“Doesn’t help that Rosenberg hasn’t used Burner Two to call anyone, let alone AGFA’s satphone.”
Rusty wasn’t sitting. He did his best thinking on his feet. At the moment he paced up and down the gym, fretting, pulling at invisible threads, trying to tease out any kind of new lead.
He stopped and mumbled, “What if . . . what if Rosenberg’s burner isn’t the only phone that’s called AGFA’s satphone?”
“Who else would call them?” Brian asked.
Rusty concentrated. “Well, who initiated business discussions between the Ukrainians and AGFA? And wouldn’t the arrangements have had to, at some point, percolate up the ranks? The Ukrainians paid AGFA seventy-five thousand dollars for some fentanyl and for Jaz’s location, requiring high-level approval.
“Then AGFA delivered Jaz’s apartment address to the mob, and the mob sent a hit squad to get her, first taking out Tobin and Bella. Except their op didn’t work out as planned, did it? And it wasn’t AGFA’s fault, so the Ukrainians couldn’t exactly ask for a refund.
“Nevertheless,” Rusty theorized, “when AGFA learned that Bella was flying into Tbilisi—compliments of Sherman and Rosenberg—they told the mob that they would squeeze Jaz’s location from her—and oh, would you please sneak our shipment of carfentanil into the US for us, thank you very kindly. Thing is, they had to coordinate all those arrangements, right?”
Rusty had his audience’s attention, now.
Vincent said, “You’re suggesting that Ukrainian leadership had to have spoken directly to AGFA leadership in Chechnya.”
Rusty stopped pacing. “Huh. I guess I am.”
“And?”
“Oh. Well, how would mob leadership have spoken to AGFA leadership? Had to be via AGFA’s satphone, right? The satphone Rosenberg called.”
“Jaz and Tobin left a few minutes ago to convince Wolfe that he needs to set up a meet with the mob,” Soraya said. “So—”
“So, we can’t just give AGFA a call. What would we say if we did? ‘Hey there, AGFA. This is the task force. We know about the carfentanil shipment and we know you have Bella.’ How’s that gonna play out? I’ll tell you—shortest call on record.”
“Right,” Brian agreed. “Not enough time to get a lock on their location.”
“You got it, Brian. What we need is for Wolfe to pressure the mob into giving us the carfentanil shipment and convince them to call AGFA, keeping both parties on the line long enough for the tech-weenies to triangulate the call. With satellite positioning, they can tell us the location within twenty feet.”
“Gee,” Gwyneth snarked. “That’s all? Get Wolfe to pressure the mob into giving us the carfentanil shipment and convince them to call AGFA, keeping them on the line long enough for the tech-weenies to triangulate the call? Sure, pal. We’ll be lucky if Wolfe gets the shipment info out of the mob. He’s got leverage for that. All the rest is highly unlikely.”
Soraya folded her arms. “Well, we need to try, don’t we?”
Chapter 32
JANUARY IN NEW YORK City can be brutal, the average temperature hovering between a low of 27° and a whopping high of 38°. Add some breeze to those temps, and you get a couple million people, bundled from foot to face, exiting their cabs, buses, or trains and striding the streets of Manhattan Island with purpose, bent on reaching their destinations and ignoring everything else.
In Central Park, a gentleman of indeterminate age, his slight body bent into the wind, crept down the walk. Two women trudged as fast as they could manage on the sidewalk’s slippery surface, no doubt cutting through the park in order to reach their workplace a few minutes sooner.
No mothers with children had ventured into the park this gusty morning. Sure, a few zealous joggers made their rounds, but no one just sat around in the cold wind. Waiting.
No one except Jack Wolfe.
He perched on the edge of a stone bench, within sight of the bumper-to-bumper traffic of Central Park South. He wished his Burberry overcoat and cashmere scarf were heavier, but he was grateful that his team had insisted he don a thick watch cap to protect his head and ears from the frigid wind. He wondered if his toes—or the back of his head, for that matter—would survive the approaching meet. Wolfe had a sniper positioned to take a shot if ordered. The mob probably did, too.
