Vengeance

by Roger Weston

  The reasons why such passports ended up at a military base were a curiosity to Chuck. Maybe the passports could have been altered by professionals and reused for intelligence operators working around the globe with false legends.

  Perhaps nobody would ever know how many millions died in the gulags because records were not reliable. Chuck flipped open several passports and looked at the pictures. Seeing these doomed men and women made him even more determined to find the lost sailors. He knew that getting them out alive was a long shot, but figured at least he had a chance.

  He quickly read one of the hundreds of letters that had been confiscated from prisoners before they could be smuggled out of Stalin’s death camps. It was written by a World War Two prisoner from Minsk called Kozlov.

  To his wife, Beti, he wrote: 'You are the only one in my dreams and thoughts. How much I love you and how hard it is to lose you. Don’t cry. I am forever with you. Remember me with a kind word'.

  To his children, he wrote, 'Nina, Enya! I am not your enemy. I was in 29 battles, I was in a Warsaw fight - for our motherland and your happiness. Never doubt my honesty before the Party, the Motherland and you'.

  Chuck was saddened to think those kids had lost their father, but that was long ago. He knew that today, more families would lose their fathers if he failed. A dozen more lives were in danger right now, thanks to Belkin. Chuck kept moving and searching. He thought about the notes he’d skimmed in the contact file, the notes from call transcripts to family members of the missing sailors. Family members had only been told that the ship had gone missing.

  Counselors had learned a little about the missing sailors talking with the distraught relatives. Tom Williams was an army veteran on his final sea voyage before his retirement. His wife already had their home decorated for a surprise party upon his return. Curtis Little was in the middle of rebuilding a Volkswagen bug and renewing his relationship was his estranged father. He had told his mother that he wanted to ask forgiveness of many people for the things he had said and done to them over the years. He hadn’t taken action yet, but he planned to. Chuck had skimmed a lot of stories in the notes of the CIA crisis counselors. The stories fortified his determination to find the captives and save them, yet he had no idea which ones—if any—were still alive.

  The lighting in this part of the underground base was operational, so Chuck stayed extra alert as he moved deeper into cave system. He kept his gun handy and stayed ever vigilant.

  CHAPTER 19

  Kaan Ceren and Temür Kutlu were just about to enter the bunker stairs down into the underground base. Kaan was the point man, and he was not happy about this because he knew the bodies were down there. Only he and Temur were going down below because the rest of the team was on patrol and would take too long to get back to the base. There were two other six man teams on the base, but they were night shift, and this was a bullshit job. No reason to wake them up over a false alarm. The two killers were making final equipment checks when they got a call.

  “Kaan, this is Commander Ogorodnikov. Where are you?”

  “We’re just heading down into the underground base.”

  “It’s just the two of you, so you need to be extra careful.”

  “I know.”

  “A second alarm has been triggered.”

  “When?”

  “Just a minute ago. Don’t take chances. If you run into any intruders down there, shoot them on sight. If they’re still alive, only then interrogate them.”

  “Yes, sir.” Kaan hung up. It was a bullshit call. He would have shot them anyway, but at least he knew there might be a second intruder. However, more likely there was no intruder at all.”

  “What is it?” Temür said.

  “Orders. Kill anything that moves.”

  CHAPTER 20

  Chuck came around a corner and gasped out loud because he wasn’t expecting the horrors. It was a long cement corridor with a rounded ceiling—and functional lighting—and three dead men hanging from the wall, facing outward—their hands tied behind their backs and jacked up with ropes so their bound wrists were higher than the backs of their heads. The smell made him gag. The ropes were tied to steal pegs jutting out of the cement about eight feet off the floor. They probably had suffered the agony of dislocated shoulders as they died of thirst and violence, which had been inflicted on them in their helpless positions. A very sick person had worked them over with knives.

  They were not skeletons from the Cold War. They were men who had probably died within the last twenty-four hours.

