Targets of Revenge

by Jeffrey Stephens

  The assassin was not done. Giving up on his weapon for the moment, he worked his arms free and grabbed for Sandor’s neck.

  It was exactly what Sandor wanted.

  Now it was his turn to reach for the automatic, and he realized instantly why the man was having such trouble unholstering the weapon—it had a silencer fixed to the barrel and required a long pull.

  The assailant’s eyes widened as he understood what had happened. As he was attempting a choke hold, Sandor was drawing the gun. He let go of Sandor’s neck and, using both hands and all of his strength, tried to wrestle free.

  But it was too late. Sandor had managed to withdraw the automatic, a Glock 9mm, and smashed the butt across the side of the man’s head before shoving the tip of the elongated barrel into his left eye.

  “You move you die,” Sandor warned through clenched teeth.

  The man said something in Russian that Sandor did not understand. Sandor pressed the barrel deeper into the man’s eye socket.

  “Don’t say you don’t speak English. It’ll be the last lie you ever tell.”

  The man responded with an invective that was unmistakable in any language.

  “Ah, good,” Sandor said. “At least we understand each other.”

  Another string of obscenities followed, these in Russian.

  “Who sent you?”

  The man attempted to shake his head, but Sandor had him pinned down. The end of the silencer was now drawing blood from the perimeter of his eye.

  “You keep moving and this popgun of yours is going to go off.” He stared into the man’s other eye, which returned a look filled with as much hate as he could muster. Sandor was not impressed. After leaning a little harder on the gun, he said, “If you understand me, just say yes.”

  The man groaned, then said yes.

  “Good. So, I asked you a question. Who sent you?”

  “Drop dead.”

  “You have no interest in surviving this botched attempt to strangle me, is that it?”

  “You’ll kill me anyway.”

  Sandor used his right knee, which was jammed between the man’s legs, giving him another painful jolt as he said, “You’re dead for sure if you don’t answer my questions.”

  The man seemed to be thinking it over. After a moment he said, “I was called, that is all I know.”

  “By whom?”

  Another pause. Then “Vassily Greshnev.”

  “You’re lying.”

  “How can you be sure?”

  “Because it’s what I do. I separate lies from the truth. But I have to admit, it’s a nice try on your part. Now, tell me who called you or I’m going to shoot you.”

  When the man went silent again, Sandor made a sudden move, removing the barrel from the man’s eye, aiming it at his shoulder and firing, then shoving the hot, smoking silencer back into his left eye socket.

  The shot had made a quick, hissing sound and the man convulsed in pain. His torso contracted upward and he made a move with his right hand to reach for his left shoulder, but Sandor had all of his weight on him and the gun in his eye, keeping him in place. The searing heat of the silencer against his eye socket added to the man’s anguish, but Sandor was not interested in his cries.

  “You listen to me now, you sonuvabitch. You came here to kill me, and I take that personally. You either answer my questions or you’re going to die right here, right now.”

  The Russian assassin did not hesitate, making a move even before Sandor finished his threat. He shoved upward at Sandor, using his core and legs, while at the same time twisting his arms in an effort to get free. But Sandor’s finger was on the trigger of the Glock, which was honed for light action, and when the man made that final, desperate attempt to shake free, the gun went off, the shot exploding into the man’s eye. His body twitched several times, then he collapsed in an inert mass, dead on the floor.

  “Damnit,” Sandor said as he got to his feet.

  Sandor stared down at the body, assessing what little he knew—that this attempt on his life had almost certainly been set up by Sudakov or Adina, or perhaps both—that they had tracked him to Moscow—that they had somehow learned of his meeting with Greshnev—and that they had gone to a lot of trouble to get him out of the way.

  How the hell did they know I was here?

