by John Sneeden
As she knelt next to Petrov, Drenna studied his appearance for the first time. He had short brown hair, a bulbous nose, and protruding ears. A CIA analyst once said Petrov had the look of an orc, and the burn scars on his cheek only added to the look. She guessed he used his menacing appearance to intimidate those under him.
“Hey.” She poked his side. “Look at me.”
He said something but didn’t turn in her direction.
She poked him again, this time harder. “I said look at me.”
Finally, he turned toward her. Even though she had hardened over the years, Drenna cringed when she saw the bloody pulp that was formerly his eye.
His lips moved, but she couldn’t hear what he was saying.
She frowned. “What?”
As she moved her head closer to listen, he spit at her face. She managed to turn slightly, causing the saliva to land on her left ear. Although she felt a surge of anger, Drenna knew better than to let him continue to play games with her. She balled her fist and pressed it against his eye.
He screamed and turned his head away.
She leaned in again. “You don’t cooperate and it’s only going to get worse.”
He mumbled something.
“What was that?”
“Okay, okay,” he said.
Drenna could see the blood was still oozing from the wound. Even though the blade hadn’t gone directly into the brain, the damage was still extensive. She needed to move quickly. “Who was helping you?”
His brow furrowed. “What do you mean?”
He seemed to be getting delirious.
“Who was helping you at the CIA? Give me a name.”
He said something unintelligible. The life was draining out of him.
She leaned closer. “What’s that?”
“I say go to hell.”
Drenna stuck her fist into his eye a second time, triggering another howl.
“You keep this up, and I’ll get the knife.”
He mumbled something that sounded like a yes.
“I’ll give you one more chance,” she said. “Give me a name.”
He paused for a moment before answering. “There… there are many names. We have people everywhere.”
Petrov was fading. The wound was worse than she had thought.
She grabbed his shoulders. “Who gave you my identity? How did you know where to find me?”
Something came out of his open mouth, but she couldn’t understand. “Louder.”
“The… the Phantom.”
She frowned. “You’re the Phantom.”
He was on the verge of death, but he still managed a smirk. “Maybe I am, but there is another one more deserving of the name than me.”
His lips trembled as though he wanted to say something else. He was fading fast.
She shook him. “Who is it?”
He opened his mouth, but it took a few seconds for the words to come out. “Someone very close to you.”
The hairs on the back of Drenna’s neck stood on end. If he was telling the truth, the mole wasn’t just some low-level employee at the CIA. Most of the people that she knew were high up the chain of command. People with both access and power.
She was about to shake him again, but his eyes were already fixed with a lifeless stare. She reached down and placed two fingers on his neck. No pulse. Nikita Petrov, the possessor of all secrets, was dead.
She remained in place, still shaken by what she had heard. Petrov had just denied being the Phantom, the leader of one of the largest criminal organizations on the planet. Not only that, but he also seemed to imply the Phantom was actually someone close to her. Was it true, or was he just trying to get in one last act of deception to throw her off the trail?
She had no way to know the answer. She would have to continue her investigation, and that would start with a search of the yacht. More specifically, she needed to find Petrov’s electronic devices. A phone or laptop could provide a treasure trove of information on his organization. It might also contain communications between Petrov and his contact at the CIA.
Drenna decided to start by searching Petrov’s pockets. She found a money clip stuffed with euros and a set of keys but no devices of any kind. She needed to search his cabin.
As she got up and made her way down the stairs, Drenna thought about Simon Driscoll and the two agents he was working with. Were they involved? It seemed certain at least one of them was. It was obvious that Botha knew in advance that he was being targeted, and he had used that knowledge to turn the tables on Drenna.
She quickly ruled out all three being a part of the conspiracy. If that were the case, they could have easily shot her in private and dumped her body somewhere. She also ruled out Driscoll’s involvement. He certainly had his flaws, but he was loyal to the United Kingdom and the people he worked with. Not only that, but he was also the one who had tried to talk her out of coming to France. If the plan was to kill her, he would’ve welcomed the news.
That left Vinay Rana and Alan Bowles. She didn’t know either man but would try to sort through what she did know on the way to shore. She decided to set the whole mystery aside and focus on getting some useful information.
After entering Petrov’s cabin, Drenna felt around until she found the light switch. She flicked it on then locked the door and went to work. She started with the desk where Petrov had been sitting earlier. On top of it was a stack of papers, a bottle of Stolichnaya vodka, two shot glasses, and a small 9mm pistol. She frowned. Why hadn’t he picked up the pistol and shot her when she came in? She guessed it was because she caught him off guard. The only thing he had time to do was turn off the lamp and try to escape.
Seeing nothing of interest, Drenna started going through the drawers. As she came around the side of the desk, her foot kicked something that skittered across the floor. She looked down and saw his phone underneath the chair.
A ripple of excitement ran through her. He must have dropped it on the way out.