  Chuck thought of Nicolai, his trail guide. He wasn’t here, and they’d better not have killed him. They shouldn’t have killed these sailors. This activity had to be stopped.

  Somebody was going to be shut down.

  Chuck thought of Belkin and said, “Someone will be held accountable.”

  CHAPTER 21

  Malik Badour of Tatarstan and Vova Meledin of Kazakhstan stood back against the wall and watched the master at work—Hench Fowler. They looked with scorn at the victim on the table, Nicolai Zimin, who at first had claimed he was merely a trail guide, exploring new country.

  Nicolai lay face down on a table in one of the dozens of old barracks building in the abandoned airbase. His hands were tied attached by rope to a cement block. His feet were also tied in a similar manner. Nicolai was unable to either turn over or extricate himself from this position.

  Anton “Hench” Fowler was a snarling, sadistic psychopath with grim, sunken cheeks and eyes like curses. He held a pair of bloody pliers in his hand. He was a small man but had thick black eyebrows and a big black mustache over a grim perpetual scowl.

  Hench grabbed Nicolai’s hand. Nicolai struggled, but he was tied down so securely there wasn’t much he could do. Hench ripped the fingernail out of his ring finger.

  Nicolai cried out in pain. It was a long and mournful cry of anguish.

  Malik and Vova laughed.

  Nicolai yelled. “Please, please, please,” he begged. “No more. Please stop. Just stop.” His whole body was shaking, writhing in agony.

  “How many men are with Brandt?” Hench whispered into his ear and then kissed his ear lobe.

  “Nobody.”

  “You’re lying. One man couldn’t have taken out four professional assassins in Petropavlovsk.”

  “I swear he’s alone.”

  “Where is he now?” Hench whispered into his ear.

  “I don’t know. How could I know?”

  “You know.” Hench kissed his ear again.

  Hench grabbed his bloody hand again and seized another fingernail with the pliers.

  “No!” Nicolai screamed. “No, no, no, no!”

  Hench ripped out the fingernail of his middle finger.

  Nicolai screamed like a dying man in his last death throes.

  “You are a despicable man,” Hench said. “The sounds you make disgust me. You need to be put out of your misery. That is my job.”

  “Oh, please. No more. No more.”

  “Where is Brandt now?”

  “I told you, he’s alone. I don’t know where.”

  Hench grabbed his hand again.

  Nicolai screamed, “You piece of shit. I will kill you if I ever get out of here.”

  “You’re not going anywhere.” Hench ripped out the next fingernail.

  Nicolai fought viciously against the ropes, but it was hopeless.

  Hench turned to Malik. “He’s not being cooperative. You two better go take a look around. Another death team was just sent down below. Help them. Bring him in alive. I have a surprise for Brandt.”

  “Yes, sir.” The two gunmen left.

  Hench turned to Nicolai. “Well now, looks like I’ve got you all to myself. And it comes down to cutting out your left eye or right eye. You call it.”

  ***

  Malik Badour of Tatarstan opened a square metal manhole and took the ladder down into the underground base. There were other ways down there, but this one was handy, espe
cially given the section they were headed to. Vova Meledin of Kazakhstan followed him down, and Malik washed down several hits of speed with a swallow of whiskey.

  “Good for my reflexes,” he said. “I may need to move fast when I blow this bastard’s brains out.”

  Vova shook his head. “Just wound him.”

  “Yeah, right. You want some?”

  “No,” Vova said. “I want to get moving. There could be several infiltrators down here. So maybe you shut up and we get moving.”

  “Hey, watch your mouth!” Malik shoved him.

  “You piece of crap.” Vova flew back at him and shoved Malik against the wall. Vova drew his .40 cal and pushed the barrel against Malik’s face. “The last scum I shot was half as ugly as you. Insult me again and die.”

  “Calm down, Vova.”

  “Do not touch me again.”

  “Fine. Just chill out!”

