by C. G. Cooper
Shouts from below. Russian accents. Confusion.
The three guys who were left returned fire as Vasily and I dove for cover. The wood railing and the wall behind me were getting chewed up good. Splinters and dust coated my head as I waited for a shot. The Russian looked to me for direction. I motioned with my fingers that we’d go on the count of three, and that he was to go farther away from the stairs, deeper into the hall. He nodded. Walker was curled up in a ball a few feet away. I motioned for him to stay put. He did not nod back.
By the way the rounds were moving to the side, I knew someone was making their way up the stairs. His companions were shifting fire to accommodate his movement. I counted to three soundlessly, and low-crawled to the steps. Bullets hammered into the top step, throwing more debris into my face. But then I heard firing from behind me. It was the Russian. The firing from below shifted again and I took a chance.
Peeking over the demolished step I saw the guy on the stairs now focused on my new friend. He almost got his weapon around, but the rounds from my pistol caught him under the chin. He staggered back and then over, tumbling down the steps.
There was more shouting from the first floor, and I watched in slow motion as a grenade sailed up and over the railing, heading straight for Vasily. Shit. To my complete amazement, the guy actually shot up, caught it in mid-air and rifled it back down to the first level. I heard it hit the floor, and then the explosion rocked the house.
I peered over the lip of the landing, and for a second saw nothing but dust. When it settled, I saw that one of the guys had caught the brunt of the blast, his legs and torso a meaty mess. The last guy was crawling to the door. He was moaning like a deaf mute, a streak of blood trailing behind his excruciating progress.
I got to him before he touched the door. One eye was shut and oozing red. The other looked up at me, all glazed and dying. We stared at each other as the light faded from his eyes and his head slumped to the floor like his body was deflating.
We’d gotten lucky. If they were expecting a fight, I assumed they would’ve sent more men. But these guys were dressed in flashy suits like modern day gangsters, all pinstripes and gold chains. They should’ve come in with tactical gear on and vests full of ammo. Unlucky for them. Maybe Hell would give allowances for spiffy dress.
I checked to make sure they were all dead and then went back upstairs. When I stepped into the room, Pastor Walker was holding his daughter in a crushing embrace, his sobs shaking them both.
“We need to go,” I said. I’d radioed Rex on the way up, and he’d promised a ride in two minutes.
Walker looked up but didn’t let go of Anna.
“Okay,” he choked out, like saying any more would induce another round of sobs.
Before I could ask the old man if he needed any help, Vasily bent down to wheelchair level and hoisted the skinny man out of his seat. He’d been a tall man in his day. Now all he had were lifeless skinny legs that flopped when they moved. The protector cradled the protectee like he’d done it a thousand times. He walked over to me and the old man held out his long-fingered hand.
“I don’t know how I can thank you, Daniel.”
I took the hand. It was cold and bony, like a skeleton.
“You can tell me who you are,” I said, “and then we need to get out of here.”
He smiled and said, “My name is Georgy Varushkin.”
I nodded. “You’re Anna’s grandfather.”
He nodded back.
“I’m sure we’ll have time to get to know one another soon,” he said formally. “Now, if you would be so kind as to escort us out, Daniel.”
I let go of his hand and headed for the door. There were so many things running through my head, the most important being, who was this guy who’d just sat through an intense firefight and now acted like he’d just attended the opera? I shook my head as I hit the stairs. I couldn’t wait to find out more about the enigmatic Georgy Varushkin.
Chapter 27
The night outside was still, like the world was waiting. It made Natasha want to hold her breath. She resisted the urge, focusing instead on the cars passing by far below, the twinkling of faraway stars and the occasional roar of an airplane overhead. She tried to focus on the calmness of it all, the monotony that was everyday life for millions of ordinary citizens all around. As hard as she tried, she could not find peace.
She’d learned not to look back, not to second guess her decisions. It wasn’t healthy. It wasn’t conducive to the life swirling around her. Chaos hid in tight corners, waiting for her to relax, let down her guard. Natasha would not. There was no time for second guessing, no time for regret.
And yet she found herself thinking of her father. The first memory she had of him was on a boat. Of course it was on a boat; her father loved the sea. It was in his bones, like he’d been bred from some underwater creature who’d somehow adapted to live on land.
Natasha remembered the crashing of the waves and the fear that clutched her chest. But her father was there, holding her, reassuring her. That was when she knew that as long as her father was there, she would be safe.
That feeling became a crutch as the years passed. As her father busied himself with business and the requisite travel back to Russia, Natasha was often left with an ever-changing collection of nannies. Normal toddler fussing led to raging temper tantrums. Petty thievery led to blackmail. After the age of eight, no nanny lasted more than two months.
When her father sent her to a boarding school in Colorado, thirteen-year-old Natasha disappeared for three days. She was finally found in the basement of the headmaster’s home.
It was never that way when the elder Varushkin was home. As the only female left in the immediate family, Natasha doted on her father, instructed the house staff on the food he liked and even helped cook meals and serve him. She never acted up when he was home.
