Extreme Faction (7 page)

“I'd prefer a CZ-75, but a Glock will do, if you can swing it.”

“I'll ask for it in our next pouch due in from Rome.” Quinn rose and brought what was left of the ice pack to the kitchen and threw it in the sink. When he returned, he said, “Let's head out and get a beer. I've got a few ideas left on where to find Petra.”

Jake holstered the Makarov. “Sounds good.”

It was Jake's idea to go to the Odessa Hotel for a beer. Quinn didn't care, he just wanted a beer to take his mind off the bruise that had formed on the side of his head. He had to be in some pain.

The Odessa Hotel was a few blocks down Primorski Boulevard from his hotel and perhaps a kilometer down that same street from the Maranavka, where Tvchenko had been killed the night before. The Odessa was nearly the same age as the Maranavka with less than half the charm or opulence. The red carpet in the lobby was worn and frayed and the oak counter in need of varnish.

Moving into the bar area, it seemed like night had already settled on the town, since half of the overhead lights were either turned off or missing.

They nudged up against the hotel bar, and considering the time of day, late afternoon, the place was fairly crowded. Picking up a couple of local Pilsners at the bar, the two of them found seats at a table back in a corner.

“How's your head?” Jake asked.

“They didn't teach that move at the academy.”

Jake shrugged. “I knew that before I joined the old Agency.”

Quinn rubbed the bruise gently. “Nice.”

They stared at each other for a moment. Quinn scratched his finely cropped goatee that made his chin look like a sharp chisel. The pointed angles stretched his head out, making it appear longer than it was.

Finally, Jake asked, “What do you know about the Kurds?”

“You separate it from the whey to make cheese.”

“Funny guy.”

“Hey, I used to work on a dairy farm in the summers in high school.”

Jake took a sip of beer and kept an eye on the door. He had had more than one reason choosing this place. He hoped to run into Chavva between conferences. But neither she nor any of her Israeli friends were there.

“The Kurds?” Jake repeated.

“I know nothing about Kurds.”

“What about Petra?”

Quinn took a long sip of beer. “I don't know where she is. I'll hit as many places as I can tonight to see if I can find her. I'll bring her in and ask her about Tvchenko.”

Great. Jake leaned back and thought for a moment about his questioning. What did it matter to him? He was damn near interrogating the man, someone who should have been asking him questions about his association with the dead scientist.

“Why did Tully ask me to go pick up Petra?”

“How the hell should I know.” Quinn's voice raised above the normal din of voices, bringing stares from a few men at the nearest table.

“Don't get pissed at me,” Jake said. “I was just doing the guy a favor. He thought you were—”

“What? Incompetent?”

“Sleeping...after staying up most of the night looking for Petra. Listen, I don't work for the agency anymore. I was just trying to help out.”

Quinn rose to his feet and finished his beer. “Maybe you should go back to babysitting.”

Leaving Jake there by himself, Quinn stormed out of the bar. That went well, Jake thought.

He finished his beer and then wandered toward the lobby. At the front desk, he asked for Chavva's room. There was nobody there by that name. Then Jake described her in great detail. The man at the counter assured him that if someone like that was staying there, he'd know about it. Outstanding. She had said the Odessa Hotel. Why would she lie to him?

Jake left the Odessa and walked to the Chornoye Hotel, where he and MacCarty and Swanson were staying. It was nearly four, the time he was supposed to meet his boss and sidekick.

Checking the front desk for messages, there was only one from MacCarty saying the meeting at four was cancelled. He and Swanson had another conference they wanted to attend, hoping to wine and dine someone from Kiev afterwards. That was fine with Jake. He pocketed the note and went up to his room. It had been a long night and a long day and he figured he could use a quick nap before dinner.

Bill Swanson was a nervous man, fidgeting in the high-back wooden chair at the end of the bar. He had gotten a call from a man an hour ago, a contact he had talked to only twice by phone, and Swanson had agreed to meet him, as long as it was a public spot.

