Rance drove several more laps, and his accuracy and time improved with each effort. When Burke and Lyndsey were satisfied, they put their props away and huddled into Rainwater’s CRV.
“Is there any place to shoot around here?” Burke asked.
Rance smiled. “This is Alaska. The whole state is a shooting range.”
As they drove, Burke and Lyndsey peered out the windows and gazed at the natural beauty. They were surrounded by gigantic mountains jutting from the earth. They were massive and close enough, it seemed, that they could reach out and touch them. Each street lamp along the drive was dotted with the white head of a bald eagle. Across the street in Gastineau Channel, which funneled to the Pacific Ocean, was Douglas Island. The gorgeous view was the silver lining to an otherwise dreadful assignment.
Rance stopped the CRV. Beyond them were the barren trees and deep snow of a Juneau wintertime—the ideal place to set up a target and see what they had in Rance Rainwater. They exited the vehicle. Burke and Lyndsey instantly shivered beneath their layers of clothing.
Rance laughed. “You folks are worried about me and you can’t take a little cold.”
“Shut it, Rainwater,” Burke said, feeling as if his lips were about to fuse together. “This cold is inhumane.”
Lyndsey opened the back of the CRV and pulled out the targets. Once they were set up, Burke pulled out his Walther PPK, took aim, and fired. He hit each target dead center.
“Still got it,” he said. “Even though I can’t feel my hands.”
Archer took out her own weapon, aimed, and fired. Her shots also landed dead center. She smiled and handed Rance the pistol. “Let’s see what you got.”
Rance snickered. He had hunted for most of his life. It was no big deal to shoot a target. “Give me an actual challenge. Step aside.” He aimed carefully, but just as he pulled the trigger, a foghorn sounded right behind his ear. He jumped and swore, his shot landing well off target. “What the hell was that!”
Burke and Lyndsey both snickered.
“You have to be able to fire accurately under duress,” Burke said. “This isn’t like a quiet, peaceful hunting trip. In this job, the targets shoot back.”
“I won’t be of much help if you give me a heart attack,” Rance grumbled.
“All right, I apologize,” Burke said, not meaning a word of it. “Go ahead and try again. I promise I won’t sound off the foghorn this time.”
Rance looked as if he had serious doubts concerning Burke’s trustworthiness, but took aim and fired. The only sound was that of the gunshot echoing in the empty wilderness. The bullet hit the center of the target.
“Dead eye. Told you,” Rance said.
Burke nodded, duly impressed. “Not bad. But I’ll bet you can’t do that again.”
“You just saying that or are you serious?”
“About not thinking you can do that again?”
“About the bet.”
“If that’s the way you want it,” Burke said. “What shall we bet?”
“Dinner. I make the shot, you pay.”
Burke waved toward the target. “You’re on. Have at it.”
Rance took aim. As he fired, Burke released the sound of the foghorn again, yet the shot landed perfectly on target.
“Ha!” Rance crowed. “Thought you’d get me that time, didn’t you, you cheatin’ spook!”
Burke grinned ruefully. “You got me, you got me.”
“And now you owe me dinner. I plan to order everything on the menu.”
“Go ahead,” Burke said. “We’re on an expense account anyway.”
8
In Skagway, Karazmovsky chose the most authentic-looking bar he could find, this one tucked near the edge of town, and walked inside. The light was dim, as he had hoped, and the patrons all looked up as he entered. This, perhaps paradoxically, was a good sign. It meant this was a local hangout unused to new faces. And locals were the people Karazmovsky was looking for.
He walked to the bar and smiled at the bartender. “I am looking for someone with a team of sled dogs. Do you know of anyone who might be interested in making a little money?”
The bartender regarded Karazmovsky with wary eyes. “I might. How far you goin’ and how much you payin’?”
“As far as Juneau. The amount I will discuss with whomever I hire.”
Karazmovsky was, in fact, willing to pay a great deal, so much that the amount would get around town and raise his profile. That he certainly did not want.
