King's Ransom

by E H Jennings

  Well, Vlad didn’t give a damn about what kind of touch it required. He was used to operating by a simple protocol: Div needs someone killed and I kill them.

  Not this time.

  But at least his men would get to take out this Syrian bastard. He on the other hand would have to stay behind and maintain their observation point. If The Secretary left Istanbul while he and his team were off torturing and killing the Syrian, Div would cut out all their throats.

  Literally.

  Moments later, Vlad looked at his men. “Go get him.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  The Best Western Acropol was abuzz. Men in suits and women in dresses moved about the elegant space, carrying colorful drinks and talking loudly with one another.

  The roar of human activity was seasoned by a mouth-watering scent drifting from the conference suite. Whoever was hosting the party had catered an absolute feast, and judging by the sound of things, there was plenty of alcohol to wash it all down.

  That was good news for Sayid. Not because he would get to eat the food or enjoy a drink, but because people were far less observant when they were drunk. And as he moved seamlessly through the crowd, not a single person seemed to acknowledge his presence.

  He kept his gaze straight ahead as he exited the lobby and made his way down the hallway past the elevators. He passed an empty conference room on the left, then made a right past the spa and found the men’s restroom.

  The bathroom’s mahogany door was heavy, and as Sayid pushed it open he coughed three times. He heard a sneeze erupt from the back stall. That meant they weren’t alone. He coughed once more, signaling the message had been received.

  He stepped into the stall nearest the door and made a show of tearing off several pieces of toilet paper, carefully arranging them around the seat. Once satisfied, he pulled down his pants and sat down.

  A quick glance underneath the stall revealed the problem. There was another man using the toilet between Sayid and the person he was meeting.

  The high-volume nature of bathrooms was the primary negative to using them for espionage activities. But the main positive was they were hardly ever under surveillance. Sayid looked up at the ceiling and confirmed the fact—no cameras.

  He didn’t have to use the bathroom, but he made all the noises typical of the act, including dropping coins into the water to emulate the inevitable splashing sound. After several minutes of the game, the man in the stall next to him flushed the toilet and stood up. Sayid listened as he washed his hands, splashed his face, and eventually swung the mahogany door on its hinges and left the room.

  The man in the far stall didn’t waste any time. As soon as the door slammed shut, he began tapping his feet—the exchange was a go.

  Moving quickly, Sayid stood from the toilet and pulled up his pants. He took his bag off the hook on the door, hurried to the sink counter, and dug out the envelope. Without ever seeing the person to whom he was giving it, he slid it under the stall and listened as the man opened it.

  Another tap of the man’s feet indicated the transaction was complete.

  Sayid didn’t say a word. Faisah had told him the meeting should be three things: brief, silent, and unseen.

  Back at the counter, Sayid dug a suppressor out of his bag and screwed it onto the threaded barrel of his Kel-Tec. He chambered a round and slipped the gun inside his jacket, then slid a Heckler and Koch Dispatch knife into the pocket of his slacks.

  He didn’t make eye contact with anyone as he wound back through the lobby and out onto the street. Foot traffic was heavy—tourists moving about the square in droves—but despite the substantial cover, Sayid still saw them.

  Two men, dressed in black, moving along the opposite side of the street. He didn’t need to look up to know the third man was still sitting in 311, watching him.

  He turned right and increased his pace. Pushing through the crowd, Sayid swung to his left as he reached the corner, now heading north on Terbiyik. He had thoroughly reconnoitered his route and moved on instinct, allowing himself the occasional glance behind him to assure they were still following.

  They were.

  He made sure to remain in their sightline until he came to Adliye. When he reached the intersection, he made a dramatic show of looking back at the two men, then turned left onto Adliye and started running.

  • • •

  Alexei Babkin lifted the lid on the dumpster and cursed in disgust. “Where the hell did he go?”

  His partner, an Iranian they called Sandman, kicked over a stack of crates and threw up his hands. “Vlad is going to kill us.”

  Babkin shook his head. “Vlad’s the least of our concerns. If Div finds out we lost the one asset linking us to the targets, he’ll slaughter our families and make us watch.”

