Meanwhile, Sergei overturned a marble picnic table on the ground floor patio and used it as a bunker. He called out Ivan, who didn’t enter the fray until much later.
“You think you can intimidate me?” Ivan said. “Think again.” He proceeded to unleash several rounds, spraying bullets in Sergei’s direction.
Shots whistled past Sergei as he tried to regain his wits and form a new plan of attack. He realized he’d confused Ivan being out of his home with being out of his comfort zone. The Ukrainian dealer appeared relaxed as he unloaded on Sergei’s team, almost as if he enjoyed the challenge.
“You stay the hell away from my clients,” Sergei roared from behind the table.
“Or what? You’ll dare to persuade me otherwise? Consider this my rejection of your warning.”
Ivan blasted more shots in Sergei’s direction before backing into the house.
Sergei recognized his odds were low but not enough to deter him from taking one last shot at Ivan. With dwindling ammunition and an attack party that was half of its original size, Sergei rose and fired over the table. He squeezed off several rounds, the final one piercing Ivan in his knee. Ivan fell to the ground, screaming in pain. However, he never dropped his gun.
Certain that he’d be able to finish off Ivan, Sergei rose and began to walk toward Ivan. But Ivan wasn’t finished.
Writhing on the floor just inside the house, Ivan took aim at Sergei and fired a pair of shots. Sergei staggered backward and fell to the ground. Breathing hard and fighting through the searing pain coursing through his body, he dragged himself back behind the table using his left arm. He clung to the weapon with his right arm despite the fact that Sergei doubted he’d be able to hit anything given his current physical state. He glanced at his right arm and the mangled flesh where one of Ivan’s bullets had made its mark. Once safely hidden behind the table, Sergei noticed two of his men lying dead next to him, while the other two retreated toward the shore. He was alone in the once-promising fight, one he figured to be his last.
More bullets sprayed the table, and Sergei contemplated his next move.
Then nothing.
An eerie silence fell on the grounds. Sergei wondered why he couldn’t hear his men shouting or the water lapping the banks. Peering around the corner of the table, he saw Ivan lumbering across the patio. Sergei twisted into a position where he could shoot, but he didn’t know if he’d be able to hit his mark.
Then another round of shots, this time coming from behind Sergei.
Before he could get off another shot, Sergei heard what sounded like someone shuffling away and returning to the house. Then he felt a firm hand and a familiar voice.
“Let’s get you out of here before this gets any worse.”
Sergei turned and looked upward. It was his son, Niko.
“What are you doing here, son?” Sergei inquired.
“I was going to ask you the same thing,” Niko said. “Papa, I told you that we would handle it—and this isn’t the way.”
In the distance, sirens wailed in the night.
“Come on,” Niko said. “We’ve got to get you out of here. You aren’t the only person who needs medical attention.”
“Son, please don’t let him win,” Sergei said.
Niko forced a chuckle. “Don’t worry. I wouldn’t dream of it.”
Niko snatched his father to his feet and carried him back toward the boats. A hail of bullets from the shore provided the cover they needed to make it back safely and avoid any further loss of Sergei’s men.
“You haven’t seen the last of me,” Sergei shouted. “With God as my witness, I’ll be back.”
Chapter 20
CAL COULD BARELY FEEL HIS LEFT CHEEK lying against the cold surface of the desk in front of him. He froze, hoping to ascertain his situation before engaging his captors. Surrounding Cal, the muted voices of men speaking in Russian signaled this wasn’t a CIA operation. Competing cigarette smoke created a smell that nearly choked Cal as he waited for the right moment to come to. However, his timetable moved up when one of the men leaned over and blew smoke in Cal’s face.
