“Dunno, but I think I’d like to find out.”
Tobin motioned toward the gym. “Shall we?”
AN HOUR LATER, AFTER Jaz had done search after search trying to tease out the organizational structure of the Brighton Beach syndicate, she and Tobin had narrowed things down. Jaz toggled through the three screens open on her laptop.
“Would have been easier to hack the FBI’s organized crime database,” Jaz grumbled. “They probably have an org chart for the mob and know everything about them—right down to their underwear size.”
She added a fresh stick of Black Jack to the five already in her mouth.
Tobin shrugged. “Maybe, but I think we have what we were looking for right here. Semion Davydenko is the Odessa mob’s head honcho, right?”
“Yah, and his daughter Svitlanya looks to be the only female we came up with who’s ‘at that level.’ Plus, her phone says she was in Manhattan not only when Wolfe was there, but pinging off the same towers as Wolfe’s phone.”
“Then it’s her. Wolfe met with her.”
“Okay, so now I do a deep dive on her. Find something we can use, some kind of leverage. It has to be big enough to manipulate her into calling their AGFA buddies over in Chechnya.”
“No.”
Jaz’s jaws stopped. “What do you mean, no? The whole point of the search was to dig up dirt or a weakness we could use.”
“No, the point of the search was to ID the person Wolfe talked to—not for you to make yourself an even bigger target for the Ukrainian mob.”
“But what does figuring out who Wolfe talked to get us? How does that help at all?”
“It gives me the right person to pray for.”
Jaz blinked once. And lost it.
Tobin hadn’t seen Jaz totally lose it before. Neither had he been her target. But now that she was unloading on him, right then and there, in his face, cursing him up one side and down the other, one finger gouging a hole in his chest, while a great gobstopper of gray goop flew around in her mouth, he was certain he never wanted to see—or experience—such a tirade again.
Not to mention the mesmerized audience observing her meltdown.
Tobin grabbed the finger jabbing his chest. “I dare you, Jaz.”
Tobin doubted Jaz heard him. Her tirade didn’t stop—she didn’t even let off the gas.
“Jaz, I dare you.”
When she started poking him with her other finger, he picked her up. Two hands the size of east Texas lifted her up. Up. Over his head. Held her horizontal while she kicked and cursed. He carried her—dodging her boots and fists—through the bullpen and out the door.
“Put me down! PUT ME DOWN, you *bleeping* horse’s rear end!”
The goggle-eyed task force followed Tobin out the door.
Rusty sucked in his breath. “Oh, man. He’s gonna dump her in the snow,” he pronounced.
“He wouldn’t dare,” Brian answered. “’Cause afterward? We still have to work with her.”
“Five dollars says he does it anyway.”
“You’re on.”
Tobin pointed Jaz’s head toward a snowdrift.
She stopped cursing, but she didn’t shut up. “Don’t. Don’t you dare, Quincy Tobin, or I swear—”
“Yeah, you swear all right. You swear a lot, and I’m tired of hearing it. Shut your pie hole, missy. And FYI? That wad you’re flinging around in there is disgusting.”
“I mean it, Tobin. Don’t you dare drop me in the snow.”
“Then listen up. I dared you first, Jaz. In front of all these people—” Tobin gestured with one hand, holding her overhead with only the other. “Now I double-dog dare you.”
Jaz took the gob of gum out of her mouth and tossed it away. She sneered at him. “You dare me to what?”
“I dare you to pray for Svitlanya Davydenko.”
Brian interjected, “Uh, Tobin? Who’s Svitlanya Davydenko?”
Neither Tobin nor Jaz paid him any attention.
Brian leaned toward Rusty, “Who’s Svitlanya Davydenko?”
“Dunno, but our bet is still on.”
“Pray?” Jaz screamed at Tobin. “I told you, I don’t do prayer!”
“Yeah, well I double-dog dared you.”
“And I don’t care.”
“Do you care about landing in that drift?”
“You wouldn’t—”
“Dare? I wouldn’t dare? I dared you first, missy. Pony up or meet the snow head-on.”
