Extreme Faction (8 page)

In a moment, a large dark car approached slowly down the street and stopped, its lights blinding Jake from twenty feet away. The two back doors opened and two figures appeared—then there was the distinct clicking of automatic weapons chambering rounds.

Jake reached for the Makarov.

“That wouldn't be wise,” came a harsh voice in broken English.

Jake slid his hand out from inside his coat and thought of dashing toward the harbor and diving into the water. “What do you want?”

“Answers.”

“Who are you?” It was a stupid question and Jake knew it. But he thought he'd try.

“It does not matter. This will only take a short while. Assuming we get the right answers.”

Taking a few steps forward, Jake tried desperately to identify the car. But in the bright headlights, it was impossible to tell the make for sure. It wasn't a normal pattern. More like someone had modified the light scheme. “Well? You ask the questions and I'll try to answer them.”

“I'm afraid it's not that simple.”

There was only a faint blowing sound, like a pellet rifle. Jake felt a pain in his neck, reached up and touched the dart, and that was the last he remembered.

His head swirled uncontrollably, as Jake tried desperately to lift his body from the cold cement. His knees ached. There was a sharp pain in his ribs, and he rubbed them now with his hand to ease the stabbing spasm that felt like a knife was still there imbedded in his chest. Then there was the swelling throb in his neck. All these problems were minor compared to his feelings of utter stupidity. How had he let himself get into this situation?

High overhead there was a single light, not bright enough to allow a good view of his surroundings. He could only see perhaps twenty feet in all directions. There were crates stacked high on two sides of the room, a crude wooden structure with windows, an odd attempt at an office on another side, and a high metal door on the fourth. Even through blurry eyes, Jake suspected he was in a warehouse of some sort. He could still smell the ocean, so he was probably in the harbor region.

Out beyond the light, he heard whispers. Then footsteps coming his way. He was on one knee and one foot, with a hand on his chest and the other trying to squeeze life back into his head. Feeling with his left arm, he realized the Makarov was gone.

Finally, he could make out three men heading toward him. They stopped ten feet away, but their faces were covered with white, cold weather masks, like those issued to Russian troops in the winter. The two outer men wore cheap wool suits, much like the old KGB or GRU would wear. The middle man wore a fine Armani, or a reasonable fake. The two on the outside carried submachine guns, but in the darkness and from that distance Jake couldn't see if they had rounds chambered. He supposed they did.

“Well, Mr. Adams,” came a voice from the middle man. “I see you're with us again.”

It was the same man who had spoken through the bright headlights. What type of accent was that?

“You've got me at a disadvantage,” Jake said, struggling to rise. He winced in pain. Someone had done a number on his body while he was out.

The man laughed. “I'm afraid you're right.” There was a long pause. “We need some information.”

“Who's we?”

“I've heard you're a difficult man.”

Heard, my ass. Read in a security briefing perhaps. “What do you want? Make it quick. I think one of your courageous buddies there broke my ribs.” Jake squinted through the darkness to look for a reaction.

“You were the last man to speak with Yuri Tvchenko before he died,” the man said.

“He didn't say shit to me,” Jake yelled, his voice echoing through the cavernous room. “Someone made sure of that,” he added softly, with pain.

“Then why did you blow up his apartment last night.”

Jake laughed and then started coughing. He could taste the iron of his own blood. So, they must have been at the apartment. They either followed Jake and Tully there, which was not likely, or they had been watching the place. Maybe they even set off the bomb. “Yeah, right. I got my ass fried there.” He thought for a second. “Where were you when the whole thing went down?”

“I'm asking the questions here?”

“Who do you work for?” Jake asked, not expecting an answer.

“That's funny, that was my next question for you.”

Jake glanced around the dark room for some escape route. “I work for Bio-tech Chemical from Portland, Oregon. We make insecticides and fertilizers.”

“That's a nice little lie, Mr. Adams,” the man said. His voice became more serious. “Whatever happened to Captain Adams, United States Air Force Intelligence? Expert in chemical and biological weapons?”

