The Russian's Greed

by Cap Daniels

  Gwynn shook her head. “Agent White won’t let that happen. He’ll make sure Skipper understands the nature of this operation, and he’ll insist she keeps the information limited to those who have a need to know.”

  “I think you do not understand. I am part of this team, and knowing where I am, and if I am safe, is something every member of team—the team—needs to know. If Agent White wants her help, Skipper will demand to know where I am and if I am hurt.”

  Gwynn sucked a breath through her teeth. “Making demands with Agent White is never a good idea, no matter who you are.”

  * * *

  Department of Justice, Washington, D.C.

  Supervisory Special Agent Ray White stared down at the ten digits scribbled on his desk blotter and ran his hands through his graying hair. The initial graying had purely been a function of the number of years he’d spent on Earth, but the most recent additions to the field of gray could be directly tied to Operation Avenging Angel, specifically Gwynn and Anya.

  Ray silently rehearsed the conversation before dialing the Silver Spring, Maryland, number.

  Three rings later, a young woman’s unmistakably Southern accent filled his earpiece. “This better be good. I’m busy, and whoever you are, you’re interrupting me.”

  Ray shook off the unexpected tone. “Is this Skipper?”

  “Who’s calling?”

  “I’m Special Agent Ray White with Justice, and I’m trying to locate an analyst named Skipper.”

  “Well, you’ve got the wrong number, Agent White . . . as if that’s really your name. Now, leave me alone. I told you, I’m busy.”

  It was Ray White’s turn to find himself staring at a phone with no one on the other end of the line.

  Seconds later, Gwynn’s phone rang, and she answered on speaker so Anya could listen in. “Yes?”

  “Davis, it’s White.”

  “Yeah, I was expecting your call.”

  “Listen, I called the number you gave me for Skipper, and I got a woman who’d never heard of anyone by that name.”

  Gwynn looked to her partner and shrugged.

  Anya said, “You’re being vetted, Agent White. Skipper—this is not her real name, by the way—will determine if you are who you say you are, and if she thinks you’re important enough, she’ll call you back.”

  “Do you have me on speakerphone?”

  “Yes, sir,” Gwynn said. “Anya suspected you’d be calling back, so I answered on speaker.”

  “Next time, let me know. Will you?”

  “Yes, sir. I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be sorry, Davis. Be better. Now, Anya, what makes you think she’s vetting me?”

  “This is what she does. If she wants to talk with you, she will call you back.”

  “I’m afraid that’ll be impossible. All calls leaving this building are routed through a switchboard that eliminates caller ID tags, so your Skipper doesn’t have my number.”

  Anya covered her mouth to keep White from hearing her chuckling. “Trust me, Agent White, if Skipper wants your number, she already has it.”

  “We’ll see about that,” he said. “In the meantime, what is this woman’s real name?”

  “I am sorry, but I do not know. She is always only Skipper.”

  “Yeah, sure. Look, I’m only doing this to appease your ridiculous desire to get the dancer and her mother out of Russia. If you and this Skipper person want to make that harder for me, I’ll simply drop the whole thing. I don’t care.”

  “I could talk with her and ask for her help. She would do this thing for me.”

  White grunted. “Hang on a minute. I’m getting another call.”

  He clicked over. “Agent White.”

  “Okay, you check out. You’re really with Justice, and your name really is Ray White. What do you want?”

  Ray shook off the shock and leaned back in his chair. “First things first. You should know I’m sort of a friend of a friend, you might say.”

  Skipper said, “We’re way past first things, White. I already told you I’m busy. Now, what do you want?”

  Ray let out a long breath. “I want you to find out why someone is dead.”

  Skipper groaned. “People die for only one reason, Agent White. Lack of oxygen to their brain, regardless of what a coroner writes on their death certificate. Goodbye.”

  “No, wait. Don’t hang up. I need to know how and why one specific Russian was murdered.”

  “A Russian?”

  “Yes, a Russian.”