He held two steaming cups of coffee in his gloved hands. At present, the cups acted more as hand warmers than beverages.
Wolfe’s earwig clicked on. “Heads up, boss. Your three o’clock.”
Out of the corner of his eye, Wolfe watched a woman approach from his right. She was tall and long-legged, but her entire body, down to mid-calf, was draped in a beautiful red fox fur coat. The coat’s fur hood, thick and heavy, was pulled up and over her head so that only her face and a few tendrils of auburn hair showed. Her feet and legs were wrapped in high-heeled boots of golden-red leather, and she wore matching gloves.
She stopped at the bench. “Hello. You are Director Wolfe?”
“I am. Please join me.”
She sat down next to Wolfe, and he offered her one of the coffees. She used the coffee as he did—to warm her hands.
“Thank you. I have heard a lot about you, Director Wolfe. You may call me Svitlanya.”
Pure American. No hint of accent.
He took a moment to study her. From a distance, he’d thought her young. Up close, he saw that she wasn’t. With the slight sag of her jaw and the deep lines at the corners of her mouth and between her eyes, he judged her age to be around fifty-five. But a fit and well-preserved fifty-five.
“I’m always pleased to see women promoted to senior roles these days. The mob’s sensitivity training must be paying off.”
She replied with a knowing smile. “I enjoy a man with a good sense of humor. No, in my organization it is second of all who one knows . . . but first of all who one is related to.”
He didn’t need the voices in his ear to fill him in. Svitlanya Davydenko, daughter and youngest child of Semion Davydenko, crime boss of the Odessa mafiya or mafia. The Ukrainian crime syndicate, based out of Brighton Beach in Brooklyn, was often called Odessa after the port city on the Black Sea of the same name.
Svitlanya’s father had sired two sons before Svitlanya was born. The older—and heir to his father’s throne—was killed five years ago in an argument with a disloyal underling. The next in line was now serving fifteen to twenty in federal lockup for securities fraud, mail fraud, and RICO—racketeer influenced and corrupt organizations—charges.
Semion, pushing eighty-five, had been left with two options. Either choose and groom Svitlanya to take his place or pick from among his trusted pakhans—bosses or captains. In his view, promoting one of his many bosses above the others would risk jealousy and rebellion in the ranks.
Svitlanya had been the safer, if less conventional, choice.
Wolfe smiled back. “Thank you for meeting me, Svitlanya.”
She nodded. “You are welcome. However, one must wonder what is so important that a man of your rank would ask for a meeting with us rather than communicate through . . . channels.”
“You know who I am—what I am. Because the matter is critical, we asked to meet with someone in your organization of equal stature. Can you tell me you are that person?”
“I admit to nothing—except a great deal of curiosity. I suppose I would also admit that our organization insists on a certain level of respect in such situations. You have extended such respect to us and may rely upon our returning the same.”
He liked how she’d replied. Carefully but clearly.
In other words, you’ve answered my question with a yes.
He said, “I’m glad to hear that. Shall we begin?”
“Please. It is colder today than I care for.”
Wolfe smiled again. “That it is, and I will get straight to the point. Your organization has business dealings with the leaders of a Chechen separatist group. You believe the relationship to be mutually beneficial—fentanyl from
them to increase your heroin profits, money and small favors in return to help them continue their fight.”
“Heroin profits? I would never acknowledge that our organization deals in such things, Director. We are a business, not a criminal organization.”
“You are recording our conversation, are you not? You have people not that far from us listening in? As I do?”
Her brows lifted. “My, you are blunt. And if I said yes?”
“Then let us agree to drop pretense, today only, in favor of preventing a heinous crime against America. I am not here regarding your organization’s ‘businesses.’ This is not a trap or a sting. I asked you here so I might offer you a warning.”
“What warning?”
“That the separatists are playing you for fools.”
The woman flushed and her jaw hardened. “The Russian military soundly defeated the Chechen rebels last summer. Of course, the rebels are a determined bunch and will continue their efforts using guerrilla tactics, but they cannot achieve independence through these paltry methods.”
