by Trevor Scott
By now they had reached the end of the pier. Jake could see a building a few hundred yards away, and he assumed it was the warehouse where the men had taken him. “Where’s your car?”
Tucker pointed off into the darkness.
●
As the two men approached, Chavva sunk lower in the driver’s seat. The car was in total darkness, so her reaction was from instinct. She had her window lowered, trying to hear what they were saying, without much luck.
She gasped when she saw one man helping the other. He was having a difficult time walking. Someone had beaten him, she was sure.
A block away, the men piled into the little Zil sedan and then drove off. She thought of following them, but had a better idea.
11
The hotel room reeked of stale cigarette smoke from the two men chain smoking over the past hour. They had both been in the Israeli army, had fought little skirmishes too many to count, and had then found their way into the private service of the wealthy Tel Aviv businessman. The pay was better, they could still carry their pacifying Uzis, and so far they had not had to dodge any Arab or Palestinian bullets. They were playing a game of cards, both cheating badly, and catching each other with the dirty deed. If one or the other actually played it straight for a change, the other would surely lose respect.
Peering out the window from the twelfth floor to the vacant street below, Omri Sherut wondered how long she would be. He checked his watch again. It was nearly two a.m. He had called her an hour ago, and she had insisted on coming over. She didn’t like handling anything over the phone, he knew. Unfortunately, she was far more persuasive in person. No one could say no to those eyes, and he had heard that even those were deceiving. She was a dangerous person. That was a fact. Her good looks did nothing to change that.
There was a faint knock on the door and the two men quickly dropped the cards and found their weapons.
Sherut waved them back to their game as he headed for the door, peeked through the view hole, and then opened it.
Chavva strutted in, obviously disturbed. She wore tight black jeans and a leather coat, and she swayed her hips with each determined step. She swung around toward Sherut. “Send the boys for a walk,” she demanded.
Sherut hesitated. Orders were supposed to go in the other direction.
She glared at the two body guards, who were trying not to stare at her beautiful body, and failing miserably. “Get out,” she yelled at them, swishing her head toward the door. “Keep an eye on the hallway and the elevator.”
They didn’t even look to their boss for help. They simply slipped on their overcoats and slid their Uzis into specially-made inside pockets. In a second they were gone.
Moving closer, Sherut wondered what was so important. Since his days with Mossad, so long ago now, he had taken orders from no one. He had built his successful business from the ground up, accumulating great wealth. He was only in Odessa now because of his friendship with the Mossad leadership. He was doing them a favor. How did this woman think she could make such great demands? Like a wife. He had been married once, until she started making demands much like this woman now. That one was gone as though she had never been born. It was an unfortunate accident. Who would have guessed the decks of a luxury cruise liner could be so wet and slippery at night?
“What’s wrong, Chavva?”
She crossed her arms. “I told you Adams was not to be hurt. We need him.”
“He’s still alive. We didn’t hurt him.”
“That’s not what I’ve heard,” she said.
How could she know, he thought. He knew she was a resourceful operative. At least that’s what his old friend at Mossad had told him. Warned him, as it was. He could not remember his exact words, but simply a feeling that she was not to be totally trusted. In fact, he had said, she herself had gone too far interrogating people. It was rumored that she could kill men twice her size with one kick, and had proven it many times. If she had heard that they had gone too far with the American, then she had more ears and eyes out there than he initially thought.
“We had to try to make him tell us what he knows,” Sherut said, trying to calm her.
She turned away, wondering how to approach him. She needed their support. Didn’t want it, but needed it. She was to give them a hand, yet work independently. She had her own ideas on how to make the whole thing work, regardless of Omri Sherut’s plans. It was true that Sherut had worked as an officer in the past, but how many centuries ago was that? So what if he was a personal friend of the Mossad director. She suspected there was a greased palm here or there, but was in no position to prove it, and couldn’t really care less one way or the other. It was all part of the game.
She turned around. “And? What does Jake know?”