“I might know someone. Several, in fact. Mostly natives.”
“I don’t care who they are as long as they have good equipment and can handle a sled well.”
“Then I know someone who can help you.”
The bartender leaned back and yelled into the rear of the bar. “Panuk! Come on out here. Got a customer for ya.”
There was a rustling sound from a darkened corner and then a form appeared. As the figure approached, Karazmovsky slowly began making out the broad features of a native Alaskan. His long, dark hair hung loose and he looked about fifty years old.
“Are you certain this is the man?” Karazmovsky asked. “He looks as if he might fall over at any moment.”
The bartender shrugged. “Don’t worry about that. He’ll be fine.”
“But he appears to be past his prime. A journey like this, while perhaps not long in Alaska terms, will not be easy.”
“He’s a lot younger than he looks. In his late thirties, I’d guess, but he hits the bottle hard. Has for years. He can handle a sled, though, drunk or sober. I’ve seen him do it both ways. It’s in his blood. The dogs know and trust him.”
Panuk reached the bar, leaned on it, and regarded the stranger through heavily lidded eyes. “You want a sled driver?”
“Yes,” Karazmovsky said. “Would you be willing to take me to Juneau?”
“Why not take the ferry?”
“Maybe I want to see the country a little.” Feeling irritated, Karazmovsky looked at the bartender. “He doesn’t seem too interested in the job to me.”
The bartender shrugged again. “Panuk never figured out the whole customer service thing. He gets impatient with tourists who think they want the ‘Alaska Experience’ and get themselves into trouble, like trying to feed a grizzly.”
“I see,” Karazmovsky said. “Well, I am no tourist. I have much experience in many things, including outdoor survival. I have not, however, handled a team of dogs, and I know enough to realize that would need an experienced hand.”
Panuk nodded. “I can take you. When do you wish to leave?”
“As soon as possible.”
“I will ready the dogs.” And with that, the native left the bar.
The bartender looked at Karazmovsky. “I know he seems like a lost cause, but Panuk is well-loved around here. He’d probably do this job for drinking money only, but if I hear you took advantage of him, we might round up an old-fashioned posse and hunt you down. Just a friendly warning.”
Karazmovsky would normally have responded to such a statement with deadly force, but now was not the time. Self-control and discretion were the keys. Stay focused on the goal, he thought. You have a greater mission at hand.
“Don’t worry,” he said. “I will make sure he is rewarded for his service.” And with that, Karazmovsky left the bar in pursuit of his new hire.
BACK AT RANCE’S OFFICE, Burke and Lyndsey conducted a quick scan for bugs. It came back negative for electronic surveillance devices but turned up a good number of crawling things. In short, the office was both clean and filthy.
“Okay, Rainwater,” Burke said, leaning against the wall after checking it for termites. “What exactly did Dot tell you?”
“Not much. She mentioned the governor.”
“Right. So, here’s what Dot didn’t tell you. Karazmovsky, the man in the dossier, is reported to be coming to Juneau to kill the governor. Apparently, the governor is a threat to the passage of a bill that would mean billions of dollars to
Karazmovsky’s client. The lieutenant governor has broken with the governor on this issue, and so if he goes, she would be in a position to usher it through.”
Rance pondered this. “And the lieutenant? Is she aware of Karazmovsky?”
“We have no reason to think so. We haven’t found any links to suggest that she is anything more than an unwitting pawn in the entire deal. Still, the main issue is that the governor’s life is in danger from the hands of a Russian agent.”
“Do we know who the client is?”
“Not with certainty, although we could make an educated guess.”
Rance waited for several seconds, but when Burke wasn’t forthcoming, he said, “Well? If I’m going to know, I might as well know.”
“Very well. Because the bill in question has to do with mineral rights, we had only to evaluate the top Russian players in that field. One in particular jumped out at us.”
“And why was that?”