  He stood up, found his way to the armchair in the corner of the room, sat down, and took a long, deep, calming breath. He shook his head and had another look at the corpse, which lay in the middle of his hotel room floor. “What the hell do I do with you now?” he asked out loud. Then he picked up the hotel phone and placed a call to the private number Greshnev had given him.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR

  CIA HEADQUARTERS, LANGLEY, VIRGINIA

  THE NEXT AFTERNOON, back in Washington, Sandor was seated in one of the small but secure conference rooms in the headquarters of Central Intelligence. Also in attendance were Deputy Director Byrnes, Craig Raabe, and Jim Bergenn. On the large video screen, Dan LaBelle joined them from his office in Texas.

  “Any backlash from your counterpart in Moscow?” Byrnes had just asked the man from DEA.

  “None at all,” LaBelle reported. “Greshnev has been cooperative. His team identified the dead man as an enforcer for a local mob. Criminal record of assaults and narcotics.”

  “That’s who they sent? I’m insulted.”

  The other men in the room turned to Sandor. It was evident Byrnes was not amused.

  “In the past three days you’ve left dead bodies in hotel rooms in Egypt and Russia,” the DD reminded him. “If you see something funny about that Sandor, I need you to let me in on the joke.”

  “You know who’s responsible for the death of Lilli Mindlovitch, sir. And that punk in Moscow was trying to kill me, just in case that part of the story got lost in translation.”

  “That doesn’t make it a source of amusement, does it?”

  “No sir.”

  “I’ve spent too much time over the past three days cleaning up the mess you left in Sharm el-Sheikh, including removal of your name from the Interpol list. You can thank me for that later. Right now we’ve got the embassy in Moscow working with a cleanup squad from the FSKN doing a Harvey Keitel imitation.”

  “There’s been purpose to my actions, sir, and the fact that they’ve twice tried to take me out should be a fair indication that I’m onto something.”

  Byrnes turned back to the screen. “What about the intel that Sandor has developed? The prospect of a large narcotics shipment that’s being used to conceal anthrax? Make any sense to you?”

  LaBelle nodded at the camera. “I’ve seen too much to rule out anything, Director Byrnes. It’s a bit far-fetched on some levels, and yet it might also make some sense.”

  “Explain please.”

  “If you’re going to the trouble of importing a large cargo of cocaine—and believe me, they go to incredible lengths to get these shipments past us—it could be used to piggyback some other illegal substance.”

  “Go on.”

  “It would pose several potential issues for us,” LaBelle continued. “The obvious threat is having a large quantity of anthrax in the hands of terrorists within our borders, which means we should do everything possible to follow Sandor’s lead to intercept the goods. But what if the shipment itself is booby-trapped, rigged so that if it’s seized and opened the toxins will somehow be released or exploded? Or what if the poisons have already been mixed with the cocaine, creating a lethal compound for anyone who comes in contact with the narcotics?”

  “That last possibility would mean that Adina is double-crossing the drug runners themselves. That makes absolutely no sense to me.”

  “Yes, the least likely scenario, I admit. But as I say . . .”

  “You’ve seen too much to rule out anything,” Byrnes completed the thought. “Do you have anything on your radar screen about a large quantity of cocaine?”

  LaBelle could not stifle a sigh of frustration. “We get t
ips every day, most of them useless, some of them outright disinformation. America is a big country with huge borders, hundreds of ports, and small airports everywhere. Trying to anticipate what these smugglers will do next is our job 24/7.”

  “So there’s no credible information about a current play?”

  “Only what Sandor learned, and whatever else you might get from the Mexican he brought back with him from his vacation in the jungle.”

  “That mission was classified,” Byrnes said defensively.

  “After the shootings outside Barranquitas and the explosion of that boat in Maracaibo, I would say keeping anything about that mission classified would be impossible.”

  Byrnes shot Sandor a quick glance but said nothing.

  “From a diplomatic point of view, the whole thing might be a disaster if it weren’t for the fact that the Venezuelans don’t want to admit there are drugs being run out of Cabimas. But this is the era of cooperation among our own agencies of government,” LaBelle reminded them with a wry smile. “No secrets, right? Our sources tell us the guy Sandor brought back is a low-level drug runner with nothing more useful than the headlines from yesterday’s Washington Post.”

