Extreme Faction

by Trevor Scott

  Nelsen had called in his position for backup by CIA interior officers working out of the El Paso office. Four agents in two other vehicles were converging on their position, aided by Presidio County Sheriff’s units and a pair of Texas Rangers. If everything went as planned, Nelsen would have the terrorists and the bomb boxed in. If he could keep the truck on the road.

  He swerved dangerously close to the edge of the dirt track, nearly sliding down a steep embankment.

  Nelsen’s partner, Ricardo Garcia, sat in the passenger side of the truck cab grasping the armrest, his knuckles turning white.

  “Catching the bad guys would require us living. Isn’t that right?” Garcia asked.

  Nelsen twisted the wheel furiously. “You can get out any time, Ricky.”

  “Yeah, right.” Garcia glanced behind, but could only see dust. “Do you suppose the boys are keeping up?”

  “They know where we’re heading,” Nelsen said. “Besides, they can’t lose us. Just follow the dust cloud.”

  “How do you know where these guys are heading?”

  Nelsen hated answering questions. If the Agency would let him work alone, he would. “Simple. These bozos aren’t Americans, yet they’ve had help every step of the way.” He paused for a moment, shaking his head, as if to say how in the hell did this guy get into the Agency. He continued, “They’ve been able to keep just out of reach. Somebody in America is supporting them. Sanctioning them. We checked out all possible subversive groups in Texas, and that wasn’t easy. But we knew their nationality, or in their case their multiple nationalities. There were very few nationalized citizens. Those who were did not impose a threat.”

  “And you were going to tell me this when?” Garcia asked.

  Nelsen disregarded his partner as he braked and braced for a sharp corner. The back of the truck fishtailed. He continued. “So what was next? Students. We checked the databases for every college in Texas, then we had agents, escorted by campus security, check out every one last night. We narrowed it down to five possibles. Then later to two. Both are Iranians. But they aren’t Persians.”

  “Let me guess. Kurds.”

  “Exactly.” Nelsen thought it over. He wasn’t used to working with a partner. “Sorry, Garcia. I called this in after talking with the Cypriot. I just forgot to tell you.”

  The truck reeled around another corner, nearly crashing through a bushy clump of yucca. To the north, the landscape evened off slightly. To the south were jagged points of rock and dirt, topped by scrawny pines and cacti. Nelsen imagined it was a great place for rattlesnakes.

  “Get on the horn and see if the locals have cut off the other end yet,” Nelsen ordered. “I don’t want those bastards getting away.”

  Garcia switched frequencies and called in. The sheriff and his men were in place five miles away. They had two helicopters in the air, but had not seen any other vehicles yet.

  “Fucking podunks. Give me that thing.” Nelsen swiped the handset from Garcia. “Listen Goddammit. You tell those chopper pukes to get their asses in gear and open their eyes. Anything moves out on this wasteland makes one hell of a dust cloud. They should be able to see that for ten miles.”

  “Yes, sir,” came the reply.

  “Don’t piss these locals off,” Garcia warned. “They’re libel to let the bastards slip through on purpose. Let them head off to a different county.”

  Nelsen knew he was right, but he hated to admit it. “If I catch them pulling that shit, I’ll shoot them myself.” He glared over at Garcia for an uncomfortably long few seconds, his eyes away from the dangerous road.

  Garcia turned away.

  ●

  The Suburban had been off the road behind high brush when four county sheriff’s cars passed by in a hurry, lights flashing, just minutes before the cars had turned to set up the road block two miles down the open road. A lone helicopter swooped low across the foothills of the Del Norte Mountains a few miles away.

  Baskale started the engine and then inched the truck up the embankment, the four-wheel drive digging the tires into the dirt, but not spinning. The map showed a crossroad ahead. Paved. The Suburban crept onto the dirt road, and Baskale checked the rearview mirror every few seconds. The truck headed northeast right at the speed limit. Baskale didn’t want to bring any attention to his truck. He knew that the men were looking for him. Finally, a challenge. He smiled outwardly, but also felt he couldn’t afford to get caught. Not before he was done.

