by Trevor Scott
“Yeah. Our main source on Tvchenko. She’ll know what he was working on.”
“Why didn’t she tell you before?”
Tully thought about that, finishing his cigarette and snubbing it in the ashtray. “I don’t know.”
Jake smiled. “She was working both sides?”
“That’s what I want to find out. Bring her in and we’ll have a little talk.”
Jake agreed. He had some time to kill, and besides, he didn’t like the idea of someone trying to blow him up. Maybe she had set off the bomb. Jake left Tully at the bar and wondered if he’d order another drink or go back to the office to work like he had said.
6
Petra Kovarik lived in a crowded, congested section of Odessa where immigrants from former Soviet republics like Bulgaria and Romania were cramped into tiny apartments. Many of the brick row houses and concrete slab buildings were occupied by wives of Black Sea sailors, who were gone most of the year and didn’t seem to mind the squalor when they were there, for they had seen far worse in ports with names that most Ukrainians had never heard of.
Jake had taken a cab, paid the man, who was glad to leave, and stood on the sidewalk gazing two blocks to Petra Kovarik’s apartment building. He figured it was better to get out early and walk a short distance to her building. Who knew if someone else might be looking for the woman?
He slowly walked off toward her place. It was closing in on noon and the streets were fairly vacant. Two young boys were having a stick war along an iron fence, and they didn’t seem to notice him pass. Cars that were parked on both sides of the street were mostly old Volgas or Trabants, the communist answer to the Volkswagen.
Kovarik’s building was a four-story concrete monstrosity with balconies enclosed by metal railing that were currently being used as clothes lines. The steps leading to the front door had chipped away already, even though Jake suspected the apartment building was no more than thirty years old.
Inside, Jake checked the mailboxes in a foyer area. Above each box was a button, where, supposedly, guests would call up to an apartment and the occupant could decide whether to buzz the person in. The problem was, someone had bashed in the speaker and ripped the electronic lock from the glass door that was now opened wide.
There was a P.K. on the box for room 222. Jake headed up the scuffed wooden stairs. At the top, he noticed the hallway was dark. The far wall was a bank of glass blocks that had somehow been darkened and now let in very little light. The ceiling paint was peeling and chips scattered about on the wooden floor. The overhead lights were either off or burned out. He checked a switch. Nothing.
Jake started down the passageway, wondering if he should draw his Makarov. He thought of the kids playing down the street and imagined more were probably lurking about. He left the 9mm in its holster, but unzipped his leather jacket.
Since the even numbered rooms were on the right, Jake realized that Petra’s room would be the last one on the right. As he got closer, he thought about Tully. He had seemed extremely strange, or nervous. Jake didn’t really know him well enough to understand which.
As he reached the door, he could hear movement inside. It wasn’t just a woman’s feet crossing wooden floors, though. Things were flying and ripping, and now he thought about Tvchenko’s apartment. Had the Kurds beat him to the place?
He slid his hand to the Makarov and started to draw it, when the door burst open and a startled figure smashed into him, knocking him back across the hallway to the door on the opposite side.
Jake scrambled to recover. Pulled the gun.
Two men had passed him and were sprinting down the hall.
Jake took aim in the darkness and hesitated. He didn’t know who they were. They hadn’t tried to shoot him.
By now the men were around the corner and taking the steps downstairs by twos or threes.
He peered toward the opened door, but couldn’t see much. He stepped inside and closed the door behind him, his gun still drawn. The light switch didn’t work.
Thinking about Tvchenko’s place again, he sniffed the air. Nothing.
He bumped into something. A sofa? Now he suspected he was in the middle of the living room. The windows were covered with shades that let in tiny strips of light between them.
Suddenly, there was movement and the gun flew from his hand. Then a kick to his stomach.
Jake swung around in the darkness with a high roundhouse kick, connecting on some body part. A face? There was a thud to the floor, and Jake was immediately on top of a body. He grabbed for the neck with his left hand and punched twice at the face rapidly with the right.
