Targets of Revenge

by Jeffrey Stephens

  “Class warfare.”

  “Precisely,” Greshnev said with a satisfied look, as if Sandor were a talented pupil he had finally reached. “The underclass in America has given up the dream. They complain about the rich, but who really suffers? The middle class, of course. They end up working harder and paying more taxes. This way the government can go on paying benefits to those who don’t deserve them and the middle class takes it in the neck, as always. So, my friend,” he asked with a throaty laugh, “which of our countries is socialist now?”

  “I appreciate the civics lesson, and admit I cannot disagree with anything you’ve said. But what does this have to do with Sudakov?”

  “Ah yes, the subject at hand.” Grehsnev nodded. “In its purest form, capitalism should work for everyone, up and down the food chain. But then there are villains like Sudakov who operate outside the law, outside the conventions of decency. The problem on Wall Street is not with the honest traders and money managers. They may be overpaid, but at least they play within the rules. The problem is a thief like Madoff. He represents the underbelly of the entire system, and that’s where we find Sudakov.”

  “I’m loud and clear about his morality. What I need is some practical information to stop him.”

  Now it was Greshnev’s turn to hold the American’s gaze. “What I need is an honest answer as to why Jordan Sandor is chasing after a man trafficking in narcotics.”

  “I told you, I have reason to believe he’s also a terrorist.”

  “Yes, but you did not tell me why you believe that.”

  Sandor smiled but said nothing. This evoked another guffaw from the Russian.

  “Jordan, you come here and expect to buy my assistance with nothing more than a dinner at the Pushkin, but you disrespect me by refusing to share the reasons for your mission.”

  “You have to admit, it’s quite a dinner.”

  Greshnev frowned.

  “I don’t mean to be disrespectful, Vassily, only cautious.”

  The Russian waited, taking time to pour them each some of the Puligny-Montrachet he had ordered.

  “Your intelligence sources no doubt told you what happened in the Gulf of Mexico last year.”

  Greshnev lifted his glass and drained a mouthful of the Pauillac he ordered for the next course, then smacked his lips. “The attempted sabotage of an oil refinery.”

  “That’s right.”

  “I understand you were instrumental in preventing that disaster.”

  “That’s not important. What is important is the identity of the man behind the attack.”

  “Rafael Cabello,” the Russian replied without hesitation. “The Chavez henchman known as Adina. Yes, we know. The KGB may be gone in name, but the spirit lives on.”

  Sandor responded with an admiring nod. “I think Adina is working with Sudakov, or at least with the people Sudakov does business with.”

  “So your concern is that Sudakov may be arranging to smuggle something into the United States other than cocaine.”

  “Correct.”

  “Arms?”

  “Nothing that conventional.”

  “Biological weapons then.”

  “High marks.”

  The lower lip was thrust out again as Greshnev took a moment to put it all together. “Yes, that would be Adina’s style. And I see how it could work with a cocaine shipment.”

  “As you are so fond of saying, precisely.”

  “That’s why you believe it is possible Sudakov is not even aware he is organizing a contaminated shipment?”

  “It’s possible.”

  Greshnev shook his head. “Sudakov is a psychotic, but he’s not a fool.”

  “No, he’s not, but I’ll bet he’s never done business with anyone like Adina before.”

  CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

  CARACAS, VENEZUELA

  ADINA WAS NOT a man who had to be asked twice to leave. Once Minister Bargas made clear that it was no longer wise for him to remain at the SEBIN command center, Adina took the elevator down to his living quarters and made arrangements for a hasty departure.

  He was also not a man who deluded himself with a belief in loyalty, friendship, or even discretion. As far as he was concerned, they only exist insofar as they serve someone’s purpose at a particular moment in time. He and the minister went back many years, and as long as Adina was safely entrenched inside El Helicoide it was useful for him to sketch out the general parameters of his assault plans for which he needed help, while carefully omitting key details and contact information. Having the support of the minister might have become important at some point.

  Now, however, the man had proved himself just another spineless bureaucrat. The political winds were shifting as a result of Chavez’s infirmity and, rather than stand up for Adina and his strategy, Bargas had joined the chorus of weaklings too afraid to pursue an aggressive policy against the United States. When he advised Adina that he was no longer welcome, he couched it in terms that made it appear he was still a friend giving fair warning. Adina thanked him, adopting the same pretense of fraternity.

  Back in his room, Adina received the call he was awaiting. The minister had done as he asked, he had reached Adina’s contact in Moscow. The man was put through and a brief discussion ensued. Once that business was completed, Adina summoned his lieutenant Alejandro into his room.

  “Call the minister’s office. Tell him I want to see him upstairs in the same conference room. Ask him to meet me there in five minutes. Alone. Tell him I must pass on some vital information before I leave.”

  Despite what little he had imparted to Bargas, Adina was not about to leave even a general description of his intentions behind.

  The call was placed, after which Adina gave Alejandro additional instructions.

