The Spy Devils

by Joe Goldberg

  “A video detailing the transaction, the corruption, documents, and all the names will hit the Spy Devils' YouTube channel before I walk out the door. I just need to hit send and boom!” Bridger held his thumb over his keypad. “As you might expect, the CIA and other international entities will make certain it gets the exposure it deserves. By the morning, the president of Serbia will awake to a new reality.”

  “And your world-famous Spy Devils, of course,” Taube said.

  “Well, I wasn’t going to boast, but, well, yes,” Bridger said, scrunching his neck into his shoulders in faux modesty. “Transparency is such a nice evil, isn’t it?”

  “If what you have is real—and I am not saying it is—so what? You want me to stop everything, just like that?”

  Bridger shook his head.

  “Oh, no. If it was up to me, I’d let you do this and more, after we tagged any weapons shipments, got to copy your files, and you agreed to work for me like the old days. But they want it stopped, now.”

  “I am surprised the CIA is still so worried about me. Or is it just May?”

  Bridger shrugged his shoulders and smiled. “They are the same, unfortunately.”

  Bridger saw the man’s eyes close, and he thought he had fallen asleep—or had a heart attack. He saw Taube’s chest move, then his eyelids opened. They gleamed from the deep of the eye sockets.

  “It seems you have left me with few options. I could kill you, of course, but I also suppose that would trigger the video to be released.”

  Bridger smiled as he reached for some of the fresh bread on a plate. He took one bite, then stuffed the rest in his pocket.

  “Hate to eat and run, but I have to eat and run.” Bridger stood and looked at Taube. The security team stood also. Bridger looked at them, then turned back to the man, who sat motionless. “So we have a deal?”

  Taube blinked once and nodded his head toward Bridger. The guards closed in but stopped when he moved his head slightly back and forth.

  “Fantastic. Dovidenja, prijatno! Have a nice day.”

  Bridger turned and walked up a wooden staircase and out of sight.

  Nikola, the lead security guard, rushed to the table. Those who could tell the difference recognized the swagger of special forces training in his movements.

  "Who was that?" he asked as he stood next to the table.

  Taube picked up his fork and knife and started cutting a small piece of beef.

  “He is an old friend—and enemy. A man who wants something impossible.” Taube picked up the fork and ate the seasoned beef. “I need you to follow him and kill him.” He looked at Nikola once again.

  “Kill him?” Nikola couldn’t contain his excitement at being given the assignment.

  “Do you think you can do that?”

  “I will do it right away. It should be easy.”

  “Do not be so certain it will be easy, Nikola,” Taube said.

  “One man? He will be dead in minutes.”

  “His name is Bridger,” he said.

  Nikola froze.

  “Bridger? The Bridger?” Nikola asked, looking back at the stairs, then back at Taube. “The one from the Spy Devils?”

  “Yes,” he said.

  “Oh,” Nikola said with a little less enthusiasm. He looked at Taube, who was concentrating on cutting another piece of meat. Embarrassed by his momentary lapse of control, Nikola regained the confidence of a professional soldier. “I will take care of it.”

  Taube waved his knife at Nikola like a wand and let out a chuckle. “He will not be alone. He never is. Kill him. As soon as possible.”

  “It will not be an issue. I promise.”

  Leaving one man to protect their patron, Nikola took the other and ran up the stairs.

  11

  Asap

  Jacob Kirkwood Boardroom

  Jessup rolled the fingers on his right hand into a fist. MacBride sat perfectly still. Kirkwood’s face went from raspberry to brick as he looked directly at Jessup. Chapel was smiling and brushing his tie with his hand.

  “Walter, why not give Peter here all the details? It is why we are here. Isn’t that right?” Chapel said after the silence lingered a few more uncomfortable beats.

  “Yes, Danny. Of course,” Jessup began, with the tone of the law professor.

  “That would be great, thanks,” Peter said, picking up the Kirkwood pen and holding it over the Kirkwood notepad.

  “I would prefer that no notes be taken,” Jessup told Peter, motioning with his head in a slight nod to Peter’s notepad.

