by David Pepper
But Oleg Kazarov was a shadowy figure. Outside of Russia, at least, he clearly kept himself unknown to all but a small circle of direct reports.
And amid her protest, Compton failed to ask one fundamental question: “Who is Oleg Kazarov?”
She knew exactly who the Russian was.
* * *
LONDON
Andersson interrupted Kazarov as he lay down to sleep.
“We just picked up a call Stanton made to our Ariens people. He knows who you are. He knows Ariens visited you in London the day before his death. He knows!”
Kazarov, always calm, asked to listen to the recording of the call with Compton. Two minutes later, Miller played it to him through the phone.
“He is close. He is still fishing, but yes, he is too close.”
Kazarov sighed. Sharpe had come a long way from even the notebooks of a few days before. And it was exactly what he feared would happen after his henchmen’s flubs. Days ago, the reporter was desperately searching for some Marcellus connection. Now he even knew Kazarov’s name.
But Kazarov remained surprised, pleasantly, by two things.
First, Sharpe did not know that they had bugged his phone.
And even more importantly, except for the call to the Ariens Group, he had not mentioned Kazarov’s name, or the Marcellus connection, to anyone.
Kazarov next patched Kondrakov onto the call.
“Ceichas.”
“Now. It is time.”
* * *
YOUNGSTOWN
At six in the evening, as I prepared to leave the office, my work phone rang. Another 202 number. Washington.
“Is this Jack Sharpe?”
I recognized the voice right away.
“Yes, it is.”
“It’s Janet Compton again. From Ariens Group. But I’m calling from our secure line.”
That last tidbit piqued my curiosity even further.
“I couldn’t say much earlier today for a lot of reasons, but I wanted to talk more about your question. Can we meet in person?”
“What do you want to talk about?”
While on guard for traps, this might be my biggest break yet. A question or two now might smoke out the difference.
“I want to tell you what I know about Kazarov. His role in Marcellus. In Energy 2020. But I can only do it in person.”
This told me very little. She clearly was being careful.
“I can’t be gone for long. Why don’t we meet in the middle? There’s a Pennsylvania town called Breezewood only a few hours from D.C., but also about three or so hours from me. Why don’t we meet there?”
From about fifty miles out, Breezewood enthusiastically advertised itself on billboard after billboard, which is why I thought of it so quickly. The town didn’t live up to the hype, providing nothing but motels and fast food restaurants. But it was central, and a random, neutral setting was the safest way to go.
“I’ve driven through it a bunch myself,” Compton replied. “There’s a Bob Evans right off the road. Let’s meet there. Does 8:00 a.m. tomorrow work?”
“Sounds good. See you then.”
This was a high-risk rendezvous. But every risk I had taken so far—confronting Stanton in his office, crawling up on the Surburban, trusting Arlene Brown, even confronting the Russian goons—had paid off with valuable information.
And this lobbyist, who called desperately wanting to tell me something, was perfectly positioned to fill in the final gaps in my story.
Chapter 50
BREEZEWOOD, PA: 161 days after the election
Not a fun morning to drive. As often happens in central Pennsylvania, a thick fog enveloped the hilly countryside for about fifty miles, and as I headed further south, it evolved into a dreary drizzle.
I had gone to bed so early that I didn’t have time to jot down the series of questions I hoped to ask. And the rough driving weather kept me from doing so while behind the wheel. So I simply rehearsed the sequence in my head.
Did Oleg Kazarov lead Marcellus? Did he lead the Energy 2020 effort? What was the relationship like? How closely involved in the Energy 2020 effort was Stanton?
I already knew those answers, but these were important facts to confirm with a knowledgeable source. And the initial conversation would establish a rapport of trust.
But the next questions, questions about Abacus, were far more important.
Did Compton suspect Ariens knew about Abacus? Would Ariens and Stanton have discussed it? Did she suspect Marcellus was tied to it? Kazarov?
And if she warmed up, I would ask her again about the coincidence of Ariens meeting with Kazarov one day, and then being killed the next. Did she suspect foul play? Did Ariens leave any papers or files discussing Abacus?
A bad accident shortly after the “Only 50 Miles to Breezewood” billboard slowed me by about twenty minutes. So I entered the small town at 8:10, and pulled up to the Bob Evans at 8:12. The rain never let up.
* * *
“You want a seat, young man?”
It never fails.
I’ve eaten Bob Evans omelets for decades. And every time you enter the iconic red and yellow buildings, the hostess, usually in her more senior years, offers the warmest greeting of the day.
Gladys, as her nametag identified her, hit the mark this morning, welcoming me with a sweet smile and warm hello.
I always try to return the kindness, but today was far too serious to pull it off.
“Actually, I’m meeting a woman here . . .”
“Well, lucky her!” Gladys interrupted.
“I think she’s probably already here.”
Looking around, I spotted Compton sitting alone in the far corner of the restaurant.
“There she is. I’ll just join her.”
“Great. Enjoy! A server will be right over.”
Compton looked up at me, lifting her right hand limply. I nodded back, signaling that I saw her. And then started walking toward her booth.
