The Spy Devils

by Joe Goldberg

Ira wasn’t convinced.

  “The disruption to our mining operation is a significant problem for all businesses. Several of our transactions run through the subsidiaries.” She stared out the bullet-proof windows at the night glow of Kyiv. “The situation in Serbia and the cancelation of the asset sale is a disaster. We are under even more pressure. We needed those funds. We should cut their heads off.”

  “You only know the world I created for you,” his words were slurring now. “You were born with a seat at the table, a feast in front of you. You have never had to shoot a rabbit to fill an empty stomach. Or fear getting caught when you steal bread from a starving person because you are starving more.”

  He picked up his glass, examined the amount of liquid inside, and took a drink that emptied the remaining contents. He set the glass down with a loud thump on his desk.

  He continued, his arms gesturing in the air around him.

  “You mourn for ‘Uncle Anton,’ but I know he was behind the government attacks on our businesses. His death is good for us.”

  She turned her face away from him to hide the pain he had inflicted on her by killing the old man. She loved Uncle Anton as much as her father—maybe more. Vlasenko showed her respect. Her father gave her lectures. Her finger-nail clicks were more rapid and louder.

  “Unless we take precautions, we are vulnerable. If they pressure these businesses, they will pressure others. At least send our men to protect the shipping warehouses.”

  He scratched the three-day growth on his chin. Filled his glass with more Beluga Gold Line and sipped. He did not comment on her suggestion.

  “Where is your brother? I have not heard from him. I suppose he is gone again and calls for money.” No answer came. Bondar shook his head and sighed with the resignation reserved for a father to his son. “He is a total disappointment.”

  “I will find him.”

  She saw the sadness in her father’s sagging and tired eyes. Ira spent her life protecting Olek from their father. He considered her brother a waste—she understood that. Since Oleksandr was not interested in the business, their father equated that with weakness.

  Ira’s mobile phone started to buzz. She picked it up, looked at the caller ID, and pushed the answer button.

  “Yes?” She listened for less than a minute, then hung up without another word. “The Office of the Prosecutor General has signed the warrants. They are coming after our facilities in Odessa.”

  He finished his drink and poured another.

  “What do you plan to do?” she asked.

  “Kill them. Ignore them—it does not matter. I am Vik-tor Bondar.”

  He swallowed the vodka, leaned backed in his chair, and closed his eyes.

  “Father? Father?” Ira stared at her father, who had already started to snore.

  She shook her head in disgust as she dialed a number on her phone. It was answered on the first ring.

  “Get your men ready.”

  22

  Nom De Guerre

  Chicago, Illinois

  In his luxury suite at the Ritz-Carlton in downtown Chicago, Bridger sank into an overstuffed chair, wondering if this was going to be interesting or a pain in the ass. He munched some nuts from the complimentary gift basket provided by the hotel. Extra-large cashews. When those were gone, he would start on a large box of gourmet chocolates.

  He felt pretty good about himself on the flight back from Serbia aboard his private plane. Not only because he was killing off his second fine bottle of an Italian Sangiovese, but the mission was a success. In. Out. No injuries. No exposure.

  The rest of the Spy Devils had split up and departed Serbia by plane, train, and car. They would leave Europe from various locations using their true names like any other traveler.

  Bridger’s pretty good feeling ended when his mother sent a secure text telling him to divert to Chicago immediately. When he probed May for more info, her brief reply said he would get more details when he was in Chicago. He was flying into an operation blind. That was unusual.

  Bridger looked around the expensive suite. He had been living the good life all his life—well, adult life. Although his mother was a secret government employee, she had married well—purposely he assumed.

  He knew his father, Stanley Hall, was a successful early tech pioneer. When he suddenly died, he left his little boy a thirty-seven-million-dollar trust fund. Half was his when he turned twenty-one. The rest three years after he graduated from college.

