✽ ✽ ✽
Lukos Sabra sat in the aisle seat of the last row in business class, near where the closed curtain separated them from coach. He was leaning back, a baseball cap pulled low on his brow, looking as if he might be sleeping. He wasn’t. He was watching with inquisitive wonder as his mark slept a restless and tiresome sleep.
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
Vasily Rudenko wasn’t surprised when the consul general’s executive assistant called to advise him the consul general wanted to see him in his office right away. He was, after all, still enjoying the fruits of the kompromat he held over the consul’s gay Information Systems Security Officer Andrei Nureyev; and it was these fruits which allowed him the opportunity to have already read the recently received Consul General’s Eyes Only priority dispatch from the Russian ambassador in Washington DC.
With the dispatch being in response to Rudenko’s reporting on the recent activities of his New Orleans assets – the crux of which detailed how his primary asset’s involvement in a previously reported underground sex trafficking ring had devolved into a double kidnapping gone wrong, prompting a rogue rescue effort of the kidnapping victims by a former Navy SEAL – he was confident as to why the consul general wanted to meet with him and was relishing already what he was certain to be the meeting’s outcome: him taking the operational lead on a highly classified and strictly compartmentalized deep cover operation, one that had been set in motion at the most highest levels of the Russian government. The more he thought about it the more it amazed him how his low level and, quite frankly, insignificant assets had haplessly managed to involve themselves in such an important operation. But he didn’t dwell on it; he just thanked god for their hapless serendipity and for his good fortune for being the intelligence officer chosen to manage them.
As Rudenko made his way through the maze of office cubicles, he was giddy from the fact that he could finally break free for a while from the ungratifying day-to-day work of mindless database management and the management (read: babysitting) of a mindless, spoiled asset whose only import was that he was the mindless, spoiled son of a priority asset who regularly provided actionable intelligence; he could break away from all that and for the first time in his twelve-year career, finally do some hardcore espionage work that his intelligence service had trained him to do. However, as confident as he was that the outcome of the dispatch would finally provide him the vocational opportunity he had been hoping for, there still was an unsettling twinge of nervous paranoia pealing steadily deep within his gut.
He felt the twinge in the gut not only because it was a rare matter for any of the vice consuls to be called into the moody and reclusive consul general’s office – although him being called for the first time ever into the office of Russia’s top diplomat in the region did heighten the condition significantly – he felt it because, to some degree, he always felt it.
When trying to survive within sistema, the Machiavellian system of corrupt power politics that has everyone busy trying not to get screwed over by those they themselves were busy trying to screw over, Rudenko had to assume that, like him, everyone trapped within such a ruthless and unforgiving system must be suffering from a similar nervous twinge of paranoia deep within the gut. Therefore, even as confident as he was to the purpose of the meeting, he couldn’t discount the possibility that he was wrong, that the purpose of the meeting instead was to inform him that it was he who the system had decided to screw. Hence, the closer he got to the consul general’s office, the more intense the twinge.
“Ah, Vasily Nikolayevich,” Consul General Glagolev said dryly as Rudenko was shown into the office by the assistant. “Please have a seat.” He pointed a boney finger to an empty chair in front of his desk, next to the one already occupied by Rudenko’s supervisor, Senior Vice Consul Aleksandr Bugrov.
“Thank you, Consul General Timofey Mikhailovich,” Rudenko said with a slight but formal bow. He then turned to his supervisor. “Aleksandr Ivanovich,” he said as he gave Bugrov a slight but respectful nod of the head before taking his seat.
Once Rudenko had seated himself, the consul general leaned forward in his chair, rested his forearms on his desk, and interlaced his long, boney fingers atop a brown folder. He looked at Rudenko gravely, as if he were a judge ready to pass down his sentence upon him.
