The Hunt

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The Hunt Page 8

by Jack Arbor


  As Baxter cast around for something to light his pipe with, Max dug into his pocket and tossed him the beat-to-hell Zippo lighter with the burnished Belarusian flag on the side. It was the last reminder he had of his grandfather, the man he now suspected of putting this entire conspiracy in motion. Max leaned the shotgun against the couch. “How about that tea?”

  The MI6 man didn’t speak until he had his pipe lit and he had blown a plume of woodsy smoke into the air. “It’s after midnight. Eve is long gone. If you want tea, you can go in the house and fix it yourself.” Another cloud escaped his mouth. “Why don’t you tell me why you trespassed in my backyard and assaulted my dog. And how on earth did you know I have a dog?”

  Max crouched in front of the fire, where he savored the warmth and petted the German shepherd’s head. “Easy. Dead spots on the grass from dog pee. Weren’t there last time I was here. What’s his name?”

  “Her name is Quinn.”

  Max stroked Quinn’s back. “I want to make a deal.”

  Baxter grunted. “That’s what phones are for.”

  Max considered lighting a cigarette, but decided against it. “I wanted to see your new office.”

  The MI6 man looked around. “Turned out better than I expected, but I can’t replace all the files you burned.”

  “Trust me.” Max rubbed Quinn’s belly. “It’s better this way.”

  Another grunt. “Better for you, maybe. What kind of deal?”

  On his journey to London, Max rehearsed his pitch to Baxter, a man who might be reluctant to work with Max after the events of the prior fall. The straight approach was best, so he began with the operation to take out Spartak Polzin, Victor Dedov’s appearance, and finished with the discovery of the file on Sergei Fedorov. He left out many details, including Julia’s flight and the intel on the CIA director, but gave enough information to cause Baxter’s left eyebrow to twitch.

  When he was done, Baxter puffed on his pipe, sending plumes of blue smoke billowing to the ceiling. He finished the bowl, tapped out the ash, and repacked a new one. “Someone gave you enough details of Spartak Polzin’s plans for you to put together an operation. Here’s a target, set up for you like a bullseye. An offer you can’t refuse.”

  “Something like that,” Max said. “Whoever compiled it and gave it to me knows I couldn’t ignore it. And they are right. I have to find out what’s behind the curtain.”

  Baxter puffed. “And now they’ve given you a second file to tempt you into action. A pattern.”

  “Right.” Max scratched Quinn behind the ears.

  Baxter lit the pipe with the Zippo. “Makes me wonder if whoever gave you the file also tipped off Spartak to your presence. Otherwise, how did he know you’d be there?”

  Max shrugged. “It could have happened like that, but he died before I found out.”

  Leaning back in his chair, Baxter chewed on his pipe stem. “What if someone on the inside of the consortium supplied you with that information to distract you, from, say, more important tasks?”

  Max held the dog’s gaze while he petted her between the ears. “How do you mean?”

  Callum eyed his dog and resumed puffing. “Since you torched my hobby, I had to come up with another pastime.” Baxter cleared his throat and walked to the fire and added a log. “I suppose it was you that sent me that untraceable wire of cash?”

  Max’s brow furrowed. “Don’t know what you’re talking about. Is that how you built this place?”

  Baxter snorted. “Anyway, like I said, I needed a new hobby, so I looked into this consortium group of yours.” He took a drag and blew out a thin plume of smoke.

  Outside, frozen rain pellets blew against the windows with a sharp crackle. Max eyed the panes while he waited for Baxter to continue.

  “Wasn’t able to dig up much more than you’d already shared with me, but what I had was enough to open a case file at MI6 and put a team on it.”

  Quinn rolled over on her back again, and Max scratched her chest.

