Dead End

by R. J. Patterson

  He ordered and quickly finished his meal since his curiosity about the contents of the flash drive had consumed his thoughts. He fished out some money from his wallet and paid the bill, though he began to grow concerned over the fact that he’d misplaced his passport. He tried to keep it on him at all times, per the U.S. State Department’s recommendation. But he wasn’t the best at remembering another extra thing to take out with him. When he stopped and thought about it, he couldn’t remember the last time he had it, though he figured he’d left it in his hotel room.

  When Cal got back to his room, he turned on his computer and disconnected from the hotel’s wireless network. He didn’t want anyone else viewing what he was seeing. Yuri Listyev’s death and the meeting with his suspicious daughter had done nothing to settle Cal’s nerves. He’d been nervous ever since he left Churchill’s Bar and wondered what he was about to get himself into.

  As the folder appeared on his desktop screen, he clicked and read the file titled Cal_Read_Me.txt first. It contained a brief introduction from Yuri Listyev and why he’d selected Cal as the journalist to carry the torch on a story with potentially treacherous outcomes for both himself and an innocent public.

  Then Cal clicked on the next file and his jaw dropped. Several paragraphs in, he was already regretting he’d accepted the flash drive from Natalya and wondering if he could even do anything to stop the impending disaster.

  Chapter 9

  Zwengi River, Zimbabwe

  IVAN MORTUK CHECKED his watched and grunted. He wasn’t sure if he was more irritated over the fact that his clients were late or that he was overseeing a simple exchange in godforsaken Africa on the banks of the Zwengi River. The New Chimwenje was a rebooted terrorist group, springing up more than twenty years after Zimbabwe special forces had wiped them out. The children of these dead terrorists had grown up and decided they wanted to seek revenge. Ivan was more than happy to assist them in their quest to stockpile weapons. Yet, shivering in the late night breeze and a continent away from his son playing in the World Cup, Ivan wished he could help them from a more comfortable location.

  He sighed, signaling to Boris Kovalchuk that his boss was growing impatient.

  “Don’t worry,” Boris said. “They’ll be here.”

  “Were they late last time?”

  “This is Africa. On time is when you get somewhere. An appointment is merely a suggestion for when you should arrive.”

  “I don’t like this, Boris. Something doesn’t feel right.”

  “I know. You can feel your face, which you usually can’t do by 1:00 a.m. after you’ve been drinking since sundown.”

  The pale moon overhead shed enough light for Ivan to catch a glimpse of Boris’s smirk. Ivan was about to give Boris a piece of his mind when the sound of approaching footsteps arrested their attention.

  “See, Ivan, I told you they would eventually get here.”

  They were supposed to meet a man named Thulani to execute the exchange.

  “Does that look like him to you?” Ivan asked.

  “Look like who?”

  “Thulani. Does that look like Thulani?”

  Boris nodded. “That doesn’t just look like him; that is him.”

  “Are you sure?” Ivan asked again before glancing at his watch.

  “It’s certainly not his babushka.”

  Ivan gave Boris a sidelong glance before finishing with a subtle headshake. Though Ivan had worked with Boris for years, Boris’s sense of humor grated on his boss’s last nerve. Boris’s jokes always seemed to come when Ivan wasn’t in the mood, but he readily admitted he was rarely in the mood for pithy humor.

  Thulani towered over the two Ukrainians but held out both his hands in a gesture of good faith.

  “Are we ready to do business?” Thulani asked.

  Ivan nodded and dialed a number on his cell phone. Moments later, a delivery box truck roared to life and drove toward them before stopping a few feet short.

  Ivan motioned for Thulani to join him. They walked around to the back of the vehicle, and Ivan yanked the door open. Inside was a large cache of weapons, everything from machine guns to hand grenades to handheld missile launchers.

  “Is this what you were hoping for?”

  Thulani picked up a gun and inspected it. “Let’s do business,” he said as he gestured for one of his men standing in the shadows to come forth. The man dropped a pair of steel suitcases on the ground.

