?” “Pamphlets?” asked Mandy. “Brochures?” “Yes, we would have those.” He tapped a button on the wall. A heartbeat later, Marika appeared at the door, her cheeks a little red. Dalton realized that she had probably been listening and hoped that Davit noticed it too. “Marika, those clinics in Anapa . . . Can you find some material on all of them? Brochures?” She bobbed, turned away, and then reappeared in the doorway, looking uncertain, as if afraid to raise a delicate topic. Davit apparently recognized the look. “Yes, Marika, what is it?” “Corporal Zelov, sir—” “Yes?” “He was drinker, remember?” “God yes,” said Davit, not in any way delighted to have the matter aired in front of Dalton and Miss Pownall. “And . . . ?” She plucked at her hair and then at her uniform blouse. Dalton wondered how close she had been to Corporal Zelov. “I . . . I was listening
, sir,” she said, her face flaring into scarlet, setting her eyes alight by contrast. “You did not close the door—” “We burned
it. Last February, Marika. Remember?” “Oh yes. So we did. I am sorry. But Pavel—Corporal Zelov—went to a clinic in Anapa. For drunkards. He was there six weeks.” “I thought he was seeing his sick mother in Kiev.” Marika went from red to snow white, her lower lip trembling, her cornflower blue eyes welling up. “Yes. Well, sir, he was afraid you would—” Davit, now as pale as Marika, began to erupt in Ukrainian, and Dalton, if only to get the kid out from under Davit’s acid rebuke, cut in, asking her if she knew the name of the clinic. She turned to him with obvious relief, her voice rising into a squeak. “No, sir. But Corporal Zelov said it was very big and had a bright red roof. His room even had a view of the water. It was all by itself, far out on the sand. Nothing else for many, many meters.” Dalton stood up, glanced out at the harbor, turned back to the girl: “Thank you, Marika. Bogdan, you have patrol craft? Fast cruisers? I recall one that met us after the fishing boat we were chasing last year blew up. Long, steel gray, a big fifty on the bow?” “Yes. The Velosia
. She is there,” he said, pointing to a ninety-foot-long slate-gray cruiser moored at the quayside studded with swivel guns, a huge radar array, and flying the Ukrainian flag. “How fast is she?” Davit looked reflexively out at the water—flat and steel gray, under a lowering charcoal sky, rain drifting downward in curtains. “She will do forty knots,” he said, realization opening in his face, his eyes widening. “You think Dobri Levka is in Anapa?” “Yes,” said Dalton. “But not for long.” BY
twilight, they were lying a half klick off the Russian coast, well within her territorial waters and therefore illegal as hell. All her running lights out, the Velosia
was dark, her sharp destroyer bow slicing with a sibilant hiss through the surface chop hidden inside a bank of fog that had spread itself out across the Russian coastline. To the north, off their starboard bow, the yellow lights of Anapa glimmering faintly through the mist. Directly abeam, set out on an isolated sandspit, there was a low, rambling structure, the Bospor Clinik Spa. It was world famous, according to the clumsy translation of the online brochure that Dalton had found on the Internet, “for the certain resurrection of big drunkards and the putting of their feet to the solid ground.” Its sloping red roof was just discernible in the fading light. A few yard lights twinkled in the haze, and a light glowed on the front deck. Other than that, the place looked shuttered and deserted. He and Mandy and Davit had studied the floor plan of the place, laid out for their convenience on the website. There was a large parlor, spreading across the entire front of the house, full of comfortable chairs, and a large dining hall on the north side next to a communal kitchen with showers and a bathroom next to it. On the second floor, running along the beach side of the spa, were the guest rooms, fifteen of them in a row, each with a little fenced-in balcony overlooking the ocean. Behind the guest rooms, accessed by an internal hallway, was a clinic and some private rooms where patients could consult with their therapists. A phone call to the spa, placed by Marika using Mandy’s BlackBerry to disguise the local number, found that the spa was “closed for renovations” and had been for two weeks. The speaker, she reported, was a male, who spoke fluent Russian “but with a strange accent and a lisp. And his voice sounded funny, like he was whispering.” “Vukov,” said Dalton. DAVIT
