Wolf's Vendetta

by Craig MacIntosh

  “He’s a survivor, Sam. You said he held up well in the sandbox.”

  “Again, different setting.”

  “I’ll find a way. If I get in over my head, I’ll scoot.”

  “No, you won’t. You’ll figure out how to get in the middle of it.”

  “Appreciate the caution. But I’ve done all I can do here. Time to take it to the beast.”

  “You’ll be dealing with animals.”

  “Then who better to go at it than a Wolf.”

  Chapter 68

  Ivanov’s shoebox hid a cannon. Wrapped in a silicone-treated knit bag, the matte black .40 Glock 22 and three loaded fifteen-round magazines were worth their weight in gold under the circumstances. Firepower was needed to go after Verlov. The ruthless Ukrainian and his two praetorians were well armed, but Ivanov was beyond caring. He had hidden the shoebox behind a drape in Lydia’s front room and waited for her to fall asleep.

  Once he heard her rhythmic snoring, he got to his feet. Ivanov borrowed one of his host’s canes and hobbled to the tiny kitchen. He left a one hundred dollar bill underneath a kitschy ceramic figurine. Back at the front door, he slipped outside in the cold air and turned up his coat’s collar. Ivanov steadied himself with the wooden cane and went down the steps. The painful three-block journey to Helinski’s hideaway almost proved his undoing. Spent from the effort, he arrived drenched in sweat.

  In an alley opposite the car-lined street fronting the apartment building, Ivanov hugged the shadows. He shook out the last of his pain pills and pocketed the empty bottle. The three-story building across the street was dark except for the lobby and Helinski’s top-floor corner apartment. Flickering blue light told him someone was awake.

  Probably Sergei and Gregor playing one of those mind-numbing shooting games they both loved, thought Ivanov. Nearly invisible in the dark, he sent a text to his second-in-command.

  You there? Know it’s late. Had trouble getting a ride last night. OK to come over? Can be there in fifteen minutes.

  He got an immediate reply. Helinski would wait in the entry.

  Ivanov sent a last message. On my way. He put away the phone and limped across the street, taking up position behind a waist-high rectangular stone planter where he could see the stairs and elevator. He didn’t have to wait long.

  Helinski came down the steps, followed by a large man holding a pistol at his back. The man with the gun paused on the landing to unscrew a light bulb in a sconce, plunging the landing into darkness. Though Helinski stood under the lobby’s small chandelier, he looked anything but calm.

  Backing from the stone planter, Ivanov took two steps and froze. At the bricked corner to his left, soft footsteps headed his way.

  Verlov’s second guard dog?

  Unseen, but pinned between the two gunmen, Ivanov knelt, pointing the Glock at the closest threat: the building’s corner where he had heard footsteps. Not enough of the man showed to guarantee a decent shot.

  Come closer. Show yourself.

  Minutes passed. Ivanov’s eye shifted to the stairwell. A faint glow from a cellphone outlined a face. He felt his cellphone vibrate.

  The fool is sending me a text.

  He let the call go. If he answered, the slightest movement would reveal his position. Ten minutes came and went. Fifteen minutes. Ivanov lost feeling in his wounded foot. Twenty minutes. His knees ached from kneeling.

  Wait. Whoever moves first, dies.

  Movement. Helinski, prodded by the man on the stairs, pushed open the door and spoke to the phantom at the corner. “It’s off. Come inside.”

  Instead of retracing his steps to the rear of the building, the man at the corner gave himself away by heading to the entrance where Helinski waited in the open door.

  Ivanov smiled, thinking, A blunder I would not have made. His back to the crouching shadow, Verlov’s unwary gunman passed the concrete planter.

  Ivanov raised the Glock, firing twice at the broad back.

  The man dropped face-first.

  Helinski threw himself across the threshold, blocking the open door. Spraying six shots at the lighted entry, Ivanov stayed in the dark behind the heavy planter.

  The briefest of lulls. Crouching behind the stunned Helinski, the stairway shooter fired four times. Jamming a pistol to his prisoner’s head, he yelled, “Stop firing or he dies!”