“Nothing. I’m sure of it.”
“He’s not going to just give up the information,” she said. “How can you be so sure?”
“The boys broke a few ribs.”
She looked surprised. She had been right. Jake had been limping, being helped by that other man she had never seen before. She thought about the night they had met in Istanbul. He had not recognized her. How could he? It had been so long. He was a man she could let take her...do whatever he wanted. The thought of him being less than perfect disturbed her. “What did he say?”
“Said he works for a fertilizer company,” Sherut said.
At least he’s consistent. “What else?”
“He said he had never met Tvchenko. That he just happened to be standing next to him when he collapsed. I don’t believe him.”
“Why?”
“He was carrying this.” Sherut handed her the Makarov.
She looked over the pistol, slid the chamber open. It was empty. “How did he explain this?” She popped the magazine out and extracted the first round. It was a brass jacketed hollow point. A standard round. If he was an operative, he would have untraceable hand loads with smokeless powder.
“He said businessmen were being killed every day in Eastern Europe.”
She snapped the magazine into the butt of the gun. “That’s possible. But I don’t think so.”
“That’s what I figured,” he said, feeling a little better about his talk with Adams. “He didn’t carry himself like some businessman. Military intelligence maybe. Agency more likely.”
She figured Jake Adams would be tough to crack. He had impressed her as someone with a great deal of conviction. No, perhaps a softer approach would work better on him. She smiled at the thought of seducing him. He would be both gentle and rough. A combination that was hard to find in a man. The truth is, she hoped it would come to this.
“What about his employers?” she asked.
Sherut pulled out a small piece of paper from inside his suit. “Maxwell MacCarty is the Bio-tech Chemical Company president. I met him at the conference. A capable man, but I don’t think he would have anything to do with Tvchenko. His partner, Bill Swanson, is in charge of research for their company. He’s another story. I don’t think he’s smart enough to be involved.” He hesitated and thought about his meeting with the little fat and balding man from Portland at the bar earlier that night. He could be a problem.
“What’s wrong with Swanson?” she asked.
“Nothing. I’m sure he knows nothing. Yet, he could be a problem for us.”
She smiled. “Problems can be handled.”
A chill came over him as he gazed at her eyes surrounded by dark, furled brows.
●
Jake Adams was standing before a full-length mirror in the hotel room with his shirt off. His ribs were definitely bruised, perhaps even cracked. It wasn’t the first time and probably wouldn’t be the last. When he had tasted his own blood earlier, he thought his lung had collapsed. But once he got back to his room, he realized he had been hit in the nose as well. So the blood could have come from that wound. Regardless, his ribs were in a great deal of pain. Pain he’d have to live with.
Tully O’Neill pulled a
large roll of white medical tape from a first aid kit he had brought up from his car. Going on, the tape would be no problem. Coming off was another story.
Tully had hurried over after Jake’s call. He looked like he had been drinking heavily. His face was red and his eyes had huge bags beneath them. He was dressed in blue jeans and an old brown leather flyer’s jacket. Tully started toward Jake with the tape.
Jake saw him in the mirror. “No fucking way are you taping me.” Jake gingerly pulled his shirt over his head, through one arm, then another, and let it fall to his waist.
Across the room, Sinclair Tucker sat backwards on a wooden chair, his hat propped back on his head. “They look broken to me,” Sinclair said. “I think you should tape them.”
“Stiff upper lip and all that rot, hey Tuck?” Jake said.
“Exactly.”
The Odessa station chief seemed more serious than Jake had seen before, even after the bombing at Tvchenko’s apartment. He gazed at Jake, the tape ready to go after Jake’s chest. Looking at the dark bruises, he had to be wondering why Jake had taken a chance by going off alone. Although Jake had not worked with Tully other than the last few days, he had worked with others who had. Tully had told Jake when they first met that their mutual associates said Jake Adams took too many risks. But Jake also knew that he and Tully were alive today because Jake had sensed something wrong with Tvchenko’s apartment where Tully had not.
