by Bill Brewer
Pointing to the closet with her baton, she instructed him, “Put on the outfit marked ‘Street Clothes.’ Diegert dressed in front of her, and she directed him to the desk chair. She handed him a dossier, saying, “Find this man and get him to give you two hundred euros.”
She handed him a Jericho 941 9 mm pistol and suppressor. That she would equip him with an Israeli firearm was surprising, but then again, the gun is only a tool. “You have twenty-four hours to complete the mission.”
“What, no push-ups or pull-ups?”
“If you need to increase the strength of your body, do it on your own time, but I don’t want to see you back in that bed.”
Fatima left the room much more abruptly than she had entered.
27
Diegert noted the time, 11:05 p.m., as he opened the dossier on Sebastor Sbrebetskov. The man was a midlevel mobster of the Bucharest underworld in an organization headed by the notorious Michka Barovitz. It turned out Sbrebetskov’s appetites were bigger than his abilities, and he was in debt to Barovitz for a large sum of money. Furthermore, Barovitz was not entirely happy about the sideline businesses Sbrebetskov was running in Bucharest. Sbrebetskov was extorting protection money from local merchants, and the speculation was that he planned to establish himself independent of Barovitz. The risk he was taking was significant; either he would become his own boss or a corpse.
Barovitz’s criminal empire extended throughout Romania and beyond. He was at the top of a self-made criminal pyramid, which he preserved with bribery and force. It was reported that he views Sbrebetskov as an interesting plaything, which he controlled through puppet strings. Diegert’s mission was to find Sbrebetskov and convince the mobster to give him two hundred euros. He would begin at a pub called the Loyal Dog just over the Ialomita River in Bucharest where Sbrebetskov typically hung out at night.
Diegert signed out a Saab from the motor pool and drove into the night. The bridge over the Ialomita was closed to vehicle traffic for repairs, however foot traffic was allowed. Diegert parked and crossed the bridge. The pub faced the river fifty meters from the bridge. Diegert took a stool at the bar and ordered a beer. Soon he was talking with an older man sitting next to him. Diegert steered the conversation to Sbrebetskov. The old man said, “Everyone knows that man is in debt to Barovitz, and I believe he has a price on his head.”
“You mean, they want him dead?”
“I think the price is more reflective of the debt he carries.”
“Is this the kind of debt that can be repaid or is there something more Barovitz holds over him?”
“Barovitz surely has much to hold over him, but Sbrebetskov wants to have his own organization. Right now, he only has two men. He would need a lot more to challenge Barovitz. Even the men he has are actually being paid by Barovitz. He’s on thin ice.”
“Tell me more about Barovitz.”
“Ah, the Scorpion. He’s ruthless, and his rise to power has been paved by executing the competition.”
“Sounds tough.”
“Well, he’s older now, more refined, but as a young man, he removed his rivals with a revolver. He was called the Scorpion because he also used poison. He would give those who didn’t follow his rules the option of drinking poison or being shot.”
“Unfortunate choices.”
“He would also offer the choice to business people who didn’t want to pay protection money.”
“Is he still around town?”
“No, he has a villa on an island in the Aegean. He conducts his business through associates. He doesn’t have to twist arms himself anymore. What Sbrebetskov needs is a settlement.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, he needs Barovitz to offer him a deal that will allow him to save his hide and save face. Partial payment on his current debt and a percentage of future business, that sort of thing. Sbrebetskov isn’t foolish enough to pass up a settlement from Barovitz, but he hasn’t been offered one yet.”
The old man pointed to an empty booth in the back corner of the bar.
“That’s Sbrebetskov’s booth over there. It’s the last place in town where he has any clout. I imagine he’ll be here later, but I will not.”
The man swilled the last of his beer and offered his hand to Diegert, saying, “An old man needs his rest, while a young man seeks excitement. Good night, stranger.”