  ————

  The minister was not surprised to hear back from Adina so quickly, expecting to be informed of the result of the call with Moscow. However, when he arrived at the conference room he was surprised to find that only Adina’s man, Alejandro, was waiting.

  “I have been asked to express Señor Cabello’s apologies, but he is in the middle of packing for our departure. He requests that you accompany me to his room.”

  “Of course,” Bargas said, and followed Alejandro to the elevator.

  Three floors down they stepped into the corridor. When they reached Adina’s room Alejandro knocked, opened the door, and moved aside to allow the minister to enter. He then pulled the door shut, remaining in the hallway as a sentry.

  Inside, Adina was seated in a desk chair. “I am preparing to leave,” he said without wasting time on cordialities, “but before I go I am compelled to express my disappointment at the lack of support for my efforts.”

  The minister remained standing, staring down at a man he knew to be the most dangerous in all of Venezuela. “You understand, my old friend, it is not I who created this uncertain political climate.”

  “No, of course not. Was there ever a bad deed that was not an orphan, Gilberto?”

  The man had no response.

  “Well, what a shame for our proud country. And what a shame for you.”

  As Adina got to his feet, Jorge emerged from the bathroom, moving purposefully across the room in three swift strides. The minister turned to him, suddenly realizing that the man was holding a knife with a long, curved blade. Before he could react, Adina’s man drove the blade hard into the minister’s midsection, driving it upward in an arc that tore through his stomach, lungs and heart. The assault was so painful, the internal injuries so devastating, that all Bargas could manage in response was a futile effort to grab at the weapon as he exhaled a deep, guttural sound of primal anguish.

  Adina studied the look of agony in the man’s eyes. He said, “You disappointed me, Gilberto,” then walked to the door, opened it and called Alejandro inside. “Quickly,” he said as he locked the door behind them, “before there’s blood everywhere.”

  Jorge still held the handle of the knife in pl
ace with his right hand, doing his best to contain the growing stain of blood on the minister’s chest, his left arm supporting the weight of the dying man as Bargas’s knees gave out and he began to sink to the floor.

  “Quickly,” Adina said again.

  Alejandro brought two plastic garment bags from the closet and placed them on the carpet. Only then did Jorge lower the minister to the ground.

  “Wrap him up as best you can,” Adina ordered.

  They used towels and a small blanket, transforming the minister into a manageable package.

  “Is he dead?”

  Alejandro leaned over and felt for a pulse along the side of his neck. Then he looked up. “Yes.”

  “All right, you know what to do.”

  They had earlier loosened the cover to the air vent. Now Alejandro removed it and the two large men lifted the body, covered in plastic and cloth, and hoisted him above their heads. Then they shoved him into the duct.

  “Get on the chair and make sure he’s far enough in there, where he won’t be seen.”

  Alejandro did as he was told, then replaced the vent cover and returned the chair to the desk.

  Adina had a look around and was quite pleased. “Well done,” he said. “The car is waiting for us downstairs?”

  Alejandro nodded.

  “Good. Get your bags and take mine. We’re leaving right now.”

  The two men went about collecting the luggage as Adina checked the room over one more time. He knew they would find the man’s body in the next few days. Even as the cool air of the air-conditioning system passed over him, the odor would eventually give him away. But by then it would not matter, by then Adina would be a national hero and all would be forgiven.

  He nodded, confirming his own thoughts. Even if his rivals in the government were foolish enough to try to move him aside, they would not be able to stop him now. No one could, because there was not enough time and because no one knew enough of all the pieces he had already put into play. He should never have shared as much as he did with this old crony, but the mistake was simply a reminder of what he already knew.

  Trust no one.

  Now he had effectively rectified the error. And he had also made arrangements to rid himself of the Jordan Sandor problem.

  He nodded again. A good day, he told himself. All in all, a good day.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE

  MOSCOW, RUSSIA

  SANDOR SPENT THE rest of dinner debriefing Greshnev on every imaginable aspect of Russian involvement in the narcotics business in the United States, especially where Sudakov might be involved. As Greshnev made his way through a perfectly prepared rack of lamb and a pile of mushroom blinis, he provided Sandor a thorough education in the workings of the Russian group in Brighton Beach.

  “They are almost certain to be the recipients of whatever Sudakov is shipping.”

  Sandor reminded him that Adina was his real concern.

  “I understand that, but whatever Adina may be orchestrating is your area of expertise, not mine. What I can help you with is the connection between Sudakov and my countrymen in New York.” He went on to describe methods of importation, distribution and protection. He also focused a great deal on their abject ruthlessness. “They will kill you for nothing more than a suspicion that you are an enemy. And they will kill you in ways that no man should be made to die.”

  “I understand.”

  “I’m not sure you do, but my conscience is clear since I have warned you.”

  “Well,” Sandor said as he lifted his glass for yet another toast, “here’s to a clear conscience.”

  At the conclusion of the meal, after far too much vodka, wine and after-dinner drinks, Greshnev said, “You can attribute my cooperation in part to professional courtesy.”

