The Man From Belarus (Corps Justice Book 16)

by C. G. Cooper

  The latest sycophants to come to kiss his feet left in a flurry of bobs and sweaty nods. Weak. Every single one of them. How had they made their money? How had they attained their power with such weakness?

  The Russian president knew how. They had other men do their dirty work. He wanted to spit in disgust, but he breathed in. Let no man say that he wasn’t calm in his every pursuit. Whether hunting on the plains of Africa or staring down his most senior general, he always kept his cool. At least on the outside. His insides were a constant roil of emotions. But he’d learned to control them. Or at least bottle them up until the time was right to let them steam away to nothingness.

  “Mr. President, you have twenty minutes until your next meeting,” his secretary said, a young man of thirty years. Thirty next month. Such details were important to the president.

  “Thank you. And tell me, do you have grand plans for your coming birthday? Thirty years. It’s not a small thing.”

  The young man lowered his head in reverence. “I’m humbled that you would remember, Mr. President. And no, sir, just a small party with my parents.”

  “Please give them my best, will you?”

  “Yes, Mr. President.”

  Yegorovich had known the secretary’s father since before his time in politics. He’d lost both of his legs in Chechnya. Once a bear of a man, now he was crippled. The least the president could do was look after the man’s son.

  “And I’ll have my chef bring a feast for your family. It’s the least I can do for the young man who moves on my every whim.”

  The young man blushed, unable to find a reply.

  The president let him off with a friendly wave of dismissal. He waited until the secretary was gone and dialed his chef, issuing precise orders on what he wanted sent for the birthday. Then he dialed a number from memory. The other end rang once before the recipient answered.

  “Yes?”

  “Where are you?” he asked.

  “Right where you told me to be.”

  This might be the only person on Earth who could reply so nonchalantly and not send the president on a silent tirade.

  “I wish I was with you.”

  “You’re too old for this business.”

  “Nonsense,” said Yegorovich. “Besides, you have two years on me.”

  “Perhaps, but you’re getting fat with your lavish catering while I stay lean on cheap cigarettes and barely edible food.”

  The president chuckled, remembering those days fondly. How they’d seemed so routine at the time. Now, what he wouldn’t give for one week of anonymity and the dirty stains of a rundown hotel in some armpit of the world.

  “Say what you want, my friend, but I could still take you in a bare-knuckle fight.”

  The man on the other end did not laugh. It wasn’t his style. “Keep thinking that. Now, would you like to hear my report?”

  Down to it.

  The report came through the secure line in the same clipped surety the man was known for. Twice Yegorovich smiled. Once he frowned so deeply that he had to catch himself from barking back into the phone. When the report was done the president sat back in his seat and put all the pieces together in his head. His man waited on the other end, ever the patient one.

  At last, Yegorovich gathered his thoughts. “Very well. Continue as planned.”

  “How would you like me to handle Stokes?”

  This was the delicate issue, the one the president had known since the beginning that he’d have to decide upon.

  “Let him be, for now.”

  “And the girl?”

  “Kill her. She is no longer our concern.”

  With the call ended, Yegorovich went back to his earlier thoughts. How to best utilize Cal Stokes for his long-term gains.

  Chapter Seventy-Six

  STOKES — NASHVILLE — PRESENT DAY

  How to stop from fidgeting? It was that same feeling as when he’d asked Jennifer Fallon to the eighth-grade dance. Nerves. All nerves.

  “You look like you swallowed a bug,” Top said, throwing a wink in for good measure. He moved aside as an elderly Asian couple squabbled about how best to get to the appropriate luggage carousel.

  “You can shove it up your you-know-what, Top,” Cal replied, looking over the heads coming in from every angle.

  “Loquacious as always. There they are,” Top said, his vantage point a good foot over Cal’s.

  Yes, there they were. Daniel, looking as carefree as he ever did. And Diane. Cal gulped past the sudden fire in his throat.

  Daniel waved, and Cal couldn’t be sure, but he thought Diane looked the other way. That’s when he felt the nudge on the side of his leg and looked down to see Liberty, ears sprung, looking up at him.

