Houston smiled. “Owen, there’s nothing to be concerned about. I’m just toying around with a few pet projects that have been on hold for a number of years. Trust me, when it all comes to fruition you’ll be among the first to know.”
Owen smiled. “I look forward to that.” He shook his uncle’s hand, left the room, and headed straight for his waiting limousine.
After pouring himself a tall glass of bourbon, Houston picked up a remote from his desk and switched on a wall-mounted screen.
“I take it that you saw and heard everything,” said Houston, as he looked up at McMasters’ image on the screen.
“I told you they wouldn’t go for it,” replied McMasters. “They’re a pair of boy scouts. They can’t see that the world has changed around them. Trust me; you’re better off without them.”
“I’m not so sure,” said Houston. “They’re survivors and we’re going to need men like that when all is said and done.”
“What do you want me to do about them?”
Houston became quiet, lost in thought.
“Sir?”
“Wait until they’re in Baton Rouge and then kill them,” said Houston. “Make it look like a robbery gone bad, or something like that. And for God’s sake, make sure that nothing ties you or me to their deaths.”
“Not a problem. I know a few guys who could easily pull this off.”
“Don’t bother me with the details, just make it happen.”
“Sir, you also need to think about cleaning up all of your loose ends.”
“What do you mean by that?” asked Houston.
“If you want nothing to come back on you, you need to get rid of anyone you may have had business dealings with, especially those people in Russia who provided you with information on the probe.”
Houston sat back in his chair. “Go on.”
“Sir, not everyone you paid off is loyal to the cause. The man who sold the flight logs to one of your Russian associates is most definitely a threat to you if someone were to talk to him.”
Houston took a deep breath through his nostrils, slowly exhaled. “All right, have him and anyone else you deem a threat to me killed as well.”
Before McMasters could say another word, Houston picked up the remote and switched off the screen.
For a minute, he sat in silence and stared out the window. He watched as one of his women walked over towards the stable to make sure that his horse was ready for his afternoon ride. He enjoyed riding. It allowed him to clear his mind and to focus on what really mattered to him.
There was a knock at the door. A second later, the door opened and Sofia stepped inside. “Sir, I have your travel arrangements to Crete all worked out. Would you like to go over them?”
Houston stood and smiled at Sofia. “Not right now, perhaps after supper.”
“Very good, sir,” said Sofia with a nod.
As he watched her leave the room, his heart ached slightly at the thought that all of his loyal household staff would soon be dead.
17
Pulkovo International Airport
Saint Petersburg, Russia
Jen had never been so happy to get off a plane and walk out into a busy airport terminal to pick up her luggage. Her flight left New York in the mid-afternoon; however, after stops in Washington and Frankfurt, the journey had taken just over fifteen hours. She stretched out her tired and aching neck as she watched as Sam and Cardinal made their way over to join her by the baggage carousel.
“I’m booking the flights next time,” muttered Sam. “My back is killing me from all this sitting.”
“I had a great sleep,” said Cardinal.
“Yeah, I heard you three rows away,” pointed out Jen.
“I don’t know how you can sleep as often as you do,” grumbled Sam.
“It comes with the territory,” replied Cardinal. “Why stand when you can sit? Why sit when you can lie down and why stay awake when you can sleep? When I was in the army, I spent plenty a night lying out in the open waiting to do my job. It’s payback time, as far as I’m concerned.”
Jen shook her head at her friends’ banter as she reached for the first of her suitcases, slowly making its way down the carousel.
With all of their luggage in tow, Jen led them out into the bustling terminal. It may have been early in the morning, but the airport was already busy with people rushing to get to their flights.
“Where are the car rental places?” asked Cardinal as he looked around, trying to spot a sign pointing the way to the nearest business.
“Not needed. I have a car waiting for you,” said a voice from behind with a thick Russian accent.
