Turov couldn't imagine why anyone would want such a man. The only assurance he had asked for was that whatever Kahraman's purpose was, it would be fulfilled far from the borders of Mother Russia. Kahraman had agreed, the money had been real and the deposit untraceable, so it was Baktayev that Kahraman would get.
Unwinding the string that bound the olive green folder, Turov opened it. Inside was a dossier and a mug shot. He ignored the dossier and looked closely at the photo and then at Baktayev. It was hard to believe he was looking at the same man. Eight years inside the living hell that was Fire Island had a tendency to change a man. Although Baktayev did not appear to have ever been a heavy man, there were marked differences in his face; his skin was sallow and his eyes sunken, obvious signs of malnourishment. His clothes hung from his body like rags from a scarecrow. The warden pushed the man's chin up revealing the words Cut Here tattooed across his throat in Russian. This was the man Turov was looking for. He gave the warden a curt nod signifying his approval.
"Assume the position," the warden ordered.
Baktayev turned his back and bent over in silence.
The warden grabbed his handcuffed wrists and pushed them upwards into the air, holding him in a stress position. Pushing the prisoner forward in the same position all the way up the stairs, the warden made his way back to the door they had first entered, Turov following closely behind. Just before reaching the exit, the warden pushed Baktayev into a side room containing only a plain government issue desk, a telephone and two metal folding chairs. The warden shoved Baktayev into one of the chairs where he sat looking up at the two Russian officers, his eyes burning with hatred.
"So tonight I meet Allah?" he asked, his voice almost joyful.
The warden spat at the prisoner. "The only afterlife you will meet, you filth, is the angry souls of the fathers whose children you murdered."
Baktayev smiled as the spittle ran down his face, the toothy grin revealing a set of black teeth.
Turov walked behind the desk and picked up the telephone. Pressing several numbers, he waited for an answer. Baktayev and the warden listened as someone picked up on the other end and a voice gave instructions. After a few brief exchanges, Turov hung up and nodded at the warden who walked over to a tiny closet door, opened it and removed a small black package. "Get in," he said to Baktayev as he unrolled the package on the floor, revealing it to be a body bag. He pulled a knife from his uniform and made three small cuts near the head of the bag. "Get in, now."
Minutes later Turov and the warden emerged from the prison with two guards following them, the body bag being carried between them. They walked through the deepening snow to the front gates, which the warden ordered them to open. None of the guards even looked up as they passed; their orders were obvious. At Turov's boat, the body bag was carried aboard by the two sergeants who'd arrived with him and placed at the very front, where all three pairs of eyes could be on it as they made their way back across the lake.
Lastly, Turov withdrew a white envelope from the breast pocket of his crisp uniform and handed it to the warden, who opened it, peered inside and nodded before turning to walk back to the prison without a word. "Soblyudaite subordinatsiyu!" Follow the chain of command! Turov ordered, not letting the warden's disrespect slide this time. The warden froze in place, turned on his heel and saluted, a terrified look on his face. Turov flashed a sideways smile and scoffed as he boarded the vessel. Had the warden really thought their business arrangement made them equals? He'd find out soon just how wrong he was.
Chapter One
Present Day
9:28 p.m. Eastern Time – Thursday
Verndale Drive
Roanoke, Virginia
The sound of his own footfalls and the occasional whish of a vehicle passing over the wet pavement were the only sounds Declan McIver heard as he jogged through the old neighborhoods of Northeast Roanoke. Constructed in the 1960s and 70s, the streets were lined with one story brick ranches and split foyer homes on postage stamp lots, most featuring well-manicured lawns. The occasional work truck sat dormant along the curb in front of its owner's house and once in a while a dog barked from behind a fence as he passed by. The dense clouds threatened rain and the crescent moon was visible only with the occasional break in the gloom. Silver birch trees lining the main road rustled slightly in the early spring breeze and the air smelled of damp hydrocarbons from the well-traveled asphalt.