The man below him settled.
Jake crawled across the floor to a small table, groped around, found a small lamp, and clicked it on. Then he found the Makarov on the floor by the sofa leg.
Lying on the floor behind him was a man in his early thirties, perhaps younger. He had dark hair just off his shoulders and he needed a shave, much like Jake. He wore faded blue jeans and a black sweatshirt. The man seemed around five-ten, medium build, but it was hard to tell with him sprawled across the carpet. Then Jake noticed the Nike basketball shoes.
He searched the man for I.D. Nothing. He rolled him over, checked him for weapons, and found an empty leather holster under his left arm, but no gun. The jeans were Levis, hard to come by in Odessa. Shit. He had to be an American or a Brit. Jake rolled him back. He had blood coming from both nostrils and a reddened left ear, probably from his kick.
Jake slapped the man a few times and he started to come around.
In a moment, the man raised himself to his elbows. He was having a hard time breathing. He blew out through his nose and dislodged a blood clot into his hand.
“Who the fuck are you?” the man asked in Russian.
Jake realized he had the Makarov pointed at the man. He aimed it away. “I thought I’d ask you that question,” he said in English. “Since you hit me first.”
The man rose to a sitting position and wiped his nose on his sleeve. “You’re American. You don’t look it.”
“You do,” Jake said. “Who are you?”
The man hesitated.
Jake pointed the gun at him again.
“Quinn Armstrong.”
“Shit.” Jake reached down for the man’s hand. “I’m Jake Adams. Tully sent me.”
The man looked at him reluctantly, and finally took Jake’s hand and pulled himself up. He was still a bit shaky, so he took a seat on the sofa. “I thought you were a lot older.”
“Who told you that?”
“I don’t know. The way Tully talked, you were some legend. He spoke highly of you. Now I know why.” He rubbed the side of his head.
Jake didn’t know what to say. Finally he asked, “Where’s Petra?”
Quinn shook his head. “I have no idea. I checked her normal hang-outs last night. She’s not into the night club scene, but she goes to a few Jazz joints for the music. What the hell did you hit me with?”
Jake looked down at his brown hiking tennis shoes. They weren’t much to look at, but they were comfortable to walk in and held up nicely against a man’s head, or any other body part. “Sorry about that.”
Quinn shrugged and continued. “I’ve been hanging around here since late last night. I must have fallen asleep on the couch. When I heard the door open, I got up to meet Petra. But it wasn’t her. Two guys burst in and the biggest one cold-cocked me. I came around and saw a figure at the door. I took a swipe at the gun, and here we are. What do you mean Tully sent you?”
“Which word don’t you understand?”
“It’s just that he told me about you a few days ago,” Quinn said. “Said you were old Agency, had worked covert ops, former Air Force Intel, the whole spiel. Said you went private a few years back, and were babysitting a couple of Bozos from Portland. Hardly the kind of thing you’d expect, considering your background.”
“Did he also say I liked to kick the shit out of smart asses?”
; “Afraid not. If you’re referring to me, I’m not feeling really smart right now.”
“Hang on a minute.” Jake went to the kitchen and found some ice cubes, which he wrapped in a small towel and brought to Quinn. “You’ve got a helluva bruise forming under your ear. Put this on it.”
Quinn took the ice reluctantly and set it against his upper jaw. “Did you get a good look at them?”
“No such luck. They plowed into me on their way out, but the hallway was too dark. The first one out was big, but he moved like a much smaller guy. Like a linebacker. He wasn’t Ukrainian or Russian. I’m guessing he was one of the Kurds that ransacked Tvchenko’s apartment.” Jake looked around the room, which was destroyed much like the scientist’s place had been. “He does a good job.”
Quinn glanced about. “What were they looking for?”
“Other than Petra? I’d guess whatever she and Yuri Tvchenko were working on. You were her runner. Did she talk to you about their work?”