After about ten feet, her expression changed. From slight grin to grimace to frown. It happened so fast, something was clearly wrong.
And at that moment, I felt them. One large body behind me, another to my right.
Idiot! I had focused on Gladys and Compton exclusively and had not bothered to look around. And now it was too late.
Next, a small, solid object pressed forcefully into the small of my back. The man on my right spoke—the same voice as the Suburban passenger at the lake.
“Mr. Sharpe, you will come with us. Do not make any quick movements.”
“I’m supposed to meet her.”
But as I looked at Compton, I knew. I’d trusted one source too many. Her expression remained a deep frown, same as before. She did not enjoy witnessing this. At the same time, she did not look surprised. She knew it was coming.
“The lady will be fine. Come with us.”
The gun barrel pressed even harder into my back.
“Okay, okay. I hear you. I’m coming.”
As we walked back toward the door, I smiled at Gladys as if all was well. Didn’t want to endanger folks at the restaurant who had nothing to do with any of this.
“What’s the matter? She not like you?” she joked.
“Just met some old friends on the way to her table,” I said. “Tell her I’ll be right back.” The man to my right, hearing my words, flashed Gladys a big grin.
As they set foot in the parking lot, I glanced at a car window a few feet away. The reflection confirmed my fear that the man behind me was the driver. The large driver.
“Look straight ahead,” his smaller counterpart warned.
We marched across the lot to the back of a White Castle next door. The familiar Suburban, parked completely out of view from the Bob Evans, now appeared in sight.
Somehow, I had crossed a line. My casual followers were suddenly my captors. Based on Compton’s reaction, it was clearly my call to her, and my mention of Kazarov, that had flipped the switch. She must have tipped off the Russian—her client, after all—who instructed her to set up the morning meeting. Kazarov must have decided that watching from a distance was no longer a safe strategy. And I had walked right into the trap.
The key question was whether my captors now intended to be my assassins.
Killing me would of course draw suspicion. At the same time, I hadn’t yet shared my theory about Marcellus with anyone. Oleg Kazarov might have concluded that this presented the final point of no return—his last opportunity to eliminate me and still get away with it, along with everything that came before.
* * *
Ever since childhood, watching high-profile news events, I had always imagined how I would respond to being a hostage, and more specifically, to the prospect that another human being planned to take my life.
I so admired the actions of the passengers on United Flight 93 on September 11, who seized control of their plane once they realized their fate.
And when I saw terrorists behead victims on television, I was surprised, even disappointed, when those victims did not put up a fight. Faced with that same threat, I imagined myself turning around and tackling the hooded terrorist, punching him endlessly before someone else put me out of his misery. Same outcome, but seemed more noble than sitting helplessly, letting someone take everything from you without forcing them to pay in some way.
So I long ago committed not to walk the plank peacefully. If I faced imminent death, I would resist until the very end. “Let’s roll” would be my mantra.
But as these two men guided me within twenty feet of the car, I now realized this lifelong promise to myself was easier made than fulfilled. I now felt what those hostages, the ones who die without resistance, must feel.
First, doubt. A hopeful doubt. That perhaps, despite all appearances, these men did not aim to kill me after all. And if that was not their intent, trying to resist might compel them to do the very thing they weren’t planning to do. Which meant going along might actually be the better route to staying alive.
Second, with one man to my right, and another behind me, I was surrounded. Resisting felt so futile. So irrational. Suicidal.
But one factor settled my momentary wavering.
Over the years, Chief Santini had explained that among the variety of armed incidents, the statistics painted the bleakest picture about my predicament. Victims of routine armed muggings usually live to tell about it. Same with bank robberies, convenience store hold-ups, and even home break-ins.
But getting into a car at gunpoint? Unlike the others, the majority who do so don’t return from the ride alive. “Whatever you do,” Chief Santini always warned, “don’t get in that car. You will likely never live to tell about it.”
And here I was only fifteen feet away from that fatal threshold.
So weighing it all, I made my decision. And my move.
The big guy offered the more strategic target, the more lethal foe. Gun in hand, he could likely kill with his bare hands too if he needed to. He was behind my left shoulder. Fortunately, to keep our exit from Bob Evans uneventful, he had lowered the gun after the initial two shoves to the back. It was either still in his right hand facing down, or within inches of the hand’s reach. Either way, that slight shift in position gave me my split-second opening.
The hard corner of my elbow would be my best weapon. Knowing that a wind-up would give too much notice, I traded the power of a full blow for the surprise of an instant one. Spinning left, I whipped my arm back and up and struck with the elbow exactly where I hoped—up into the big guy’s left cheek and nose. The loud crunch meant I had snapped at least his nasal cartilage if not his cheekbone, and he instantly lunged forward in pain. Anticipating this reflex, I grabbed the back of his head, accelerated its downward trajectory with a hard shove, and at the same time thrust my left knee upward as forcefully as I could, once again smashing solid bone into the already bloody face. Another crunch. He fell to the pavement, hands cupped over his nose, writhing in pain.