  Ivanov struggled upright, propped himself with the cane, his body still protected by the concrete. Fighting pain as blood flooded his limbs, he yelled. “Let him go!”

  “No way! Show yourself first!”

  Eight shots. Seven left. Time running out.

  A car alarm wailed, a casualty of a ricochet. Lights came on in the neighborhood. The foolhardy few appeared in windows high above the melee.

  Fearless, Ivanov closed the distance, firing the Glock, killing both.

  Chapter 69

  Ivanov reached Lydia’s bungalow barely ahead of the sirens and chaos. A sound sleeper, she had yet to awaken. He headed for the home’s cramped bathroom, his shoe filled with blood. Propping his bloodied foot on the toilet’s rim, Ivanov cleaned his wound, wrapped it in gauze, then rinsed his shoe and sock. His crippled foot newly bandaged, he hopped to the couch, exhausted.

  Hours later he heard Lydia rise, make tea, then slip out the door on her way to Boris Levich’s apartment. Ivanov drifted asleep, replaying the shootout in his head again and again. He awoke, his foot aflame. The color had changed to a worrisome purple shade like spoiled fruit. The stumps of his missing two toes had ballooned.

  I need help. No public clinics. Who can I trust? Abraham Pavleski, the Polish doctor. Lydia would know how to get hold of him.

  For most of the morning, Ivanov carried his phone with him, waiting for Levich’s call that never came. He fought the urge to call a cab and make a run past the scene of the shooting. Instead, he spent the time cleaning the Glock. The hours passed with no call. Waiting for the housekeeper helped take Ivanov’s mind off his wounded foot. Now the color of an eggplant, his oozing stumps were getting worse. Walking was a challenge.

  Lydia returned early evening after a long day. Ivanov spotted her mid-block, head down as if reading messages on the sidewalk. She carried a canvas shoulder bag bulging with groceries. He let her in the front door and locked it behind her. “Let me help you with those things.”

  Clutching the bag, she refused. “With that foot? I will do this.”

  Taking a seat in the kitchen, Ivanov asked, “I waited all day to hear from the boss. No call. What happened?”

  “There was big shooting last night. Verlov came early today. He was there this morning when I arrived to make the breakfast. He never left the boss’s side. What could I do? I have your note.” She showed him the crumpled scrap of paper. “Perhaps I try again, tomorrow.”

  There has to be a way to get word to Levich, thought Ivanov.

  “Don’t try it,” he said. “The last thing I want to do is put you at risk, Lydia.”

  “Ah, Dimitri. I am not afraid of Verlov. He doesn’t have his two byki with him this morning. The shooting, you know.”

  “They are dead?”

  “Yes. Verlov has to call new people to replace his two dogs.”

  “Both bodyguards are dead?”

  “Yes. And I am sad to tell you this, Dimitri, but your Sergei Helinski was killed as well. God rest his soul. The other two, ahhh. They were trash.”

  “Do you know what Verlov will do now?”

  “I listen but I don’t hear a thing. It is a bad time for the boss. He needs you, Dimitri.”

  “I cannot do anything until my foot heals, Lydia.”

  “We will go to a clinic. They have doctors. They could look at your problem and fix it, eh?”

  “Not safe with Verlov about. But I was thinking today. I have an idea.”

  “Good. Tell me this idea of yours. But first, I make some tea. Then I fix something for you. You must be hungry.”

  Ivanov took her small hand in his. “Dear Lydia, wha
t would I do without your help? How would Boris Levich get along without you? Without the two of us?”

  While the water boiled, she sat in the hard wooden chair and looked at Ivanov. “What is this idea you have?”

  “You remember the retired doctor from the Old Country?”

  “Ah, Abraham Pavleski, the Pole. I don’t think he is real doctor.”

  Ivanov dismissed her criticism with a wave. “Perhaps. But he put stitches in Pavel that time the Gypsy came at him with the knife.”

  “Pavleski is, how they say, a quack. No matter what is wrong, he gives everyone the same pills. All his patients say he asks too many questions but never listens because he cannot stop talking.”

  She’s right, he thought. The old man could talk your ear off. But it just might work. Verlov must not know I am hurt.