  “Shit,” said Sandman, knowing it was true.

  When the rock slammed into the dumpster by Babkin’s head, both men jumped back, their weapons drawn. They each spun to their left, searching the shadows.

  It proved a fatal mistake.

  Sayid leapt from the brick ledge above them and landed on Sandman’s shoulders, knocking him violently to the pavement. When Babkin turned to shoot, Sayid double-tapped two rounds into the man’s right knee, sending him sprawling in agony.

  He then dug the steel H&K blade into Sandman’s neck, starting just under the left jaw and applying enormous pressure as it passed beneath the larynx, obliterating the man’s trachea and severing both the internal jugular vein and the external carotid arteries. The blood loss was massive and the man was dead in seconds.

  Sayid stood, wiped his knife on a cloth he had taken from his pocket, and slowly walked over to Alexei, who was reaching for his gun. Just as the man’s hand clasped around the weapon, Sayid fired a suppressed round from point blank range, blowing off three of the man’s fingers.

  As Babkin cried out, Sayid knelt down and softly shushed him in the gentle way a mother quiets her child in church. When the man was finally quiet, Sayid backhanded him as hard as he could, opening a gash along the orbital cavity. Blood ran copiously down the man’s cheek, mixing with his tears.

  Placing his knife against the man’s throat, Sayid brought his face within inches of Babkin’s. He looked directly into his eyes. “Your friend is dead.”

  Babkin gritted his teeth. “He wasn’t my friend.”

  “He bled out in five seconds,” said Sayid, pressing the knife deeper into Babkin’s neck. “But you and I both know Div would never be that quick about things.”

  Babkin’s eyes widened in horror.

  “Yeah,” said Sayid. “I know all about the Divljak. And I know he won’t be happy when he finds out that you, you Alexei, screwed his best opportunity to find the three men he’s been searching for.” He leaned even closer. “Div will kill every single person you have ever loved, Alexei. Sadly, I’m afraid that includes little Anastasia.”

  Babkin began weeping, a sick gurgling sound coming from his throat. When he swallowed, the movement of his esophagus caused the knife to knick him.

  “Careful,” warned Sayid. “I’d hate to spoil the Divljak’s fun by accidentally slicing your throat.”

  “Please,” begged Babkin. “Please kill me.”

  Sayid shook his head. “And leave poor Anastasia to fend for herself? They’ll rape and kill her, Alexei. Is that what you want? You want your daughter’s fate sealed by your failures?”

  “Shoot me,” Babkin persisted. “Or I’ll do it myself.”

  Sayid backhanded him again, deepening the gash on the orbital bone.

  “You lack courage,” said Sayid, taking Babkin’s gun and placing it in his medical bag. “And even though that disgusts me, it makes you useful.”

  Babkin’s eyes brightened. “I can be useful. I’ll help you, whatever you need. Anything.”

  Sayid turned and pumped a round through the man’s right foot, careful not to cripple his one good leg. He needed him to be able to walk. When Babkin screamed, he earned another back
hand, which silenced him.

  “You’re a pathetic piece of shit. And if it were up to me, I’d torture you myself. Fortunately for you, I have orders to follow. Now if you want any hope of ever seeing your daughter again, you will keep your mouth shut and do exactly as I say.”

  “I can—”

  Sayid pounded his fist into the man’s destroyed kneecap, displacing the broken patella. “I told you to keep your mouth shut.”

  When Babkin finished writhing, Sayid started again. “I’m going to give you the information you’re after. I will give you everything I just gave The Secretary, with no detail omitted. You will have everything you need to thoroughly impress the Divljak.”

  Babkin’s face was a contorted mix of pain, confusion, and delight.

  “And,” Sayid continued, taking the syringe out of his bag. “I will give you a believable story. You will tell your boss, Vladimir I think it is, that I put up one hell of a fight. I killed Sandman and shot you all to shit. But you were able to overtake me.”

  Sayid took the syringe and sprayed his blood all over Babkin’s arms and shirt. When Babkin resisted, Sayid slapped him again and continued soaking him. Once the syringe was empty, Sayid tossed it aside.

