by Trevor Scott
28
WASHINGTON, D.C.
Kurt Jenkins, the CIA Director of Operations, ushered his assistant into the study of his Georgetown home and quietly shut the French doors behind them. Jenkins’ wife had answered the door, and when she saw that it was work, had stormed off to the dining room to feed her two young children, while she screamed for her husband up the banister. It was another meal her husband would have to re-heat in the microwave.
Jenkins tried to keep his home life and Agency duties separate, but sometimes that was impossible. When he had shuffled down the stairs, he understood why his wife was so disturbed. With just the sight of his assistant, Bradley Stevens, in the foyer, he knew something was up. And it was probably not good news.
“What do you have, Brad?” Jenkins asked, pouring two glasses of whiskey straight up.
Stevens was a tall, slim man who walked like a stork. His thin face and crooked, long nose, were accented by tiny circular spectacles, identical to the ones his boss, Jenkins, wore. Stevens was a Princeton honors graduate in political science who had decided on law school at age ten, but had put it off to serve his country for a few years. A few years had turned into ten, with Stevens hopping from Defense to the State Department, and now the Agency. He was in his early thirties now with no intention of going back to school. He liked what he did. It was important work. And besides, he too had a wife and two children to support. He was Jenkins’ right hand man. His eyes and ears in an organization where paranoia was endemic.
Bradley Stevens took off his glasses, breathed on them, and then started wiping them clean with a special cloth he always carried in his pocket. “Not good, boss,” Stevens said, settling into a hard leather chair. He put his glasses back on, accepted the glass of whiskey, and held it in his unsteady hand.
“Don’t spill that, Brad. It’s older than your children.” Jenkins took a sip of whiskey. “Well?”
“Odessa. Tully O’Neill, the station chief, called secure about an hour ago. The woman who worked with Tvchenko, Petra Kovarik, has been murdered.”
“How? Did we get anything from her?”
Stevens shook his head. “We’re not a hundred percent certain. She was being watched by Jake Adams when at least two gunmen smashed through the safe house door and started firing.”
“Jake Adams?”
“Yes. He used to work for the old agency, and was a captain in Air Force intelligence before going private a few years back. He’s the one who saved Tully’s ass a few days ago. The director put him to work for us.”
“Yeah, yeah, go on.”
“Adams and Quinn Armstrong were watching the two women. Armstrong stepped out for a minute when the shooting took place. It appears that Adams escaped with the other woman, a friend of the scientist’s assistant.”
Jenkins took another drink of whiskey. “Where are they now?”
“Uncertain. The only blood in the room was from Petra Kovarik. Adams shot one of the shooters, but that guy’s not talking.”
“Who is it?”
“No name, no I.D., but Tully seems to think he’s either a Turk or a Kurd, maybe both.”
“Shit. Have we come up with a tie with the nerve gas theft from Johnston Atoll? What in the hell is going on in Texas?”
Stevens shifted in his chair and took his first drink of whiskey, nearly choking.
“Well?”
“I’m not sure. But Steve Nelsen has his theory.”
“President Bush. I know, I already heard that one. If he’s right, he’s a hero. If he’s wrong, then he’s pissed off a whole bunch of people.”
“It makes some sense.”
“That’s a hell of a memory on the part of the Kurds,” Jenkins said. “Why wait so long? It’s been years since the Gulf War.”
“The Kurds are a patient bunch, sir,” Stevens said. “They’ve been pushed and shoved for a long time. Maybe they’re sick of being bullied. But that’s not all. There was a businessman killed in Berlin a few days ago. Gerhard Kreuzberg.”
Jenkins’ eyes shot up. “Kreuzberg? The German foreign minister a few years back?”
“Yes, sir. Under Kohl. In fact, he was the foreign minister during the Gulf War.”
“And you think—”
“It’s too much of a coincidence not to think it.”
“What would they gain by killing Kreuzberg?”