The Chornoye Morye Bar was only a block from his hotel, and he had told his boss, Maxwell MacCarty, he was hitting the sack early and would see him in the morning. MacCarty had no problem with that, since he was tired from all the lectures that day, and trying to negotiate a deal for a plant in Kiev. Swanson thought he should have done the same, considering his lack of sleep the night before following Tvchenko's death.

Having gone through two vodka Collins in the fifteen minutes he had waited for the man who had said he'd be there at eight o'clock, Swanson was getting nervous and impatient. He checked his watch again. It was ten after eight now.

The problem was he didn't even know what the man looked like. There was a man down the bar a few chairs, an older man who seemed like a daily fixture there, gruff and in dire need of a shave. Was it him? Doubtful. The man he had talked with sounded dignified, as if he were a businessman like him.

As he scanned the room again, he noticed there were only four other people in the place. Two younger men at one table holding hands across the table. Fucking queers, Swanson thought. The other two were about mid-forties and rather boisterous, speaking English. British accents. It couldn't be one of them. No. His contact was late.

That was fine. It gave him time to think. How would he deal with this man? He knew nothing about him, yet the proposition seemed too good to be true. The money had been waiting for him at the desk this morning, just as the man said it would after the first call. But what did he want now?

He ordered a third drink, and the bartender went to work on it in a slow, deliberate manner, something that would have gotten him fired in America.

“Don't turn around,” came a deep, husky voice behind him.

Swanson had his back to the bathroom entrance, and the only other chair at that end of the bar was against the wall by that door. The man must have been in there watching and waiting. Waiting for him to go to the bathroom, he thought. He shifted slightly and tried to see the man through the corner of his eye, but it was useless.

“What do you want?” Swanson asked.

“The money wasn't for your good looks,” the man said.

Swanson's drink came and he paid for it. The bartender asked the other man what he wanted. Nothing, was all he said, and the bartender went away with a disturbed look, as if he had seen a gun. Did the man have a gun?

“Well, what can I do for you?” Swanson asked, and then took a drink.

“Tvchenko. You were talking with him after his lecture yesterday, and at the party last night before his untimely death. I want to know what you found so fascinating.”

How did this man know he had talked with Tvchenko? Had he attended the lecture? It was possible. There had been twenty or more men there, as well as four women. He racked his brain now trying to match the voice with those he had seen in the lecture, but he drew a blank.

“We talked about his work,” Swanson said. “I was interested in his recent research with pesticides. I figured if it worked so well on Ukrainian bugs, why not Oregon bugs?”

“And?”

“And what?” Swanson started to turn but was stopped by a stiff object against the side of his face. It could have been a cane or an umbrella, or maybe even a gun. “What are you doing?”

“I told you not to turn.”

Swanson swiveled his head back and took another sip of his drink. “Listen, I don't know what in the hell you want.”

“You got the money?”

“Yes, of course. But I thought that was for what we had discussed earlier. Showing favoritism is one thing...”

“Shut up. Not so loud.”

Swanson hadn't realized his voice had risen. “All right,” he whispered. “What can I do for you.”

“That's more like it.” The man paused for a moment. “You have a man working for you. A Jake Adams. What does he know of all this?”

Swanson was wondering what “all this” was. “Adams knows Odessa. We had heard that the Ukraine was going through growing pains. Was a little wild. When we got our Visas the state department had warned us that businessmen had been murdered. He's here for security.”

The man was silent, thinking about it. “What kind of background does he have?”

What was with this man's interest in Jake? What the hell difference did it make. He and Jake had been at each other's throats since they met. “Air Force intelligence, I guess. He used to work here.”

“That's it?”

Swanson finished his drink. “Yes. As far as I know.”

“Why isn't he here tonight with you? Protecting you.”

Swanson laughed. “I thought it was stupid to hire him in the first place. A waste of money.”

“Can I talk with him?” the man asked.

“Go right ahead.”

“Where's he staying?”

