Assignment- Danger A SpyCo Collection 4-6

by Craig A. Hart

  A knock sounded on the door that connected their suite to the one next door.

  “Hey, you two, we’re burning daylight here.”

  Burke had not experienced many times in his life when murdering his best friend seemed like a particularly good idea. For a brief time during the Istanbul assignment, he’d thought it was his job, but even then, the wisdom of such a move had escaped him. Now, however, he felt as if it were the only thing right and proper in a world so obviously full of injustice.

  Lyndsey stifled a laugh. “Perry. Always a man of impeccable timing.”

  “Always a man of impeccable douchebaggery,” Burke growled. “Pardon me while I bash in the head of your childhood best friend.” He rolled away from Lyndsey and stalked toward the door, dragging the sheet after him and twirling it around his middle as he went. He flung the door open. “You, sir, are about to die. Any last words?”

  “Just four,” Perry said, his face completely serious. He raised one hand and his fingers popped up one by one as he recited, “Your—boner—is—showing.”

  Burke looked down to see he was, indeed, still pitching a tent under the sheet. “At least I have nothing of which to be ashamed, my little friend. Now. What the HELL do you want?”

  “I’m meeting Adabelle at the beach. Just wanted to let you know, so you wouldn’t think I’d been kidnapped by a Scorpion agent.”

  “I hope they do and give you a bloody sendoff.”

  “Wow, you’re crabby when you don’t get your jollies.”

  “I don’t like you anymore.”

  “My day just improved. You two planning to hit the beach?”

  Burke half-turned to relay the question, but Lyndsey was already out of bed and pulling on her swimsuit, if the term “pulling on” could be used on one so flimsy. He turned back and shrugged.

  “Looks like we are.”

  “Great. Put that thing away and bring the rest of yourself down whenever. It’s already looking like a nice one.”

  “It’s Hawaii,” Burke said. “It’s always a nice one. At least, it would be if you weren’t here.”

  Perry grinned. “You know, you’re going to have to let that bitterness go. It’ll eat you up after a while.”

  “Get out of here. See if you can get eaten by a shark before we catch up to you.”

  “Will do!”

  Burke slammed the door shut and made a show of locking it as loudly as possible. He walked back to the bed and sat down hard. He looked at Lyndsey, who was absolutely stunning in her matching two-piece.

  “You could be on the cover of anything,” Burke said.

  She laughed. “How descriptive. Now come on; let’s go.”

  “Wait, what?”

  “The beach! I want to go to the beach!”

  “But—but—what about the—” Burke gesticulated wildly to the bed, now almost invisible under a crumpled pile of sheets and comforter.

  “Burke, we have five days. Plenty of time for that. Besides—” Lyndsey motioned to Burke’s lower half. “—it looks like Mr. What’s-It has gone back to sleep.”

  “Oh, hell, no. If we’re going to name my penis, it is not going to be Mr. What’s-It.”

  “We’ll think of something better later. Now throw on your trunks. I want to see you emerge from the surf, dripping and muscular, like Daniel Craig in Casino Royale.”

  “Fine,” Burke said. “Duty calls. But later I have some lessons to teach my bad student.”

  Lyndsey half-turned, clasped her hands, and bent one knee. She fluttered her eyelashes and murmured, “I’ll study real hard, professor. I promise.”

  “Damn it!”

  2

  It has been said that cigars, like a glass of scotch, are widely used by those involved in high-stakes negotiations because it gives the participants an excuse to pause and think without appearing uncertain. Roman Karazmovsky had both at his disposal and indulged in them liberally as he sat in the ornately carved 18th-century wooden chair and took stock of his guest.

  “You understand, of course, this is strictly among us,” the guest said. “No one else knows of this plan, nor can they until it has been carried out. And even then, the source of the plan must remain a secret.”

  Karazmovsky exhaled a billowing cloud of cigar smoke. “You come dangerously close to insulting me, my dear Petrov. Discretion is something I’ve long cherished as one of my crowning traits.”