Damn. He knew more than Jake initially thought. But at least he hadn't mentioned the CIA. Time to shift gears. “Yeah, well the Cold War is over, remember. The military didn't need me anymore. So, like all good capitalists, I went private.”

The man considered this, then whispered to one of his men. The man walked up to Jake and swung his leg up quickly, catching him in the chest. Jake reeled to his back and landed with a crash to the cement. Then he buckled in pain. If the ribs hadn't been broken before, they were now.

After a minute, the man spoke again. “You could make things so much easier for yourself if you'd simply answer my questions truthfully.”

“And then what?” Jake forced out. “Your boys take target practice.” He had to stall. It was a gamble, but perhaps they wouldn't kill him.

“I assure you, my men need no practice,” the man said. “Now, where were we? You were going to tell me everything you know about Yuri Tvchenko. What he was working on. Who he was selling out to. The whole story.”

“You seem to know more about him than I do,” Jake said, struggling to his feet. “After all, I've only been in Odessa a few days. I'm here to attend an agricultural conference. I just happened to be standing in the ballroom when Tvchenko was killed. I never even met the man,” Jake lied.

“He was shaking your hand when he died,” the man screamed.

Jake stepped forward, directly under the light. “I had never met the man.” He wanted the man to see his face when he lied. He had always been able to fool anyone with a straight face. First his mother, then his teachers, even his friends while telling a joke. He had also found it quite easy to fool a lie detector. The Air Force had never known this, but the Agency had its suspicions and did nothing. After all, that was a fine trait for a field officer.

The man in the middle was clearly frustrated. He reached into his jacket and pulled out an automatic pistol, pointing it directly at Jake's head. “I want the truth.”

Jake didn't flinch. If it had come down to this, dying in some squalid warehouse, then he was prepared. His parents had died. He had no wife. No children. Not even a girlfriend any more. He had dedicated his life to his work. First his education, then the military and the Agency, and now his private company. “Go ahead,” Jake said. “I have nothing to live for. I work for a Goddamn pesticide company. So I'm basically a souped-up exterminator. I haven't had a date in over a year. And even then I didn't get lucky.” He was really laying it on now. He peered directly at the masked leader and the pistol muzzle. “You wanta shoot me. Go ahead. I'm not worth that 9mm parabellum slug.”

The man slowly returned his gun to its holster. “You seem to know a lot about guns, Mr. Adams. Why is that?”

“I grew up in Oregon. We're heavily armed out west.”

“And why were you carrying the Makarov?”

Jake expected this question. “I've heard a number of businessmen have been shot in Eastern Europe and Russia lately. I was just trying to protect myself from...gangs.”

The man whispered to his men. The two of them grabbed Jake by his arms and escorted him into the darkness. As they stepped outside, Jake could smell the saltwater and dead fish, and hear the light waves lapping against the wooden moorings. He felt a slight breeze across his face. Then there was a hollow thud as one of the men hit him in the back of the head.

●

Ten minutes later, Jake woke in darkness. His whole body was shaking. He was wet. He felt down with his hands, and realized he was lying on a course netting. Fishing nets. Suddenly he felt a hand squeezing his left arm, trying to pull him up.

“Get up, Jake,” the man above him said. “Are you all right?”

He couldn't see the man yet, but he recognized the voice. It was British. “What the hell are you doing here, Sinclair?” Jake forced out.

The Brit pulled Jake up farther and stooped down to his level. Sinclair Tucker was wearing a long wool coat, nice dress slacks, and brown oxford shoes. He had a strong jaw that he had not shaved in a few days, which was unusual for him. If there was anyone Jake knew who took personal hygiene seriously, Sinclair Tucker was the poster boy. They had spent a great deal of time together in remote Turkish villages, with no running water, except for a stream, and Tucker always managed to maintain a clean appearance.

“Well it's nice to see you too,” Sinclair Tucker said.