  “Tell Vladimir you killed me and found this.” He took a crumpled sheet of paper out of his bag and laid it on Babkin’s chest. “You’ll be a hero, Alexei. Instead of torturing you, Ancic will probably promote you. And Anastasia will be unharmed.”

  Babkin was nodding fervently but didn’t speak.

  Finally, Sayid stood and tossed his bag over his shoulder. He extended his hand to Babkin, who grimaced as Sayid pulled him to his feet.

  “Wait ten minutes,” instructed Sayid. “Then go back to Vlad and do exactly as I’ve told you. I’ll dispose of Sandman and clean all this up. And here,” he said, pulling a sweatshirt out of his bag. “Put this on. You’ll draw attention with that blood all over you. Wipe your face too.”

  Alexei Babkin was still in shock as he watched the Syrian wrap Sandman in tight layers of Saran wrap, then slip him into an enormous black bag he drug out from behind a row of trash cans. The Syrian heaved Sandman’s body into the dumpster, closed the lid, and vanished without ever looking back.

  Having no other choice, Babkin donned the sweatshirt and limped back to the House of Zeugma.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  Georgetown

  Warren McManus sipped Blanton’s and looked across his desk at the two men sitting in his library. One of the men, Carter Bradford, was a former employee and a loyal confidant. The other was his longest-tenured business associate, Drago Ancic.

  The fourth member of their operation was across town debating the Presidential incumbent. As usual, Mark Prosser was dominating. Many of the national pundits were predicting the biggest landslide since 1984, when Reagan beat Walter Mondale in every state except Minnesota and D.C.

  McManus leaned back in his Chesterfield and studied the pair of computer screens on his desk. On one screen was a copy of the email he had received from the Syrian government two weeks ago; on the other screen were images of the three men he had been blackmailed to kill.

  He looked at Ancic. “Give me the update.”

  “Colonel Day is dead,” Ancic rasped. “He was discovered by a neighbor earlier this afternoon. Preliminary reports conclude he died of natural causes. An autopsy is extremely unlikely.”

  “Excellent. Go on.”

  Ancic’s face contorted into a smile. “We got lucky in Istanbul.”

  “The Secretary?”

  Ancic nodded. “This afternoon Vlad reported that a Syrian man entered the hotel and asked for a room on the third floor. After the bellboy gave him some shitstory about renovations, he alerted my guys. They kept surveillance on him for the next few hours, then he disappeared. Four hours later, less than thirty minutes after they put eyes on The Secretary, the Syrian walks into the Best Western.”

  “Did he make contact?”

  “He did,” said Ancic. “After he left the hotel, Vlad dispatched two operatives to tail him and extract the data.”

  “And?”

  Ancic sneered. “They got everything.”

  McManus exhaled a deep breath. This was the break they had been waiting for.

  “We know exactly where the targets are going to be,” continued Ancic. “And we have an actionable timeframe. The purpose of the transaction was to arrange a covert meeting between high-ranking SNC officials, including all three of our targets, and members of a Qassam Brigades cell operating near Aleppo.”

  “Almost assuredly has something to do with the National Syrian Coalition,” Bradford chimed in. “Recent intel suggests the SNC has been using black sites to coordinate with the Free Syrian Army.”

  “Why they’re there is immaterial,” said Ancic. “The important thing is we have the location. The cell is codenamed Q24, and their primary compound is located near Jaboul Lake. That’s where the meeting will take place. Based on what my guy was able to glean from the Syrian, it’ll happen late Friday night.”

  “Their motives are not only material, they’re crucial,” retorted Bradford. “What if we barge into the compound only to be greeted by an entire unit of QB fighters and a dozen FSA soldiers? What then, Drago? Would you consider that immaterial?”

  Ancic glared at the DCI. “You better watch your fucking mouth, boy.”

  “He’s right, Drago,” said McManus placidly. “I’ll need you to dispatch a team to the compound. I want it under surveillance as soon as possible and I want your guys there as back-up on Friday night.”

