Noble Intentions: Season Two (Episodes 6-10)

by L. T. Ryan

  “Did they say they would come back to hurt you?”

  “Who cares what they said.”

  “When did this happen?”

  “Yesterday.”

  A day after they had taken out Melikov and Chernov.

  Sorry, Alik.

  “We had men here. Men that were supposed to watch over Alik. Protect him.”

  She nodded.

  “What happened to them?”

  “They’re dead.”

  “Thank you for your time.”

  Jack turned and walked toward the small rental car. He stopped in front of Jasmine.

  “Those were our guys,” Jasmine said. “They were well trained. It would’ve taken several men to take them out—”

  “I know who it was,” Jack said.

  “Who?”

  “The same guys who captured me in Italy.”

  Jasmine stepped back, out of his way. Said nothing.

  “Call Frank.” He slid in behind the steering wheel and started the car. Pulled away before Jasmine managed to close her door.

  “Jesus, Jack.” She slapped the dashboard. “Calm down.”

  “He saved my life. Got me out of that hell hole. All I’ve done is let him get shot and now abducted. They’ve probably killed him by now. Christ, considering the torture they are putting him through, I hope they’ve killed him by now.”

  “Don’t talk like that. You don’t know what’s happening. He’s OK and we are going to find him and we are going to rescue him.”

  Jack said nothing. He concentrated on the road as he pushed the small car to its upper limits.

  “I’m calling Frank.” She pulled her cell phone out and placed the call. “Frank, yeah it’s Jasmine. Yeah, lots going on here.” She paused. “We went to town, gathered a few things from Jack’s apartment.” A pause. “What? It was his call. Just shut up for a minute, Frank. There was a bomb in the apartment. It hadn’t been set off, but it was there. The place had been trashed, too. They were looking for something and planned to blow up whoever went in after them. Then we drove out to see Alik. He wasn’t there, Frank. Someone took him and killed our guys.”

  “Make sure you tell him it was Russians. Probably the same guys who caught me.”

  “Frank, listen, Jack thinks it was the guys who managed to capture him in Italy.” She covered the mouthpiece and looked at Jack.

  He noticed a glint of hope in her eyes.

  “He thinks he has a lead on them. Private contractors with ties to Ivanov.”

  Jack nodded. He had already figured that out.

  They left the wooded area behind and drove north to the Chania Airport. Frank had a contact there that could get them on a private plane.

  “Where did he say they were taking us?” Jack asked.

  “Ukraine. Place called Kharkiv. Frank’s got another contact there that can get us across the border into Russia. From there it’s about a four hundred mile trip to Moscow.”

  “Moscow?” Jack’s eyes traveled between her and the road. “I don’t know exactly where I was, but I know it wasn’t near Moscow.”

  “You’re right. Black Dolphin is near Orenburg. That’s close to the Kazakhstan border. And the place they held you and Pierre, that was Volgograd. You probably remember it from your history books as—”

  “Stalingrad,” Jack interrupted. “I remember.”

  Jasmine nodded.

  “So why aren’t we heading there?”

  “Frank believes that Ivanov’s in Moscow right now.”

  “I hope he’s right if we’re gonna be stuck traveling by car. That’s a hike between Moscow and Stalingrad.”

  “Volgograd.”

  “Whatever.”

  Jasmine waved him off. “Frank’s not the only one gathering intel. He’s got others involved. Other agencies.”

  “Who?”

  “Not sure. He wouldn’t tell me.”

  Jack shrugged.

  “Why would he?” Jasmine said. “Anyway, once we get to Moscow we’re going to rendezvous with Clarissa. She’ll be on the ground. Might have been able to arrange a meeting with Ivanov already.”

  Jack tensed. The thought of Clarissa being in the same room with the overbearing General made him uneasy. If Ivanov had a single doubt about her identity, he’d kill first and ask questions later.

  “She’ll be all right, Jack. Don’t worry.”

  Jack looked at her and lifted one shoulder. Clarissa was a tough woman and well trained. She could handle it. He knew that.