  DD Byrnes frowned. “You’re not wrong. The man told us what he knew about the narcotics operation, but he’s worthless to us as far as Adina’s plans go.”

  “Information about their plan for the cocaine could certainly be useful if it’s tied to the biological weapons.”

  Byrnes was shaking his head before LaBelle finished. “When you described this man as ‘low-level’ you were exaggerating his importance. We’ve been at him for a few days now and it’s clear that his job was limited to getting the product from Barranquitas to Cabimas.”

  “Maybe you’d let us have a shot at him.”

  “With pleasure.”

  The group fell silent until LaBelle asked, “Anything else I can help you with today, Director?”

  “You could find this shipment,” Byrnes said, forcing one of his uncomfortable smiles.

  “We’ll be working on it.”

  “You understand, of course, that our agency has no jurisdiction over domestic issues.”

  “I do.”

  “And I understand,” Byrnes added with special emphasis on those three words, “that you and Sandor have a relationship that he has already called upon to lead him on his excursion to Moscow.”

  Since no question had been asked, LaBelle decided not to respond.

  “My point is, Sandor has no authority to undertake any sort of domestic investigation of these leads. Your agency, the NCTC and Homeland Security have the jurisdiction here and we intend to honor that fact.”

  “We’ll do the best we can.”

  “I know you will,” Byrnes said, then terminated the teleconference and turned to his agents. “Are you three also clear about what we can and cannot do and where we can and cannot do it?”

  Sandor responded with an unblinking gaze. “Are you telling me we’re supposed to sit back and take no action?”

  Byrnes let their staring contest go on for a few moments, then gave it up and said, “No, I’m not, although Director Walsh would certainly be pleased to have you on the sideline. You can imagine what he has to say about your adventures over the past week.”

  “Wait’ll he sees the bill for my dinner at the Café Pushkin.”

  Byrnes shook his head in obvious frustration. “Unless you can develop intelligence within our jurisdiction, which means outside this country, our hands are tied and we have to leave this to the DEA, FBI, and Homeland Security. Am I clear on this?”

  Sandor nodded. “I’ve been at this too long not to understand the politics. I’ll just have to—how did you say it, sir?—develop intelligence within our jurisdiction.”

  “Sandor, I’m warning you.”

  Raabe and Bergenn remained silent as Sandor looked to them and then back at the Deputy Director. “No need sir, I’m loud and clear.”

  ————

  When Byrnes left, the three agents remained in the conference room to review the events of the past several days.

  “If we go after Sudakov,” Bergenn said, “Adina will just pick another guy to deliver his goods.”

  “That’s my thinking,” Sandor agreed. “He might have already made that switch, figuring we’re tracking Sudakov.”

  Raabe disagreed. “This isn’t like changing from UPS to FedEx. When you hit Adina’s compound it may have forced him to move up his timetable. The cargo may already be in transit.”

  “That’s my biggest concern,” Sandor said. “Timing.”

  The other men nodded.

  “The problem is that everything points to a shipment coming into the States, and Walsh is going to order us to stay away. You know how he feels about jurisdiction. He is not going to want to start a turf war.”

  “You think there’s still a shot we can intercept it outside the country?”

  “There’s always that possibility,” Sandor said, leaning back and staring up at the fluorescent light fixture. “Right now I wish I’d blown up the entire facility when I had the chance.”

  “Easy cowboy, that would have been a little easier said than done,” Raabe reminded him. “You didn’t have the goods to take the place out, you were armed for a sniper mission. And in case you forgot, you thought it would be better to track the shipment and end a terrorist threat. Even if you managed to take out that lab, they would have set up another one within the week.”

  “Thanks, mom, I feel a whole lot better.”