“Granted, but what if I told you that the separatists with whom you have business dealings are actually Islamic fundamentalists, bent on forging a united Islamic caliphate extending from the steppes of Ukraine, across the Caucasus, to the Caspian and beyond? What if I said they are working hand in glove with al-Qaeda, the terrorist group that planned and executed the 9/11 attacks?”
She thought a moment. “If we had business dealings with Chechen separatists and if what you say is true, we would not welcome such news. It is, after all, our city they attacked in September.”
“Then let me elaborate on these separatists. They call themselves All Glorious for Allah. We call them by their acronym, AGFA. You are right when you say AGFA cannot win against the Russian military, so their leader has undertaken an audacious plan, one that will pit America and Russia against each other. His people are working to goad and manipulate the two superpowers into a shooting war—and they are fully committed to achieving this goal.
“Why? Because they think that if America and Russia came to blows, Russia would recall their military from Chechnya and Dagestan and focus them on defending their borders against Western aggression. Then AGFA and its affiliated separatist militias could sweep through southern Russia and declare its caliphate rule. Moreover, al-Qaeda forces out of Iran, Pakistan, and Afghanistan would rush to reinforce them. Likeminded jihadis from Syria, Lebanon, and Saudi Arabia would join in. Together, they would subdue the Caucasus states, push into Ukraine and—”
She laughed. “That is preposterous!”
“Perhaps, but so was the idea of flying airliners into the Pentagon and the World Trade Center—until they actually did it. What we call preposterous, they celebrate as bold and worthy of praise. Trust me when I say that nothing will turn AGFA from the course they are on.”
She fidgeted. “I do not say you have convinced me, Director, but as you insist you have a warning for us, I am willing to listen a little longer.”
“Good. Here is what we know. AGFA devised a series of three terror attacks on US soil to escalate tension between the US and Russia. Two of the attacks have already been carried out. The first was the attempted assassination of Vassili Aleksandrovich Petroff. Our people—my people—foiled that attack.”
Wolfe stared into the woman’s hooded eyes. He noted the shrewdness in their depths as she considered his words. Semion Davydenko may have chosen well when he selected his successor.
“Of course we know who Petroff is. However, we understood that this attempt on his life came from an angry American woman. She said the Russian Federation had foreknowledge of the 9/11 attacks. She was angry because Russian politicians did nothing to warn us.”
“Yes, a young American girl made the attempt. An unsophisticated girl who somehow managed to get her hands on a couple of gallons of hydrofluoric acid, a dangerous and controlled chemical. A girl whose brother did two years in prison, came out a radicalized Muslim convert, then converted her.”
The two creases between her eyes deepened. “We did not hear that part.”
“We kept it quiet.”
“You spoke of two attacks already carried out?”
“Yes. The second occurred on New Year’s Eve. We could not prevent that one, but we blunted its impact by spreading a warning through the Internet. AGFA arranged for somewhere in the neighborhood of five or six hundred thousand ecstasy tablets laced with fentanyl to be given away at public New Year’s Eve celebrations and dance parties. Tens of thousands of Americans were supposed to die that night. Instead, less than twelve hundred succumbed.”
Her mouth tightened. “Still . . . a horrific number.”
“Yes, a horrific number. The final death toll was 1,123, although a few more may follow. The FBI picked up all the tabs they could find after the fact, but some people may have pocketed one or more and saved them for later use.”
He waited a beat. “I’m sorry to be the one to tell you, but your organization was complicit in those deaths.”
“Nonsense! We would not partner in such madness.”
“Oh, but you did. Your people took delivery of the cargo when it arrived and passed it on to AGFA’s people—as you well know.”
Svitlanya stood to her feet. “This conversation is over.”
Wolfe fought the urge to grab her arm and pull her back—convinced it might earn him a sniper’s bullet. Instead he said quietly, “Sit down, Svitlanya. We aren’t finished, and you need to hear my warning.”
