by Eric Meyer
"Paul said you may be able to help your ex-wife Mariyah with this unpleasant problem."
He stared at Dragan. "Unpleasant? How about calling it homicidal? Suicide may sum it up best for any poor sap who tries to retrieve this stuff." He turned to face Vann. "You want to protect your daughter and granddaughter, move them to somewhere remote, then contact the authorities and ask about putting them in witness protection."
He shook his head. "Not a chance. You know Mariyah better than anyone. She has a life here in New York City, a home and a career. Besides, there's her husband to consider."
"Fuck the husband. Their lives are at stake. Besides, Edgar always was a nasty little shit. I’m surprised you even let him back in the company, never mind her marrying him."
Joe chuckled, but neither Vann nor Dragan saw the humor.
"There's only one way to handle this," the lawyer said, using his courtroom closing voice, firm but reasonable. Fair and convincing, an expert in making a lie sound like the truth, "You have to recover this Putin file. There's no other option."
Raider fixed him with a hard stare. "Is that right? As I see it, there's only one option, and that's to put Abigail somewhere safe. As for Mariyah, she's an adult. It's up to her. I'll make the arrangements for Abigail as soon as I leave here."
Vann held up a hand like a traffic cop. "You can't do that, John. You know as well as I do Mariyah has custody. There's no way she'll let Abigail out of her sight. Besides, you're a wanted man. You go to the cops or the Feds, and they'll put you in a cell. Where would that leave Abigail?"
"This is too important to argue over, Mr. Raider," Dragan interrupted, his voice authoritative, "It's not just your daughter. The future of my country is in danger, its very existence even."
"The answer is no. I'm leaving, and I intend to start making arrangements for Abigail to go somewhere safe. Joe, you staying here or coming with me?"
Joe followed him out the door, despite Dragan giving him a firm order to stay. It was gratifying for Raider to know Joe's loyalty to his SEAL buddies still meant so much to him. They walked out onto the street in the chill of a winter morning. Joe asked him where he was staying, as he was a wanted fugitive. The Vietnamese offered the couch in his apartment.
"It's just off Canal Street, in Chinatown. It's noisy, but I call it home."
Raider thanked him, and they walked through the busy crowds on the New York sidewalks, alternately enjoying the fresh air and choking on the truck and fumes. The apartment was on the first floor, and he was surprised when they walked through the front door. It was large, by the standards of Manhattan. Joe noticed his expression.
"The job pays well, so I can afford to spend a few bucks on the rent."
"If you still have a job. Dragan didn't sound too pleased when walked out of Paul Vann's office."
He shrugged. "Fuck him. I can always find work in my field. Rich guys need protection, and former SEALs are in demand. What are you going to do about your kid? You know it's not going to be easy."
"I don't know."
In truth, he'd been thinking about nothing else since they walked out of the lawyer's office. His options were limited, especially with Mariyah having custody. If he traveled to Russia and met his death at the hands of Pamyat thugs, Abigail would lose a father. Besides, the FSB, as well as Putin's bodyguard, Yuri Malenkov, were more than a little pissed off at his antics last time around. Then there was the Moscow Militia, who'd like nothing more than to see him in their deepest, darkest cell. He shook his head to clear it. He needed a break.
"Joe, if you don't mind, I think I'll go out for a bit."
"You're going to see Angelina?"
"If she's around, yeah. I'll see you later."
"Give her my best, buddy. She's good people, one of the best."
Joe gave him a spare key, and he walked back out into the non-stop crowds. His first task was to find a public phone and call his girlfriend. The authorities were aware of the connection, and it was highly likely they'd be monitoring her cellphone. Angelina Blass was a fashion model and in huge demand. She traveled all over the world on different assignments, so they only managed to get together on rare occasions. It was an odd arrangement, but it suited both of them. He found a coin phone that hadn't been vandalized and made the call.
"It's me."
She knew he would never say his name when he called. He had a codename when using the phone.
"The pizza man. It's about time you called. I'm starved. Two cheese and salami, no tomato."