  Skipper was suddenly interested. “What’s this Russian’s name, and when were they killed?”

  “That’s the thing,” White said. “I don’t know the full name.”

  “Goodbye, Agent White. You’re wasting my valuable time.”

  “No, no . . . wait. Here’s everything I know. If you don’t want to help after I finish, you can hang up.”

  “I don’t think you understand, Agent White. I can hang up anytime I want.”

  “Yes, that’s true, but just listen for two minutes. After that, I promise to never call again.”

  Skipper looked at her watch. “The clock is ticking, and you now have one hundred ten seconds.”

  “Okay, I need to know how and when the brother of Viktor Volkov was killed. He lived in or near Moscow, I believe, and he had a daughter named Anya Volkovna. She’s a dancer in the Bolshoi second company.”

  Silence consumed the line until White believed she’d hung up. “Skipper?”

  The silence continued, and White reached for the disconnect button to click back over to his problem children in New York.

  An instant before he pressed the button, Skipper said, “Is Anya alive?”

  White felt a bead of sweat form on his forehead. “Of course she’s alive. She’s only fifteen years old.”

  “Not that Anya, Agent White. Our Anya.”

  White felt at least half a dozen of his ulcers turn to raging pits of fire in his stomach. Suddenly he was standing on the precipice of a mighty chasm between doing what was right and doing his job. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  He made the wrong choice.

  Click.

  21

  EKSKURSIYA

  (FIELD TRIP)

  Ray White immediately redialed Skipper’s number and listened for an answer.

  “We’re sorry, but the number you have called has been disconnected or is no longer in service. If you feel you have reached this recording in error, please hang up and try your call again.”

  White slammed the phone back into its cradle, sending the handset and base careening off his desk.

  Special Agent Gwynn Davis, who’d been holding on the second line, heard the commotion an instant before the line fell silent. Gwynn looked up at her partner. “I think Agent White just threw his phone across the room.”

  Anya smiled. “Skipper has this effect on some people.”

  Gwynn dialed White’s office extension and heard only a long series of tones. She hung up and dialed his cell.

  He snatched the phone from his pocket. “What!”

  “Agent White, it’s Davis. Is everything okay?”

  “No, everything is not okay. Put the Russian on the phone, and turn off the damned speaker!”

  Gwynn clicked off speaker and handed the phone to Anya.

  She said, “Hello?”

  “Your cocky little analyst cut me off. You and Davis better have your butts on the train to D.C. tonight.”

  “This is not possible.”

  White roared, “You don’t tell me what is and isn’t possible. You follow orders.”

  “Yes,” Anya began, “and my orders are to infiltrate Viktor Volkov’s operation. This is exactly what I am doing. I must be in my office matching diamonds tomorrow morning.”

  “Fine,” White said. “You can ride the train back to New York tomorrow morning, or you can twitch your little nose and teleport back for all I care, but you and Davis will be in my office before the sun go
es down. Otherwise, you can get accustomed to a six-by-nine prison cell. It’s up to you.”

  Anya protested, but White had already hung up. She tossed the phone back to Gwynn. “It appears we are going back to Washington.”

  Gwynn reeled in disbelief. “What?”

  “Agent White has ordered us back to Washington on the next train. He says it is up to me to get back in time for tomorrow’s work.”

  * * *

  Five hours later, Anya and Gwynn stepped from the train at Union Station and spotted Ray White leaning against a corner of aged brick. He acknowledged their arrival with only a single nod and then turned for the street. The two women gave chase, determined not to lose him in the crowd. When they finally caught up with him, he was waiting behind the wheel of his black government Suburban. Gwynn slid into the front while Anya made her way into the back seat.

  Agent White eyed the two women. “No. Anya rides up front with me.”

  His tone left little room for misunderstanding, and the women didn’t hesitate to exchange seats. He pulled from the curb without checking traffic and accelerated through sixty-five miles per hour.

  White turned his attention to Anya. “We’ll be in Silver Spring in twenty-five minutes, and you’re going to tell me where to find Skipper.”

