The Spy Devils

by Joe Goldberg

  “Fuck you,” he repeated.

  “This is quite a feast.” Bridger was leaning over the dining table.

  A small dish buffet was mixed among a forest of empty champagne bottles, cigarette butts, drugs, and Cyprus brandy. Two dozen traditional Cypriot delicacies—air-dried cured beef pastirma, meat cubes of souvlaki, halloumi cheese, olives, and breads covered the table. Bridger reached down toward a plate, picked up a sausage, and flicked the meat into his mouth. His head tilted back as his face radiated a smile of pleasure.

  “This Loukanika is fantastic! I love the hint of coriander. Don’t you?” He waited for an answer as he licked his fingers and smacked his lips. With a smirk, he strolled by Demon, who impatiently leaned against the polished wood of the bulkhead.

  “Who are you?” Oleksandr said, his voice rough from smoke and fear.

  Bridger turned quickly. Demon started to move toward the boy with the Stick poised to strike.

  “No!” Bridger shouted.

  Oleksandr panicked and blindly wiggled his body into the cushions as far as he could.

  Demon stopped, shrugged, and returned to his position along the wall—the Stick still in striking position.

  “Sorry, don’t worry about him.” Bridger patted Olek on top of his hooded head like a puppy. Olek flinched and turned away. “I won’t let anything happen to you. To answer your question—a good question—we have been retained to find a lost or stolen article believed to be in the possession of your father. Since we have no idea where to look, we thought you could help us.”

  “I don’t know anything, and I won’t help you.” The mask puffed in and out, outlining Olek’s mouth. Bridger smiled.

  “You will, soon enough.”

  He heard Olek whine like a fearful puppy.

  Bridger stopped to look out the windows that made up the top half of the suite's curved sides. The blinds were raised, offering a panoramic night view of the Cypriot coast off Limassol that glowed a few kilometers in the distance. The lights cast streaks of color on the dark surface of the Med.

  “What a view. You have found something here, Oleksandr. I mean, this is paradise. I had forgotten how lovely Cyprus is.”

  Cyprus may be lovely, but it was also a problem for Bridger. The Cyprus Chief of Police, who had assisted him on many mutually beneficial covert deals over the years, died of a massive heart attack one year ago. To do anything, he needed the complete cooperation of the local police.

  His friend in Cyprus was dead—but he did have a friend in Greece.

  30

  Drunk, On Drugs, and Dancing

  Off the coast of Cyprus

  Even in his mid-seventies, Yannis Taskas was a large man in stature, personality, opinion, thirst for red wine, and appetite. He also was an expert craftsman in intelligence as a retired forty-year spy in the Greek National Intelligence Service, the Ethniki Ypiresia Pliroforion. Upon retirement, in the shadows of the Acropolis, he became an expert craftsman in his family’s small jewelry shop tucked down one of the narrow streets in the Plaka neighborhood.

  When he learned he was going to run an operation in Cyprus, Bridger immediately called his old friend.

  Bridger liked Yannis, and Yannis felt the same about the young man. “You will make a great spy someday—like your mother,” he would often prophesy when he left their apartment each night. Years later, one call to him that included the phrase “I need a favor” was enough.

  “Yassou, hello to you, and you always need a favor. I am always glad to help my old friend. What can I do for you?” The voice was deep and sincere.

  Bridger explained in general terms what he needed in Cyprus. Specifics were not necessary or expected. Yannis knew better, and even if he asked, the answer would be silence. It was enough that they had trust and the knowledge they would assist each other without question.

  Money was a different matter.

  “It just so happens that I am distantly related through my blessed mother to many people, even in Cyprus—including the new Chief of the Cyprus Police. He is a third cousin, or fourth, I forget. Oh, and he is a malaka. Quite a dick, as you might say.”

  A loud snort resembling a laugh came through the phone. Bridger smiled on his end of the conversation. In the decades he had known Yannis, he ended up being related to just about everyone who had a drop of Greek blood in their veins.

  “Can you make the call?”

  “In the area of…compensation?” Yannis asked.

  “Fifteen thousand dollars,” Bridger offered.