Looking down at the coaster under his beer, Diegert noticed it had a scorpion insignia. Wiping the coaster dry, he ordered another beer and a shot of Romana Sambuca Black Liquore to be served over at the empty booth in the corner. Diegert sat there for twenty minutes before Sbrebetskov and two men arrived. The two thugs preceded Sbrebetskov to the table.
“Hey, get out of that seat,” the first one, who had a flattop buzz cut, managed to say.
“This booth is ours. You must leave,” offered the second guy, who sported a dark goatee, sounding almost polite in comparison.
Diegert raised his silenced Jericho just above the tabletop and placed the red laser on the forehead of the more belligerent thug. Speaking directly to Sbrebetskov, who stood behind the two men, Diegert said, “I’m here to talk to you. Tell your men to wait at the bar or climb into a grave.”
Sbrebetskov, not wanting a public spectacle, gestured to the bar. “Have a seat and a beer.”
Sbrebetskov was a big man, very heavy, with a large sloping abdomen. He was dressed in a tailored suit because he wouldn’t fit well off the rack. His full head of dark hair was only beginning to show the gray, which would likely be the color of all his hair should he live long enough. He slid his bulk into the booth and made himself appear comfortable. The waiter brought him his beer in a tall glass with an embossed Ursus logo. Diegert wasted no time. “I’m here to offer you a settlement.”
Sbrebetskov’s eyes widened.
“Ten percent of your debt buys you six months to come up with the balance.”
Sbrebetskov’s look of surprise caused Diegert to go on.
“Barovitz believes in you, and he’s taking the long view that you will do well for him in spite of your current setback.”
“How do I know you represent Barovitz?”
Diegert placed the coaster with the scorpion on the table and then set the shot glass with the dark-black liquid on the coaster. Placing his pistol on the table, Diegert folded his arms in front of him.
“Ten percent of your current debt, and I will leave you to celebrate your good fortune this evening.”
Sbrebetskov pulled out a roll of cash and counted it. “A thousand euros, this is all I have tonight.”
He handed the money to Diegert. Returning his gun to its holster and putting the cash in his pocket, Diegert stood up.
“I will be back tomorrow night for the rest.”
Diegert picked up the shot glass of dark fluid and poured it on the floor, saying, “We wouldn’t want an accident.” He stashed the scorpion coaster in his coat pocket.
Stepping outside the pub, Diegert walked along the river and started to cross the bridge. He counted out two hundred euros, placed it in his jacket pocket, and put the rest in the pocket of his pants. Glancing back, he noticed the two thugs exiting the pub and pointing at him as he ascended the bridge. Over its span of the river, the bridge rose to a height of fifteen meters above the water. The thugs sprinted after him, and as he reached the peak of the bridge, he slowed his pace, and the thugs closed the gap.
As they approached, guns drawn, one shouted, “Hey, stop right there!”
Diegert halted, grasped the handle of his Jericho 9 mm, and withdrew it as he spun to face his attackers. His first shot pierced the frontal bone of the flattop thug just above the right eye. As the man’s body began to drop forward, Diegert kicked him into the second thug. The force of his comrade’s body knocked over the man with the goatee. Diegert fired, striking the guy’s right arm, causing him to drop his gun. Diegert grabbed the shattered forearm, and with ligament-tearing force pulled it behind the guy’s back. The thug s
wung wildly with his left and cracked Diegert on the cheekbone. The blow stunned Diegert, who dropped his pistol and stumbled backward. The thug stood up and punched Diegert repeatedly in the ribs. With the wind knocked out of him, Diegert fell to the deck of the bridge. The thug reached for his fallen pistol, and when he turned back Diegert delivered a kick to the guy’s right knee. Falling on the damaged knee, the man with the goatee held on to his pistol. Diegert reached behind him, grabbed his gun, and both men pointed at one another. Diegert flipped on his laser sight, dazzling the thug’s vision as the muffled spurt of the bullet permanently ended the henchman’s struggle to survive.
