Stiletto #1: The Termination Protocol: Book One of the Scott Stiletto Thriller Series

by Brian Drake

  Stiletto, still holding the SIG pistol, walked behind him. They stepped into a well-appointed office. It was warm. A woman sat behind a desk. The window behind her looked out on the brightly-lighted city.

  “What’s going on?”

  The woman rose. She had long dark hair that fell in waves; short black skirt-and-stockings combo with a tightly-fitting purple top.

  “Good evening,” Scott said. The woman was Elisa Yanovna, though she looked a little different than the photos the General had shown him.

  “Who are you?”

  Stiletto stepped around the pit boss and handed back the gun.

  “My apologies but I didn’t think I could just walk up here.”

  Elisa Yanovna dismissed the pit boss, who got back in the elevator.

  A door to Stiletto’s left opened and a burly bald man entered. He carried no weapon but his size and the strength he projected told Stiletto he’d be a tough opponent. The man stood by the door with hands clasped in front of him.

  Stiletto turned back to the woman. “My name is Jake Cooper. I’m a merc looking for a job.”

  “I don’t know what a merc is. Please explain.”

  Stiletto glanced at the other man, whose still expression communicated his ignorance of a “merc” too.

  Stiletto grinned and shook his head.

  The woman nodded at the other man, who approached Stiletto, thoroughly patted him down, but stepped back when he found nothing.

  The woman folded her arms and put her weight on one leg.

  “It’s illegal to carry a gun, plus I didn’t want to set off the metal detectors,” Stiletto said.

  “You’re a comedian. I’m laughing on the inside.”

  “I have skills I know you’ll appreciate.”

  “I have enough card dealers but I could use somebody on the janitorial staff.”

  The other man laughed. Stiletto thought it was funny too.

  “Let’s stop the joking,” Stiletto said. “We both know the score, Ms. Yanovna. Pick up the phone and call the Gray Eagle and tell him my name. If there really are no openings, I’ll move on, no hard feelings.”

  “I’ll have to make that call, Mr. Cooper. Before we talk further.”

  “Great. Finally.”

  Yanovna said, “Say hello to my number two, Viktor Plotkin.”

  Stiletto nodded at the other man but made no move to shake hands.

  “What about the money I won?”

  “It will be delivered to your room, don’t worry. You won’t lose a penny.”

  Stiletto let silence fill the room and watched the pair stare at him a moment.

  “I guess I’ll see myself out,” Stiletto said. He stepped back into the elevator and waved as the doors slid shut.

  ELISA YANOVNA folded her arms.

  Plotkin left his spot and poured a drink at the small bar in the corner. He handed the vodka to the woman and poured another.

  Yanovna took a drink but didn’t take her eyes off the elevator.

  Plotkin said, “It’s awfully strange, isn’t it? He shows up days after we grab Miller.”

  “Do you recognize the name Gray Eagle?”

  “One of the old guard. If the Eagle knows him, he’s probably okay. At least let’s not kill him for a day or two.”

  “Check him out. I don’t want to mention this to Zolac until we actually know something.”

  “I’ll get started.” Plotkin finished his drink and put the glass down on the bar. He returned to his office.

  Elisa Yanovna sat down again and considered several possible scenarios. If this man was on the level, she probably could use him if Zolac didn’t need help elsewhere. If he were an American agent attempting to infiltrate, it meant the NWRF wasn’t as bulletproof as Zolac liked to believe, and that put them all at risk.

  But in the end, she only worked for Zolac. He’d listen to her opinion and do whatever he wanted. She at least had to know more. With Plotkin on the job, answers were not far away.

  THEY WOULD be watching him from here forward.

  Scott skipped further casino play for a seat at a bar instead. He ordered a Makers Mark on the rocks. He did not select a corner table despite his better judgment, relying on the bar’s mirror to help him cover his back.

  What in the world were two Russians—Yanovna and Plotkin—doing with a neo-Nazi organization? He shook his head and drank. The world had indeed changed since the old days.