“Legitimacy. Revenge. Kreuzberg wouldn’t allow Germany to get involved any more than they did.”
“But he had German law on his side,” Jenkins assured his assistant.
“True. But that’s never stopped the Germans before. It wasn’t only that. He stood by when Germans started killing Turks in Bonn, and Cologne, and Frankfurt. Many of those were Kurds. They set themselves on fire on the autobahns in protest, and Kreuzberg did nothing. He couldn’t. The average German was backing him, because Germans had lost their jobs to Turks, jobs they didn’t want to do until there were no others to be found. The country was combining with East Germany, with more labor problems. Kreuzberg had to make a strong stand. The Kurds felt betrayed.”
“So they kill him years later?” Jenkins asked.
“Maybe they’re finally unifying like the Palestinians did under Arafat.”
“That’s three operations in two weeks. That’s some great unity.” Jenkins paused to finish his whiskey and think. “This is all just a theory.”
“A pretty good one.”
“What do you recommend?”
Stevens straightened the tiny glasses on his nose. “Our German contacts say Kreuzberg was killed by a poisoned pellet. Probably Ricin.”
“Ricin? Who still uses that?”
Stevens shrugged. “I don’t know. But it’s interesting. All those people on Johnston were poisoned. Tvchenko was probably killed by a Sarin-based formula, and now the German. Tvchenko developed some of the most deadly Sarin weapons, and then went far beyond that stage. Tully O’Neill said that Tvchenko was working on a new pesticide. Sarin is similar to commercial insecticides and pesticides. Maybe Tvchenko was trying to double dip. Make one version of the formula for commercial use, and the other for military use as a nerve gas.”
“Is that another theory?”
“Perhaps more than a theory,” Stevens said. “Tully said Tvchenko’s apartment smelled of isopropyl alcohol, a precursor for Sarin.”
“Isopropyl alcohol is used all the time by chemists.”
“True. But not in great quantities.”
Jenkins was thinking it over. There was still no logical reason the Kurds had started on this road of terrorism, but it was becoming clearer that they had. Stranger still is that the Kurds had not claimed responsibility for any of the acts. It was more or less an unwritten law that the guilty bastards with blood on their hands would be proud to extol praise on themselves to anyone who would listen, that it was they who had brought terror to the super countries. Yet, they had remained silent. “So, what will the Kurds do next?”
“We’ll have to research who’s pissed them off.”
Jenkins rubbed his temples. What was going on? He would have to trust his field officers, Nelsen and O’Neill. If Nelsen thought Bush was in danger, they’d better do everything within their power to safeguard him. And this Adams in Odessa. What was he up to? The Kurds were a problem that would not go away easily this time. Who had pissed them off? That was the problem. The list would be long.
“Fire off a call to Nelsen pronto,” Jenkins finally said. “Tell him I want a plan to keep Bush safe on my desk in the morning. He can use whatever means possible. Extreme prejudice.” Jenkins pointed his finger directly toward his assistant’s skinny nose. “Also...I want O’Neill to brief me on Adams. I want to know if Tvchenko’s assistant told him anything before she was killed. Brief O’Neill on the German and Nelsen’s theory in Texas.”
Stevens rose from his chair and started toward the door.
“Just a minute,” Jenkins muttered. “Talk with our people in Berlin. Brief them on what’s going on
in Odessa and Texas. Explain what we think is a tie to Johnston Atoll.”
“Yes, sir.” Stevens let himself out.
Jenkins poured himself another whiskey and stared into it. This was perhaps the most important case he’d ever worked on. Certainly the most important since the new Agency was formed six months ago. When he was sworn in as Director, he had had this great feeling of pride. Yet, he had also felt apprehension, since he knew that so many people would depend on his judgment. He only hoped he was up to the task. He slowly put the glass to his lips and let the whiskey slide down, warming him all the way to his gut.
29
ODESSA, UKRAINE
Omri Sherut was backed against the warehouse wall, anger giving way to a reassuring gaze, as he kept his eyes peering into Chavva’s.
