Targets of Revenge

by Jeffrey Stephens

  “I’m surprised our paths have never crossed before. We probably know a lot of the same people.”

  Sandor shrugged. “It’s a big world.”

  Ronny responded with a curious look. “Not so much, not anymore.”

  The tenor of their discussion and the relaxed attitude of the other men present—who had given up listening to their colloquy and again occupied themselves with the young ladies in attendance—provided Sandor an answer to his second question. There was no intention to do him harm, at least not yet. First they would want information. He watched as the steward removed his champagne flute, then replaced the first chilled glass of vodka with a second. He assumed that they were already running his fingerprints.

  His involvement in National Clandestine Service operations for the CIA was a closely guarded secret, but no secret is completely safe in the modern order. After the treachery of Vincent Traiman, the turncoat station chief whom Sandor had dispatched a year earlier, it was not impossible that highly placed intelligence sources in other countries would at least be able to determine that Sandor’s work for the State Department had transcended his pose as a diplomatic paper shuffler. His hope was that his cover would hold up, and that his allusions to shady dealings might actually help to impress the Russian.

  “So,” Ronny was saying, “you and our friend Lilli are recent acquaintances, yes?”

  Sandor made a show of looking at his watch. “As I said, very recent,” he replied with a smile. “In fact we just met a couple of hours ago, at a bar in town.”

  “Is that so?”

  “Yes indeed. Lucky me.”

  “She is quite an attractive young woman.”

  “I agree. And imagine when I learned what she was up to.”

  The tilt of Ronny’s head was almost imperceptible. “What she was up to?”

  “I meant the fact that she was coming here. And that she invited me to join her. And to join you, of course.”

  “Ah, yes, of course. I am very glad you did. In fact, you will stay with us tonight.”

  “That’s very generous, but I couldn’t possibly. My clothes are back at the hotel and I’ve already arranged my diving gear.”

  “We have enough equipment for you here,” he said with another dismissive flick of his hand, then took a turn at holding up his chunky gold wristwatch to show Sandor it was after one in the morning. “Look at the hour. The men who operate the launch are already in their quarters, asleep no doubt. I would hate to have to wake them.” When Sandor began to protest again, Ronny added, “Lilli is staying with us too. This will give you a chance to get to know her better.”

  Sandor feigned a look of careful consideration, then said, “That would be nice, wouldn’t it?”

  “Of course.”

  “Well then, would it be all right if she showed me around the yacht a bit? I mean, I’m already dead on my feet, but I’d love to see some of it before I turn in.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  ABOARD THE ODESSA IN SOUTH HARBOR, SHARM EL-SHEIKH, EGYPT

  RONNY WAS HAVING difficulty disguising his suspicions. He had offered Lilli’s companionship as an inducement for his guest to stay, but he was not going to permit Sandor and the girl to roam the yacht on their own. He was not a man that easily played.

  “Why not let me show the two of you my beautiful Odessa,” he suggested.

  Sandor smiled. “That would be such an imposition. It would be rude of me to take you away from your other guests.”

  “Not at all. Lilli,” he called out. “Come, I’m taking you and Mr. Sandor on a private tour.”

  ————

  Meanwhile, Sandor’s assumption about Sudakov’s efforts to vet his background was correct.

  Farrar had gotten out the word that Sandor was a wealthy man with something illicit to buy or sell and looking for an appropriate bank through which to run the money. In Sudakov’s world, that news spread quickly, earning Sandor his invitation to the Odessa.

  Now, as Sandor and the girl were being taken from cabin to cabin and salon to salon on a show-and-tell excursion led by their host, Sudakov’s men were working to verify the American’s identity—and his purpose in coming to Sharm el-Sheikh. His fingerprints had indeed been lifted from the champagne and vodka glasses and a background check was being run. By the time Sudakov escorted his two guests into the impressive control room on the bridge, the prints had been transmitted through a computer system in Moscow and communicated back to the Odessa.

  Yes, his name really is Jordan Sandor. Yes, he really did work for the United States government. Yes, he had been assigned to the State Department after service in the military. As they reviewed the details about where he had been stationed and what he had done in those years, it was as if his dossier was too clean. Sanitized was the term of art. There were long stretches of nondescript bureaucratic service followed by time engaged in private enterprises they could not corroborate. And his finances could not be authenticated, at least not yet. Taken all together, this usually meant one of two things—either he was that rare peddler of contraband who had managed to successfully fly under the radar, or he was a poseur engaged in covert operations.

  When the security staff gathered as much data as they could for now, a steward was dispatched to find Ronny. He caught up with him as Sudakov was bragging to Sandor and Lilli about the state-of-the-art electronics inside the wheelhouse.

  “Worthy of the largest cruise ships on the sea. Even better,” Sudakov said as he pointed out a variety of radar, sonar, and GPS screens. The captain had turned in for the night, but two other men were on hand. “We never have less than two crew members on duty,” Sudakov explained, “even when the Odessa stands at anchor, as it does now.”