was standing beside Dalton, both men in jeans and black sweaters, booted and gloved. Both men were staring out at the coastline, Dalton quiet and withdrawn, thinking about what might be happening to Dobri Levka right now or what might already have happened, Davit, vividly alert, humming with energy and a kind of gleeful anticipation like a gundog on a chase. “I have three of our patrol boats out there,” he said, indicating the darkening seas. “They have radar. They will stop and search any boat coming out of Anapa. Our own radar tells us that no helicopter or other aircraft has left Anapa since we steamed out of Kerch. We are blockading
Holy Mother Russia,” he finished with a flourish, spreading his arms out wide. “Isn’t it wonderful
?” “They’ll have radar too. In Anapa.” Davit made a dismissive gesture, grinning at Dalton. “But they
are not military. They are a tourist town. Even if they see us, they will think we are trawlers, poaching their fish in the Kumani Canyon. It is right underneath us. They would never think we Ukrainians would be so crazy as to sail a fleet into their waters.” Dalton nodded, distracted, troubled. Worried sick, images of Issadore Galan’s body flickering on the screen at the back of his skull. “They may have taken him inland,” he said. Davit nodded, put a comforting hand on Dalton’s shoulder. “This is true,” he admitted. “But we can do nothing about that. Come. Be cheerful. We are doing what there is for us to do. I have six men ready. Or do you still insist to go ashore alone?” “Is it a big town?” “No. A few thousand people, spread out along the coast. It is early for the tourists, so most of the beach places will be boarded up. This business here, the Bospor Clinik Spa, it is set apart from the main town. I think you will be okay to approach it. Please. You will take my men?” Here he gave Dalton a sidelong look, smiling carefully. “Or maybe . . . just me?” Dalton turned to look at the young man. “If you got caught on shore, what would happen to you?” Davit’s face hardened. “Maybe better ask what would happen to men who try to catch me. I am sick at heart to rest on my ass and let Russians push us around. Anyway, you know what, my friend? I decide
, I am captain of this boat. You
are not going at all if you are going in alone. No offense to America and the CIA.” “None taken,” said Dalton, smiling into the gathering darkness, his heart lifting at the idea of doing something—anything—to strike back at these people. “Okay. Just us two, then.” “Good,” said Davit, whistling to one of his sailors, giving him a quick instruction in Ukrainian. The man lumbered into the darkness, and Dalton could hear an electric pulley begin to whine, a boat being lowered into the water. Davit came back to stand beside him, but this time he was holding a large pistol. He press-checked it and stuffed it into a holster on his belt. He straightened his shoulders, chuffed out a breath, stopped for a moment. “Miss Pownall . . . If we do not come back, what would you wish to be done for her?” “Mandy knows what to do. She has a video proving that I did not kill Issadore Galan. And another video of the parking lot at Leopoldsberg showing Vukov dropping off Galan’s Saab in the early morning. When they see those, the Mossad will be very happy to come after Kirikoff and Vukov themselves. Mandy knows enough to help the Mossad deal with them. Where is she?” “In the officers’ wardroom, drinking vodka, charming all my boys. Do you wish to say go inside and say good-bye to her?” “No,” said Dalton in a soft voice. “We don’t do farewells.” THE
boat, a gray lap-strake cutter with a powerful and virtually silent electric motor, slipped away from the Velosia
, the towering bulk of the cruiser fading quickly into the fog. Davit twisted the throttle, and the cutter shot forward, the sharp bow rising, seawater hissing and curling along her wooden sides, a gurgling sound coming up through the slanting floorboards.