  There hadn’t been anything to worry about after all. The casino had acted the way casinos do, and Stiletto had been able to take advantage. What happened next was up to the enemy. Scott started thinking of what he’d do if the Russian woman didn’t take the bait.

  A trio entered the bar, talking and laughing. Stiletto saw them in the mirror. All three were males, thin and muscular with short haircuts. Too tanned for average tourists. More soldier-types. He filed the information. Shooting his way out, with all those extra gunners around, would not be advisable. Subtlety was the name of the game.

  Stiletto finished his drink and ordered another. He checked his watch. Plotkin would need a two-hour window to cover Scott’s room. Stiletto figured he wouldn’t have trouble finding something to do.

  THIS TIME Miller was in a truck trailer.

  It was the third time they’d moved locations in as many days. At least. It was hard to keep track. Was this his final holding site or would they move again?

  Miller sat in the back with his hands and ankles tied once again. Staar and Raeder rode in the cabin, Staar driving, while Lisbeth guarded Miller in the trailer. She sat across from him holding a CZW-438, a Czech weapon chambered in nine-millimeter. She did not hold the SMG with any conviction and the muzzle pointed at the trailer floor.

  They held eye contact as the truck jostled along the route.

  “Where are we going?” he said.

  “Not even I know,” she said.

  He frowned.

  “I’m serious. I don’t.”

  “I want to know what you’re thinking,” he said. The words came out soft.

  “I’m trying to figure that out. I want to know if I can help you escape without getting killed.”

  “It’s not like you owe me anything.”

  “Because of how we ended? I’m the one who walked out. Maybe I do owe you something.”

  Miller dropped his eyes. “I’d like to know why. Why did you leave me in Zurich?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Yes you do.”

  “Will you let me say I’m sorry?”

  “Did I push you away?” he said.

  “Why do you think I left?”

  “You left me,” he said, “before I could leave you. But I wasn’t going to leave you. I thought for once, maybe—”

  “Were you surprised?”

  He let out a breath.

  Lisbeth’s face softened. “People like us have been hurt all our lives.”

  Orphans like us, she might have said. Miller had lost count of how many homes he, and his sister, had shuffled through while growing up, but one thing he never forgot: the feral survival instinct. Stay small, stay hidden, get out before somebody can hurt you. Lisbeth had the same instinct. At the time he knew it might be a problem; he had hoped beyond hope she could settle down with him. He was certainly doing everything he could to silence his own fears and stay with her. But in the end, instinct won. Instinct always won.

  “I was wrong.” She wiped her eyes. “I was wrong. It was a mistake to leave you. I’m sorry I hurt you.”

  There were words stuck in Miller’s dry throat but he couldn’t push them out.

  “I tried to find you,” she said. “I knew you were still in Europe—for a while. When I met up with Karl I asked him if he ever dealt with you, but he didn’t know where you were.”

  Miller breathed out, in.

  “I want to start again,” she said. “Can we start again?”

  Miller breathed in, out.

  “We can start again,” she said. “We can.
Give me a second chance.”

  “I’m in chains, Lisbeth,” he said.

  “I don’t want to see you get hurt.”

  The truck jostled some more; shifted sideways as Staar turned. Another bump. And the truck stopped.

  Miller said, “Just forget it for now.”

  The rear doors swung open on noisy hinges. Two armed men stood there. Lisbeth jumped out and held the Czech SMG on Miller as the other two unloaded him from the truck.

  PLOTKIN SLIPPED a keycard into Stiletto’s lock.

  He stepped inside and checked the closet first, then the bathroom. Nobody hiding. It seemed silly to start off that way, but Plotkin hadn’t survived for so long in the game of international espionage by being stupid. Silly, yes.

  He searched the dresser but found only clothes and a plane ticket for a return trip to Athens on the nightstand. A black book lay askew next to the phone. He flipped through it. The names and numbers were coded. He put the book in a pocket.

  The Russian looked around some more but it was all perfectly boring. No copy of Mein Kampf. He had not expected to find one. Nobody read the book anymore. It was all about money and power now.