"With you in forty minutes, Ma'am."
"They'd better be. I'll pay you in kind."
He smiled as he hung up the phone. When he rang the bell on the front door of her apartment, she opened it immediately. Angelina Blass was twenty-three years old, a girl who had the body, the looks, and the poise typical for a top international fashion model. She possessed serene blue eyes, a soft face with porcelain skin and rounded cheekbones. One of her best features was her perfect, soft, pouty lips that promised more than a hint of sensuality. He could attest to their effectiveness.
Her hair was pale blonde, styled in a neat, shoulder length cut. Angelina had long legs that made her look even taller than she was. She was no bubblehead. She happened to be clever, with a first class degree in psychology she planned to use when she grew too old for modeling. He'd spent hours, days puzzling out what she saw in him, and all he ever came up with was a blank. He was plain lucky.
"Raider, get in here." She looked outside the front door, as if some plainclothes cop may be hiding around the corner. Then she came in and shut the door, and they swapped hugs and kisses. When they pulled apart for air, she looked at him, her lips curled up in a warm smile.
"Two questions for you, Mister. How long are you staying, and are you ready for bed?"
He grinned. "Let's take the second question first, and then we'll discuss the first. I'm ready."
She grinned. "First, you need a shower." She crinkled her nose, as she looked at him, "How long have you been wearing those clothes? You stink."
"Too long. Where I've been there wasn't time for the niceties."
"There's time now. Get in the bathroom. I have plenty of your stuff here. I'll find something for you to wear. Now get moving. I'm feeling horny, and I'm not going to bed with a man smelling like a bum."
The lovemaking was wonderful, as ever. She was lithe, slim, and kept herself fit, both for her job, which she loved, and for sex, which she also loved. He stayed for the evening and into the next morning. She wore one of his shirts, which hung almost to her knees, as she stood in the kitchen cooking breakfast. He showered and dressed, and had almost finished the meal when his cellphone rang. He checked the screen. It was an unfamiliar number. He answered it, anyway.
"Yes?"
"Car service, your limo is ready, Sir. I'm right outside."
He strode to the window and glanced out. A long, black limousine was parked at the curbside. The uniformed chauffeur stood on the sidewalk, with his phone held to his ear.
"I didn't order a car. How did you get this number?"
"Mr. Vann ordered it, Sir. He gave me the number to call when I got here."
"You can call Paul Vann and tell him I don't need his car, and I don't need him. I suggest you drive away before you get a ticket."
"That's okay, Sir. Mr. Vann will take care of any tickets. I'll wait until you're ready. He said it's important."
The line went dead. There was no way he'd consider taking on anything that involved entering Russia, but Vann and Dragan sure were persistent. His cellphone rang again. He checked the screen and felt a twinge of irritation. This time, Paul Vann was calling him.
The man needs to learn that no means no.
He hit the connect button.
"I'll say this one more time. The answer is no, so find someone else to do your dirty work."
"There is no one else, Raider. There's been a serious development, and we need you. Name your price and it's yours."
"I to
ld you, forget it. I'll help get Abigail to a safe place, but that's the end of my involvement."
The phone went quiet for so long, he thought Vann had hung up. He was about to disconnect when the lawyer spoke again.
"That's what I meant, when I said developments. It concerns Abigail."
He felt something cold stab at his heart. "Spit it out, Paul."
"She's missing. Someone kidnapped her last night." He hastened to finish before Raider could interrupt, "We discussed it after you left and decided you were right. We had everything ready to send her upstate. I have relations who live close to the Canadian border. When Mariyah woke up this morning, she was missing. After the last burglary, she'd done everything, installed a new alarm system, new locks on the doors, you name it, but it didn't make any difference. Someone broke in and kidnapped your daughter. They left a note."
He felt dizzy and had to take deep breaths before he could get his brain working.
They took my daughter! When I find the men who did this, I’ll tear them fucking limb from limb.
"Let me guess. They'll swap Abigail for the file."
"Yes."