But he was not always home. For every day he spent in their upper class home, he spent three overseas.
The downward spiral almost derailed the family; it almost cost her father’s position within The Pension. His compatriots worried that if he could not handle his own daughter, how was he to handle the immense responsibility of transplanting a population? He’d assured those powerful men of his conviction, and then gave his daughter the only tongue lashing he would ever unleash. After moving her to tears, Georgy Varushkin looked down at his eighteen-year-old daughter and crumpled to his knees, soothing her as he cried too.
After that day, Natasha had been more careful. Instead of hurting her father, she hurt herself. She knew he knew, but he never said a word unless she asked for help. He was old-fashioned that way. He’d rather pretend everything was okay instead of admonishing his family.
But now his old-fashioned ways had collided with the new world, a world she’d helped build. His naivety about the way things really worked had at first confused her. It could be reasoned that prison had softened him. It was understandable. Who wouldn’t come out changed?
If Natasha was being honest, she would admit that relinquishing power and control to her father had been a bitter task. She’d known all along that he would return, but it didn’t make it any easier to cede her perch.
The Pension needed strong leadership with a forward-thinking vision. If her father had embraced her efforts, had applauded all that she had accomplished, Natasha would have stepped aside gracefully.
That hadn’t happened. Initial applause led to blatant accusation. He wanted to dismantle an important cog in her carefully constructed machine. Natasha saw it as a vital ace up her sleeve, a piece that would ensure The Pension’s security for years.
No. She would not do it. She would not let go of everything she’d built. And as the hours had passed, she’d gotten to the heart of their disagreement. Put simply, they would never agree. On some level they never really had. Her father was the old man from the sea, ever proper and loyal to a fault. She was part of the new generation, with the energy and enthusiasm to attack ev
ery angle, utilize any advantage she could. Hers was the better way.
And that was why she’d ordered her own father’s murder. It was why she’d asked Joe to do it now and not later. To drag it out would have been to leave the wound gaping. Better to cauterize the gash and move on. It was a pity that her daughter had to die too, but she felt no connection to the brat anyway. To see the connection between her father and Anna had only made the decision easier. Be done with it. Move on and forget the past.
But the nagging sense of doubt remained. A small voice whispered in her subconscious, the voice of her own mother maybe? There was always another way.
The knocking snapped Natasha from her reverie.
“Come in,” she said.
Joe walked into the room. He was wearing a brown silk robe that barely covered his protruding belly.
“I have news,” he said, his face tight.
Natasha waited. He looked perturbed, like someone had just shit in his bubble bath.
“My men never returned,” he said, searching her for an answer. She did not offer one.
“I’ve sent more men to see what happened. The first team should have called by now. Is there anything you’ve forgotten to tell me about your father’s companion?”
She rolled her eyes and did her best to appear calm.
“I told you. He had one man with him whom I never saw armed with more than a pistol.”
But even as she said it, unease crept into her belly. She’d never heard back from Adam Eplar. Could her ex-husband have gotten the drop on her assassin? That was impossible. The man didn’t own a set of balls big enough to take on the former Russian operator.
“If I find out that one man took out my team…”
“Then I’d suggest you recruit men better suited for the job,” Natasha snapped.
Joe was sucking in air through his flattened nose. Nostrils expanded and contracted like a bull staring down a matador. Finally, he smiled.
“Maybe you’re right. Maybe it is time for some new blood.” He closed the gap between them. She could smell the champagne on his breath. He was always drinking champagne. Veuve Clicquot because that’s what the rappers were always talking about. Joe’s hand reached out, touched her hip and then slid around until it held her right buttock. She didn’t move. “Tell me,” he said. “Is there anyone you can recommend?” He squeezed her rear and it took everything she had not to lash out. She was in his home. It was part of the bargain, a necessary concession until her father’s assassination was complete and they could formalize their merger.
“I’m sure I can think of a few names,” she said.
He smiled and removed his hand, already making his way to the door.
“I was just getting ready to take a bath. Feel free to join me if you’d like,” he said over his shoulder.
“I’ll think about it,” she replied, returning his grin with a playful wink.
Once he had left, Natasha grabbed her phone and thought about who she should call first. If their most recent conversation was any indication of where things were going, Natasha had to plan her departure as quickly as possible. She still had a closet full of surprises that would keep Joe from nipping at her heels. Maybe she’d been too hasty in calling her rival. But as soon as she thought it, the indecision melted away.
Asking her people to kill someone like her ex-husband was one thing. Asking them to kill her father, the great Georgy Varushkin, whom they all looked up to like a modern day Godfather, would be impossible. That would have eroded her support base and likely her chance at heading The Pension. She wouldn’t risk that, and once again, the Russian mobster down the hall was her necessary evil.
Natasha resisted the urge to make a phone call. She didn’t know if Joe had the room bugged. It would be slower to send a secure message through one of her many bogus Facebook accounts, but at least Joe couldn’t track it. It took less than a minute to write the brief message and store it in the only group frequented by that profile.
Her work now done, Natasha returned to the spot by the window, once again trying to be hypnotized by the blinks and swirls of the night.
