by Alex Carlson
“Can you determine where the boat is going?”
“From the size of it, my guess is it ain’t going too far. It’s definitely not leaving the Baltic. Denmark or Sweden maybe? They’re closest.”
“To the east, Poland isn’t far. And then you have Lithuania, Latvia, and Estonia. Finland, too.”
“Right. And don’t forget Kaliningrad,” said Rhys, referring to the Russian oblast located on the coast, tucked between Poland and Lithuania. “It’s all fitting together, Lucinda, and it has Russia written all over it.”
“Get the boat’s name and its flag. If necessary, it can be intercepted at sea. Your job is Bashir. Don’t be too aggressive. More people are on the way.”
The Gdansk Bay Shipping Company was a small operation with four vessels that served the cities of Rostock, Gdansk, Kaliningrad, and Ventspils in Latvia. Tonight’s cargo was going straight to Kaliningrad, foregoing the usual stop in Gdansk. The office manager was on the phone explaining the special circumstances and promising that the next vessel would bring the usual cargo to Gdansk the following morning. There was yelling on the other end of the phone and McClellum appreciated the manager’s poise and ability to pacify the angry Pole. The manager held all the cards, so it was never in doubt, but he clearly had good personal skills, what you wouldn’t expect by looking at him. But Terry was drunk from the vodka and getting sleepy. The evening had not been as exciting as Dmitri had suggested it would be.
Rhys approached carefully, using the shadow of the waterfront building and the stacks of pallets to hide his advance. His eyes were on the Gdansk Bay Shipping Company when a tall man stepped to the open door of the office and gave instructions to one of the men hanging around outside.
The man outside flicked his cigarette to the ground, walked to the van, and opened the side door. He helped the figure inside to his feet. It was Bashir. He was barely able to stand and seemed entirely lifeless. He was compliant and docile as the man led him by the arm around the van and to the boat. He didn’t put Bashir on the boat, just stood him up next to it. He then stepped away and seemed to command Bashir the way you would tell a dog to stay.
Rhys didn’t understand any of it. Bashir just stood there. In the silence, Rhys swore that he heard a distinct click, like that of a camera. But you hear all sorts of things on a waterfront. It was nothing. He didn’t think more of it and the man returned to Bashir, who allowed himself to be led back to the van.
Damnedest thing, thought Rhys.
He reconnected with Stirewalt.
“Bashir is here. Don’t know what’s going on, but he seems to have been drugged or something. Also, the name of the boat is Baltic Daughter and the flag is Russian.”
Through the phone Rhys could hear the sound of Lucinda scratching the information with a razor sharp no. 2 pencil.
“Rhys, if Bashir—“
“Wait,” said Adler, cutting her off. He saw something through the shipping company’s window that boggled his mind. “Hang on a second.”
She remained silent, knowing not to disturb.
“Um, Lucinda, you’re not going to believe this,” Rhys said when he returned to the conversation. “Ambassador McClellum is here, inside the office. He’s wearing a baseball cap.”
It took Lucinda all of five seconds to realize the gravity of the situation and to dictate what needed to be done.
“Rhys, stay back. You’ll need to get him out of there.”
“Is he involved in this?”
“I don’t know. If so, it’s out of stupidity.”
“Or treason.” Rhys let it hang there. He didn’t know if McClellum was just plain stupid or treasonously ambitious. He didn’t care. “Look, Lucinda, if I have to choose between Bashir and McClellum, it won’t be a tough decision.”
“Our priorities have changed. First the ambassador, then Bashir. We’ll get them both. I’ll call McClellum and get him to leave the building. How can he find you?”
Rhys exhaled, frustrated with the whole damn situation. “Tell him to walk past the sedan and to keep walking along the pier for about a hundred yards. Tell him to be all casual and to be alone. I’ll find him.”
McClellum’s phone rang. He looked at the display and saw that it was Stirewalt. “It’s Lucinda,” he said to Dmitri. “I’m guessing they aren’t too pleased with my disappearing act.”
