Good and Dead (An Avner Ehrlich Thriller Book 2)

by E. L. Pini

  I answered with “Saluti.” Boris merely nodded.

  “Shall we have another? To your health,” I said.

  “I certainly deserve it,” said Sergio, holding his glass out for me to fill. “We caught your cazzo.”

  “What?! Where is he?”

  “Well, ‘caught’ might’ve been an overstatement. But we’ve found him. You guys can do the catching.”

  I downed the rest of my excellent wine and lowered my gaze to him.

  “Colonel-Advisor Rasputin left from Khmeimim to Beirut today in the afternoon. This is the license plate number,” he said, showing me the numbers scribbled on the inside of his hand. “Military limo. It’s a two-hour drive –” he glanced at his watch – “meaning he’s already here. In a suite at the Hilton Metropolitan, not far from here. He booked three nights. Too late for tonight, I think, but you’ve got two more, unless you prefer working in the daytime. Who knows. You Israelis are a strange animal. Cigar?”

  I treated the offered cigar with the proper respect – snipping the tip off with the official cutter that came with it, then rolling it gingerly around the blue flame until it started to smoke. It smelled wonderful. I passed it to Sergio, who thanked me with a graceful tilt of his head.

  “Okay, you two smoke yourselves into a stupor, I’m going over to the Hilton,” Boris suddenly said. I bit off the tip of my cigar and glared at him.

  “Calm down, boss. Just a preliminary patrol. We need one, if you want to go in tomorrow.”

  I followed the rings of bluish smoke that had caught on the wind and whisked away toward the harbor. Boris was right, but something was bothering me. A dark little cloud was floating around in my mind, though I didn’t know why, or what it held. I decided I’d join Boris for the preliminary patrol.

  “But he knows you, from Cyprus and from London. You can’t –”

  “I am,” I said. “Let’s go.”

  We found his limo in the Hilton’s parking lot. Boris slithered underneath it and punctured the brake master cylinder’s oil hose. We didn’t have an operative plan yet, but harming his mobility couldn’t hurt. Two gorillas were securing the entrance to the suite on the seventh floor. Cannon fodder.

  “What’re you smiling about?” asked Boris. I was thinking about that scene in the Jack Reacher books, where he’s standing in front of two thugs who are determined to kill him, and asks the bartender to call for an ambulance for two.

  “Where’s his driver? And what’s his schedule for tomorrow?” Boris wondered.

  “When we know that, we’ll know how he ends,” I said. “Let’s go rest in peace, Boris. Big day tomorrow.”

  We went back to the hotel, each to his own room. The amount of adrenaline pumping through me made sleeping impossible. I went down to the hotel bar and had an orange juice with Campari, and only then felt loose enough to close my eyes. It was 02:30.

  At 4 am Gonni woke me up, saying he was on his way over. I dressed quickly and was down the lobby a few minutes later to meet him. He seemed tense and impatient, and opened his laptop the moment we got in the elevator – little black dots and green crosses were flitting around on the screen.

  “Third floor,” the elevator mechanically declared, and a pair of elderly Germans standing outside asked, “Going down?”

  “Sorry, sir, going up,” I said, and for good measure pointed upward my thumb and hit the ‘close doors’ button. The old man put out his hand to stop the doors from closing and, smiling, said, “We’ll go up with you and go down after. Quicker that way.”

  Gonni closed the laptop and anxiously drummed his fingers on it until we reached our floor. In the room, where Boris joined us, Gonni opened the laptop again – the dots and crosses had arranged themselves into a sort of vague sausage, a long, oval shape. Gonni clicked some things and the virtual green line thickened and defined the image growing clearer on the screen. It was unquestioningly the silhouette of a submarine.

  “Area 2 in Tartus, inside the harbor, by the shipyards. The Russians call it Logistical Support Point 720. I wanted you to see it before I send it back home for authentication,” Gonni said.

  “What do you say, Boris?” I asked.

  Boris nodded. “Yup, that’s the old whore. We need to end her.”

  59.

  Upon receiving the material, Nora convened her MAD committee to a virtual emergency meeting. Naval Intelligence identified and verified the sub. The Visual Intelligence Unit moved some satellites around and gave us coverage for Tartus and Latakia. Every single submarine detection mechanism at the disposal of the Navy and Air Force was employed for the task.