Jaz, staring at the snowdrift, whispered, “You want me to pray.”
“Yes. But since you don’t know how, I’ll pray with you.”
“Praying is pointless, Tobin. Just words. They don’t mean a thing.”
“Your words might not mean a thing, but mine do—and then you’ll see God answer.”
Tobin, holding Jaz aloft with both hands, “pumped” his arms, and tossed her into the air, rolling her like a log, before catching her. By the time Jaz’s screech echoed into the mountains around them, Tobin had flipped her and set her feet on the ground.
In the snowdrift.
Up to her knees.
“You miserable—”
Tobin held out his hand. “Come on, Little Miss Swears-a-Lot.”
Jaz weighed taking his hand against floundering through the drift. With a huff, she grabbed his hand. He jerked her onto the path—and wouldn’t let go.
He motioned with his chin to their audience. “Y’all can get back to work.”
With Jaz’s hand in his catcher’s mitt, he dragged her all the way to the conference room. Didn’t let go until the door closed behind them. Leaned against the door and folded his arms.
Jaz dropped into a chair. “Do we have to kneel down for this-this-this crap?”
“Nope. I’ll pray, and you say amen at the end. Amen means ‘so be it,’ or ‘I agree.’”
“I agree? Whatever.”
Tobin closed his eyes. “Lord God, in the name of Jesus, Jaz and I come before you. I first of all thank you for using Svitlanya Davydenko to tell us that, yes, Bella is still alive, and that, wherever AGFA’s headquarters are, that’s where they are holding her. We are grateful, Lord!
“Second, according to where you say in your word, This is the confidence we have in approaching God, that if we ask anything according to your will, you hear us, I ask that you move upon Svitlanya Davydenko’s heart. Please change her mind. Please convince her to tell us when they next plan to call AGFA’s headquarters.
“Father, I confess that tracing a call between the mob and AGFA seems like the only means of finding Bella, the only way we can save her and bring her back to us. However, it isn’t the only way you can save her. After all you, Lord, are the Way, the Truth, and the Life. Jaz and I ask right now that you rescue Bella and return her safely to us.
“Thank you for hearing our prayer, Lord. Amen.”
Tobin opened his eyes. “Well?”
She sniffed. “Sure. Right. Amen. Whatever.”
JAZ STARED AT THE EMAIL account she’d set up at Wolfe’s direction. Stared at the “1” that told her a new email had landed in the inbox. She clicked on it and read its brief contents.
“Brian!”
“Yo, Boss?”
“Sending you the ship’s name and Ukrainian registry now. I want a location ASAP.”
“On it.”
The transliteration of the ship’s name from Cyrillic to an English pronunciation was Pluh Konya. Loosely translated to English, it was Plow Horse.
Jaz made the call. “Director Wolfe? We have the shipping info.”
“Copy the message contents into a new email from your task force account and send it to me. I’ll forward it to my FBI counterpart.”
Wolfe had shared everything they knew about the planned attack with the FBI—which wasn’t much but certainly got their full attention. The FBI in turn had brought select members of the Drug Enforcement Administration and Environmental Protection Agency into a highly classified team.
No federal agency had, to da
te, dealt with a shipment as toxic as the incoming carfentanil. Within the team, hazmat response members were gearing up and scientists were crunching data to determine the best means of disposing of the carfentanil—or, should it be intentionally dumped overboard, how that amount of carfentanil would affect marine life.
The task force had done its part. When the FBI took over, they locked the task force out of the response.
Two can play at that little game, Jaz growled to herself.
Brian waved her over. “I have the Pluh Konya’s usual route. Based on their thirteen-day average from the Republic of Georgia to New York, I estimate the ship is seven days out.”
“That’s what Wolfe said his mob counterpart told him.”
She called Tobin and Rusty over.
“The carfentanil is a week from port. That means we have a week to find Bella before AGFA expects to receive its cargo. Before they know they’ve been had.”
“You think the FBI would ask the mob to stall their AGFA contact? Put off delivery?” Rusty wondered aloud.