As one, they all turned around and saw Yuri Uvarov standing there, wearing an undone, rumpled and dirty Russian Army jacket with his trademark Hawaiian shirt underneath. Tall, skinny, with a constant five o’clock shadow on his face and a black ponytail that hung down below his collar, Yuri was the fifth member of Mitchell’s team. Although not officially part of Polaris’ establishment, Yuri was an indispensable teammate who could fly just about anything ever made.
“Where have you been?” Jen asked Yuri. “I’ve tried for days to reach you.”
“Da, I was lying low,” replied Yuri. “I ran into some old friends who claimed that I owed them money. A day later, they sent some goons to collect their money from me. I had to disappear or I would have ended up facedown in Gorki Park with a bullet in the back of my head.”
“Did you owe them money?” asked Sam.
“Da, but that is another story and not something for you to worry about, little lady.”
“As long as they don’t try to come after you while we’re around,” said Jen.
“Not to worry pretty lady, they won’t be bothering anyone ever again,” said Yuri with a quick wink at Jen.
Jen didn’t want to know what that meant.
Yuri continued, “I called Valery Tokarev. He is expecting us to pick him up around noon today.” With that, Yuri turned around and led them all outside into the frigid morning air. After walking through a busy parking lot, they stopped beside a small, forest-green BMW minivan. Yuri dug out his electronic starter and fired up the engine.
“You have to be kidding,” blurted out Cardinal when he saw how small the car was. “I’ll never fit in there.”
“Looks fine to me,” said Sam, smiling. “You’ll just have to bend your knees, my dear.”
“Sorry, it was all they had that could hold five people,” explained Yuri.
“I’m calling shotgun,” said Jen as she slid into the passenger-side seat.
“Where to first?” asked Yuri.
“Let’s check into our hotel,” said Jen. “I’d like to shower and change my clothes before we head out to meet Mister Tokarev.”
“Did you manage to round up some supplies in case we need them?” Cardinal asked Yuri, cryptically.
“Da, in the trunk. I am like the American Boy Scouts; I never go anywhere unprepared,” replied Yuri.
“Okay, then, I’d also like something to eat,” said Cardinal.
“There’s a small restaurant in your hotel. It is not the best in Saint Petersburg, but the food is not too bad. We can have a late breakfast,” said Yuri as he placed the car in gear and began to make his way out of the airport’s hectic parking lot.
Several hours later, with a light snow falling, Yuri pulled the minivan off the main road and drove down a narrow side street before coming to a halt in front of a drab, gray apartment block. Built at the height of the communist regime, the building looked like thousands of others spread throughout the country: cold, soulless and uninviting.
Yuri parked the car behind an old Lada covered in snow whose tires had gone flat months ago. He told Sam and Cardinal to remain in the car while he and Jen went inside to meet Mister Tokarev. Sam, as expected, objected to being left behind, but when Yuri pointed out that too many new faces would probably unsettle Tokarev, she relented and sat back in her seat.
They mad
e their way to the tenth floor, using an elevator that Jen was certain wasn’t going to make it as it shook and shuddered the whole way up. A dimly lit hallway led to Tokarev’s apartment.
“My God, this place is rundown,” remarked Jen.
“Da, after communism fell many of these old buildings were bought up by, how do you say…unscrupulous people who probably haven’t spent a single ruble fixing them up.”
Yuri knocked on the door.
“Who is it?” called out an elderly woman in Russian.
“Yuri Uvarov and Miss Jennifer March,” replied Yuri. “Your husband is expecting us.”
A second later, the door cracked open. A woman looked out. “How do I know that you’re not from the police?” asked the woman.
“Madame, please look at us. Do we look like the police?” said Yuri.
Opening the door a couple a little wider, the old woman eyed Yuri and Jen suspiciously for a moment before slowly opening the door and asking them to step inside.
“What was that all about?” Jen quietly asked Yuri.
“In Russia, old habits die hard,” replied Yuri.
