As Albescu motioned politely to his desk, Petrov turned to Sasha. His byki handed him the flute box and champagne, while Petrov and his men noted the exact positions of each of Albescu’s guards. The door had been closed, leaving only Petrov, Albescu, and their four bykis in the room. Petrov turned back, placing the flute box on Albescu’s desk, then pulled the champagne from its insulated bag, and tore the butcher’s paper from the bottle.
“Ah, there it is,” Albescu said. “And the year?”
“The 1990 vintage is the best in decades.”
Albescu leaned in to admire the bottle. Petrov smiled and removed the foil seal, then the wire cork cage. He carefully coaxed the cork from its home, releasing precisely the right sound. The ceremony must be carried out perfectly, lest the recipient be insulted. A loud pop of the cork would indicate disrespect, and could easily trigger a war. Tilting the bottle in the wrong direction could indicate a mild snub, and harsh words might be exchanged. Petrov had watched Ugolev perform the ceremony many times, but he never thought he would be required to stage one under such circumstances. He placed the bottle gently on the desk then opened the flute box.
Albescu gasped in admiration. Ugolev’s custom-made flutes were legendary among the crime families of the region. Each pakhan who’d received a pair proudly displayed them in his office. Albescu was about to be made one of the elite, and his excitement showed. Petrov removed the innermost flute, and a special polishing cloth from the box. He inserted the microfiber material into the glass, carefully wiping and polishing. The process achieved two goals. Firstly, it demonstrated respect for the alliance, and more importantly, the wiping would ensure there was no risk of poisoning the would-be recipient.
Petrov held the flute up to the light for a final inspection before handing it reverently to Albescu. The young rival pakhan received the glass in the appropriate manner then watched patiently as Petrov repeated the process with the other flute. Petrov then began pouring the precious liquid into the younger man’s glass.
“I’ve been waiting a long time for this,” Albescu said, admiring his full flute.
Petrov filled his own flute then extended it to clink with Albescu’s. “You’ve earned it, my friend,” Petrov said before downing the entire glass. “And you deserve what you get.”
With that, Petrov held the stem of his glass steady as he pressed hard against the bowl with his powerful thumb. The heavy lead crystal snapped at its thinnest point. The bowl fell toward the floor, leaving the stem, sharpened from Petrov’s die grinder, pointing toward the ceiling. Petrov deftly spun the remains of the flute, palming the flat base, then swinging his hand in a short, sharp looping motion. The jagged tip of the stem traveled rapidly through Albescu’s ear canal, piercing the drum, and jutting through the man’s brain stem. The projectile’s momentum halted abruptly as the base of the glass fell flush against his ear.
Petrov watched Albescu’s lifeless body drop to the floor. But there was something strange in the way he fell. His downward motion was somehow hindered. Albescu’s arm hung loosely from Petrov’s abdomen for a second before following its owner to the floor. Petrov could now see the source of the hindrance.
As he stared down at a deer antler knife-handle protruding from his belly, Petrov thought, Little bastard had bigger balls than I thought. Despite his injury, Petrov was already in motion, reaching into Albescu’s top desk drawer. His bykis, meanwhile, had already broken the necks of both of Albescu’s bodyguards. The two bykis now looked at their boss in horror as he turned from the drawer with Albescu’s .45 in hand, revealing the protruding knife handle. Judging by the size of the handle, the blade must be long enough to have skewered their boss’ liver.
“Get their weapons and do your jobs,” Petrov said. “There’s no time to waste.”
Years of training told Petrov to leave the knife where it was. He knew the wound was likely to be fatal, but as long as the blade remained in place, he could still complete the mission. His bykis obeyed unquestioningly. They stood either side of the door as Albescu’s outer guards burst into the room. Firing the .45’s they’d taken from Albescu’s guards, they took down both men with one shot each. The loud reports of the .45’s signaled the rest of the Ugolev crew outside.