  “Of course, of course. No offense intended.”

  Karazmovsky smiled to show his guest no harm was done, but he felt slighted. Had his guest come alone, he might have risen from his chair, walked over, and stuck a knife into the man’s neck. But that wouldn’t do in this case, not with Borya Koslov, the Director of the Foreign Intelligence Service of the Russian Federation, sitting in the next chair over. Besides, Karazmovsky was genuinely interested in the offered mission. Not only did it appeal to his love of the unique and dangerous, but it offered the opportunity to deliver a blow to his most hated foe: the United States of America.

  Born and raised in Moscow, Karazmovsky was hardy, used to long winter days where the mercury stayed well below zero degrees Celsius, and prolonged hours of darkness and harsh extremes. He had no fear of wolves, or bears, or of the surprisingly lethal moose.

  Of course, if those were his only qualifications, he would be merely one on a long list of fellow countrymen eager for the mission. What set Karazmovsky apart was his utter ruthlessness. He was a man who preferred using his hands and killing in close combat. He did not believe in God, but when he watched the life drain from a victim, it gave him a feeling of godlike power. As a teenager, he fought for the Soviet Army in Afghanistan, personally slitting the throat of seven Afghans before being captured and held for a week. He escaped by breaking the neck of the man who brought him daily meals and then used the man’s assault rifle to mow down six other armed guards before making his way home across miles of rough and hostile terrain.

  His ruthlessness and cunning in Afghanistan earned him a place as the top security agent in the Kremlin, where he served as the personal bodyguard for several high-level officials. At the height of the Cold War, he frustrated at least a half-dozen attempts on the lives of the Soviet presidents, mostly by agents with ties to the United States. He killed most of the would-be assassins with his bare hands. His hatred for America knew no bounds.

  Petrov leaned forward. “Am I to take the defense of your discretion as a sign you are interested?”

  “It’s a tempting offer,” Karazmovsky said, throwing Petrov a bone. “Who else knows about this?”

  “Just you, myself, and Koslov.”

  “No one else at your company?”

  “No one.”

  “I find that difficult to believe.”

  Koslov spoke up. “Petrov and I go way back to the old days. He wasn’t always the wealthy head of an oil company. There was once a time when he was a good Party man. Steadfast, reliable, the best comrade anywhere.” Koslov smiled and elbowed his friend. “But these days, you can scarcely tell him apart from the capitalists.”

  Petrov chuckled. “I follow the times, old friend. I follow the times.”

  “Don’t we all,” Koslov replied. “In any case, Petrov knows he can trust me with anything, so when he came to me with his little problem, I thought immediately of you. Clearly, the Russian government cannot be seen as a party to such a thing. Diplomatic relations with the United States are strained as it is. Such a mission would be disastrous.”

  “Ah, yes—the mission,” Karazmovsky said. “I must admit to being intrigued by the idea of being paid to kill an American governor. And I wouldn’t particularly need a motive, other than the money. But I am curious as to your own stake in the deed.”

  Petrov shrugged. “It’s simple, really, and very similar to your own motivation: money. You see, my company has been attempting to lease land in the Alaskan territory for years and the bill to allow such a thing is even now being considered in the state government. Given Alaska’s curren
t budget shortfall, it looks as if it will pass, as it will mean many millions. However, the current governor has already stated his opposition to the bill and has promised to veto any such legislation. He even won partly by promising to do just that—it isn’t popular with the voters.”

  “And my killing him would do what? My knowledge of American civics is not terribly strong, but is there not someone ready to take his place?”

  “Yes. The state has a lieutenant governor.”

  “And what of him?”

  “Her.”

  Karazmovsky couldn’t suppress a sigh. “And what of her, then?”

  Koslov broke in. “I have a reliable source who says the lieutenant governor is much more open-minded toward the legislation and would sign the bill, were she in office.”

  Karazmovsky looked back and forth between his guests. “Ah, you two are good friends.” He puffed at his cigar. “Who is this source you speak of?”