“Because he is suspected to have had ties with an individual of great interest to us at SpyCo, ever since he entered the scene in Istanbul.”
Rance chortled. “You’re not talking about Timo, are you? Ever since that guy came up here to Alaska that one year, I knew he’d make a name for himself. I just didn’t know on what side of the law he’d end up on.”
“No, not Timo. A horrendously disgusting man named Zmaj. Still, I find it strange you’re friends with Timo. What would a Samoan be doing in Alaska?”
“What would a Samoan be doing in Istanbul?” Rance replied, checking his watch.
Burke shrugged. “Good point. Anyway, that’s the short version of the story.”
“What’s the long version?”
“There isn’t one, really, just one other thing. If Karazmovsky succeeds in his mission, you can be sure the Russians will get the blame, even if the assassin wasn’t working with the government. Tensions with Russia are running high enough now. The assassination of an American governor would…well, we just don’t want that to happen.”
“The governor has security, doesn’t he?”
“He does, but it’s not up to this task. The manpower and resources are limited. That’s where we come in. We are, essentially, playing security for the governor, with the understanding that, if the assassination is a success, this entire situation will quickly spiral out of control. In that case, SpyCo is already embedded on the scene.”
“Sounds like a solid plan,” Rainwater said, nodding and checking his watch once again.
Burke frowned. “Are you expecting someone? You keep looking at your watch.”
“Oh, yeah. Lorelei is coming by. She ought to be here by now.”
“Lorelei? And who might that be?”
“She’s my, well, my—”
“Girlfriend?” Lyndsey prompted.
Rance shifted on his feet. “Not exactly. You see—”
“She’s a hooker, isn’t she?” Burke interrupted.
Lyndsey groaned. “You invited a prostitute to our secure briefing?”
“She prefers the term ‘call girl,’” Rance said. He dug out a pack of Winstons and lit up. He offered a smoke to Lyndsey and Burke, but they declined.
“I don’t care what she prefers,” Lyndsey said, waving away the smoke Rance was blowing in her direction. “I don’t like the idea. Can she be trusted?”
“I mean, she’s a whore,” Rance said. “But aside from that.”
“I thought you said she prefers call girl.”
“Oh, she does. Hell, I’d never call her a whore to her face.”
Lyndsey crossed her arms. “How long have you known this…Lorelei?”
“I have no idea. That’s the beauty of this kind of relationship. You don’t have to remember anniversaries. But don’t underestimate her. She’s a pretty tough cookie, even carries a knife strapped to her thigh at all times just in case some guy won’t pay his bill.”
“Has she ever had to use it on you?”
“Nah,” Rance said, waving his hand as if the question was the silliest thing he’d heard that decade. “I pay my bills. And even if I didn’t, my credit with Lorelei is golden.”
As if on cue, Lorelei came walking into the office, her arms laden with plastic bags from the department store.
“Let me help you with those,” Burke said, taking the bags from her.
Lorelei smiled. “Finally, a gentleman in Juneau.”
Burke could see why Rance liked the woman. Not only was she attractive, but she had that indescribable sensual quality that poets have struggled to describe for hundreds of years. In modern terms, she oozed sex.
Burke stood there, holding the bags and looking stupid until Rance motioned for him to set them on the desk. As he did so, Burke saw brightly colored fabric inside.
“What’s in the bags?” he asked, afraid for the answer.
Rance smiled wickedly. “Dot mentioned the governor was the reason for our man’s visit to Juneau. And, to judge from his dossier, a man like Karazmovsky wouldn’t be on a job if it didn’t involve killing someone. Therefore, he must be here to kill the governor.”
“Sounds like you didn’t even need my little briefing,” Burke said, miffed. “Thanks for letting me prattle on.”
“I didn’t want to be rude,” Rance said, grinning.
Burke’s forehead wrinkled. “What does your ingenuity have to do with whatever is in the bags?”
