Vengeance: A Derek Stillwater Novel (Derek Stillwater Thrillers Book 8)

by Mark Terry

  “It also plays into Eltsin’s strategy of putting himself in the center of the world stage. The president and our Russian people have some doubts.”

  “Because they don’t get to take credit for it.”

  Moore shrugged. “Partly.”

  “But it would have the advantage of getting them to align with the rest of the international community and, in theory at least, get several tons of chemical weapons destroyed. From that point of view, I don’t really give a shit who gets to take credit for it.”

  “Even if it gives Russia more clout than it deserves.”

  Derek sighed. “This is why I hate politics, Joe. My job? Remember? Mostly it’s to investigate and stop chemical and biological weapons attacks. There’s nothing I like more than providing a feasible plan and having the politicians bitch over who gets credit for it.”

  Moore laughed. “You are not a politician.”

  Derek splayed his hands. “No shit.”

  “It’s why the Secretary values you and why Johnston valued you, you know? You never suck up or tell them what they want to hear. You give your opinion. You might want to consider what happens if you’re running a company.”

  Derek cocked his head. “You heard about that?”

  “Johnston hasn’t been hiding it under a bushel. The party wonders if he’ll run for office, and there’s been some talk about him for Director of National Intelligence or the Security Council, but he has been notoriously cagy about that. The other rumors are that he’s going to start a company with you.”

  “We’re discussing it.”

  Moore grinned. “Made up your mind yet?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Well,” Moore said. “It’ll be interesting. When you get back, send that dumbass Allen Sipowicz up here, would you?”

  “That guy sitting next to me?”

  “Yeah. Miserable prick wants to rule the world, but he’s not smart enough.”

  “So he’ll be a congressman some day.”

  Moore laughed. “Quite possibly. I’ll talk to you later.”

  Derek passed on the message to Sipowicz, took pain meds, read reports for an hour, then slipped on noise-canceling earphones and slept for the next nine hours. Not long later he was in a caravan of cars to the U.S. Embassy in Moscow.

  He checked in with the embassy, went over his schedule, then left for a hotel. Most of the delegation was staying at the embassy, but he wanted the freedom to come and go with Lev, if necessary, so he checked into the Golden Ring Hotel, not far from the Embassy and the Kremlin. It was early evening and he was wide awake, so he called Konstantin, who said Lev was almost asleep, but he would swing by the hotel for a drink. He’d meet him at the Diamond Bar, which was small, but open twenty-four hours.

  Derek took a shower, frustrated by the dressings on his shoulder, put on jeans and a T-shirt and went down to the bar, ordering a beer. He was restless. He figured he’d chat with Konstantin for a bit, maybe hit the gym or wander around the city for a while before trying to get some sleep. Tomorrow promised a day of meetings, probably unproductive ones, then a late-night plane flight to Egypt. He hoped to break away from all the meetings in Egypt to track down Imam Yusuf Effat.

  The Diamond Bar was small, with a couple seats at the bar, but about seating for twenty in total. Red cushy chairs were placed next to small round glass-topped tables. Classical music played softly. It was a classy place, quiet, and there were maybe eight or nine people there sipping drinks and talking quietly. They looked like international business people in their expensive suits and omnipresent laptops and smartphones and Bluetooth headsets.

  Konstantin appeared in khakis and a leather jacket, his beard neatly trimmed, head shaved. Derek stood up and the two men embraced in the European fashion. A waiter appeared instantly and Konstantin ordered vodka and sat down.

  “You’re so Russian,” Derek said.

  Gesturing at Derek’s beer, Konstantin said, “You’re so American. I didn’t expect you back so soon. Lev will be delighted.”

  “It’ll be a short visit. I’m off to the Middle East tomorrow night.”

  Konstantin frowned. “Syria?”

  “Crisis du jour. But you know that already, right?” He knew with Konstantin in the FSB, when he was in the country on official business they would be keeping tabs on him.

  “You impressed the analysts. They said your ideas were good and you kept your ego out of it.”