“I had nothing to do with it,” Sherut said. “My men weren’t involved.”
She had met with him on short notice after finding out Tvchenko’s assistant had been gunned down while being watched by Jake Adams. She had a 9mm automatic pistol trained on Sherut’s balls, and she imagined his dick was looking for a place to hide.
Sherut’s huge bodyguard was about to pounce on her, until the Israeli businessman waved him off.
“Who in the hell killed her? And why?”
“I don’t know,” Sherut said calmly. “Probably the same people who killed Tvchenko.”
She thought about that. He could be telling the truth for a change. But why would the Kurds kill off their own puppet? “Tvchenko was developing something for the Kurds, right?”
Sherut shrugged. “That’s what our intel says. He was working some deal.”
“And the GRU?”
“Who knows? Maybe they killed them both. They could have found out Tvchenko was working both sides of the street and took him out.”
She lowered the gun away from his crotch and backed up a step or two. “I don’t think so. Tvchenko was too important to the GRU. They needed his expertise. They wouldn’t kill him.”
“So then it was the Kurds.”
It made no sense. Why would the Kurds recruit Tvchenko only to kill him off? “Do you think the Kurds got everything they needed from Tvchenko?” she asked.
“It’s possible.” Sherut straightened his overcoat and smiled. “What about your friend, Mr. Adams?”
“What about him?”
“How does he fit into this equation?”
She looked over at Sherut’s goon, whose face seemed to carry the same stupid appeal of wonder, as if his brain were too small to muster up more than one expression. “Can we get rid of him?” She shifted her head toward the bodyguard.
Sherut hesitated. Finally, he nodded for his man to leave. “Meet me at the car?” Sherut told him.
When the two of them were alone, Chavva moved closer to the man who was supposed to be her boss. Her face was inches from his, but her gun was poking him in the belly button. “You know more than you’re saying,” she whispered. “What has Mikhael failed to tell me this time?”
He wasn’t one to back down from just anyone, but then Chavva wasn’t just anyone. Sherut’s heart pounded and sweat beaded up on his forehead. “You know the director as well as I,” he said. “He only tells us what we need to know.”
“Bullshit! You two go back thirty years. You know something, you bastard.” She slid her gun to the side and fired a round past his waist into a plywood wall.
He jumped. Then he realized he had not been hit. “What in the hell are you doing? We’re on the same team.”
“We work for the same man,” she corrected. “I’m on no one’s team. The next one goes right through you.”
By now the bodyguard had heard the shot and was running toward them, his Uzi drawn and pointing his way.
She turned the gun toward Sherut’s face and stuck the barrel into his mouth just as he was about to say something. She pointed at Sherut’s bodyguard with her free hand. “I’d stop right there. Unless you want a quick lesson in cranial anatomy.”
The large man skidded to a halt, uncertain what to do.
Sherut tried to say something, but all that came out was a gurgling sound.
She slid the gun out to his lips.
“You’re fucking crazy,” Sherut yelled. “Yosef was right.”
She glared at him when he brought up the name of the assistant director of Mossad. The two of them had collided more than once over the direction of an operation. “So, Yosef has been talking about me? He’s a pig.”
“I’ll let him know the next time we speak.”
She looked over at the bodyguard, who had his Uzi pointing directly at her. She knew he couldn’t fire without the possibility of hitting his boss with a stray round. Those guns were meant to put lead in the air, not for accuracy. She was getting nowhere fast, but she had not really expected him to fold over like a lamb.
“Where’s your other man? His twin?” she said, flipping her head toward the huge bodyguard.
Sherut hesitated. “I had to send him back to Tel Aviv.”
“Is that right?” she asked the bodyguard.
He didn’t answer. He simply stood there with a stupid look on his face. She could tell he wanted to kill her.
She started laughing out loud. Her voice echoed through the empty building. She continued laughing louder and louder. She couldn’t stop herself. It was as if she were back in her small little village again. She was trapped and couldn’t escape. Only her laughter kept her from going crazy.
