by Terry Toler
“I can take care of myself.”
“But he’ll want to have sex with you.”
Jamie hit Alex in the chest playfully with her fist. “You’re jealous.”
“I’m not jealous. Just worried about you.”
“This is the first time I’ve seen you jealous before.”
“I’m not… I think you should tell Brad. Get his permission first.”
“Why? I’m still on mission. I’m gathering intelligence. There’s no telling what I might find in his room. His computer and his cell phone. I’ll take a thumb drive with me and download all his information.”
“If we’re going to do this then we need a plan,” he said reluctantly.
“We?” Jamie said. “Does this mean you’re going to help me?”
Alex rolled his eyes and let out another, louder, sigh. “If you’re going to his suite, then I’m going to help you. If he lays one hand on you, I’ll…”
Jamie sidled up next to Alex, and kissed him playfully on the neck. “You’ll what?”
“I’ll kill him.”
“You’re sexy when you’re jealous.”
“Like I said, we need a plan,” he said, ignoring her comment and her advances. “The problem is not getting you into his suite, it’s getting you out of it. Alive.”
***
Alex went out and got some food. Chinese. They were both starving.
For two hours, they worked on a plan at the kitchen table after it was cleared of the remnants of the meal that had no leftovers this time. They went through each detail carefully. Meticulously.
Jamie was glad Alex was as attentive to the details as she was. They worked well together. The plan had its risks, but they did everything they could to minimize them.
Alex yawned, causing Jamie to do the same. The plan didn’t call for them to get any sleep that night. They would be leaving soon. For the storage unit. To steal the nukes.
They both jumped when the satellite phone rang again.
Brad.
Jamie looked at Alex. He returned the stare.
Alex picked up the phone and sent it to voicemail. “It’s like Curly always said,” Alex began.
“It’s easier to ask forgiveness than permission,” they both said in unison.
24
Liberty Square, Friday night, 10:00 p.m.
Lieutenant Petrov and Detective Fabi were standing in the middle of the square trying to figure out how the horrific scene in front of them had unfolded. Fabi immediately suspected that the American woman was involved. Petrov hadn’t mentioned the possibility. He didn’t know everything Fabi knew.
Fabi had questioned a man walking his dog on the sidewalk past the Holy Spirit Church just as the gunfire broke. He related that a slender man dressed in all black shot the two men in the Jeep. He didn’t see who had shot the man lying on the ground just off the sidewalk or who had shot the other two men on the other side of the square.
“What happened next?” Fabi asked.
“Two men jumped out of the sedan. Over there,” the man said as he pointed to a four-door car parked on the street. They came out guns blazing. They chased the man in black. Down toward the river. That’s the last I saw of them. That’s when I took off.”
“Could the man in black have been a woman?” Fabi asked.
“I suppose,” he said. “The person I saw was very thin. I saw him or her running toward the Jeep. Running fast. He was shooting and so I ducked down.”
The dead man on the ground off the sidewalk was the Minister of Transportation, Denys Onufeychuk. The same man Fabi had seen go into the American woman’s hotel room, just two nights ago. Well, he hadn’t actually seen him go into her hotel room, but he did go up to the third floor. Obviously, to see her. Who else was he going to meet? Now he was dead in the square. The person dressed in black sounded like it could have been her.
Good information, but he wasn’t yet ready to share it with the Lieutenant. He wanted to solve this case on his own.
Lieutenant Petrov bent over and picked up a handgun while holding it with a handkerchief.
“This is Russian,” Petrov said. “A Makarov pistol. “What’s it doing here? Four of the dead men are Middle Eastern. They all had machine guns near their bodies. What do the Russians have to do with this? I know Denys. He didn’t carry a gun. Or at least that I knew of. Even if he did, this isn’t what he would carry.”