He pictured his daughter, alone and frightened, held by rough, violent men who may not even speak a word of English. He was trapped, and he knew he was trapped.
"What are you thinking?" Vann asked eventually.
"I'm thinking when this is over, I'm going to kill Yuri Malenkov."
He hung up the phone, told Angelina he'd be out for a while, and went down to the street. The limo whisked him through the busy streets. He entered the building and stalked out of the elevator to find Vann. He wasn't alone in the plush offices of Vann, Ruben, and Turner on Lexington Avenue. His ex-wife was there, too, Paul Vann's daughter Mariyah. Except he now knew she was Boris Yeltsin's daughter.
She looked ten years older than her twenty-nine years. Her face was so pale and lined. He gave her a nod and took the seat Vann indicated at the conference table. Mariyah sat next to him, silent, stunned by the enormity of what had happened. Vann called for coffee, and when the door opened for the secretary to bring in the tray, Joe Nguyen was right behind her. He greeted him with a nod and a taut smile.
"Whatever is needed to get her back, you know I'm with you all the way."
"It's appreciated. You know it’ll be messy? When I catch up with these bastards, there’s going to be a lot of blood spilled."
Joe smiled. “I’m counting on it.”
He glanced at Vann. "You'd better spell it out how this works. I take it the deal is a straight exchange for the Putin file.
"That's correct. Alexander will arrange any help you require getting in and out of the country."
He stared at the Ukrainian billionaire. "Dragan, I want you to check non-scheduled flights to Moscow during the twenty-four hours after she was kidnapped?"
He stared back at Raider. "I already got my people to check it out. An Aeroflot diplomatic flight left New York for Moscow eleven hours after we believe she was taken. It was a last minute addition to the flight schedules. The signature on the manifest was..."
"Yuri Malenkov."
He nodded. "Correct, he must have flown here to oversee the operation. I suspect she was drugged and taken on board, although there's no way we can find out. Under the cloak of diplomatic immunity, it's impossible to check the passengers on that flight."
Once again, the dark shadow of the Russian Presidential bodyguard had fallen over his life, this time to threaten his daughter's life. He was limited to a single option; the Putin file and Abigail were both in Moscow. He had to go to Moscow.
There was something else that required him to visit the Russian capital. Yuri Malenkov. Once he'd recovered his daughter, he'd take him down.
Dragan had a half smile on his face. He knew Raider was boxed in. If he hadn't known better, he would have thought the billionaire philanthropist was behind this in some way. As for Paul Vann, something bothered him about the man.
Dragan and Vann, he mused.
Both are wealthy Ukrainian nationalists, both men with complicated agendas, and both ruthless enough to do anything to see them through. I trust their motives less than a barrel of hungry rattlesnakes.
"Okay, how do we get to Moscow without coming to the notice of the FSB?"
Dragan's smile widened. "I can arrange for you to travel to Northern Finland on one of my cargo aircraft. From there, it's a simple trek across the border into Russia. You travel to St. Petersburg, and I'll fix up onward transport to Moscow."
"We'll need weapons, ammunition, supplies, vehicles, that kind of stuff."
"It's taken care of. Everything will be provided," Vann said to him, his voice dripping with fake sincerity.
He’s too glib, too pat. It’s almost as if he had some prior knowledge of the kidnap, and had it all worked out. That’s crazy thinking!
Raider chided himself for his suspicions. She was his granddaughter.
He looked at Joe. "You okay with this?"
"I'm in," the Vietnamese nodded, "Al and Waite, they'll come with us. They know all about it. I called them."
"You'll need me," Dragan said quietly.
He stared at the Ukrainian. The man was a superb, military trained sniper, and had proved useful the last time, when they went to Ukraine. At the same time, he was a loose cannon, unreliable, unpredictable. Then again, he thought back to the man's shooting prowess. He'd succeeded with an impossible shot at extreme distance across a Kiev rooftop. If they needed anyone, a world-class sniper would make the job that much easier.
He nodded. "On one condition. You stay with us and don't wander off to attend to your own private agenda."
