by Joe Goldberg
The first one had come several nights ago, just after the Kirkwood executive fell to his death.
“Any problems?” he asked.
“None,” said the voice.
“Then deliver the package as planned.”
As Bondar anticipated, the second call came soon after. That conversation scheduled the “urgent” meeting that was to take place in a few minutes.
Without looking where the bullet struck the target, he turned, took off his protective earmuffs, and set the Tula down. He made a mental note that the rifle needed to be cleaned—a task he would do himself. No one touched that rifle but him.
He tucked his rare Makarov 59 EG, the classic Soviet Cold War Pistol M, into his belt in the small of his back, walked up winding steps, and through French doors leading to the dining room.
The smell of warm fruit-filled varenyky dumplings wafted through the air. Ira was sitting in one of eight metal and wood chairs that surrounded a long oval glass table. Plates of breads and pastries were spaced among other cereals, fruit, pitchers of fruit juice, and carafes of coffee. A crystal vase of fresh-cut flowers sat on the center of the table.
Bondar had not eaten that morning. He picked up a warm varenyky and popped it in his mouth.
He looked the part of the powerful oligarch. A suit and tie in public. For variety, he sometimes went with an open collar. Average height. American-style crew cut of dark auburn hair. Black eyes above a nose made crooked by one too many fistfights. He wore his trademark three day's growth of rusty-colored beard.
“They just passed the guard station,” Ira said, placing her spoon into an empty bowl.
“Are you prepared?” he asked.
At thirty-three years old, Ira Bondar was known by her business associates and the general public as gorgeous and ruthless. Ira used her blonde hair, sky-blue eyes, accentuating attire, and rapier brain to her complete advantage. She favored blood-red lipstick and nail polish as an accent color.
Bondar sat at the end of the table, picked up another dumpling, and stuck it in his mouth.
“Do not worry. They are coming to us because they are in a weak position.” He smiled.
Out of the large windows, he saw a hazy central European late spring sky. Thick granite-colored clouds backlit by the sun flowed above in waves as the trees bent with punches of wind. A light drizzle began to spray.
Ira’s phone rang. She answered and listened. “Escort them to the dining room.” She set the phone down. “They are coming to us.”
They both stood as two men, one old, the other Asian, entered the room behind a muscular man dressed in black military tactical pants and a black pullover long-sleeved shirt—the casual uniform of the Bondar Battalion-1.
Anton Vlasenko was well beyond old age. His baggy wool overcoat hung on speckled crooked limbs branching out from the core. Thin white hair over eyes that once made men shrink with fear. His life-long defining feature, pointy protruding ears, now looked like two large dinner plates embedded on each side of his head.
Age was shrinking his mentor, Bondar thought. But he was not fooled by Vlasenko’s appearance. This oligarch was still mentally sharp and dangerous.
“Dobryden, Anton Vlasenko,” Bondar welcomed the man with a hug and a pat on the back.
“Pryvit, Viktor Bondar,” the man said in a nasal-tone scratchy voice. He turned to Ira. “Ira, you are as lovely as ever.” He took her hand and kissed it.
“Thank you, Uncle Anton.” Vlasenko was not her uncle, but the man and her father had been business partners and friends most of her life. He brought her gifts and gave advice when she needed it. She loved him like an uncle.
“May I introduce Deputy Minister Chen, of China.”
Chen’s suit was dark. His shirt was white. His tie was striped. Round cheeks framed small lips. Behind nearly invisible wire-rim glasses were deep dark eyes.
They exchanged introductions, handshakes, and bows. Ira offered seats at the table and some breakfast. No one accepted. Anton sat next to Ira, close enough to pat her on her leg. Chen sat across from him.