  When the time came, she told him he should only use it for operational purposes. No fancy car in college. No taking friends, especially girlfriends—she frowned upon them—on vacations to Cabo. No gambling or other vices—except golf.

  “When you get operational, then you can have some toys.”

  He did as he was told—pretty much all of the time.

  When the right time came, he used his money to establish his cover company Hubbard Park Investments, and subsequently, the Spy Devils. Hubbard gave him cover for status and action to run his Spy Devils operations. Trow Hall was free to travel. He could meet a wide variety of people. He could open international satellite offices. He could establish a network of independent companies and support resources worldwide.

  He could be visible and invisible.

  Over time, as the Spy Devils confiscated the spoils from the targets they eliminated, they became a self-funding enterprise.

  He picked up a chocolate and looked at the legend paper that told him what each treat was. Milk chocolate. Coconut filling. He put it back in the box in the “eat as a last resort” section.

  Then he looked at his phone. He knew it was going to ping.

  He always had them—what May called his special observation abilities.

  When he was young, soon after his father’s death, they invented a game while walking on the busy streets in whatever country they were living in at the time. They called it “What’s Their Secret?”

  They would eat warmed spiced nuts from circular cones of striped paper and declare the kerchief-covered German hausfrau waddling into the bakeshop in Berlin was worried about her children. Chocolate dipped churros meant the man in Madrid was cheating on his wife but was less concerned about her feelings and more concerned about juggling more than one mistress. Over Nutella-covered waffles in Brussels, they would proclaim the young teacher was smuggling drugs into France.

  At first a childish activity to pass the time, it got more serious as he grew. His mother took delight, in her own way, of his budding aptitude. And on it went. Year after year.

  Espionage was his life’s work and ingrained in half his DNA as much as the genetic code that assured him his hair was sort of blonde, or his eyes were sort of hazel. The other half of his DNA came from his father. That part, he figured, loved strategic thinking and golf.

  From that point on, May brought him fully into her world. Whenever the opportunity allowed, she turned their son into an exploitable intelligence asset. Picnics in the park were enjoyable and good cover to service a dead drop. Trips through museums and back streets made him acutely aware of surveillance detection techniques. Dinner parties were perfect opportunities to practice elicitation techniques.

  She made the time to enhance his game, turning it from passing fancy of youth into an exploitable adult skill. After each diplomatic dinner party at their home, trip to an embassy for a national day celebration, or wait in a train station, she queried him to report what he saw. The military general in Argentina was a sociopath. The Italian scientist was doing more than working on vaccines. The Slovakian businessman was an arms dealer. The cute Korean couple were spies.

  Perhaps it was his moment of teenage defiance against his mother. A way to have his own identity. But mostly, he hated being called Trowbridge. He had eye-gouged and groin-kicked name-taunting kids in the ever-changing schools since he was eight years old. Trow was okay, and what most people called him in the real world.

  He proclaimed that he was going to play spy and wanted a
code name. She insisted on calling him by his given name, Trowbridge. But the nom de guerre he adopted was Bridger. He just liked the way it sounded.

  Although he was expecting the phone to beep, he still jumped when the sound of three electronic chirps resonated across the room.

  Bridger hesitated, then hit the answer button.

  “Am I catching you at a bad time?” she asked like always.

  “Would it make a difference?” he replied, as he bit his last good chocolate. Dark. With nuts. A favorite.

  “No,” she said.

  “Well, I am here, as requested,” he said, then licked the chocolate off his lips. “I don’t know why I am here, and that is disconcerting.”

  “I know you have heard of Kirkwood International. They seem to have allowed a rather important piece of classified equipment to walk out the door. You need to help them retrieve it.”

  “Hold the phone. Kirkwood? The U.S. company? That Kirkwood?”

  “Yes, as I have already said. And yes, they are a U.S.-based company.”

  “I seem to expressly remember a long conversation about not working in the U.S. Ever. True? It’s one of our rules—Spy Devils Rule Number Four. No working in the U.S.”