The man assigned to Albescu’s lone sniper across the street opened the door behind the unwitting shooter, spraying him with bullets from his Heckler & Koch submachine gun. In the street, a stretch limo screeched to a halt outside the entrance to Albescu’s townhouse. Through open windows, three shooters fired highly accurate single shots from their Steyr AUG A1’s, taking out the four gate guards. The shooters then sprang from the car, set a small explosive charge on the gate lock, and flowed up the stairs with military precision. Albescu’s less disciplined men were no match for Petrov’s soldiers’ advanced military training.
They broke through the front door, picking off swarming Albescu soldiers in the grand entrance hall like targets at a shooting gallery. The panicked Romanians sprayed uncontrolled fire from their Uzis; one indiscriminate round catching the beautiful coat-check woman in the thigh as she dived for safety. Petrov and his bykis fired from the level above Albescu’s forces, trapping them in the middle of the room like fish in a barrel. The whole skirmish was over in less than thirty seconds.
As his outside men double-tapped survivors, Petrov made his way down the stairs, leaning on his flanking bodyguards for balance. His blood loss wasn’t obvious from the outside, but Petrov knew his abdomen was rapidly filling. He turned to Sasha. “Get the men out of here, and call Ugolev’s personal physician. Tell him to meet us back at the mansion.”
Chapter 31
FBI Deputy Director Whyley stormed down the hall toward Director Jamison’s satellite office at Federal Plaza in New York City.
“He’s on a call, Mr. Deputy Director,” Jamison’s secretary said as Whyley barged past her desk without a word. “If you’ll just wait a moment, sir,”
But he was already through Jamison’s door. Exasperated, the secretary followed him in. She began to apologize to her boss, but he held up his hand, returning the phone to its cradle. “It’s fine, Mrs. Archer. Please close the door.”
“They put a hit out on my sister!” Whyley’s face pulsed red. “She’s the Assistant Inspector General for the Office of the Secretary of Defense, for God’s sake. Who the hell do these assholes think they are?”
“Slow down, Iain – take a breath. What assholes are you talking about? And why on earth would they want to hurt Althea?”
“Those freaks at DARPA! I asked her to look into one of their mid-level guys, and now she’s in the hospital with a gunshot wound. Thank God our father taught her to shoot, or it might be her in the morgue instead of their hitman.”
“What’s her condition?”
“They say she’s stable. I’m just about to leave for Arlington.”
“That’s a relief. What do we know about the shooter?”
“The guy’s a ghost. No fingerprints and no ID. He nearly killed Althea’s mechanic as well. Poor bastard’s going to lose half a lung. Someone’s going to pay – you can bet on that!”
“Sit down, Iain.”
“I can’t – I’m too wound up.”
“That’s my point. Just sit down for a moment. Let’s talk this through before you go and do something you might regret.”
Whyley balled his fists in front of his face, growling loudly. The act seemed to momentarily relieve some of his anger. He looked at his boss. “I’m sorry, sir, but this is my sister we’re talking about.”
“I understand. But accusing a Department of Defense official of conspiracy to commit murder? That kind of allegation will have serious repercussions. Let’s take a minute to think this through. There’s more than one way to skin a cat.”
Whyley slumped into a chair, cupping his face in his hands. “I can’t think clearly.”
Jamison nudged Whyley’s shoulder with a Scotch glass. Whyley took the glass, holding it as the Director poured him
three fingers of single malt. The Deputy Director dumped the expensive liquid into his mouth, swallowing hard against the burn.
“Another?” Jamison asked.
“Just a small one. I need my wits about me.”
Whyley downed another shot, and sat back in the chair. He wasn’t a big drinker, and the shock of eighty-proof alcohol hitting his belly took the edge off his angst. Jamison half-sat on the desk in front of his deputy. “You should probably start at the beginning,” he said calmly. “Why was Althea looking into this DARPA officer?”
Whyley gave his boss the same explanation he’d used to convince his sister. Jamison listened, rubbing his chin as he processed the information. Whyley finished his story then looked Jamison in the eye. “So less than twenty-four hours after I asked Althea to dig into this McAdam guy, she gets attacked as she’s leaving her office. No way that’s a coincidence.”
“You know my opinion on coincidences, Iain. But everything you’ve told me is circumstantial. There’s no way we can take this higher without some solid evidence. Let me make some calls. I know people who can get things done without raising red flags.”
“Like who?”