  “You can’t hide it,” Jasmine said. “I saw you two together.”

  “It’s nothing.”

  “Yeah, nothing.” Jasmine laughed.

  “We go back a long time, her and I.”

  “You don’t have to explain yourself to me, Jack.”

  He didn’t say anything.

  She pointed to the right. “There it is.”

  Jack slowed the car down, turned right. Drove around the airport to the northwest corner of the parking lot, as Frank had instructed them to do. He backed the car into a parking spot that bordered on grass, then cut the engine.

  “Did he give you a specific time?” Jack asked.

  “No. He just said the man would be here.”

  “Did he give you a description?”

  “Yeah.” Jasmine turned her head and smiled. “A man.”

  “That’s him.” Jack gestured with his head.

  The guy who approached was mid-sixties, bald, wore glasses. He had on grease stained blue overalls. He stopped twenty feet away, smiled and waved.

  Jack scanned the parking lot for any sign of danger. Saw none.

  “Look clear to you?” Jack said.

  “Yeah.”

  “Feel safe?”

  She pulled the Beretta out from under her jacket with her right hand. Traced the length of the barrel with her left index finger. A slight smile formed on her lips.

  “Yeah,” she said. “Very safe.”

  Jack got out, grabbed their duffel bags and set them on the ground. Reached inside the car and placed the keys in the glove compartment box. Pressed the lock button and closed the door.

  The man stopped five feet in front of the car. “Got a plane waiting for you folks.” He turned around and added, “Let’s go.”

  Jasmine looked at Jack. He shrugged and said, “Guess we should follow.”

  The man led them to a golf cart. He sat in front. Jack and Jasmine in the back. He drove them across the parking lot, past the runways and past a terminal where half a dozen planes waited for passengers to board. They drove another five minutes, then pulled up next to a small commuter jet.

  “That’s your plane,” the old man said.

  Jack stepped out of the golf cart. Grabbed their bags. The old man drove off without another word. They walked toward the white plane adorned with swooping blue stripes. A door on the side, behind the cockpit, swung open and a man greeted them.

  “Jack and Jasmine?”

  Jack nodded.

  The man dropped a set of stairs and said, “Get on board. We don’t want to miss our window.”

  Jack climbed up first and stopped in front of the man.

  “I’m the pilot and I’m a friend of Frank’s. That should be good enough, right?”

  Jack nodded. The pilot had his first name and that was all he needed.

  Jasmine pushed past Jack and he followed her onto the plane. They seated themselves. Twenty minutes later they were in the air, on their way to the Ukraine.

  4

  The hotel room Sinclair had arranged for Clarissa was small and plain and centrally located in Moscow. The size of the room didn’t bother her. She didn’t plan to spend much time in Russia. Besides, the view from her window of St. Basil’s Cathedral was breathtaking. She stared out the window at the beautiful building. It looked like a bonfire rising into the sky. Her thoughts turned to Jack, as they so often had the past few days. Their time together was short but powerful. She felt the pull of him in her heart. She worr
ied that it might start to affect her decision making.

  She looked past St. Basil’s, toward the east end of the Arbat District where Anastasiya’s apartment was located. Sinclair had told her to expect a package with keys to the building and the apartment. Clarissa planned to do a walk by in the late afternoon. There could be any number of spies or government officials waiting for Anastasiya to return. She wanted to be prepared if that were the case.

  She heard a knock at the door and crossed the room. Stopped at the door. Checked through the peephole. Didn’t recognize the man standing on the other side.

  “Who is it?” she said.

  “Marco.”

  She slid the security lock and opened the door. The guy that stood in the hallway was her height, but probably fifty pounds heavier. He had brown hair. Sideburns stretched down to his jaw and he kept a trimmed patch of hair under his bottom lip. She stepped aside and let him in.

  He walked past her. Carried a duffel bag in his right hand. He looked around the apartment. Said nothing.

  “What did Sinclair tell you?”

  Marco shrugged without looking back. He placed the bag on the table. Turned around to face Clarissa. “Nice place.” His accent was European. Spanish.