  “We need to present something to the DD,” Bergenn suggested, “a game plan within our jurisdiction that won’t send the Director into orbit.”

  Sandor sat up again. “One of the key things I learned from Vassily Greshnev was how and where the narcotics will likely end up. Our best opportunity is to come at this thing from both ends. You guys need to find the point of embarkation.”

  “In Mexico.”

  “Exactly. Go see LaBelle, he’s a solid citizen. He’ll give you some good contacts, and he’ll point you in the right direction from there.”

  “I’ll actually feel better once we’re south of the border,” Raabe said. “Byrnes doesn’t want us doing anything inside the home fifty.”

  “Whatever they’re bringing in and whenever they’re bringing it, most roads for this sort of contraband run across our favorite border. Byrnes should have no problem giving you the green light, especially if you’re sharing the intel with DEA.”

  “Makes sense,” Bergenn conceded.

  “Jaime Rivera is a major player in the Mexican drug trade, and his name keeps coming up in this deal. I need everything you can put together on him. Dan LaBelle should be able to help with that too.”

  “What about you?” Raabe asked.

  “I’ll start in the other direction and swim upstream.”

  “If you’re going after the Russian mob in New York you’ll be butting up against the same jurisdictional problem,” Bergenn reminded him.

  “Don’t worry, I’m going to call a guy with the NYPD, narcotics. He’ll take the lead. I’ll just ride shotgun.”

  “When do you ever ride shotgun?”

  “Leave this to me, it’s no problem.”

  “No problem,” Raabe repeated. “Where have I heard that before?”

  “Go see Byrnes right now and get his okay so the two of you can start moving.”

  “Where should we say you’re going?”

  Sandor thought it over for a moment. “You shouldn’t.”

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE

  NEW YORK CITY

  THE TIME HAD come for Sandor to meet with his friend Bill Sternlich. He caught the shuttle to New York. On the cab ride into Manhattan he made plans for dinner.

  Sternlich was an articles editor for the New York Times, having managed to rise from his post as a city reporter and to maintain that position despite the problems occasionally posed by his relationship with Sandor. Over the years, their private philosophic d
ebates sometimes spilled into open controversy. Most recently, Sandor stopped just short of choking a staff reporter for releasing information that might have imperiled Bergenn and Raabe. Sternlich was left to smooth out the ensuing mess without losing his job.

  Their close friendship endured these various highs and lows, as well as Sandor’s frequent absences.

  “So, I guess you government spooks have given up using cell phones and emails and all of that.”

  Even this offhand reference to his profession caused Sandor to make a reflexive survey around them. They were comfortably secluded in the back corner of the Osteria Morini on Lafayette Street. The neighboring tables were empty and Sternlich was speaking in an appropriately muted tone. “We use smoke signals nowadays,” Sandor told him. “Budget cuts are a bitch.”

  “Of course. Well next time you take off for points unknown, send up a puff or two when you have a minute.”

  Sandor nodded.

  “All right, I haven’t seen you in more than two months, you give me an hour to meet for dinner, and now you look as distracted as I’ve ever seen you. What do you want to talk about?”

  Sandor looked down into his glass of ice and Jack Daniel’s. “You remember Bob Ferriello?”

  “Sure. Good cop. Straight shooter. Assigned somewhere in Brooklyn.”

  “Not just somewhere, Bill. He’s one of the top dogs in narcotics.”

  “That’s right, I remember that now.”

  “I’m going to need his help.”

  “Narcotics? Isn’t that outside your area of influence?”

  “That’s why I need to reach out for Ferriello.”

  “Uh huh. And you want me to make the call.”

  “That’d be helpful.”

  “Didn’t you step all over his size twelves last time you two met?”

  “Something like that.”

  “So you want me to make nice for you.”

  Sandor smiled. “You’re like a psychic, Bill.”

  “You going to tell me what this is about?”

  Sandor picked up his glass and had a drink. “You remember what happened down in Baton Rouge?”