Fabi thought he knew. A gang called the Red Spades had stolen a load of Makarov pistols from the Brotherhood, a Russian gang operating in Belarus. A member of the Red Spades was laying in the hospital with a concussion. The older brother of one of the boys attacked by the American woman. It couldn’t be a coincidence. Fabi would bet a month’s salary the American woman took the gun off of the gang member and used it to kill the Middle Eastern men to make it look like a gang shooting.
More information he was keeping from the Lieutenant. More his speculation than anything. He needed proof and was determined to get it. This was his chance to make a name for himself.
“From the best I can tell,” the Lieutenant said, “two men drove the Jeep onto the sidewalk, up to Denys, made him lie on the ground and then shot him in the back. Probably from over there.” He pointed. “There are tire marks on the street. That’s where it starts to not make sense. Who are the two dead men over on the other side of the park?” Petrov was speaking out loud but seemingly more to himself than to Fabi.
“Maybe the four of them were together,” Fabi said. “You see that car over there, the sedan.”
Petrov looked that direction. Though dark, the street illuminated the car. Lampposts every few feet lit up the square all night every night.
“Here’s what I think,” Fabi said. “The two dead men over there were in the sedan. They saw their friends get shot here by a third person. They came running and chased the man across the square. The man shot them over by the building, and then disappeared.”
“That’s very insightful, Fabi. I’m impressed. You keep working on that. Check out the sedan. Run the plates. And the plates on the Jeep. Let’s meet first thing in the morning to discuss.”
Fabi wished he hadn’t spoken up. He scored some points with the boss, but now he was given a bunch of busywork to do. At least, the Lieutenant had still kept him on the case. Now he had a reason to investigate the girl.
“I’m going to go call President Bobrinsky,” Petrov said. “Someone has to tell him about the Minister. He’s not going to like being woke up in the middle of the night. Can’t be helped. You stay here and keep working the scene.”
Petrov lit a cigarette and walked off.
Fabi welcomed being alone. He needed to think things through. The American woman was obviously extremely dangerous. She had killed four men, maybe five if you counted the Minister of Transportation. Fabi decided to go to her hotel room. Confront her. Search her room for black clothes. Any other evidence.
He touched his gun for reassurance. He might need it at her hotel. He had the element of surprise. She had skill. Hopefully, she was sleeping and still trying to pretend she wasn’t involved.
He started walking that way when his phone rang, startling him. Who would be calling him in the middle of the night? It wasn’t the Lieutenant. He could still see him at a distance walking toward his car. He had the cigarette in his hand, not his phone.
Unknown Caller. “Hello,” he said hesitantly.
“Hello, Detective.”
A woman’s voice!
Fear pulsed through him.
The American!
“Do you want to know what happened tonight in the square?” she asked.
“Come into the station and let’s talk about it,” he replied, trying to sound confident, but his hand was shaking, his voice cracking.
“Meet me at the Old Water Tower. Ten minutes. Come alone.”
The line went dead.
Fabi stopped walking, his feet frozen in place. The woman was involved. Why was she calling him? Was it a trap? He
had to know. He thought about calling his boss.
I can do this.
Indecision scrambled his thoughts. He couldn’t decide what to do. This might be over his head.
I should call for backup.
If he did. The Lieutenant would find out about it and take the case away from him. Take all the credit as well. No! He had to do this himself. This was what he’d trained for his whole life. Petrov had said to keep working the scene. That’s what he was going to do. Solve the case. Be a hero.
Fabi walked in the direction of his car. Excited, but scared to death. His hand shook as he tried to get the key in the lock and then into the ignition to start it. One glance in the rearview mirror confirmed the deep bags under his eyes. Sleep had been hard to come by since the American woman had come to town. He took a deep breath, wanting to exhale slowly but letting it all out in one quick rush of air.
Immediately, he wished he had the air back as a familiar voice shook him to his core, to the point he was unable to take a breath.
“Hello, Fabi,” she said. “It’s nice to see you again. Let’s go for a drive.” The American woman flashed a gun. Not pointing it directly at him but letting him know she had it in her hand.