  “You can’t be too careful,” Sandor observed as he turned from the two crewmen seated at the control panel to the large Russian who had been accompanying them on the tour. He was one of the henchmen from the salon, who had wordlessly followed them since they began their stroll around the vessel. “Pirates, thieves, enemies, am I right?”

  The steward had entered, but Ronny took no notice of him. He stared directly at Sandor as he said, “Yes, you are right. We live in uncertain times.”

  “I would guess, then, that your men are properly armed?” He shot another glance at the husky bodyguard.

  “Are you the nervous type, Mr. Sandor?”

  “Let’s just say I’m the cautious type. Having worked in the State Department, I find it a healthy foreign policy.”

  For the first time tonight, the Russian uttered a laugh. It was not a pleasant sound, resonating more of irritation than mirth. Turning to the steward, he asked impatiently, “What is it?” The young man handed him a folded piece of paper. Ronny read the note, then placed it in his pocket. “Well,” he said, “it’s gotten late and I won’t bore you with any more of this. Pavel here will show you to your staterooms.” He gave a slight nod in the direction of his bodyguard. Then he looked at Lilli, whom he had ignored throughout the entire tour. “I have placed you in adjoining cabins. I hope you find that satisfactory.” Without awaiting a response, he turned back to Sandor and said, “I am sure you will find the accommodations suitable. Sleep well.” Then he turned and left.

  ————

  Their spin around the ship was mildly interesting and well choreographed—Sudakov only took them to the places he wanted Sandor to see, which meant there was no place Sandor was being shown that he would have to bother about later. Now that he had an understanding of the yacht’s layout he concluded that the activities he was interested in were being conducted on a lower deck—especially since Sudakov had twice pretended not to hear Sandor’s request to visit below.

  Pavel walked them to their adjoining staterooms. As he had no doubt been instructed, the tall Russian waited until they entered and closed their doors behind them.

  Sudakov was true to his word: the accommodations were certainly suitable. The cabin was larger than Sandor’s room at the hotel, and no less comfo
rtable. He was just having a look around when he heard a knock on the door from the adjoining space. He opened up and Lilli walked past him.

  “Is there any champagne in here? There’s none in my room.”

  Sandor pointed to the ice bucket on the nightstand beside his king-sized bed. “I guess they expect me to be a good sharer.”

  The girl smiled. “Works for me,” she said. “You want to open it or should I?”

  ————

  As Sandor wrestled the cork out of the bottle of Roederer Cristal, Ronny was meeting with his security people in the communications room on the second level. They were standing around a highly polished teak conference table.

  After describing the information they had compiled, the chief operative reported simply, “He’s CIA.”

  “You are certain?”

  “No. But everything points to that.”

  “What if he is who he claims to be? Could that be consistent with the data you’ve gathered?”

  “It’s possible. But after what happened in South America? I would say no, the timing would indicate otherwise.”

  Sudakov nodded in agreement. “Anything new from our friend in Venezuela?”

  The burly officer shook his head. “Just what we had yesterday.”

  “Could this be the same man?”

  “Not likely.”

  “Perhaps he’s part of the same operation?”

  “Possible.”

  “Possible.” Ronny spat the word out as if it were a bad taste. “Why the hell would the CIA be interested in narcotics?”

  “He could be from the American DEA, but I don’t believe that.”

  “Why?”

  “The profile doesn’t fit.”

  Ronny shook his head. “If he’s working for the United States government, regardless of the agency, that means they know he’s here. Which means we can’t just shoot him in the head and throw him over the side.” The look in his eyes confirmed to the others what they already knew—that this would be his preferred course of action. “If he disappears while he’s here that’ll only bring more of them down on us.”

  “What could he learn from a night aboard the Odessa? That he saw the girls snorting coke? Why not just send him on his way tomorrow and be done with him? We can shove off as soon as he leaves.”

  “No, that doesn’t feel right either. He came to Sharm el-Sheikh for something, and whatever it is I don’t intend to let him leave with it.”

  The others waited without speaking.

  “I believe you’re right,” Ronny said. “Whoever he is, he has something to do with the raid in Venezuela, I just feel it. Tonight you keep an eye on him. Tomorrow he’s going to have a nasty little accident.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  ABOARD THE ODESSA IN SOUTH HARBOR, SHARM EL-SHEIKH, EGYPT

  LILLI HAD KICKED off her shoes, fluffed up some pillows, and was sitting on his bed, a glass of champagne in hand and a curious look on her pretty face. She watched Sandor pace the room, raking back his dark, wavy hair with the fingers of his right hand. “You upset about something?” she finally asked.

  He stopped and shot her a look that said he had almost forgotten she was there. “I have a lot of nervous energy.”

  “I’ve noticed,” she said, then flashed one of her genuine smiles.

  He sat down on the edge of the bed. “What are you doing here?”

  “Having some wine and waiting for you to wear a rut in the carpet.”

  “Very cute. I mean, what do you do back in New York?”

