by Howard Cohen
Copyright © 2020 by Howard B Cohen
All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
ISBN (eBook): 978-1-09834-727-7
For my daughters
Kelly
Katharine
Kimberly
Liza
Rachel-Rose
Contents
Part 1
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
Part 2
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
Part 3
27
28
29
30
31
32
33
34
35
36
37
38
39
40
41
42
43
44
45
46
47
Part 4
48
49
50
51
52
53
54
55
56
57
58
59
60
61
62
63
64
65
66
67
68
69
70
71
72
73
74
75
76
Part 5
77
78
79
80
81
82
83
84
85
86
87
88
89
90
91
92
93
94
95
96
97
98
99
100
101
102
103
104
105
106
Epilogue
Acknowledgements
Part 1
Jax Wilder
1
Prague
February 2019
Jax Wilder left Prague’s Vaclav Havel airport and took a cab to the Saint Mary hotel in the working-class district of Nusle. He made one phone call on the way. Saint Mary was an old, run-down hotel frequented by poor eastern Europeans. Rooms were small, minimally furnished with shared bathrooms and showers on each floor. A bored desk clerk asked him how long he would be staying.
“One or two days,” Jax said in Prague accented Czech.
“Cash or card.”
“Cash,” Jax said, handed the man fifty-eight euros, took his key, and walked down the corridor to his room. A double bed, small wooden desk, lamp, faded green armchair and two towels folded on the end of the bed. It was 4 PM. He had two hours before he was to meet his contact in front of the hotel. Then he would find Zoltan Kernowski. Jax lay on the bed, set his phone alarm for five forty-five and in minutes was asleep.
Jax left the hotel at precisely six o’clock wearing a weathered bomber jacket, black sweatshirt, well-worn jeans and work boots. He pulled on a dark navy watch cap. A teenage boy on an old ten-speed bicycle pulled up to the curb.
“Hello.” Jax said,” How’s your mother?”
“She’s well. Asked if you were coming to visit.”
“Not this time. Maybe next visit. You have my package.” Alfred handed him a brown paper package and peddled off. Now for Zoltan.
Zoltan Kernowski ran all the human trafficking in Eastern Europe. Born in Prague, he joined the criminal life at the age of twelve. Arrested several times but never convicted. He was wealthy but chose to live in the Nusle neighborhood where he owned several bars. One of Jax’s contacts on the Prague police force told him that Zoltan would be at the VLK (wolf) bar tonight.
Jax had no official office. His secretary was a sixty-five-year-old retired CIA analyst named Mary Carter who worked from home. Referrals came by word of mouth. She screened the calls and forwarded the ones she knew Jax would consider to a cell phone number that he changed each time it was used. He would text her the new number when he activated the new phone.
Two weeks ago, Jax accepted a call while sipping a single malt scotch in a bar just off Piccadilly Circus in central London.
“Mr Smith, Have you read the file we forwarded to you.” An unidentified man asked. Jax had received the file the day before, reviewed it before deciding to take the case. Someone had abducted the niece of a wealthy, politically connected man while she was visiting Prague with her friends. She was a twenty-year-old beauty who told her friend she was going to do some shopping and never returned. Czech police, Interpol and private investigators failed to locate her. It had been six weeks since her disappearance. The likelihood of her recovery was slight.
“My employer realizes that his niece is unlikely to be recovered. From the investigation, he learned that the man who runs the human trafficking in Prague and that area of Europe is a man called Zoltan Kernowski. My employer can’t get his niece back, but he wants the man responsible to receive justice. Are you interested?”
“I am texting you my fee. It’s non-negotiable. If you accept, I will text you the name of a bank and account number. The entire fee in advance, that too is non-negotiable.” Jax sent the information.
“Accepted.” The anonymous voice said. Two minutes later, Jax checked the Swiss bank, and the deposit was complete. Just as quickly as it had arrived, the money transferred to a private bank in Saudi Arabia owned by the royal family. No one could ever retrieve information on that account.
Jax returned to his room, unwrapped the package which contained a 9mm Glock, silencer and four fifteen shot clips. The Glock he placed at the small of his back, silencer and magazines in the pockets of his bomber jacket.
He walked half a mile to the VLK bar. Electric beers signs blinked in the windows. A growling wolfs head was on each side of the name. It was a neighborhood bar for locals on the way home after work or a hangout spot after dinner. No cameras were present. On one side of the bar was a small grocery store on the other a used clothing store. Jax strolled passed the bar without stopping. A sign on the door said, “Closed for repairs.”