Diegert rose to his feet. Quickly assessing his situation, he heaved the two bodies into the river, with every tug of his muscles on his rib cage causing intense pain. He pocketed the pistols while descending the bridge to his car and drove back to Headquarters.
Diegert had cleaned himself up when Fatima came to his room at 2:33 a.m. “Here’s your two hundred euros,” said Diegert, extending the cash.
“Is he dead?”
“No, but his two thugs are. I thought we had a gentleman’s agreement, but it seems I overestimated Sbrebetskov’s commitment to a pact made in honor.”
Folding the money and placing it in her pocket, Fatima stepped to the door, turned, and looked over her shoulder just soon enough to catch Diegert checking out her ass.
“I’ll see you at 0700 for tomorrow’s training brief. I hope your dreams are satisfying.”
His dreams were not satisfying; sadness and grief had built up inside him. All the deaths—Paris, Athens, Mogadishu, the pirates on the Sue Ellen, Omar Pascal, and now the two thugs—were exerting their psychological effect. Barney, whom he considered a friend, was now out of his life. He needed to express the grief and release the sadness, but when he tried to, he just couldn’t. He relaxed in the privacy of his little room, and with his face pressed to the pillow, he opened himself to his painful feelings, but tears wouldn’t come. He thought of the hurt and the pain, the violence and the loss, but the expression of those emotions needed something more to come to the surface. He needed to cleanse his soul and perform penance for his actions. He was frustrated at not being able to purge these feelings. Tossing and turning, he eventually fell asleep but awoke to his five thirty a.m. alarm feeling lousy.
28
Arthur Cambridge was a successful real-estate developer in England. His company, Cambridge Holdings, owned property worth over eight hundred million pounds. The apartment and office buildings produced rental income in excess of five million pounds a month. His father, Sinclair Cambridge, had developed the business with the assistance of Dean Kellerman, a member of the Board of Crepusculous.
Through wise investments and reinvestments, Cambridge Holdings grew until it was a self-sustaining real-estate entity. Kellerman remained an investor but didn’t take part in the operations of the business. Arthur learned the business while completing his studies at Oxford, and Sinclair gave him a prominent position in the company upon his graduation. So it was no surprise that upon the elder man’s death, his personal estate worth over twenty-five million pounds was turned over to his only son, who was now president of Cambridge Holdings. With such a large volume of money now at his disposal, Arthur had to invest it quickly or lose most of it to taxes.
He and his investment assistants looked at the Eastern European market for a suitable place to purchase large housing stock at very low prices. With their past success, they were certain they could keep the properties occupied as they did in England, the Netherlands, and France. The twenty-five million pounds bought forty buildings in Romania. Each building had one to two hundred apartments per unit. The income potential from rent was enormous, and Cambridge Holdings was poised to become a force in the Romanian real-estate business.
Government regulations in Romania were significantly less complex than British bureaucracy. The lawyers of Cambridge Holdings completed the necessary paperwork, putting Arthur Cambridge in business in the Balkans within a month of inheriting his father’s wealth.
Cambridge visited the country and toured several of the buildings he had purchased. He realized the numerous structures were in various states of repair. Some were in good shape with charming features, while others needed to be condemned and would take a substantial investment to restore. Like a bushel of apples, there were some bad ones. Cambridge directed his business planners to take a complete inventory of the entire purchase and put together a restoration plan for him to review. Upon his return to England, Cambridge prepared to celebrate Christmas with his family on their thirty-acre country estate.
The e-mail arrived in the inbox of Nigel Flannery, director of finance for Cambridge Holdings. The document laid out in extensive detail the payment expectations of Michka Barovitz. The payments were required for protection, and fees were listed for every building the company had just purchased in Romania. Nigel thought for a moment but couldn’t recall any contracts with security companies for any of the buildings. Security was handled through keyed doorways and neighborhood watch efforts. Spending extra money on security was not a practice of Cambridge Holdings, except for special residents who purchased such services. In the contracts written to purchase the assets in Romania, no security fees were included or required. What also struck the Oxford-educated financier was the use of the word “protection” rather than “security.”
