The Solomon Effect

by C. S. Graham

  “Looks like whoever hit the Yalena beat us here,” said Jax, quietly closing the door behind him.

  “How do you know it wasn’t the militia?”

  “Because the militia would have taken the vodka.”

  “Ah.” She reached to turn on the light, but he put out a hand, stopping her. “Better not.”

  Her gaze met his, and she nodded.

  While she started on the files, he went to hunker down beside the shattered drawers of the desk. After ten minutes of searching, she let out an exasperated sigh. “If there ever was anything here to find,” she said, picking up another handful of scattered papers, “it’s gone. You know that, don’t you?”

  But all he said was, “Just watch out for broken glass.”

  They worked in a tense silence punctuated by the rustle of paper, the thump of furniture being righted. She was gathering up the last of the scattered files when she found a half-spilled box of business cards, printed on cheap stock. They looked new.

  She pulled one out and held it up to the fading light.

  BAKLANOV SALVAGE

  Baltiskaya 23b

  Telephone: 7–4112-21352

  Fax: 7–4112-31698

  She started to put the card back, then stopped to look around. “Do you see a phone?”

  “There isn’t one,” said Jax, nodding to the fax machine that sat at a drunken angle on the edge of the desk. “Looks like he just had a dedicated fax line.”

  “Who has a fax these days?”

  “People who do business with the Third World.”

  “But if he only had a fax, then why is there a telephone number on his business card?”

  “Let me see that.” Reaching out, Jax took the card between his thumb and forefinger. “It’s a cell phone.” He gave her a grin. “See. You did find something.”

  “This is good?” Tobie pushed to her feet. “Why is this good?”

  “Because even as we speak, the geeks at the NSA are busy snooping on the telecommunications of the world. We like to think we’re the only ones doing it, but the truth is, every country with a good tax base does it, too.”

  She took the card back and stuck it in her bag. “Which means?”

  “Which means, now that we know Baklanov’s cell phone number, Matt ought to be able to pull his records.” He glanced toward the patch of smudged sky visible through the window. In the fifteen minutes they’d been in the office, the sky had grown significantly darker.

  “It’s getting late,” said Tobie, following his gaze.

  “No shit. We’ve got just enough time to make it back to the cathedral before Andrei turns us into pumpkins.”

  It was when they were backing out the door that Tobie noticed the sheet of paper that had slipped beneath the desk, one small white corner protruding from the edge.

  “What’s that?” Jax asked as she reached over to pick it up.

  “It’s a fax. And oh, look; you’re in luck. It’s in English.”

  “Very funny,” he said, pulling the door shut behind them. “When was it sent?”

  She frowned. “According to the dateline, it came through less than an hour ago. From somebody named Kemal Erkan. In Turkey.”

  “Turkey? Let me see that.”

  He scanned it quickly, then grunted. “Listen to this. “Been trying to reach you for two days now. Have buyer lined up for steel from U-boat. Great price. Let me know when to expect arrival.’”

  “Nothing ominous-sounding about that,” she said. She was walking ahead of him and had almost reached the stairs when she felt the hairs rise on the back of her neck, and slowed.

  “What is it?” said Jax, just as a black-leather-gloved hand appeared around the corner from the stairwell with a Glock 17 held in a professional grip.

  She lunged forward, grabbing the unseen assailant’s wrist with both hands to yank the gun up just as he fired off three suppressed shots in quick succession.

  Sounding like muffled pops, the percussions filled the narrow hall with the stench of burnt powder and a film of blue smoke, and knocked chunks of plaster off the dingy walls. The man let out a roar of rage, swinging around to knee her, hard, in the small of her back. She went down on all fours.

  The black-jacketed motorcyclist was pivoting toward her, the Glock leveled at her head when Jax’s fist caught him under the chin, snapping his head back. Jax pounded him again and again, knocking the Glock flying and sending him stumbling backward toward the top of the stairs.

