Targets of Revenge

by Jeffrey Stephens

  The two men from Central Intelligence nodded. “Got it,” Bergenn said.

  “So why are you here? DL didn’t give me much.”

  “We’re looking for information that can help us intercept biological weapons headed for the States.”

  “What’s that got to do with me?”

  “We have reason to believe a large shipment of cocaine has already been moved out of Venezuela. It may also contain a sizable quantity of anthrax.”

  The look on Romero’s face told them he wasn’t buying it. “Why would they take that risk? Chapo moves large quantities of junk, millions of dollars at a pop. What the hell would he want with anthrax?”

  “Chapo?”

  Romero treated them to another disapproving look. He was apparently someone who became easily annoyed. “Joaquin Guzman Loera, called El Chapo. Been the head of the Sinaloa Cartel since El Padrino was captured.”

  “Padrino?”

  “Felix Gallardo. Ran things for years before they hunted him down.”

  “They also arrested Loera,” Bergenn recalled, “but he escaped from a Mexican prison.”

  “Escaped? Yeah, he escaped all right. They say he had everyone in the prison on his payroll within two weeks of being locked up there. Including the warden. When he left, the authorities didn’t even report he was gone till the next day, gave him enough time to get home and have dinner.”

  Bergenn nodded. “Since we took down bin Laden, Loera’s become the most wanted man on the FBI and Interpol lists.”

  Romero did nothing to disguise his impatience. “What is this, man, you came all this way to give me yesterday’s news?”

  “No. We came here so you could help us locate the shipment. Tell us about Jaime Rivera.”

  Romero responded with a wary look. “DL must have told you that Jaime Rivera is the main reason I’m here. He runs the part of the operation that smuggles the drugs into the States. Works directly with Chapo. The Gulf Cartel has been fighting for years with Los Zetas for control of this area.”

  “Because it’s so near the Texas border.”

  Romero nodded. “When the Gulf Cartel got wind of Rivera’s success rate in transporting the junk north, they made a pact with the Sinaloa crew.”

  “Rivera is really that much of a game-changer?”

  “He’s got an impressive track record. That’s why I’ve spent two years trying to get to him.”

  “How close are you?”

  “I’ve never met him,” Romero admitted with a look of disgust. “Don’t even know anyone who’s ever laid eyes on him.”

  “Labelle said Rivera constantly moves his base of operations. Any idea where he is now?”

  “If I knew I’d pay him a visit. Some of the runners think he’s in the west, near Chapo. Others think he’s gone north of the border because of the turf wars with Los Zetas.”

  “Wherever he is, Rivera is the man who arranges importation of the narcotics into the U.S.?”

  “That’s how it goes. My job is to stop him, but so far I can’t even find him.”

  “Well then, it seems we’re all looking for the same thing. How do we get started?”

  “We?”

  “We thought we’d pose as buyers,” Raabe suggested. “Say we’re with a syndicate in the Northeast.”

  Romero would have laughed, had the ability not been burned out of him long ago. “You two? They’ll make you as cops in about thirty seconds. You want to get your heads blown off like that, you go ahead, but count me out. They’d shoot me too, just for being stupid.”

  The two agents shared a bemused look, then Bergenn asked, “What do you propose?”

  “Let me do my thing. I’ll check around, see if there’s any chatter about shipments and where they’re from. What you’re looking for would be the larger variety.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Okay,” Romero said, then gave them a once-over. “Meanwhile, you look like two slices of Wonder Bread. You got something else to wear?”

  “Oh yeah,” Raabe told him.

  “Good. I think you should get your bags and change right here. Head into town, check into the Hotel Esplendido, and sit tight. The less anyone sees of you right now the better. When I call, I’ll say something about the girls being ready. Then we’ll meet at the bar in the lobby.”

  “Got it.”

  “Anyone asks where and how we met it was at a place called La Taverna, on La Calle Fuente.”

  “La Taverna? There’s an original name,” said Raabe.