  “Yes, but—”

  “That if we were ever caught working in the U.S. we don’t have any cover, so we would go to prison for things like kidnapping, grand theft, breaking and entering, and half a dozen more state and federal laws…right?”

  “Your operation will take place mostly in Europe. In Ukraine, specifically.”

  “I don’t like it. This feels…off.”

  There was a moment of dead air.

  “That doesn’t matter, does it? The details are in the Dropbox. Keep me posted. Don’t make me check on your progress.”

  Bridger’s eyebrows raised. He sat forward in his chair.

  “Since when do you check on my progress?”

  “Goodnight, Trowbridge.”

  “Bridger,” he said. The phone went silent.

  Bridger stood and walked across the room bent. He picked up a putter. A few golf balls were at his feet. On the carpeted floor, ten feet from him, was a glass on its side acting as the target hole. Bridger lined up his putt, glancing toward the glass, then back at the ball, then once more at the glass. Click. The ball rolled across the carpet. Clink. A miss. It hit the right side of the glass rim and ricocheted away.

  “This rooms breaks to the right,” Bridger muttered, his mouth screwed across his face in disappointment.

  He dropped the putter and sat back in the comfortable chair.

  Closing his eyes, he visualized his golf ball cutting through a cloudless sky, landing safely in the middle of a green, and rolling toward the flag.

  A one-foot putt for birdie.

  23

  Anna Malinov

  Odessa, Ukraine

  Early the next morning, Anna Malinov, the lead prosecuting attorney of the Primorsky District Court representing Sergei Pavlenko, Ukraine’s new General Prosecutor in charge of anti-corruption, walked toward a row of low buildings in the Prymors'kyi District, Port of Odessa. Inside the buildings were the offices of Ukraine Bondar Shipping and Transport.

  Overhead, the sky was confused if it was still winter or if it was time to become a Ukrainian spring. A mix of clouds and sun hung above them—brilliant rays broke through like a warm spotlight, then just as suddenly, thick clouds brought the gloom again.

  Anna was a thirty-four-year-old rising star in the prosecutor’s office. Tough. Determined. Smart. Her trendy teal overcoat was buttoned to the top against the chill of the morning. She took confident steps forward, holding out her left hand that clutched the orders signed by the General Prosecutor. Her other hand was buried in her coat pocket, clamped around her mobile phone.

  Escorting her were six members of the General Directorate of the National Police, each protected in deep blue riot uniforms, body vests, black helmets, and dark visors lowered to cover their faces.

  Four heavily armed soldiers of the Bondar Battalion-1 met them. Bondar’s lethal private militia was a mixture of Russian, Chechen, Serbian, Bulgarian, and Cossack mercenaries drawn to the Battalion by the Bondar family's generous pay. Bearded. Body armor and camouflage. Ammo belts over shoulders. Young and old. Chiseled emotionless faces. Hard faces.

  Ukrainian television, radio, and social media were tipped off by the Prosecutor’s Office of their planned anti-corruption activities against the Bondar empire. Instantaneous analysis by TV anchors welcomed the fall of the oligarchs that had dominated the politics and economics of Ukraine for decades. Transparency and openness were the policies of the day.

  Anna stopped ten feet in front of the line of mercenaries.

  “We…are here…to serve papers…legal papers,” Anna stuttered with uneasiness. “Papers assuming possession of the facilities Ukraine Bondar Shipping and Transport.” Her alto voice pitched higher with apprehension. Her hand was shaking as she kept the paper extended in front of her.

  The men of the Battalion did not respond either verbally or by lowering their weapons. Their response was to disregard her with looks of contempt.

  “I repeat.” Her adrenaline was not helping enough as she faced the armed men. “We have legal authority, on behalf of the General Prosecutor’s Office, to—”

  Before she could finish her sentence, metallic clicks came from all directions. Four mercenaries to her left and four more to her right appeared from behind trees and parked cars. They were sighting down the length of their weapons right at her. Her hand and the paper descended slowly to her side.

