“Problem solved,” she announced, slipping the weapon back into her purse.
“Nicely done. You haven’t lost your touch.”
“Thanks. Now would you mind telling me what you’re doing in Uruguay, alive, with a hit team in tow?”
“Sure. But let’s get someplace quiet first. You can’t go back to your townhouse, I’m afraid. They’ll be watching it. Have you got a kit stashed somewhere?” he asked.
“Of course. At two different banks. But what’s this all about? Who are ‘they’?”
He ignored the questions. “What about ID? I think it’s safe to assume that your current ID is blown,” he cautioned.
“Damn. It’s a legit one. Cost me a small fortune.”
“Luck of the draw. Do you have any others?”
“Yes. Three more. But only one other for Hannah. Which reminds me. How did you know her name?”
“Her name?”
“Back at the building. Before I told you what it was, you used her name. You said ‘Hannah.’”
He sighed as he pulled out of the alley onto another medium-sized street, eyes darting to the mirrors to ensure there were no more followers. “I suppose I did.” He didn’t say anything more.
“You need to tell me what the hell is going on, Rain.”
“I know. But right now, I think our time would be better served if you told me where your banks are located. We need to get your kit and as much cash as you can carry.”
“I’m familiar with the drill. But some information would be nice.”
“Okay. I’ll start at the beginning.”
“Any time.”
“I obviously didn’t die in Yemen. That was a ruse to get me out of a situation that had gotten too hot.”
“You faked it?” Jet asked.
“I didn’t have to. I knew that the cell was planning to take me out, so all I had to do was pretend not to notice their clumsy incursion into the apartment. Christ, I mean, it was like drunk blind kids planted the bomb. Anyway, I let it detonate – it was set up to go when I hit the light switch, which was a piece of cake to rig to remote-trigger using a cell phone – and poof, no more Rain.”
“Nice. And it seems somewhat familiar.”
“It should. Your death gave David the idea.”
She hesitated. “You know about David and my death?”
“I know everything. I know about Trinidad, and the Russian, and even about Hannah.”
Jet digested that. “But how?”
“David. I spoke to him for the last time the day you both blew up the Russian’s boat. The day…the day he died. In the morning. He told me about what you were getting ready to do, and wanted me to have as much information as possible, in case…in case things didn’t go well.”
“Why would he trust you with that? He would never tell anyone.”
“Yes, he was a secretive type, wasn’t he? I suppose that goes with the territory.”
“So why?”
“Because...we were close. Closer than you can imagine.”
“David wasn’t close to anyone. Believe me, I know.”
“I’m sure you do. But there are some things that, for all your knowledge, you were left out of. You couldn’t know, because David was very, very good at keeping secrets.” He swiveled and glanced down at where Hannah was still hugging the car seat, eyes scrunched shut, as instructed, then reached out with his right hand and stroked her hair. “She’s a heartbreaker, isn’t she?”
“What secrets are you talking about? What’s going on here?”
He pulled onto another street, slowing as they approached a red light, and when they rolled to a stop he turned in his seat to face Jet. “There’s a lot you don’t know.”
“So start talking, and not in riddles.”
He nodded, seeming to have come to a decision. “David was more than my control officer, and probably the most gifted schemer the intelligence industry has ever known. Besides being a genius, he was also the closest person in the world to me.”
Jet didn’t speak, holding her breath.
“David was my brother.”
Chapter 8
One week before, Moscow, Russian Federation
The sun struggled to burn through the scattered clouds that lingered over Moscow’s sprawl as the Sunday morning lurched into gear. A black stretch Mercedes limousine pulled onto the larger thoroughfare from the quiet neighborhood near the Bolshoi theater, two SUV guard vehicles following it, and rolled past the roundabout without slowing. An old Lada sedan was crashed into the massive trunk of a centuries-old oak, its unlucky driver hanging half out of the vehicle, face down on the hood from where he had flown through the windshield. The eyebrows of the limo passenger – a young blond man with typically Slavic high cheekbones and piercing blue-gray eyes – didn’t even rise at the sight of the carnage.
