Extreme Faction (21 page)

“Yes, sir.” Stevens let himself out.

Jenkins poured himself another whiskey and stared into it. This was perhaps the most important case he'd ever worked on. Certainly the most important since the new Agency was formed six months ago. When he was sworn in as Director, he had had this great feeling of pride. Yet, he had also felt apprehension, since he knew that so many people would depend on his judgment. He only hoped he was up to the task. He slowly put the glass to his lips and let the whiskey slide down, warming him all the way to his gut.

ODESSA, UKRAINE

Omri Sherut was backed against the warehouse wall, anger giving way to a reassuring gaze, as he kept his eyes peering into Chavva's.

“I had nothing to do with it,” Sherut said. “My men weren't involved.”

She had met with him on short notice after finding out Tvchenko's assistant had been gunned down while being watched by Jake Adams. She had a 9mm automatic pistol trained on Sherut's balls, and she imagined his dick was looking for a place to hide.

Sherut's huge bodyguard was about to pounce on her, until the Israeli businessman waved him off.

“Who in the hell killed her? And why?”

“I don't know,” Sherut said calmly. “Probably the same people who killed Tvchenko.”

She thought about that. He could be telling the truth for a change. But why would the Kurds kill off their own puppet? “Tvchenko was developing something for the Kurds, right?”

Sherut shrugged. “That's what our intel says. He was working some deal.”

“And the GRU?”

“Who knows? Maybe they killed them both. They could have found out Tvchenko was working both sides of the street and took him out.”

She lowered the gun away from his crotch and backed up a step or two. “I don't think so. Tvchenko was too important to the GRU. They needed his expertise. They wouldn't kill him.”

“So then it was the Kurds.”

It made no sense. Why would the Kurds recruit Tvchenko only to kill him off? “Do you think the Kurds got everything they needed from Tvchenko?” she asked.

“It's possible.” Sherut straightened his overcoat and smiled. “What about your friend, Mr. Adams?”

“What about him?”

“How does he fit into this equation?”

She looked over at Sherut's goon, whose face seemed to carry the same stupid appeal of wonder, as if his brain were too small to muster up more than one expression. “Can we get rid of him?” She shifted her head toward the bodyguard.

Sherut hesitated. Finally, he nodded for his man to leave. “Meet me at the car?” Sherut told him.

When the two of them were alone, Chavva moved closer to the man who was supposed to be her boss. Her face was inches from his, but her gun was poking him in the belly button. “You know more than you're saying,” she whispered. “What has Mikhael failed to tell me this time?”

He wasn't one to back down from just anyone, but then Chavva wasn't just anyone. Sherut's heart pounded and sweat beaded up on his forehead. “You know the director as well as I,” he said. “He only tells us what we need to know.”

“Bullshit! You two go back thirty years. You know something, you bastard.” She slid her gun to the side and fired a round past his waist into a plywood wall.

He jumped. Then he realized he had not been hit. “What in the hell are you doing? We're on the same team.”

“We work for the same man,” she corrected. “I'm on no one's team. The next one goes right through you.”

By now the bodyguard had heard the shot and was running toward them, his Uzi drawn and pointing his way.

She turned the gun toward Sherut's face and stuck the barrel into his mouth just as he was about to say something. She pointed at Sherut's bodyguard with her free hand. “I'd stop right there. Unless you want a quick lesson in cranial anatomy.”

The large man skidded to a halt, uncertain what to do.

Sherut tried to say something, but all that came out was a gurgling sound.

She slid the gun out to his lips.

“You're fucking crazy,” Sherut yelled. “Yosef was right.”

She glared at him when he brought up the name of the assistant director of Mossad. The two of them had collided more than once over the direction of an operation. “So, Yosef has been talking about me? He's a pig.”

“I'll let him know the next time we speak.”

She looked over at the bodyguard, who had his Uzi pointing directly at her. She knew he couldn't fire without the possibility of hitting his boss with a stray round. Those guns were meant to put lead in the air, not for accuracy. She was getting nowhere fast, but she had not really expected him to fold over like a lamb.