He sat up, sputtering and coughing. A single light descended from the ceiling and hung mere inches above his head, while the low hum of fluorescent fixtures lit the rest of the windowless room. He squinted at the men, whose gazes darted back and forth across his face and appeared interested in Cal’s every move. Each man wore a pale shirt and a paisley tie, making Cal wonder for a fleeting moment if he’d awakened in the 1960s. Five of the seven men hovering around him delicately held cigarettes. Two of the captors peered over the top of black horn-rimmed glasses. A hush fell over everyone as they studied Cal. Given the foreign environment, he quickly ruled out another abduction by his own government. This hadn’t been the type of reception he’d expected, though he wasn’t complaining about its lack of violence.
The lone door in the far corner creaked as it opened. A tall gentleman strode through, his side holster visible as he held his hands against his waist. The men who’d surrounded Cal peeled back from the table, making a pathway for the visitor. All but two of the men exited the room. Cal presumed they were all retreating to the observation area on the other side of the two-way mirror directly across from him.
The newcomer stood out in more ways than just his height. He wore a dark sport coat, a white dress shirt, and a black fedora. No tie. No cigarette. He’d yet to speak a word, but Cal presumed when he did, it’d be in English.
The chair across the small table from Cal screeched across the floor as the man pulled out the seat and sat down. Cracking his knuckles, the man leaned forward on the table and eyed Cal closely.
“Hello, Cal Murphy,” said the man as he placed Cal’s passport on the table. “I’m Agent Oleg Damiecki, and I have a few questions for you.”
“Agent? Who are you? FSB?”
Damiecki clucked his tongue and shook his head. “I need you to listen carefully to what I say. And I didn’t say this was your chance to ask questions. I said I had a few questions for you. Is that clear?”
Cal nodded.
“Now, I hope you understand it is a great privilege to visit our country. And being that it is a privilege, we don’t take too lightly to people who spread lies about what happens inside our borders.”
Cal cocked his head to one side and squinted at Damiecki. “Lies? I’m afraid I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’m a sports writer—and believe me, Russia’s chances of winning the World Cup this year are every bit as dreadful as I wrote.”
Damiecki chuckled. “You are a very funny man, Mr. Murphy. But that is not what I’m talking about—and I think you know it.”
“Please enlighten me then.”
“Your article about Cosmos Arena being bombed by terrorists, it’s—”
“I haven’t even written that yet,” Cal said, his mouth agape. “How could you even—?”
“The FSB knows all and sees all.”
“So, that’s what this is all about? Protecting your country’s reputation?” Cal then muttered, “Not that there’s much left to protect.”
Damiecki slammed his fist down on the table. The sudden movement and noise jolted Cal.
“You will not insult Russia in my presence. Is that understood?”
“Da,” Cal replied.
“Do not mock me, Mr. Murphy. It won’t end well for you,” Damiecki said as he snatched Cal’s passport and pocketed it. “I’m only just getting started with my questions, so I hope you are comfortable.”
Cal shrugged. “Beats a gulag.”
“Which is where you might be headed if you don’t answer satisfactorily. So, I suggest you comply with my demands.”
“What demands?”
Damiecki ignored Cal. “What do you know about Sergei Bazarov?”
“Who?”
“Sergei Bazarov?”
Cal shook his head. “Never heard of him.”
“Niko Bazarov?”
“Name doesn’t ring a bel
l either.”
“What about Yuri Listyev?”
Cal took a deep breath and contemplated just how much he needed to divulge about his knowledge of the famous—and late—Russian journalist. The smattering of questions began driving at what Cal feared the most, that his connection to Listyev through his daughter put Cal in a tenuous position.
“I’m a journalist,” Cal said. “Of course, I’ve heard of Yuri Listyev. He’s well known and a hero in my profession.”
Damiecki nodded at one of the remaining men, who jotted something on a notepad.
“Have you ever met with Mr. Listyev?” Damiecki continued.
“No. This is my first trip to Russia, and Mr. Listyev was murdered by the time I arrived.”
“Murdered? Where did you hear of such things?”
Cal gave Damiecki a steely-eyed gaze. “Sometimes the pravda isn’t really the truth.”