He answered the phone. “Ambassador McClellum,” he said. He was still tickled by his new title.
“Ambassador, it’s Stirewalt. Don’t make any sudden reactions or movements. I know where you are and you need to get out of there. Casually go outside for some privacy.”
McClellum put his hand over the phone and looked to Petrov. “She’s pissed,” he said with a conspiratorial smile. “I need to take this,” he said, excusing himself and walking outside the office. Once in the open air and out of earshot, he said, “Are you following me?” He was angry.
“Ambassador, no. We’re following other business and you walked into the middle of it. You need to walk along the water for a hundred yards and you’ll be picked up by one of my men.”
McClellum walked toward the boat, further out of earshot of the office.
Rhys watched McClellum walk outside the building with his phone to his ear. He talked for a moment and then walk closer to the boat.
Click.
There it was again! Rhys looked around for the source of the sound. When he looked back, he saw McClellum walking slowly toward him.
That’s it. Keep walking, asshole.
McClellum walked in the direction Stirewalt had told him to go, but suddenly stopped. He had already gone maybe fifty yards but had no intention of being told what to do.
“You might think you are watching other business here,” McClellum said to Stirewalt, “but your assessment of it is wrong. The Russians aren’t as evil as you seem to think. And you were telling me that the Cold War was over.” His words were slurred, despite his attempt to sound crisp and forceful.
“Ambassador, this isn’t out of one of your spy books. Any association with what is going on there will do damage to the United States. You need to leave now. I’ll explain it when you’re in.”
“I will do no such thing. We will discuss this in my office tomorrow morning.” He ended the call.
Chapter Twenty-one
Rhys tackled him. It was as gentle a tackle as 190-pound man could make. He broke their fall with one hand while clamping the ambassador’s mouth with the other. Still, the pier provided no soft landing and McClellum landed hard on his shoulder and the force of it made his teeth chatter.
Rhys held him as he tried to shout through the palm firmly clasped on his face.
“Ssshhhh,” said Rhys. “You’re alright. Be calm. I’m gonna to get you out of here, but you need to cooperate. Do you understand?”
The ambassador nodded and Rhys relaxed his hold. McClellum turned and recognized Rhys as the man who had pulled him out of Maxime’s.
“No, no, no. Not you again. You are dangerous. I—“
“Stop! Either you’ve bumbled your way into another fucked up situation or you’re a bigger bastard than anyone thought. For now, I think it’s the former. If you give me any reason to believe you’re in on Petrov’s plans, then I’ll knock you out and drag you out of here.”
McClellum opened his mouth to say something, but Rhys eyeballed him hard and the ambassador went limp.
Rhys scanned the area. There was no indication that they had been watching the ambassador when he had been knocked down. The men hanging outside the shipping office weren’t acting like they had seen anything to which they should react. He doubted there’d be anyone else walking along the pier at this time of night, which was fortunate, because he’d drag McClellum out of the area by his hair if he had to.
“Come,” Rhys said, pulling McClellum by the arm. The ambassador was obedient, though Rhys could feel the man’s reluctance, fear, and general anger at being told what to do. He walked like a disappointed child, hunched ov
er, his arms hanging limply. They moved another fifty yards along the pier and ducked behind a high stack of pallets. The ground was soft with layers of seagull shit. The air smelled of salt and old wet rope.
The distance to the corner of the waterfront building wasn’t far, but it was exposed and they’d have to time it right. If they made it around that corner without being seen, they’d be able to hide undetected down one of the side streets until the cavalry arrived.
Rhys heard a voice shouting by the shipping office and looked back to see several men starting to scan the area. Clearly the ambassador’s absence had been noticed. They’d have to move fast now. He heard some command in Russian and the men began to fan out, but they were still relaxed, caring more about their cigarettes and trying to stay warm than about McClellum’s whereabouts. Then one reached the spot where Rhys had tackled McClellum and bent down. When he stood up, he had a Yankees cap in his hand.
“You dropped your hat,” Rhys said.