  “I might just chill your brain out.”

  “Give it up, Vova. We have a job to do. You screw it up and Belkin will have you tortured to death just like all those sailors down in the tunnels.”

  Vova put the gun away. “Let’s go.” He spit on the fallen Lenin statue.

  “Hey, you don’t spit on Lenin.”

  “I just did. I’ll piss on him later.”

  “How did you get so mean, Vova?”

  “I hate every ugly bastard I look at, which is why I don’t like you.”

  “You’re a mental case,” Malik said.

  “I take that as a compliment.”

  They hiked down the tunnel.

  Vova walked ahead as they passed through the old barracks. Now it was just plain creepy. Spider webs filled the old bunks, some of which had rotted enough to collapse.

  Vova stopped. He stood there for a moment.

  “What’s going on?” Malik said.

  “I think I heard something,” Vova whispered. “I want to take them alive.”

  “What?”

  “I want to torture them in the chamber.”

  “Screw that. I’ll shoot them on sight.”

  Vova turned and walked back to Malik. He drew his hunting knife and slipped it under Malik’s chin, the blade pressing against his neck. “What did you say?”

  “Alright, alright, we’ll do it your way. I’m with you.”

  “Excellent. If you get a single independent thought, you check with me first. We’re doing this my way to the last breath. Our enemy is the CIA.”

  ***

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  CHAPTER 22

  State of Virginia, USA

  Deputy Director Miles Seychel drove to Great Falls Park, which was twelve miles outside of Washington D.C. He’d changed his mind about going back to Langley today, so he came here instead. He didn’t like nature because it made him uneasy, but he was presently indecisive. He was feeling greatly relieved having gotten away from his home without any trouble. He had half expected to get shot before he left the subdivision, but happily that had not happened. Now he had to live off the grid for a day or two until he contacted Belkin and had $10 million wired into Maxim Cress’s numbered account.

  His biggest worry was that because Belkin was in such a remote location that it might end up taking a few extra days to get all of this cleared up. Cress was not a man to play games. For him, the credibility he’d get from whacking Seychel might be even more valuable than getting his money back. Ten million was chicken feed for Cress, but his reputation could be seriously damaged if he didn’t collect. A nick to his reputation could be more costly in the long run. Seychel had to survive until he could get this mess cleared up.

  Problem was that he was out in the cold right now, an orphan with no security detail. He couldn’t risk going on without security any longer. Currently, he’d been assigned a security detail of two bodyguards from the Diplomatic Security Service. He often ditched them when he was doing dirty or immoral things. Now he needed them back.

  He dialed on one of his new burner phones: “Lance, this is Seychel. Meet me at the Lux Mini Mart in McLean, Virginia, in an hour.”

  As Seychel eased the Mercedes into the parking lot of Lux Mini Mart, his agents approached his car, so he rolled down the window.

  “Get into the store and buy me thirty Powerball tickets and a couple of cigars.” He handed some cash to the DSS agent. “Keep the change and buy a candy bar for you and your partner.”

  The agent nodded grimly and took the money. The chirp of skidding tires caused him to turn suddenly.

  Seychel also turned. He heard the revving of a big block engine. A big old black Cadillac roared into the parking lot. The wheels screeched as the car skidded to a stop. Two machine guns opened fire. The DSS agent drew his pistol, but gunfire cut him down.

  The second DSS agent returned fire from his position by his car. The two machineguns answered him with overwhelming attention.

  Meanwhile, Seychel slipped out the passenger side car door and crawled for the front door of the mini mart.

  The second DSS agent screamed as he was wounded by a hail of bullets.

  The shooting stopped as suddenly as it had begun. Silence overtook the parking lot like the dark angel.

  Seychel heard breaking glass.

  An explosion ripped through the Mercedes. The whole car rose up off the ground and smashed back down. A fireball came down with it, and flames spilled out on the ground all around. Seychel covered his face.