“Where's your other man? His twin?” she said, flipping her head toward the huge bodyguard.

Sherut hesitated. “I had to send him back to Tel Aviv.”

“Is that right?” she asked the bodyguard.

He didn't answer. He simply stood there with a stupid look on his face. She could tell he wanted to kill her.

She started laughing out loud. Her voice echoed through the empty building. She continued laughing louder and louder. She couldn't stop herself. It was as if she were back in her small little village again. She was trapped and couldn't escape. Only her laughter kept her from going crazy.

When she finally stopped, she realized she was curled up on the cold cement floor. The barrel of her gun was pointing directly up her nose. Once again she had failed to pull the trigger. She was still alive. Not a young girl. A grown woman. She leaned up and looked around. Sherut and his man were gone.

ODESSA, UKRAINE

On the train ride from Nikolaev to Odessa, Jake had tried to get some sleep. But it was impossible. He couldn't get his mind off of Helena and Petra and Tvchenko. And especially MacCarty and Swanson, whom he had vowed to protect. On one level he knew that the two of them had simply gotten in the way, were at the wrong place at the wrong time. To the contrary, he had failed. Failed miserably. And that was something he wasn't used to, nor would he ever learn to like. Petra had put her trust in him, even though she didn't realize the danger she was in. Realistically, who could have guessed that MacCarty and Swanson were in any kind of danger? That's what he'd have to keep telling himself.

Jake had also wondered again how those two men, three with the driver, had found where he had stashed Petra. He still had to check Tully's Volga to see if someone had placed a tracking device on it, but it was more likely that someone had given up his position. And only a few people knew where he had taken the women.

Jake got off the train and walked through the station corridor. It was nearly three in the morning, and there were only a few people up and about. Some had sprawled out across three or four chairs, covered by coats or newspapers. An older man sat against a stanchion staring off to nowhere and mumbling to himself.

After Jake was nearly through the large, cavernous terminal, he swung around quickly, as if he had forgotten something. When he realized no one was following him, he turned and continued out the building. His nerves were getting the best of him.

The outdoor kiosk, where the cab driver had been earlier that evening as Jake stole his car, was closed and boarded shut. He felt somewhat guilty about stealing a man's livelihood, but Jake would make an anonymous call saying where he could find the taxi.

The night air was cool and damp. Jake needed to walk and think.

He got a few blocks when he heard steps behind him. Was he being followed? He varied his pace and the person behind him did the same. The man was perhaps thirty yards back, Jake guessed. But Jake knew better than to look back. The moment he became too preoccupied by the one behind him, then an associate of his would step out in front. It was a common ploy used by thugs and intelligence agents alike.

There was a park ahead. A small park with trees close to the sidewalk. It was darker there, the lamp posts farther apart.

Jake stopped briefly, pulled out some papers from inside his jacket, as if he were looking at a map. He pulled the Glock from its holster and slid it under the papers.

Continuing on, Jake pushed the gun into his pocket and gripped the handle tightly.

When he had stopped, the man behind him had paused briefly and then continued toward him with a slower pace.

The park was a half a block away.

Jake turned quickly and headed toward the follower.

The man was twenty yards away. Still in shadows. He stopped. Started to reach into his jacket.

Jake swung his pistol from his pocket. “Keep your hands clear,” he said, his voice echoing through the darkness. “At your side.” Jake was pointing the barrel at the man's head as he approached him quickly.

Shifting around to the backside of the man, Jake turned the older man with silver hair around a hundred and eighty degrees so he could see the park. See if there was another person approaching from the bushes. Jake looked the man over. He was wearing a fine suit with a wool overcoat. He had this knowing smirk, as if he was still in control even with the gun trained on him.

“You can put the gun down, Mr. Adams,” the man said through a thick accent.