“Leave that to me. Creative cat-skinning is something these guys do for a living.”
“You mean the CIA? But they can’t operate on U.S. soil.”
“Don’t be naïve. The Cold War’s been over for a long time, but the CIA’s budget and manpower have grown exponentially since then. You really think all they do is wander around Third World countries looking under rocks for ragtag terrorists? Besides, as you know, our intelligence community hasn’t been a one-horse race for a very long time.”
“The NSA then?”
“It’s not important. Just leave it with me, Iain. Go to Arlington and be with your sister.”
Director Jamison picked up his phone. “Mrs. Archer, please arrange for a helicopter on the rooftop helipad immediately,” he paused. “Virginia Hospital in Arlington – one passenger. That’s right, arrange the necessary clearances. Thank you.”
*****
“What the hell went wrong?” McAdam shouted down the encrypted line, at Colonel Watson.
“Unforeseen circumstances,” Watson replied. “You can’t expect perfect execution with an hour’s notice. You gave us no time for proper reconnaissance and planning. If you want to shout at someone, I suggest you take it up with the nearest mirror.”
“You’re far too calm for my liking. This is a disaster!”
“For you, perhaps. But it’s not my problem.”
“Of course it’s your problem, who do you think this is going to come back on?”
“I know exactly who it’ll come back on – you,” Watson said. “You don’t seriously think I would leave a trail back to me, do you? I’m a full bird Colonel in the United States Army. As far as anyone other than you and I are concerned, there’s no connection between us whatsoever.”
“What are you talking about? The Hallucineers Project is under your roof.”
“Indeed it is. But as you say, it’s ‘my roof.’ I’ve allowed you to conduct your clandestine project here because we share the same ideologies. But I don’t report to you, and I won’t be taken down by the ill-advised actions of a jumped-up public servant. I’ve taken all necessary precautions. There’s nothing to link me or this U.S. Army facility to your project. If anyone comes looking, they won’t find a trace.”
“You’ve planned this all along, you bastard.”
“In my experience, a good exit strategy is far more important than the mission itself.”
“You won’t get away with this, Watson. If I go down, you’re coming with me. I’ve got records.”
“Have you? Really? Maybe you’d better check on that. Like I said – not a trace. I warned you such extreme action would have consequences, but you wouldn’t listen. You made your bed, McAdam, now you’ll have to lie in it. Have a nice day.”
*****
“They’ve made a mistake,” Director Jamison said on an untraceable cell phone. “Now we know who they’ve got operating in DARPA.”
“Correction – now we know one of their operators,” CIA Director Ballantyne said. “We don’t know if he’s acting alone, and they would already have insulated themselves from this officer. What did you say his name is – McAdam?”
“That’s right, Ian McAdam. The name’s come up in chatter before, but we couldn’t nail anything down until now.”
“Okay, I’ll get our best techs onto it. If there’s any trace to the cohort, we’ll find it. But I think we’ll be pushing shit uphill. Koskov and his cronies are too smart to leave a trail back to them.”
“Be careful. We still don’t know their timeline. If they know we’re onto them, they could move up their operation, and we won’t have time to get ahead of it.”
“I’m well aware, Dennis,” Director Ballantyne said. “Even more worrying is the fact that we still don’t know the full extent of their plans, or the identities of the other members of the cohort. No one is above suspicion at this point, so we maintain fully closed channels.”
“I agree. Is there nothing from your man in Ugolev’s group?”
“I’ve had no contact with him for twenty-four hours. Intel says there’s something brewing amongst the crime families, so he’s probably had to deal with that. I’m sure he’ll get back to me as soon as he’s sure he can maintain his cover. I’ll let you know.”
“I’d appreciate that. In the meantime, how do you propose to handle McAdam?”
“The same way we handle any situation of this nature. As soon as I can get a clean line of communication, I’ll inform the asset of his next mission.”
“Are you sure it’s wise to wait. What if McAdam goes underground?”
“Relax, Dennis. I know you don’t know him like I do, but trust me when I tell you there’s no hiding from the Surgeon.”
Chapter 32
“Doesn’t look so bad to me, Jakey,” Dozer said, putting down his binoculars. “I reckon we just go for it.”