  “Hey, girl,” Cal said, bending down to give her a good rub. “I’ve missed you.”

  She nuzzled in close, giving him a tiny lick on the ear for good measure.

  “Well aren’t you two a sight,” Top said.

  Cal stood to greet the newcomers.

  “And you’re a lot taller than I remember,” Diane said. She waded in for the inevitable bear hug from the enormous Marine. “Leave a couple ribs intact, will you, Top?”

  “Sorry. Get a little carried away when the woman of my dreams shows up at the airport and sweeps me off my feet. Makes me feel like a real man, you know?” Top grinned like he’d won a prize at the county fair.

  “It’d take the world’s largest broom to sweep you off your feet, Marine.”

  That elicited a booming laugh from Top that cut through the echoing announcement going over the loudspeakers.

  Cal wiped his hands on the back of his jeans. When had they gotten so sweaty? And was it hot? Why was it so hot?

  “Cal,” Diane said, making eye contact for what seemed like the first time in years.

  “Hi,” was all Cal could manage until a well-placed Master Sergeant Trent elbow got him to blurt, “It’s great to see you, Diane.”

  She just stared at him for a long moment, then looked back at Daniel.

  “I was right, Snake Eyes. This has turned into the most awkward family reunion Nashville International Airport has ever witnessed.”

  But she was smiling. That smile. Cal couldn’t help but stare. And then he was smiling, too. And she took his arm. And for the briefest moment the world felt like it was spinning in Cal’s direction.

  “I don’t know about you guys,” she said, “but I could sure use a beer.”

  “Right this way,” said Cal, motioning to the Tennessee Tavern up ahead.

  They’d already heard most of the story, but hearing it from Diane gave the incident in Vietnam more weight. To her credit, there wasn’t an ounce of emotion elicited during the recitation. She was in her element, detached, doing what she did so well for the Navy. She’d analyzed her own mistakes, the mistakes of her assailants, and moved on to the most important question: Why?

  “Cal, how much do you know about your father’s time in Germany?” Diane asked.

  “It’s news to me.” He was quick to add, “I mean, I just found out about it.”

  All eyes were on Cal now. The others knew where he’d heard about his father. They were each wondering if he’d tell Diane. To tell her was to bring her in. Not to tell her was to say thanks for the information and send her on her way. Was the second option even an option?

  No. It wasn’t.

  “The president of Russia told me about Dad,” he said plainly.

  Cal gave Diane the abbreviated version of his Camp David conversation. She took it in, digested it, and then said, “Why would he even care? I mean, no offense, Cal, but who are you to him?”

  “I’ve been asking myself the same damn question for days. I honestly don’t know. It’s gotta be about Dad. Neil’s been digging and can’t find a shred of evidence that he worked for the CIA or that he was ever in Germany. But everything points to Russia and Germany.”

  Diane nodded like the pieces were coming together in her head. “What I’m abo
ut to tell you could get me thrown into the brig.”

  “We can take care of that,” Cal said, realizing too late that he sounded a little haughty saying it. Diane didn’t seem to notice, just nodded like she hadn’t heard the words at all. He could see that she was calculating.

  “It’s a long story. I’ll keep it short. Basically, the boss had tasked me with preparing a report detailing the ongoing relationships between the Russians and their former allies in Germany. Specifically, he wanted to know which high-level Russians might be trying to once again establish a foothold in their old territory. I didn’t think much of it. Once the Berlin wall came down a lot of pieces scattered, including spies. I thought my boss was giving me busy work.” Diane took a sip of her pale ale. “A lot of the old players are dead or retired. But there are a few, including your good buddy Yegorovich, who still figure into the global domination market.”

  “Did you find anything on him?” Top asked.

  Diane shook her head. “Negative. Though I found some interesting tidbits on a couple of generals. Turns out they still have a taste for German tail.” She tipped her head in apology. “I digress. Sorry.” Another sip of beer. “I got access to a set of redacted reports filed by some Russian spy. I’m not sure how we got our hands on it. Doesn’t matter. The first report talked about an American. A Marine. The name was blacked out, but the tone was clear. Whoever this Russian was had admiration for the American, but kind of like a dog salivating for a bone. No offense, Liberty. He wanted to take him down.”