  “Oh. Sure.” Chills spiked through Peter’s body at the rebuke. He set the pen down and sat back.

  Jessup continued.

  “Let me explain. It is somewhat complex. LeonidOre, Bondar’s mining and steel operation, is a new client. We anticipated it would provide a new opening into the lucrative Eastern European and potentially Russian markets. The contract calls for us to upgrade their entire command and control data networks integrating their mining and metallurgical factories. To secure the contract, we agreed to vendor-finance a large percentage of the one billion dollars for the infrastructure and service.”

  “It was the largest contract for Kirkwood in many years. It came at a critical moment,” Kirkwood interjected. “Critical.”

  Peter saw the cheeks of the CEO’s round face flush to a shade of pink.

  “The financing went from Kirkwood Credit Corporation to Ukraine Standard Bank, which is owned by the Viktor Bondar family.”

  Jessup paused and then took over again.

  “As collateral on our one billion dollars, Bondar pledged stock in LeonidOre and some of his other commodities assets. We sent them half, five hundred million dollars. As of today, Ukraine Standard Bank has failed to repay KCC on the loans as agreed. The whole deal was consummated in bad faith on their part. They have ceased payment on the loan. They are not responding to our inquiries.”

  “The case Walt, get to the case,” MacBride said.

  Peter saw Jessup try to conceal his growing annoyance at MacBride. Peter wasn’t surprised. It was no secret in Kirkwood's rank and file that the two men were often at odds over the company’s future. Jessup, the lawyer and risk-averse. MacBride, the entrepreneur and willing to take the risk for the reward.

  “George was in Ukraine to try to, um, clear things up with them,” Kirkwood said, as he gently rubbed his face with his hands as if to wake up from a bad dream. When he lowered his hands, his cheeks had moved from pink to raspberry. “Why did he go?”

  Peter sat forward and picked up the pen. Jessup twitched, preparing another warning, but stopped when Peter started only to lightly tap it on the Kirkwood notepad.

  “The case, Peter,” Chapel said, “contains sensitive proprietary information for Kirkwood. Fortunately, the case is the type that requires certain biometric keys to open. It is hoped that this will give you time to locate it before they do so.”

  “Why did he have it?”

  Everyone but Jessup let out a sound that told Peter he had asked the big question.

  “Excellent and astute question, Peter!” Chapel said, which to Peter sounded like he was Sherlock Holmes on a new case.

  “Sensitive documents are all I will say, and it doesn’t matter. Retrieving it is your primary focus.” MacBride patted Peter on the arm as he gave him his mission.

  “Are you saying Bondar killed him to avoid paying or to get the case? He was murdered?” Peter asked.

  “We do not know. I hope to heavens not,” Kirkwood said.

  “We will let the local authorities tell us what happened,” Jessup said, staring oddly at Kirkwood when he spoke. “We are not exactly certain where the case is at this moment, but you must find it. That is the priority,” he added in the tone of a lawyer telling a jury they can only decide the case in his favor.

  “I have all the confidence in the world in your abilities,” Kirkwood said. He gestured with both hands toward MacBride and Jessup. “We all do.”

 
The lawyer and the strategist smiled and concurred with their CEO.

  “I most wholeheartedly agree,” Chapel said, running his hand along his tie.

  Peter sat, absorbing their comments. Peter wouldn’t say no. He couldn’t and wasn’t sure he wanted to, anyway.

  “Wonderful. Thank you, Peter,” Kirkwood said, declaring the meeting was over. He walked over and shook Peter’s hand. His face had returned to its usual light fleshy pink. “The company is counting on you.”

  “How much time do I have?” Peter asked.

  The men once again looked at each other. Their faces grew more severe as they seemed to be communicating and deciding how to answer with only the expressions in their eyes.

  Peter knew what was coming. He waited in the silence for the answer.

  Kirkwood stood and looked at the painting of his father hanging over the door the CEO had walked through moments ago.

  “We need it as soon as possible. ASAP,” Kirkwood said.