Vlasenko had no equal in Ukraine and most of central Europe. He was already a millionaire many times over before Ukrainian independence. Over the decades, his empire rose to gain access or control over many of the country’s coal and steel resources, energy, telecommunications, transport systems, engineering, finance, real estate, and retail. If something was sold in Ukraine, Vlasenko had a piece of the profits. If it was sold to China, he had most of it. And if it was sold to Russia, Vlasenko was the one selling it.
Now, he was a billionaire many times over.
Vlasenko pulled a small orange out of his overcoat pocket, bit it through the skin, and started to chew.
They sat in silence and listened to the wind drive the large raindrops against the windows. The only other sound was Vlasenko as he bit into the orange, sucked the pulp and juice out of his teeth, and chewed the fibrous snack.
“No doubt you heard of the recent incident,” Vlasenko said, still chewing, showing orange pulp stuck between his jagged gray teeth.
“I am not certain what you mean,” Bondar replied. He knew precisely what Anton meant.
“Two of our men were killed retrieving the case the American brought with him. They were ambushed. The case is gone. I was wondering if you have any knowledge of where it might be,” Chen said in a pleasantly soft voice.
“It?” Bondar tilted his head in a gesture of mock recollection. He leaned forward and gazed from one man to the other. The dance had begun. They each wanted to lead and they all knew the steps.
“Give the man the case, Viktor!” Vlasenko said in a stronger voice than his appearance would deem possible. “This is bigger than you.”
“Are you referring to the case I was expecting the American businessman George MacLean to hand to me? The case I was told that MacLean was bringing to Kyiv that I could use as leverage against them on the debt I owe them? The case that I was to exchange,” he looked at Chen “for guarantees of payment of my obligations to the Kirkwood company? That case?”
The room was silent again. Bondar looked at Vlasenko, who stared into space, chewing on the last piece of the orange as if he hadn’t heard a word.
“What is in it?” Ira asked.
Chen and Vlasenko did not answer.
“I don’t know. It doesn’t matter,” Vlasenko answered. “Let’s stop all of this.” His nasal voice pronounced each syllable with deliberate effort. “Viktor, I know how you think and why you think that.” He flashed a pulp-filled grin. “Let me tell you what you are thinking.”
Vlasenko started to pat his coat with the palms of his hands. “I know you better than you know yourself. I saw the smart, aggressive young man in 1991 looking to make his mark when the Soviet Union dissolved.” He inhaled a deep wheezing breath. “We eliminated any rivals, or with the right amount of persuasion, made them our allies. Remember what I said?”
“Chaos is good for business.”
“Precisely.”
Vlasenko released a strain of phlegm-filled coughs. Orange debris projected from his mouth. He wiped it with the sleeve of his coat. The rest he let bead on the glass tabletop. Then he smiled as if nothing happened. “I gave you steel and coal. We all profited from the military manufacturing factories. We have done well—together.”
That was true. Bondar also knew Vlasenko as well as Vlasenko thought he knew Bondar. He saw the past from an entirely different perspective.
Through years of a prosperous partnership, whether legitimate—coal and steel—or more illegitimate—selling surplus arms—Bondar was the thug to Vlasenko’s master entrepreneur and capitalist. Bondar’s image was that of a killer in a suit. A mobster. A nobody who became someone only because he was lucky enough to be in the shadow of Vlasenko.
Bondar knew one other truth. Both would not hesitate to obliterate the other if it was good for business.
And it was time to unleash some chaos.
14
Warn
ing Signals
Novi Petrivtsi, North of Kyiv, Ukraine
Vlasenko reached his hands deep into his coat pockets and rummaged around.
“It is not a secret the war has weakened you, significantly. As a result, the government is interested in seizing your assets. I called you in good faith, offering a way to salvage your reputation.” He tapped a crooked finger on the glass table. “Yes, you were worried that the Americans would still want their money, or the Chinese might not provide the new business they offered. They are businessmen also, correct Minister?”
They all looked at Chen, who remained silent as Vlasenko continued.
“You have received over two hundred fifty million dollars from the Americans on your debt. Minister Chen has promised new contracts and business. I consider that good business.”