Tully asked, “Who were they?” He paused and gave Jake a more critical glare. “And what in the hell did they want?”
Jake shrugged and the pain in his ribs made him wince. “I didn’t catch their names, and I didn’t see their faces. The two with Uzis were pretty good size. As tall as Sinclair, but bulkier. Well trained I’d suspect. They knew some shit. Knew how to kick. Military or intelligence background, I’d guess. Style seemed familiar. I also heard one guy speak. I think he was trying to cover his accent, but I’d guess he was from the middle east. Perhaps Lebanese or Israeli.”
“I got the make and license of the car,” Sinclair chimed in. “An older Volga with local plates. Maybe your men could check it out, but I’m sure you’ll find nothing.”
Tully turned quickly. “Why’s that?”
“Nothing personal, mate. I just suspect it was stolen. It had modified fog lights on the front much like the locals use in Crimea and the agricultural north. Rentals don’t have those.”
Tully had a disgusted look on his face. He had had a few run-ins with British MI-6. They had undone an operation he was running in Bulgaria during the height of the Cold War. He had lost nearly a year of hard work, and that was difficult for any officer to forget. Now here was a man he didn’t know, an MI-6 officer, sitting there arrogantly thinking he was one of the boys in his inner circle, with complete access to everything he knew.
“Listen boys, we’re not going to quibble over territory on this one,” Jake said. “There’s too much at stake. Tully, I’ve worked with Sinclair Tucker on a number of occasions in the past. He’s damn good.”
“Thank you, Jake,” Sinclair said.
“Now, Sinclair. Tully here is the station chief. You don’t get a position like that in our new Agency without attaining a certain level of skill.” He thought for a minute and realized he was bullshitting himself. Many of those positions were filled because the person knew someone near the top. “I have complete confidence in Tully leading on this one.”
Tully’s eyes shot up. “Does that mean you’ll continue to help out, Jake?”
Jake caressed his ribs. “I’d like a shot at the guys who did this to me, but I still work for MacCarty. And I haven’t been doing a helluva lot for him lately. I know you’re a little short, Tully. Let’s just play it as it comes along. See what happens. When MacCarty and Swanson leave for Portland in a few days, then we’ll talk.”
“That’s fair.”
Sinclair Tucker went to a small brown refrigerator across the room. Inside were a few different types of beer, some bottled juice, and various airline-size bottles of liquor. “Anyone want something from here? Jake you look like you could use a beer.” Sinclair opened two bottles and brought one to Jake. “How about you, Tully?”
“There’s some vodka in there, Tully,” Jake said.
“Why not.”
Sinclair brought Tully one of the tiny bottles and handed it to him. Then he sucked down some of his beer.
Jake took a seat on the bed. “Have you heard from Quinn Armstrong, Tully?”
Tully downed the entire bottle of vodka. Then he said, “Not bad. Yeah, he said you two met at Petra’s place. He’s got one helluva bruise on his head. You caught him square.”
“He told you it was an accident?” Jake said.
“Sure. But I think he’s still pissed it happened.”
“He’ll get over it,” Jake said. “Did you see him tonight? Did he find Petra yet?”
Tully lit a cigarette and inhaled deeply. “I only talked to him for a minute on the phone. He was going to hit a few clubs tonight. We’ll meet in my office in the morning. I’d like you to be there.”
“It’s the last day of the conference,” Jake said. “That should keep MacCarty and Swanson occupied. What time?”
“Nine. Nine thirty.”
“I’ll be there. Now let’s get some sleep.”
They all finished their drinks and then Tully O’Neill left first. Five minutes later, Sinclair Tucker headed out as well.
12
NOVILLERO, MEXICO
With thick clouds overhead, the night was extremely dark. Even the lights from the small village were barely visible, as the Cypriot fishing boat chugged slowly toward the pier.
For more than a week the boat had managed to avoid the American Navy and Coast Guard. The poor weather had helped.