  As soon as possible. Peter hated ASAP.

  “Can you give me an idea of when, exactly, you’d like to have this?”

  “Two weeks. We announce our results in three weeks,” MacBride replied.

  “We would like this resolved in advance of that,” Jessup clarified.

  Peter remained silent, looking as if he was making some secret spy calculations in his head.

  Peter stood and returned the handshake. “I will do my best.”

  Jessup picked up the folio and looked once more across the table at Peter. “I want it clear. This has priority over anything you are doing. It is highly confidential, do not tell anyone. Find that briefcase.” He turned and stepped away from the table.

  “And what about the money? Peter added.

  “What?” Jessup turned back. “The money? Yes. Find the funds, of course.”

  Peter nodded as Jessup joined the other executives and walked out the door that led to the CEO’s office. His bullshit meter had spiked into the red.

  He stood alone, looking around the boardroom and wondering why he had to remind Jessup of the money. What the hell could possibly be in that briefcase that is more important than a billion dollars?

  Resting in the back of his Lincoln Town Car, Chapel pushed a speed dial number on his phone and put it to his ear.

  “I am happy to report you may proceed as you have planned.”

  He waited and listened.

  “Yes. It is good news,” he replied, watching the lights pass through the tinted windows of the armored sedan. Chapel brushed his hand down his flowery-patterned tie and nodded as the caller spoke, then he cut in.

  “Will he be an issue?” Chapel laughed. “Does it make a difference?”

  12

  The Streets of Belgrade

  Belgrade, Serbia

  Even a day later, Nikola was still upset that his six surveillance cars had lost Bridger so soon after the American left the Dva Jelena restaurant. The man had managed to evade his team within the crowds of Bajloni market on Dzordza Vasingtona. Nikola assumed the Spy Devil had found a taxi and changed cars before Nikola could call his contacts at the taxi companies to track him down.

  He hadn’t told Taube what had happened.

  Nikola was not a novice. Formerly a professional soldier, he became, as he called it, a babysitter for a very—very—rich old man. Nikola sometimes lamented that he was once as close to a special forces soldier as Serbia could have—trained in special operations by both the Russians and NATO. He fought in Kosovo. Like many of his peers, he took advantage of the lucrative market in the Balkans and other warzones by becoming a mercenary for hire.

  Now, he had his own security company but only one customer—a ruthless and powerful old man. A man who had spent decades selling weapons to all bidders—sometimes to both sides of a conflict. A well-paying man.

  Nikola jammed the earbud into his ear.

  As he waited with his driver in a black Volvo outside the Hotel Moscow, Nikola pulled out this throwaway pistol—a semi-automatic Zastava CZ 99 with the identifying serial numbers rubbed off. It was a reliable weapon for the purpose. No reason to use his Glock. After he shoots the man in the head, he will drop the Zastava by the body. No reason to risk getting caught with it before he could toss it in the Danube.

  “He is sitting in the Pastry Shop,” his man in the hotel lobby said through the radio.

  “It is a good choice,” Nikola replied as he looked down Terazije Street at the impressive façade of the historic hotel. “It has windows looking out to a wide square and streets. It would be hard to approach him without being seen. Multiple exits.”

  After his men lost Bridger, Nikola called down his list of hotel sources last night, hoping that the man was not hiding in a safe house somewhere in Belgrade. After three hours, he got lucky. A man fitting Bridger’s description had checked in several days ago under the name Bobby Jones.

  Using a public hotel was poor tradecraft. Nikola expected better from the famous Spy Devil.

  “He is leaving. Heading for the front door,” the sentry in the lobby said.

  “Walking out the front door. Going left on Terazije,” another voice announced.

  “I will follow him on foot,” Nikola informed the teams.

  “What if he gets into a cab?” his driver asked.

  “Stay in your positions near the hotel. I will radio my location as he moves. Team 6?”

  “No counter-surveillance detected.”