Jake sat up and pain shot through his chest. “What brings MI-6 out on such a fine Odessa night? Wait a minute. I heard you went home for the holidays?”

“I bloody well did,” Sinclair said, tipping his tweed driving cap to the back of his head. “I'm afraid my superiors had other ideas. The bastards forced me to leave in the first place, and then they ruin it once I've agreed. As if I had a choice.”

“Can you help me here?” Jake reached his arm out to the Brit.

Tucker lifted Jake to his feet. The Brit was a wiry guy. Over six feet, but with no visible fat. He had surprised Jake with unusual strength on a number of occasions, as if his muscles were a secret.

“How'd you find me?” Jake asked.

“Superior British intelligence, I suppose.”

“Now there's a triple oxymoron,” Jake laughed, as he started walking down the pier. His balance was shaky and his head was still in a great deal of pain. He stroked the knot on the back of his skull, where dried blood was caked to his long hair.

Tucker was at his side. He swung Jake's arm over his shoulder. “Actually, I had just gotten in from London and headed directly to your hotel. I assumed you'd know something about Tvchenko's death. You got into a cab just as I was pulling up. I followed you. I guessed you weren't going out on a late night tour of the city. So I thought you could use some backup.”

Jake stopped quickly. “You saw the men take me?”

Tucker nodded.

“And you didn't do anything?”

“I took down the information on the car and followed it to the warehouse. I was in the warehouse when you gave them that bullshit story. You're a helluva liar, Jake. I had them in my sights. When they hit you and dragged you down the pier, I was afraid they'd kill you and dump you into the harbor. Luckily they didn't. They just left about ten minutes ago.”

“Why didn't you follow them?”

Tucker laughed. “You dumb bastard. I came back to see if you were all right.”

“Thanks.”

“No problem.”

By now they had reached the end of the pier. Jake could see a building a few hundred yards away, and he assumed it was the warehouse where the men had taken him. “Where's your car?”

Tucker pointed off into the darkness.

●

As the two men approached, Chavva sunk lower in the driver's seat. The car was in total darkness, so her reaction was from instinct. She had her window lowered, trying to hear what they were saying, without much luck.

She gasped when she saw one man helping the other. He was having a difficult time walking. Someone had beaten him, she was sure.

A block away, the men piled into the little Zil sedan and then drove off. She thought of following them, but had a better idea.

The hotel room reeked of stale cigarette smoke from the two men chain smoking over the past hour. They had both been in the Israeli army, had fought little skirmishes too many to count, and had then found their way into the private service of the wealthy Tel Aviv businessman. The pay was better, they could still carry their pacifying Uzis, and so far they had not had to dodge any Arab or Palestinian bullets. They were playing a game of cards, both cheating badly, and catching each other with the dirty deed. If one or the other actually played it straight for a change, the other would surely lose respect.

Peering out the window from the twelfth floor to the vacant street below, Omri Sherut wondered how long she would be. He checked his watch again. It was nearly two a.m. He had called her an hour ago, and she had insisted on coming over. She didn't like handling anything over the phone, he knew. Unfortunately, she was far more persuasive in person. No one could say no to those eyes, and he had heard that even those were deceiving. She was a dangerous person. That was a fact. Her good looks did nothing to change that.

There was a faint knock on the door and the two men quickly dropped the cards and found their weapons.

Sherut waved them back to their game as he headed for the door, peeked through the view hole, and then opened it.

Chavva strutted in, obviously disturbed. She wore tight black jeans and a leather coat, and she swayed her hips with each determined step. She swung around toward Sherut. “Send the boys for a walk,” she demanded.

Sherut hesitated. Orders were supposed to go in the other direction.

She glared at the two body guards, who were trying not to stare at her beautiful body, and failing miserably. “Get out,” she yelled at them, swishing her head toward the door. “Keep an eye on the hallway and the elevator.”

They didn't even look to their boss for help. They simply slipped on their overcoats and slid their Uzis into specially-made inside pockets. In a second they were gone.