Now in a slightly crouched position, I focused on the smaller man on my right, who, thankfully, was slow to react. With the luxury of a full wind-up, my right elbow struck the man’s stomach with even greater force. I had planned to use my left fist to knock him down, but the elbow alone did the job, sending him crashing backward to the parking lot asphalt, choking and gasping for air. I had clearly knocked the wind out of him.
I dashed away, desperate to get back to my pick-up. I cleared about thirty-five feet before I heard the two men yell actual words, in pain and in Russian. I glanced back. The goon was getting up, and the smaller man was still writhing on the pavement, coughing.
I had parked on the other side of the Bob Evans from the White Castle, which was a good thing, because once around the building’s corner, I was out of the gun’s direct line of fire. As I made a bee-line toward my now-visible truck, I reached into my pocket for the keys and pulled them out.
And then I saw the tires. Damn, these guys are professionals. The truck was sitting on its rims, all four tires completely flat. Now I needed a quick plan B.
Beyond the Bob Evans was a Days Inn. Without hesitating, I sprinted sixty feet to the entrance and charged through the lobby’s front door. With six people gaping at my noisy, wet entrance, I ran down the hallway toward a stairwell, entered it, and loudly slammed shut the stairwell door. I bounded up two flights of stairs, leaping five steps at a time.
As I reached the third floor and opened the stairwell door, I first feared that I had trapped myself. But a fire exit map on the hallway wall indicated several other ways out. I raced down the hallway to the stairwell furthest from the lobby, opened and shut that stairwell door carefully, and descended those stairs as quietly and quickly as possible. Once back on the ground floor, I found myself only three feet from a door exiting the motel. I pushed it open, walked through, held the handle as it closed, and sprinted away as fast as I could.
My spur-of-the-moment plan had been to draw my abductors into the motel and convince them I was hiding upstairs somewhere. After forcing them to go door-to-door, I’d be long gone.
And it appeared to work. As I ran away, looking back every twenty or thirty yards, I never saw them exit the motel.
* * *
I sprinted through 200 more yards of parking lots, driveways, and sidewalks, relieved that adrenaline and my recent lakeside runs were giving me much-needed stamina.
The last stop before the interstate entrance was an Applebee’s. I darted in, planning to hide in a booth and make a few phone calls to get out of this jam. Only when I sat down did I realize how soaking wet I was from the combination of rain and sweat. And my left elbow and knee were both throbbing.
First, I called Chief Santini.
“Chief, I’m being chased by the two that have been following me for days. I think their intent is to kill me. What should I do?”
“Where are you?”
“At an Applebee’s in Breezewood, in south central Pennsylvania. About three hours away.”
“I’ve driven through there many times. What in the world are you doing in Breezewood?”
Realizing how unhelpful this question was, the chief didn’t give me time to answer.
“I’m going to call the chief there right away. I’ll have someone pick you up. Stay put unless you think you’re in danger.”
“I know I’m in danger, but will do.”
I next tried to call Scott, to make sure he was okay. If they were closing on me, maybe they were going after him as well.
No answer, but not a surprise. It was still early out west.
Six minutes later, sirens began blaring from a distance. They grew louder over the next three minutes, and
then three Breezewood police cars sped into the Applebee’s parking lot.
Just before I stood to greet the officers, my phone buzzed. Not the sound of a phone call, but the vibration of a text. A number I didn’t recognize had sent an attachment.
On seeing its contents, I now realized the third reason that people facing imminent death don’t resist their captors. The most compelling reason.
Family.
The text attached a photo of Scott and Jana, time-stamped from the evening before, happily enjoying dinner together. The ramifications were clear.
And then the phone buzzed again as a new text came through. Its message short but definitely not sweet.
“Don’t Be a Fool: Keep Them Alive.”
I lowered my head. Those words ended my resistance.
“What do I need to do?” I texted back.
“Simple: go back to White Castle in 5 minutes.”
“Okay. I will.”
I thought of texting Scott right away but didn’t. It was too risky to do anything but cooperate.
As the four police officers ambled around the Applebee’s calling out my name, I buried my head in the menu. Two minutes later, the phone rang again—Chief Santini, surely calling to see where I was. Hated doing it, but I let the phone ring until it stopped.
Four minutes after that, the officers left the restaurant, got back into their cars, and drove away, sirens off.
I slowly walked out of the restaurant. Defeated. Walking the plank. I passed my immobilized truck at the Bob Evans, and could see through the restaurant window that Compton was gone. I walked to the back of the White Castle and peered right.
There they were, ten feet away. Sitting in the Suburban. Engine on. Waiting.
The thin Russian sat in the back seat, behind the passenger seat.
“Get in the car,” he said, gesturing toward the front seat.
I opened the door, bent down and stepped into the car. The driver’s face was still spilling out blood, both from his nostrils and a gash on the side of his nose.
As I leaned a little back, about to fasten my seatbelt, the driver plunged his enormous right fist into the center of my abdomen and yelled something loudly in Russian. The clenched hand struck like a mallet, with more force than any sack I could remember from the gridiron. I doubled over, temporarily suffocating from lack of oxygen, gasping to find air, coughing furiously.