  Nikola stepped out of the car into the crisp morning air of Belgrade. He moved across the street in quick strides. From a block away, he saw Bridger suddenly turn around and walk directly toward him. Nikola had no choice but to pull an amateur move and join some strangers looking in a jewelry shop window. He let Bridger pass behind him and let him go halfway down the incredibly long block before he turned to follow. The road became narrower and the foot traffic less heavy as they approached Andrićev Venac promenade.

  Bridger cut left by the gardens and into the walking area. Nikola followed. For the next forty-five minutes, he continued to follow as Bridger walked the busy streets. Stopping. Crossing. Doubling back. Nikola marveled and felt fortunate to witness the smooth and deliberate moves of the man he had heard so much about. It took all his own skills to avoid detection.

  Several times, Bridger moved through narrow choke points to funnel anyone who might be following. And each time, Nikola was forced to wait. He lost Bridger twice but fortunately caught a glimpse of a figure walking the street after a frantic search. Nikola checked his watch. It had been two hours since they had left the Hotel Moscow. Nikola realized he was drenched in sweat.

  He noticed Bridger’s pace slow slightly as he veered onto Lomina Street, a narrow canyon side street lined on both sides with cars, apartments, shops, and graffiti-decorated abandoned buildings. Nikola moved slowly from one recessed doorway to another, keeping the cars and few people on the sidewalk between him and Bridger. He saw Bridger move down one side of Lomina, cross, then walk back in Nikola’s direction on the other side.

  Bridger stopped about thirty feet away in front of a graffiti-covered corrugated steel door. Above it was a semi-circular awning frame—missing the glass—with a broken yellow sign declaring “Hostel 40” hanging from it.

  As Bridger unlocked the door, Nikola pulled his Zastava CZ 99 from his belt and sprinted across the street, closing the thirty-foot gap in just a few seconds. He moved in behind Bridger as he stepped inside.

  Nikola saw that Bridger seemed oblivious to the assassin behind him. Nikola raised his pistol and pointed it at the back of Bridger’s head.

  Then he felt the cold metal of a gun press against his temple.

  Taube sat in a cushioned chair much too large for his small frame drawing hard on a thin cigarette glowing red with each inhale. He was tired, and it was late, but he was expecting the call.

  When his phone beeped, he still flinched. He looked at his screen and saw two text messages from Nikola. He smiled.

  The firs
t text contained a picture taken from behind and to the left and clearly showed a man on the floor in a pool of glistening liquid. The body seemed to be wearing a dark leather jacket—the same one, Taube was sure, that Bridger had on at dinner.

  The second text also contained a photo—this time from the side and closer. Taube recognized Bridger’s face. Blood streaks had run down from his forehead over his pale cheeks and chin. He could clearly see an entrance hole in the side of Bridger’s head behind his left ear. Blank death was the expression in his eyes.

  There was no doubt in his mind Bridger was dead.

  13

  Chaos is Good for Business

  Novi Petrivtsi, North of Kyiv, Ukraine

  Viktor Bondar always enjoyed killing.

  This attitude made him one of the richest, most powerful, and feared men in Ukraine.

  Ordinarily, he displayed his keepsake Tula TOZ-8 Bolt Action .22 caliber rifle in a special walnut case behind his desk. He brought his lucky Tula with him from his Kyiv apartment office to get some pleasure shooting in before the morning meeting—shooting sharpened his focus.

  Standing in a firing lane of his ultra-modern underground shooting range, Bondar chambered a cartridge, pointed, and fired at a target in the total containment collection area one hundred meters away.

  The climate-controlled shooting range was located in the lower level of his compound, secluded along the Dnieper River north of Kyiv. Containing a brick mansion, stables, and dock, the area was surrounded by walls and members of his personal mercenary army, the black-clad Bondar Battalion-1. Ira, his daughter and advisor, convinced him to purchase it for more money than it was worth as a symbol to his peers and enemies of his status.

  He hated the place, except for the shooting range. Bondar preferred his spacious apartment on the top floors of his flagship bank building in central Kyiv. Recent events dictated that he come to the country for the enhanced protection and wait for the calls.