Savage Recruit (Ryan Savage Thriller Series Book 8)

by Jack Hardin

  His features folded into a confused frown. “No. I did not. Who is she to you?”

  “She’s my boss and the director of a Homeland Security component agency. And my friend,” I added.

  He nodded. “I saw that you were working for Homeland now. For their Federal Intelligence Directorate. You say she was kidnapped, here in Athens?”

  “Now you know everything I do.”

  “And you think I took her?”

  “That’s literally the word on the street, Bahar.”

  “Who is saying this?”

  “A guy whose name I never got, and Emmanuel Samaras. They said it fits your M.O.”

  Bahar stood up and paced the small room. “I did not do that. I have not even heard of this before now.”

  “Then who did take her?”

  He shook his head. “I do not know.”

  “You’ll forgive me if I have a hard time believing that.”

  He stopped pacing. “I keep to myself and my work. I do not follow all the crimes that occur in Athens. Regardless of how important they are to the rest of the world. If they do not intersect with my work, I do not need to be aware of them.”

  “And that work that you do… you’re a hitman now?”

  Bahar returned to his chair and crossed a leg over the other. “What are they saying about me on the streets?”

  “They say that you’re a concierge for wetwork, that you mediate contract killings and kidnappings. That you’re basically a ghost who pays well for bad work.”

  Bahar chuckled loudly. “Ah, that is good. That is what I want them to say.”

  “Why is that funny?” I asked.

  Bahar slowly returned to his feet. “I will be back.” He opened the door and walked out, returning a minute later with something in his hand. Stepping behind me, I felt a press on the zip tie and then it snapped, freeing my hands. I brought them around and rubbed at my wrists. They tingled as the blood rushed back.

  Bahar put the small knife in his pocket and returned to his seat. “I freed your hands as a gesture to show you I did not bring you here to harm you. I did not understand why Emmanuel Samaras reached out to me the way he did or what you had to do with it. Now that I do, I wish for us to talk, to have a conversation and see if we cannot understand each other.”

  “All right then. Let’s start with what happened to you after we first met all those years ago. I had you dead to rights, and the CIA shows up and offers you a deal. Which, as you said, you accepted.”

  “I am a very lucky man. After my father and my brother were killed, I became very bitter. I allowed my thinking to become clouded by the beliefs of other hateful men hiding behind the loose robes of their religious clothing. I was going to detonate a bomb that day. As you said, it would have killed some of your soldiers. Had it not been for the redeeming opportunity that the CIA offered me, I certainly would have been sent to Guantanamo or perhaps some black site in Africa.”

  “And what did Langley get you to sign on to?” I asked. “They flipped you?”

  “Yes. They flipped me. I provided names of local muj fighters and also private recordings of the local sheik, who was training the minds of the youth for more war. I did this for two years before they came to me and asked me to expand my reach. I was, you see, very skilled at building connections and trust. So I went to Kabul for a time, then Jordan, and finally, they planted me as an informant in Syria. I did this for five years. After that, we parted ways.”

  I sat forward and set my elbows on my knees. “Parted ways,” I repeated. “So you help my country fight terrorism for five years then, what, become a terrorist in your own right?”

  “Ah,”—Bahar smiled—“you are talking about what they say about me in the street. What Emmanuel told you.”

  “I am. You had a young lady kidnapped and a Saudi prince murdered. I’m sure that doesn’t even scratch the surface.”

  “It is true. I commissioned those things. And they were carried out just as I promised my clients they would be. However, let me give you some context. If you wish to judge me afterward, then, well, that is your right.”

  “Say on.”

  “The young lady that Emmanuel kidnapped was the daughter of a very wealthy man in Rome. He paid me to get his daughter back to him. She had run off to Athens with a charming young actor who got her addicted to drugs and then finally left her. She refused to come home. Her father decided he would scare some sense into her. He also sent her to reform school in Canada under a new identity. The kidnapping narrative is what he wanted her former circle to hear. He wanted her to have a fresh start.”

  “So you were just helping?”

  “Yes. Helping.”

  I had also been told that he murdered someone in cold blood. “And the Saudi prince?”

  “Prince Abdullah was vacationing on his yacht in Santorini. A man from a country that will remain unnamed paid me very handsomely to have him murdered. Prince Abdullah had raped and killed this man’s sister. He fled the country and would have never seen a judge or jury. The evidence of his crimes was irrefutable. So I brought justice to his bow.”

  The pieces were finally coming together, slowly clicking into place. “So you left the employ of the CIA and transitioned into the vigilante justice arena?”

  “Precisely. Any jobs I take must fit certain, pre-established criteria.”

  “Killing someone without a trial—that’s skirting the line a little, don’t you think?”

  “Why? Because I do not have the sanction of a national government? Some important men in a secret back room have not permitted me to do it, so it is wrong?” He shocked his head. “No, I do not think so.”

  “But I’m sure you profit very well off of your flexible view of justice.”

  “Call it what you will. Your government has dozens of black-ops teams, carrying out some politician’s version of justice. And yes, I do make good money. Very good money, in fact. But I put it all to programs that have great value to me.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I have built a large house for my grandmother and my sister. I have privately funded two schools and an orphanage in Kandahar. That is where the money goes.”