  McManus’s words did nothing to placate Ancic. “That will require extra payment,” he demanded.

  McManus shrugged. “I’m well aware of that, Drago. You and I have been working together a long time. Name the price.”

  “Tack on five million.”

  “Done,” the General replied. “But let’s not let logistics overshadow our successes. Carter, where are we with the Kings?”

  “They’ll land in Paris in two hours,” said Bradford. “Sampson’s perfectly-placed. She’s keeping me in the know.”

  “And Drago, what about eastern Kentucky?”

  Only then did Ancic’s angry façade weaken. “I’ve got a team moving onto the property as we speak.”

  McManus sipped his bourbon and smiled. “Kill the old man, but keep the wife and daughters alive. I have plans for them.”

  Ancic nodded. “As you wish.”

  “Now then,” said McManus, standing from his chair and grabbing the bottle of Blanton’s. “It’s time to celebrate.”

  As he pulled out a cedar box of Cuban cigars, Warren McManus decided that after he drank and smoke with his compatriots, he would call his driver and pay Teresa Ferrell another visit.

  He was winning the war, after all, and to the winner go the spoils.

  • • •

  What Warren McManus didn’t know, was that there was a tiny fiber optic wire beneath the vase on his mantel. And two blocks away, Teresa Ferrell was smiling.

  She had heard everything.

  As she put the car in drive and pulled away from the curb, she dialed a number and started speaking French.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  Belcher, Kentucky

  Nestled deep within the hardwood forests of the Cumberland Mountains, the rural township of Belcher was quiet. It was late, so no one was outside to hear the beating wings of the helicopter thousands of feet above town.

  The Big Sandy River flowed through the heart of Belcher and branched into tributaries as it meandered southward toward the Virginia line. Board Fork ran beneath Route 80 and coiled east into the mountains. If one were to follow it until it ran dry and then continue on, deeper into the rugged landscape, he would eventually find himself on the property of Wendell King.

  Drago’s team, however, had come in by another route.

  The Sikorsky S-76 chopper deposited them in a valley deep in the hills near the state line. They hiked several miles, movin
g north and west, before reaching the property line. Now they stood in a thick grove of oak trees and looked down at the cabin. A thin ribbon of smoke was rising from the chimney.

  The team leader, Emil Zlotkov, had been fully briefed on their target. Wendell King was ex-special forces and paranoid as hell. It had been made very clear the man’s age should not be figured into their analysis.

  Despite qualifying as a senior citizen, King would be a formidable opponent, and they should treat him as an armed hostile.

  As a former member of the 101st Alpine Battalion, the paratrooper component of Bulgaria’s 68th Special Forces Brigade, Zlotkov had been a warrior most of his adult life. As such, he had asked himself what he would do if placed in King’s situation. Given the terrain and King’s background, the answer was obvious. Which was why he had brought along Pak, a Chinese deserter and one of Crna Kuga’s most skilled snipers.

  Zlotkov motioned for the third member of the team to follow him. Moving cautiously from tree to tree, they slowly descended the steep ridge into the valley.

  The cabin was situated in the middle of a broomsage field, three hundred yards from the tree line. Getting there unnoticed would be a challenge.

  Meanwhile, the man named Pak stayed behind.

  • • •

  Amy and her daughters were asleep in Wendell’s bed.

  The house was quiet save the crackling fire Wendell had built, and they slept soundly. Though Amy felt safe under Wendell’s experienced care, she still slept with her arms wrapped tightly around her girls.

  Two hundred yards north of the cabin, Wendell was positioned on the ridge he called Dragonback. Formerly a deer stand, his lofted perch clung to an eastern cottonwood, nearly thirty feet above the ground.

  He had built it using wood from a lightning-struck ash tree, and it was nothing more than a series of planked steps and a rectangular platform with a rail. From the rail, Wendell had hung several layers of camouflage netting, making the platform almost invisible.

  But almost wasn’t good enough. Ever meticulous, Wendell had nailed several limbs to the wooden railing, creating the illusion the platform wasn’t there at all. From any distance greater than thirty yards, the platform looked like part of the tree.