  “It’s all there,” Thulani said. “Eight million U.S. dollars.”

  Ivan knelt, unlocked the case, and rifled through the money. He felt the stacks and then smelled them as he slowly flipped through each set.

  “It’s been a pleasure, Thulani,” Ivan said.

  But before they made it back to their other vehicle waiting to take them to the airstrip, bullets rained down. Shots were being fired from both sides of the river. Thulani looked at Ivan with eyes pleading to know the meaning behind the attack. Ivan could only speculate and had yet to formulate a plausible theory. He’d never suspected getting caught in such a vulnerable position, but he looked up and realized he should’ve gone with his gut instinct to cancel the deal the second they arrived. They had driven, effectively, straight into a kill box.

  “Can we use the weapons?” Thulani asked. “We’ve got nothing between us, and it would be helpful if we could strike back.”

  “The ammunition for the guns wasn’t scheduled to arrive until we left.”

  Thulani slumped against the tires of his SUV and motioned for Ivan and Boris to join him. Crouched over, the two men sprinted toward Thulani and slid to the ground next to him.

  “We’re going to have to wait this out then,” Thulani said. “They can’t keep us pinned down forever.”

  “Perhaps not, but they can steal the weapons and the money. Besides, who are these people?”

  Thulani shurugged. “They’re not our friends—that much I know.”

  “I gathered that much,” Ivan said. “How did they learn about this deal?”

  “I am the leader of New Chemwinje, not the chief surveillance officer. I have no idea who they are or how they could’ve learned about this.”

  “Makes no difference now. Let’s just try to stay alive, okay?”

  Bullets continued to pepper the ground around them, making it evident to Ivan that whoever ambushed them wasn’t an amateur. After several minutes, the shooting stopped. Ivan saw this as their opportunity to escape.

  “Let’s make a break for that wooded area,” he said, pointing toward a small opening in the trees. “We might be able to escape through there and at least have a chance to fight our way out of this.”

  “What about the weapons? And the money?” Thulani asked, stood pat.

  “All the money and artillery in the world won’t do you any good if you’re dead,” Ivan fired back. “Now, come on. Let’s go.”

  Ivan drew his gun and crouched low, hustling toward the trees. He disappeared into the foliage, followed by Boris and Thulani. Slowly, they worked their way up the hillside. They were almost near the top when another round of bullets ripped through the trees. Clambering up the hill, they avoided getting hit before finding a large rock to hide behind. After five minutes, the shooting stopped. But the ceasefire didn’t last long.

  Several armored trucks with mounted guns drove into the area and started firing at the various makeshift turrets that had been set up. Engines roared to life, and military Humvees vacated their positions—except one. One handheld rocket launcher aimed at the vehicle containing the weapons struck its target, resulting in a vivid explosion that rocked the ground.

  Watching from over the boulder, Thulani let out a string of expletives. “How will we hold off the government forces now?”

  “Your bigger problem is how you’re going to pay me,” Ivan snapped.

  Thulani glowered at Ivan. “You think I owe you after that? Forget it.”

  “It’s your country, your problem. I delivered the weapons; you didn’t de
liver the cash.”

  “I could make the same claim against you,” Thulani said. “I brought the cash, but no weapons.”

  “That’s not how I see it.”

  A vehicle roared up toward them, putting a hold on their conversation. Ivan drew his gun and trained it on the Jeep.

  “Put your weapon down,” Thulani ordered, putting his hand on Ivan’s firearm. “It’s one of my men.”

  Ivan didn’t budge. “How do we know your own men didn’t turn on you?”

  “You don’t want this to get ugly,” Thulani bellowed. “This isn’t your turf.”

  Ivan relented but kept his finger on the trigger in case Thulani was overconfident in his assessment of his subordinates.

  “Boss, we found a few dead bodies from the men who perpetrated the attack,” the man driving the Jeep said. “Come take a look.”

  Ivan and Boris joined Thulani at the back of the Jeep. Another soldier opened the back, revealing a dead body.

  “Definitely not one of mine,” Thulani said after a glance.

