Brass Monkey: A James Acton Thriller Book #2 (8 page)

Southeast District Police Headquarters, Kashirskoye Street, Moscow

Cellblock C

“Hey! Wake up!”

The cot Yakovski was sleeping on shook again. He opened his eyes and looked up through the fog of the first glance at a new day, and a hangover, made all the worse by the bright light in the middle of the small cell he was transferred to after the interrogation.

His interrogator kicked the cot again. “Wake up, unless you want to stay here!”

“Da, da, I’m up, I’m up,” he mumbled as he swung his stiff legs from the cot to the floor. He stretched and looked around.

“Come on, I haven’t got all damned day to wait for you!”

He eyed the cop. “Dymovsky, wasn’t it? Did you ever serve?” he asked. “You must have, you have balls of steel.”

Dymovsky nodded. “Chechnya.”

Yakovski’s eyes opened a little wider. “Now that’s a place I’d like to have gone to.”

Dymovsky frowned at him. “I don’t know anyone who’d want to go there.”

Yakovski stood and faced him. “That’s because you don’t know anyone who likes to kill camel jockeys!” Yakovski laughed heartily then coughed.
I need vodka.
“What time is it?”

“Time for you to go.”

“What?”

“You’re free to go,” said Dymovsky.

Yakovski smiled, knowing he was being played. “Really? Do you think I’m stupid?”

Dymovsky yawned. “Listen, I just follow orders. I was told to let you go, so I let you go. If you want me to ask again, because believe me I asked them to confirm the order several times, then I will.”

Now that story Yakovski did buy. Someone, somewhere, had pulled strings. He could only think of the Colonel, but how would he have found out about the arrest? He seemed to know everything, though, so it was possible.

“Nyet, let’s go.”

Dymovsky led him from the cell and down the long corridor leading out of the cellblock. He rapped on the metal door at the end. A small window slid open and the officer on the other side glanced around before nodding and sliding the window shut. The door opened and they stepped through to the main control area.

 One man Yakovski recognized from the arrest the night before stood there, his steeled jaw and glaring eyes told Yakovski this man was not happy about the situation. He glared at Dymovsky. “I can’t believe we’re letting this piece of garbage go.”

“Orders,” said Dymovsky firmly.

“Yes, but—”

Dymovsky cut him off. “Is that his stuff?” he said, pointing at a brown manila envelope.

The man nodded and handed it over to Yakovski. He looked inside, taking a quick inventory. “Don’t I get my gun back?”

The man’s fists clenched into balls and his face turned Soviet red. Dymovsky shoved Yakovski forward before he got belted, and herded him toward the exit. “Don’t push your luck. We have orders to release you, not what condition to release you in.”

Yakovski kept his mouth shut, not feeling like getting a beating today, not before a dose of vodka.

Dymovsky opened the door in front of him, then shoved him out into the cool morning air. “Now piss off!” he said, slamming the door shut.

Yakovski looked around the alley he was in, got his bearings, and headed to the street. He wasn’t an idiot. He knew even if there were orders to release him, he would be followed, or tracked, somehow.

Now it was time to lose them.

Knoxville, Tennessee

Cole sat in a green and white lawn chair, probably out of style long before it had been manufactured, the plastic lattice torn, faded and stained by years of abuse. But it was American made.
Built tough.
On two stacked milk cartons sat his laptop. He re-read the email he had just received and snapped it shut.

“They’re up to something.”

He was sitting in the back room of a rented warehouse, a staging area for the upcoming action, with three of his most trusted advisors. Beyond the tin and frosted glass walls the bustle of activity could be heard, the sound of men shouting as they prepared for the next phase of the operation.

“What?” asked Charlie Parker, the man who had recruited him into New Slate twelve years ago and was now his second-in-command.

“This is too easy.”

“Easy?” Chip McConnell yelped. “Are you kidding me? The amount of hoops we’ve had to jump through with these Rooskies and now these fuckin’ pull-starts has been ridiculous!”

Cole smiled. Chip was extremely excitable at the best of times. “Easy, Chip, or you’ll burst a blood vessel before you get to see that beeyewteeful mushroom cloud.”