“Same hotel as us. Across the hall. But—”

“I'll get back with you.” The man stood up. “As I pass you, turn and head to the bathroom. Don't come out for two minutes. Don't try to look at me. Do you understand?”

“Yes, but...” Swanson felt something across his back, so he rose quickly and went into the bathroom. He waited there for a good five minutes. When he came out, he talked with the bartender. Asked him what the man had looked like sitting next to him. The bartender thought he was nuts, but he described him carefully, as if he would never forget the man. Swanson felt good about that. He had outsmarted the man at his own game.

Nearly twenty-four hours had passed since Yuri Tvchenko collapsed into Jake's arms, yet the Odessa police, who had ordered an immediate autopsy, had given no indication of the results of that examination. The problem was, there was no legitimate reason Jake should know the results and he knew it.

He had tried to rest, tossing and turning in his hotel bed, uncertain what to do next. On one hand, he couldn't help thinking about Tvchenko. What had he been up to? More importantly, perhaps, were his guilty feelings about MacCarty and Swanson. They were paying him to protect them, and he had been off all day looking into Tvchenko's death. It wasn't like he didn't try to help the two men. On the plane trip over, he had briefed them on ways to keep from becoming targets. But once the three of them had actually landed, and the two of them had seen that the city wasn't infested with ten-foot beasts, they figured they would be safe enough on their own. Jake had protested, relenting when he realized that the two men were adults; old enough to decide some things for themselves.

It was true that Jake would help negotiate any contract if Bio-tech decided to build a business there or convert an existing facility. Maybe that was MacCarty's true concern. It was also true that Odessa had gotten more dangerous over the years. Tvchenko's death had proved that, as well as the intelligence briefings Jake had gotten from Tully his first day there. In the old days undesireables were simply whisked away, never to be seen again. Taken to some frozen Siberian resort, no doubt.

It was ten p.m. now. Jake waited in relative darkness at the base of the Potemkin Steps in the heart of the harbor region. He had always been told that there were one hundred ninety-two steps in all, but he had never found a good reason to count them.

Out on the street toward the harbor, cars frequently streamed by, their tires squealing on tight turns. Taxis mostly at this hour, carrying drunken sailors from one bar to the next.

Jake thought about the sleepless night before, where he and Tully O'Neill, the Odessa station chief, had quickly gone to Tvchenko's apartment, been nearly blown to pieces, and then discovered the tape with the Kurds. He thought about Tvchenko, trying to make sense of his death. Was it simply the GRU cleaning house? Jake didn't think so. Tvchenko must have been selling information to someone, until, much like a drug deal gone sour, that group decided they were getting a raw deal, or were being set up.

He regretted not finding Chavva at the Odessa Hotel that afternoon. There was something about her that was both disturbing and exciting. She had a certain naughty quality that transcended normal, rational behavior. He had never gotten her full name, just Chavva, like some movie star or rock singer.

Hopefully, Tully O'Neill had gone back to the office, made copies of the tape, and sent the original back to Langley by diplomatic pouch for a linguist to analyze.

Slipping his hand out of his pocket, Jake rubbed the scab in his palm where the cryptic note had been injected just before Tvchenko had crumpled into a convulsive ball. What did it mean? He knew nearly everything about the city of Halabja and its horrid past, but what was Tvchenko trying to tell him?

And what was he doing here in the dark? After his vain attempt to rest, he had gone down to the front desk in the lobby, where there was a message for him. It had only said, “Be at the bottom of the Potemkin Steps at ten p.m.” Nothing more. Not who had sent it, or for what reason. Since going private, Jake realized he was alone most of the time. Back in his Agency days he would have been backed up with double layers protecting his back and moving in behind anyone approaching the area. But now he was on his own. Sure he could have disregarded the note, but what the hell, full living meant taking chances. And the note had been curious if nothing else.

He scanned the darkness for any movement, but there was only an occasional drunk sailor off in the distance at the pier. He felt for the Makarov under his arm. It reassured him, even though he had not fired the weapon. Would it work if he needed it? Hopefully Quinn Armstrong would get him a new piece soon.