“Patience, my friend,” Rance said, playing his part to the hilt. “I began thinking. If I wanted to assassinate the governor of Alaska, how would I do it? And the answer was not so much ‘how’ I would do it, as ‘when’ I would do it.”
“Call me an idiot, but I’m still not following,” Burke said.
“Every year, there is a Christmas open house at the governor’s mansion. Tons of people go through. It’s quite an event. Last year, they had 25,000 cookies and two hundred pounds of candy on hand. Security is lax and people can get up close and personal with the governor. If I wanted to assassinate the governor, well…that would be the time to do it.”
“And the bags?”
Rance’s lips spread wide in a toothy grin. The cigarette dangled precariously. “Well, the best way to keep an eye on the governor during the Christmas party would be to attend. And if we attend, you’ll want to blend in. Lorelei has brought your disguises.” Rance reached inside one bag and pulled out a bright red sweater with green sleeves and a reindeer with an actual bell for a nose. “This one is yours,” Rainwater said, shoving the sweater toward Burke, who let it fall to the floor.
“You have to be kidding me,” Burke said, his face the picture of mortification.
“Juneau is a very festive town,” Rance said. “You won’t stand out in these.”
He pulled out the next one. This one was also bright red with green sleeves. The neckline was decorated with holly and ivy and a graphic of Frosty the Snowman, with glitter for snow. He tossed this one to Archer.
“Gee, thanks ever so much,” she said, balling up the sweater under her arm.
“And what about yours?” Burke demanded.
Rance waved a dismissive hand. “People here know me. They know I wouldn’t wear shit like that. I’ll be going in my usual everyday attire. And Lorelei—” He reached into the bag and pulled out a slinky black dress that was highly impractical, given the weather conditions. “—will be draped over my arm in this number. Nice work, my dear.”
9
Traveling via sled dog is not the easiest method of transportation, but Karazmovsky loved it. He’d been at home too long and the strain on his burning muscles felt wonderful. Of course, he tried to remain in shape and followed a strict dietary and exercise regimen, but one could never quite replicate the experience of being outdoors in the elements.
About halfway between Skagway and Juneau, the team came upon a cabin, its windows glowing yellow in the dim outdoor light.
“The cabin,” Karazmovsky said. “Let us stop for a bit.”
Panuk nodded and powered them thro
ugh the barren trees and deep snow. Once at the cabin, he brought the sled to a gradual halt. He stepped off the foot boards and flexed his fingers and arms. “Good. The dogs could use a rest before we push on.”
“I’d guess they’re hungry as well,” Karazmovsky said.
Panuk shrugged. “Perhaps. A little water will be good. Dogs should not be overfed on a run.”
A snowmobile sat in front of the cabin and, by the small light shining from the cabin, Karazmovsky could see the snowmobile was streaked with blood. This was a hunter’s cabin.
Karazmovsky approached and peered through the window. A man bent, cooking over an open fire. It was a one-room cabin and he appeared to be the only man inside. There was one jacket and one pair of boots by the door. Karazmovsky saw a half-dressed moose carcass on the table next to the man and his stomach rumbled.
“The hunter breaks the rule,” Panuk said, having slipped up behind him. “It is past the season for hunting moose.”
Karazmovsky’s mouth watered as he smelled the moose cooking. He walked over to the snowmobile. As he knew would be the case, the keys were in the ignition. This was an old hunters’ trick—it made for a quick exit toward prey. Plus, a hunter had a reasonable expectation that his vehicle would not be stolen up here alone. Of course, since the man was poaching, he might have other reasons for a quick escape.
Karazmovsky walked to the snowmobile and turned the key. The engine cranked to life, and he stepped into the shadows, holding Panuk back with an extended arm. Inside, the hunter swore and a moment later stumbled outside, a shotgun held at the ready.
“What the absolute fu—”
The hunter never finished the question as Karazmovsky slipped up behind him and broke his neck with one lethal twist. The hunter went limp and dropped into the snow.
Assignment- Danger A SpyCo Collection 4-6 Page 14