There was some foot traffic, but in this neighborhood, no one made eye contact. Just keep on going, mind your own business. Four stores down there was an alley separating the buildings. He had studied the area on google earth. Jax entered the alle
y with the body language of someone who belonged there. When he reached the end, he turned left and came to the back of the VLK bar.
The back door was as old as the bar. Probably with the original lock. No lights or cameras. Jax put on a pair of latex gloves and turned the handle gently. Locked. What’re the chances that someone was watching the back door?
Jax screwed on the silencer, checked to make sure he had a round in the chamber, put two extra magazines into the front of his belt, then took out his lock picking tools. He heard the click as the bolt slid back. Now was the moment of truth. Jax took a relaxing breath, turned the knob with his left hand, Glock in his right, and slowly pulled the door open. It creaked. It was loud enough for someone close by to hear, but it was drowned out by the flush of a toilet on the right of a short hallway. At the end of the hall was a chair facing the back door. Luck always helps Jax thought as he quickly moved to the men’s toilet on the right, opened the door and stepped inside. A short heavyset man was buttoning his pants. An automatic rested on the sink in front of him. He looked at Jax, let go of his pants, which fell to his feet and reached for his gun. Jax shot him in the head, and he crumpled to the floor.
Jax opened the door, stepped into the hall, and walked to where the hall opened into the main bar area. Three men, in golf shirts wearing shoulder holsters, were playing cards. Money, beers and cigarettes kept their interest. In a booth to the right was a man with his back to him. Jax shot the three men. He quickly moved to the booth sliding in opposite the man, with his gun pointed at the man’s chest. Jax never gave an adversary a chance to respond. Early in his career, he had told two men to get up, raise their hands and face the wall. One was very fast. He pivoted, dropped to a knee, Jax’s shot missed. The man’s bullet grazed his temple, Jax’s second shot killed him. After that, Jax never gave anyone a chance. Jax Wilder did not like to kill. He did what was necessary to complete his contract and stay alive.
“Zoltan Kernowski I presume?” Jax said in Russian. Kernowski was a large man, fifties, deep-set grey eyes, a crooked nose, tattoos that climbed his neck, wrapped around his arms ending at his knuckles. His died black hair was tied in a ponytail that reached his shoulders. He was a formidable man.
“Did you have to kill them?” he barked. Not afraid of the gun pointed at his chest.
“Yes. Now I’m going to kill you. “Jax said, smiling.
“ May I ask why?”
“Certainly. I would have killed you along with your men if I hadn’t meant to tell you why and how you were going to die.”
“You are from Moscow. I can tell from your accent. Did the KGB send you? Some past offence.”
“Someone in your organization grabbed the niece of a very rich American, and she disappeared into the who knows where the hell you send these girls. He wants justice. I’m here to provide it,” Jax said. Kenowski was wearing an automatic in a shoulder holster. Jax wondered if he would go for it. If death is inevitable, what do you have to lose by trying. But he didn’t.
“May I open my attaché case?”
Jax nodded. Kernowski took an expensive leather attaché case from the seat beside him, placing it on the table. “Put in the combination and push it to me.” Kernowski did as requested. Jax clicked one side, then the other. With his eyes never leaving Kernowski, he slowly opened it with his left hand. Jax than reached across the table pressed the barrel of the silencer against Kernowski’s chest and removed his gun from the holster, placing on the seat next to him, then sat back. Jax turned the case so he could see in, watching the other man at the same time. Inside was a thick black notebook, laptop, glasses case, twenty-five automatic, and some Rolaids. Jax took the twenty-five and put it next to the automatic on the seat.
“May I have the notebook?” Kernowski asked. Jax handed it to him and closed the case.
Kernowski opened the book. “What’s her name and the date abducted?”
Jax told him. Kernowski consulted the book. “She was a five star. Beautiful, nice body, spoke English. No way to get her back. She’ll live well if she is cooperative. Sometimes the buyer will tire of a five star. I’ll repurchase them and resell at a discount as a three or four-star depending on what condition they are in mentally and physically. At worst she’ll end up on the street or a brothel.” He said as if he were talking about a horse. The sex trade was a cold, heartless business.
“You keep records of each girl?”
“Only the five stars, some of the better four stars.”
“ It’s time for me to begin Kernowski. It’s going to be a slow process. Ankles, knees, wrists, elbows and shoulders. Then I’ll decide whether to kill you or let you live like that.” Jax said, sliding out of the booth.
“Wait! Can’t we come to some arrangement? The notebook is in code; I’ll write the way to solve the code.” He opened the notebook, took a pen from his pocket, and wrote a series of numbers and letters on a blank page.
“How much are they paying you? I’ll give you a million Euros to let me go.”
