by Dave Edlund
Another twenty minutes passed, then the double glass doors to the Rostov Oil Headquarters building opened, and three men in dark suits exited. They stood under the large glass awning in front of the main entrance for a few minutes. Jim raised a pair of compact binoculars and quickly scanned the faces. A taxi pulled to the curb, and as all three men climbed in, he was certain none were Grigory Rostov.
On the flight to Moscow he had spent hours studying a thick folder on the man who was the chairman of Russia’s largest state-owned oil company. Grigory’s great-grandfather had founded the company, but it was not until his father took control following the defeat of Germany in 1945 that the company began to grow rapidly. Still, Rostov Oil would be only a minor oil company had it not been for the alliance that was forged with Vladimir Pushkin and the Russian Federation a decade earlier, shortly after Grigory inherited control from his aging father. Although the Russian government owned more than 70 percent of the company, the Rostov family owned the remainder, making Grigory Rostov an extremely wealthy man, indeed.
Jim had studied the mix of color and black-and-white photos of Rostov until he could visualize the man’s face from any angle. He glanced at his watch—10:12 P.M. As every minute passed, Jim became more expectant that Rostov would exit the building, and with every passing minute that Rostov did not show, Jim feared that he had somehow missed him.
“Maybe we missed him,” said Peter. He had been quiet for hours, so Jim was almost startled to hear his voice from the back seat.
“No, we didn’t miss him.”
“How can you be sure? Maybe he never came to work today.”
“He’s here. I just know.”
Silence returned to the car.
Although he had been sitting in the car and waiting for almost four hours, Jim did not feel tired. He was the hunter, and this is what he was trained to do. His attention was focused. The ear buds had long-since been returned to a pocket of his backpack, and the car windows were rolled down despite the cool autumn temperature so that he could hear as well as see more clearly in the dark of night.
By 10:30 P.M. the street traffic had become very light; the sidewalk was no longer crowded—most had gone home for the night. Jim had no way of knowing when Rostov would leave the building, and he was not about to quit. He was in an excellent location to take out his mark, and he was a patient man.
Two young women with long blond hair approached, walking arm in arm. They wore short, tight dresses with low-cut tops and high heels despite the chilly temperature. Jim assumed they were working girls, and he slid lower behind the wheel, remaining still and trying hard not to be seen. The women walked past, talking and laughing, oblivious to his presence.
As the sound of their voices faded away, a silver Bentley stopped in the no-parking zone immediately in front of the entrance to Rostov Oil. The glass door opened, and a lone business man stepped out. The door closed behind him, and he stopped, waiting for the driver to walk around and open the rear door.
The business man stretched his arms, taking in a deep breath of fresh air. His tie was loose, and the top button of his white shirt was open. In no hurry to enter the Bentley, he reached into his coat pocket and retrieved his cell phone, seeming to scroll through a list of messages. As he did so, Jim scrutinized the face with his binoculars.
“Gotcha,” he whispered to himself. Jim quickly scanned the street for witnesses. There was the driver standing beside the Bentley, otherwise the street was practically deserted. With the skill and deliberation of a professional, Jim removed the Mk-9 pistol from his backpack and leaned onto the passenger seat. The muzzle of the gun swung clear of the windshield as he took aim. The man continued to check his cell phone, and then abruptly, as if he sensed danger, he stopped and looked around, surveying the street. Soon his eyes stopped on the black GAZ sedan and for a fleeting instant his face registered recognition that he was staring at a gun.
Jim didn’t hesitate. He pressed the trigger the instant that Rostov stared into his eyes. The magnetic impulse gun functioned flawlessly, spitting out the projectile at just under the speed of sound.
Simultaneously the phone dropped from Rostov’s limp hand as his knees buckled, and he collapsed on the spot. His face looked up at the black sky through glassy eyes devoid of expression, blood already pooling at the back of his head like a grotesque halo.