  “Thirty thousand,” Yannis countered.

  “Twenty-five,” Bridger countered the counter. Yannis would have been offended if he didn’t. Yannis was a former spy, but he was also a good businessman.

  “You are a good friend, but cheap. I accept your meager offer.”

  They said farewell as the transaction was completed.

  When Bridger, Demon, Snake, and Beast landed at Nicosia International Airport, Cristos Zacharias, the new Chief of the Cyprus Police, had a car waiting for them in a secure area away from the main passenger terminals.

  “Hello, I am Chief of Police Cristos Zacharias,” he said in lightly accented English. He bowed from the shoulders.

  The clean-shaven man was wearing a neatly pressed official blue uniform and collar insignia of the police chief. Freshly cut black hair with gray temples sat under his saucer-shaped blue police chief hat. A row of service ribbons ran across his chest on the upper left side of his uniform. Shiny silver buttons ran along the front and on his sleeves.

  Chief Zacharias listened carefully as Bridger explained what was needed.

  “We shall go. All is ready. Yannis speaks highly of you. May we discuss my fee?” They settled on thirty-five thousand dollars. It was too much, but Bridger needed to pay for the Chief’s immediate help, complete silence, and a down payment on a possible long-term relationship.

  In the car, Zacharias explained to Bridger that Oleksandr Bondar was easy to find. He was a frequent visitor to the Guaba Beach Bar in Limassol. When they arrived at the location, Olek was right where the Chief of Police said he would be—in the bar, drunk, on drugs, and dancing. A few hours later, Olek led them straight to his boat.

  “I want to talk to my father,” Olek whimpered through the mask. “You don’t know who you are dealing with.” The hood was plastered to his head from his sweat. “He will send men to come here and chop you up and use your bones as firewood.” He was shouting now.

  Bridger walked over and lowered his mouth next to where Olek’s left ear should be.

  “Yes, Olek, I do know who I am dealing with,” he whispered. Olek shot to his right, losing his orientation, which caused him to tip over onto the floor with a thud. Bridger stood. “I will share a secret with you. I actually know something about your father. I am not certain you want to call him. You might not like what you hear.” Bridger stretched his arms over his head and arched his back.

  “He will hunt you and kill you. He is my father.” His comments lacked conviction. The puffing inside the hood grew quicker.

  Bridger walked aft to the open glass doors that separated the enclosed lounge from the open-air sun deck. He took in a deep breath of the salty air. “I never was much for the sea, but this is relaxing.”

  “Go fuck yourself. When my father finds out—”

  “There you go again with what your father will do to me,” said Bridger, cutting him off. “I have an idea! Why don’t we call him? What do you say? The Wi-Fi booster signal is great. It is picking up the coastal network surprisingly well. Where is your phone?”

  Oleksandr’s hooded head was still and signaled to Bridger the puzzled feeling of a child who unexpectedly got exactly what he asked for.

  Bridger pulled an iPhone from his pocket. “Could this be it? You should use a passcode. Let me look at your contact list. Ah, I see one here that says FATHER. I will assume this is it.”

  He held down a number releasing the electronic speed dial beep. He pushed the speak
er button, leaned forward, and placed it between the debris on the coffee table.

  “It is on speaker. Oh, I speak Ukrainian—chudovo—perfectly. So, if you are thinking about saying something inappropriate, don’t.”

  Demon grunted in response.

  Clicks and ringing came from the phone. After a few seconds, a sleepy voice answered. It was also just after 1 a.m. in Kyiv.

  “Who is this?” said a muffled, sleepy voice.

  “Father! It is Oleksandr.”

  “What?”

  “It’s Oleksandr. I—I am in trouble.”

  There was an uncomfortable pause. Then the voice continued—its words spoken methodically. “You are in trouble? You are always in trouble. Or drunk. Or on drugs.”

  “Father!” Oleksandr pleaded in a shocked voice.

  “You will have to deal with whatever it is. I am going back to sleep.”

  “There are men. They have come aboard the boat and taken me hostage.”

  “Boat? You have a boat?”