  Derek shrugged best he could with his arm in a sling. “It’s all about getting crap done. No posturing.”

  They talked for a while. Derek told him about Jim Johnston’s proposal.

  “Interesting,” Konstantin said. “Are you going to do it?”

  “Maybe. If so, I would very much be interested in you and Irina.”

  “Here in Russia or in the U.S.?”

  Derek sighed. “You know I would love it if Lev was living closer, but that’s an awful lot to ask.”

  Leaning forward, Konstantin said, “But possibly something we would be very interested in.”

  His friend’s response made his heart beat a little faster. “Really? Why?”

  With his own very Russian shrug, Konstantin said, “Irina’s training in computer security. There’s work here, for certain, but let’s face it, the FSB is keeping an eye on her. And my standing isn’t what it was because of her and because of the accusations of terrorism.”

  Which had been made by several of Konstantin’s comrades in the FSB who had been trying to overthrow the government.

  “But Eltsin knows whose side you’re on.”

  “He’s a politician. I don’t trust him and he only trusts me if it’s politically advantageous.”

  “So you would be interested in moving to the U.S.?”

  “When you know more, tell me more, Derek. Is it okay if I mention this to Irina?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “I will then.”

  They talked for a while more and made plans for the next day. They shook hands and Konstantin left.

  Derek ordered another beer, musing over the revelation that Konstantin and Irina would consider moving to the U.S. He was not so lost in thought that he didn’t notice the attractive woman walk into the bar, scan around the seats, then approach his table.

  “Well hell,” he said, standing up. “Noa Shoshan. What’s it been, twenty years?”

  “Twenty-two, I think. May I join you?”

  He nodded and gestured to the chair. When he knew her, she was in her twenties, an agent with Israel’s Mossad. He had been with the CIA. They and Jim Johnston had spent a week or so driving around parts of Pakistan and Afghanistan looking for chemical weapons and other leftover ordnance the Russians may have left when they were chased out of the country by the mujahideen.

  She was older, of course, as we he. Medium height, she still had short black hair and her eyes were brown. She appeared very strong, as if she worked out, and still fierce, which was what he remembered most about her. They had not gotten along that well during the mission.

  “Still with Mossad?”

  “I understand you’re with State now.” Her English was excellent with a slight accent. Back in Afghanistan she had spoken Urdu, Farsi and Arabic, as well as Hebrew.

  “That’s not exactly an answer to my question. And let me ask right up front: Is this accidental?”

  She smiled. “We almost ran into each other at the G8 several years ago, but a different job was required of me.”

  That had been a pretty horrible experience for Derek. “Lucky you missed it.”

  “I think so.”

  The waiter appeared and she ordered white wine.

  “I’ve needed to thank you all these years,” she said, “for saving my life.”

  “Barely.”

  She smiled again and he thought, she’s mellowed. He noticed no wedding ring on her finger. Noa wore gray slacks and a champagne blouse, maybe silk. A simple gold necklace graced her neck, gold stud earrings decorated her ears. Twenty-s
ome years ago she had been attractive, but young, almost always angry. She had improved with age. She was stunning.

  “Here I am, Derek.”

  “Yes.” Frowning, he said, “Coincidence?”

  “No. I’m here as part of my country’s delegation regarding Syria. When I found out you were with your State Department’s delegation, I did some research.”

  “I assume you’re staying at your embassy.”

  She shrugged. “We have several properties in Moscow, as well.”

  Safe houses, he imagined. He wasn’t oblivious to the way she had a tendency to not answer his questions.

  He sipped his beer. “You look well. Very well, in fact. You recovered from your gunshot wounds, apparently.” During the mission in Afghanistan she had been shot several times.

  “You mean the wounds I received by being shot by Osama bin Laden?”

  Derek sighed. He didn’t talk about it much and tried not to even think about it. But during the course of that mission in 1991, he and Noa and Jim Johnston had encountered Osama bin Laden and Mullah Omar. It was a decade before 9/11, but part of Noa’s mission, unbeknownst to Derek or Johnston, had been to kill bin Laden and Omar.