Rostov’s driver immediately knew something was terribly wrong when his boss crumpled to the sidewalk. Rushing to his side, he felt for a pulse at the same time he saw the unmistakable evidence that Grigory Rostov had been shot in the head. Confusion replaced shock and disbelief. There had been no gunshot, not even a muffled report from a far off sniper.
The glass door to Rostov Oil Headquarters burst open and a man dressed in a dark suit rushed forward to the lifeless body, submachine gun gripped by his side. At that moment, Jim turned over the engine and shifted the GAZ into reverse, hoping to maneuver out of the tight parallel parking without attracting any attention.
Almost immediately, Jim’s plan began to unravel as the guard pointed the submachine gun at the GAZ and started shouting orders in Russian. The guard was clearly agitated and reasoned the occupants of the GAZ, the only persons within sight, were somehow connected to the assassination.
Having stopped just short of the parked car behind the GAZ, Jim shifted into drive and nudged the car forward, cranking the wheel. The guard was now moving toward the GAZ, straining to see the occupants behind the darkened windows. Rostov’s driver was still kneeling next to his boss, but now he was talking on his phone.
Damn it. Jim couldn’t clear the parked car in front of the GAZ; he’d have to repeat the maneuver one more time to get out onto the street.
“This guy is serious; we’ve got to get out of here,” Peter urged from the back seat.
“I’m trying. If we panic, he’ll shoot us for sure.”
As Jim reversed the GAZ, the guard raised his submachine gun, holding it steady with both hands, still advancing on the car. To Peter, it felt like the gun was aimed directly at him from only yards away. There was no way the guard could miss.
CLICK!, came the metallic sound of the Mk-9 trigger mechanism, and the guard fell forward, the gun sliding from his motionless hands. Jim stole a quick glance and saw that the guard was no longer a threat. From the corner of his eye he saw Peter loading another round into an Mk-9.
“Where’d that come from?” said Jim without averting his attention from maneuvering out of the parking spot. The GAZ was moving forward, wheel cranked all the way to the left. It looked to Peter that they might clear the parked car to the front this time.
Suddenly the rear passenger window exploded in a deafening crack as the sounds of shattered glass and pistol report merged into a singularity. The driver was holding a pistol in one hand and his phone in the other.
“They’re on to us!” Peter shouted.
Jim pressed the gas pedal and the GAZ shot forward, only to clip the rear bumper and quarter panel of the parked car. As the GAZ bounced to the left, losing speed, there was a second shot, quickly followed by a third shot. One of the bullets tore through the headrest on the passenger seat in front of Peter. He raised the Mk-9, taking aim.
At the same time, the driver dropped the cell phone and used both hands to steady his aim. BOOM! The report was deafening, and the door window next to Jim exploded in a shower of glass. With their ears ringing from the gunshots, neither Jim nor Peter heard the screech of metal as the GAZ scraped past the parked car. And neither man heard the soft click when Peter fired the Mk-9 a second time.
The black GAZ accelerated onto the street. Looking back, Peter saw the driver sprawled on the sidewalk next to Rostov.
Shortly after midnight, Jim and Peter were safely back onboard the Gulfstream, flying west.
Chapter 40
October 23
Bend, Oregon
“Thanks again for the lift home. I really appreciate it.” Peter Savage had just stepped off the C-37A tra
nsport, having landed at Bend Airfield in central Oregon. Jim Nicolaou was one step in front of him.
“Like I said, no problem. Besides, after all you and your father have done to help me and your country, I think it’s the least we could do in return.”
Over the past week, Operation Checkmate had drawn to a successful close. Exactly two minutes before the twelve-hour deadline was to expire, President Taylor received a call from President Enrique Garza. It was a short call, curt, but to the point. Venezuela agreed to the demands laid out by Secretary of State Paul Bryan. In return, the United States would restore full diplomatic relations and send a generous humanitarian aid package to Venezuela—mostly medicines to help the poor.