A couple of seconds later, a small man with thick, white hair and bushy eyebrows walked into view. He was dressed for the cold. Kissing his wife on the cheek, he told her that he would be gone for the day. Tokarev looked at Jen and Yuri and smiled warmly.
“Good day, Miss March, I am so pleased to meet you,” said Valery Tokarev, in Russian-accented English.
“Good day to you, too, sir,” replied Jen, holding out her hand in greeting. “I thought you didn’t understand English, that’s why I used a translator when we spoke over the phone.”
Tokarev gently shook Jen’s hand before doing the same with Yuri. “There’s an old Russian saying. Trust, but verify, Miss March,” said Tokarev.
Yuri chuckled. “I told you, pretty lady, old habits die hard. He was suspicious that you were from the government.”
Jen shook her head. “Sir, you can trust me. I’m not from the Russian or U.S. government. I was born and raised in Charlotte, North Carolina.”
“I can see that,” said Tokarev. “There aren’t too many black people here in Saint Petersburg, and those that live here, I’m sorry to say, aren’t treated too well by my fellow countrymen. Now please stop calling me Mister Tokarev and call me Valery.”
“And you can call me Jen.”
“Come, we have a bit of a drive ahead of us,” said Yuri. With that, Yuri promised Tokarev’s wife to have him back sometime after supper.
With Tokarev comfortably seated between Sam and Cardinal, Yuri drove off and made his way back onto the busy road. Merging with the traffic, Yuri failed to notice a black Lada 4x4, three cars back, as it began to follow them out of the city.
“Who are those people with Uvarov?” asked a bull-necked man with close-cut hair and cold, dark eyes sitting in the Lada with his hands clenched firmly around a pistol.
“I don’t know and I don’t care,” replied the driver, a squat man with long, black hair and massive hands that could easily crush the life out of anyone he laid his hands on.
“Shouldn’t we call in and ask Stanislav for advice?” asked the bull-necked man, thinking about their immediate boss in the local mafia.
“Screw that! He’s grown soft. Once he hears that there are Americans with Uvarov, he’ll just tell us to back off. I want the million-dollar bounty on Uvarov’s head and there’s nothing that Polish bastard can say or do to stop us from collecting it. Not now, not when we have him.”
The bull-necked man wasn’t so sure; disobeying the boss in the mafia wasn’t a wise move. Each spring the bodies of men foolish enough to do so were pulled from the rivers all around Saint Petersburg. However, the man sitting next to him wasn’t known as the Butcher for nothing. The thug took great pride in his work and had once bragged that he could keep a man alive for hours while he cut off pieces of his body with his razor-sharp meat cleaver. Whatever happened in the next few hours, the bull-necked man was sure it wasn’t going to be too pleasant.
18
Most Blessed Sacrament Church
Baton Rouge, Louisiana
Mitchell stepped out from the modern, air-conditioned, red-bricked church and into a humid afternoon. A light drizzle fell from the sky. He moved off to one side and waited patiently for his friends while everyone slowly made their way outside. Funerals ranked up there with a visit to the dentist to have your wisdom teeth pulled, in Ryan Mitchell’s book. He smiled when a child ran out of the church and jumped up into the arms of her mother. The joy on the young mother’s face made Mitchell realize that there still was happiness and life to be found even after saying goodbye to a friend.
The people slowly began to trickle out of the church.
Dressed in black, only Mike Donaldson and Maria’s closest family, as per her brother’s wishes, were heading to the cemetery to watch as Maria was laid to rest for eternity.
O’Reilly shook the priest’s hand, thanked him for the service, walked over and set a hand on Mitchell’s arm. “I can see that look in your eyes, Ryan. We’ve been over this; Maria’s death isn’t your fault.”
“I know sir, but I can’t help how I feel,” replied Mitchell.
Changing topics, O’Reilly said, “Have you heard from Jen since she left?”
“Yes, she called this morning and said that they landed safely and that Yuri was there to meet them.”