  “I’m going to war with one hand tied behind my back,” Nora told me on the phone.

  “Who tied your hand, my love? Come on, tell Papa.”

  “The Russians. Don’t touch this, don’t look at that.”

  “Eesh. Not even Papa can help with that. Is Moshe there?”

  “Negative. Don’t ask, the poor man’s at the end of his rope. He’s with the PM, in that ‘secret’ bunker under the Crown Plaza hotel. The PM gathers everyone there twice a day but won’t authorize any plan. No one overseas is returning his calls and… I don’t know. I don’t know what’ll happen.”

  “Hang in there, Nora, but I need to get instructions, today. Oh, can you check if we have any way to confirm the presence of people in the sub?”

  “Why? What happened?”

  “There’s a chance they’re all dead in there. And find out if we can somehow check the radiation levels inside, that would be even better. Bye, honey.”

  “Wait, what about Rasputin? Are you on –”

  “I’m on Rasputin,” Boris interjected, talking over me. “I’ll kill him once for Gigi, once for Gigolo, and several other times for… not sure yet,” said Boris. “Go in, shoot the fucker, go out. Short and sweet.”

  “I need him alive, Boris,” I said after hanging up with Nora. “Alive and on the ship.”

  “We’re supposed to get him to the ship while he’s still alive? Why don’t you just take a dump on my head and be done with it?”

  “Affirmative. After we get what we need from the bastard, we’ll make him an organ donor.”

  ***

  Sergio-Giacomo failed to get any information on Rasputin’s schedule, but he did ID his driver. This meant we had a minimum of four patients: Rasputin, his driver, and the two gorillas. I asked him if he could arrange a wheelchair for me and a vehicle with a wheelchair ramp.

  Giacomo narrowed his eyes, and said he had such a vehicle at the hotel, but it was tagged. We agreed that I would steal it, and break the front windshield after we were done with it, at which point he’d report the theft and talk to the insurance company.

  “Okay, can we go?” Boris asked impatiently.

  “Yeah, Boris. We can go.”

  It took us ten minutes to get to the Hilton. I waved at the doorman, who smiled back, bid us good morning, and opened the gate. We parked next to Rasputin’s limo, which was still in the same spot, a small oil stain beneath it. Another black limo was parked nearby – a small, conical flag had been attached to the tip of its antenna.

  “That belongs to the Russian Naval Command,” said Boris, pointing at the flag.

  “Which means another patient or two.”

  “The more the merrier. Those who are about to die – I salute them,” said Boris.

  “Oh, you’re a poet now,” I said as he settled into the wheelchair, covered in a black-and-red plaid blanket. Under the flannel, in an open gym bag, snugly lay a Czech Škorpion .32 with five magazines, an anti-bear taser, silencers, a couple of stun grenades and an anesthetic injection. I was packing my usual Glock and four magazines, and a taser of my own.

  “Ready?”

  “Yeah, boss,” he said, then began to whisper a sort of chant, “I am ready and willing like it says in the bible… I
am ready and willing like it says in the Torah.”

  We arrived at the seventh floor. The two gorillas were occupying the space in front of the door to the suite, playing War or Uno or something. Back in the elevator I reminded Boris, “Electrics only.” I didn’t want to start firing shots indoors.

  I wheeled Boris through the hallway. They both shot us a brief, bored glance as we approached, then got back to their game. We drew closer. I was aiming for the closest and quietest possible encounter. The taser’s maximum efficient range was thirty feet.

  “Electric ready,” Boris murmured, just when one of the guards got up to stretch. I suddenly recognized him as the RET gorilla from Asmara – he recognized me, too, yelling something in Russian, and reached for the weapon shoved under his armpit.

  “I’m on him,” Boris said, erupting from the wheelchair with the bear taser. I kicked the chair at the second gorilla, who responded more quickly than I anticipated, dodged the wheelchair and pulled out an overgrown Sig Sauer. This was not part of our plan – I had about two seconds to either hit or be hit. I slipped out of his line of fire, utilizing my momentum for a Shuto Uke – a sharp block that sickled onto his left wrist. The strike was elegant and efficient, bringing the gun down on his hand in the same smooth motion that took me away from his line of sight, and setting the ground for a crushing fist to the solar plexus or the chin, or a grand finale knee to the balls, if you’re fancy.