“Helping to obtain the case is a token of goodwill,” Chen said, breaking his silence. Chen’s eyes looked at Bondar with purpose.
“What about the Russians? I could go to the Russians.” Bondar said, looking at Chen. He thought for a moment, then continued. “You think the Russians are too focused on causing havoc in Crimea and eastern Ukraine? That China will solidify its economic position in Ukraine and surrounding countries for the Silk Road while no one is looking?”
“We all have our role to play,” Vlasenko said.
“I want guarantees of more contracts with the Chinese,” Bondar glared.
Vlasenko waved his hand in the air, dismissing Bondar’s comment. He glanced over the table. Bondar reached into his pocket and came out with a small orange. He smiled and handed it to the old man.
“Thank you, my boy.” He took a big bite and started his noisy chewing process.
Ira finally spoke. “May I ask, Minister Chen, why was the American killed?”
Chen pondered his answer for a moment, then said, “He was becoming a problem and needed to be removed.”
“But you didn’t have to drop him ten stories. You could have killed him in a less public way,” Ira countered.
“No, they needed to make it public.” It was Bondar. He turned to Chen. “It was a warning sign—to us. We shouldn’t cause any problems—or we will be removed too.”
Vlasenko coughed, then coughed again as an orange river of saliva and foam rolled from his mouth.
“Uncle Anton! Are you choking?” Ira screamed as she turned and beat his back with her hand.
Vlasenko’s body started to jerk forward, hitting the table. His mouth tried to suck in air, but his rapid short gasps signaled he was suffocating. His eyes were wide and glazed. His face turned a deep reddish-purple. His boney wrinkled hands clutched his chest. He started to shake. Ira tried to get her arms around the man, but his small body seized so violently she could not get a grip.
“Father, do something!”
She looked up to see her father putting the last bit of pastry in his mouth, disinterested in what was happening a few feet away. She shot a look at the man from China who also made no move to help. His face revealed no emotion.
Vlasenko suddenly went still. His hands dug into his chest over his heart. He seemed to rise from his chair for an instant. He toppled over to his right and hit the floor, curled in a ball at Bondar’s feet.
With tears in her eyes, Ira knelt by the body, looking from the dead man to her father in disbelief.
“Get up, Ira. Take your seat,” Bondar said in a tone as calm as if he was asking her to pass the salt.
“You killed him!”
“Get a hold of yourself and take your seat,” he commanded.
She fought to regain her composure. She stood, straightened her skirt and blouse, wiped the tears from her mascara-smudged eyes, and sat.
“I have seen the effects of a high dosage of cyanide many times,” Chen said.
“You see,” Bondar said, “I can send warning signals too.” He pointed to Vlasenko. “This man was my friend. My mentor for decades. You can do your business with me now. Only me.”
Chen nodded, pushed his chair back, and stood up.
“I believe we have completed as much business this morning as possible.”
“I will walk you to the car.”
Bondar and Ira also rose and escorted Chen through the house to the front entrance. Bondar nodded to the two uniformed Bondar Battalion-1 security men, who nodded back. They grabbed the handles of the massive mahogany double hung doors and swung them open. Chen, Bondar, then Ira stepped out to the wide V-shaped brick paver area that flared out from the entrance to the driveway twenty feet away.
Chen didn’t stop when he saw six crumpled bodies that were once Vlasenko’s security detail dead on the ground. The rain had ceased. Through the thinning clouds, a glare reflected off pools of blood under the bodies.
“I am afraid Anton’s driver will not be able to drive you back to Kyiv,” Bondar said, indicating the large black SUV. A torso was hanging partially out of the open passenger door, trickling blood from what was left of his head like a tipped over champagne glass—the result of a point-blank shotgun blast.
“I will have my driver take you.”
He pointed to another identical SUV parked behind the one containing the body. As they walked to it, the driver opened the door.