“Well, that’s good news. Hopefully, they’ll be on a plane heading back home in the next day or two.”
“Yeah, that would be nice.”
“You know, Ryan, you never told me how your visit to Houston’s ranch went.”
Mitchell grinned. “He offered Nate and me triple our current salaries if we would come and work for him.”
“Good Lord, that’s a lot of money. What did you tell him?”
“Don’t worry boss, we turned him down. We don’t do this for the money. People are everything in this business and frankly, we have some of the best.”
“That we do,” replied O’Reilly proudly.
“Man, I hate funerals,” said Jackson, under his breath as he moved over beside Mitchell.
“I don’t think there’s anyone in the world that enjoys these things,” said Mitchell.
“Reminds me of the time my father died. He was a cop. I still remember the day when his boss came to the door and told my mother that some punk at a routine traffic stop had shot him. I’ve hated these things ever since.”
Mitchell knew that Jackson’s father had been a cop. It was the first time he had heard him mention how he died. Mitchell’s feeling of loss and melancholy returned. The sooner they were all back home, the better, as far as he was concerned.
“Well, gents, I think we should gather our things and then head to the airport,” said O’Reilly. “Houston called me this morning and said that we can use the plane you two flew in on to take us all back to Albany.”
“Oh, to be a billionaire,” mused Jackson.
“Keep dreaming,” replied Mitchell.
A short while later, their cab pulled off the highway and made its way towards the Baton Rouge Metropolitan Airport. Turning down a side road, the taxi drove to line of hangars at the far end of the airport where their private plane was waiting for them. After showing their IDs, Mitchell, Jackson and O’Reilly were allowed to proceed inside by a bored and indifferent airport security guard who looked like he was more than ready to retire.
The cab came to a stop outside of the tall, blue-and-white wooden hangar. Mitchell paid the cab fare and helped his friends move their luggage inside out of the falling rain. The expansive building was empty, except for Houston’s bright-yellow-and-green executive Learjet, waiting with its front door open and its stairs hanging down.
A second later, a blue-coated pilot with short blond hair stuck his head out and waved. “I take it you’re the folks I’m flying to Albany?” said the pilot cheerfully.
“That’s us,” replied Mitchell.
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“Just leave your baggage by the stairs, and we’ll stow it on the plane for you.”
“Sounds good to me,” said Jackson, dropping his bags.
“We’re a couple of minutes behind schedule,” explained the pilot. “There’s a small lounge with awful coffee and a vending machine at the back of the hangar. If you’ll wait in there, we’ll come and get you when we’re ready to take off.”
“Beggars can’t be choosers,” said Mitchell, just happy to be heading home.
They walked to the back of the hangar and into the empty lounge. The worn furniture looked as if it had been bought in the 1970s. There were several old and tattered magazines lying on a small table in the middle of the room.
Jackson headed straight for the vending machine. He dug through his pockets, turned and looked over at Mitchell. “Hey Ryan, you got any change on you?”
“You really need to get your allowance upped,” quipped Mitchell as he handed Jackson a couple of one-dollar bills.
On the hangar floor, a couple of men in dirty blue coveralls and carrying toolboxes walked in from outside and strode towards the pilot as he stood filling out some paperwork. One man was white, with curly brown hair, while the other was African-American, with a smooth-shaven head and a neatly trimmed goatee.
“Excuse me, sir, is this the plane that’s scheduled to fly to Albany today?” asked the black man.
“Sure is,” replied the pilot without looking up from his paperwork.
“Have your passengers arrived?” queried the curly-haired man.
“Yes, they’re waiting in the lounge.” Suddenly suspicious, the pilot said, “Is there something I can do for you two gentlemen?”
“No,” replied the curly-haired man as he set his toolbox down and flipped it open. Before the pilot knew what was going on, the man pulled out a silenced pistol and fired a shot right between the pilot’s eyes.
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