The Russian Federation had remained true to the promise from Vladimir Pushkin. It seemed they were more than willing to distance themselves from the now-public radical policies of Garza. And although the SGIT analysts were convinced of Rostov’s role in planning and funding the attacks, at least during the past five months and likely longer, there was still a nagging suspicion that he had not acted independently of the Kremlin; a suspicion that Peter would voice whenever the subject was up for discussion.
In Moscow, the investigation into the murder of Grigory Rostov and two bodyguards was just beginning. But even so, the Moscow police were somewhat surprised that the Kremlin showed little interest in the case and refused to provide any support. Given that the projectiles that killed Rostov and his guards were unique, unlike any bullets known to the Moscow police, and that there had been no witnesses and no other physical evidence, it was unlikely that the case would ever be solved.
Peter checked his watch as he and Jim climbed into the waiting taxi. It was almost 6:00 P.M. “How about joining me for dinner before you fly back to Sacramento?”
Jim didn’t have to think it over for long. “Sure, I think I can do that. My orders are to return to McClellan tonight, nothing any more specific than that.”
“Great! I know the head waiter at Anthony’s. He can probably get us in without a reservation, if you don’t mind eating there again.”
“You’re kidding, right? That place is fantastic!”
“Let me give Jo a call, see if she can join us. I think you’ll like her.”
“I’m sure I will, buddy.” With the pressure of the operation over, Jim was more relaxed than Peter had seen him since their reunion in September. And, to be honest, Peter felt that a tremendous burden had been lifted, that the threat to his father was eliminated.
Peter called his daughter on his cell phone. She picked up on the second ring. “Sage Brush Design, this is Joanna,” she greeted.
“Hey, kiddo, how’s it going?”
“Oh, hi Dad. Okay, I suppose, not too busy this week. How about you? When are you coming home?”
“Actually, I’m in a taxi right now, should be home in about ten minutes. Jim Nicolaou is with me, and I wanted to invite you to join us for dinner tonight at Anthony’s. Don’t have any plans already, do you?”
“Sounds like fun. What time? We’re just about to close up the store.”
“Come on over to Anthony’s after you lock up. We’ll either be at the bar or seated at a table. Just look for us.”
“Okay, Dad. See you in about 30 minutes.”
The taxi pulled up outside Peter’s condominium on Powerhouse Drive. He paid the driver and tipped him well.
Peter and Jim walked up the stairs to the front door. Peter found his keys and was about to unlock and open the door when Jim grabbed his wrist. “Better knock first.”
Peter looked at Jim questioningly; then the light bulb came on. “Oh, right. I forgot about your men house sitting.”
“Just thinking it wouldn’t be a good idea to surprise them.”
Peter rang the doorbell, and a moment later a man was looking through the peep hole. He instantly recognized both Jim Nicolaou and Peter Savage and opened the door.
“Welcome home, Dr. Savage, Commander,” the man greeted with a nod.
They walked in and closed the front door. Jim made the introductions. “This is Jones and McNerny,” motioning to the two MPs who had been assigned to house-sit Peter’s condominium.
Jim had decided not to take any chances since Vasquez Ramirez had not been accounted for yet. The search for him was their top priority, but there was no telling how long it would take. Jim had not wanted any Ramirez operatives to plant a bomb in Peter’s condo or otherwise retaliate against him during his absence. But it seemed that Venezuela was willing to accept the demand to cease terrorist activities, and with Rostov dead, Jim decided that it was time to bring the two MPs back to The Office, where other work awaited them.
Jess nudged through the group of men and eyed Peter expectantly. Peter rubbed her head. “I hope Jess behaved for you.”
“She’s a great dog,” said Jones. “No problem at all.”
“Let me drop off my bag, Jim. Then we should walk over to Anthony’s. Jo will be there shortly.”
Peter walked up the spiral staircase at the far side of the great room, past the mahogany pool table and on to the master bedroom on the upper floor. After dropping off his duffle bag, he grabbed a light jacket and an oversized fleece pullover for Jim to borrow before heading back downstairs.
“I’m ready if you are,” said Jim. “I told the guys we’d bring back some crab cakes and alder-plank salmon for them, and maybe a couple of slices of berry cheesecake.”