“Shall I go back for it?” It was meant as a joke, but Rhys wasn’t in the mood so he didn’t acknowledge it.
“They know something has happened to you.” Sure enough, the hat-finder gave a yell and the men became more focused. They quickened their paces and looked about more keenly, searching behind stacks of pallets and the tiny sheds that dappled the pier.
Rhys looked down at the ambassador’s shoes. Good enough. “Are you ready to run?”
McClellum nodded, suddenly looking more scared than he had been.
Rhys pulled out his Glock and held it in his hand. McClellum shuddered at the sight of it. “We’re aiming to go around that corner,” Rhys said, pointing in the direction. “They’ll probably see us, but if we can make it around the corner, then we have options, we can find a place to hide. I don’t know if we’ll make it, but we’ll definitely be caught if we stay here. Are you ready?”
McClellum nodded.
“Okay,” said Rhys. “One...two...—“
McClellum stood up and moved away from the pallets, his hands raised in the air. “I’m here! I’m here!” he shouted, getting the Russians’ attention. “He’s got a gun!” he shouted, pointing at Rhys.
Just about every man searching whipped out a gun and aimed it in their general direction. One was a little too aggressive on the trigger and he fired off a shot, which didn’t come close.
Rhys squeezed off two shots of his own. McClellum dove to the ground and Rhys kneeled in front of him as a Russian returned fire, three quick shots, the third of which hit the nearby stack of pallets.
“Not smart,” Rhys said to McClellum, who was entering a state of shock and didn’t seem to notice what Rhys said to him.
He yanked the ambassador up by the arm and didn’t let him go. “We’re running now,” he said and started to move, firing twice more in the general direction of their pursuers. But McClellum was having none of it and he threw himself to the ground and covered his head. Shit, thought Rhys, now more than willing to abandon the ambassador. He looked to their planned escape route and saw men coming his way from around the corner of the building. He looked back and the men from the office were closing, too.
He wasn’t going to go down without a fight. He retreated to the pallets and crouched down as he waited for the first of their pursuers to approach. When he was within a few feet, Rhys jumped and hit him in the forehead with the handle of his Glock. The man froze and Rhys could almost see the stars in his eyes. He hit him again, with his fist, and the man fell. Rhys followed with three quick punches to the head and a kick to the stomach.
But then they were on him. He was tackled—with far less grace than he had tackled McClellum—and he hit the ground hard, though his motorcycle jacket, with all its protection against road accidents, prevented the fall from leading to any abrasions or broken elbows or shoulders. His gun was yanked from his hand and a series of kicks landed in his stomach. A fist, and then another, hit him in the head again and again. He curled up into a fetal position and tried to stay alive.
Chapter Twenty-two
When they pulled him up, blood had pooled in his mouth and his right eye felt like it was beginning to swell. He spat out the blood and blinked hard and fast, hoping that alone would clear the blurry vision.
McClellum was now standing with Petrov and Rhys could hear McClellum explaining that Rhys had tried to kidnap him. Petrov listened with empathy and even placed a soothing hand on McClellum’s shoulder. Petrov helped McClellum into his car and then spoke with one of his men. The guy looked vaguely familiar, but Rhys couldn’t place him. He wasn’t one of the SVR men Rhys had known, but he was sure he had seen him before. The man nodded to Petrov’s command and then darted off in the direction from which Rhys had originally come. Then Petrov walked slowly to Rhys, who was sandwiched between two men and had his wrists bound behind him with flexi cuffs.
“So, Mr. Adler,” Petrov said, standing casually in front of Rhys, his hands in his pants’ pockets, “you decided against taking my advice. You realize the stakes are now higher. No doubt the police are on their way. Regrettably, spending the rest of your life in a German jail, which I not so subtly threatened before, is no longer an option. Telling the German authorities what you saw here would truly be impractical for us. In that case, your government would indeed try to help you. In fact they would insist. And the worst part is that you have no idea what is going on here. You were never even close.”
Rhys was in no position to deny or resist or turn the tables.