When she finally stopped, she realized she was curled up on the cold cement floor. The barrel of her gun was pointing directly up her nose. Once again she had failed to pull the trigger. She was still alive. Not a young girl. A grown woman. She leaned up and looked around. Sherut and his man were gone.
30
ODESSA, UKRAINE
On the train ride from Nikolaev to Odessa, Jake had tried to get some sleep. But it was impossible. He couldn’t get his mind off of Helena and Petra and Tvchenko. And especially MacCarty and Swanson, whom he had vowed to protect. On one level he knew that the two of them had simply gotten in the way, were at the wrong place at the wrong time. To the contrary, he had failed. Failed miserably. And that was something he wasn’t used to, nor would he ever learn to like. Petra had put her trust in him, even though she didn’t realize the danger she was in. Realistically, who could have guessed that MacCarty and Swanson were in any kind of danger? That’s what he’d have to keep telling himself.
Jake had also wondered again how those two men, three with the driver, had found where he had stashed Petra. He still had to check Tully’s Volga to see if someone had placed a tracking device on it, but it was more likely that someone had given up his position. And only a few people knew where he had taken the women.
Jake got off the train and walked through the station corridor. It was nearly three in the morning, and there were only a few people up and about. Some had sprawled out across three or four chairs, covered by coats or newspapers. An older man sat against a stanchion staring off to nowhere and mumbling to himself.
After Jake was nearly through the large, cavernous terminal, he swung around quickly, as if he had forgotten something. When he realized no one was following him, he turned and continued out the building. His nerves were getting the best of him.
The outdoor kiosk, where the cab driver had been earlier that evening as Jake stole his car, was closed and boarded shut. He felt somewhat guilty about stealing a man’s livelihood, but Jake would make an anonymous call saying where he could find the taxi.
The night air was cool and damp. Jake needed to walk and think.
He got a few blocks when he heard steps behind him. Was he being followed? He varied his pace and the person behind him did the same. The man was perhaps thirty yards back, Jake guessed. But Jake knew better than to look back. The moment he became too preoccupied by the one behind him, then an associate of his would step out in front. It was a common ploy used by thugs and intelligence agents alike.
The
re was a park ahead. A small park with trees close to the sidewalk. It was darker there, the lamp posts farther apart.
Jake stopped briefly, pulled out some papers from inside his jacket, as if he were looking at a map. He pulled the Glock from its holster and slid it under the papers.
Continuing on, Jake pushed the gun into his pocket and gripped the handle tightly.
When he had stopped, the man behind him had paused briefly and then continued toward him with a slower pace.
The park was a half a block away.
Jake turned quickly and headed toward the follower.
The man was twenty yards away. Still in shadows. He stopped. Started to reach into his jacket.
Jake swung his pistol from his pocket. “Keep your hands clear,” he said, his voice echoing through the darkness. “At your side.” Jake was pointing the barrel at the man’s head as he approached him quickly.
Shifting around to the backside of the man, Jake turned the older man with silver hair around a hundred and eighty degrees so he could see the park. See if there was another person approaching from the bushes. Jake looked the man over. He was wearing a fine suit with a wool overcoat. He had this knowing smirk, as if he was still in control even with the gun trained on him.
“You can put the gun down, Mr. Adams,” the man said through a thick accent.
Jake kept the gun on him and reached inside the man’s coat to see what he was reaching for. It was a beeper of some sort. Not a gun. A panic button maybe. He looked at the man again. It was the man from the party and his hotel who had been talking with Chavva. The Israeli businessman. Omar Sharif, or whatever.
Glaring at the man, Jake kept his gun trained on him. “Why were you following me?”
The man smiled. “I know who you work for. Perhaps I can help you.”
“The men I work for are dead. Poisoned over their breakfast eggs.”
“I’m aware of that. I meant your real employer. The Agency.”