“Of course, just don’t let me forget.”
Peter and Jim walked out into a beautiful, clear, brisk evening. The sun had set, leaving behind a crimson-stained sky backlighting the Cascade Mountain peaks, and the moon was already high in the night sky.
As usual, Anthony’s was doing a good business. Peter introduced himself when they walked in and asked for the head waiter, who appeared almost magically.
“Hello, Peter! I haven’t seen you in a while. Everything is good, I hope?”
“Hello, Bernie. I’ve been away on business. All is well, how about you? Looks like you are busy as ever.”
Bernie nodded. “We are seeing steady flow. Business is strong. But I’m sure that you didn’t come in tonight just for small talk. I imagine you’d like a table, yes?”
“Of course. My daughter should be arriving shortly. Can you find a table for three?”
“Let me see what we have.”
Bernie walked to the reception desk and looked over the seating chart. “Ah, this should do nicely. Follow me, gentlemen,” and Bernie walked up the wide staircase to the second floor seating area. He showed Peter and Jim to a quiet corner table set up for four.
“Enjoy your dinner, gentlemen.”
“Thank you, Bernie,” replied Peter.
Almost immediately a server appeared with water glasses—three—and removed one place setting. He was followed by the cocktail waitress. “May I get something from the bar for you gentlemen?”
“Jim?” prompted Peter, deferring to his guest to order first.
“Yes, I’ll have a Mirror Pond pale ale.”
“Very good, and you, sir?”
“Vodka martini, please. Very dry, shaken, three olives.”
“Certainly. I’ll be right back with your drinks.”
While they were looking over the menu, Joanna walked up the stairs, pausing at the top to search for her father’s table. She was dressed casually in smart business attire: grey pants with a red and grey sweater. Her jewelry was simple, but sophisticated—silver hoop earrings and a multi-strand silver necklace. The brilliant white silver contrasted well with her long brunette hair.
Peter caught Jo’s attention as he stood; Jim quickly followed and Joanna approached them. “Joanna, this is my good friend, James Nicolaou.”
“Please call me Jo,” she said. Jim extended his hand and gently grasped Jo’s.
“Okay, Jo, if you’ll call me Jim. Your father speaks highly of you. He’s very proud of your artistic talents. And for good reason, based on what I saw on display in his home.�
��
She blushed just slightly. “Thank you. I’ve always enjoyed the arts—drawing mostly.”
“And I understand that you’re an interior designer?”
“Yes. It’s challenging and a fun outlet for my creativity. I do mostly residential work, but some business interiors occasionally.”
“I love the work she did in my home. Always makes me feel relaxed and at peace.” Peter had a sparkle in his eyes as he praised his daughter’s work.
The drinks arrived at the table and Jo ordered a glass of white wine, a sauvignon blanc from Chile.
“Well, we better take care of ordering dinner. Then we can visit.”
“Good suggestion, Peter. I’m starving.”
As Jo’s glass of wine arrived, so did the waiter to take their orders.
“Ladies first,” said Jim.
“I’ll have a house salad and the halibut.”
Next the waiter looked to Jim. Without looking up from his menu, he ordered, “And I’ll start with a house salad, and for the main course let’s try the crab-stuffed Dover sole. Thank you.”
Now it was Peter’s turn. “Well, I’m going to take the alder-plank salmon. Let’s start with a Caesar salad.”
“Very well,” replied the waiter. “Is there anything else I can bring you at the moment?”
“No, I think we’re good,” said Peter.
After the waiter left, Jo looked at her father. “So, I have to ask, where have you been and what have you been up to? I haven’t seen you or heard from you in over a month, and you have two serious guys house sitting. This is not like you.”
Jim was certain he detected a combination of concern and anger in Jo’s face, although he was equally certain she was trying to mask her emotions.
Peter chuckled nervously, while Jim smiled politely, not certain yet where her line of questioning was going. Jo was very astute, and secretly Jim was pleased to hear that she described the MPs as “serious.”