  With his legs crossed, Baxter tapped the tip of the pipe on his teeth. “As you know, the consortium is highly secretive. We know the names. We believe the ringleader uses an alias to conceal his true identity. We’re unsure of their true aim, although we have corroborated that part of their objective is either a countermeasure to OPEC’s price setting power or a play to corner as much oil and gas as they can to benefit Russia and China. Securing a long-term supply of the black stuff is on everyone’s agenda, and those two countries have been partners on such endeavors in the past. What’s not clear to us is why the secrecy. OPEC is out in the open, so why not the consortium? That leads us to believe they have other intentions.” He puffed his pipe. “We’ve learned three things about the group. The first, as you know, is they are targeting you, Arina, and little Alex. We’ve corroborated the operation, or should I say the contract, through other channels. We don’t know why, but there is an extraordinarily high price on your head.”

  Max snorted. “Tell me something I don’t know. Every two-bit killer with a peashooter is after me.”

  The MI6 man cleared his throat. “Right. The second thing is—” Callum huffed out three smoke rings. “Are you familiar with the Government Communications Headquarters here in London, also known as the GCHQ?”

  Max rubbed the back of his neck. “Vaguely. Like FAPSI in Russia, or the NSA in America?”

  “Right.” Baxter tapped his pipe over an ashtray. “Well, my task force liaised with the GCHQ, who launched a systematic and broadly scoped surveillance operation on the names on the consortium list. Phone, mobile, email, text, everything. They have this crazy computer program where they can feed all that data into algorithms and form assertions and conclusions about certain things. Pattern recognition and whatnot.”

  Max smirked. “It’s called machine learning.”

  “Whatever. It’s remarkable what these kids can do.”

  The pipe smoke made him want a cigarette, but Max held off. Instead, he dug into his pocket and found the baggie of pills and swallowed one dry. “I’m guessing they came up with something you’re dying to tell me.”

  Baxter nodded as he refilled his pipe bowl. “The second operation… or activity—” He stopped and used Max’s lighter to restart his pipe. “It’s curious, but the whiz kids are steadfast. They claim they’ve detected some patterns that indicate the consortium has a rift. Two factions that are at war with each other. One school of thought is it’s a power struggle for control.”

  Max kept his face blank as his mind churned through the possibilities. “That fits. One side is supplying me with dossiers on members of the other side.”

  Baxter nodded while he stroked his goatee.

  “This may work to my advantage,” Max said.

  Again, Baxter nodded, puffed, and pulled on his goatee. “When do I get to hear this offer of yours?”

  Max paced back and forth in front of the fire and didn’t speak.

  A grunt from Baxter. “You can’t even ask it, can you?”

  “I need... Well, I’m curious.”

  Baxter smiled. “You want our help, isn’t that it?”

  Max spread his arms. “You don’t have to make it sound so… well, so desperate.”

  Baxter covered his grin with a hand. “This is what people do, Max. They ask for help. They make partnerships. They—”

  Slapping the desk, Max startled the dog. “I’m not most people.”

  A chuckle from the MI6 man. “Obviously. Why don’t we call it a consultation? Will that make you feel better?”

  After shoving his hands in his pockets, Max moved back to the couch. “My head tells me to go after the next one on the list, even if it is a setup.”

  “Take out Fedorov,” Baxter said. “But it may not get you any closer to the answer you seek.”

  Outside the wind howled. “Someone told me once that even if I kill every one of the consortium members, I may not solve my problem.”

  “Wonder who that was?” Baxter
set his pipe in the ashtray. “Let’s hear the other idea.”

  Pacing in front of the couch, Max gave him a brief description of Julia’s suggestion to track down his father’s former secretary.

  “Right. So going after Kate is off the table?”

  Was that a tic in Baxter’s eyebrow? Max said nothing.

  Turning away, Baxter refilled his pipe. Facing Max again, he chewed the pipe’s lip.

  Max stroked the dog’s back. “Taking down Fedorov might uncover useful information. The more of them I kill, the more pressure I put on them, the more discontent, and the more leverage I have.”

  Baxter grimaced. “Or the trap might spring.”

  “Right. And at this rate, it’s going to take me years to kill all these guys, and longer as they replace the empty seats.”