  As the helicopter they had commandeered to save her life flew from the village, Derek had the two men in the sights of the chopper’s missile system. He’d decided not to take the shot. Years later he would have nightmares about that decision.

  “Yes,” he said. “Those wounds.”

  “I recovered fully. It took about two years, though. Several surgeries. A lot of physical therapy.”

  “You look fit.”

  “So do you. Maybe a little beat up.”

  “Definitely.” He laughed. “But here I am.”

  “What happened to the shoulder?”

  He told her a little bit about it.

  “Ah,” she said. “So you’re the one.”

  “Do you know anything about the Nazif Brigade?”

  “Quite a bit, actually.”

  “Really?”

  “One of my jobs these days is to track Muslim extremist groups in the region.”

  “That must keep you busy.”

  “It does.”

  They lapsed into silence. Derek looked at her, struck how some women, though attractive when they are younger, seem to age into their looks. It would be difficult to tell how old Noa was—somewhere in her forties, probably—but she could pass for younger. But there was something about her, confidence perhaps, that suggested she was a woman, not a girl. He found her far more appealing now than he had twenty-two years earlier when they had butted heads constantly. Maybe he had changed as well.

  “Twenty-two years,” he said. “You spent the entire time with Mossad?”

  “No,” she said. “I got married to my doctor.”

  Derek started to laugh. It rolled out of him. When he finally stopped chuckling, she was looking at him as if he were crazy.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “After I left the CIA I spent some time with the U.N. I married my doctor, too.”

  “Still married?”

  “No,” he said. “Couldn’t survive our jobs. You?”

  “He died ten years later of cancer.”

  That was sobering. “I’m sorry.”

  She shrugged. “I had two children, two boys. David and Samuel.” She paused for a moment. “David is in medical school now at Hebrew University. Sammy is in the IDF.”

  “You sound proud of them.”

  “I am. They’re good boys. What about you, Derek? Children?”

  He told her about Lev.

  “You have a complicated life,” she said. “But you sound proud of him.”

  “Want to see a picture?”

  “Of course.”

  He had tons on his smartphone, which he handed over to her. In exchange, she handed over her’s as well. There were not many photographs on her phone, but they were mostly of her with two young men, both dark haired, olive-skinned. Sam was taller with broad shoulders and short hair, often photographed wearing his Israeli Defense Forces uniform. David was slender, a little shorter, and had curly dark hair and a dark, carefully trimmed beard. They were both good-looking men and he told her so.

  “Their father was a handsome man. Older. Charming.”

  “So you retired, but you’re back.”

  “I only retired for a few years, then I went back to Mossad. Mostly I work as an analyst.”

  “Mostly,” Derek said.

  She rested her hand on his wrist. “There are things I can’t talk about.”

  “I understand.”

  She met his gaze. “Why don’t we go up to your room?”

  22

  Derek poured a glass of wine and handed it to Noa. She took a sip and looked at him over the rim, the Moscow skyline lit up behind her from his room on the twenty-fourth floor. “What should we toast to?” he asked. “Is there a traditional Israeli toast?”

  “Lechaim.”

  “To life. Of course. I must be—”

  She stopped him from talking by stepping close and kissing him. She tasted of red wine and something else he couldn’t quite identify. Her lips were moist and warm, her body both soft and hard pressed against his. She put her wine glass down and took his from his hand, setting it on the end table next to her.

  “You talk too much,” she said, reaching out and shutting off the light.

  And then she was in his arms. A whisper of silk, nylon, the feel of a warm firm breast. Stroking, clothing falling to the floor, tangled and sliding onto the bed.

  They were adults and it was real. It felt awkward, and he wanted to rush, so he forced himself to slow down, to explore. The curve of her jaw. The hollow of her shoulder. The striations of her bicep. Slope of breast. Concave belly.

  Scars. Hard beneath his fingertips.