Jake kept the gun on him and reached inside the man's coat to see what he was reaching for. It was a beeper of some sort. Not a gun. A panic button maybe. He looked at the man again. It was the man from the party and his hotel who had been talking with Chavva. The Israeli businessman. Omar Sharif, or whatever.

Glaring at the man, Jake kept his gun trained on him. “Why were you following me?”

The man smiled. “I know who you work for. Perhaps I can help you.”

“The men I work for are dead. Poisoned over their breakfast eggs.”

“I'm aware of that. I meant your real employer. The Agency.”

Jake didn't flinch. “I don't know what in the hell you're talking about. Agency? I'm no journalist.”

The man laughed. “I've heard you have a sense of humor, Mr. Adams. But I'm sure you know what I'm talking about.”

Jake thought about the voice again—the inflection, the accent, and the way he said he had heard about him. It was the same man who had picked him up, brought him to the warehouse, and had his men beat him. He felt the pain in his ribs again just thinking about it.

“How do you know anything about me?”

“I have my sources.”

“And you are?”

“A concerned businessman.”

Jake looked around and noticed a dark Mercedes slowly making its way up the street from the direction of the train station. He pointed his Glock at the man's head. “I'd tell your driver to stop right there.”

The man waved his hand toward the Mercedes and it came to a halt a half a block away, but the engine remained running.

“What exactly do you want from me?” Jake asked.

The man became more relaxed. He had that smirk on his face again. “I think we're on the same side here, Mr. Adams. You were the last person to talk with Tvchenko before he died. You were old friends I understand.”

Jake lowered the gun to his side. “Hardly. We had met a few times. What do you have to do with his death?”

“I'm just curious.”

Yeah, right. “So, how does Chavva fit into all this?”

The man smiled. “Yes, she has told me about you. But I have other sources. Chavva is a wonderful young woman. A bit ambitious, perhaps. But then aren't we all? She's not involved with this. She's simply another associate of mine.”

Now there was a line of bullshit. Jake knew Mossad when he saw it, and Chavva and this man had it written all over them. They were at least agents of that organization, if not outright officers.

“I'm going to tell you once and only once...I know nothing about Tvchenko's death. We didn't even get a chance to speak. Even if we had, there wasn't a thing he would have told me. We had only met a few times. My only concern now is with the bastards who killed my employers. I'll find out who killed them. I owe them at least that much.”

“And what about Tvchenko's recent project?”

Jake shrugged. “What's it to me? My job here is basically over.”

“And you don't care what could happen to millions of innocent people?”

“Is anyone really innocent? Children perhaps.”

“Children have died by gas before,” Sherut said.

Jake studied the older man now, and wondered if that was a warning of past atrocities by zealots or fascists. He shuttered remembering the contorted faces of young children huddling with mothers in Halabja. The horror and certitude of death was imprinted in their tiny eyes. That was innocence. For their only crime was having been born a Kurd. “Yes, children.”

“Stay out of it, Mr. Adams. You're a smart man. I'm sure there must be someone in this world who cares about you.”

It was interesting he should say that, because Jake was feeling quite the contrary right now. As if everyone was out to get him. It was a paranoid notion, but something he had no real control over. It was also interesting, because he had told this man at the warehouse he had nobody.

“I'll do what I have to do,” Jake said. “You stay out of my way.”

Slowly, Jake wandered off toward the park. He heard the faint sound of a car door slamming, and the Mercedes pulling away from the curb. He knew now that he would find the guilty bastards who killed MacCarty and Swanson, those who had gunned down Petra, and those who had killed Tvchenko. Someone had made the game more personal, and he would make sure he won.

ISTANBUL, TURKEY

By the time Sinclair Tucker knew what he was doing, he had followed the two men to the Odessa airport, taken the quick flight to Istanbul, and was now pretending to read a Turkish travel magazine while he watched the two men over the top.

The men looked like brothers, dressed in nice slacks, shirts buttoned down the front and leather jackets. Their hair was longer than most others in the terminal, and had not been combed, Tucker realized. Above all, they were calm.