“Drunks,” his companion, a severe-looking woman in her early fifties, spat.
“Yes. It’s always like this after a long Saturday night.”
“The people are weak. They have no direction. So they drink and kill themselves. Losers,” she pronounced dismissively. She reached over and stroked the young man’s cheek with the back of her hand. “Thank God you know better than to go down that road. The road of the insect; of the slave. It’s been the national curse as long as there’s been a Russia, this weakness. A nation of drunks and degenerates, with no hope.”
“Not all, Mother. Not all.”
“There are two kinds of Russians, my son. The serfs – peasants who toil away, blunting the horror of their life with drugs and alcohol – and the leaders. Never forget that almost everyone you meet in your life will fall into the first category, no matter what their station. If a man is willing to turn over control of his life to a drug, whether it’s alcohol, nicotine, or worse, he isn’t fit to be a leader. A leader must be above the temptations of the flesh. He must be better than that.”
He let her continue her monologue. He’d heard it almost every day since he was a small boy. There was nothing new there, but she seemed to enjoy repeating her philosophy as if it were some sort of mantra, and he saw no harm in it. Although sometimes he wanted to tell her to shut up, stop with the Nietzsche-inspired superman rant, he never dared. She deserved respect, and commanded it in everyone around her, her unrelenting demand for excellence one of her defining qualities. She had been a prima ballerina with the Kirov Ballet before she had gotten pregnant, and had achieved more in her aborted career within a few short years than most did in a lifetime. And she had guided him, advised him through difficult times, which had resulted in him reaching an unlikely summit in his business even at his tender age, when most of his friends were just starting out in their chosen fields.
The limo pulled up to his company headquarters, and he waited as the two SUVs emptied of the heavily armed bodyguards before signaling his driver that he was ready to exit the vehicle. The man murmured into an ear bud, and a suited older gentlemen emerged from the impressive entry of the towering glass building and opened his door for him.
“Nice to see you this morning, Mr. Grigenko,” the older man greeted.
“Is everything ready?” Grigenko asked, curtly ignoring the welcome as he stepped onto the sidewalk, the armed men creating a gauntlet leading to the front doors.
“Of course. As you ordered.”
“Very well. Mother, come. Let’s see what progress I’ve made since the last time you watched.” Grigenko extended a hand, and she took it as she slid her still-elegant, graceful dancer’s legs out and emerged into the sunlight, her oversized black hat and sunglasses giving her the aura of a diva – which in some respects, she was.
“I’m sure it will be quite impressive, my son. I expect nothing but the best from you.”
They walked together to the entrance, and another man waited by the massive tempered glass and chrome doors as they entered, the panels sliding open and closed with a whisper. The ultra-modern lobby was decorated with Scandinavian minimalism, and several
colorful original abstract oil paintings provided welcome color in the monochromatic space. Grigenko’s hand-tailored British oxfords were nearly silent on the high-gloss Italian marble slabs, his mother’s Christian Louboutin pointed-toe pumps snicking alongside him – fitting accompaniment for a master of the universe entering his earthly kingdom.
Sergei Grigenko owned the entire thirty-story edifice, but his offices occupied only the top three floors. He entered the private elevator that would whisk them up to the penthouse level and waited as the older man punched one of the buttons on the control panel. The doors slid shut and they ascended at dizzying speed in the Japanese-crafted contrivance. Time was at a premium in his world, and Grigenko had ordered the fastest elevator made for his private realm – every time he took the trip, a small smile of satisfaction tugged at the corners of his brutally handsome mouth.
When the stainless steel door opened, they stepped into a lavishly appointed lobby, with security men stationed at each door on the floor. At the far end, a small graying Asian man stood wearing a white judo-gi – the classic judo training pants and jacket, held in place by the black obi belt – and a black headband tied around his balding pate.