  Chapter Seven

  IT WASN’T McNeil’s job to carry out a polygraph test.

  The responsibility for such a test fell on another department, and he could not be present while the test took place. But he could observe from behind a two-way mirror.

  The Agency carried out polygraph tests on a regular basis, and no employee liked them, but it was part of the job. When the security planning team was called in one-by-one, none were surprised, but it made for an extra hassle in an already busy day.

  McNeil watched the security personnel over two days. Each session took about an hour. Three men, one woman. McNeil reviewed the results of each test immediately after, and only the woman was flagged for possible deception.

  “Jenny Farnsworth,” the polygraph tech said, a balding man named Chase. “Her readings spiked during questioning about the attack.”

  McNeil tried to make some sense of the polygraph lines, but it might as well have been another language. The lines went straight for a while and then, as Chase said, spiked upward.

  “Did she know anybody who died?” McNeil said.

  “They all did, but her readings spiked the most.”

  McNeil arranged an interview with Farnsworth and spoke with her in his office.

  She was thin with long black hair, currently tied back, with brown eyes. She looked sad. McNeil softened his voice as he spoke. He told her flat out her polygraph revealed possible deception.

  “Can you tell me why?”

  She stared at him.

  “We all lost friends,” he said. “Who did you know?”

  Her eyes welled up. “Pete Rockwell.”

  “Just him?”

  She wiped away a tear.

  “What are you hiding, Jenny?”

  “We were engaged.”

  “Really.”

  “Nobody knew.”

  “The Agency doesn’t discourage employee dating, Jenny.”

  “But we aren’t exactly regular employees,” she said. “We’d planned to resign soon.”

  “So you spiked because you didn’t want to get upset.”

  “I guess.”

  “Okay,” he said. “I’m sorry.”

  But McNeil knew it wasn’t the end, not by a long shot. His gut told him she had not lied, but the funny thing about the spy business is you always assumed everybody was lying. Until he proved her sob story genuine, she remained on the suspect list.

  THEY FINALLY left Miller unrestrained, but he had to admit it wasn’t much of an improvement.

  The truck had parked in front of a large building made with logs and rock, two stories high with satellite dishes on the roof.

  From the truck the gunmen led him across the compound. Smaller buildings dotted the landscape. The air was crisp and clear; they were in the mountains. Somewhere. The gunmen had locked Miller in a small shed with a concrete floor. They took his shoes and belt. A bucket served as his commode. No running water. A bale of hay served as a seat and he had a cot for a bed. No pillow or blanket.

  At least 48 hours had passed since his arrival. He figured. He was so tired and disoriented from the constant travel he couldn’t tell for certain how much time had gone by, but he had been able to make several observations about his location.

  The shed’s windows were boarded, but sloppily. He could see through gaps in the planks, which gave him an idea of the activity outside.

  Miller noted right away his guards, armed with a variety of submachine guns as well as pistols, rotated every few hours. The faces of the team members were constant, so at least nine men, plus Staar, Raeder, and Lisbeth. If there were other troopers or personnel at the camp, they did not participate in guard duty.

  The guards always rode up in an American Jeep, always the same Jeep, and Miller wondered if they had other vehicles.

  So Miller had no idea where he was, no idea how many guns he faced, and no idea if Lisbeth could help.

  Other than that, he had the upper hand.

  The Jeep rumbled to a stop outside the door. Miller went to the window and peeked out. Lisbeth slid from behind the wheel and retrieved a tray of food from the passenger seat. She wore a pistol on her right hip, one Miller recognized as a Beretta 93-R machine pistol. She said some words to the guards and one of them opened the shed door.

  Miller stepped back as she entered. The guard remained in the doorway. She placed the tray on the floor and exited. The guard shut the door. Miller watched her get back in the Jeep. She drove off straight ahead and made a circle around the shed.

  Miller started eating. Rice and chicken, which was overcooked. He used the plastic utensils provided, breaking a fork tong as he cut the boneless breast in half. At the bottom of the tray, under the rice, was a note.