Armstrong had his eyes closed, in obvious pain. “She had her suspicions. She was a decent lab technician. Did what Tvchenko told her to. That’s it. She said he was extremely secretive. Would only tell her what she needed to know to complete her experiments.”
“You believe her?”
Quinn opened his eyes and glared at Jake. “Of course. I trust her.”
“Where is she then?”
“I don’t know,” he yelled. Quinn mulled over the question for a moment and then settled down. “Maybe she heard about Tvchenko’s murder last night and got scared. She said he had changed a lot lately. So the guy gets himself killed, she starts thinking it had something to do with the research, and she goes into hiding. So, Tully sent you. Why are you involved?”
Jake wasn’t sure about that himself. He had taken on the job watching over MacCarty and Swanson because that’s what he did now, take care of people who didn’t think they could do it themselves. It was true that the complexity of those assignments were usually less than exciting, but what the hell, it was a living. Every now and then over the past three years he would get a case that seemed easy at first but quickly turned into something else. Maybe this was one of them.
Looking the room over again, Jake finally said, “Who knows why we do the things we do? Did Tully tell you about last night? At Tvchenko’s apartment.”
“Yeah.”
“Well, I guess I don’t like people trying to dismember my body,” Jake said. “I’m not ready for that yet.”
“Makes sense.” Quinn looked at the gun in Jake’s hand. “Is that the Makarov Tully gave you?”
“Yep.”
“It’s a piece of shit,” Quinn said. “I’ll try to get you something better.” He felt for his own gun, and not finding it, he said, “I guess we both need a new one. Those bastards took my brand new Glock 19.”
“I’d prefer a CZ-75, but a Glock will do, if you can swing it.”
“I’ll ask for it in our next pouch due in from Rome.” Quinn rose and brought what was left of the ice pack to the kitchen and threw it in the sink. When he returned, he said, “Let’s head out and get a beer. I’ve got a few ideas left on where to find Petra.”
Jake holstered the Makarov. “Sounds good.”
7
It was Jake’s idea to go to the Odessa Hotel for a beer. Quinn didn’t care, he just wanted a beer to take his mind off the bruise that had formed on the side of his head. He had to be in some pain.
The Odessa Hotel was a few blocks down Primorski Boulevard from his hotel and perhaps a kilometer down that same street from the Maranavka, where Tvchenko had been killed the night before. The Odessa was nearly the same age as the Maranavka with less than half the charm or opulence. The red carpet in the lobby was worn and frayed and the oak counter in need of varnish.
Moving into the bar area, it seemed like night had already settled on the town, since half of the overhead lights were either turned off or missing.
They nudged up against the hotel bar, and considering the time of day, late afternoon, the place was fairly crowded. Picking up a couple of local Pilsners at the bar, the two of them found seats at a table back in a corner.
“How’s your head?” Jake asked.
“They didn’t teach that move at the academy.”
Jake shrugged. “I knew that before I joined the old Agency.”
Quinn rubbed the bruise gently. “Nice.”
They stared at each other for a moment. Quinn scratched his finely cropped goatee that made his chin look like a sharp chisel. The pointed angles stretched his head out, making it appear longer than it was.
Finally, Jake asked, “What do you know about the Kurds?”
“You separate it from the whey to make cheese.”
“Funny guy.”
“Hey, I used to work on a dairy farm in the summers in high school.”
Jake took a sip of beer and kept an eye on the door. He had had more than one reason choosing this place. He hoped to run into Chavva between conferences. But neither she nor any of her Israeli friends were there.
“The Kurds?” Jake repeated.
“I know nothing about Kurds.”
“What about Petra?”
Quinn took a long sip of beer. “I don’t know where she is. I’ll hit as many places as I can tonight to see if I can find her. I’ll bring her in and ask her about Tvchenko.”
Great. Jake leaned back and thought for a moment about his questioning. What did it matter to him? He was damn near interrogating the man, someone who should have been asking him questions about his association with the dead scientist.
“Why did Tully ask me to go pick up Petra?”
