Wild Card

by Michael Brandman

  The third area was halfway between the first two, in a brambled glen bordering the inland side of the sandy roadway that ran between the house and the dock.

  A member of our team was to be stationed at each of these locations.

  Anticipating we’d conduct an action that very night, we arranged for a previously organized team of ten San Remo County Police officers to assemble at twilight in The Friendly Inn parking lot, where they would stand ready to assist, should it prove necessary.

  We recruited these officers because of their experience under fire. All of them had seen combat in places such as Kabul and Baghdad.

  The day crept by slowly, unimpeded by any unusual activity at either the dock or the mansion. Boris Petrov remained secluded inside.

  At six o’clock, the hired security guards rounded up any remaining beachgoers, escorted them from the grounds, then closed and locked the access gates. Satisfied all was in order, the guards left the area in a gray Honda SUV.

  Shortly after eight p.m., with darkness swiftly descending, Al Striar arrived at the estate’s southernmost access point brandishing a heavy-duty wire cutter that he used to snip open a flap in the fencing.

  One by one, each member of the team wriggled through and swiftly headed to his appointed station. By the time darkness had fully fallen, we were all at our posts, ready for whatever the night might bring.

  Buzz and I were hidden together in the brambles, not noted for comfort but well shielded. He seemed withdrawn, distant, absent.

  “You okay?”

  He looked at me as if for the first time. “What? Oh, sorry. This operation puts me in mind of the Afghani nights. The nights of terror. All of us preparing strategically for a firefight and at the same time, trying to ward off our collective fear of sudden death. God, it was horrible. I’m sorry, Buddy. I’ll be okay.”

  “You sure?”

  “Yeah. Not to worry.”

  Shortly after eight-thirty, Boris Petrov sprang from the mansion accompanied by two men dressed in white lab coats, each sporting a pair of black canvas shoulder bags. They moved swiftly along the sandy road that led to the dock.

  At about the same time, we could hear the roar of boat engines coming from the sea.

  “It’s on,” I texted Wilma. She, in turn, transmitted the information to the team.

  Buzz Farmer and I were hidden amid the tall switch grasses, watching Petrov and his associates make their way up the road.

  Despite his height, Petrov walked with a loping gait and a swagger that accentuated how lithe and graceful he was. He wore a collared gray sweatshirt over tailored blue jeans. He had on gray Nike high-tops. He exhibited an air of invincibility and power, someone to be reckoned with.

  I tore my attention away from him and turned to Buzz. “You ready?”

  “Beyond ready.”

  “Shall we?”

  “My pleasure.”

  Buzz made a furtive dash for the mansion where he would connect with Johnny Kennerly and P.J. Lincoln.

  I set out for the dock, ducking in and out of the shadows, careful not to reveal myself to Petrov and the two Lab Coats in front of me. I arrived moments after Al Striar and Dave Balding.

  Under the cover of darkness, we were close enough to watch Petrov and the Lab Coats greeting two other men at the dock, men to whom they handed over the four canvas shoulder bags.

  After handshakes all around, and nodding to Boris Petrov, the Lab Coats left the dock and headed back to the mansion.

  As the sound of the boat engines neared, one of the dockhands flipped the switch on the boathouse power panel which activated a pair of high voltage lighting fixtures that rested on fifteen-foot-high towers.

  That was our cue.

  Striar and Balding, their weapons drawn, made tracks for the two men on the dock, each of whom, their eyes still adjusting to the intense light, finally spotted the approaching deputies and immediately reached for their weapons.

  “Police officers,” Striar shouted. “Hands in the air.”

  This caught Boris Petrov’s attention, distracting him enough to allow me to furtively creep up behind him. I startled him when I thrust my Colt Commander into the small of his back.

  He suddenly whirled and lashed out at me, kicking and pummeling me repeatedly with his fists. I backed into a defensive position, feinted left, caught sight of an opening, and unloaded a hard right jab into the side of his head, followed by a fast left cross and a right uppercut that dropped him.

  As he lay inert on the sandy road, groaning, I removed a plastic tie from my kit belt and secured his hands behind him.

  Still groggy, he struggled slowly to his feet and glared at me through steely blue eyes, rife with venom. “You,” he sneered.

  “We meet again.”

  “A meeting you’ll soon come to regret.”

  “Regrets are a two-way street, Boris. As you’ll soon come to realize.”

  He glared at me.

  “Did I forget to mention you’re under arrest?”

  “Arrest?”

  “Yes.”

  “For what reason?”

  “Too many to go into just now.”

  “You’re an insignificant man, Mr. Buddy. You have no idea who or what you’re dealing with.”

  “Yikes. Now you’ve given me the shivers.”

  The sound of men yelling caught my attention. I looked up in time to see Al Striar head-butt one of Petrov’s men, knocking him off balance. He then jumped on the man, grabbed him by the ears, and slammed his head heavily into the ground.

  Dave Balding was also on the move, racing toward the dock where the second man had already picked up two of the four canvas bags and hurled them into the sea.