  She said nothing. Watched him from across the room.

  Marco remained stationary. He fished a rolled cigarette from his inside coat pocket. Pulled out a lighter and lit the end of the smoke. He took a deep drag, blew it toward the ceiling. Glanced around again and then settled on Clarissa. Smiled at her.

  “Is there anything else?” she said.

  “Thinking maybe I should stay around for a bit. Show you how to use the weapons. Take you out to dinner.”

  Clarissa stood with her back to the door, holding it open. “I don’t eat and I already know how to use them. I think you should leave.”

  He approached her, cigarette dangling from his mouth. “Leaving is no fun.”

  “I guess they didn’t tell you about me.”

  “They didn’t need too. I can tell right now you got everything I like.” He stopped a foot and a half away from her. Reached out and placed his right hand on her left arm. Kept eye contact. Leaned in.

  Clarissa smiled for a second or two. She brought her left hand up, under and then around Marco’s outstretched right arm. She pulled and twisted. Brought her right hand up and caught the man under his chin. She flipped him backward, into the hall. He landed on his head and crumbled into a ball and then stretched out on his stomach.

  He slowly got to his hands and knees. “What the hell, lady?”

  “I told you to leave. You didn’t listen.”

  He grabbed a hold of the wooden banister and pulled himself to his feet. Took a step toward Clarissa and stopped. Waved his hands at her. “You’re not worth it.” He turned and stepped onto the stairs. Looked back over his shoulder and spat.

  Her first reaction was to step into the hall. A single kick to the middle of the back would send him reeling down the stairs. He’d hit his head, most likely multiple times. He might break his neck.

  Instead, she backed up and closed and locked the door. Whoever Marco was, he worked for a friend of Sinclair’s. It was better to bite her tongue than the hand that fed her.

  She waited by the door with her ear pressed against it. She heard the echo of Marco’s footsteps diminish and eventually fade away to nothing. Satisfied he had left, she walked over to the table where he sat the duffel bag down. She leaned over the table and unzipped the bag. Marveled at the collection of weapons that had brought her. There were two Russian made Marakov PMM 9mm pistols with 12-round magazines. There was also a PP-19 Bizon 9mm submachine gun. The nine inch long weapon was equipped with a 64-round magazine and could easily be concealed under her coat. There were two additional 64-round magazines in the bag. The PMM pistols and the PP-19 both used 9x18mm Marakov cartridges. She also found two tactical knives with ankle sheathes, as well as holsters for the pistols.

  Clarissa laid the weapons out on the table. Picked them up one at a time and inspected them. She was well equipped and ready to take on anyone who got in her way.

  She strapped one of the knives around her lower right leg, between her calf and ankle. She looked at the holsters. One was intended to be strapped around her thigh. Not ideal for what she was about to do. The other holster was a pair of compression shorts. The shorts had two pockets in the back, just above waist line that would allow her to conceal both pistols behind her back.

  She undressed and put the shorts on. Pulled her jeans on over the shorts. Secured the pistols behind her back. She looked at the Bizon submachine gun. The weapon was short enough that she could conceal it underneath her jacket. But if someone were to stop her, whether it be a cop or an agent, they’d quickly find it and possibly put an end to her mission.

  Clarissa looked around her apartment and decided to stash the submachine gun in a dresser drawer, underneath her clothes. She grabbed a sweater to hide the slight bulges near her lower back, a good idea in case she ended up inside and had to take her jacket off. Finally, she put on her heavy brown leather jacket and left the apartment.

  After four flights of stairs and a short walk through a narrow lobby, she was outside. It was cold and gray and misty. The sun hid low in the sky behind a wall of dark clouds. Snow piled two to three feet high on the side of the roads, once white, now black from the exhaust of cars.

  She headed east toward Anastasiya’s apartment building. Her phone’s GPS application guided her. She passed through the Red Square and St. Basil’s, which looked even more impressive from the ground. She turned and admired the fortified building she knew as the Kremlin.