“How the hell should I know.” Quinn’s voice raised above the normal din of voices, bringing stares from a few men at the nearest table.
“Don’t get pissed at me,” Jake said. “I was just doing the guy a favor. He thought you were—”
“What? Incompetent?”
“Sleeping...after staying up most of the night looking for Petra. Listen, I don’t work for the agency anymore. I was just trying to help out.”
Quinn rose to his feet and finished his beer. “Maybe you should go back to babysitting.”
Leaving Jake there by himself, Quinn stormed out of the bar. That went well, Jake thought.
He finished his beer and then wandered toward the lobby. At the front desk, he asked for Chavva’s room. There was nobody there by that name. Then Jake described her in great detail. The man at the counter assured him that if someone like that was staying there, he’d know about it. Outstanding. She had said the Odessa Hotel. Why would she lie to him?
Jake left the Odessa and walked to the Chornoye Hotel, where he and MacCarty and Swanson were staying. It was nearly four, the time he was supposed to meet his boss and sidekick.
Checking the front desk for messages, there was only one from MacCarty saying the meeting at four was cancelled. He and Swanson had another conference they wanted to attend, hoping to wine and dine someone from Kiev afterwards. That was fine with Jake. He pocketed the note and went up to his room. It had been a long night and a long day and he figured he could use a quick nap before dinner.
8
Bill Swanson was a nervous man, fidgeting in the high-back wooden chair at the end of the bar. He had gotten a call from a man an hour ago, a contact he had talked to only twice by phone, and Swanson had agreed to meet him, as long as it was a public spot.
The Chornoye Morye Bar was only a block from his hotel, and he had told his boss, Maxwell MacCarty, he was hitting the sack early and would see him in the morning. MacCarty had no problem with that, since he was tired from all the lectures that day, and trying to negotiate a deal for a plant in Kiev. Swanson thought he should have done the same, considering his lack of sleep the night before following Tvchenko’s death.
Having gone through two vodka Collins in the fifteen minutes he had waited for the man who had said he’d be there at eight o’clock, Swanson was getting nervous and imp
atient. He checked his watch again. It was ten after eight now.
The problem was he didn’t even know what the man looked like. There was a man down the bar a few chairs, an older man who seemed like a daily fixture there, gruff and in dire need of a shave. Was it him? Doubtful. The man he had talked with sounded dignified, as if he were a businessman like him.
As he scanned the room again, he noticed there were only four other people in the place. Two younger men at one table holding hands across the table. Fucking queers, Swanson thought. The other two were about mid-forties and rather boisterous, speaking English. British accents. It couldn’t be one of them. No. His contact was late.
That was fine. It gave him time to think. How would he deal with this man? He knew nothing about him, yet the proposition seemed too good to be true. The money had been waiting for him at the desk this morning, just as the man said it would after the first call. But what did he want now?
He ordered a third drink, and the bartender went to work on it in a slow, deliberate manner, something that would have gotten him fired in America.
“Don’t turn around,” came a deep, husky voice behind him.
Swanson had his back to the bathroom entrance, and the only other chair at that end of the bar was against the wall by that door. The man must have been in there watching and waiting. Waiting for him to go to the bathroom, he thought. He shifted slightly and tried to see the man through the corner of his eye, but it was useless.
“What do you want?” Swanson asked.
“The money wasn’t for your good looks,” the man said.
Swanson’s drink came and he paid for it. The bartender asked the other man what he wanted. Nothing, was all he said, and the bartender went away with a disturbed look, as if he had seen a gun. Did the man have a gun?
“Well, what can I do for you?” Swanson asked, and then took a drink.
“Tvchenko. You were talking with him after his lecture yesterday, and at the party last night before his untimely death. I want to know what you found so fascinating.”
How did this man know he had talked with Tvchenko? Had he attended the lecture? It was possible. There had been twenty or more men there, as well as four women. He racked his brain now trying to match the voice with those he had seen in the lecture, but he drew a blank.