Chip laughed, his face dropping a couple of shades of red. “Sorry, Ed. You know me, I just can’t stand any of these fuckers, especially those commie bastards. As far as I’m concerned, Moscow’s a good enough target.”

Cole chuckled. “One problem at a time, one problem at a time!” He sat forward, the chair’s metal frame squeaking loudly. “In all seriousness, them wanting two of their people at the exchange is a problem.”

“Why, two sandtards should be easy to deal with,” said Mitch Fawcett, their computer and communications expert.

“It’s not that. It’s the fact that there are only two.”

Chip nodded. “You expecting more?”

“If I had just agreed to hand over twenty-five million dollars to shady arms dealers I had done business with only a few times, I would be insisting on a lot more of my men at the delivery site.”

Parker stood and stretched, his chicken and ribs enhanced rear momentarily sticking in the chair before his legs popped it off. “Part of me thinks we just take the twenty-five mil and use it here at home.”

“You kidding me? And miss the chance to go to war with these sons-a-bitches?” Chip looked at Cole. “You’re not considering this, are you?”

Cole shook his head. “No, this is too great an opportunity. In fact, it’s a once in a lifetime opportunity. When have we ever, throughout history, had a chance to destroy a religion, in one push of a button?”

“Metaphorically, of course,” said Parker. He turned to Chip. “Don’t worry, Chip, I’m completely on board. I just get frustrated when we’re so close to the end game.”

“We all are,” agreed Cole. “But when we’re finished, we’ll be running on adrenaline for the next twenty years as we mop up the mess.”

“So when’s their little shin-dig over there start?”

“October.”

Inebolu Sokak Street, Istanbul, Turkey

“The weapon is in play.”

Abdullah bin Saqr hung up the phone and leaned back in his chair, surveying his office and the artifacts filling its walls. The sword used by the first grand headmaster Hasan-i-Sabbah when he conquered Alamut, the fortress that housed The Order of the Assassins for over 150 years, a battle that shed no blood, the conquerors hailed as heroes by their Ismaili brethren, was mounted on the far wall as it had been for over five hundred years. Several of the original texts salvaged before the Mongol hordes sacked and burned the great library in Alamut, sat on pedestals, encased in vacuum sealed glass, others entombed below the complex, protected from all manners of damage.

The great Grand Headmaster Hasni bin Saeed Al-Maktoum, who had led a small band of The Order to survive the Mongol onslaught, had continued the teachings of the great Sabbah, and had led The Order in secrecy for almost thirty years. His pupil and trusted companion, Faisal bin Sabah, succeeded him as Grand Headmaster, and The Order had survived, constantly moving, constantly keeping the ancient beliefs alive from generation to generation, continually spreading through society, and eventually making their headquarters in Istanbul.

The great city spanning the Sea of Marmara, separating Christian Europe from Muslim Asia, was a symbolic home, and a safe home, from which they could play their part in maintaining the balance between the world’s two greatest, and most conflicted, religions. The balance between Islam and Christianity had to be maintained, until both sets of adherents could learn to live as one. And now one of the greatest threats to that balance needed to be faced head-on, and defeated without mercy.

The weapon is in play.

One of their agents, a recent convert, was able to provide them with invaluable intelligence using the American’s own Echelon system. They knew about the weapon, they knew about New Slate. And they knew something the Americans didn’t. They knew where New Slate was going to get the money to purchase the weapon.

From the Hassassins themselves.

Ochotny Riad Shopping Center, Red Square, Moscow

Yakovski closed the change room door and quickly stripped naked. He sat down on the bench and pulled on a pair of black socks, then stood and removed all the tags from a pair of Levis, then pulled them on, sans underwear. Buttoning and zipping the fly, he cleaned a t-shirt of its tags, rolled it up and pulled it down over his neck. He stuffed his arms in the sleeves, pulled the cheap cotton-polyester blend over his torso, then shoved his feet in a pair of sneakers he had tried on moments before. He bundled up his clothes and placed them in a shopping bag, then deposited his watch, wallet and cigarettes including his prize lighter he had taken off an East German Colonel in a poker game in Dresden over 25 years ago. He left nothing to chance, knowing they could have planted a tracking device on anything. He fetched an FC Spartak Moskva ball cap from the bench and pulled it over the top of his head as he gazed in the mirror. He yanked it off, molded the brim with his hands into a gentle curve, then with one hand gripping the brim, the other the back, pulled it into place. He nodded in the mirror satisfied.
Lady killer!