Back in the shadows of an old wooden pilot house, Steve Nelsen, a huge man dressed in dark clothing with a zipper jacket with POLICIA stenciled in bright yellow on the back, peered around the corner, watching the boat make its way toward the dilapidated mooring. He was sure it was the right boat, yet it should have been here more than thirty minutes ago. Nelsen was pissed off even being in Mexico. When he had switched from the CIA’s operations directorate to the intelligence section six months ago, he had sought a nice assignment in Europe, after hopping around the Middle East and Turkey for the last ten years. But he had made too many enemies in his tenure there, and his boss, who was working on an ambassadorship of his own, wanted him out of the way. He knew too much.
Nelsen’s partner, Ricardo Garcia, was no stranger to night operations. He seemed to have the eyes for it, the whites shimmering in the darkness like an animal’s in a car headlight. He too was dressed in black, camouflaged in the darkness. He was a good foot shorter than his senior partner, but stocky, strong, and not afraid to mix it up with bigger guys. He had been doing it all his life. Garcia had only worked with Nelsen for a few days, having been reassigned from drug interdiction in Columbia a few weeks ago, and then two weeks of vacation in his home town, San Antonio. Garcia wasn’t sure what to think of Nelsen yet, or how he’d react in a tight spot. But he thought he was about to find out.
“Let’s go, Dick,” Nelsen whispered, as he headed toward the pier. “Remember, on my command,” he said softly into his headset.
Garcia cringed but was right on the man’s heels.
●
In a few minutes the boat was up against the pier, and the captain watched his crew members tie the boat fore and aft. The helmsman cut the engine. Cautiously, the captain made his way from the pilot house to the port side. Something wasn’t right. There were two men in dark clothes and heavy coats strolling slowly down the wooden planks. On another boat across the pier, two men were straightening a fishing net at the stern. It was nearly midnight, and at that hour, he would have suspected the entire pier to be empty.
Simultaneously, in chaotic seconds, the men walking down the pier, those on the opposite boat, and others who had been crouching out of sight, bu
rst toward the Cypriot boat, their weapons drawn. One man yelled orders for the fishermen to hit the deck and keep their hands in plain view. Others swept through the boat searching desperately for anything unusual. Within a minute, the entire boat had been canvassed, with no weapon found. The four fishermen were taken into custody, and two officers remained onboard to guard the vessel.
●
Nelsen watched as his men escorted the fishermen to the van. He had been so certain. Something wasn’t right here. The captain of the boat had this knowing smirk, as a child would when he had just gotten away with something. It was definitely no fishing boat—with the hold converted to extra fuel tanks. His men had also reported finding an engine far more powerful than needed to fish. No, this was the boat that left Johnston Island with the nerve gas. But where was the bomb now?
Ricardo Garcia was next to him, wondering what had gone wrong.
“What do you think, Dick?” Nelsen asked.
Garcia hated that name. Dick. This is the only man who had called him that, since high school when he broke a kid’s nose for calling him it, and then softly adding “head” at the end. He didn’t want to make waves, having only been together for a few days. Besides, the man was gigantic. He wasn’t only tall, but his muscles, which he exposed as often as possible in tight T-shirts, were defined like Arnold Schwarznegger’s. Garcia shrugged. “It’s got to be the boat.”
“Exactly. Let’s see if we can’t have a talk with these boys,” Nelsen said, squeezing Garcia’s shoulder with his strong hand, and hauling him off toward the car.
●
Five miles up the coast, a small launch had just come ashore on a secluded beach. Four men, all dressed in black, strained to pull the boat out of the rising tide. When they finally had the boat completely on dry sand, they gently tugged the heavy metal case from the boat and set it on the beach.
Baskale ran to the tree line. Waiting there, as planned, was an American-licensed Chevy Suburban with wide tires and four wheel drive. The man drove the truck to the beach without lights, and in a few seconds, the weapon was loaded in the back and covered with blankets and camping gear. The four men headed off in the Suburban on an old dirt road.