She picked it up and sat down in the chair. She tried swiping her way in but was blocked by a biometric lock screen that required fingerprint access. She swore softly. Should she take it up to the lounge and use Petrov’s finger to gain access, or should she continue the search for more devices? She glanced around the room. It was mostly bare. In addition to the couch on the other side of the room, there was a bed, a nightstand, and an empty bookshelf. There was also a door that she guessed led into a closet.
The decision was easy. She needed to check the phone, and she needed to do it now. If there were others on board, it would only be a matter of time before they found the dead bodies and realized what was going on.
After exiting the cabin, Drenna sprinted down the hall and back up the stairs. She paused at the top and scanned the outdoor lounge area. It was still quiet. If there were others on the boat, they must be asleep in their cabins.
Drenna hurried to Petrov’s body and lifted his hand. She pressed his thumb against the biometric sensor, and to her relief, the home screen appeared. She was in.
She first checked the texts. There were only a few active threads, and those were in Russian. She guessed he deleted messages as he went, a common practice among those in the underworld. She often did the same thing. She’d have to translate the texts to English later.
She quickly toggled over to the phone app and examined the call log. Fortunately, Petrov hadn’t deleted his calls. She studied the numbers one at a time. Some had names associated with them, and others didn’t. Of the ones that had names attached, most were in Russian. There were a few English names, but most of those were initials only.
About a dozen numbers down, she stopped. There was an outgoing call to a contact listed only as Croesus. It grabbed her attention because it sounded more like a mythological character than an actual person. She also felt that she might have heard it before. Sensing it might be something important, she dialed the number. After four rings, it went to an automated voice mail greeting that gave n
o name.
She hung up and started going through the log again. Two minutes later, after scrolling through at least a hundred calls, she saw one that made her stop. It was an outgoing call to a DC phone number. She could see several other calls to and from that number around the same date. The number seemed familiar, which was odd because no one memorized numbers anymore. If she did actually recognize the number, it must be one she had seen many times.
She dialed the number and pressed the phone to her ear. After several rings, a voice mail greeting began.
“Hi, this is Trevor. I can’t pick up right now, so leave a message, and I’ll call you back.”
Drenna felt the blood drain out of her body.
No, it can’t be. It’s not possible.
She dialed the number a second time, and once again, the same familiar voice spoke to her from the grave.
Gasping for air, Drenna stumbled forward, the phone falling from her hand. Unable to stay on her feet, she sank to her knees and began to hyperventilate as the shock of hearing her dead boyfriend’s voice stuck through her chest like the point of a spear.
Tears flowed out of her eyes, and her body convulsed uncontrollably.
“No, no, no!” she screamed, not caring if anyone heard her.
She tried to push aside the reality of what she had just heard, but the ugly truth wouldn’t let go.
She had been betrayed by the only man she’d ever loved.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
Naantali, Finland
The loud beeps roused Olav Jorgensen from a deep sleep. Despite being one of the world’s most deadly killers, he always slept well. He attributed it to his businesslike approach to his work. He was no different from an exterminator that people called to rid their houses of roaches and mice, only the pests he hunted down were of the human variety.
There were people who thought the taking of any human life was immoral and evil, but he saw it differently. He had a code of conduct that he lived by, regardless of how much money was offered. One critical requirement was that any potential target must be guilty of taking an innocent life. That or they must have done something that would indirectly lead to the taking of an innocent life.
As the beeping continued, Jorgensen reached over and turned off the alarm. As a man who adhered to a schedule of unflinching discipline, he didn’t linger in the warm bed. Instead, he threw off the covers and slid his feet into a pair of slippers that waited on the hardwood floor. After walking to the kitchen, he went straight to the coffee maker and started a large pot of Juhla Mokka. Caffeine was one of the few vices he indulged in.
While the pot began to fill, Jorgensen stepped to a window and looked out over the rear of his property. His cabin was located on a wooded promontory just west of Naantali, Finland. From his window, he could see Luonnonmaa across the water. The sun had been up for an hour and was casting its stunning rays across the island’s heavily forested slopes. Luonnonmaa was one of the hundreds of sparsely populated islands that dotted the country’s southwest coast. Jorgensen took his boat to some of those remote islands to train far away from prying eyes.
Jorgensen looked over at the coffeepot. It was almost full. He would allow himself a half hour on the back porch before diving into a proposal he had received the day before. The offer had come from a wealthy sheik in the Middle East who had learned his wife was having an affair with another sheik. Adultery wasn’t grounds for death under Jorgensen’s code of conduct, but the offended sheik promised to provide evidence that his wife’s lover had killed several innocent people in the past.
Hearing the final gasp from the coffee maker, Jorgensen went over and poured his first cup. He walked to the back door and was about to step outside when he noticed his burner phone sitting on a nearby table. It was the one he currently used for his work. He bought a new one every month, a practice that gave an additional level of security to his communications.
Even though he doubted there would be any messages, he decided to check it anyway. He picked up the phone and entered the pass code. When the home screen appeared, a frown formed on his face. A text had come in an hour earlier, and it was from one of his regular clients. He opened the message and read it.