Grigenko and his mother approached, trailed by the older man, and Grigenko executed a small bow, which was returned by the Asian.
“Yamaguchi-sensei. Nice to see you again,” Grigenko said, his tone conveying respect.
“Nice to be seen. I have everything prepared. We begin in five minutes, yes?” Yamaguchi’s Russian was rough but serviceable, his native Japanese softening some of the harder consonants.
“That will be fine. Just fine,” Grigenko said, then gestured for his mother to go into the gymnasium he’d had custom built and take a seat.
He emerged from the dressing room a few minutes later, wearing his judo-gi and a black belt of his own. His bare feet padded on the imported wood floor to where Yamaguchi stood with another young man, Asian as well. Grigenko sized up his opponent and then bowed to both men, who returned his bow, and then Yamaguchi stepped forward.
“You have mastered many of the martial arts, Sergei. Karate. Judo. Jiu-Jitsu, taekwondo. Systema. Bartitsu. Krav Maga. At your request, the time has come to put your skills to the test against a new adversary every week. In this, your first match, you will be taking on one of Malaysia’s most adept fighters, who has also achieved a mastery of his craft. For this match, there are no rules. There is simply one goal – to win. Do what you can, and must, to emerge victorious. Unlike a traditional match, I will limit the sparring to three rounds of three minutes duration. You may use whatever disciplines you like. Are there any questions?”
Both men studied each other, and then Grigenko gave a curt shake of his head. His Asian adversary eyed him with a flat look, but as they turned to walk to their respective spots Grigenko could have sworn he saw the twitch of a smile play across his face before it settled into the serious expression he’d maintained since Grigenko had entered.
They taped their hands and donned four-ounce fingerless gloves, and then put in dental guards in preparation for the fight.
Grigenko and his adversary did a five-minute warm-up of stretches and then took off their tops. The Asian had colorful tattoos crisscrossing his powerful torso, whereas Grigenko’s body was unmarred, the steroid-augmented bulk of his sculpted musculature bulging in the natural light from the far floor-to-ceiling windows. Yamaguchi brought them together to where a large rectangular mat was adhered to the floor, and had them bow to each other before he dropped a red cloth onto the white surface.
The Asian came straight at Grigenko with a blinding flurry of kicks and blows, which Grigenko parried while levying his own barrage of kicks and strikes. Grigenko took the first thirty seconds to size up his opponent and understand his favored techniques – all martial arts fighting eventually came down to stand-up techniques, clinching, and ground approaches. Grigenko was adept at all three and could adapt at will, and he knew that one of the best ways to win a fight quickly was to draw his adversary into whatever style of fighting he seemed least comfortable with. He had just about decided that the Asian was a combination stand-up and clincher, when he tried to flip Grigenko onto the ground – a maneuver Grigenko was only just able to slip out of, breaking the clinch hold and delivering a set of strikes that would have had most adversaries on the ground, out cold.
The Asian seemed scarcely winded by the exertion, taking carefully measured breaths, his speed lightning fast. Grigenko noted that he favored Muay Thai strikes, bouncing in the distinctive way, less rigid than taekwondo or karate. He allowed the Asian to get closer to him and willingly took several brutal blows to the chest and stomach, and then sweep-kicked him as he fought for a finish hold, flipping over and gripping the Asian’s neck with his legs before dropping him to the mat.
The Asian broke the hold at the last second and twisted free, and Grigenko threw his legs into the air and flipped back up onto his feet, continuing the momentum with an unconventional back flip that terminated with three devastating strikes, the last one to his opponent’s shin.
The crack of the Asian’s tibia and fibula was as audible as a gunshot, and he screamed in agony as he went down, the bone edges jutting out of his skin in a compound fracture with a spray of blood. Grigenko spun and leveled a powerful kick at the falling man’s head, snapping it back at a sickening angle, and his torso went limp with a shudder on the bloody mat as Toshiro ran to break the fight off.