“Our investigation concluded it was a suicide, but if you know something we don’t, by all means please enlighten us.”
Cal ignored Damiecki’s request. “There are other ways to conduct such an interview, one I’d prefer to do with the full knowledge of the U.S. embassy. So, before we continue, I’d like to place a phone call to them and—”
Damiecki held up Cal’s passport. “Who says you’re an American? Can you show me your passport proving your claim? Perhaps it’s in your pocket.”
Cal sighed, awakening to the gravity of his situation. His attitude and unwillingness to comply was only exacerbating a bad situation. “What else do you want to know about Yuri Listyev. I doubt I can tell you anything you don’t already know.”
“That’s more like it,” Damiecki said. “Now, we have reports that you have something Yuri Listyev gave you. Care to tell us about it?”
“Like I said before, I’ve never met Mr. Listyev. He was dead by the time I arrived here.”
“He has traveled to the United States, has he not?”
Cal shrugged. “I never kept track of his schedule. I only know about him from the way he took on the Russian government and the FSB.”
“He spread lies about us,” Damiecki said. “And there are more lies he intended to spread from the grave. Now, I’ll rephrase my question: Do you have anything from Mr. Listyev? Perhaps a flash drive of some sort?”
Cal weighed the question and decided to bet against the agent knowing he had the drive. In all likelihood, the question would’ve been phrased in a different way had FSB agents already located the drive. Cal had hidden it in a secret compartment in his laptop bag, a commentary on Cal’s propensity for getting into the kind of trouble where such a hiding place was necessary. The thick rubber footer on the bottom of his bag harbored plenty of his precious documents over time. He’d also made an encrypted copy and embedded it deep within another folder that would take even the best hackers weeks to uncover.
“I don’t have anything from Mr. Listyev, and I’m mystified at how such an exchange would take place.”
“We are aware that you have a relationship with his daughter, Natalya.”
Cal forced a smile and shook his head. “A relationship?”
Damiecki signaled to one of the men, who produced a folder and placed it on the table in front of his superior. Damiecki pulled out a black-and-white photograph of Cal sitting at a table eating dinner with Natalya.
“Does this refresh your memory?” Damiecki asked.
“Of course I met with Natalya. Her father was apparently a big fan of my work, and she wanted to meet me.”
Damiecki folded his arms and leaned back in his chair. He tilted his head to one side. “A fan of your work?”
“Sports are quite popular in the United States, and I’ve covered the deaths of several prominent professional athletes. The fact that Mr. Listyev knew who I was or claimed to admire my work shouldn’t come as a surprise to anyone who follows media coverage. I hope you do understand that I’m not some peon journalist from the U.S. and that while I may not have my passport on me, my sudden disappearance would bring a lot of unwelcome attention.”
Damiecki narrowed his eyes. “You are in no position to make such threats.”
“I’m not making any threats, Agent Damiecki. I’m only warning you about the consequences of your actions. And while I wish I could help you unravel whatever mystery the great FSB has failed to uncover, I can’t. At the end of the day, I’m here for sport and nothing more. Now, if we’re done here, I’d like to get back to my hotel and finish my assignment.”
Cal made his forceful pitch and awaited Damiecki’s response. The longer Cal remained in their custody, the longer the FSB agent might be able to trip Cal up on a response and use that as an excuse to detain him even longer. Without a sense of how late it was, Cal was anxious to get out of the room and back to work.
“Very well then, Mr. Murphy,” Damiecki said as he handed back Cal’s passport. “Thank you for your cooperation. Just know that we’ll be watching you for the duration of your stay in Russia.”
That was the last thing Cal heard before a vicious blow to the back of his head knocked him out.
Chapter 21
Seattle, Washington
FRANK BUCKMAN HIT THE REFRESH BUTTON on his inbox and stared at his computer screen. It flickered once and didn’t change. Cal was rarely late on filing his stories. And when he was, Buckman always feared the worst.
What kind of trouble are you into now, Cal?