“I’m not counting on it,” Jaz muttered. She was teasing out a few ideas of her own.
Tobin nodded. “I agree. We have a week before AGFA knows we’ve confiscated their carfentanil.”
Tobin slid Jaz a look of concern, then motioned her back to her workstation. Tobin pulled a chair close to Jaz.
“I’m getting a vibe from you, Jaz.”
“A ‘vibe’? What’s that supposed to mean?
“A vibe like when you decided to take matters into your own hands and sneak down to NOLA.”
“And I was right, wasn’t I?”
“Don’t do it. Don’t reach out to Svitlanya Davydenko. Don’t meddle with the mob, Jaz.”
“Sure, Tobin. You dared me to pray for that woman with you, but you won’t dare to act. Has to be all God, huh?”
“If the Lord moves in that situation, Jaz, we’ll know it.”
“If the Lord ‘moves’? What’s he gonna do? Wave a red flag? Send up a flare?”
“However he chooses to act, it will be unmistakable. Until then? Keep your hands off.”
THE WOMAN IN CHARGE of food preparation railed on her, punctuating her meaning with her hands. Apparently, she’d done something wrong, but Gupta—rather, Halima bint Abra and unwilling wife to Maskhadan—didn’t understand a word the old hag shouted. Gupta swore under her breath, calling down upon the woman’s head every vile epithet her vocabulary possessed.
Then she saw the man again, through the pass-through where they served the food, the one she’d noticed when leaving Sayed’s salon after her “wedding.” She had spent her long night of “wedding bliss” racking her brain, trying to evoke some memory of how she knew him. All she’d come up with had been the sense that he was much older than when she’d first seen him.
The hag kicked her, shoving her out of the way. Gupta moved over, but kept the man in her sight. He joined a table of soldiers who welcomed him warmly.
Huh. He fits right in. It would take someone decades to fool the natives. She frowned. Decades. At least two. Where was I twenty years ago?
It came to her. Marstead’s infernal training facility. Was he a trainee? Had to have been.
Her thoughts reminded her that she had met Magda in the same place. Oh, how I hate that woman! And—
No. It couldn’t be.
She picked up a pitcher of water and walked to his table. Began to refill water glasses, taking her time, using her imagination to strip away the damage of years. Of tens of years.
He handed her his glass and she filled it. Handed it back. His eyes strayed to her face, all but her eyes hidden beneath the hideous niqab. His glance swept over her eyes. Stopped.
Confusion bloomed and disappeared as quickly.
He’s recognized me but is in the same boat as I. He can’t place me.
But that glance had been enough to confirm her suspicions.
A trainee in the same class as Magda. I must tell Sayed that he is nurturing a spy in his bosom. Perhaps he will reward me for the information. Allow me to leave this place and my delightful “husband.”
It would not be easy to obtain an audience with Sayed—but she knew where to reach his odious servant. She returned the pitcher to the kitchen and, ignoring the ranting abuse of her “keeper,” she left the cavern.
Chapter 34
SVITLANYA KEPT A LIGHT on at night while she slept. The lamp in the bower window, close to her dressing table, worked best. And because her bed rested against the wall directly opposite the door to her room, she didn’t sleep in it anymore, choosing the couch behind the door instead.
When she dialed down the lamp’s dimmer switch to lower its light, the rest of her room lay in shadow—and she lay in wait, the Makarov loaded and ready under her pillow. Oh, she slept, but her ear was always listening, subconsciously attuned to the particular sounds the locks made when they slid open and the soft ssss her door made when it turned on its hinges.
Each morning, she went through the same routine. She removed the evidence of sleeping on the couch, mussed her bed as though she had slept there, and rearranged the pillows that had served as her “body” during the night.
Svitlanya had lived like this—fearful of an attempt on her life—for two years. Her precautions began the day her brother Symon had gone to prison and her father had announced that he would be grooming her to take over the entirety of the Ukrainian crime syndicate’s US operations at his death.
Me. A woman, fear shrilled in her ear.
A competent woman, her outrage answered. More than capable. A better businesswoman, in fact, than my father—better educated, better prepared for the future.