Fear overwhelmed him.
From the scene at the square, she obviously knew how to use it.
***
Royal Presidential Palace, Friday night, 10:40 p.m.
A phone rang, startling President Bobrinsky, waking him from a deep sleep. He looked at the clock. Only ten forty. It seemed later. He generally went to bed early. A phone call this late was never good. Usually meant some kind of national emergency. It had been awhile since he’d been disturbed at night.
He pulled the phone off the table and hit accept, fully awake now. He had that ability. This wasn’t the first time he’d been called in the middle of the night and wouldn’t be the last. Came with the job. He’d more than likely have to get up, so he might as well wake up.
“Yes,” he said, firmly.
“Comrade, this is Nika Petrov.” Petrov was the Lieutenant of the Militsia.
Local issue.
Very unusual for the Lieutenant to be calling him. Especially at night.
“I’m sorry to call you so late, my friend,” Petrov continued. “I’m afraid I have bad news. A mutual friend of ours is dead.”
Petrov served with Bobrinsky years ago in the Russian forces, and they became good friends, although they rarely talked now that he was President.
“Go ahead.”
“Denys was murdered tonight. Assassinated, apparently.” The three men had shared many drinks together over the years, although it had been many years.
“What happened?”
“There was a gunfight in Liberty Square.”
“Yes. I knew about that.” One of his aides briefed him before he went to bed. The press had been restricted from going to the scene or reporting on it. A statement would be released when he had more information. Hopefully, the worldwide press hadn’t yet gotten wind of it. Probably gang related.
He got out of the bed. Hearing the name Denys had raised concerns.
“There are also four Middle Eastern men dead in the square.”
Asaf! The fool.
His men were to follow Denys, bring him in alive for questioning. If he didn’t move quickly the fallout and information might not be contained. No one could know that Denys was a traitor.
“I’d like for you to keep me posted personally,” the President said. “On the investigation.”
“Of course.”
Bobrinsky hung up the phone and immediately dialed Asaf’s number. He answered on the first ring. As soon as he spoke, the President knew he hadn’t been sleeping.
“I told you that Denys was to be taken alive,” the President said, roughly.
“Those were the instructions I gave my men. I’m trying to figure it all out now. They were ambushed by someone in the square.”
“Who?”
“I have no idea. My men are all dead. They can’t say,” Asaf said.
“Can they be tied to you?”
“Of course, not. They can’t be tied to either of us. But it does complicate things. I think we should conduct our business sooner.”
The plan had been to transfer the nuclear briefcase to Asaf on Monday morning. They didn’t know what they were dealing with or what the fallout from the shooting in the square would be. The President could easily cover it up, but he didn’t know what he would be covering up. Who killed Denys? Who killed Asaf’s men?
Bobrinsky rubbed his eyes hard. Thinking. “I agree,” he finally said. “Let’s do the transfer Sunday morning instead of Monday. Nine o’clock. At the Ekores. You transfer the money then, and we’ll give you the package.”
Bobrinsky hung up the phone without waiting for a response and dialed another number. The man in charge of security at Ekores, Gyorky Guzmich.
“Commander,” Gyorky answered on the third ring. He sounded groggy. The President’s number came up on the caller ID for all phones he called in Belarus. He insisted that everyone know it was him when he called so they would take it immediately and answer with the proper respect.
“There’s been a change of plans,” Bobrinsky said. “I need for the briefcase to be ready for transfer on Sunday morning, nine a.m., not Monday as we originally planned.”
“As you wish. My men are working on the container to transport the device. It’s not ready yet. But will be by tomorrow night. I will oversee putting the briefcase in the container myself.”
“Excellent. Call me if there are any complications.”
Bobrinsky hung up the phone, satisfied the situation was handled. Denys’s death was probably the best thing. Now the secret of his treason would die with him, and there was nothing he could do to stop the transfer. Maybe I can go back to sleep after all.