  Lilli shrugged. “I’m trying to break into the fashion industry. You know that routine,” she said in a way that made it clear she assumed everyone knows that routine. “Did some fit modeling, runway stuff, worked in a couple of showrooms. It seems like every good-looking girl in New York who isn’t trying to make it as an actress wants to be in fashion.” She took a gulp of the sparkling wine, then added, “And almost all of them end up waiting tables.”

  “But not you.”

  “Not me. Maybe I’m too clumsy to be a waitress, or maybe I just refuse to give in.”

  “So instead you hopped a flight to Egypt and ended up with the Russian mafia.”

  She looked away.

  “I’m not making judgments,” he said, “I’m just trying to figure you out.”

  When she turned back to him it was as if her features had softened. The world-weary attitude had melted into something far more vulnerable. “You worried about me, Jordan Sandor?”

  “Actually I am.”

  “That’s sweet.”

  Sandor smiled. “That’s the second time you’ve called me something I never hear from an attractive woman.” Then his grin dissolved into a look of real concern. He leaned forward and whispered in her ear. “You may not believe this, but when they chose you to find me tonight they put you in danger.”

  She pulled back from him and forced a laugh. “You haven’t been dangerous so far.”

  Moving beside her again, keeping his voice as low as possible, he said, “I’m not kidding, and keep your voice down. They may be eavesdropping on us. My invitation here was not a social call. When they put us together, they made you expendable.”

  “You sound so melodramatic,” she whispered. “They told me you were a rich guy who just got to town. They said they wanted to meet you, that’s all.”

  Sandor nodded. “And all true,” he lied.

  “So?”

  “These are serious people. There are things they want to find out from me, and when they’re done, well . . .” He hesitated. “They’re done.”

  She drew back slightly. “Who are you? I mean really.”

  He tugged her toward him again. “Let’s just say that from their perspective I’m a person of interest.”

  She placed her glass on the nightstand and leaned forward, their cheeks touching. “Are you going to tell me what’s going on here or are you going to keep talking in riddles?”

  Sandor drew a deep breath and let it out slowly. “You’ve already said you have no parents, no siblings, no one to come looking for you if you disappear. If they told the other girls that we ran off together, none of them would give it a second thought. Am I right?”

  “Pizdet,” she cursed in a thick Russian accent.

  “Well said.” He sat back and thought for a moment. Then he leaned close to her again. “There are things I have to do that you cannot be any part of. So you’ve got two choices. One is to let me find a way to get you off this yacht so you can get the hell out of Sharm el-Sheikh as quickly as possible.”

  “And the other?”

  “The other is to mess up your hair and rip your nightgown, then have you run out of this cabin, go back to the main salon, and make up some story about what an animal I am, how you didn’t sign on for that sort of abuse and ask them to put you in another room.”

  This time, when she studied the look on his face, she understood how serious he was. “And they won’t come here to do something bad to you?”

  “Not likely. Not for that, anyway.”

  “And what if I tell them what you’ve just told me?”

  “Then I would have made a mistake in judgment that I’ll have to deal with. But you will almost certainly be a dead woman.”

  She gaped at him without speaking for a moment. Then she said, “I don’t like them. I didn’t like them from the time I got here. And that Ronny, he scares me.”

  “As well he should.”

  She thought it over. “I’d rather take my chances staying with you, if you don’t mind.”

  “I don’t mind at all. But you’ve got to agree to do everything I say. Understood?”

  She nodded.

  “I mean everything.”

  “Okay, I understand.”

  “All right. Then you sit tight for now. I’ve got some work to do.”

  ————

  An operator like Ronny would never use his own vessel to transport a large cache of narcotics or weapons. Or anthrax, for tha
t matter. Sandor was not looking for contraband on the Odessa. He was searching for information.

  He left Lilli in his cabin and ventured silently out to the passageway. It was pitch dark except for the ship’s courtesy lights, and the deck was clear. He began to move to his left when he heard someone walking slowly around the corner behind him, sounding as if he was keeping a sentry’s pace. Sandor reacted quickly, hustling forward until he reached a companionway leading above. He ascended, two steps at a time, until he reached the sundeck on the upper level.

  He crouched down and had a look below. A man came into view, one of the large Russians Sudakov had neglected to introduce earlier that evening. Even in the dim light Sandor could make out the automatic short-barreled rifle slung across the man’s chest.

  As his host had mentioned, the yacht was patrolled by armed guards, but Sandor suspected this man had been instructed to pay particular attention to their new guest. That was confirmed when he stopped just outside Sandor’s cabin, leaned over the rail, and lit a cigarette.

  As the sentry looked out toward the harbor, Sandor had the opportunity to hurry back down the stairs, which were far enough behind the guard to be out of his view. He moved quickly aft, seeking access to the lower decks. Around the first turn he found a narrow set of stairs that led him down, into the large galley. Everything was quiet there, so he continued swiftly on, past the assortment of stainless steel counters and high-end appliances, until he found himself in a corridor that headed toward the bow.

  Sandor figured the communications center of the yacht would be positioned just below the bridge. Ease of access would dictate that the bulk of the electronic equipment would be found there. He checked to see that the passage was empty, then went on.