  “Where is he? Do you know how to locate him?”

  She took the teapot from the stove. “Sometimes he volunteers at the senior lunch program at the synagogue on Neptune Avenue. He has an office near there, you know.”

  Ivanov raised his leg, rolled down the sock, and showed her the discolored, swollen flesh. He said, “I need him, Lydia. Will you call him to come here?”

  She poured tea in chipped cups trimmed in gold. “You want him to come here, to my house? A Pole under my roof?”

  “Yes. I think this is something that must be done in secret.”

  “He will want money.”

  “I have some.”

  “His hands are unsteady.”

  “I will watch him closely.”

  “He will tell everyone about this, Dimitri.”

  “I will make him listen to reason about keeping quiet.”

  She sipped in silence, her watery blue eyes fixed on the cup, not Ivanov. “Okay, if this is what you want, I try. My cousin Helen will know how to find this doctor, as he calls himself. Verlov must not know I make the call, eh?”

  “Yes. The doctor will need to come soon. I must be made whole again.”

  “Drink your tea, Dimitri. Leave this Dr. Abraham Pavleski to me.”

  “Will it be possible to reach him tomorrow?”

  “Drink your tea. I will find him and bring him here.”

  “This is important.”

  “Drink your tea.”

  Chapter 70

  Wolf sensed a trap. Exiting the jet way, he spotted two TSA clones and a pair of uniformed Port Authority cops. Muscled and menacing, with huge arms, shaven heads, and frowns, the TSA pair were practiced intimidators, not the usual dull, pear-shaped, doughy hires. A supervisor wearing black, bald and unsmiling, stood with the cops.

  Overkill, thought Wolf, but no sense making a scene.

  The supervisor stepped forward. “Mr. Wolf?”

  “In the flesh.”

  “Come with us, please.”

  Gawking fellow passengers parted like the Red Sea as Wolf and his phalanx marched past. The group took an elevator to a lower level. Wolf couldn’t resist saying, “Reminds me of an airport in Russia I visited once.” Silence.

  The doors opened and the escorts led Wolf down a sterile hallway to a conference room, equally sterile. They put his carry-on bag in the middle of a long table.

  “Do I have your permission to examine your luggage?” said one of the TSA uniforms as he donned blue rubber gloves.

  “I would have been disappointed if you hadn’t asked,” Wolf said. “Examine to your heart’s content.”

  A blur of blue gloves sifted the contents: shaving kit, news magazines, an outdated iPod Shuffle, sunglasses, a change of underwear, socks, and a folded blue shirt and tie.

  “I travel light,” Wolf said.

  The man in black held out his hand. “Luggage tag, please.”

  “No checked luggage.”

  Shrugging, the man said, “Please empty your pockets, Mr. Wolf.”

  An annoyed Wolf did as told, spilling keys, cellphone, coins, and mints.

  “Your wallet, please.”

  “I know exactly how much cash I have,” he said. More silence.

  A humorless bunch, he thought. “Care to tell me what this is all about, gentlemen?”

  No answer.

  “Now I remember why this reminds me of that Russian airport.”

  The TSA man returned Wolf’s wallet and pushed his pocket’s contents across the table to him. “Thank you for your cooperation, sir.”

  “My pleasure, comrade.”

  A frown. The TSA guys and the cops left the room trailed by the supervisor, who turned on the threshold and said, “Can I get you a coffee or a water?”

  “No, but an explanation with a shot of hazelnut would be nice.”

  “In due time.” The door shut.

  Wolf roamed, scanning the walls, corners, and the table’s underside for recording devices or cameras. His search was interrupted by a knock.

  The State Department’s Robert Nells entered, bow tie and tweed jacket as Wolf remembered from his interview in Washington. Without offering a hand, the stoop-shouldered Nells took a chair opposite Wolf.

  “We meet again, Commander Wolf. Please, have a seat. You’re due an explanation, of course.”

  “Damn right, I am. I fly to California for several weeks and when I return I find myself in the Balkans. What gives?”

  “Your humor and sarcasm still intact, I see.”

  “I never leave home without it.”