  I chose the taser, this time.

  “Two patients – check,” said Boris, and made a small ticking-off gesture.

  “We need to finish this quickly, quietly and with as little evidence as possible,” I whispered.

  “Took you a while, there, boss. Is that an age thing, do you think?” asked Boris, leaning against the wall with an ease clearly intended to let me know just how quickly he was done with his own gorilla.

  “Feeling pretty good about ourselves, are we,” I sighed. “Cuff them.”

  I carefully inserted the thin fiber into the tiny gap between the door and the carpet. A wide-angle nanocam was positioned at one end, with the other serving as a Bluetooth antenna that was transmitting to my phone. The useful contraption had been recently developed by Albert, using a standard medical endoscope.

  The scene that came up on my phone was like something out of amateur group porn: on the left of the room stood Rasputin, his back to the camera, shirtless and holding a bottle of vodka. His driver was slumped on the sofa in front of him, also shirtless, also holding a bottle of vodka. On the armrest of the sofa next to him were the scattered parts of a Sig Sauer and a small pile of 10-dollar bills. It looked like a bet about the speed of disassembling and reassembling the Sig.

  Behind Rasputin and the driver, near the small balcony, a pale little officer was kneeling, also shirtless, and licking a black leather boot that belonged to a blond BSDM mistress, wearing black leather and holding a whip – just as Rasputin likes them before he slaughters them.

  “Change of plans,” I told Boris.

  I sat on the wheelchair and helped him position the knocked-out gorilla from Asmara.

  “I take Rasputin, you take the driver and then the –” I stopped when I saw the twinge of disappointment on his face.

  “Boris?”

  “What, boss?”

  “I’ll take Rasputin. You take the driver. Okay?”

  “Whatever you say, boss. Shall I knock?”

  I nodded.

  Boris knocked on the door.

  “What? Come in, you moron,” Rasputin yelled.

  Boris opened the door and Rasputin spun around to face us, the bottle of vodka raised in a sort of generous invitation.

  “Now!” I yelled, and Boris pushed the wheelchair toward as hard as he could, while I leaped out of it and tossed the limp gorilla onto Rasputin, who was knocked down to the floor. Boris came up behind me, leapt over the prone Rasputin, tasered the driver, kicked away the parts of the Sig Sauer and continued toward the balcony, where he tasered the pale officer and struggled momentarily with the tall blond professional, who would not stop screaming, before finally managing to stick some duct tape on her mouth and shove her into the bathroom.

  Rasputin quickly recovered, freed himself from the heavy body of the gorilla, and stood up facing me with that familiar knife in his hand, signaling me to come closer, like a cocky MMA fighter.

  I carefully moved toward him, trying to put together a mental battle plan that would incapacitate him without killing him. If it weren’t for that fucking bomb, I’d kill him here and now. Or maybe not – maybe I would’ve given it to Boris. He deserved it.

  The dreck seemed to have understood that I wasn’t trying to actually kill him, and kept circling around me with the knife. Occasionally he hopped threateningly into range, then wove back out. Boris was still dealing with the mistress, who had busted out of the bathroom and was now flogging him with her whip. Boris burst into laughter. Rasputin took advantage of the distraction to leap forward with the knife, aiming a low stabbing motion toward the femoral artery. I struck, smacking away the hand with the knife. I was aiming for a simple deflection-strike-control combo, but the little fucker dropped the knife from his right hand only to catch it with his left. I took hold of his wrist and brought my elbow to collide with his face at half-power – aiming to stun, not kill. The man could take a beating. He still looked determined.

  I aimed a low, sideways kick to his knee, and this time I pulled nothing back. The kick was supposed to tear ligaments, and it did. He fell to the floor, grunting. I picked up the knife and pressed it against his throat.

  He didn’t so much as blink.