  Her fingers were exploring his body as well and she murmured, “So many scars.”

  She reached down and held him. He rose up and slid into her. She gasped.

  It was slow at first, gentle, sweet. The tension rose, the speed of his thrusts picking up.

  She gasped and cried out. He exploded into her.

  Later, lying in the bed, with her tucked alongside him, his fingers ran along some of the scars. “Are all of these from Afghanistan?”

  “Most of them.” She drew his hand down to one on her lower belly. “Knife wound from a Palestinian terrorist.”

  Her fingers drew his hand from the lower belly, up across her breasts to her left shoulder. “Enjoy the trip?”

  “As a matter of fact I did.”

  “This one is from ball bearings. Suicide bomber in Jerusalem. I was lucky. What about you? The shoulder is recent. But … ” Her fingers found one on his knee, although it took a winding route to get there. “Old football injury?”

  “Actually, I got kicked there by a former Special Forces partner who went on to become a terrorist. Required some surgery, but it’s as good as new.”

  “And this one?”

  “Shot by a terrorist out in California.”

  “And these?”

  “Knife fight with a crazy terrorist.”

  She got up on one elbow, looking over at him. She was outlined against the window. “Maybe we should stop getting in harm’s way.”

  “I know. I’m getting too old for this crap.”

  Her fingers trailed down his chest and cupped his testicles. “I didn’t notice the age. Are you ready for more?”

  Because she was Mossad, he had wondered briefly if this was some sort of honey-trap setup. He couldn’t imagine why the Israelis would think he was of any use to them in that way and he also didn’t much care.

  “Maybe in a little bit.”

  She kissed him. Then continued down his body. “I might be able to help with that.”

  “I think you’re right,” he breathed.

  Sometime in the early morning Derek felt Noa slide out of bed. A moment later he heard her speaking softly. Then he heard water running in th
e shower. Fumbling for his phone, he checked the phone for the local time, saw it was 5:30 AM and sighed. Damn, that was early. And the jet lag and the night’s activities left him tired. He told himself he should go join Noa in the shower, but fell back asleep.

  He was awakened a little later by a knock on the door. Instantly alert, he rolled out of bed, looking for the bag containing his gun. Noa walked past him. “Relax. It’s room service. I ordered us breakfast.”

  She checked the door carefully, opened it and signed for the food. The waiter rolled in a cart laden with food and left. Derek slipped on a pair of sweats and a sweatshirt, yawning. “So that’s what the talking was about earlier. What’ve we got here?”

  Noa had ordered a large breakfast with rolls and sausages, eggs, pancakes, crepes, fruit, tea, coffee and orange juice. Derek sat down at the table and stared at the food. “You were expecting company?”

  Helping herself to tea, eggs and sausages, she said, “I didn’t know what you liked. So I ordered a mix.”

  “Well. Thanks.”

  “Well,” she mimicked his tone. “You’re paying for it.”

  “Probably the State Department is paying for it, but we’ll see.” He decided he was hungry enough to eat pretty much all of it, so he helped himself to pancakes and a crepe and sausages and some melon. He went for coffee, black.

  Eating, he looked at Noa. “God, you look beautiful in the morning.”

  She actually blushed. “Flatterer.”

  “This is all rather unexpected, Noa.”

  “You’re going to go all guilty on me?”

  “No. I’m going to wonder what’s next.”

  She shrugged. “After I eat I’m going to go check in at the embassy, probably avoid answering some potentially embarrassing questions, get into a fresh change of clothes and drive over to the Kremlin for a day of planning, negotiating and politicking with the Russians, the Americans, and presumably one or two Brits and other assorted interested parties. None of it will matter if Assad won’t go along with it.”

  “That’s why the Russians are involved. Whatever brilliant plans we have, Russia’s got to make the offer in order for Syria to save face. And just for the record, I hate this kind of shit. Give me a problem, leave me alone to solve it, I’m there. All this back-and-forthing to massage everyone’s egos drives me crazy.”