Chapter 28
Rex was waiting when we pulled up to the curb. It had started to rain, and he held an oversized golf umbrella as we piled out of the van. The umbrella got passed to Pastor Walker, who held it over himself and Anna. She gave me a weak smile as she walked by, like she wasn’t sure how to act around me.
I’d seen that look before. Everything was roses and rainbows until they saw you kill someone, or in this case, multiple someones. I couldn’t tell if that’s what she was thinking, or if she was just exhausted. She hadn’t said a word on the ride over. Her silence was a concern. She’d been my only reason for going in. I shouldn’t have cared about what some fifteen-year-old girl thought about me, especially one I barely knew, but I did.
I nodded to Mr. Varushkin as his body servant hoisted him out of the car. If he cared about the fat raindrops soaking his hair, he didn’t show it. In fact, just before they got to the back door, I saw Varushkin motion for his man to stop. When he did, Varushkin looked up at the sky and closed his eyes. The rain pelted his face, but I swear I saw a little smile there. After a moment, he touched Vasily’s arm, and they entered the apartment complex.
“We need to talk,” Rex said, his tone unreadable. I could only imagine what he was thinking. I’d just killed a bunch of thugs in public. There had to be a thousand laws screaming in Rex’s head, telling him to turn me in instead of helping me.
“Can we go inside?” I said, wiping a sheet of water from my forehead.
He nodded and we stepped out of the downpour.
There were more men in the apartment this time. By the way they mingled with Rex’s guys, I knew they weren’t his.
“Who are they?” I asked.
“New friends,” he answered, already moving past me. “Come on. I’ve got someone I want you to meet.”
What I really wanted was a hot shower and a bed. I didn’t like taking orders, and I had to remind myself that Rex was doing me the big favor, not the other way around. It was best to go along with whatever he had in mind now. Better to stay in his good graces if my next play was going to succeed.
I entered the spare bedroom and locked eyes with the guy sitting in the corner. He had a laptop perched on one of those TV trays, the kind with legs that everyone in the Eighties used to use when someone was sick. He was somewhere between skinny and wiry. I’d call it scrappy. He looked at me with an amused grin. He did not bother getting up to shake my hand when Rex introduced him.
“Daniel Briggs, this is Julian Fog, another intel weenie who was lucky enough to start his life stepping on yellow footprints on Parris Island.”
Fog nodded. I returned the gesture.
“Have fun?” Fog asked after appraising me for another long moment.
“Sorry?” I answered, trying to figure out whether he was a run-of-the-mill smart ass or born-and-bred wise ass.
“I said, did you have fun? With the Russians?”
He wasn’t being sarcastic. He really wanted to know.
“It had to be done,” I answered truthfully.
Fog nodded thoughtfully, like I’d passed his test.
“Is the girl okay?”
“She is.”
He nodded again.
“And the grandfather?” This question he directed at Rex.
“The old man is in the other apartment,” Rex said, as much to me as to his buddy.
“You think I could have a word with him?”
Rex looked to me. I shrugged. “You’ll have to ask him.”
“What do you know about him?” Fog asked, stretching his legs like he’d been sitting for hours.
“I just met him.”
“He didn’t say anything?”
My eyes went from Fog, to Rex, and back to Fog.
“Look, guys, I’m fucking tired. Why don’t you tell me who you’re with,” I pointed at Fog, “and what you want to know, a
nd then let me get some sleep?”
Rex finally smiled and gave Fog one of those “I told you so” looks.
Fog chuckled.
“Sorry.” This time he got up from his seat and walked over. “Julian Fog at your service. At one time I was a paper pusher under then Lieutenant Hazard’s strict watch. You don’t recognize me?”
I studied his face for a minute. He had one of those plain haircuts and average faces that blends into any Marine formation. I’d seen thousands of the same face during my time in the Corps.
“Should I?”
Fog grinned and shook his head.
“We served together, but there’s no reason you should remember me. I was in S-2 and you were busy making a name for yourself.”
He didn’t say it like a lot of others did, like he was awed by my accomplishments. It was just a statement of fact, two Marines discussing extraordinary events the same way they discussed the weather.
“You didn’t say who you work for,” I said, warming to Julian Fog. If Rex knew him and trusted him, maybe I should do the same.
“To most people I’m an independent contractor, a security specialist who dabbles in high-end stereo equipment and residential alarm systems. Officially, I am an employee of the Central Intelligence Agency.”
I grunted. Funny how one phone call to a friend turns into the thunder of cavalry.
“And you’re here because…?”
“Our buddy Rex here was having a hard time finding information on your mysterious Russian. It turns out that Georgy Varushkin, former Soviet Navy Captain turned private businessman, is high on the Persons of Interest list at Langley.”
“And you have access to this list?” I asked.
Rex answered for him.
“What Julian has failed to mention is that, like you, he has a certain set of talents that makes him a valuable asset for his employer. Not only is he a top analyst, he is also one of their best domestic operatives. I’d like to think I had a little bit to do with that, but I didn’t.”