  Miller unfolded it. Lisbeth’s careful handwriting only took up a few lines.

  I’m trying to find a way out but I still don’t know where we are.

  Miller tore the note into strips, the strips into smaller pieces, and dropped the pieces in the piss bucket.

  VIKTOR PLOTKIN tossed the black book on Elisa Yanovna’s desk. It landed with a slap.

  “He knows it’s missing by now.”

  “I’ll give it back tonight.”

  “What happens tonight?” Plotkin said.

  “Zolac wants to meet him and play poker.”

  “That is a mistake. I’m not going to repeat my misgivings; you already know what they are.”

  “What if you’re wrong?”

  “What if I’m right? Bring him here to tell him about meeting Zolac. Let him see your safe. If he is here to look for information about Miller, he’ll look there. If we catch him—”

  Elisa Yanovna folded her arms and leaned back in her chair. She kept her eyes locked on Plotkin’s face.

  “We have to be sure, Elisa.”

  Elisa looked through the black book. The codes meant nothing to her but she trusted her code breakers.

  “Okay.” She put the book back on her desk. “We’ll do one last check. If he goes for the safe, we’ll know he’s a spy.”

  STILETTO ANSWERED the door.

  Plotkin stood on the other side. He said, “Miss Yanovna wants to see you.”

  “Sure,” Stiletto said. He was already dressed and packing the .45 behind his back.

  “I’M SORRY we stole your book,” Elisa said. “Here it is.”

  Stiletto took the black book and stowed it inside his jacket. “I checked out?”

  She smiled. “The Gray Eagle vouched for you.”

  Stiletto sat in front of her desk while Plotkin paced the carpet behind the C.I.A. agent.

  “You’re a good blackjack player,” she said. “Can you handle poker?”

  Stiletto grinned. “Fairly well.”

  “Good. Mr. Zolac wants to meet you and he likes to play.”

  Elisa grabbed
a stack of folders from her desk and went over to a painting on the wall, which she opened like a door, to reveal a safe. He admired her figure as she spun the dial. He also watched the combination, and tried not to laugh. She put the folders in the safe with other items, closed the safe, and put the painting back in place.

  Stiletto glanced at Plotkin, who was watching him. Stiletto smiled and did not break eye-contact. When Elisa returned to her desk, Stiletto put his attention back on her.

  “How much money do I need for tonight?” Scott said.

  “Oh, five thousand U.S. should do it.”

  “No problem.”

  “Don’t let Mr. Zolac win,” she said. “He expects everybody to play their best.”

  “I won’t let him down,” Stiletto said.

  ANOTHER MAKERS Mark with a splash of water.

  Only regular tourists in the bar this time, no off-duty NWRF troops, and Stiletto this time occupied a back-corner table. He laughed as the image of Elisa and her safe replayed in his mind. Did they think he was a first-year rookie? Who but a nimrod would fall for such an obvious carrot?

  It meant they weren’t positive he was genuine. Or maybe they were sure but this was one last test. He remembered Plotkin had watched him during Elisa’s display. She was convinced; he wasn’t. Regardless, Stiletto had no plans to take the bait.

  He left the bar to get some lunch and bought a pack of playing cards from the gift shop. He spent the rest of the day reviewing poker hands and mentally preparing to meet the man he figured was the top dog in the New World Revolutionary Front.

  ELISA KNOCKED on Stiletto’s door.

  She wore her hair down with black slacks and a sparkly black-and-white top with a V-neck. There was a small scar above her right breast. She looked quite desirable and Stiletto cleared his throat. Was he ready? Ready indeed. In the elevator, she told him of a slight change in plan. Zolac wanted dinner first. Stiletto said okay.

  She took him to the penthouse suite where Heinrich Zolac, in a white tuxedo and holding a martini, greeted them with a smile. He gave Scott a hearty handshake. Zolac did not look like a terrorist. Medium-height, hair cut close to the scalp. No rings on his fingers.