  If what he was saying was true, I was impressed. Here was a man who had come from some hard beginnings and turned his life around, walking away with a moral code that most never achieve. “That’s commendable, Bahar. It really is.”

  He stood up. “Come with me.” He went to the door and opened it. I followed him down a narrow hallway and into a small kitchen. The floors were unfinished wood, the cabinets painted a cheap yellow, and the walls had been stripped of their wallpaper. “This is my home,” he said. “For now.” He continued into the other room where a bank of computer monitors took up nearly half a wall. The screens displayed multiple camera feeds, GPS tracking, and several internet browsers.

  “Command central,” I said.

  “Yes.” He turned to me. “I will not be here much longer. Soon I will leave for another city. Come.”

  We crossed the room and pushed through a sheer curtain before stepping onto a veranda. Bahar grasped the iron railing and nodded toward the view. “We are at the bottom of the north slope of Mount Parnitha.” He lifted a finger toward the mountain. “Athens is on the other side.”

  To our right, the mountain rose gradually before peaking out at over six thousand feet. On our left, the valley was an open sprawl, fields and cottages as far as the eye could see. Before us, far in the distance, The Aegean Sea glimmered with the sun’s final rays of the day.

  “Not a bad existence, Bahar. Even if it is only temporary.”

  “As you know, I grew up in one of the driest deserts in the world. Since we last met, I have come to learn that I love the ocean. It is peaceful.”

  “Bahar, I think that is one thing we can absolutely agree on.”

  He smiled and clasped his hand over the rail. “I will return your phone to you after I get you back to the city. I do not want a signal to issue fro
m here. The authorities will come.”

  I thanked him. “One more question, Bahar. Why ‘The Recruit’?”

  “I change the name often, with each city I work in. I was recruited by the CIA, and I recruit jobs for a living. So when I came to Athens several months ago, that was the name I chose. Soon I will move to another city and use a different name.”

  “You didn’t pick up my friend, too, did you? The one I came to Victoria Circle with?”

  “No. I did not. Only you.”

  I could only imagine that Boomer and his team were sweating it out right about now. My thoughts and my focus returned to Kathleen. “Bahar, you said you have connections all over the world.”

  “Yes. I have many connections.”

  “Someone took my boss. She’s still out there somewhere.”

  “Whatever I can do, I will do. I am happy to help.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  Florin Gronozav stepped from the backseat of the BMW 7 series and shut the door without bothering to thank the driver. It sped off, the powerful engine purring up the hill, leaving him at the head of a winding flagstone sidewalk that led to the front of a well appointed home. The sidewalk wound through a spread of perfectly manicured grass, shrubbery, and landscaping rocks. He stepped onto it and made his way to the front door. There was still a slight irritation in his thighs from all the waterskiing he had done in France earlier in the week. But he paid it no mind.

  The home’s exterior was utterly inconspicuous, belying the eight-thousand-square-foot mansion that it was. The entire building was only one-story, with long narrow windows and a low, flat roofline that presented itself as quite ordinary.

  Florin reached the porch and pressed the square iron plate that served as the doorbell. He waited for a full minute beneath the flickering glow of a gas lantern. He was preparing to press the plate again when the door opened and a thin elderly gentleman stepped back and invited him to enter. The butler was dressed in black linen pants and a matching shirt that accentuated his bright white hair and well-groomed beard.

  Florin stepped across the threshold and into the expansive foyer. The home had a distinctive old-world Grecian feel to it. White marble floors lay beneath white domed ceilings and arched entryways.

  “Mr. Gronozav. Welcome. He will be with you presently. He asked that you wait for him in the living room. Would like me to escort you?”

  “No. Thank you. I know where it is.”

  “Of course. Please help yourself to a drink from the sideboard.”

  Florin proceeded down the main hallway and followed its slow curve through the house. He passed several life size statues of Greek gods standing on pedestals half the size of a small car. The interior of the home was extraordinary, the perfect balance between old and new, modern and classic, with bold colored furniture set against the stark whites of the floors and walls.

  Florin moved from the hallway into a large atrium. He looked up and was, as always, filled with a sense of awe at the replica of Michelangelo’s Creation of Adam. He continued, reaching a series of five carpeted steps that led to an elevated landing, functioning as the home’s primary entertaining space. Here the ceiling was low too, the curved exterior wall formed entirely of floor-to-ceiling glass that allowed for a stunning view of the valley below and the ocean beyond that. Florin went directly to the sideboard and poured himself two fingers of rum from one of five decanters. He set the glass to his lips and sipped slowly, allowing the warm, buttery flavor to coat his palate before swallowing and relishing the sense of warmth that spread down his chest and into his stomach.

  The wall of glass was treated with a highly specialized UV coating to protect the original Van Gogh that hung on the interior wall opposite. With his glass in hand, Florin stepped to the painting and studied it. He was no art expert by any means, but, after the former Romanian intelligence expert had made his millions on the currency deal in Tanzania, he had soon realized that he possessed an appreciation for notable paintings and sculptures. While his personal taste favored the Dutch Golden paintings of the Baroque era, he was accepting of almost every style but the moderns. He could even stomach some Picasso, although most of the abstractions the cubists produced descended into an anti-reality for which Florin had no taste.