  “You think he was talking about my dad?” said Cal.

  “Who knows? Anyway, about four reports in, the tone changes. I can’t really explain how, but it was like the Russian had a change of heart. Maybe he got bored. I don’t know. But I think, at least when I kept going back to one specific report, I couldn’t help but think that the Russian wasn’t telling the whole truth and nothing but the truth.”

  "You’re saying he was lying to his superiors?” Cal asked. That opened a whole slop shoot of possibilities.

  “Lying by exception, maybe. And if it wasn’t me and I didn’t know you, I’m not sure any of this would even be relevant.” Diane looked at Cal now. “But I had a piece of information that no one else who’d ever looked at those reports either had or even considered.”

  Cal could feel the cold creeping into his hands. “Tell me.”

  Diane nodded, went to take another sip of beer, and wound up draining the glass in a full swig. She wiggled the glass at Top, motioning for another, and said, “One of the reports mentions the Marine getting in trouble with his superiors. It even references a court martial.”

  Cal flashed back to his time in that frozen cave. The only thing he’d had to fixate on.

  That damn file.

  “What was the charge?” Cal heard himself ask, though he already knew the answer.

  “Adultery.” As if that wasn’t bad enough, Diane added, “and having a child out of wedlock.”

  Chapter Seventy-Seven

  WILCOX — CAMP SPARTAN, ARRINGTON, TENNESSEE — PRESENT DAY

  “You sure you don’t have any Twinkies?” he called out. “I could really use a couple of Twinkies.”

  No answer. Not that he expected one. He was bored and when he was bored he liked to talk. But there was no one to talk to, so he talked to himself, gibberish mostly. He knew they were watching and listening. That Dunn guy was probably dissecting every word, inventorying each vowel into a separate spreadsheet. What a hard case. If God made a mold for the perfect jailer he’d succeeded in A Number One Todd Dunn.

  But Wilcox wasn’t one to complain. No, he was one to figure a guy out and then either rip him to shreds or bring him over to the dark side.

  “Wonder what Todd Dunn would look like in a Darth Vader getup. Mmmm... probably too short. And he doesn’t have the walk. Vader had a cool walk. Dunn walks like an eczematic octogenarian in burlap pants.” God, he hoped Dunn heard that one.

  Before he could segue into putting Dunn into a Princess Leia outfit, someone banged on the holding cell door.

  “Put your hands on the wall and spread ’em.”

  “A little rough for a first date, don’t you think?”

  No reply came so Wilcox exhaled at the lack of wit and put his hands on the wall, careful to spread his feet just over shoulder widths apart. “I’m ready. Just don’t let the other boys know I put out this easily.”

  The only answer he got was the door opening and boots clomping on the cement floor. They were good. Very good. Probably Gitmo vets recruited precisely for him. He thought that maybe he should ask them if they’d met any of Castro’s relatives. Could be.

  His hands clamped now, Wilcox went to turn his head, to say thanks, of course.

  A vice like grip grabbed his head and held it there.

  “Whoa, sailor. Now, that’s not very nice.” And that’s when he made his move.

  His legs shot forward as his head went back. He wasn’t trying to knock anyone out. Not yet.

  The helpful guard behind him grabbed Wilcox’s head, giving the assassin the right leverage to run up the wall like a spider monkey. He even got a good look at the surprise on the man’s face. Over the first man he went, and his bare feet slammed into the chest of the second man behind.

  “Well that worked out well,” Wilcox said breathlessly, stomping on Guard No. 2’s chest for good measure. He grinned at the expel of air at the same time he snapped his forehead into the face of the Guard No. 1. He didn’t make contact, but he got the guy back on his heels enough to give him room to kick right between the legs.

  “Sorry, boys,” he said, wiping his hands together. “Should’ve gotten me Twinkies.”