Priest gave Jake an apologetic look. “He gets like this when he can smell combat.”
“It’s a good thing he’s always had you around to level him out,” Jake said. “But Dozer’s right – security does look pretty thin. Seems strange for an operation the size of Ugolev’s.”
“Maybe he’s just overconfident.”
“Doesn’t add up. Ugolev’s group is the most powerful in Kiev, so I guess they’ve got a right to be cocky, but Raffy says Ugolev’s number two is a seriously cautious and capable brigadier. Why would he leave his pakhan with such thin security?”
“I don’t know,” Lee said. “But for once, I’m with Dozer. Let’s make hay while the sun shines.”
Dozer gave Lee a playful thump on the shoulder, nearly knocking the former CIA man over with his massive bear paw.
“Jesus, Dozer,” Lee said. “You got brass knuckles on that thing?”
Dozer examined his hand as though actually looking for such an implement. “Me Mum reckons I’m big-boned.”
“So you’ve said. Well, save your damned big bones for the bad guys, will you?”
Dozer shrugged, mumbling under his breath, “Some bloody super spy.”
Jake called the men in for a huddle. “I don’t care what things look like from the outside – no unnecessary risks. I want silencers on all weapons, and make sure anything you shoot stays shot. We don’t want anyone setting off alarms or warning anyone inside. Is everyone clear on their jobs?”
Dozer, Priest, and Lee all nodded.
“Tell it to me,” Jake looked at Lee.
“Come on Jake,” the former CIA operations officer said. “How long have you known me?”
“I don’t give a damn, Mike. I’ve seen you direct plenty of operations, but I’ve never seen you in action on the ground. I know you’re qualified, but you stopped active field ops years before we met. Tell it to me.”
Lee sighed. “I hold back and watch for reinforcements to make
sure you guys don’t get flanked. I wait at the outer gate until you breach the front door, then follow you in, and wait for instructions once I’m inside.”
“Don’t take anything for granted. And don’t break formation.”
Lee shook his head. “I won’t.”
“Dozer, you’re next,” Jake said.
“I hold my ‘very drunk’ brother up as we walk along the sidewalk until three yards past the guard gate. Priest ‘accidentally’ falls, and I kneel down to try and pick him up. You deal with the guard and shoot out the camera, then we’re up and hot on your tail until we get to the front door, where we take up standard breach positions.”
“Good,” Jake said. “Don’t forget to keep your weapons well hidden under your overcoats, and don’t let them clatter when Priest hits the deck. Priest, are you clear?”
“As an outback sky, Jakey.”
“Okay, check your weapons. When everyone’s set, we move out.”
The other men set silencers on their handguns and assault rifles, while Jake checked his knives and shaped charge ordnance before mounting silencers on his two H&K 45C’s. Finally, he made sure his steel kubotan was easily accessible in his pocket. He looked up to see his comrades ready and waiting.
“Stealth and damage, ladies,” Jake said. “If it moves or makes noise, kill it before it can.”
The men moved away from their position behind several large, leafy trees in a private lot across the street from Ugolev’s mansion. Jake darted down the road before crossing the deserted street to take up position at the far northern end of the walled property. Dozer and Priest stayed behind cover until they were beyond the guard’s view, while Lee remained hidden directly across from the gate, watching the others move into place. Satisfied they’d gone undetected, the Australians crossed the street well beyond Jake’s position and began their drunken shuffle along the sidewalk leading past the mansion’s front gate.
Slurring their words loudly, Dozer and Priest accomplished their objective. A single guard leaned against the gate, watching in amusement as the two drunken tourists struggled to maintain a straight line in his direction. Mafioso confidence coursing through his veins, he pulled out a cigarette to enjoy the show. After all, the Ugolev clan ruled the city’s underworld, and the guard knew no one from the other families would dare attack his pakhan’s compound – especially while Petrov was doing an enormous favor for the other families by taking out the upstart Romanian, Gyorgi Albescu. Besides, even if one of the smaller clans had the balls, it would take a small army to succeed, not two drunken fools.
The Killing Chase (Beach & Riley Book 2) Page 22