  Baxter chewed his pipe stem. “My counsel, which is worth what you’re paying for it, is to go after the secretary. The key to this whole thing is uncovering your father’s actions that led to his death.”

  “My father did have a habit of hiding clues in places only I can find.”

  The MI6 agent talked as he rummaged in a desk drawer. “And what about Spencer?”

  “Spencer can take care of himself.”

  Baxter still rummaged. “Can he?”

  Why does Baxter’s voice sound off? “What are you not telling me?”

  Baxter knocked the ash from his pipe and ran a pipe cleaner up the stem. “The third finding of the GCHQ.”

  Max raised one eyebrow. “What?”

  “I haven’t told you the third finding of the GCHQ.” Baxter shook his tobacco pouch. “Remember the data wonks—”

  “Yeah, yeah. I remember. What about them?”

  A glint appeared in Baxter’s eye. “Here’s where we talk about a deal. Quid pro quo.”

  “You haven’t told me what it is.”

  A pained expression took over his face as Baxter shifted in his chair. “I’m not sure how to explain this, or even make sense of it myself, but I’m hoping you can help me. Believe it or not, I was looking for a way to contact you when you walked through my door.”

  Baxter stomped up and down the tiny office as Quinn’s eyes followed. “The GCHQ produced another finding that surprised me.”

  Max moved his hand in a circle. “I don’t have all night—”

  Baxter gestured with the pipe as he walked. “While their algorithms churned through all the data on the consortium, they got some alerts they didn’t understand at first.”

  Max rose from the dog’s side to stretch his knees. “What kind of alerts?”

  “I’m getting there for Pete’s sake.” Baxter stopped walking long enough to thump his pipe on an ashtray. “They found some communication information that correlates to activity around the time the CIA snatched Kate.”

  Max plopped down on the couch. “How is that possible? Are you saying the consortium and the CIA are working together?”

  “Not exactly. What I’m about to tell you is highly confidential.”

  Max rolled his eyes. “I think we’re in the nest here.”

  “Right.” Baxter shuffled through some papers on his desk before turning around empty-handed. “They’re not in cahoots. In fact, they’re working against each other.”

  “Cahoots? I don’t know that word.”

  “It means to collude. Work together.”

  “Okay. So are they working together or not?”

  Baxter smirked. “Listening in on the CIA is delicate.”

  Max glanced at his watch.

  Baxter cleared his throat. “Based on the GCHQ’s assertions, after triangulating on intel they picked up from the consortium and from the CIA, it looks like the consortium is looking for Kate while the CIA is keeping her location a secret specifically from the consortium.”

  Max cocked his head. “Why does the consortium care about Kate? Maybe they view her as a way to get to me?” He pointed a finger at Baxter. “Wait. You want to find Kate too, and you want my help to do it. You think because the consortium and the CIA want her, there must be a reason.”

  Baxter shrugged. “That’s MI6’s assessment. Aren’t you interested in why the consortium thinks finding her is important, and don’t you want to see that justice is done and Kate is released?”

  Blood coursed through his face as Max stood, shrugged on his jacket, and made for the door.

  Baxter held up a hand. “Don’t go yet. That’s my deal. I help you with Raisa, you help me find Kate.”

  Max put his hand on the door knob before facing Baxter. “Lives are at stake, Callum. My family’s lives. I’ll go it alone. I’ve done it before.” I’m tired of being manipulated by so-called intelligence agencies. MI6 wants to find Kate, they can find her themselves.

  He wrenched open the door and disappeared into the hail and wind.

  Sixteen

  London, England

  The precipitation made his meandering surveillance detection trip through the quiet city less agreeable, but he didn’t mind the frozen rain, even considering his poor choice of outerwear. The weather drove everyone from the streets, which made it easier to spot a tail, and the cold helped clear his mind.