  “I…well…I,” Olek knew he had made a mistake mentioning the boat.

  “What do they want?”

  “I am not sure. They want to talk to me.”

  “So, you called me to tell me you are talking to some men?

  “Yes, but—”

  “No more money. And don’t go crying to Ira. She isn’t your mother. Don’t call me again until you become a man.”

  There was a click, then a double peep, and then silence. Oleksandr sat motionless. Slowly, his hood sunk to rest on his chest. Bridger heard a slight sniffle, then he saw Oleksandr’s shoulders start to quiver. Bridger walked over, sat on the couch's arm, rested his hands on his thighs, and leaned toward the boy.

  “Do you want to talk now?”

  The hood nodded. The sound of sobbing came through the hood. His shoulders were bent over and shaking.

  Bridger circled back to the food, picked up an olive, and popped it in his mouth. “I want to know everything,” he said, a look of satisfaction on his face. “Right. Now.”

  Sitting in the safe house apartment on Baseinaya Street located in the center of Kyiv, Milton powered off his phone and disconnected it from his laptop. Beatrice filled three glasses with a few inches of red wine.

  Exhaling a deep breath, Milton took a glass and sat back against the fake leather couch.

  “What’s the matter, Milton?” Imp asked with weary sarcasm. He also took a glass. “It worked just like I said it would.”

  “Like I said it would,” Milton replied.

  “It went very well. You both did well,” Beatrice spoke up, acting as mediator.

  “It did, didn’t it?” Milton reached for the bottle and poured the remainder of the wine into the empty glass. “It worked perfectly. That kid is crapping his pants now that daddy has rejected him.”

  Under the auspices of a software engineering company owned and operated within the Spy Devils’ cover network, Milton worked with third-party tech vendors to develop an artificial intelligence program that could learn any voice and mimic it perfectly in seconds. Milton inputted into software algorithms videos of dozens of Viktor Bondar’s Ukrainian and English language interviews, speeches, and sound bites. The computer program analyzed his speech for idiosyncrasies, pronunciation, phonations, articulation, or any other characteristics of the spoken word.

  When Bridger called from Olek’s boat, Milton spoke Bondar’s fake responses into the computer. The program immediately created near-perfect sentences in Bondar’s voice.

  “It helps that the idiot on the other end of the conversation is, well, an idiot. If he wasn’t, we wouldn’t be here. He is crying like a baby,” Imp said, sitting back and resting his feet on the coffee table. “Now, quiet, we have to listen to this.”

  31

  Sharks in the Med

  Off the coast of Cyprus

  On the yacht, a devastated Oleksandr sat on the couch. His bound hands still made sitting awkward. Muffled short breaths escaped as he swayed his stooped shoulders a few inches to the left, then back to the right. Bridger sat to his right with his hand resting on the shaking shoulder.

  “Olek. Now is the right time to start talking. I will listen.”

  When Oleksandr finally spoke, he explained the boat was purchased with Kirkwood monies. He provided the name of Theo Giannokis as the family banker in Cyprus. He explained that the Bondar family owned the bank to hide any business transactions his father wanted hidden.

  “This is all very interesting, Olek, but it isn’t near enough,” Bridger said scornfully.

  Bridger knew that his Kyiv-based team would be listening through a secure audio channel Bridger had opened using the ship’s Wi-Fi. In less than fifteen seconds, a “got him” squawked through his secure communications earpiece. Olek was telling the truth.

  “I need you to tell me the connection between Theo and his main counterpart in Kyiv. Second, as I said earlier, I need to find this case. Have you ever heard of Hillcrest?”

  “No. I don’t know anything about any of that,” he said defiantly.

  Oleksandr’s defiant reply did not sit well with Bridger. Oleksandr was regaining his senses. He had stopped his swaying. His posture was more erect.

  “Olek, how come I don’t believe you? I think you know more than you are telling me.”

  “Talk to my sister, Ira. She knows everything. Ask her.”

  “Oh, I plan to. Right now, I am talking to you and trying hard to believe you. I am. But I don’t.”

  “I don’t care what you think. I have told you everything.” His defiance was a mistake.