Corruption and bribery were part of the history of the Balkans, and Nigel had read about such circumstances in the news and in spy novels, but he certainly never expected the fine company of Cambridge Holdings to be faced with thugs demanding bribes. The thought was so repugnant that he hesitated to bring it to Arthur Cambridge’s attention, especially during the Christmas holidays. Barovitz’s note, though, demanded a reply and stated that lack of protection payments may result in criminal activity affecting the properties. Nigel gave it some thought and realized he would have to reply to this e-mail in an unequivocal manner.
December 22
Dear Mr. Barovitz,
Regarding your e-mail of December 21, I am afraid we will not be fulfilling your demand for payment. Cambridge Holdings has made the purchase of the Romanian properties without establishing building security contracts. Building security is handled through lock-and-key mechanisms as well as good relations with local law enforcement. Your demand for “protection” payments strikes me as nothing more than extortion, and we simply will not be held hostage to such requests. I request that you never contact our company again, and furthermore a copy of this notice and your request for extortion payments will be forwarded to the local police in the areas where our buildings are located. I trust this will conclude our correspondence and that you understand that your draconian ways of doing business will no longer be tolerated or indulged by Cambridge Holdings.
Sincerely,
Nigel Flannery, Director of Finance, Cambridge Holdings
Nigel sent the e-mail to Barovitz. He also forwarded copies of the e-mail and the request for payments from Barovitz to the police headquarters of every district in which they held buildings. Feeling as though he had thoroughly addressed the issue, Mr. Flannery turned his attention to other business.
29
David Diegert moved through the line of the cafeteria collecting his breakfast. As he slid his tray on the metal counter, he looked into the soft hazel eyes and gentle smile of Elena Balan. Elena was a charming young woman with wispy blond hair pulled back into a ponytail. Diegert hadn’t seen her in the cafeteria before and was captivated by her plain but pretty face and her smooth, soft skin.
He looked at her without expression until her smile faded and she asked him, “What do you want?” Diegert pondered how he could tell her that he desperately wanted to hug her and hold her in a private place and share with her the passion that was erupting inside him. She looked at him quizzically and repeated, “What do you want?”
Diegert snapped out of it and replied, “Eggs, please, and some sausage.” Ele
na spooned his request onto a plate and slid it under the glass guard. Her smile returned, but she looked at him rather strangely as he stepped down the line. Out in the eating area, Fatima, dressed in the black uniform of the day, directed him to sit at a table with her. “I want to brief you on today’s training assignment while you eat.”
With only the two of them at the table, Fatima asked, “So how is it that you got the two hundred euros last night, but Sbrebetskov is alive and his two body guards are dead?”
Diegert was not paying attention to her question as he poked and picked at his meal.
“Hey, I asked you a question,” the dark-haired trainer snapped.
“What?”
“I asked how is it that Sbrebetskov is alive and his two body guards are dead?”
“You asked me to get him to give me two hundred euros, you didn’t assign me to kill him. I convinced him to give me the money, and then his dudes tried to jump me and get it back. My ribs are killing me, by the way.”
“Do you need to go to medical?”
“Thanks, but there’s nothing they can do for injured ribs.”
Diegert dug into his eggs and took a big swallow of orange juice.
“Very well. Our training today isn’t so physical as intellectual. I’ll develop your skills as a hacker.”
“Computers?”
“Of course. We may be assassins, but our ability to infiltrate, acquire, and sabotage information is our greatest asset, and that’s what’s going to give you longevity in this business.”
“Is hacking part of the tournament?”
Fatima looked over her shoulder, returned her gaze to Diegert, and lowered her voice. “Never mind the tournament. You have many other tests to pass before you concern yourself with that.”