At just shy of six feet tall, with dirty blonde hair, icy blue eyes and a closely trimmed beard sporting flecks of grey, Declan was a common sight to anyone who lived nearby. Although he purposely varied his routine, anyone who paid attention would recognize him as a regular that jogged through the flower-named streets, whether he chose to do it in the pre-dawn hours or shortly after nightfall, as he had tonight. He was in top physical shape for a man of forty-one years and his rugged but handsome looks fit in nicely in the working middle class area.
His daily run was more than exercise; the five or six miles a day served as an escape, a time when he could work through the trials and tribulations of his life as a successful business owner. His company, DCM Properties, was his dream come true, but it was not without its headaches. Under the DCM banner, he'd been buying, fixing and selling distressed commercial properties for a decade and had become moderately wealthy doing so.
Making a mental note of everything he passed and turning his head slightly to look back in the direction he'd come, Declan cleared his former six o'clock position as he turned right, making sure he wasn't being followed. To all but the most trained observers, his seemingly paranoid technique wouldn't be noticeable. He had good reason for being cautious; sixteen years on the hit list of a half-dozen terrorist organizations dictated certain behavioral differences from the average person.
At the bottom of a steep street he glanced right and left before crossing over the main road into the park adjacent to the neighborhood. The loose gravel of the park's walkway shifted, making a soft crunching sound as his New Balance sneakers rolled from heel to toe over and again as he pushed himself along, breathing heavily as he neared the end of his route. Looping through the pathways of the wooded grounds, he stopped as he felt his cell phone vibrate in the pocket of his gray sweat pants. Annoyed at the interruption, he fished for the Samsung smartphone and looked at the display as it lit up with the calling number. As his eyes focused in the glare of the bright LED he read the number from left to right, not recognizing it. His mind searched for an answer as he looked at the 202 area code indicating the caller was from Washington D.C. Trying without success to slow down his breathing, he answered. "Hello," he said, his Irish accent evident in his enunciation.
"I hope I haven't caught you at a bad time, old friend."
"Just out for a run," Declan said, searching the voices in his memory for the identity of the caller. The voice was deep and obviously foreign, but its English was academically perfect. He didn't have to think very long. The voice belonged to Abe Kafni, his former boss and a man he had seldom spoken with in the last decade since leaving his employ in 2002.
Dr. Abaddon Kafni, as he was known to most people, was a popular author, teacher and pundit of subjects ranging from the War on Terror to the crises throughout the Middle East. His most recent book had debuted at the number one position on the New York Times bestseller list for adult non-fiction and had remained for a record-setting thirteen weeks. Known only to a select few was the fact that Kafni was also a former operative for Mossad, Israel's national intelligence agency.
"It's been a while," Declan said, surprised. "What can I do for you?"
"How about telling me how you've been for a start? As you said, it's been a while."
"Great, Abe. The market has been a bit of a bear the last few years, but I'm a careful investor, so no cause for alarm here. But you didn't really call for an update on Mid-Atlantic real estate sales, did you?"
"No," the Israeli said with a chuckle. "I was hoping you would have time to meet with an old
friend on short notice."
"Of course," Declan said. "My wife and I have plans to attend your speech tomorrow night."
Kafni had recently accepted an honorary position with the conservative, pro-Israel Liberty University in Lynchburg, Virginia, an hour's drive from where Declan lived in Roanoke. The speech he was referring to was the keynote address at the newly constructed C.H. Barton Center for International Relations and Politics, home of the university's newest Graduate and Post-Graduate programs.
"Yes, I saw your name on the guest list and was glad. I was hoping we could have a meal together afterwards, certainly there's a decent steakhouse somewhere in Lynchburg."
"I'm sure we can find something. I'll let Constance know, she's excited about meeting you."
"As I am her, she must be an extraordinary woman to put up with you."
Declan chuckled. "Aye, I'm sure her and Zeva could swap some war stories. Perhaps Zeva can give her a few pointers."