  The trek took longer than a one mile walk should have. She blamed the crowds and the weather and perhaps her own curiosity. She’d never been to Russia, and she found the center of Moscow quite fascinating.

  Historic buildings and crowds of tourists faded into apartment buildings and shops and restaurants. The crowd was just as thick, but consisted mostly of locals.

  Clarissa’s sense of awareness became heightened. Every face was a potential threat. Every car that passed might contain someone ready to take her out. She stayed close to people and next to the buildings, away from the street. She wore a hat and tucked her dark hair underneath. But the sunglasses she brought served no purpose and drew more attention than she wanted, so she stuffed them in her pocket.

  She located Anastasiya’s building. It took up half the block. Alleys ran down either side of the building. She snapped three quick photos with her phone and then placed the device inside a coat pocket.

  The building had a doorman. He stood outside wearing a heavy black jacket and hat. He’d likely recognize Anastasiya if he saw her, so Clarissa decided against getting any closer. She had no key and that would likely raise some suspicions.

  She wanted to get a look at the block behind the apartment, so she turned right onto a parallel street and then made a left. Walked two blocks and turned left again. She was now on the street behind the building. The block turned out to be one block-wide building. No alleys. No way to escape the apartment building from behind. The alleys either dead ended or connected behind it. They did not reach the street she stood on.

  The sky continued to darken. The harbinger of an impending storm. There were fewer locals on the street. She realized it wasn’t a good idea to stay out any longer. No point getting caught in a spring storm a mile or so away from her hotel.

  She backtracked toward her hotel. Stopped two blocks away from Anastasiya’s apartment building and took a few more pictures, zooming in on the doorman. Maybe Sinclair could get her a name.

  “Anastasiya?”

  Her heart stopped and her stomach sunk. Muscles clenched in reflex. The voice came from in front of her. She dropped her head and turned around. Walked away at a brisk pace.

  The voice called again in Russian. “Hey, Anastasiya. Come back here.”

  Her eyes scanned the street. Left to right. Right to left. She
looked for something that would block the man’s view of her, and allow her to slip away at the same time.

  “Where are you going?”

  She cast a quick glance over her shoulder and saw the man that had called for her. He was tall and athletic looking and wore a dark trench coat, the kind that made hiding a weapon easy. He moved toward her, weaving in and out of pedestrian traffic. He was a block away. Far enough for her to give him the slip. Close enough that he could take her out with a single shot, if he had the right weapon under his coat.

  Her feet moved quickly through the packed snow. She had to make decisions even quicker. Duck into a store or an alley? She’d be cornered. Run to the hotel? She’d give up her position.

  A crowd gathered a hundred feet in front of her at a stopped bus. Old and young. Men and women. They boarded one at a time. She reached the bus after the last person had boarded. She jumped on the bottom step as the driver was closing the door.

  “Please,” she said. “I don’t have fare, but I need to get on board.”

  “Sorry,” the driver said. “You have to pay.”

  She stuck her head out and looked behind the bus. The man was running toward her. He held a pistol in his right hand.

  “That man is coming after me. He has a gun. He’s going to kill me.”

  The driver turned his head, then squinted, then straightened up. Said, “Get on now.”

  Clarissa climbed two more steps and stopped next to the driver. The door behind her closed. “Can you go off route?”

  “I can take you wherever you need to go.”

  “Just lose him and I’ll get off and you can take these people where they need to go.”

  The driver nodded. Grabbed the mic off the dashboard. “We are going to pass the next few stops. Everyone sit tight. I’ll double back in a few minutes.”

  The groans of the passengers behind gave way to the groan of the big diesel engine as the bus pulled away.

  Clarissa placed her hand on the driver’s shoulder. She squeezed and said, “Thank you.”

  5

  Kharkiv, Ukraine was probably a nice place in the summer. Green trees mixed with the tan and khaki colored buildings that spiraled outward in a circular pattern from the center of the city. In late March, when temperatures hovered just above freezing while the sun spread its rays from above, dead trees littered the ground around those same buildings, and the scene looked desolate.