BULA APPEARED AT THE grate that morning and called to the girls. When enough of them had responded, he asked, “The guards tell me they no longer hear the sound of retching and vomiting. Are you well again, or is anyone among you still sick?”
No one replied, but several of them hung their heads and shook them slowly side to side.
“Tell me now if anyone is running a fever,” Bula demanded.
The same girls shook their heads.
“Very well. I will have the guards clean out the refuse. When they finish, they will bring you clean clothes and double the amount of bathing water. Be ready this evening to resume your duties to the soldiers.”
Ksenia had crept forward to listen. She returned to Laynie, Asmeen, and Mariam and repeated his message to them. The three girls turned glum faces away from Laynie while she digested the news, but Asmeen began to weep silently.
Their hopeless state pierced Laynie’s heart.
Lord, you know how much I thank you for the season of peace you provided. Through the dysentery I was able to minister to these young, sorely abused lives and bring them to Jesus. But that season is closing, Lord, and I have no means of protecting them. O God! Please tell me what to do. Please!
Laynie considered the key Black had slipped to her—now hidden behind a large rock against the cave wall.
If I could reach Sayed’s salon undetected, I would take them out of here. I don’t care if I freeze, Lord, if it means they have a chance to escape.
But she couldn’t reach Sayed’s salon without being caught, particularly with three girls in tow. Black had assured her that one or two guards were stationed at the salon’s entrance, day and night.
She whispered her prayer, “Lord, what would you have me do?”
A conviction flowed over her, an action accompanied by certainty—for her and her alone.
“Lord, please let my sacrifice be holy and pleasing to you.” She drew in a steadying breath. “And may my example give my daughter Ksenia courage.”
THE SOLDIERS CAME, four of them, dragging a wagon across the uneven stone floor. Two soldiers kept watch while the other two, wearing rubber gloves and bearing soap and hot water, removed the loathsome containers, cleaned all around the area, and took the full buckets away.
An hour later, the soldiers returned with two wagons, one bearing clean buckets and a load of firewood and a bucket of coal. The other wagon carried soap, four kettles of hot water, and fresh rags and towels. They replaced th
e old refuse buckets with clean ones, dumped the fire fuel, and handed over stacks of worn but freshly laundered shifts, socks, abayas, and veils.
The girls jostled for position in line to access the clean water. Laynie observed as they used one kettle to dunk and soap their heads and another to rinse them. After three of them had washed their hair, the water in the two kettles was filthy.
At least I don’t have to worry about putting my head in that polluted water.
She did, however, scrub herself as clean as possible, towel off, and dress in fresh clothing—with the soldiers staring, pointing, and leering. She didn’t need Ksenia to interpret what they said. Instead of fretting, she turned inside.
“Thank you, Lord, for clean clothes.” She truly was grateful for the clean clothes and a veil’s warmth on her bare and wounded head.
Ksenia stayed close to Laynie and mimicked her simple prayers of thanks. Laynie smiled her approval.
Ksenia is like a young chick following my every move. Lord, please do not allow me to disappoint or discourage her.
Back at their campfire, Laynie helped the girls dry their hair. Ksenia tended to the burns on Laynie’s forearm.
The girl pointed to the wounds. “This is not good, Mader.”
Laynie already knew that the burned skin was festering. She had soaped it well, hoping to allay infection. “Wipe it with vinegar water and wrap it, Ksenia. It will be all right.”
When they received their noon meal, Ksenia put into words what she, Asmeen, and Mariam were wondering.
“Mader, when the soldiers come this evening . . .”
“Yes?”
“Jesus has made us clean inside and out, even from . . . you know. What would he wish us to do when the soldiers come?”
Laynie bowed her head, seeking the right words to answer. “You must do whatever you believe Jesus is speaking to you. What I do may be different than what you do—but only because Jesus has spoken something different to me. Above all, we should trust him and be brave.”
Ksenia sniffed back tears. “I am not like you, Mader. I am not brave. I am afraid.”
Laynie Portland, Spy Resurrected Page 35