  “Your American contact.”

  Karazmovsky’s face darkened. “I work alone. I always have.”

  “I’m afraid I must insist,” Petrov broke in.

  Karazmovsky turned slowly, his face black with rage. “You do not give me orders in my own house. I have killed for much less, my friend.”

  Koslov raised a hand. “It is not an order from either myself or Petrov.”

  “Who, then?”

  “You have heard of Zmaj?”

  “Zmaj?” Karazmovsky spat out the name. “That disgusting man?”

  “Indeed, his physical appearance leaves much to be desired. An uglier man I have never seen. However, he now holds interests in most of the largest corporations in the world, wealth he has long used to fund illicit activities. Including, but not limited to, terrorism.”

  “And he has a stake in this deal?”

  “My dear Karazmovsky, he’s paying your fee. And receiving twenty percent of future profits.”

  “And he insists on this contact?”

  “He feels it would greatly increase the odds of success,” Koslov said, hastening to add, “not that he has any doubts concerning your prowess, of course.”

  “Of course,” Karazmovsky said. “He is a disgusting man, but not a stupid one. Who is this contact?”

  “A man who goes by the name of Wainwright. He will be providing you with a weapon, a satellite phone, and a detailed account of the governor, including blueprints of the mansion. He is also responsible for providing us with the perfect place and time to carry out a mission of this sort.”

  “Meaning what, exactly?”

  “Every year, the governor holds a Christmas party and everyone is invited. And by everyone, I mean everyone. Security is lax, there is a receiving line full of eager people, festivities, chaos, noise—all the things an assassin dreams of.”

  “And this setting was my contact’s idea?”

  “Yes. It illustrates the beauty of having a local man, don’t you think?”

  Karazmovsky huffed. “Nothing that couldn’t be found out in two minutes on the internet.”

  “But only if you knew what you were looking for,” Koslov said. “Come now, friend, you are being paid very well for this. Take the help where you can get it.”

  Karazmovsky did not like any of this but decided further objections would be useless at this point. “If Zmaj is so insistent, this must represent a good deal of money to all parties concerned.”

  Petrov nodded. “The mineral rights to the land in question are worth many billions. I, and no doubt Mr. Zmaj, would see many American governors dead if it meant getting my hands on that.”

  “Music to my ears,” Karazmovsky said. “As Koslov can attest, I harbor no love for our Western neighbors.”

  “You’ll do it, then?”

  Karazmovsky nodded. “Wire half the money to my account as soon as possible. Once I receive it, I will begin, with the understanding that the second half of the money will be deposited immediately upon news of the governor’s death.”

  “That is acceptable,” Petrov said. He held out a piece of folded paper to Karazmovsky, who took it suspiciously.

  “And what is this?”

  “Coordinates where your contact will leave your weapon and other items. I suggest you memorize them and destroy the paper.”

  Karazmovsky fixed the man with an intense stare. “If we are going to have a congenial working relationship, it would be better if you didn’t begin by insulting my intelligence.”

  Petrov gave his head a quick bow. “My apologies. Oh, but there is one more thing.”

  “I can’t wait to hear it,” Karazmovsky said dryly.

  “Your money will be electronically transferred, but our contact desires to be paid in cash.”

  “Cash?”

  “Fortunately, he’s not being paid quite as much as you are; otherwise you’d need a pack mule!” Petrov chortled at his own joke for a full minute before returning to business. “However, we will need you to deliver his portion once you arrive in Alaska.”

  “And how am I to do that?”

  Petrov reached behind his chair and pulled out a large metal case. “It is all here. Simply deliver it to your contact and you are finished with it.”

  “I am not an errand boy.”

  “This is not meant as an insult, I assure you.”

  Karazmovsky sighed. “Your offered fee makes it difficult to bargain, but I must say I am not comfortable with many of these arrangements.”