  Boris had managed to tame the flailing mistress and quickly knelt beside the downed Rasputin to administer the tranquilizer. We cuffed Rasputin and bound him to the wheelchair, covering him with the plaid blanket for good measure. Now we needed to get out of there, as quickly as possible. We pulled the body of the remaining gorilla into the room. I holstered the Glock, held onto the handles of the wheelchair and spun it around to face the door when I was suddenly tackled from behind, by Boris – a split-second before a burst of automatic gunfire rushed over my head. I rolled to the side.

  It took me two or three seconds to realize what had happened. One of the Russian officers, who until now had been hiding in the bedroom, had come out with his weapon drawn and started moving toward me, shooting. Boris tried to fire, but his weapon jammed – he threw it at the officer, knocked me to the ground and fell after me, having taken the bullets meant for me.

  I got up and quickly moved towards the Russian, who had his hands in the air. I took away his weapon and forced him down to the carpet, pushing my gun to his temple. With my other hand I checked for a pulse – Boris was dead. I pressed my forehead to his, then put my gun in the Russian officer’s mouth and fired. I checked Boris again. I found no signs of life, but decided to try and resuscitate him anyway. Stranger things have happened. I tried again and again. It was pointless. I held Boris’ warm hand to my forehead and swore to him that after I found the bomb, I’d kill the little dreck for him with my own two hands.

  I cleaned up as much as possible before heading outside. The hallway was empty. I pushed the wheelchair to the elevator and pressed the button for the parking lot.

  “Elevator stopping,” the voice said, and the elevator stopped on the third floor. The old German smiled kindly at me, walked into the elevator, and glanced curiously at the sleeping Rasputin. We rode it silently down to the parking lot. I bid the old man a lovely day and wheeled the chair into the van. Gonni radioed in, telling me to hurry – I didn’t answer, and went back upstairs to get Boris. I was not leaving him there alone.

  “Calm down. I’m on my way with the package,” I radioed Gonni, driving toward the harbor with as much self-control as I was able to muster. I couldn’t stop thinking about Boris lying dead on the carpet.

  “We have a sma
ll problem,” said Gonni.

  “We can handle small problems,” I said. “Go ahead.”

  “Some guy representing the ship’s owners. He’s here with an appraiser from their insurance company. They’re on the ship. We need to turn off the engine.”

  “I also have a small problem, about a hundred megatons of TNT’s worth. Also, a big problem – Boris is dead. Tell me, Gonni, is the honorable Captain Vishnya pleased with his conditions? The two of you have a rapport yet?”

  “Understood, boss. I’ll get to it. I’ll get a ramp lowered for the wheelchair.”

  I was in the harbor in minutes. A loud group of dock workers came toward me. I took the fucker out of the van. His head slumped to the side like a ragdoll’s. I quickly covered him with the flannel blanket and pushed him up the ramp.

  “Vira, vira,” one of the workers yelled at me as Gonni came running down the ramp towards me, took Boris and wordlessly brought him up to the ship as well. I waved the dock workers goodbye.

  61.

  I don’t know what Captain Vishnya said to that appraiser, but he approved the docking bills, informed the harbor authorities, and we were on our way. Three navy missile boats joined us outside of Lebanon’s territorial waters, and we sailed north, towards Tartus.

  The room adjoining Albert’s command center was set up with microphones and cameras. I decided to conduct the preliminary investigation with Rasputin still handcuffed to the chair. I authorized giving him drinking water, but not a bathroom break.

  The team of interrogators from the Service were already aboard the helicopter that would bring them to one of our escort missile ships. Rasputin was sitting in the room along with Gonni, who was on guard duty. I watched him through the round glass window. He couldn’t see me, but I assumed he knew I was there, looking at him.

  I tried to formulate a strategy for the interrogation. The primary goal was to get the activation code for the bomb – this was indescribably urgent. No one knew how to assess the behavior of the leaky bomb.

  The aerial distance between Tartus and Rosh HaNikra was around 130 miles, at the very edge of the bomb’s immediate destructive range, but well within the fallout radius. The gentlest of northerly winds would carry the poison to us. And of course, there was no guarantee against some insane new team convening tomorrow to take over the sub and sail it, or simply tow it all the way down to us along with the bomb.