Davit sat on a bench at the rear, the control stick in one hand, his pistol, a Polish P-64 he had probably retained from the Russian occupation, in the other. Dalton, in the bow, watching the shadow of the beach come slowly closer, had his Anaconda, three autoloaders and a slender, double-edged fighting knife he had taken from the BDS agent back in Venice. The air closer to the mainland smelled of seaweed, mud, and salt. The twilight had passed into night, the amber lights of Anapa shimmering in the north, ahead of them only the glow from the Bospor Clinik Spa, and a few faint halos from the yard lights. In a few minutes, the cutter—long and narrow, high-peaked bow—hissed lightly over a sandbar, grating along the keel, broke free into a tidal lagoon close to shore, skimmed across it, and ran up onto the beach, crunching gently into the gravel. Dalton was out over the bow before it settled, jumping onto the coarse sand and tugging the boat ashore. Davit clambered up the centerboard and stepped off the peak, carrying a thin rope with a mushroom anchor on the end of it. He walked a few yards up the beach and set the anchor into a dune, driving it in with his boot. In a crouch, he turned and looked back at Dalton, tugged his watch cap low over his head, and led the way up the slope. There was a wooden barrier, and a set of stairs and a walkway that rose up and over the barrier dune. At the top of the walkway, less than fifty feet from the front steps of the spa, they saw a wide wrought-iron fence blocking the path. Dalton came forward, set himself, vaulted it, landing lightly on the other side. He walked a little way up toward the house, watching it, hearing Davit’s soft footfalls coming up behind him. “What do you suggest?” he whispered, close enough for Dalton to smell the little shot of vodka Davit had taken just as they stepped into the cutter. “Check the perimeter, and then cover the back. Stop anyone who tries to leave. Bogdan, listen, don’t close in with Vukov. Don’t go anywhere near him. Stay well back and shoot him where he stands. Shoot him a lot. Head shots. Then reload and shoot him some more. If you hear gunfire from inside, kick in the door and come fast. Watch out for trip wires, anything like that. Okay?” “Okay,” said Davit, a flash of white teeth as he smiled. And then he was gone, slipping away over the dunes and disappearing into the darkness. Dalton came slowly up to the front steps, pistol up, studying the approach. No motion detectors visible. No pressure plates that he could see. From the house itself, silence. He tucked the Anaconda into his belt, gripped one of the porch pillars, and climbed rapidly up it. Reaching the edge of the upper deck, he lifted himself up by his hands, trying very hard not to make the boards creak with his weight, and kicked up his leg. He got his toes wedged on the outer lip of the deck, eased himself up and over the railing and down onto the deck itself. He was in a small, fenced-off area with two slatted chairs and a small round table. The chairs and the table were thick with salt rime, and the decking half covered with dried leaves and beach grass. There was a large glass door, a sliding panel. He ran his fingers all around its rim and lower lip looking for an alarm. Nothing. He stepped in close, put his ear up against the glass. The glass was cold to his skin. He listened carefully, breathing shallow. A low, murmuring vibration, more felt than heard. Voices, coming from some distance away. Not inside this room but near. Toward the rear of the second floor, very likely in the clinic. He got a grip on the handle of the door and put his other hand flat against the upper portion of the slider. He lifted up, the door moved slightly, making a faint grinding sound as the aluminum frame lifted from the track. He strained under the weight, going slowly, hardly breathing, first an inch, then another. There was a hiss and a click, and the glass door came free in his hands. It weighed more than he thought, and he almost dropped it as he shifted it out of its track. A rush of stale air poured out through the open frame: smoke and burned coffee, household cleaners. He placed the sliding door gently against the fence separating this unit from the one next door, stepped back, and pulled the pistol out of his belt again. The window curtains were lifting in the sea wind, and he brushed them out of his face as he stepped into the dark, chilly little room, his boots brushing softly across the hardwood floor. He could just make out a single bed to his left, a low dresser beside it, a lamp with a small shade, and, beyond, a door, hooks in the door, a robe hanging from one of the hooks. The room smelled stale and unused. He ran his glove across the surface of the dresser, held it up in the faint light coming from the yard lights below. A thin streak of dust. He crossed to the door, stood there for a while, letting his eyes adjust to the changing light. He touched the door. It was warm, heated from the hallway on the other side. He recalled the floor plan, guessing that he was about halfway along the upper hallway. If he opened this door, the entrance to the clinic—a large, central complex with a reception desk, a waiting area, and some treatment rooms behind it—would be about fifteen feet to his left. He put a gloved hand onto the knob, turned it slowly, felt a click. The door opened a crack, and a shaft of light cut through the gloom, along with a waft of warm air, smelling of floor polish and something medicinal—rubbing alcohol or some other antiseptic. He eased the door open, blinking as the light