  In a few miles, Baskale turned north onto U.S. Highway 67. He had zig-zagged across nearly every dirt road in the county, and now it was time to make up for lost time on a few paved roads. He would head east after a few miles, then north again, repeating the pattern and staying away from any towns of size. He would change vehicles soon, and would have to kill again, covering his tracks. Nothing would be left to chance. There was too much at stake.

  Baskale kept looking into his mirror, but there was no one there.

  ●

  Nelsen slowed the Ranger down as he approached the road block. He skidded to a halt and slammed his hand against the wheel. “Fucking shit. Where the hell did they go?”

  Garcia got out and started talking with the sheriff.

  In a couple of minutes, the two Jeep Cherokees came up behind them, the entire vehicles covered in dust, with only spots on the windshields cleared by overworked wipers.

  Nelsen slid out and unfolded a map onto the hot hood. He slashed his finger to the north across the map, figuring they had to have passed the sheriff cars somewhere along County Highway 169.

  “It would help if we knew where in the hell those bastards are heading,” Nelsen muttered to himself.

  Garcia and the sheriff were at Nelsen’s side now.

  “What now?” Garcia asked.

  “I want every road within a hundred miles blocked to the north at Interstate 10,” Nelsen started, sliding his finger along the blue interstate line. “Every stinking little skunk trail. Cut off the county lines here and here,” he said, swishing his finger like a knife across the paper. “Call in more air support from Goodfellow and Laughlin Air Force Bases in the east.”

  “We don’t have authority for that,” the sheriff said.

  “No, but I do,” Nelsen said, his teeth clenched. “You tell anyone who asks that this is by order of the Central Intelligence Agency. As you may or may not know, we have authority and jurisdiction over whomever we need.”

  The sheriff headed off.

  “That’ll piss off a whole shitload of Texans,” Garcia said.

  “It’s my job to piss people off. If they don’t like it, they can go work for McDonald’s.”

  22

  ODESSA, UKRAINE

  Jake had hurried back to Helena Yurichenko’s apartment, where Quinn was watching over Petra Kovarik. Quinn had been somewhat nervous, wondering what had taken him so long. Jake hadn’t realized he’d been gone two hours, but he was running on cautious mode, watching his back as he drove through the city, doubling back, stopping at the curb quickly. After getting the key from Tuck, he had found a phone and called Tully O’Neill, finding out that MacCarty too had died at the Polyklinik an hour ago. With that knowledge, he wanted to be absolutely certain he didn’t make any mistakes. He knew he had not been followed.

  Then Jake drove Petra, Helena and Quinn to the MI-6 safe apartment, being equally cautious, handed the key over to Quinn, and told them all to stay put. He had something he needed to do.

  ●

  Jake parked Tully’s Volga at the curb on Primorski Boulevard a half a block from the Chornoye Hotel, the hotel where he was staying and seemed like a year since he had been.

  He was tired and it must have shown in his eyes as he strolled to the elevator. As he waited for the elevator to arrive, he noticed the lobby was very active, with people from many different countries huddled in groups of threes and fours. Then he checked his watch and realized the last day of the agricultural conference must have just ended, and attendees had come back to
the hotel to freshen up before hitting the town one last night.

  The elevator dinged and opened. He got in and punched six. He was alone on the ride up. At the sixth floor, the doors opened and he got out. He slowly moved out into the dim hallway, where the carpet was worn through to the hardwood floor beneath it. Down a few rooms, yellow markers crisscrossed the entrance to two rooms across the hall from each other, MacCarty’s and Swanson’s. He hadn’t been back there since seeing them near death at the Polyklinik earlier in the day. The local police had sealed the rooms until they were certain what had happened. As far as Jake knew, the locals hadn’t determined if their deaths had been a simple accidental poisoning. But Jake knew better. Someone, for some unknown reason, had killed his employers, and he’d find out why. He had a feeling their deaths were related to Tvchenko’s murder, but wasn’t sure how or why.