Kafni laughed. "Touché, my friend, touché."
Kafni had had a long career as an intelligence agent and had certainly deserved to retire with his wife, Zeva, and their children in peace at the conclusion of his services to the state of Israel, but instead he'd chosen to take up another cause. Kafni's passion had always been academia and politics so he'd moved to America to become an author and public speaker. Their contact had been rare in the ten years since the terrorist attacks of September the 11th, when Kafni had seen his profession become far more controversial. His unyielding support for the state of Israel and for the war on terrorism, coupled with his unapologetic style, had won him no shortage of enemies. In the last fifteen years there had been six attempts on his life, all from radical Islamists keen on claiming the head of one of Israel's chief lightning rods. As a member of Kafni's all-too-necessary security detail for several years before leaving to start his own company and begin a new life, Declan had been responsible for thwarting three of the assassination attempts himself.
"So I'll see you tomorrow night?" Declan asked rhetorically.
"I'll look forward to it. I will send a car for you at six," Kafni said.
"That won't be necessary. I prefer to drive myself."
"Spoken like a true security-minded professional. Very well then, I will have Levi meet you at the front door. And thank you, my friend, you know I wouldn't call if it wasn't important."
"Of course," Declan responded, taken off guard by Kafni's suddenly solemn tone. "Is there something else going on? What aren't you telling me?"
"I will see you tomorrow." The line went silent as Kafni hung up.
Ending the call, Declan returned the phone to his pocket. He stood looking through the trees, unable to shake a sense of foreboding. Abaddon Kafni wasn't the type of man to be troubled by trivial things. In his world something of concern could be anything from Iranian nuclear weapons aimed at Israel to Russian submarines off the coast of Florida. Although he had exited the stage of international espionage years earlier, Kafni's influential status and many friends had kept him well-informed.
Returning to his jog at a full run to elevate his heart rate, Declan exited the gravel path and ran across a concrete bridge spanning an ankle deep creek that connected the neighborhood to a two acre spread of mostly wooded land. On the opposite side of the lane from the park a half-mile strip of pavement that served as his driveway stretched along behind two moss-covered stone columns, each supporting a rusted wrought iron gate. Jogging from column to column like a pacing wolf, Declan waited as the gates swung open with a metallic screech.
Rain-drenched leaves from the maple trees above squished under his feet as he made the final push towards his house. Slowing to a stop and pulling his sweat soaked T-shirt off as he broke the tree line into the small clearing where his home stood; he placed his hands on his knees, bending over to catch his breath. With Kafni's voice still echoing in his head, he stood looking down on his bare arms, thoughts of the past haunting him as he took note of the many scars.
A large chunk of skin on the back of his left hand was permanently scarred following an accident with the chemical component of a letter bomb. His left forearm had suffered a four inch gash when a piece of flying glass had hit him when a building he had been entering was blown up by an IED, an attack that he had only barely escaped, and his left shoulder bore a round burn mark from a flaming piece of timber broken loose from the same building as he'd tried unsuccessfully to free a friend from the rubble.
Still breathing heavily, wiping his brow with his T-shirt, he looked at his right arm. It had only one scar, but it was the deepest of all of them in his mind. It sat just below his elbow on the underside of his forearm and symbolized a former life he'd like to have forgotten. The three claw-like markings had been tattooed onto his arm during his days as the lead operator of the Provisional Irish Republican Army's secret weapon, an elite terror unit codenamed Black Shuck.
Chapter Two
A baying sound filled the humid night and jarred Declan's thoughts back to the present. He bent down with a broad smile as a flabby, floppy-eared guard approached his position. "Hello, old girl," he said, stroking the beagle on both sides of its face as it lapped its tongue over his hands. "Out for a bit of nighttime gallivanting, are we?" The pooch responded by happily padding its front feet up and down and wiggling its rear end. Declan stood and looked up towards the two story cedar-sided house that stood in the clearing atop a rounded hill, a forked driveway stretching around it.