  Anya froze. “But I do not know where she lives or where she works. I have never been to Silver Spring, and I have no way to know if she is there.”

  White shrugged. “You’d better figure something out.”

  Anya turned to Gwynn, but she stared back in frightened uncertainty.

  Anya spun in her seat and faced directly toward White. “Why are you doing this? What do you want from me?”

  White quickly checked the mirror and stood on the brake pedal. To the blare of horns and screeching tires, he slid to a stop in the middle of North Capital Street Northwest. Cars flew by in both directions, but White never flinched.

  He faced the Russian with steely-eyed resolve. “What I want from you is for you to prove you meant what you said to her.” He jabbed an index finger directly at Gwynn. “I want you to do whatever the job requires, torpedoes be damned. I don’t care who you kill or how many laws you break to get it done. I want to see you do it, just like you did it when you were SVR. Remember those days?”

  Anya’s anger rose, but she maintained the calm demeanor that made her so terrifying. “Yes, I remember when I was SVR officer. I was without limits. I worked alone, and I cut out the hearts of men like you. Is this what you want from me?”

  “You’re damned right, that’s what I want from you! Quit asking permission, and start getting results. You told Davis you’d do this job even without the threat of prison hanging over your head. I think you’re a liar, and you are the only person on Earth who can prove me wrong.”

  She leaned to within inches of his face and stared into his soul. “You do not understand this thing you are asking. You cannot stop the animal you are about to uncage.”

  He placed his hand in the center of her chest and shoved her back onto her side of the Suburban. “I don’t believe that animal exists anymore.”

  As the steam inside the Russian continued to rise, a car pulled alongside, and two men hurled verbal volleys of profanity toward the Suburban. Anya narrowed her eyes, set her jaw, and grabbed the barrel of the shotgun locked in its bracket beside her left knee. The key to the locked bracket rested deep inside Ray White’s pocket, but Anya had no need for a key. She sent a thundering elbow shot to the mechanism as she yanked the barrel to the side. The bracket gave way, and the weapon landed in Anya’s waiting hand. She kicked open the door and stepped from the SUV, rage burning in her eyes.

  The driver of the stopped car yanked the shifter into drive at the same instant Anya drove the butt of the shotgun through the car’s window. Recoiling, she raised the weapon over her shoulder and sent the butt into the driver’s face, spraying blood in every direction. She spun the weapon, racked the slide, and shoved the barrel into the man’s neck just beneath his ear. The passenger panicked, threw open his door, and sprinted from the car. With trembling hands, the driver unfastened his seatbelt and followed his passenger across the front seat and into the street. Still in drive, the car rolled forward at a snail’s pace. Anya opened the door then turned back to the government SUV. With two perfectly delivered rounds, she annihilated the passenger side tires of Ray’s Suburban before leaping into the sedan and speeding northward.

  At Kansas Avenue, she yanked the wheel hard over and slid the car onto the westbound lanes. Seconds later, she left the road and bounced the car into Fort Slocum Park, using a grove of tall trees for cover. In the next instant, her cell phone was pressed to her ear, and the phone she had dialed was ringing.

  Skipper answered on the third ring. “Listen to me, and listen good. If this is White, you’re playing games with the wrong—”

  Anya shouted into the phone. “Skipper, it is me, Anya.”

  “Anya? What are you . . . I mean . . .”

  “Listen to me, Skipper. Tell me where you are. I need your help.”

  “I’m at home in Silver Spring. Where are you?”

  Anya scanned the environment around her. “I do not know, but I am close. I believe this is maybe Kansas Street or maybe Avenue.”

  “In D.C.?”

  “Yes, I think I am still in Washington, D.C.”

  Skipper’s heart pounded as if it were coming out of her chest. “Anya, are you hurt? Are you in danger?”

  “I am not hurt, but yes, I am in danger. I need your help. I cannot get out of this alone.”

  Skipper gathered her wits. “What was the last street sign you saw?”