  Romero was not smiling. “Just say we met having drinks this afternoon and started talking, got it?”

  Both agents nodded.

  “If they make you for feds, I can say I was getting a read on you, checking you out. Then you’re on your own.”

  “Got it,” Bergenn told him.

  “And remember, Pacquito, right?”

  “Got that too,” Raabe said.

  CHAPTER SIXTY

  BRIGHTON BEACH, BROOKLYN

  THAT EVENING, AS Bergenn and Raabe sat in a small Mexican hotel room awaiting Romero’s call, Lieutenant Detective Bob Ferriello was using his unmarked police car for the ride to Brighton Beach. Sandor had been clear in explaining his purpose to the narcotics detective. He had no intention of doing undercover reconnaissance. He was going to make his presence known, then work his way up the food chain as quickly as possible.

  “This oughta be interesting,” Ferriello said. He chose the nightclub Little Siberia as their destination, explaining that it was the location most likely to yield what Sandor wanted—a confrontation with someone in charge.

  Brighton Beach is home to a variety of ethnic groups, and Brighton Beach Avenue is the main artery of the neighborhood. It is a wide street, perpetually in shadows cast by the angular canopy of elevated train tracks above. It boasts an array of retailers offering food, clothing, liquor and sundries, each shop catering to its particular landsmen. Contrary to a popular notion, there are more than just Russians in Brighton Beach. It just happens that the Russians rule the area.

  Ferriello pulled into a no-parking zone on the avenue and snapped his visor down to display his police permit. In addition to earning him free parking, it warned the locals to stay away from his car. Sandor said he wanted to announce their arrival, and the narcotics detective was going with it.

  Ferriello led the way around the corner to a nondescript building that looked more like a warehouse than a nightclub. They ascended a short flight of stairs to an unmarked entrance where two brawny types with shaved heads—reminiscent of Sudakov’s men, Sandor noted—stood guard at the door. At Sandor’s suggestion, Ferriello did not waste time with niceties. He flashed his badge and began to walk past them.

  One of the sentries stuck out his arm, which was approximately the size of an oak log. “Private party tonight,” he told them in an accent as thick as a Russian novel.

  “Oh yeah?” Ferriello stared up at the man. “Well we’re the friggen guests of honor, so get your arm outta my face before I throw a handcuff on it and drag you in for assaulting a police officer.”

  Sandor had never witnessed this side of Ferriello before. He was pleased to see it. He was also pleased to see that they had apparently come to the right place.

  The Russian, meanwhile, was losing the staring contest. He slowly lowered his arm and said, “Guest of honor, eh? That’s a good one.”

  “Glad you’re amused,” Ferriello told him, “now get the hell out of our way.”

  Which the man did.

  Inside, if there was any sort of private party in progress it must have been happening somewhere else in the building. The scene here was much the same as at other clubs in New York except that the place looked as if it had been designed by someone who thought the décor at the Russian Tea Room was too austere. There was dark red velvet and smoked glass and black lacquer all over the place, giving an impression of something between a house of mirrors and a brothel. Which, Sandor assumed, was the point. Music was blaring, the b
ar was crowded, and people moved back and forth the way people do in these clubs, a mating ritual that becomes alluring, depressing or comical, depending on your point of view.

  He and Ferriello headed for the bar, where a tall blond girl asked what they would have. She was considerably better to look at than the garish surroundings, and Sandor told her so.

  She responded with a smile that had all the warmth of a frozen shot of Stolichnaya, so Sandor ordered that very drink. But Ferriello was not in the mood to waste time.

  “Get me the manager,” he demanded.

  “Is something wrong, sir?”

  “You know who I am?”

  She shook her head.

  “Your manager will. Tell him Lieutenant Ferriello wants to see him.”

  She hesitated, then negotiated a neat spin and walked away, giving Sandor an opportunity to judge the rear view. He dismissed the next thought, returning his attention to Ferriello. “I told you I wouldn’t compromise you and I mean it. If things get out of hand I want you to leave. I can take care of myself.”