  “What gave it away? Was it the shoes?” Boris asked.

  Boris’s joke was lost on Thulani, who took the comment more literally.

  “They’re white,” Thulani snapped. “More precisely, they are Eastern European. Your people.”

  Ivan considered dressing down Thulani but thought better of it. Kneeling next to one of the bodies, Ivan turned it over and exposed the neck. He stared at the tattoo etched into the man.

  “I know who they are,” he said as he stood. “I’ll handle it.”

  “What about my weapons?” Thulani asked.

  Ivan sneered. “The price just doubled.”

  “Doubled? I think I’ll take my business elsewhere then.”

  Catching Thulani off guard, Ivan jammed his gun underneath his client’s chin. “I need my payment up front, and I won’t ask twice.”

  “Okay, okay,” Thulani said as he raised his hands. He motioned for one of his men and gave him a slight nod of permission. Several seconds later, one of Thulani’s men returned with a duffle bag stuffed with stacks of cash.

  With a gun trained on Thulani, Ivan crouched down and looked through the sack. “You were going to short me.”

  “No, all the money was here. I swear.”

  Ivan didn’t flinch as he pulled the trigger, putting several bullets into Thulani’s chest. Thulani fell backward, his head bouncing on the ground.

  “So, who’s in charge now?” Ivan asked.

  One of the men strode forward, his weapon pointed at Ivan’s chest. “What do you want?”

  “If you still want to do business, you know where to contact me.”

  The man lowered his weapon and stared at Ivan. “What makes you think I won’t let these men shoot you right here?”

  Ivan took a deep breath and stroked his chin before speaking. “Is it money you desire or weapons? You shoot me, and you have no weapons. Word will get out about what happened, and no one will ever do business with you again. No weapons, no power. It’s that simple.”

  The man nodded. “I want both,” he said as he started to raise his gun.

  Ivan scrambled to get off a shot, but he was too late. The man staggered forward and fell face first into the dirt. Ivan looked up to see another one of Thulani’s men behind the short-lived leader.

  “Bring us the weapons we requested,” the newest leader said. “We will pay your price.”

  “You’re a wise man,” Ivan said. “I’ll contact you with the details for our next exchange.” He retreated to a truck and drove back to the airfield where his plane was waiting.

  “Let’s get out of here,” he told the pilot. “I need to get home so I can go watch Fedir play in the World Cup.”

  Chapter 10

  Samara, Russia

  CAL COMPLETED HIS FINAL interview with Seattle Sounders player and Ukrainian national team member Dimitry Kitko after his team finished their training session. Then Cal ran down a Russian reporter in the parking lot. Roman Denikin wrote for the Moscow Komsomolets, more commonly referred to as MK, covering primarily soccer. Roman and Cal found themselves on a similar circuit for World Cup coverage.

  Cal quickly grew fond of Roman, who didn’t shy away from delivering dry one-liners that mocked the Russian government. When Cal once questioned Roman about how he could continue to make such wise-cracks in an environment where every word could be recorded or reported, he broke into a hearty laugh. “It’s how I survive,” he said. “It’s either make jokes about the painful truth of our lives here . . . or die. And perhaps one will lead to the other, but I don’t care. I’d rather live and laugh about it than be silent and die.”

  While Cal considered it wise to keep political commentary on Russia to a minimum, he believed he could trust Roman enough to at least ask him a few questions about the mafia culture in Russia. If the conversation felt comfortable, Cal planned to get more specific.

  “Can we meet for dinner tonight?” Cal asked.

  Roman nodded and wrote down the address of a restaurant and his phone number. “Is seven o’clock too late for you?”

  “That’ll be perfect,” Cal said.

  RETREATING TO HIS ROOM to write, Cal hammered out a story on Kitko and called Buckman to make sure it arrived.

  “What’s the matter?” Buckman asked. “You don’t trust the Russian internet?”

  Cal huffed a laugh through his nose. “About as trustworthy as a room full of stockbrokers, lawyers, and politicians.”