  He was careful to slip the cell keys out of the lead guard’s pocket, relieve them both of their weapons, and then tiptoe out of the room. The door had just shut with a muted thunk when a voice behind Wilcox made him frown.

  “You said you’d be good,” Cal said, the wryness in his tone sounding like Wilcox’s father. That only deepened his frown, but only momentarily. Wilcox was all smiles when he turned back to his old pal Cal.

  “Somebody’s gotta test the security measures around here. I hear some poor sap got killed right out there. You guys should really do something about that, you know. I mean, I think I understand why you left. Pure incompetence. Why, if this were my place—”

  “Would you do the world a favor and just shut up for a second?”

  “I’m capable of shutting up for more than a second, thank you.” Wilcox court bowed at the waist and zipped his lips just to prove it.

  A sound of running feet came toward them. Wilcox was fully prepared to be tased, sprayed, and splayed. The guy in the lead, all hard-charging Marine probably, skidded to halt behind Cal. He’d brought no less than four friends to come to the rescue.

  “Welcome, gentlemen,” said Wilcox. “The sofa goes in the living room and be careful with the china.”

  Cal held up a hand and then pointed at the cell door.

  “Take care of them.” Then he pointed at Wilcox. “I’ll take care of him.”

  The dubious look thrown Wilcox’s way more than amplified what they thought of Cal’s order. But Cal was the son of the founder and blah, blah, blah.

  They did what he said, entering the room guns drawn, as if Wilcox had left a friend. They came out dragging one unconscious man and helping the guy he’d nailed in the nads.

  “Sorry about that!” Wilcox offered, letting a chuckle slip out with the words.

  The guy threw him a dirty look, shook off the help, and stomped down the hallway.

  Cal’s eyes hadn’t left him. Fine, if that’s how he wanted it. Wilcox had seen and done too much to be unnerved. Except that cat playing the keyboard on YouTube. That was enough to make any sane man squirm.

  “Is this a staring contest, cuz I didn’t get the memo.” Cal just kept on staring. “Seriously, buddy, I think you need a vacation. All this play-by-the-rules jazz is getting you grumpier than when we f
irst met. Just say the word and I’ll have my travel agent book us a flight to Vietnam. You wouldn’t think it, but they’ve got world-class food to go with their world-class wh—”

  “Stop. Just stop.”

  Wilcox grinned. He loved pushing the Marine’s buttons. “Fine. No Vietnam. Then what? Tahiti? Maybe something colder. Switzerland is nice any time of year!”

  Cal looked at his watch. “I have a decision to make, Matthew.”

  He didn’t like the way Cal said “Matthew.” Like a husband in trouble. He folded his arms and leaned against the doorway. “A decision? Pray tell, oh great Marine pal ‘o mine.”

  The creases along the rims of Cal’s eyes deepened, giving him sort of a John Wayne look.

  “I’m trying to figure out whether it would be easier just to shoot you.”

  “Easier than what?”

  “Easier than asking you to help me track down the Russian bastards that…” Cal gathered his mounting anger and shoved it down into whatever pit he liked to store that pent-up rage. “We’re ninety-five percent sure it was the Russians.”

  “You mean that killed the guy who was trying to drug you, or who hired the guy to shoot you up with horse tranquilizer?”

  “We think it might be both.”

  Interesting. “Then what are you waiting for? I’m all yours. Just point me in the right direction, Herr Kommandant, and I’ll take those bastards down.” Wilcox stuck his hand out. Cal didn’t move from his position, ten feet away. “You’re going to shoot me.”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “Then what about the Russians?”

  Cal grinned, the satisfied smile of a purveyor of sunshine. “I think I just came up with an excellent way for you to help.”

  A lesser man would’ve gulped or maybe lost a heartbeat or two. Wilcox just shrugged. “Okay? Tell me straight, cowboy.”

  The Marine told him. Short, sweet, straight to it. And deep down, in one of the nooks or crannies that he never liked to let out into the world, Wilcox both cringed and giggled. Cal Stokes was starting to sound like the guy Wilcox knew he could be.