  He heard the sound of burning rubber as the other car peeled out and raced out of the parking lot.

  For Seychel, his first thought was that they’d firebombed his car with a Maltese cocktail, but then he thought it must be something more powerful. The Mercedes was barely recognizable. Thick black smoke was rising from a burning funeral pyre.

  Seychel was thankful to be alive, but then fear slipped a knife into his heart.

  All his cash. His briefcase. His fake passports. His legends. His alternate identities. It was all burning. Even his wallet was in the car.

  Seychel had nothing. No identity. No money. And no credit cards. He practically didn’t exist. Nor could he go home.

  It was one thing to go into hiding with $250,000. It something else when he had nothing but his clothes.

  He could not leave the country. He could not leave the city. He couldn’t even afford bus fare.

  The only good news was that they thought he was dead.

  Soon the police would arrive. They would find two bodies—not three.

  Within an hour, Cress would know that Seychel had survived.

  And Seychel had no resources to flee.

  He sagged to the ground. His lips and tongue touched the pavement.

  “I’m finished,” he said.

  CHAPTER 23

  Kamchatka

  Wilderness guide Nicolai Zimin lay face down on the table in the old barracks building in the abandoned airbase. It felt like he’d been here for hours. Every minute was an eternity. His bloody hands were tied and attached by rope to a cement block. His feet were also tied in a similar manner. He was unable to either turn over or extricate himself from this painful position.

  And he was trying.

  Desperately, because he knew that Anton “Hench” Fowler would be back.

  Nicolai tugged and twisted his bloody hands until his the skin was chaffed and his wrists also began to bleed.

  Then the door opened, and a creepy-looking man entered.

  The black haired man approached and said, “Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Belkin.”

  Nicolai looked at Belkin. Black eye liner and eye shadow contrasted with his milky gray eyes—piercing little eyes. Little outlined eyes crowded his nose. They stared with malevolence. Predator eyes. Long black scraggly hair contrasted with his pale, obese face. His black horseshoe mustache curved down on both sides. His broad chin was severely deformed.

  “You shouldn’t stare,
” Belkin said. “It’s bad manners. It’s also very common. Most people are shocked by my wound. It’s from a traumatic accident years ago. I was hunted by the authorities of many nations for mass murder, so I was in no position to visit a doctor. Instead I used drugs to numb the pain while I let my broken chin heal. However, since the jawbone was never set, it healed wrong.

  Nicolai turned away.

  Belkin said, “You can imagine the hatred I carry for the man who did this to me.”

  “When are you gonna let me go?”

  Belkin ignored this comment. He said, “Hatred is too mild a word. Imagine if the same man who did this to me has now killed my brother. You can imagine how badly I crave vengeance.”

  “It’s got nothing to do with me.”

  “It has everything to do with you. You came here with that very man. You traveled here with Chuck Brandt, a man who has to die—and die slowly.”

  “It’s not my problem.”

  “Oh, but it is.” Belkin put his hand on Nicolai’s back. He said, “Hench, get in here.”

  Nicolai shivered with fear and dread.

  Hench came in slowly, as grim as the very angel of death.

  Hench was a squirrel of a man, servile and cringing. He looked like he was suppressing something horrible. A snarling, sarcastic, ill-tempered, sadistic psychopath. A small Himler of a man, but with thick eyebrows and a big thick mustache. Nicolai turned his face away from this walking abomination.

  “Allow me to introduce Hench Fowler,” Belkin said. “He is a specialist in intimidation, torture, thought control, and propaganda. He is a psych ops man.”

  “We’ve met.”

  “You mean Hench is the one who ripped out your fingernails? It’s not like him to go easy on his victims.”

  Hench leaned down and kissed his ear slowly. “It doesn’t have to be so painful.”

  “There’s nothing more I can tell you.”

  Hench stood up straight. “We aren’t going to interrogate you. Don’t worry about that.”