  “I don’t know. I was riding north toward Silver Spring when I broke away and stole car.”

  “Oh my God, Anya. What have you gotten into? Who’s chasing you?”

  “A federal policeman called White.”

  Skipper lowered her voice. “Listen closely, Anya. I’ve triangulated your position from your cell phone. You need to do exactly what I say. Open the hood of the car you stole. Find the hottest part of the engine, lay your cell phone on it, and leave the car running. If I can track your phone, so can White. Have you got all of that?”

  “Yes, I understand.”

  “Good. When you’ve done that, make your way due east across Kansas and Blair Road to the community gardens. You’ll know it when you get there. Dig in, and keep your head down. I’ll be there in ten minutes. I’ll be in a black Land Cruiser. Do you know what that is?”

  “No, but is okay. I will come to your voice.”

  Skipper shoved her phone into her pocket and ran for her car. Twelve minutes later, she left the pavement at the end of South Dakota Avenue Northeast and felt all four tires grip the soft, damp earth. Plowing through private plots, she powered ahead until she believed herself to be near the center of the gardens. With a throw of the shifter and a punch of the sunroof control, she leapt from the seat and climbed onto the roof of the Land Cruiser. Drawing in a lungful of air, she prepared to yell for Anya, but one glance to the northwest made the call unnecessary.

  She slid back through the sunroof and crushed the gas pedal, sending mud flying from all four tires. Anya ran as if pursued by lions. Twenty feet apart, Skipper spun the wheel and threw open the passenger door. Without breaking running stride, Anya dived through the open door and clung to the center console for her life. Skipper tapped the brake and then accelerated onto Sligo Mill. The transition forced Anya’s door closed as she crawled between the seats and into the rear floorboard. Skipper continued off-road again and onto the gravel of the railroad track bed. Accelerating alongside the tracks, she pushed the Toyota’s suspension to its limits and prayed the car would survive long enough to escape the enormous city surrounding them.

  Running for the shore with no boat waiting was the worst possible decision and the last thing any rational pursuer would expect. Turning east through a neighborhood she didn’t recognize, Skipper held the accelerator to the f
loor, and her prayers were answered. The car didn’t fail them, and just under an hour later, they crossed a narrow finger of water into a small fishing village.

  “Okay, you can come out. We’re clear of the city, and no one would expect us to be here.”

  Anya climbed from the rear floorboard and into the front passenger seat, scanning the environment around her as she moved like a snake. “Where are we?”

  “We’re in a tiny little place called Deale, Maryland, on Chesapeake Bay, and it’s time for you to tell me why a DOJ cop is chasing you through the streets of D.C. and why it has taken you so long to contact us.”

  “I will tell you everything. I promise this to you, but first I need you to find a little girl and her mother in Russia.”

  Skipper moaned. “Oh, boy. This is about Viktor Volkov’s brother’s murder, isn’t it?”

  “No,” Anya said. “This is about the life and safety of a little girl who wants more than anything to come to America and never have to leave.”

  22

  ZAOCHNOYE

  (ABSENTEE)

  Skipper pulled the Land Cruiser into a dilapidated boatyard and nestled the vehicle between two rotting wooden fishing boats, making them all but invisible to the curious onlooker.

  Skipper pulled off her sunglasses. “You knew I’d save your butt from the trap you’ve fallen into, but it’s time to come clean. You’ve been missing too long to expect me and the rest of the team not to have some questions, so let’s hear it. Where have you been?”

  Anya’s story could drag on for hours, but as usual, she condensed it into the abbreviated, yet still accurate, narrative. “I was captured by officers of your Justice Department after I killed those two men in Saint Augustine. My choices were go to prison for rest of life or work for American government to shut down Russian mafia. One of the requirements was that I could not contact anyone from my former life, especially any member of team.”

  Skipper dropped her chin and gave Anya a suspicious eye. “I’m not buying it. There are too many holes in that story. I know you were in Miami.”