"Private agenda?" Dragan sounded outraged, "How could I even think about something like that when Abigail's life is at stake? What kind of private agenda are you referring to?"
"The kind that gets us all killed," he replied.
Joe offered to make the arrangements for the journey to Finland, and Raider left and took a cab back to Angelina's Upper West Side apartment. This time, he didn't call ahead. He was relieved when she answered the bell.
"Raider!" She greeted him with a squeal of joy, "Have you come back to finish what you started?"
"For a few hours, then I have to leave."
"Shit, we were only just getting going. I'll let you in."
The door buzzed, and he walked up to her second floor apartment. She gave him a slightly reserved kiss as he walked in, and she poured fresh coffee for them. She fixed him with a steely gaze.
"Tell me you're leaving on a photo assignment. You're not going off on some crazy, quixotic mission like the last time, are you?"
"Abigail has been kidnapped."
"Kidnapped! Oh, my God. How?"
He explained about the Russian connection, and that she'd become a pawn in a political game of chess.
"Russians! Have you called the cops?" Her eyes widened as she realized what she'd suggested, "I'm sorry. I guess not possible. They'd just call and pick you up."
"Probably. We'll deal with it ourselves. Joe, Al, and Waite are coming with me."
She looked scared. "Raider, I don't want you to wind up dead."
His expression was grim. "Someone's going to wind up dead, but I assure you, it won't be me or the boys. Whatever it takes, I'll get her back. When it's done, I'll come back."
She hugged him close. "I only wish I could go with you."
He smiled. "I hate having to leave you, but there is no choice. With any luck, I'll be back inside of a few days. If we…" He stopped. She had a mischievous look in her eyes, "What? What is it?"
"It's a funny coincidence, but I was offered a modeling assignment in Russia. It's in the Winter Palace. You know, St. Petersburg. That's in Russia."
He shook his head. "I know where it is. It's hundreds of miles from Moscow. Just stay away from Moscow."
"I'll think about it," she smiled.
He was still worrying about her when he arrived at the gleaming skyscraper headquarters of t
he Dragan Foundation. Joe was waiting in reception, and they stepped into the elevator to be whisked up to the top floor, to Dragan's lair, the sumptuously appointed offices from where he conducted the many tentacles of his international affairs. Al and Waite were already there, waiting in the outer office, examining Dragan's valuable collection of exotic and antique weapons. He felt relieved to see them and walked up to greet them.
"Guys, I can't say how much I appreciate this."
Waite shrugged. "It's nothing. Besides, the fish weren't biting, so we were getting bored. Joe gave us the bare bones, and I gather we're looking at a short vacation to Putin's paradise."
"Something like that."
He stopped as the door opened, and Dragan's secretary invited them into the boss' office. The man himself was sitting behind his antique, carved oak desk. He climbed to his feet and shook hands with them all.
"It's good to see you again, all of you. I've arranged for a flight to Lappeenranta Airport. That's close to the Russian border with Finland. Onward transport across the border won't be a problem."
He stopped as the phone on his desk sounded a gentle buzz. He picked it up and spoke in an annoyed tone.
"I thought I said I didn't want to be disturbed."
He listened for a few moments, said, "Understood," and put down the phone. He stared at Raider for a few moments.
"It seems we may have a problem. The FBI is in reception on the first floor. Someone apparently tipped them off to your presence in the building, or maybe they have it under surveillance."
"Damn. Is there a back way out?"
"I can do better than that. Follow me. I want to go over the fine details, but now it'll have to wait. Andy Lorak will be traveling direct to Moscow, and he'll fix you up with the equipment you need. You recall Andy from the last time you worked with me?"
Raider remembered him, a buttoned-down bean counter, pale as a corpse, lean, with cold, dark eyes, and lank hair. He recalled those eyes especially, always shifting to one side or the other, as if he was trying to decide which version of the truth he wanted to deliver.
"I remember him. What happened to his assistant, David Brackman?"
He stared at Raider. "He's still around. You're aware that David reports to the Agency?"