Her father, Semion Davydenko, was old now, nearly eighty-five, and growing feeble. Fact or opinion as to her competence would matter little if certain men in the organization chose to decide the matter of Semion’s replacement themselves.
She was aware of the danger surrounding her. Hadn’t she lived with it in one form or another every day of her life? If it were only herself, she might have abdicated and gone far away to live out her days somewhere pleasant.
But it isn’t only me. I have Zoya to think of.
Svitlanya had never married. It had been a blow to her parents when, at age thirty-nine, she announced her pregnancy. Her intentional pregnancy.
I wanted a child, but I didn’t want the husband that went along with the usual way things are done—for who would have married me other than an ambitious man? A man who said he loved me but really wanted only to advance himself in the organization?
Eventually, her parents had accepted the news, and they had doted on Zoya. As Svitlanya had.
Wolfe was right. My daughter is the only pure thing in my life, the only thing I love—which is why I sent her away to school in Europe after Symon went to prison. To keep her safe and out of this ugly life entirely.
Svitlanya glanced at the clock again. Sighed.
Why can’t I sleep?
When she checked the clock a third time, she gave up. Threw off the covers and sat up. Walked around her poorly lit room, restless. Concerned.
The meeting with Wolfe had been . . . eye-opening, particularly when he revealed that his operative had been instrumental in saving Zoya’s plane. Svitlanya’s heart pounded as it had on that day when the planes struck the twin towers and when Zoya’s incoming flight had been rerouted to Canada. When the news had announced that two sky marshals had foiled one of the 9/11 hijackings. Had saved the plane. Had saved Zoya.
Wolfe’s exact words came back to her. “Without my agent on board, the sky marshal, by his own testimony, would have failed to save the plane. We found out that the hijackers had intended to fly the plane into a hospital. They wanted to kill a thousand sick people—and your daughter.”
“I owe this woman for Zoya’s life—and yet, I am forbidden to return the favor in kind.”
Svitlanya knew little of this Sayed person, the man at the top of AGFA’s hierarchy, only what Kh
asurt, Sayed’s American commander, had unconsciously let slip. That and what Svitlanya herself had deduced during the negotiations between her father and Sayed. The negotiations had been held via Sayed’s satellite phone with Svitlanya and Semion’s two top pakhans present.
The image of Sayed she’d formed was of a self-obsessed, religious fanatic—a little man with a derisive and contemptuous view of women. “The kind of man,” she was convinced her father’s pakhans whispered to each other later, “who will never conduct business dealings with our organization if it is headed by a woman.”
I must make a move, Svitlanya told herself, and soon. Before my father dies and my Zoya and I follow him to the grave.
She crept to her dressing table, retrieved her laptop, and took it back to the couch. She opened it and logged on to the new email account she’d created and used to send AGFA’s shipping information to Wolfe.
Wolfe or his IT person had replied to the information on the carfentanil shipment with a succinct “Information received.” Nothing more.
Svitlanya tapped the edge of the keyboard, thinking, weighing the few options open to her. Director Wolfe had been surprisingly candid about his operative. He had allowed Svitlanya to see his earnest feelings for the woman, the woman he said had saved Zoya’s plane.
I regret that I was unable to give Wolfe what he needed to find and rescue his agent. If Papa had allowed it, I would have done as Director Wolfe asked and made a friend of this man. Friends in high places, even those on the other side, can sometimes render a favor in time of need. A personal favor—that is a given—not a business favor.
Something tinkered around beyond the edge of her conscious grasp. The glint of an idea in the making, not yet formed.
Our financial records in the hands of the FBI are a ticking time bomb. Someday, perhaps soon, they will crack the encryption on those files and have all the proof they need to ruin us.
Svitlanya didn’t move as a suggestion crept around the corner and came into view.
If Papa agreed, I would attempt to trade his agent for our data.
It was an audacious proposal. Smart and simple.
If Papa allowed, I would exchange a conversation with Sayed for our records. No, not for the files themselves, but for their destruction.
Laynie Portland, Spy Resurrected Page 38