  Balding, his Sig Sauer service revolver in hand, called out to him as he reached for the other two bags. “Stop right there.”

  Undaunted, the man unholstered a Glock G43 semi and turned it on Balding.

  Dave shot first, but it went wide.

  In turn, the man fired at Dave, hitting him in the leg, knocking him off of his feet.

  My Colt was already in hand, and when the man stepped over to the fallen Balding with the intention of finishing him, I shot the gun from his hand.

  He gaped at me in amazement, then grabbed his hand which now had three fewer fingers than it did when the shooting started. And it had begun to bleed profusely.

  The speedboats were just rounding the jetty when the shots rang out. Leaving a churning wake behind them, the boats hastily reversed course and headed back out to sea.

  In the chaos of the gunfire, Boris Petrov had slipped away. I spotted him running full bore toward the mansion.

  Leaving Striar to deal with the downed men, the two remaining shoulder bags, and the wounded Dave Balding, I took off after Petrov.

  He was in good physical condition and despite his height, ran faster than I might have imagined. Even with his hands bound behind him. In a final burst of speed, he outraced me to the mansion, hot-footed it up the front steps, and disappeared inside.

  I clambered up the steps after him, but when I entered the house, there was no sign of him.

  I found myself standing in a huge antechamber, all marble and dark woods. Shafts of diffused light insinuated themselves through floor-to-ceiling stained-glass windows. A massive mahogany staircase climbed skyward toward a balcony-surrounded second-floor landing.

  I noticed an ancient Otis elevator cage containing a gold and steel filigree cab carved into one of the walls, an option for those not hardy enough to attempt the stairs.

  As I stood somewhat dumbfounded, Johnny Kennerly showed up in the foyer.

  “Buddy,” he exclaimed. “What are you doing here?”

  “Looking for Boris Petrov. He beat me by only seconds.”

  “I haven’t seen him.”

  �
��He came barreling in here. He’s got to be around somewhere.”

  “I wouldn’t know. P.J. and I have been searching for the lab, but we haven’t found it.”

  “How difficult could it be to find?”

  “Good question.”

  Buzz Farmer appeared at the top of the staircase and called down to us. “What’s up?”

  “Have you seen Petrov?”

  “No. Should I have?”

  “He came plowing into the house and then vanished.”

  “Well, he’s not upstairs. I would have seen him.”

  “He has to be somewhere. He didn’t just dematerialize.”

  “This is a weird place,” Johnny said. “P.J. and I have been all over it and haven’t found even a trace of any pharmaceutical laboratory.”

  “You think there are hidden rooms?”

  “Wouldn’t surprise me,” Johnny said.

  “So Petrov could have slipped into one of them. Even the lab rooms might be hidden.”

  “It’s possible.”

  “How can we find out?”

  “Anyone have a fire axe?” Buzz asked as he made his way downstairs.

  Johnny Kennerly spoke up. “Listen, Buddy, for all we know, he could be climbing out of a manhole in downtown Freedom right now. Like El Chapo.”

  THIRTY-NINE

  It wasn’t long before the lawyers arrived.

  Dave Balding had been bundled off to a nearby hospital. As was the man whose hand I shot. The captive Petrov employee was en route to a Freedom township jail cell.

  Al Striar had retrieved two of the four canvas shoulder bags, each carrying enough copycat Fentanyl tablets to provide opiate fixes for half the population of San Francisco. But, try as we might, we couldn’t solve the mystery of the disappearing oligarch.

  Two attorneys from the Hobart Law Firm, local associates of Leonard, Howard and Arthur, emerged from a black Lexus sedan and red-faced, demanded we leave the property.

  “Immediately,” emphasized Judy May, the duo’s spokesperson.

  “Not going to happen,” I said coldly.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “A crime has been committed on this property and we have no plans to leave here until our investigation has been completed.”

  “You’ll force me to call the police.”

  “We are the police.”

  “The District Attorney, then.”

  “Look, Ms. May, we have no intention of vacating these premises until we locate Mr. Petrov.”

  “Mr. Petrov is not present at this location.”

  “I followed him into the house. I know he’s here.”

  “You’re wrong.”

  I stood staring at her silently.

  “If you’re so sure he’s here, why don’t you lead me to him?”

  “I’m unable to do that.”

  She turned to her associate. “Make the call, Robert.”

  Robert nodded, punched several numbers into his cell phone and stepped away to speak privately.

  I looked at Johnny Kennerly. “Keep going, John.”

  He nodded, gathered the troops, and headed back inside.

  In short order, District Attorney Michael Lytell’s name popped up on my cell phone.

  “Buddy Steel,” I answered.

  “Call it off, Buddy,” Lytell ordered.

  I, too, wandered away so as to speak privately. “There’s ample evidence of a crime having been committed here, Mike. And Petrov was definitely involved in it.”

  “His lawyers say the opposite. They claim he’s not even on the property.”

  “He is. I apprehended him but in the confusion, he eluded me. He’s somewhere inside the mansion, more than likely in some kind of secret enclosure.”