Call me ASAP.
Jorgensen smiled. If this particular client was reaching out, it meant the operation to kill the woman had failed. Instead of hiring him, the client had decided to use a Serbian gang that was willing to do it at a slightly lower price. Jorgensen had figured the man would eventually come groveling back to him. The Serbs were good at dealing with problems but not like this one.
Jorgenson set down his cup and dialed the number. Even though it was the middle of the night where the man was located, the call was picked up immediately.
Jorgensen spoke before the other man could. “I take it the cheap guys weren’t able to finish the job.”
After a long pause, the digitized voice of a man finally responded. “No, they weren’t.”
Jorgensen enjoyed the moment. “I told you this would happen. You sent out circus clowns to take down a tigress.”
The man didn’t answer. There was nothing he could say. He had decided to go with the less expensive option, and that decision had come back to bite him.
“How much are you going to pay me to clean up your little problem?” Jorgensen asked.
The man gave him a figure. Jorgensen had expected it to be large, but he hadn’t expected it to be that large. Truth be told, he would’ve accepted less. The job was about power and reputation as much as anything. He was the best in the world at what he did, and the job would give him the opportunity to prove that once and for all.
“Where is she now?”
“She’s still in France, but I believe she’ll be back here soon.”
“Send me an encrypted file with all the information you have.”
“I will, but I also need something else. There is another problem that needs to be taken care of, one connected to her.”
Even though it was a burner, Jorgensen didn’t want to stay on the line for very long. “Send me what you have.”
“It’s someone who—”
“I said send me the file.” He disconnected before the man could say anything else.
After finishing his coffee on the back porch, Jorgensen would let the Arab sheik know he wouldn’t be able to help him, at least not right away.
Something much more delicious had just fallen into his lap.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
Nice, France
After returning to her hotel well after midnight, Drenna spent the next six hours in the pit of mental and emotional hell. Never before had she experienced so much pain at one time. Yes, she had managed to get through the evening alive, which was no small feat considering the odds stacked against her. But that victory had come with a horrible price because it had unveiled the most horrific act of betrayal possible.
Drenna wondered how she could have let someone fool her that badly. She had guessed it was because she had genuinely fallen for this man who called himself Trevor Lambert. She didn’t even know if that was really his name. It was possible everything about him had been fictitious. It made her wonder if she would ever be able to give her heart to someone again.
But the bad news hadn’t stopped with the revelation that Trevor had been working with the other side. When Drenna was finally able to make contact with Simon Driscoll, she learned that Vinay Rana had been killed in the restroom at O’Sullivan’s. Driscoll wasn’t exactly sure what had happened. By the time he got inside, the staff had blocked access to the body as they waited for police to arrive. Driscoll was able to get a description from a member of the staff that confirmed it was Rana but decided to leave the premises before the authorities arrived. Once they confirmed a murder had taken place, they would seal off the pub and allow no one to leave until each person inside was interviewed.
Drenna still couldn’t figure out how Rana had ended up dead. She wondered if he had followed Botha to the men’s ro
om. If he had, it was possible the South African had realized he was being followed and taken immediate action to eliminate the threat. But the more she thought about it, the more she realized that wasn’t likely. For one, Rana would never have followed Botha into the restroom. That was never a part of the plan. Rana was to remain in his seat and let Driscoll know when the two got up to leave the pub. But even if he had decided to ignore the instructions, Drenna doubted Botha would have killed him on some vague suspicion.
No, this was all planned from the beginning. In all likelihood, Rana had gotten up to relieve himself. And when he did, someone had taken advantage of the opportunity, someone who had been watching him the entire time. That meant the entire operation had been compromised from the very start.
A door slammed in the hall outside her room, pulling Drenna out of her thoughts. She was still curled up in the cushioned recliner next to her bed, which was where she had spent most of the night. She had gotten up only twice—once to get water and once to vomit into the toilet. She couldn’t remember the last time she had gotten sick. She guessed it was a combination of the drug and the shocking revelation that Trevor wasn’t who he had said he was.
Still, one aspect of the conspiracy didn’t make sense. Why had Trevor been knocked off the road with her? If he had been working with the other side, then surely his death hadn’t been part of the plan. He must have been betrayed by his own people, she thought. Whoever was behind the operation had probably concocted the scheme without Trevor’s knowledge. Trevor had been hired to seduce her and report back on her movements and plans, and once that job was complete, he became expendable. Most men like Petrov didn’t like loose ends, including people who might talk later.
At least she could find some comfort in the fact that she was alive and the man who had betrayed her was dead. Even though his death hadn’t come by her hand, he had paid the ultimate price.
Drenna tried to move on to other things, but her mind kept circling back to Trevor. She remembered the first night they had met. He had approached her while she was waiting for her boss at a restaurant in Tysons Corner. He had seemed so genuine and kind that night, exactly the opposite of most men she met through her work. They’d seemed to have an instant chemistry, something she now knew had been contrived.