  Nells said, “I, on the other hand, never bring my disagreeable executive assistant with me when I leave Washington for a meeting with you.”

  “That’s the only bright spot in the day so far. What gives?”

  Nells placed a folder in front of him. “What gives indeed, Commander. You have been busy. A traveling man.”

  “No secret there. I went to San Diego to see friends.”

  Nells opened the file, his eyes on Wolf. Without looking at the paperwork, he said, “Ah, Major Sam McFadden, Army Special Forces.”

  “And his wife, Reggie.”

  “Ah, yes, Regina Rosario McFadden. An impressive lady in her own right. Their story…your story as well…is most interesting. Quite the adventure in the Philippines.”

  “You’re not interested in the Philippines.”

  “No, I am not,” said Nells, sifting his papers. “I am here to talk to you about the late Gary Kurskov, an employee of Sam McFadden’s firm. You’ve had an interesting time in San Diego as well, Commander.”

  “You’ve heard the expression ‘Shit happens,’ I’m sure.”

  “Not often quoted in my circles. But I’m familiar with the slogan. So, what exactly did happen during your California visit?”

  “You seem fond of the Socratic method, so I’ll ask: what do you think happened in California?”

  “Fair enough. And just so we don’t waste time, mine or yours, let’s say you went to San Diego to ask for Sam McFadden’s help in understanding what was in a certain book you and the late Commander Colter were given during your trip to Russia.”

  Wolf parried the blunt question. “What makes you think we received a book in Russia? How did you reach that conclusion?”

  “I appeal to your patriotism, Commander. We know you got this book from a contact while in Russia. We can assume Dan Colter encrypted the files and sent them stateside. Do you deny that?”

  “You expect me to answer these allegations without counsel present? Since you’re being so forthcoming about what you think you know, tell me how you reached that conclusion.”

  “We’re dancing around the subject,” said Nells. “Time is of the essence. The world is fragmenting around us. Yet you insist on minor points about the how and why of our knowledge of this book of secrets.”

  “You want to be frank? Okay. Dan Colter was murdered in Russia…yes, you heard me correctly, murdered. After his murder, I returned home to find my house violated by someone who scrubbed my computer clean of certain emails. My gut instinct tells me it was a black bag job done for that purpose. I’ll bet no legal search warrant exists for
that piece of work. Care to comment on that?”

  Nells drummed his fingers on the table. “Not my department.”

  Wolf snapped at him. “Not your department? Does that mean your office didn’t authorize it, or you farmed it out?”

  “No comment.”

  “And what about Dan Colter’s home? They not only screwed with his emails, they took his computer with them. I suppose you didn’t know about that either. How did that happen? Same freelancers? Did you also know the Russian mob also paid a visit to Colter’s place?”

  Nells stayed silent.

  “Did you ask those Russian scum what they were doing that night in Virginia Beach? I was there, Nells. I saw them arrested. Why would they be nosing around Colter’s place?”

  “No comment.”

  “You need a new line. The Russkis didn’t bother with a warrant. Maybe your guys didn’t either. This is still a country of laws. At least I thought it was. Can you produce a warrant for my place or Colter’s?”

  About to answer, Wolf cut Nells off. “Yeah, I know. No comment.”

  “Be reasonable, Commander. At least tell us what happened to the book.”

  “What if this book doesn’t exist? Consider that possibility.”

  Nells blanched. “Doesn’t exist? But we know Colter sent the contents.”

  “Don’t think I don’t know what you’re up to, Nells. I’m telling you only what I think you need to hear, got it?”

  “But you’ve practically admitted to having possession of the book.”

  “That’s your interpretation. If that book existed, only two people knew what was in it and those people are dead.”

  “Colter and Kurskov?”

  “I’m not saying another word without counsel present.”

  “What if I cut you loose? Would you be more amenable to help us?”

  Wolf shrugged.

  “What are you doing in New York?”

  “I have friends everywhere.”

  “But specifically, New York?”

  “I don’t have to answer that. And how did you know I was coming to New York?”

  “I don’t have to answer that.”

  “Are you really with State? If you dropped your pants, would I find CIA tattooed on your ass?”