Belmont Knoll, as the property had been named by its previous owner, had originally been constructed in 1898 by the Belmont family, who had immigrated from Ireland in the 1880s during the railroad boom that marked the beginning of the Roanoke area's industrial development. The original stone cottage that had stood overlooking the better part of the property and the driveway leading into it had burned to the ground in the 1930s. All that remained was an immense stone chimney that provided the cornerstone for the current house, which Declan had custom built and lived in for a decade. Dim lights from the living room told him his wife was still awake and likely waiting for him to return. With a slight bounce in his step he patted his leg as a signal for the beagle to follow him as he moved up the right side of the drive to the home's wrap around porch. Peering through the windows as he walked around the porch towards the door, he could see his wife sitting alone, a tissue in one hand and a pregnancy test in the other. Even without seeing the results of the test he knew they'd failed again as he arrived at the door.
At five foot six inches with her auburn hair spilling loosely over her shoulders, Constance McIver got up from the leather sofa and padded barefoot across the carpeted living room as Declan walked through the front door. Pressing her slender frame against his, she kissed him softly and said, "I missed you."
"Oh, you did?" Declan said, returning her kiss. They'd been married for eight years, but had until just recently put their careers ahead of starting a family. Last summer they'd decided it was time. The previous eight months had been marked with several disappointments. Tears gathered in her green eyes as she embraced him tightly.
"Hey, it's grand, it's grand," he said reassuringly, and he wiped away a tear that slid down her cheek with his thumb. He knew what she was thinking. At thirty-five years old, Constance was beginning to fear that she'd waited too long to have a child.
Constance laughed and wiped away more tears as their beagle pushed its way stubbornly between their legs and waded into the house.
"Shelby, I swear," Constance said, as the dog bounded onto the leather sofa and peered over the back of it at them with an open-mouthed expression that could only be interpreted as a smile. "You're a mess, dog."
Declan chuckled as he closed the front door. "I got a call while I was out," he said, as he walked over to the chestnut armoire that stood along the wall between the kitchen and living room. He took out a metal thermos and twisted off the cap.
As he took a sip Constance said, "Oh? Who from?"
Declan breathed hea
vily as he poured the concoction from the thermos into his mouth. The liquid was a special combination of vitamins mixed with soda water; it tasted horrible. "Ugh," he said as he finished and wiped his mouth on his forearm.
Constance laughed. "Well, you're the one that drinks it."
"It's supposed to be good for you," he said, returning the thermos to the armoire.
"Nothing that smells and tastes that bad can possibly be good for you. Now who called? Quit keeping me in suspense," she said, playfully pushing him.
"Kafni," he answered, in a matter of fact way.
She looked at him for a moment waiting for him to say he was joking. To her, Abaddon Kafni was a current events celebrity that graced the television screen on news and opinion programs, seemingly on a nightly basis. Although she knew her husband had once worked for him, she also knew that it was long ago and that the two hadn't been in contact for many years.
"Seriously," he said. "He saw our names on the guest list. He's having one of his aides meet us at the door tomorrow night to guide us around."
She smiled and her mood seemed to stay chipper, which was the effect he'd hoped the news would have. He was trying to steer her away from the failed pregnancy test and to cheer her up. His decision to attend the event the next night was an effort on his part to slowly begin spoon feeding her bits of the past he'd so carefully hidden for so long. She knew nothing of his past life in Northern Ireland. He wasn't sure exactly why he hadn't told her the truth. Beginning their relationship with a lie wasn't something he was proud of and his dishonesty on the subject nagged him. He supposed that when they'd met he had wanted her to think of him as the man he was instead of the man he had been. Was his past really all that different from someone who'd gone to Vietnam or Desert Storm and seen the horrors of war, he reasoned? Many of them had chosen not to speak of their experiences either.
Black Ops Bundle: Volume One Page 2