  “Good to know Russia hasn’t changed your cynicism toward your own country.”

  “My cynicism isn’t confined by borders. It’s universal and beyond. I’m an equal opportunity skeptic.”

  “I don’t care what kind of skeptic you are as long as you’re also a writer who turns his articles in before deadline.”

  “So, I take it you got the piece I sent you,” Cal said.

  “I did. Good work.”

  “That might not be the only one you get from me tonight.”

  “Oh? Something big brewing this evening that I should be prepared for?”

  Cal sighed, reticent to say anything over the phone. “Maybe. I’ll send you an article later this evening. I got a tip on a potential story I’m going to spend some time looking into.”

  “And by time, do you mean hours? Days? What kind of time are we talking about here?”

  “Not sure yet. It really depends on how my research progresses. Fortunately, that’s where I’m off to next.”

  “Dammit, Cal. You know I hate it when you get all cryptic on me like that.”

  “Blame it on Mother Russia,” Cal said, digging deep for a guttural emphasis. “Just keep an eye out for it, will you?”

  “It’s bad enough that our industry gets chastised for writing click-bait headlines, but then you have to walk around dishing them out casually in conversation.”

  “I already got you to click,” Cal said. “But if I can verify this story, you won’t be joking about this any more.”

  “Just go to dinner,” Buckman said. “I’ll keep my eyes peeled.”

  Cal turned off his computer and headed downstairs. Once he reached the lobby, he searched until he found an employee and proceeded to inquire about directions to the restaurant Roman had suggested. As Cal walked along the sparsely populated sidewalks, he pondered his approach with Roman. After several minutes of thought, Cal concluded he needed to be direct, just like the Russian people themselves.

  When Cal arrived, Roman was already waiting at a booth in the back corner of the restaurant. Formaggio’s Kitchen was nearly devoid of any customers, which Cal thought might be due to the man playing the violin in the corner who struggled to produce an enjoyable sound.

  Cal slid into his seat and shook Roman’s hand.

  “Is this a popular place here?” Cal asked.

  Roman scanned the room and returned his gaze to Cal with a furrowed brow. “About as popular as any time my cousin is playing the violin here.”

&nbs
p; Cal said nothing and hesitated to crack a smile, though he was certain Roman was making an attempt at humor.

  “It’s a joke,” Roman said after Cal’s moment of silence. “You Americans can be so serious.”

  “He’s not your cousin?” Cal asked.

  Roman shook his head. “No, no. That’s my cousin. But he’s—how should I say this—unskilled at the violin.”

  “You’re a good cousin to support him.”

  Roman grinned. “No, I’m awful. The best thing I can do for him is to tell him the truth, but I can’t bring myself to do it.”

  “So you dutifully come here and listen when he plays?”

  “Not if I can help it,” Roman said before taking a sip of water. “However, his screeching violin play makes it nearly impossible for anyone to listen in on my conversations.”

  Cal leaned forward in his seat, hands clasped in front of him. “You think we’re going to have a conversation that you don’t want anyone else to hear?”

  “I’m a journalist, too, you know,” Roman said. “You had that gleam in your eye earlier today, like you have a secret you want to tell but don’t know how.”

  “So, we’re free to talk?”

  Roman nodded. “As long as there’s no waiter nearby, we’ll be fine.”

  Cal looked to his right and saw their waiter approaching. The two men ceased conversation to order their meals. Once the waiter left, Cal wasted no time in broaching the burning subject.

  “What do you know about Yuri Listyev?” Cal asked.

  Roman’s eyes widened as he took a deep breath. “It is a very good thing we’re here tonight. I’d almost rather have this conversation in private if I wasn’t sure my hotel room was bugged.”

  “Are they all bugged?” Cal asked.

  “If you’re a journalist, I’d swear on Lenin’s grave that your room is bugged.”

  “So, tell me what you know about Yuri.”

  Roman sighed and looked down. “Yuri was a good man, but we don’t like to talk about it too much when one of our own goes down. It’s more of a warning than any one of us could be next.”