He unlocked the change room door and opened it slightly. Then he waited. He was sure he was watched entering the store, and was quite certain only one of the two men tailing him had entered. And if he knew his quarry, they would be watching the change room door like a hawk. And an open door begged investigation. It would be irresistible.
Is he still in there, did I miss him?
Yakovski pictured what must be going through their minds. He stood, back to the wall behind the door, and waited. It only took a few minutes before the door moved slightly. Then a few more centimeters, and a hand appeared as it wrapped around the edge of the door.

Yakovski reached forward with his right hand and seized the hand gripping the door. He yanked away and to the side, pulling his pursuer inside. With his knee, he pushed the door shut, then with his left arm placed the man into a chokehold, locking his left hand around his now freed right arm, pushing the man’s head into his left forearm with his right hand, cutting off the flow of blood. The man’s struggles soon became weak, and in less than a minute, he was unconscious.

Yakovski tied the man’s hands and feet with his old pants and shirt, then stuffed his old socks into the man’s mouth. Peering out the door, he saw no one. He took up a position near the entrance, out of sight, and waited for the second tail to check on his partner. It took only five minutes before he saw a man casually stroll in with an anxious look on his face. Yakovski ducked behind a rack of women’s slacks, then as soon as the man had entered the changing room area, slipped out the front door of the shop, and into the throng of shoppers.

Bulgakov Hotel, Moscow

Trubitsin lay on the hotel bed, halfway through a cigarette and his morning coffee, feeling totally relaxed. He loved morning sex. Two bodies, barely awake, no kissing, none of the foreplay or intimacy two fully awake lovers demanded. This was basic. Primal. Instinctual. The rawness of it was a pleasure in itself. No tricks, no pressure, just plain old teenage style sex. Get in there, do your business, get out.

He looked over at Anya, sleeping softly beside him, her naked body half covered by the sheet, her left leg draped over his. He ran his eyes over her body, and a little life sprang back into Grigori, Jr. He chuckled and turned, stubbing his cigarette out.

Where the hell is Yakovski?

As if on cue, the hotel phone rang. Anya stirred and rolled off him, turning away from the phone. He rolled his legs out of bed and grabbed the old, black, rotary style phone dating from Breshnev’s days as Chairman. He picked up the receiver and held it to his ear. “Da.”

“We’ve been compromised.”

Trubitsin’s heart thumped as adrenaline raced through his veins. “Da. Plan B.”

He hung up the phone, quietly got out of bed and began to dress. Anya rolled over. “Who was that?”

“Yakovski.”

“Problem?”

“Da. They found us.”

She propped her pillow against the headboard and shuffled her body to a sitting position.

“They probably followed me here.”

“No doubt.” He looked around for his shirt.

Anya pointed behind a nearby chair. “Over there, darling.”

“Thanks.” He picked it up off the floor and shoved his arms in, then quickly buttoned it up. Finished, he slipped on his pants, socks and shoes, tossed his few belongings into a carry-on bag, then returned to the bed, climbing on with one knee and positioning himself in front of her. “It’s best if we aren’t seen together.” He kissed her then pushed himself up off the bed.

“I understand. Where shall I meet you?”

“Cyprus, as discussed.” He headed to the door.

“Bye, darling, it’s been fun!”

Trubitsin smiled at her, peered out the peephole and opened the door carefully. He glanced out into the hallway, and finding it empty, quickly made his way out a little used employee exit he had scouted months before.

Southeast District Police Headquarters, Kashirskoye Street, Moscow

Briefing Room A

“Are you kidding me? It hasn’t even been an hour!”

The men mumbled their apologies, their heads hung so low in shame they threatened to tumble to the floor they stared at. Dymovsky glared at one and then the other, not sure which one he was madder at. He shook his head then pointed to the one who was assaulted. “Get yourself checked out, make sure he didn’t damage any of the few remaining brain cells you have left. Judging by today’s quality of police work, I’d say he may just have cost you your last few.”