  He stood for a minute outside of MacCarty’s room. MacCarty had been a nice guy. He didn’t deserve to die like that. Swanson was a prick, but Jake still felt for the man. He had suffered tremendously. Why had someone wanted to kill them? Did they know something about Tvchenko?

  Glancing up and down the hallway, Jake thought about breaking into MacCarty’s room, going through his things, trying to find anything that wasn’t right. Then he remembered that his room adjoined MacCarty’s.

  He went into his room and clicked on the light. He looked around quickly and realized something wasn’t right. Clothing items were not where he had left them. He pulled his gun and moved slowly through the room. If someone was there, they could only be hiding in the bathroom. He stepped closer to the half-open bathroom door, and shifted his gun to his left hand.

  With one sudden burst, he slammed his shoulder into the door and flung himself inside.

  Nothing.

  But something wasn’t right. It wasn’t just the maid service. Things were not in their normal place. He always made a point of placing items in a particular fashion, so if someone had been there looking for something, he’d know it.

  Back in the main room, he opened the top dresser drawer. His folded underwear were rumpled and shifted to the side. Someone had flipped through looking for something. It could have been a maid seeking money, but Jake didn’t think so. Yet, it might have been the local cops, since they probably knew by now that he had traveled to Odessa with the two dead Americans. He returned his gun to its holster.

  Jake sat on the bed for a minute thinking about all that had happened in the last few days. How did he get himself into these situations? It had been a simple case. Fly with the two Portland men to Odessa to attend a conference. A cultural and technical exchange. Take in a few sights. See a few old hang outs. Babysitting. Then Tvchenko dies into his arms, Jake is almost blown to bits, he’s kidnapped and beaten, his two employers are killed. What happened to simplicity?

  As he was thinking back it reminded him that his ribs were still aching. There was pain with each breath he took, and any quick movement made it feel as though knives were stabbing and twisting through his chest.

  He gazed across the room at the door adjoining MacCarty’s room. He could get in there. It’s the least he could do for the man. Look into his death. If he found why they had been poisoned, he might figure out what Tvchenko was up to. He was sure the three deaths were connected.

  Moving over to the door, he checked the lock. It was one of those two-lock deals, where he needed the key from his room and from the one on the other side to enter. He unlocked his side, and just for the hell of it, tried his key in the other lock. No good. It fit in the hole, but didn’t turn.

  Jake didn’t like to admit it, but he was pretty good at picking locks. He chocked it up to a less than stellar youth. He had never been caught at anything significant while growing up in his small Oregon town, but it didn’t mean he wasn’t into things. It just meant he never got caught. One of his favorite things was picking locks for fun. Once he got through a door, his friends would want to steal everything inside. But Jake wouldn’t let them. For him the challenge was simply getting past the door. And he had gotten good at it.

  In less than a minute, he was in MacCarty’s room. It was dark inside. An identical mirrored image of his room. He had been in there twice on Sunday, the day before the conference began, so he knew where MacCarty had left certain items.

  He moved around the room easily by the light from the window. The local police had flipped through MacCarty’s suitcases, throwing his clothes across the bed. The liner was ripped from one suitcase. There was nothing there. He suspected there wouldn’t be, even though he had no idea what he was looking for.

  MacCarty had told Jake he was working a deal with Victor Petrov with the Ukrainian Agricultural Ministry. Yet MacCarty’s briefcase was missing. He might have had papers in there saying what the contract included. He looked around the room one more time for the leather case MacCarty was rarely without. Perhaps he had brought it with him to breakfast and the authorities had taken it as evidence after the men collapsed into their meals. He made a mental note to search for the briefcase, and then went back into his room and locked the door behind him.

  Jake wished he could get into Swanson’s room, but he wasn’t about to cross the police barrier. He had heard far too many stories about the local police, and he didn’t have diplomatic immunity. If the locals took him in for questioning, he could be tied up in bureaucratic muck for years, while wallowing in some disgusting four-by-six cell with roaches and vermin his only friends.