  “And I completely understand. But you must consider our position as well. The contact has provided us with invaluable intel for several years. This is not his first operation, so you may at least take comfort in the fact you are not having to—what do the Americans say?—babysit anyone.”

  “I certainly hope not,” Karazmovsky said. He thought for a few moments and finally nodded. “Very well. But I have one more thing as well. You will not hear from me again. Do not contact me again from this point forward. As far as you and I are concerned, the other does not exist. Agreed?”

  “Agreed.”

  Petrov and Karazmovsky stood and shook hands, with Koslov looking on like the proud witness to a happy marriage.

  3

  Burke stretched out on the sand of San Souci beach. It was a smaller, quieter stretch, favored by the kama'aina (locals) and perfect for the kind of zoning out Burke had been looking forward to since his interrupted vacation in Rome. Lyndsey was in the water up to her waist, chatting with Adabelle Fox, whom she and Burke had met during the Istanbul mission.

  “She looks good, doesn’t she?” a voice said.

  Burke looked over to where Perry Hall reclined on a beach chair, holding a worn paperback. He smiled.

  “Damn straight, she does.”

  They both knew they were talking about different women. Burke and Lyndsey had been together on and off for years, while a flame had sparked between Perry and Adabelle in Istanbul. They weren’t yet as close as Burke was to Lyndsey—they weren’t even sharing a room at the hotel—but Burke knew it was only a matter of time. He could tell his friend was smitten and couldn’t be happier. Perry had faced a rough few years following the cold-blooded murder of his wife. Depression and alcohol reared their ugly heads, but Perry seemed on the verge of shedding the old demons, and Burke could see a bit of the old life beginning to reassert itself—Burke also knew that the lovely Adabelle Fox had played a role in his friend’s rebirth.

  Beside Burke on the beach towel, his cell phone chirped. He patted around for several seconds before his hand at last gripped it. He held it up in front of his face, trying to shield the screen from the sunlight.

  “For the love of all that is holy.”

  Perry looked up from his book. “Something wrong?”

  “Have you ever received a call from Moore when something wasn’t wrong?”

  “Please tell me J. Carlton Moore isn’t calling you.”

  “I could tell you that, but it would be a damn lie.”

  Perry sat up on the chair. “I don’t know whethe
r to be more pissed that he’s calling on vacation or that he called you, not me.”

  “In this case, I’d be happy to let you get top billing. Think I can get away with ignoring it?”

  “You could. But he’d just call back. Then call back again. Our fearless leader is nothing if not persistent. Eventually, you’ll have to pick up. Might as well get it over with.”

  Burke emitted a stream of highly creative profanity and stabbed the button to accept the call.

  “What the hell,” he barked into the phone.

  There was not a moment’s hesitation from the other end. “I’d have thought you’d be in a better mood, Tiger, since you’re currently relaxing in the lap of luxury.”

  “My mood was fine. Then you called.”

  “You cut me to the quick.”

  “Oh, come on, Moore. You never call unless you have some sort of bad news to convey or something you need done.”

  “You can relax this time, Tiger. I only wanted to say that I hope you have had a good time on vacation.”

  “Oh, well…thank you.”

  “Because it just ended. I need you and Venus on the first flight to Alaska.”

  Burke looked out at the sparkling ocean and thought back over his life. He knew he hadn’t been a perfect human, but on balance he thought he’d done more good than harm. Certainly he hadn’t been an intentionally evil person. Yet there had to be something in his past, something for which he was now paying dearly. Karma had come to collect.

  “Tiger? Did you hang up on me?”

  “No, sir. Sorry. I thought you said something ridiculous, but then I realized I had to be mistaken. It sounded like you said something about Lyndsey and me going to Alaska.”

  “That’s precisely what I said.”

  “I…I don’t think you can get there from here, sir.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. I’ve had plane reservations made. You’re leaving today from Honolulu and flying into Anchorage and from there to Juneau. I trust I can count on you to relay the plan to Venus?”

  “May I ask what this is all about?”

  “You will be briefed once you arrive.”