  “You sonofabitch,” said Jax, landing a roundhouse kick that caught the assassin just above the ear. He wavered a moment, then tumbled back, falling heavily against the wall before pitching awkwardly down the rest of the concrete steps.

  “That guy needs to learn to stay away from stairs,” said Jax, breathing heavily. He swung back to Tobie. “You all right?”

  “Yeah. Just winded,” she said, wincing slightly as she tried to straighten.

  Picking up the Glock, Jax went to stand at the top of the steps and brought the knuckles of his right fist to his mouth. “The sonofabitch,” he said again. “I hope this time he broke his neck.”

  Andrei Gorchakove’s voice drifted up to them from the bottom of the stairwell. “From the looks of things, I’d say he did.”

  27

  “How did he find us here?” whispered October.

  Jax threw her a warning frown and shook his head. “Just let me do the talking, okay?”

  “I don’t know what it is you’re always so afraid I’m going to say,” she hissed as they walked down the stairs to where Andrei stood leaning against the grimy concrete wall, the dead man at his feet.

  At their approach, Andrei reached inside his jacket and came up with a half-empty pack of cigarettes. “Must you always leave a trail of bodies wherever you go, Jax?”

  “Body. One body.”

  “What about the two motorcyclists the militia found on the road from Rybachy?”

  “Motorcyclists?”

  “The ones who shot up your Lada.”

  “Ah. Those guys.” Jax hunkered down to study the dead man’s ruddy-cheeked face. Wide and sightless blue eyes stared up from beneath straight, sandy-colored brows. It was the motorcyclist from the cathedral.

  Andrei stuck a cigarette between his lips. “Ever see him before?”

  “No,” lied Jax, pushing to his feet. “Any idea who he is?”

  “You tell me. He’s not carrying ID, but I checked the labels on his clothes. They’re American. If this is one of your terrorists, Jax, I’d say Washington needs to rethink some of their suppositions about what’s going to happen come Halloween.”

  Jax stared beyond Andrei, to where the blue-and-white militia van waited, its Tatar driver beside it, beefy arms crossed at his chest. “I must be losing my touch. I’d swear I wasn’t being followed. Either by you or”—he jerked his head toward the dead motorcyclist sprawled at their feet—“by him.”

  Faintly smiling, Andrei pushed away from the wall to saunter outside. He reached beneath the Lada’s right front fender to come up with a small black box with an antenna.

  “Shit,” said Jax. “How did that get there?”

  “After I dropped you at the cathedral, I had every car rental agency in the area notified that you might be coming. They were told to give you the ‘special.’”

  “It’s nice to be predictable.”

  Andrei struck his lighter, his eyes narrowing against the cigarette’s harsh blue smoke. “Did you find anything?”

  “Not really.”

  Andrei nodded to his driver. “You won’t mind if we verify that?”

  The Tatar patted down Jax’s pockets and drew out the fax from Turkey. “Well, there was that,” said Jax.

  His jaw silently bunching and flexing, the Tatar grasped October’s bag and upended its contents across the hood of the Lada.

  While Attila pawed through her iPod, passport wallet, lip balm, and sunglasses case, October said, “The tracking device explains how you found us.” She je
rked her head toward the dead man in the stairwell. “But what about him?”

  “Perhaps he was here waiting for you.” Andrei took one last drag, then dropped his half-smoked cigarette to grind it beneath the sole of his boot. “Come. You have a plane to catch.”

  “Are you done with my bag?” said October. When Andrei nodded, she scooped up her things and shoved them back inside.

  No one had even glanced at Jasha Baklanov’s business card.

  Jax stared out the wide plate-glass window at the darkened runway below. The window was filthy, streaked with water marks on the outside and smeared by children’s sticky fingers on the inside. Andrei had personally escorted them to the departure section of Kaliningrad’s decrepit airport, and he didn’t seem to be going anytime soon. Jax had been reduced to calling Matt from the men’s room to ask him to look up a guy named Kemal Erkan in Turkey, and to pull Baklanov’s cell phone records.