  Instead, Jake changed clothes. While doing so, he checked out the bruises on his ribs. They were at that purple and black stage, and still a bit swollen. The outer edges had started to turn a dull yellow, so he knew the healing process had started.

  When Jake was done changing, he placed a few items in various locations, so he’d know if anyone had been there again. Then he headed out.

  Back downstairs in the lobby, Jake wandered toward the front desk. There were still a number of people hanging around. He saw her and stopped in his tracks. Chavva was leaning against a tall marble stanchion. She smiled when Jake noticed her and moved toward her.

  “What are you doing here?” Jake asked, as he moved closer to her. He wanted to kiss her on both cheeks as the Europeans always did among friends, but he wasn’t sure how close they really were.

  She raised her brows seductively. “My boss is staying here. There wasn’t enough room at my hotel.”

  Jake thought about that. He had tried to find her at the place she said she was staying, but they had no record of her there. “You’re at the Odessa Hotel?”

  She swished her head quickly. “No, no.”

  “But you said the other day—”

  “I said I was staying at The Odessa Hotel. What I meant was the best hotel in Odessa. I’m sorry for the confusion. Did you try calling me?” She looked genuinely disappointed.

  “Semantics,” Jake said. “So, you’re at which hotel?”

  “The Maranovka, of course.”

  It was the same hotel that the agricultural conference dinner had been held. The same place Tvchenko had been killed. That could have explained why Chavva had disappeared that night. She had simply gone up to her room. “Which room?” Jake asked.

  She smiled. “I’m in 902. Please give me a call.” Her disposition changed quickly from cheery to grave, as she looked past Jake. “I must go. I’ll be in Odessa for only a day or so. I must see you.” She brushed alongside Jake as she sauntered across the room toward the outside doors.

  Jake watched her carefully, taking in her perfume that lingered in the air. She met up with the older man, Omar Sharif, or whatever his name was. At the businessman’s side was a huge man wearing a long coat, opened in the front. Jake knew muscle when he saw it, and this man was with the Israeli for one reason. To intimidate.

  Omar kissed Chavva on both cheeks and then stared across the room at Jake. In a moment, the three of them were gone.

  Continuing to the front desk, Jake wondered about Chavva’s relation
ship with the older man. He didn’t think they were lovers. They would have kissed on the lips then.

  There was a message at the desk for Jake from Tully. It simply said to meet him at the entrance to the catacombs just before closing. Jake checked his watch. It was four-thirty. The catacombs would close at six. Jake shoved the note into his pocket and left the hotel.

  Great. That’s just the place he wanted to go as darkness set in.

  23

  It was said that there were a hundred ways to get into the extensive catacombs on the outskirts of Odessa. When Tully had said the entrance to the catacombs, Jake had assumed the one that had become a tourist attraction to the east of town. Jake had been there a few times, and had even gone underground for a number of hours. They were dark and damp tunnels, a constant cold, regardless of the season. It could be ninety degrees outside and the catacombs would be forty-five and clammy.

  The note hadn’t said whether Tully would meet him outside or inside, so Jake stood around for a moment wondering what to do.

  There was a small ticket shack that charged tourists to enter the tunnels, which had always bothered Jake. Why would someone want to pay to see man-made caves? He guessed they were interesting. When he had entered the catacombs years ago, he had gone at his own risk at a private entrance. That one had been used by resistance fighters hiding from Nazis, but had since been taken over by black marketeers and more recently, the Ukranian mafia.

  Jake looked back at the small parking lot. Since Jake had Tully’s Volga, and there were five other cars there, which car would Tully be driving?

  When Jake turned back toward the catacomb entrance nearly a hundred feet away, he noticed a man standing near the mouth. Tully? Jake drifted closer. The man went into the tunnel out of sight.

  Jake paid for a ticket and walked toward the entrance. As he got closer, he could see lights slung down the side of the walls. The tunnel entrance narrowed and became dark. There must have been a turn at the bottom, he guessed.