  Sandor grinned. “I realize that sort of generosity goes against your better nature.”

  “Perhaps I am getting soft in my old age, Jordan. But I must confess, it would delight me to see you bring down Sudakov, even if he is not your primary target here.”

  “I appreciate the information, not to mention the sentiment.”

  “Just remember, I said professional courtesy was only a part of my motivation.”

  “I understand that I still owe you.”

  “Yes, you do,” Greshnev said, “and I mean to collect.”

  “And I take it you do not regard this as a long-term voucher.”

  Greshnev treated him to the largest smile he had managed all night. “Precisely!” he exclaimed.

  Sandor paid the exorbitant bill, which was certainly going to raise some eyebrows when he submitted it to accounting in Langley. Then the two men stood up to leave.

  “You need to be careful with these people, my friend.”

  “So you said, and so I will,” Sandor assured him.

  The Russian responded with a long, searching gaze that was, for the moment, less drunk than concerned. “I hope so,” he said, then came around the table and wrapped Sandor in a bear hug.

  ————

  Outside the Café Pushkin, Greshnev offered Sandor a ride back to his hotel.

  “Thank you, but I think I’d better walk off some of those desserts you ordered.”

  “Not to mention the vodka, eh?”

  They said their goodbyes and Sandor started back toward the Metropol, using the night air to clear his head. Sandor reviewed everything Greshnev had shared by creating a mental outline, a device he used to memorize data and organize it into categories he could draw on later. He was becoming convinced that Adina meant to use the shipment of cocaine to conceal the anthrax. Ideally, Sandor would find a way to intercept that cargo. Worst case, he had to determine how and where Adina meant to use those toxins, and then stop him at the point of attack.

  He strode at a brisk pace around the circular center of Moscow. He reached the intersection of Tverskaya Street and Tverskaya Boulevard and turned on to Theatre Drive.

  Greshnev had repeatedly cautioned him not to underestimate the Russian mob in Brighton Beach. “There are murderers and there are zealots, but these men are sadists who use their atrocities to rule by fear.” Sandor understood that murder, by definition, is a unique offense—once the action is taken it is irreversible. As obvious as that notion may be, there is no other crime against man, no matter how heinous, that cannot be survived. Sandor had seen men and women suffer unimaginable injuries from combat, natural disasters and terrorist attacks, yet somehow people struggle to go on.

  Which led him inexorably back to Lilli Mindlovitch and the suffering she was made to endure before they slit her throat. She never had a chance, and that thought caused the anger to rise in the back of his throat like a wave of acid.

  But Farrar had been right when he criticized him for acting unprofessionally in attacking the banker in Sharm el-Sheikh. Even Greshnev saw the rage of vendetta in his eyes. It was time to put all that aside, at least for now. He had a job to do.

  There would be time later to settle other scores.

  ————

  Inside the hotel lobby Sandor bypassed the front desk and headed for the elevator. He didn’t stop to ask for messages since only Craig Raabe knew where he was, and Raabe would make contact via cell phone if he wanted to reach him.

  He rode the lift up to the fourth floor and headed for his suite. Inside, he bolted the door and pulled off his sport coat, tossing it on a chair. Then he went to the minibar for a nightcap.

  He was leaning over the credenza, looking into the small refrigerator, when he sensed the man rushing at him from behind. Sandor sidestepped as he rose, then braced himself for the assault.

  The man charging at him was stocky, a few inches shorter than he, and clutching a wire garrote tightly in both hands. He had obviously intended a swift and lethal stranglehold from behind, but Sandor had avoided that fate.

  The attacker dropped the metal cord and reached for the gun inside his waistband.

  Unarmed, Sandor had nevertheless taken away the man’s advantage o
f surprise. He leveraged his weight and sprang forward, coming up with the heel of his right hand, aiming for the man’s chin. Properly executed, the blow would have been concussive, but Sandor instantly learned he was dealing with a skilled professional. The man used his left forearm to fend off the uppercut, executing an agile counterstrike even as he continued to reach for the weapon with his right hand.

  Thrown slightly off balance, Sandor was still moving forward enough to drive the crown of his head into the man’s chest while he grabbed for his right wrist, stopping him from pulling out the automatic and sending both of them toppling to the floor.

  Sandor had now seized the upper hand, landing on top and knocking the wind out of the man. He drove his right knee hard into the man’s groin, but the attacker answered with two quick jabs into Sandor’s right kidney as he struggled to withdraw his automatic. Sandor responded with another head butt, this time directed at the man’s nose. The intruder managed a quick turn of his head, but not enough to evade a blow that sent blood streaming from his right nostril. A painful hit, but not enough to stop him.

  Still pinned beneath Sandor, the man effected a powerful scissor kick in an attempt to turn them over, but Sandor responded with another head butt that caught the man flush in the face this time, dazing him for an instant, which was all Sandor needed. He scrambled to get his weight onto the man’s chest as he drove three punches in rapid succession into the side of his head.