  Standing now beside Jax, the Russian lit another cigarette and blew out a long stream of smoke, his gaze on October. “So tell me about the woman,” he said quietly.

  Jax cast a glance at where she sat on one of the departure lounge’s hard chairs, her head bent over a Chinese textbook. “What about her?”

  “She’s pretty, but she doesn’t seem like your type.”

  “What’s my type?”

  “Tall, long-legged. Very high maintenance.”

  Jax gave a short laugh. “We’re just working together.”

  “I thought you liked to work alone?”

  “I do.”

  Andrei’s eyes narrowed with amusement as he drew on his cigarette. “We might get further if we cooperated on this, you know.”

  “I am cooperating.”

  “You just forgot about the fax in your pocket, did you?”

  Jax kept his gaze on the runway, where a plane was slowly taxiing in, its landing lights winking out of the darkness. “According to Anna Baklanov, the captain’s sixteen-year-old nephew was supposed to be on the Yalena. But I don’t remember seeing a boy in the militia photos of the dead crew.”

  Andrei frowned. “You think the boy was cooperating with the terrorists?”

  “I suppose it’s possible, but I doubt it. According to his widow, the captain was like a father to the boy.”

  “The killers could have thrown his body overboard.”

  “True. But, why him?”

  “Maybe he went over the rail when he was shot.” Andrei ground out his cigarette. “Why are you so interested in this boy?”

  “If he’s alive…”

  “He’s not alive.”

  There was a stirring amongst the assembled passengers as a uniformed woman appeared at the gate. “You’re in luck,” said Andrei. “Only an hour late.”

  He stood for a moment watching Jax shoulder his carry-on bag. Then he said, “You’re going too easily, Jax. I think you found something else—something you’re not telling me. What happened to détente? Glasnost? International cooperation and the New World Order?”

  “I don’t know anything you don’t know.”

  Andrei glanced at October. “Are you kidding? I still don’t know why she’s here. Her Russian is better than yours, yes. But yours isn’t as bad as you like to pretend. So why is she with you?”

  October shoved her textbook in her bag and stood up. “His Russian is terrible.”

  “See?” Jax nudged her toward the gate. “Go.”

  “I will find out, you know,” Andrei shouted as they started down the ramp. “This is what’s wrong with the world today. You Americans, you all think you’re still cowboys.”

  Later that night, Rodriguez stood in the backyard of the old German house in the exclusive enclave in Mendeleevo, his legs splayed wide, his thumbs hooked in his hip pockets, his head tipped back as he watched a wind-whipped stream of clouds scuttle across the cold face of the full moon.

  In the last twenty-four hours, he’d lost four men—three dead, one missing. He didn’t care about the Russians; they were expendable. Cannon fodder. But Dixon was a good kid. An American. He had a wife back home in Arkansas and a baby girl just two months old. That was tough.

  He heard the back door of the house open and footsteps cross the terrace. He was aware of Salinger coming to stand beside him, but he didn’t turn. “Any word yet from Borz on the little shit?”

  “Not yet,” said Salinger. He hesitated. “We just got a confirmation from our contact in Turkey. They have someone to make the hit on Kemal Erkan.”

  “Good.” They had no way of knowing how much Baklanov might have told the Turk, but Rodriguez wasn’t taking any chances. He glanced at the man beside him. “We need that guy shut up, and we need him shut up fast. How much do they want?”

  “The usual.”

  “Tell them to move. I want Erkan dead by this time tomorrow.”

  The night had turned so cold they could see the exhalation of their breath hanging like a white fog in the darkness. Salinger still hesitated. Rodriguez said, “What is it?”

  “According to our contact at Aeroflot, Alexander and the Guinness woman were on the last flight to Berlin. The General’s not going to be happy we missed them.”

  Rodriguez pressed his lips into a thin line and said nothing.