  “This is bullshit. If he doesn’t answer, I am going to toss him overboard,” Demon said, still leaning on the wall directly across from Olek.

  “Relax.” Bridger looked over at Demon and gave him a nod. He turned back to Oleksandr.

  “One more chance, Olek. Tell me about the banker, his contacts in Kyiv, and where the case is.”

  “You can go fuck your one more cha—”

  Oleksandr did not have time to scream. Demon was on him in a blink. He picked Olek up and bounced him on the floor like a basketball with enough force to knock the air out of the young man’s lungs. A few seconds later, Oleksandr felt the Mediterranean night air against his damp skin. Something was wrapped around his waist, and then, in a few more seconds, he was weightless.

  In a hood, disoriented, and his hands still secured behind him, Olek tumbled like a coin tossed in a wishing well. He hit the water and began to sink.

  Oleksandr gulped mouthfuls of the warm Mediterranean water, desperate for air. Water poured into his nostrils. The only sounds were the bubbling of the sea in his ears and the panicked choking of him drowning. Kicking his legs and thrashing his body in complete terror, he managed briefly to find the surface.

  The hood stuck to his mouth and nose. He couldn’t breathe. Although he had only been in the water for five seconds, terror made it seem as though he was close to death.

  Olek’s body jerked like a fish on a hook. Then he realized he was being pulled through the water.

  “Hey, are there sharks in the Med?” Demon asked, as he kept his finger on the switch that activated the electronic winch. It controlled a cable that ran from the yacht’s side to a harness that he had secured around Oleksandr’s body.

  “I’m not sure. I didn’t think about it. Maybe?” Bridger shrugged.

  “I hope so,” Demon said.

  The sling dug deep into Olek’s armpits as he slammed against the side of the boat and was dragged along the hull at the waterline. He clawed at the slick hull with his feet, hoping to catch something to get back on the yacht.

  Demon released the switch, stopping the rope with a sudden jerk. Oleksandr hung suspended just overboard of the rear sun deck, shivering with terror, like a fresh catch on a sportfishing boat. His shorts were lost in the darkness of the Med. His linen white shirt was ripped open and sticking to his skin.

  Olek’s momentum caused him to swing out from the
hull and slam back against the side with a thump and a groan.

  “So, where were we?” Bridger yelled over the side at the kid.

  Oleg looked pathetic. Blood was flowing over his shoulders from cuts somewhere under the hood.

  “I—I—” Oleksandr stammered through chattering teeth.

  “Drop him,” Bridger ordered.

  “No!” he screamed.

  “What is the name of the person in Ukraine? How do we contact him? Where is Hillcrest?” Bridger waited. “I guess you enjoyed your drop into the water. Fine.”

  Bridger looked at Demon and made a motion for him to activate the winch. As Demon moved his hand, he was interrupted by screams.

  “Don’t. Don’t. Don’t!” Olek screamed. Then he whimpered through his hood. “Please?”

  “Either tell me, or you’d better grow some gills because I’m cutting the cable.”

  “Pav-lo! His name is Pavlo! In Kyiv! In the basement of the bank. He is Ira’s person. That is all I know. I swear. The banker—the banker will know everything. Believe me. PLEASE!” With each pleading word, his head ricocheted off the rocking hull.

  “I believe you now, Oleksandr,” Bridger said loud enough so Olek could hear him over the rushing water.

  “Tha-nk…you.” Oleksandr’s sporadic sounds were barely audible as he lowered his head in relief.

  “Lucky for you, I also believe in catch and release.”

  “What?” Olek screamed.

  Demon reached into his pocket, pulled out a knife, flipped open the blade, and started cutting the tape binding Olek’s wrists. Bridger pulled the ring that inflated a fluorescent orange flotation tube around Olek’s waist and hit the cable release. Olek’s shrill scream turned to a gurgle when he hit the water. Bridger saw the safety tube's reflection in the glow of the aft lights, then Olek disappeared as the boat crawled away.

  With a last look in Olek’s general direction, Bridger picked a radio out of his cargo pants pocket and keyed the talk switch.