The whispered nickname around the office for Consul General Glagolev was Hungry Boris. Boris because the uncompromising patriot, with his dark skin, his penetrating, deep-set eyes, his square, protruding jaw, and his unkempt graying hair, looked just like an aging Boris Pasternak. And Hungry because, as sickly thin and fragile in appearance as the consul general was, he looked like an emaciated, malnourished Boris, perhaps a pre-October Revolution Boris who, instead of living the aristocratic life of luxury and comfort as he had, had lived a desperate hand to mouth life as had the many serfs severely bound to him and his privileged family; or a Boris, perhaps, who, instead of dying a fortunate, premature death from lung disease shortly after penning Doctor Zhivago, the subversive, unglorified depiction of the socialist state for which the literati of the West, a degenerate group of hand puppets working solely on behalf of the American CIA, awarded him the Nobel Prize for Literature, had had the opportunity to receive his just due by being arrested and living to the end a brutal and desperate life of the cold, hard gulag as many of his literary peers, true communists to the core outraged over his traitorous subversion, had demanded of the State that he should.
As Hungry Boris stared at Rudenko prior to speaking, Rudenko’s pained gut wrenched spasmodically in nervous anticipation of what was about to be said.
“As you know, Vasily Nikolayevich,” Hungry Boris began stiffly, his voice thick and phlegmy from a lifelong habit of consuming expensive Cuban cigars and less expensive Russian vodka, “as is routine, we forwarded your report of the recent activities of your New Orleans assets on to the Washington DC embassy…”
Rudenko almost gasped out loud from relief. Just from the consul general’s introduction to the topic, he could tell it would in fact be the meeting he had hoped it to be and not one where he would be informed of his arrest for conspiracy, or blackmail, or both.
“…I personally didn’t think much would come of the report, knowing how little our embassy in Washington regards your asset…” The consul general placed the reading glasses that had been hanging by a chain from his neck low upon his boney nose and opened the folder his hands had been resting upon. He read through its contents for a moment before continuing. “Yes, there it is. Louis DeBlanc the Fourth. Too many for me to remember all our assets’ names.” He set the open folder on the desk and let the glasses fall back to his chest before returning his accusatory gaze onto Rudenko. “We all know, including our ambassador, how little value your asset, Louis DeBlanc the Fourth, is to our mission. We all also know that, because he is the son and heir of our mission’s primary asset in the region, a true asset whose insights into the Texas oil industry is valued beyond compare, and who is being managed so well by Aleksandr Ivanovich…”
Bugrov, with eyes closed reverently and with just the hint of a thin boastful smile, gave the consul general a modest bow of the head in appreciation for his kind recognition. Rudenko had to force himself not to roll his eyes. While, technically speaking, the Texas oil tycoon, Louis DeBlanc the Third, was an asset assigned to his supervisor to manage, in actual practice it was Rudenko to whom Bugrov had long ago delegated the responsibility for managing the day-to-day activities of the clandestine relationship with the old man, which often required the satisfying of his quirky, and often kinky, needs to keep the highly valued intelligence stream flowing.
“…So, I was very surprised indeed by the response we just received from the embassy in regards to your report, Vasily Nikolayevich. Come to find out, the degenerate and disgusting behavior of this…” He squinted briefly down at the report to again read the name. “…Louis DeBlanc the Fourth… has unexpectedly landed him right in the middle of a highly c
lassified, deep cover operation being run by our comrades of the Main Intelligence Directorate of the Armed Forces…”
Rudenko’s heart began thumping even harder in jubilant anticipation of what he was sure Hungry Boris was about to divulge to him, a thumping so great it temporarily reduced the nervous twinge in his gut to insignificance. He cut a quick glance over at Bugrov and found him nodding along knowingly with the consul general’s every word, superior in his assumption that he and Hungry Boris were the only ones in the room with the privileged knowledge of what the ambassador’s dispatch contained. This error in his sycophantic supervisor’s smug assumptions pleased Rudenko greatly.
“…as it is, the mission of the deep cover operative for the G.U. involves the handling of a former Navy SEAL named…” The consul general once again put on his glasses and referenced one of the papers from the folder as he continued speaking. “…yes, a former American Navy SEAL named Killian Lebon. And it appears this Lebon fellow is intent on rescuing the disgusting whores who have been kidnapped by your perverted asset.”