***
The following night, 1:30 a.m.
For the second night in a row, Bobrinsky’s phone rang and awakened him from another sound sleep—later this time. It took him longer to get his bearings. He’d had a little too much to drink the night before and immediately felt the effects of it when he sat up in bed. The call was from Gyorky.
Strange that he would be calling. He suddenly remembered he told him to call if there were any complications. There shouldn’t be any. Gyorky was to work all night to get the briefcase ready for the handoff in the morning.
“Yes,” Bobrinsky said wearily as he answered the phone.
“We have a situation,” Gyorky said, his voice giving away his nervousness.
“What is it? Why are you calling me?” Bobrinsky asked, suddenly alarmed and more awake.
A brief pause and then Gyorky spoke. His words were slow and measured. “The briefcases are missing.”
“What do you mean missing?” Bobrinsky shouted, fully awake now.
“They’re gone. We opened the room where they were stored, and all four briefcases are gone.”
“That’s impossible! Who took them?”
“Last night, a few hours before you called me, Denys Onufeychuk, entered the facility.”
“Denys?” The last name he expected Gyorky to mention. “How do you know Denys was there, and what was he doing?”
“He used his government badge to get through security. We have a record of his badge being scanned.”
“What time was that?”
“Twelve forty-three a.m.”
“Thursday night?”
“No. Friday night. Right after midnight.”
“I’m confused. Are you saying that Denys entered the facility last night and not the night before?”
“Correct.”
The President knew that was impossible. Denys was killed more than four hours before then. Asaf! “I’ll get back to you,” the President said.
He hung up the phone and dialed Asaf’s number. It went straight to voicemail. He got out of bed, found a number to the California Hotel and dialed it.
“Get me Omer
Asaf’s room. This is President Bobrinsky.” His name would have already come up on caller ID.
“One moment please,” the woman said and put him on hold. She came back shortly and said, “There is no answer in his suite.”
“Send security to his suite right now. Enter his room. Have him detained. Call me back as soon as you have done so.” He gave the attendant the main number for the Royal Palace switchboard.
A few minutes later, the phone on his desk rang. The hotel was calling.
“Comrade, Mr. Asaf is not in his room. We do not know where he is. He was here earlier this evening. But no one has seen him for several hours.”
Bobrinsky hung up the phone and calmly got the palace operator back on the line. He felt no fear, having dealt with difficult situations all his adult life. War. Revolution. His ascension to power. The breakup of the Soviet Union. He would not jump to conclusions until he knew the facts.
He suspected Asaf had Denys killed and stole his security badge. He used the badge to access the facility and then stole the briefcase nukes. If true, he would be trying to leave the country without having paid for them. Asaf had a private plane at the airport. Bobrinsky hoped he wasn’t too late.
“Mr. President,” the operator said. “How may I help you?”
“Get me the head of security at the airport. Whoever’s working tonight.
I’ll hold.”
A few minutes later, Bogdan Yonaslovich was on the line. “Is Omer Asaf’s plane still at the airport?” the president asked.
“Let me check, sir.”
Bobrinsky was put on hold.
“No sir. It left a few hours ago. I’m told a limousine came in at 11:43, and he boarded the plane at that time. It took off a few minutes later.”
Bobrinsky himself had given instructions to the airport security that Asaf could come and go as he pleased and was not to be searched or harassed. He had no one to blame but himself.
“Where was it going?”
“I’ll ask, sir.”
The phone was silent, but he could hear Bogdan talking to someone in the background. “It filed a flight plan for Turkey.”
“Where is it now?”
“I have a man looking as we speak.”
“Is it still in our airspace?” Bobrinsky asked, even though he knew the answer. It would already be halfway to Turkey. Would there still be time to scramble planes and intercept it before it got to Turkey? “I need it’s exact location,” Bobrinsky said with urgency.