“Let Bashir go. He has nothing to do with this.”
“He has more to do with it than you know. Or he knows, for that matter.”
Behind him, Rhys heard the heavy rolling of rubber on the wet pier. He saw Petrov’s eyes look toward it and he couldn’t help himself from turning and looking himself.
He saw his GS, being pushed by the man Petrov had earlier sent off.
“Sorry,” said Petrov, “but your ridiculous jacket suggested you arrived by motorcycle. We wouldn’t want to leave any evidence of you having been here.” He looked to the man with Rhys’ motorcycle. “Mahmoud,” he said. “If you would be so kind.”
Mahmoud—who Rhys now recognized from a photo Bashir had shown him at 5 Ziege—pushed the bike toward the pier’s edge and Rhys watched as it picked up speed. With a final push, the front wheel continued over the edge, the bash plate underneath the engine hit the edge of the pier, and the bike toppled over awkwardly into the water with a splash. Rhys closed his eyes. That hurt.
“We’ll be going now, Mr. Adler. As at Maxime’s the other night, you have once again given us a headache. But fret not.” Rhys hated the sarcasm. “There is always a plan B.”
Rhys watched Petrov join McClellum in the back of the sedan. McClellum had managed to retrieve his Yankees cap and he pulled it down low, but Rhys could see from where he stood how shaken the American ambassador was. McClellum was dealing with the natural post-action let down that messed with your head if you weren’t used to it. Rhys still wasn’t sure whether McClellum was treasonous or simply an idiot. Regardless, Petrov signaled to the driver and the car moved forward along the pier and then turned a corner. Rhys watched the taillights disappear from sight and he felt utterly and completely alone.
The two Russians pushed Rhys toward the boat and roughly stopped him once he got alongside it. He knew how they would do it. They’d shoot him in the back of his head and let his body fall in the boat. They’d take his body out to sea, weigh it down, and cast him overboard. He had no idea how deep the Baltic was, but that didn’t really matter, did it? The suddenness of his end quickened his heart and he struggled to decide what his last thoughts should be. The best he came up with was the feeling of freedom on his motorcycle on some road he had never travelled. The thought was rushed, though, and he couldn’t really get into it.
“These guys all look the same when they know how soon the end is coming,” one of the Russians said to the other. “His mind is vacant. Probably can’t even hear what I’m saying.�
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Rhys looked at him and spat in this face.
He was rewarded with a return volley of spit, mucous, phlegm, and undigested dinner, a torrent of liquid and mass, so much that he squeezed his eyes closed and ducked his head amidst the onslaught of moisture.
When he opened his eyes, his assailant lay on the ground, his head doing an impression of a deflated balloon. Large chunks or skull were missing and a flop of hair lay in a blackish puddle. Blood dripped from Rhys’ jacket onto his pants and further onto the ground.
What the fuck?
Then a second bullet arrived, hitting the other Russian center chest. The bullet hurled him down to the ground, where his body jerked and spasmed as a geyser of blood sprayed from his chest and a pool gathered underneath him. The twitching stopped and his body went limp, his legs twisted in what in another state would be uncomfortable. He didn’t seem to notice as the life went out of him.
A third SVR agent, who Rhys had barely noticed, panicked. He crouched, looked around, and started to move away, though not sure in which direction to run. The bullet hit him in the abdomen. He didn’t collapse. He just grabbed his stomach, stunned. “Oh, shit, no,” he said. “Please, please, no. It’s not what I had...” But he didn’t finish the thought. He went down to one knee as though he were praying and then carefully lowered himself to the ground where he curled up into a fetal position whimpering. His heart stopped and his body went still.
Colin Murphy and Lance Corporal Manuel Hernandez had arrived near the waterfront not long after Rhys. Stirewalt had clarified their priorities: the ambassador’s safety, first, then Bashir’s, and then the cargo. Stirewalt was confident there would still be time to stop the ship if it left the pier. They were to coordinate with Adler and together they’d get McClellum and Bashir out of there.