Chen stopped before he sat and turned back to Bondar and Ira.
“That is greatly appreciated,” Chen said emotionlessly, as if seeing death was second nature to him. “It was a pleasure meeting you.” He bowed to Ira. Then he turned to Bondar. His tone was as casual as if he was discussing the weather. It had a chilling effect.
“I was wondering if the people who took that case also retrieved the biometric passcode device? You see, it is an extraordinary case. Without George MacLean alive, or the proper and specific passkey authentication, the case cannot be opened safely. You should tell that to whoever has it—if you know them. Good-bye. Zai jian.”
Chen got in. The driver closed the door.
“Do pobachennya.” Bondar said goodbye and closed the door.
Bondar and Ira stood and watched the car drive away.
He spun to Ira, his eyes about to erupt with anger. “Do we have that? That device he is talking about?”
“They only gave me the case,” she said.
“Absolute incompetence.” Bondar balled his hands into fists. “Find a way to open it.”
“I will.” She stepped closer to her father. Her eyes darkened and turned cold as a deep cave. “You killed Anton! Why? Why?”
Bondar released his curled fingers and waved his hands through the air in the same dismissive manner Vlasenko had a few moments before he poisoned the old man.
“He would have done the same to me.”
Her high heels ground into the brick pavers as she turned and marched away.
Bondar glared at the two guards who had escorted them out of the house. Standing four feet away, they froze in terror when they saw the absolute look of death in his eyes. He reached around his back, grabbed the grip of the Makarov 59 EG, and put two bullets into each man’s chest before they could take their next breath. At that range, the 9x18mm bullets went entirely through their bodies. The already dead men fell back and hit the wet bricks with a splat.
He walked between the bodies and fired the last rounds from the magazine into each man.
“Get rid of Anton’s security men, the cars, and get Anton out of my dining room.” He shouted to no one in particular. “Get rid of those two. Make them all disappear—and clean the blood off my bricks.”
He walked through the front door and slammed it closed behind him.
15
Lomina Street
Belgrade, Serbia
Reds and blues flashed in the darkness against the buildings of Lomina Street. A dozen white-and-blue Serbian Police cars crammed into the street soon after 2 a.m. when the calls came into the police station about gunshots and a body lying in the street. Blinding floodlights burned into the darkness like a welder’s torch below, illuminating a yellow ‘Hostel 40’ sign. P
olice guarded the barricades on both ends, where curious citizens strained to see what was going on.
Goran made certain that was as close as anyone got.
“National security. BIA authority,” Goran told the furious police officers who instantly complained up their chain of command. They protested to their Deputy Minister Assistant, who woke up and informed the Minister of Internal Affairs. He called down to his other direct report, the Director of the BIA, and told him to take care of whatever was going on.
Bridger’s plan was simple. It required Goran to perform a few easy tasks.
Bridger told Goran to expect his call about securing the area around a drugged Nikola made up to look dead. If Goran could help spread the needed rumors, he could have Nikola when Bridger was done with him.
He could do what he wanted with him.
In less than thirty minutes, Goran was in complete control. He had six trusted men keeping the onlookers away from the body. It looked from a distance like he was wearing a blue blazer. It looked like there were dark stains on the blazer. Stains of blood, they whispered to each other.
Photographers with long-range lenses were snapping photos from the rooftops.
Whispers were already moving through the crowd that the dead man was a Serbian—a mafia assassin, perhaps.
Rumors were also growing that a second dead man was inside a nearby building.
While most of the Spy Devils slept or guarded the safehouse, Bridger and Beast sat in the kitchen and watched B92’s morning news replay video from the events on Lomina Street.
“Goran did a good job keeping the reporters and people away from our fake dead guy,” Beast said before he sipped his dark coffee.
“Yes, he did,” Bridger said. “So far, so good. Nikola played his part well, both alive and…well...alive last night.”