Grigenko’s chest heaved as he bounced on the balls of his feet, adrenaline coursing through his system, a crazed look in his eyes, and then he seemed to return to reality and register the Asian’s inert form, Yamaguchi crouched over him with an expression of alarm. He paced back and forth as the old man tried to revive him, and then walked away, pulling off his gloves as he moved to his mother and the older gentleman who had accompanied them in the elevator.
“Take care of this. Get him out of here, either to a hospital or to a ditch in the countryside. Pay whatever needs to be paid,” he ordered, then caught a look at his mother’s eyes, gleaming bright with excitement at the image of her son’s bare-chested form, beads of sweat running down his iron pecs, shaved smooth – the powerful victor in an all-or-nothing test of skill and prowess.
She leaned into him and murmured in his ear, her hand on his shoulder, her musky perfume blending with his scent as her lips caressed his cheek. “You are twice the man your father was.”
Grigenko said nothing, only nodded, and then without looking back at Yamaguchi or his fallen adversary, strode back to the dressing room, the buzzing of combat awareness slowly receding in his ears as he crossed the polished wooden floor, ready to shower off and join his mother for a late breakfast at her favorite club.
Chapter 9
“He was your brother? David didn’t have a brother,” Jet said, shaking her head.
“I was illegitimate. His father’s bastard son. But we were brothers.”
They rode in silence for a few blocks, Jet’s mind processing the news. “But the team. The Mossad would never allow family members to work it. That was one of the conditions. You had to be alone in the world, with no connections or relationships…”
“Correct. Nobody knew. I had my mother’s last name. As far as anyone was concerned, we weren’t related. It was our little secret. Until now.”
“That means…”
“I’m Hannah’s uncle. Uncle Alan. She’s got some of my flesh and blood in her – my only living relative now. My mom passed away years ago, and so did our dad, so that leaves Hannah.”
“I…when did you know about her?”
“Not until David told me, the day he was killed. Like so much in his life, he played that one close to his chest.”
“Which brings us to how you found me.”
“In a second. Where am I going? Which bank? Can you give me some guidance here?”
She thought about which was closer, then gave him the bank name and an address. “Next big street, take
a left towards downtown, then I’ll direct you.”
They drove on, lost in their thoughts, Hannah now sitting on Jet’s lap gazing vacantly out the window at the passing scenery.
“How did you find me, Rain?”
“Alan.”
“Okay. How?”
“It’s complicated. I’m on a mission right now, but I’ve been working on tracking you down, and one thing led to another.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“I followed the money.”
“What does that mean?”
“You’ve been accessing one of the operational accounts David set up years ago – which now has around ten million dollars in it. Once I saw activity on it, it was child’s play to track you here – I followed the wire transfers to Uruguay, and then hacked the local bank. All I had to do was wait for you to show up at the ATM you’ve been using. You went there two days ago. Bingo.”
“How did you get the account information? Nobody had that…”
“One person did. David. He emailed me an entire dossier that last day, just in case. Made me promise I wouldn’t open it unless…unless something happened. When I saw the headlines and he never got in touch again, I figured it out.”
“And Hannah’s background was in there?”
“Yes. He included everything I would need to know. I had the address in Nebraska, your bank account, the whole works. I even flew to Omaha, but by the time I got there, Hannah was nowhere to be found. The trail had gone cold. So I waited. I returned to Yemen, and waited.”
“Alan. What were you doing in Yemen? And why fake your death?”
“I’d gotten wind of a particularly nasty new terrorist group that was working out of Yemen and Syria – sort of an adjunct to Al Qaeda, but even more anti-American, with the usual seasoning of an all-encompassing hatred of Israel. The cell I’d infiltrated had established a relationship with this new group, but I couldn’t get any sort of definitive data on it. I think my interest triggered some alarms, because my cell began getting suspicious. It was time to pull out.”
Jet 03: Vengeance Page 6