  “By blocking our entry—you—I must inform you— the law—" Her teeth and tongue rattled in her mouth so violently she could no longer form words.

  She jumped when her phone suddenly rang inside the pocket of her coat.

  “Hello, Anna,” said her boss, Sergei Pavlenko, the prosecuting attorney.

  To Anna, the calmness in his voice was incompatible to the drama surrounding her.

  “There are soldiers. Tell me what to do.”

  “Yes, I can see it on television. They will not harm you.” He wasn’t so sure his words were true, but he had nothing else to tell her. “They are only there to scare you. Tell them they are breaking the law.”

  “I tried.”

  “I want to talk to them. Give their leader your phone.”

  “I don’t think—”

  “Please try,” he interrupted.

  She pulled the phone away from her ear and looked at it with contempt. No soldier had moved a muscle. She reached her hand out and waved the phone left and right, offering it to any of the men. She mustered a false smile and took a step in their direction.

  “The General Prosecutor would—like to—speak with you, please?” She ended with more of a plea than a question.

  One mercenary glared directly into Anna’s eyes with the cold sharpness like a knife. “Go” was all the low voice said in a non-Ukrainian accent. He pointed his AK-47 above their heads and fired three bursts in rapid succession.

  Abandoning any pretext of a professional demeanor, Anna let out a high-pitched shriek, tossed her phone, turned, and ran. The National Police did not fire. Instead, they quickly walked backward, protecting her retreat.

  Reaching her car in a full sprint, she slammed against it to stop her momentum. She flung the door open and dove in. In seconds the engine was gunned, the wheels burned in black clouds, and the car sped away. The National Police piled into their vehicle and followed her.

  Sergei Pavlenko’s voice came from Anna’s phone lying on the ground at the mercenary’s feet. The mercenary looked down and stomped on the device until it was shattered into pieces.

  At 3 a.m., the point man picked the lock while two other men oiled the hinges on the gate at the corner of Pushkinska and Zukovskoho streets in Odessa. On the far side of the gate was the fortress that covered an entire rectangular block in the center of the city. It was the headquarters of the General Directorate of th
e National Police.

  The compound was considered one of the more secure buildings in the city, given its occupants. By day, security managed access to the area they had just accessed. By night, there was nothing.

  The thirty members of the Bondar Battalion-1 Assault Team huddled in the arched service passageway built through the mustard-colored façade of an adjacent building.

  The leader knew thirty was twice as many as was needed, which was still twice too many. His men were fighters, and they were all eager to kill the government soldiers—more for practice than ideology. So when he asked for volunteers they all stepped forward.

  Each carried a Fort-221 bullpup assault rifle and a Fort-17 9mm semi-automatic pistol. They were equipped with night-vision goggles on their helmets, various explosives, communication gear, and body armor.

  Inside the compound was the pale-yellow training and barrack building that housed the elite members of the National Police of Ukraine. It was a Tetris-tile puzzle of L-shaped, square, and rectangular buildings—courtyards inside tree-lined courtyards.

  A one-story building contained an operations center and classrooms. Attached was the two-story structure. The first floor contained the equipment and weapons of the special unit. Upstairs were twenty-four cots for the Gold and Blue Teams—eleven were currently occupied, including six who accompanied Anna Malinov to the Bondar facility the previous day.

  When the gate swung open, six teams of five men crouched and moved quietly and quickly in the darkness of a row of trees lining the Pushkinska Street wall. One team spread out in sentry positions, as two teams broke off to their right, went up the steps to the lower-level training wing, picked the lock, and went in to secure the floor.

  Around back, three teams entered the back door and moved up a narrow set of stairs to the sleeping area. Once in position, they moved into the room and shot each man in the head while sleeping. Men carrying twenty-liter jerry cans poured gas on the bodies and throughout the rest of the room.