Hungry Boris set the paper he had been reading from back down and began shuffling through the other papers until he found the one he was looking for. As he studied the document, he said, “What we’re about to ask you to become involved with, Vasily Nikolayevich, is a program of the highest classification and one severely critical to the interests of our national government, and one, quite frankly, which could be very dangerous to those involved. But before I can go any further, we must make it legal and first read you in to the program.” He slid the paper he had been holding halfway across his wide, gleaming desk to Rudenko.
Rudenko stood to retrieve the paper and after returning to his seat, quickly read it over. It was a typical non-disclosure agreement, one that would bind him for life from discussing with anyone outside the program he was being read in to about the program itself. He had signed many such similar documents throughout his career. In bold, capital letters at the top of the page, right below the list of all the classification levels and caveats assigned to the program, read:
OPERATION JUST RECOVERY
Rudenko held his breath as he gratefully signed and dated the document. He then stood and, with a slight bow, returned it to Hungry Boris’s boney, outstretched hand.
“Very good. Thank you, Vasily Nikolayevich,” the consul general said as he returned the paper to the folder without looking at it. “So, under the direct supervision of Aleksandr Ivanovich of course, let us then discuss what it is your country is asking you to do for it.…”
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
McKnight stood smoking next to Henderson’s car outside the arrival gate. He knew from Hammond’s report that the mark checked onto his flight without any luggage, so McKnight had high confidence the mark would make his way to the rental car stand soon after deplaning. However, just to play it safe, Henderson was at a discreet location inside near the gate, waiting to pick up the mark’s tail at the earliest possible opportunity.
McKnight had just lit up his third smoke since arriving to the airport when he saw a man coming down the escalator who was unmistakably the man they were sent to tail. Even if he had never seen a picture of the mark and all he knew about him was that he was a former special forces operator, McKnight would have easily been able to pick him out from a crowd. And to McKnight, a former special forces operator himself, it was less the short-cropped hair and large, broad-shouldered frame that gave his mark away – it was a myth to think that all special forces operators were tall and broad-shouldered – and more his demeanor, the way he carried himself as a man. The best operators had a certain air about them, not just an air of confidence, but a certain air of weary, battle-hardened wisdom. By the looks of their mark, McKnight thought that he looked plenty wise and keeping him in check would be no easy feat.
He watched as the mark took out a credit card and handed it to the rental car sales representative. No, McKnight thought to himself, this mark would not be one so easy to manage. He stamped out his cigarette and walked to Henderson’s car as the mark walked out of the airport and over to the shuttle stop reserved for rental car pickups. Chances were elimination will end up being their only option, McKnight concluded.
CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
Killian sat on the bench outside the airport arrival gate waiting for the shuttle to take him to his rental car. He was fuming with anger, having had just discovered that the cell phone that was supposed to lead him to RJ and Toni was nothing more than a useless object, a brick. Once again, he had failed during an operation. While he was busy extracting information from Blackman, and then afterwards planting the evidence that would implicate the man in Savage’s murder, he forgot one critical aspect of the mission: to get the passcode for Blackman’s phone. Now, because of this serious oversight, Killian was unable to track Toni’s location. All he had to go on now was a name: Louis DeBlanc. And to find out enough about this Louis DeBlanc that would enable him to track down RJ and Toni’s location would take time, time he could not afford to spend. But he had no other options. He removed the SIM card from the useless phone and tossed them both into the trashcan by the curb as his shuttle arrived.
The last location he had for Toni put her somewhere out in the Gulf of Mexico. He wasn’t sure how far off the coast she had been because when he saw the map in Blackman’s office, he didn’t take the opportunity to zoom in on it. But he had to assume that she was either being held on a boat or an island so small it was covered by the blip. The challenges in finding the women seemed insurmountable to him, especially now that he no longer had the faith in himself that he once had.
The Good Kill Page 28