grew, leaned out into the hallway. It was a long corridor carpeted in beige, with light green walls and harshly lit with overhead fluorescent squares running in rows down the full length. Music was coming faintly from behind the frosted-glass walls of the clinic, a few feet down the hallway. Dalton stepped out into the hall and padded softly along it until he was near the clinic. The main door was closed, but he could see faint light coming from somewhere beyond the darkened reception area. Here, the music was louder. And the murmur of voices that he had heard earlier was louder as well. It was a radio playing. Some sort of Russian soap opera? No, more urgent. Staccato, hectoring, urgent. A newscaster was delivering the latest word from Moscow in that shouting, cadenced manner that Dalton had come to think of as the Blitzer Bark. From down the hall behind him, there was the sound of a toilet flushing, a door being jerked open, Dalton spun around, lifting his Colt with his right hand. Vukov stepped out into the hallway about thirty feet away. Booted, in faded jeans, a white T-shirt stretched across his chest, massive pectorals sliding like steel plates underneath, the shiny, ridged burn scars rippling over his forearm muscles and his biceps swelling out as he tugged at his zipper, looking down as he straightened his belt, he heard the solid metallic click as Dalton thumbed the Colt’s hammer back. He looked up, saw Dalton standing in the hallway, and stretched his lips wide. “Slick,” he said in a thick Serbian accent, his voice a rasping whisper. “How’s tricks?” Dalton had a steady sight on a point between Vukov’s bulging pectoral plates. The trigger, incised with grooves for good contact, felt dry and cool under Dalton’s finger, the wooden grip solid in his hand. He felt . . . nothing . . . just a great soothing calm spreading through his chest and belly. Kill him
, said a voice, not his own, down in his lizard brain. Kill him now. No. We need what he knows. He won’t talk. No matter what you do. Kill him. “On your knees,” Dalton said. Vukov stretched his leathery lips, showing a set of yellow teeth, and shook his round, earless head, his lidless eyes two narrow slits, a bright black glitter inside them. “Can’t,” he said, slapping his left thigh, where Dalton could see a large bulge under the jeans. “Nearly broke my thighbone with that fucking cannon. One hundred fucking meters, not possible. You hit me anyway. No, to kneel is . . . No. I can’t—” Dalton shifted the muzzle a tick, pulled the trigger, the blast a deafening explosion in the narrow hallway. Vukov jerked backward, going into a low crouch, his hands up in front of him reflexively as if to ward off the incoming slug. For the first time, a flicker of fear in these eyes? He put a hand up and felt the side of his skull, touching the raw furrow the round had carved along his temple as it hurtled past to bury itself in the wall at the end of the hall. Behind him, Dalton heard a shrill shout, a woman calling out. “Aleks!” The sound of glass sliding on glass. “Aleks!” At the same time, a muffled shot from the back of the house, two heavy thuds, wood shattering. “Aleks!” Dalton had the muzzle centered on Vukov’s face. Vukov was still in a low crouch, his hand
s out on either side, palms up. His eyes suddenly flicked to a point just beyond Dalton’s left shoulder. Dalton pivoted, saw a shadowy figure, a girl wearing some sort of a nurse’s uniform. She was aiming a small stainless pistol at him. Dalton and the woman fired at the same second. Dalton’s round struck her in the hollow of the throat. He felt a heavy blow to his hip bone. In the girl’s throat, a huge red flower opened. She gaped at him, falling. He spun around. Vukov was charging straight at him, but too slow, a stumbling lurch with his damaged leg. He was still ten feet away when Dalton lifted his pistol, sighting on Vukov’s ruined face, Vukov skidded to halt, lifted his stumpy hands in the air. “Okay. Okay. No shoot. Okay?” “Down,” said Dalton through gritted teeth. “Now.” Vukov dropped to his knees, put his hands out, and flattened face-first on the floor, spreading his arms and legs out wide. Dalton stood over him, aimed the Anaconda at the back of his bald, distorted head, his finger tightening on the trigger. Kill him. He heard a voice behind him, weak but steady. “Don’t shoot him yet, boss. Please.” Dalton, without turning his head away, keeping the pistol fixed on the back of Vukov’s skull, said, “Dobri?” “Yes. Is me. Good to see you, boss.” “You sound like shit. They hurt you?” “Not . . . not so much.” Heavy boots on the staircase, and Davit slammed through a door at the far end of the hallway, his pistol out, his face a slab of pale rock. He took in the picture. A large, apelike man spread-eagled on the ground. Dalton, blood running down the front of his jeans, standing over the prone man with a pistol zeroed on the back of the man’s skull. Dobri Levka, a few feet behind Dalton, in striped pajamas and paper slippers, shackled, his ankle cuffs attached to some kind of long silver chain, his face a black-and-blue horror, one eye battered shut, his lips caked in dried blood. And a dead girl in a bloody heap in front of the clinic doors. “Hey, Bogdan,” said Dobri, smiling through dry lips. “Got vodka?” “Dobri,” said Dalton in a flat, hard voice, the pain from the wound in his hip starting to make itself known, his chest filling up with cold fire, “Tell me why I can’t kill this . . . thing.” “My boat,” said Levka, coming to stand at Dalton’s shoulder. “The Blue Nile
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