  “A secret enclosure? Really?”

  “Don’t minimize this, Mike.”

  “Can you produce him?”

  “Not at the moment.”

  “Listen to me, Buddy. This Petrov character is a person of some considerable importance to the Russian President. I’ve already heard directly from the Governor about it. If you can’t put your finger on him, you’ll have to stand down.”

  “I could start tearing down walls. I know he’s secreted somewhere inside them.”

  “You want to start destroying the mansion? You think that’s going to fly?”

  “I’ve got the appropriate warrant.”

  “To search, not destroy.”

  “I know he’s here, Mike.”

  “Knowing and actually proving are two different things.”

  “I have a pair of suitcases filled with synthetic Fentanyl. I saw him and two of his associates carry these opioids from the mansion to his boat dock with the intention of loading them onto a trio of speedboats.”

  “Fingerprints?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Do these suitcases have his DNA on them?”

  “Uncertain. They were carried by his associates.”

  “Is there any other evidence?”

  “Not yet.”

  “That being the case, I hereby instruct you to close up shop and get out of there, Buddy. Don’t belabor this.”

  After a pause, I said, “This isn’t over, Mike. Not by a long shot.”

  FORTY

  Having made certain that at least one of our officers was stationed just outside the mansion’s gate, but in full view of each of its two major access points, I headed back to the station.

  On top of my message pile was one from Marsha Russo, who was still in Rockford. I returned the call.

  “I made contact with the wife, Buddy.”

  “And?”

  “She doesn’t want to meet with me.”

  “Did she say why?”

  “Something in the neighborhood of it’s none of my business.”

  “What neighborhood?”

  “The ‘Fuck off’ neighborhood.”

  “So, what do you do next?”

  “She’s living with her parents. I know their address and I’m heading there now.”

  “With no assurance she’ll see you.”

  “Oh, she’ll see me, all right.”

  “How do you figure that?”

  “I’m very persuasive.”

  “What’s your plan?”

  “My plan?”

  “How do you plan on getting her to see you?”

  “The old foot in the door gambit.”

  “The foot in the door gambit?”

  “You have a better idea?”

  My next call was to my father, whom I found in his office here at the station. He invited me to join him. “Curiouser and curiouser,” he said when I told him about my experience with Boris Petrov.

  “He’s some piece of business, this Russian of yours.”

  “So, what do you advise?”

  “Hard to say because there’s this gathering storm of opposition that wants to smother you.”

  “You’re not suggesting I drop it, are you?”

  “Not in this lifetime. I like what you’re doing.”

  “This gathering storm, as you put it, is comprised of a host of self-righteous, self-serving, self-important plutocrats including, I might add, the Russian president.”

  “Daunting.”

  “You think?”

  “Look, Buddy. You knew you were up against some kind of inexorable force when you set out on this adventure. This Petrov is unlike anyone you, or even I for that matter, have ever come up against. He plays in an entirely different league.

  “But you won the first round. And you’re close to having enough on him to open a full scale investigation into whatever it is he’s doing. The man you shot is in custody. As is his partner. A couple of Petrov’s bodyguard contingent are still sitting in a Lo
s Angeles jail awaiting extradition. Use them to help you find the pharmacists in the white lab coats. And when you find them, squeeze the sons of bitches. Get this Russian dickhead dead to rights and then see how the so-called gathering storm plays out. I’m betting it’ll be like rats in a sinking ship.

  “And use that lawyer of yours as a buffer. She said she could help deflect Petrov’s efforts to stop you. Hold her feet to that fire.”

  He hadn’t finished but was still formulating what he wanted to tell me. “And do me a favor,” he said finally.

  “What?”

  “Keep your gun with you at all times. Locked and loaded. Sleep with it under your pillow.”

  “Because?”

  “This guy’s lethal. Lethal. Amoral. Unethical. Totally unpredictable. So you’ll want to talk softly and carry a big stick.”

  “Or a high-powered, semi-automatic weapon.”

  “That, too.”

  FORTY-ONE

  I was back in the reflective garden with Vlad Smirnik, who was none too happy to be there.

  The effects of his incarceration coupled with uncertainty had dampened his spirits. He appeared dejected as he collected himself to go another round with me. “You want more information? And you think I’ll give it to you because?”

  “I’m your only friend.”

  “With friends like you...”

  “Look, Vlad. The more you assist in my investigation, the more receptive the judge will be regarding your petition.”

  “My petition?”

  “You want to stay in the United States, right?”

  “Right.”

  “And I’ve pledged to help you win that battle, right?”

  “Right.”

  “So why would you choose to defy me?”

  “Because you agreed to help me based on the information I gave you earlier. Now you want more. What’s to stop you from seeking even more?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “There’s nothing to stop me.”

  “So you admit it.”

  “Listen to me, Vlad. I’m on your side. One of the secondary reasons I came here today was to get your grandmother’s and your mother’s names. I have a proposal for the District Attorney.”