“I wouldn’t sell out a client for ten million” Jax said, pointing his gun at Kernowski’s ankle.
“Okay. fifteen! fifteen!” He pleaded.
Jax hesitated. “Fiffteen million Euros? “Jax said and slid back into the booth. “Now? Right now?” Jax asked.
“Yes, yes. I’m going to reach into my pocket and take out my phone. I’ll make some transfers, then put the money into whatever account you provide.” Jax nodded. Kernowki got his phone.
“I want to watch your transactions. Put it on speaker.”
“How do I know you’ll let me go after I transfer the money?” he said as he logged into one bank, then another.
“You have my word. But you will have to become invisible for a while.” Jax showed a number to Kernowski who typed it into his account. In less than a minute, the money appeared at Jax’s Swiss bank, then quickly transferred to the Saudi bank.
“You’re free to go, “Jax said.
“Would you have done all those things you threatened?”
“No, “Jax said.
Kernowski was smiling when Jax shot him twice in the heart. He put Kernowski’s notebook, phone and both guns into the case and left by the back entrance. He flushed the gloves he had worn down the communal toilet at his hotel. Jax sat at the small desk and opened the notebook. He shook his head and laughed. Kernowski had bluffed him. The book had no names of girls or star ratings. It was his loan sharking business. Who owed how much and when payments were due. Later that evening on his way to dinner Jax dropped the case into the Vltava river which runs through central Prague
He flew to New York the next day.
2
New York
February 2019
Jax was lying in bed watching Alice Compton get dressed. She cast aside his old shirt she had worn to bed, revealing a perfect body. Alice knew he was watching her. She bent over to pick up her panties. They both lived busy lives. From time to time, they would have dinner, followed by an evening of sex. Neither was interested in a serious relationship.
“Come back to bed,” Jax said softly.
“I have to be in court at eleven.”
“You live two floors down, and it’s only seven-thirty.”
“As long as it’s not a quickie.”
“As long as it takes.” He said.
When Alice left an hour later, Jax decided to go back to sleep. His phone woke him twenty minutes later. Jax recognized the number.
“Hello, Paul. What can I do for you?”
“Right to business as always Jax. We need you for a job. One which we can’t use one of our own.”
“You mean the agency wants deniability. It’s dangerous, involves a country we don’t have good relations with, and a low chance of success. Am I right?”
“Right on all counts. Let’s meet at the safe house on forty-ei
ghth street.”
“No. Come here at nine.”
“I’ll see you then.” The line went dead.
Jax’s condo was on the 42ind floor of a new building on the east side of Manhattan not far from Sutton place. Floor to ceiling windows gave panoramic views of the East River. He never tired of the view.
It was a far cry from the small apartment in the working-class neighborhood of the East Bronx where he grew up. An academic scholarship to Princeton changed his life. His parents had envisioned him as a doctor or lawyer.
Jax however wanted a more adventurous life. An office and daily routine did not fit his personality. During his senior year he was approached by a CIA recruiter. It was just what Jax was looking for.
Paul Sloan arrived promptly at nine. He was a lean forty-five, with short auburn hair, bright blue eyes, aquiline nose and thin lips. Paul was now director of Russian affairs at Langley. Jax ability to speak nine languages like a native made him a valuable undercover agent. He and Paul worked black ops together in Germany, Russia, and Eastern Europe. After four years the excitement was gone. Jax left the agency to open his own consulting firm. He built the business on the contacts he made while in the CIA, and his willingness to take on jobs that were dangerous, and sometimes illegal.
“Sit” Jax pointed to a leather sofa,” Scotch on the rocks, correct?”
“Good memory. Was that you in Prague last month?”
“What happened in Prague? “Jax handed him a glass with two inches of eighteen-year-old Macallan.
“Right. The head of the Russian Institute for Avionics and Integrated warfare wants to defect. It would be quite a coup for us.”
“So why don’t you smuggle him out. You’ve done that before. Get him to our embassy in the closest friendly country.”
“The message about the defection came from Professor Olaf Nielsen a Norwegian scientist. Seems he was at a meeting in Moscow. Vitaly Sonkin came over to him and asked him to tell the American embassy in Oslo that he wanted to defect. We looked this guy up and he’s the most important man in Russian missile and avionics research and design.”
Jax stood up and walked to the window. “What’s the catch.”
“He’s in one of the closed cities. They let him travel but always with an escort. They do that with all their top scientists. It’s worse under Putin. That prick trusts no one. For all, we know the guy has changed his mind. We don’t have anyone with your language skills that can pass for a local. You’ll have to talk to him”