  This painting, however, was altogether unappealing. He recalled what he had read about it years earlier: Van Gogh had begun it while spending time in the French city of Arles, where fruit orchards grew in abundance. When Van Gogh left for Saint-Rémy late in the spring, he took the painting with him and finished it there, working on it from memory. The world knew the piece as Orchard in Blossom. Fourteen months ago, it had been stolen from a private collection in Madrid. Florin’s friend had purchased it soon after on the black market and immediately displayed it here at his primary residence.

  He never had seen the charm in Van Gogh, preferring Monet’s use of light and more realistic use of color tone to the brighter, more emotional exhibitions of the Mad Artist. Still, Florin thought there was something strangely empowering about viewing an original face to face. Especially one in a private collection, where a gallery attendant wasn’t watching you with a distrustful eye or nudging you onward so the next eager patron could get a hurried glimpse of his own.

  Florin turned aside from the painting and took a seat on one of the couches. He checked his watch—and waited.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Her skin didn’t itch anymore if that was saying anything.

  Kathleen watched her captor enter the room again and make his way to the other side of the room. He stopped in front of the painting of the cypress tree. Without turning around, he said, “Kathleen, did you know that the Roman poet Ovid spoke of a young prince from Keos named Kyparissos?”

  She sensed the question was rhetorical, so she did not answer.

  He continued. “Kyparissos was fortunate enough to be loved greatly by Apollo. And Kyparissos had something that he loved deeply himself. It was a stag, and Kyparissos had tamed it himself. One day, as the story goes, Kyparissos was out hunting and spied his prey through trees. He made his approach and cast his hunting javelin, making a direct hit. He ran to his quarry only to realize with great horror that he had killed that which he loved more than anything in the world, his treasured stag. He became inconsolable and prayed to Apollo, asking for his permission to grieve for all eternity. Apollo then transformed him into a cypress tree. Even to this day, the cypress tree is planted in cemeteries.”

  Kathleen’s captor turned away from the painting and casually moved across the room. She was sitting in the oversized chair beside the bed, so he stopped in front of her and crossed his arms. “Kathleen, what is that you love more than anything in the world?”

  “I’m not giving you Luganov,” she said simply.

  “I know, Kathleen. You know it and I know it. So then what is someone like me supposed to do? I still need Simon Luganov. That has not changed. You won’t give him to me. That has not changed.”

  “What’s behind door number two?” she asked, referring to their earlier conversation when he had alluded to two ways of extracting the information from her.

  “Yes, door number two.” He said it slowly as if pondering the course of action. “I have been patient with you. I have tried to go about this so that no one gets hurt. But… that is not the way you want to go. So you have forced my hand. We are going to have to put your beloved stag on the table and then ask who holds the javelin.

  Kathleen’s eyes narrowed as she tried to discern the object of his allegory.

  He reached into the pocket of his shirt, brought out his phone, and tapped the glass. “Perhaps you will find this interesting.” He turned the phone around and held it in front of her face. He watched with delicious pleasure as Kathleen’s eyes adjusted to the picture and her curious expression quickly turned to alarm.

  “What is this?” she exclaimed.

  “You tell me, Kathleen.”

  Kathleen looked back at the phone. It was a vi
deo of Zoe at The Wayward Reef. She was sitting at the bar eating a sandwich. Roscoe was talking with her. Denny came out and joined the conversation.

  “No,” she said firmly, but it came out as a plea.

  He brought back the phone, tapped the glass again, and held it back out.

  Another video of Zoe. She was pumping gas. Kathleen squinted at the video—she didn’t have her reading glasses. She knew that place. It was the Shell station near Jewfish Creek Bridge. She passed it every day on her commute into Key Largo.

  “Would you like to see the metadata, Kathleen? It will show you that these were taken not two hours ago.”

  “No,” she said quietly. Her heart was racing. She honestly had not seen this coming. She understood now that she had been too nearsighted, not understanding how badly this man wanted Luganov.

  He pulled the phone back and brought up a photo. “Brown hair, pretty eyes. Zoe is what, seventeen years old?”

  For the first time since her forced arrival here, Kathleen’s voice became tight, strained. “You leave her alone.”

  “I would be happy to. I do not wish to involve children in adult affairs. But know that whatever happens to her is entirely up to you. You have the javelin, Kathleen. You can set it down in the grass, or throw it at your precious stag. Either way, the choice is yours.” A thin line of humor ran through his voice. He was enjoying this. “You have one hour, Kathleen. One hour to decide the fate of your daughter. Choose wrongly and she will suffer—very, very badly.”

  She said nothing. He pocketed his phone, and his next words held no humor at all. “You have one hour. One hour to make your decision.” Then he left without another word.

  Kathleen stared at the floor for a long time, her eyes wide with fear as she tried frantically to think herself out of the crucible in which she now found herself. She pulled her feet up and tucked them under her legs, her thoughts bearing down on her, her airflow feeling constricted in her throat. Her hands shook, and she balled them into fists.