  Salinger said, “You think they found anything?”

  “Nothing that’s going to do them any good.”

  Salinger nodded. “When do we leave here?”

  “When we get the kid,” said Rodriguez, and headed for the back steps.

  28

  Washington, D.C.: Monday 26 October

  3:00 P.M. local time

  The call from Rodriguez came through when Gerald T. Boyd was in his room at the Willard, sipping a glass of Jack Daniel’s and reading over his notes for the testimony he’d be giving to Congress over the next few days.

  He listened to the mercenary’s report in a tight silence, then said, “You fucked up,” his voice as sharp and lethal as a wire twisted around a man’s throat.

  “Yes, sir. The targets are on their way to Berlin. I can leave my men to finish up here and go after them myself.”

  “Negative. You focus on getting this fucking kid. I need you back stateside by Friday.”

  “I’ll be there, sir.”

  “Don’t disappoint me again, Carlos.”

  “I won’t, sir.”

  Boyd sat for a time, the satellite phone clutched in one tight fist. Then he put in a call to Lee.

  “The representative from Washington is moving. If he’s not headed back here, I want to know where he’s going.”

  There was a tense silence. “That information won’t be easy to obtain, sir.”

  “I didn’t ask for an evaluation of the assignment’s level of difficulty, Colonel. I’ll expect your report first thing tomorrow morning.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Grand Case, St. Martin: Monday 26 October

  3:15 P.M. local time

  James Walker strolled through the shadowy, echoing house, throwing open one set of French doors after the other to let the warm Caribbean breeze sweep through the big high-ceilinged rooms.

  Walker believed in fresh air. Fresh air, fresh fruits and vegetables, and lots of regular exercise. Let the rest of the world pop the pills that earned Walker Pharmaceuticals billions. Walker himself had long ago learned the real secret to health and longevity, and it couldn’t be put in a gelcap.

  He’d bought the estate on the outskirts of Grand Case, St. Martin, at the urging of his ex-wife, Catherine. But over the years he’d discovered a fondness for sun and blue skies and palm trees that would have shocked his dour New England forebears. When he finally decided marriage to Catherine was more trouble than it was worth, he’d insisted on keeping the St. Martin house, along with the houses in Miami and St. Tropez. She’d have given him anything, as long as Walker let her keep her precious daughter. Walker saw his daughter at Christmas and for two weeks in the summer, which was more than enough for both of them.

  Lately,
though, he’d been thinking about redoing the house in St. Martin. The place had far too much in common with his villa on South Beach: terra-cotta floors, white sailcloth-covered sofas, arcaded galleries framing achingly blue water. The architecture had seemed elegant and sophisticated when Catherine first found the place fifteen years ago. But with the proliferation of millionaires in recent years, Italianate villas had become so…common.

  At one point, he’d considered building something new, something in the local style of the island, with carvings and fretwork like the old houses down in Grand Case. But no one knew better than Walker that the next few years would not be a good time to invest in expensive properties. An extraordinary number of luxury homes were about to be thrown onto the market. And there were going to be a lot less people alive to buy them.

  In the end, the world would be a better place. No more endless Middle East crises. No more suicide bombers. No more money-grubbing Jews, siphoning off billions in foreign aid, competing with American arms manufacturers, and wrecking havoc on the world financial scene. But Walker was, at heart, a businessman, and he had no doubt that the coming events were going to shake the world economy. Like any good businessman, he’d been reviewing his portfolio, making adjustments to certain key stock holdings. His financial advisors found these changes baffling, now. But in the days to come his actions would be seen as fortuitous. The world was about to change drastically, and Walker had given considerable thought to how a man could capitalize on those changes. It was as if he had been given a crystal ball in which he could see the future. Only a fool would fail to act on that knowledge.

  Pouring himself a tall glass of liquefied wheatgrass sweetened with apple juice, he wandered out onto the gallery overlooking the sun-struck sea below and put in a call to Boyd.