  There wasn’t a night that went by since Kate was taken into CIA custody when his heart didn’t go out to her. He often wondered at the viability of a rescue attempt but knew it might take weeks, if not months, of planning and a dangerous operation to snatch her, followed by an even riskier period when she would need to recover and hide from a government that would be hell-bent on recapturing her. Even with the help of MI6, the effort would be enormous and extraordinarily risky. Meanwhile, his sister and nephew were vulnerable. As much as it pained him, he needed to stay focused.

  Baxter’s deal would be a huge distraction. Still, why did MI6 want to find Kate? The question nagged at him as he stomped through puddles of slush.

  He was about to duck down the grimy stairs of a tube station when a fleeting vision, a momentary connection between one recent memory and the present, jolted him from his thoughts. A woman dressed against the weather with a black wool cap, black plaid scarf pulled up over her face, and a long dark wool coat was on the opposite side of the street. Her head was down, her hands were jammed into her pockets, and she looked to be in a hurry as she scurried along the empty sidewalk. Something about her.

  While he took the stairs down to the tube, he wracked his brain for the connection. He cleared the turnstiles and jumped aboard a train that had ground to a halt. When the subway pulled away from the station, he strode the length of the sparsely populated train looking for signs of the woman, all the while chastising himself. She couldn’t have possibly run down the tube station stairs to make the same train.

  It came to him as the tube screeched to a halt at Piccadilly Circus. Her boots were the giveaway—knee-high with tall block heels. Not stiletto, but thick, like cowboy boots. Harness boots. They stuck out because they reminded him of their cabin in Colorado. The raven-haired girl from Rome.

  His eyes were alert for any sign of the woman while spending another hour riding the tube, exiting at one station, popping up to the street to walk to another, and jumping aboard whatever train appeared first. He saw no further evidence of the woman. He exited at Embankment Station and emerged into the rainy, sleety chill before making a beeline for The Savoy, where he had a room under the name of Winston Binch.

  Ice pellets stung his cheeks as he walked with his head down. Am I walking into a trap? Is something larger happening that I can’t see now? What did you leave me with, Dad? What kind of puzzle did you concoct? And why?

  Tired of the endless surveillance detection routes, fatigued from walking, chilled from the weather, he ducked into the hotel, showered, and put on dry clothes. After a hot meal from room service, he packed his small backpack and left the hotel through a service entrance, stepping back into the howling storm.

  Time to unravel the mystery. As much as it pains me, I need help.

  Seventeen

&nbs
p; London, England

  “Change of heart?”

  Baxter was dressed in the same rumpled clothing as the night before and looked as if he hadn’t slept, which given the early morning hour, was probably the case. He admitted Max with a smug grin.

  This time, Max had called ahead. After performing yet another exhaustive surveillance detection route that included eating a stale croissant and drinking weak coffee at an all-night diner, he made his way to Baxter’s backyard. There was no sign of the raven-haired woman with the boots.

  The sun hadn’t yet risen as the two men sat sipping black coffee. A fire sputtered in the woodstove. Quinn lay on the couch next to Max, accepting head scratches while keeping two wary eyes open.

  Max shrugged at Baxter’s question.

  A grin from the MI6 agent. “So why are you here? I assume it’s not to drink my coffee.”

  Max sipped and grimaced. “That’s for sure. This is worse than the piss they served in the Red Army.” He took another sip. “Someone once told me that I can’t kill my way out of this mess.”

  “You said that yesterday.”

  “I’m getting there.” Max tasted the coffee again. Don’t admit weakness. “This intelligence game is full of number crunching. I can’t do it all myself, and Goshawk doesn’t have the processing power.”

  The real reason is too painful to admit. His father’s face floated through his mind. Once is happenstance. Twice is coincidence. Three times is enemy action. The thought of the pursuer, on top of everything else, shook him to the core. It’s too much.

  “So, you need us.” The corner of Baxter’s mouth went up. “What happened to change your mind?”

  Standing, Max refilled his cup from the pot. “This thing is bigger than me. There’s a much larger conspiracy behind the consortium.” I can’t say it.

 

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