tends to interpret everything literally. I’m going to have to do a major tweak to her programming to let her think outside the box, but without getting swamped by minutiae like what’s always bogged down the NSA’s telephone intercept programs.”

  “My bet is still on Hammond,” McGarvey said. “Just a gut feeling.”

  “I’m on it,” Otto said. “In the meantime, what’s your plan for tonight? Are you guys going to bunker in and let them come to you?”

  “No. We’re going out into the field after dark and set up our own ambush.”

  SIXTY-TWO

  Twenty minutes out from Athens International Airport, Bender got a phone call from his boss, Harold Kallek. It was around five in the afternoon local, which put it at eleven in the morning in D.C.

  “Clarke, do you want to tell me what the hell you’re doing?” the head of the FBI demanded. He did not sound happy.

  “Good morning, Mr. Director,” Bender said. “We’re following up on a couple of leads that I felt had to be done in face-to-face interviews. Has Mr. Thalley complained that I commandeered one of his agents?” Morton Thalley was the New York SAC.

  “No. But I just got off the phone with one of Thomas Hammond’s attorneys, who wanted to know why the hell you were harassing his client.”

  “I asked him for information on the death of his employee who’d apparently been working with a Russian diplomatic aide who was murdered the night before.”

  “Not your case.”

  “No, sir. But my real reason for interviewing the man was to find out if he knew Mr. McGarvey.”

  “And?”

  “He said—his words: ‘The son of a bitch screwed me out of a significant amount of money a couple of years ago. And it pissed me off.’”

  “We already knew that,” Kallek said.

  “Yes, sir. But I wanted to know if he still harbored any resentment. It’s obvious he does.”

  “It doesn’t rise to the level of a conspirator. From what I understand of the man, he’s a ruthless bastard, but not a murderer.”

  “I don’t know, sir. But I got the distinct impression that if he’d had a gun in his hand and McGarvey were standing in front of him, he wouldn’t have hesitated to pull the trigger.”

  “Right now, it’s a moot point. We have no chain of evidence linking Hammond to the attempts that were made on McGarvey’s life.”

  “No, sir, but I have established a motive.”

  “A possible motive,” Kallek said. “Where are you at this moment?”

  “We’ll be landing in Athens in a few minutes, and from there, we’re going to take a helicopter out to Serifos.”

  “McGarvey will send you packing if he doesn’t shoot you.”

  “I don’t think the latter is a real possibility, sir.”

  “Of course not, but he’s not likely to cooperate with you. So what do you hope to gain?”

  “His reaction when I tell him about our interview with Hammond.”

  Kallek was silent for a beat or two, and when he came back, his tone was measured. “I want you to hear me, Mr. Bender. Are you and Mrs. Sherman armed?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Under no circumstances will you remain on the island after your interview. As a matter of fact, I want you to have the helicopter service hold until you’re finished, and return you immediately to Athens International, where you will come home.”

  “That was my intention. Just the interview to gauge Mr. McGarvey’s reaction.”

  “After which, you will leave. Am I clear?”

  “Perfectly, Mr. Director.”

  * * *

  Hammond and Susan came up from the beach before six to change for an early dinner. He wanted to walk over to the casino and play some high-stakes baccarat. They had talked a little about the game and the players usually found around the tables these days—mostly Russian and Chinese megarich who had replaced Arabs after oil prices had dropped to drastically low levels.

  They had avoided discussing the visit by the FBI agents at the hotel earlier until now. Hammond came out of the shower, a towel around his waist. Susan was in the sitting room in a bra and panties sipping champagne, her makeup already done.

  “Do you think it’ll happen tonight?” she asked.

  He didn’t have to ask what she meant. “I don’t know, but I hope so. I want it to be over and done with.”

  “Me, too,” Susan said, and she was a lot more subdued than she usually was.

  Hammond thought that she was frightened. He went across to her and kissed the nape of her neck.

  She leaned back against him. “Let’s get the hell out of here and go home.”

  “When it’s over.”

  “Now. Call the crew and have them prep the plane. We can pack up and leave. Hell, we can just get out of here with the clothes on our backs; the hotel will send our stuff to us, or burn it for all I give a shit.”

  Hammond sat down across from her. “I want this to be over with as much as you do, because our lives are on hold until it is.”

  “Walk away from it, Tom.”

  “I can’t.”

  “Because of your deal with the Russians, or because you still want this fucking thing to happen
?”

  “Both.”

  “You’re out of your mind. We don’t need more money, and this is just a goddamned game. Stupid.”

  She was right, of course. He’d known it from the moment he’d learned that the first attempt to kill McGarvey had failed. And yet in a perverse way, he’d been glad that McGarvey had won that round and the next two. It was what he’d wanted from the beginning, though after each failure, he’d become truly afraid for his own life. As if he’d actually gone mano a mano with the man himself.

  He’d read somewhere that after a man had done some ridiculously impossible feat—like scaling Mount Everest or crossing an ocean in a canoe—he would look back as the adrenaline faded and think about doing the next impossible thing. The rush was almost sexual.

  It was almost the same with this thing, and he’d been willing to lose the first few rounds, lose a few pieces to gain the bigger prize. A gambit play.

  And just now, he was close.

  The Russian phone lying on the dresser in the bedroom chimed, and Hammond got up to answer it.

  “The operation is in the works for tonight,” Tarasov said. “I want you two to stay where you are, act normally.”

  “We’re going to the casino and then dinner afterward.”

  “Perfect. I’ll let you know when it’s done.”

  “You won’t have to make the call; it’ll be all over the news.”

  “Yes, and then you’ll have to get to work on our deal,” Tarasov said. “I don’t give a shit about McGarvey; I never have. He’s your game. This is just quid pro quo.”

  “There’ll have to be a delay. At least a month to let the hue and cry die down.”

  “We want you to start immediately.”

  “You’re not listening. The goddamned FBI is already on my case. If all of a sudden I start working on a deal for Gazprom, the CIA is bound to pick up on it. McGarvey is no friend of Putin’s, and the connection will be made.”

  “I don’t care.”

  “What the fuck do you mean, you don’t care? Killing a former CIA director is a big deal, bigger if it’s traced to you guys. And it’s a Spetsnaz team who’ll be doing the shooting. How obvious can you get?”