Cal was supposed to file a story about the Ukrainian national team, focusing on the difference between playing for their country and their club teams. Dimitry Kitko and Fedir Mortuk, two of the Ukrainian national team’s bigger stars, were supposed to be prominently featured in the article. Buckman admitted it was more or less a puff piece, but there were plenty of readers who would lap it up. Behind-the-scenes stories were wildly popular with readers, who seemed to enjoy the voyeuristic peek into pro athletes’ lives off the field. Buckman hated assigning such articles as much as Cal hated writing them. Yet at the end of the day, journalism was still a business. And Buckman had no story from Cal.
Glancing at the clock, Buckman decided to place another call to Cal’s phone. It rang several times before going to voicemail.
“Cal, it’s me,” Buckman said as he left a voice message. “Where’s your story? Heck, where are you? I’m starting to get concerned as it’s eight in the evening here and I haven’t heard from you. This story was supposed to be filed when I came into the office this morning. Needless to say, I’m concerned. Please call me ASAP.”
Buckman hung up and leaned back in his chair. He stared upward and wondered what could’ve happened to his star reporter.
I hope nothing awful.
Buckman proceeded to call Cal’s wife, Kelly.
“Kelly, this is Frank,” he said once she answered. “How are you?”
“I’d be better if you hadn’t sent my husband halfway around the world,” she said with an uncharacteristic edge to her voice.
“Are you all right?”
“Frank, what are you calling about?”
“It’s Cal. He was supposed to file a story hours ago, and I haven’t been able to reach him.”
She sniffled. “I haven’t been able to reach him either.”
“Have you been crying?”
“I’m all right, Frank. Just—I just want to know that Cal’s okay. And, apparently, he’s not since you can’t reach him either. I warned him about getting involved in things he shouldn’t.”
“I’m sure it’s nothing, Kelly. He’s probably stuck in some place without wi-fi and his phone is having problems connecting to the network.”
“Both at the same time?”
“I—I don’t know. Maybe. Journalism in foreign countries isn’t quite as easy as it is here. There are more variables and potential things that can go wrong.”
“Exactly. That’s why I’m concerned. He was supposed to call me, like he does every day. But I just had a bad feeling this morning when I woke up and didn’t hear fro
m him. And now here it is and still no word.”
“I’m just hoping it’s some simple explanation, like he had too much vodka before he sent the story and passed out.”
“Too much vodka? You know Cal hates that stuff.”
“When it Rome—”
“Frank, I doubt that’s the case, but please, if you hear from him, tell him to give me a call.”
“Ditto for me,” Buckman said.
“I’m really getting concerned.”
“Well, I know it may be of little consolation to you now, but if there’s anyone who can handle himself in a situation like this, it’s Cal.”
“You’re right—it’s of little consolation to me, Frank.”
“Okay, stay strong. I’ll check on you later.”
Buckman hung up and exhaled. He pondered what to do next. But it didn’t take long before he was rifling through a stack of business cards on his desk.
“Senator Daniels, Senator Daniels, Senator Daniels. Where are you?” After a few seconds, Daniels’s business card surfaced. “Aha. There you are.”
Buckman dialed Daniels’s number and asked his secretary to patch him through.
“Can you tell me what the nature of this call is about? I’m afraid the senator is out of the country right now, and I can’t just connect you, especially without a prior appointment.”
“I understand,” Buckman said. “Senator Daniels asked me to reach out to him if I needed anything while the World Cup was going on.”
“Hold on please.”
Buckman’s line went silent for about a minute. The dead air was broken by the sound of Senator Daniels’s voice.
“Frank Buckman, how the heck are you?” Daniels asked.
“I’d be doing much better if I could locate Cal Murphy.”
Daniels, still not grasping the serious nature of Buckman’s call, chuckled. “Oh, he’s fine. I just saw him the other day.”
“Well, no one has heard from him in about twenty-four hours. You didn’t see him during that time, did you?”
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