  “Trust me Sandor, nobody can take care of himself dealing with these animals.”

  “Maybe so, but if I have any chance someone is going to talk with me about this shipment, they’re sure as hell not going to do it in front of a narcotics detective.”

  “As if they’re going to spill their guts to you.”

  “It’s all I’ve got right now. You’re my path to meet the powers that be. Once I’m in you’ve got to get out.”

  Ferriello shook his head. “You may not be my favorite person, but I’m not leaving you here to be skinned alive.”

  “Yes, you are.”

  Ferriello was about to voice another protest when they spotted a tall man with wide shoulders making his way across the room. His strides seemed about two yards long and it was only a matter of seconds before the large Russian reached them and came to a stop in front of the lieutenant. He ignored Sandor as he glared down at Ferriello and said, “What?”

  Sandor marveled at how much accent the man could work into a single syllable, and he told him so. Then, looking at the manager’s smooth head as it glistened amid all the lights and mirrors, he wondered if baldness was some sort of job requirement for these people.

  “I want to see Vaknin,” Ferriello said.

  The large Russian stood there glowering at the policeman without answering.

  “He said he wants to see Vaknin,” Sandor said.

  The Russian turned slowly toward Sandor and fixed him with a look that was all business.

  When he remained that way for a while, still not speaking, Sandor said, “I guess that’s supposed to frighten me, the way you moved your head all slow like that.”

  Without taking his eyes off Sandor, the Russian asked Ferriello, “Who is this man?”

  “Ask him yourself, Ivan. As you’ve already seen, he can speak.”

  “Ivan?” Sandor repeated, his gaze remaining locked with the Russian’s. “Tell me, Ferriello, are you calling him Ivan like you might say ‘Hey Joe’ or ‘What’s up Charlie?’ or is that really his name?”

  Ivan reached out with a hand the size of a cinder block and grabbed a bunch of Sandor’s shirt front. “I don’t have to take any shit, not even from a cop.”

  “Maybe not,” Sandor said in an even tone, “but if you don’t let go of me right now you’re going to find out exactly what you do have to take.”

  Ivan was still holding Sandor’s shirt when he began to say something in response. He started with “Listen,” but he never got the second word out. Sandor was three or four inches shorter than the Russian, but able to bring his right knee up and drive it hard into the man’s groin. At the same time he thrust both forearms upward in a scissor move that broke the grasp on his shirt, then folded the knuckles of his right hand and hit Ivan with three quick chops to the throat.

  As the Russian doubled over, struggling to catch his breath, Sandor nailed him just under his chin with his left knee, dropping the big man to the floor. Sandor now came down on him with all of his weight, spinning the Russian onto his back and pressing against the side of Ivan’s neck with his right shin. He did a quick frisk and removed a Glock automatic from the shoulder holster under Ivan’s jacket, which he held to the man’s head.

  It was over before it began, or so it seemed to everyone around them. One moment the brawny Russian was holding this stranger by the collar and an instant later they were both on the floor with Ivan gasping for air. Patrons began moving back as two other bouncers came running from across the room, but Sandor ignored all of that. His eyes were on Ivan, who was still heaving and panting beneath him.

  “I didn’t break your windpipe, at least not yet, so let’s not get overly dramatic here. Just try and inhale slowly.” He waited a moment. “That’s it,” he said.

  Meanwhile, Ferriello had drawn his service automatic, a Colt 1911, and was standing with the gun at his side, his legs spread, waiting for the other two enforcers to get close enough to see the result of this brief but violent encounter. “Nobody should do anything stupid here,” he warned them.

  “I think your friend already did,” one of them said.

  Sandor’s focus remained on the man he was holding down. “You know, Ivan,” he said, “you and I have gotten off to a really lousy start. You agree?”

  The Russian had composed himself enough to turn his head in Sandor’s direction. “I don’t care who you are,” he said through clenched teeth, his breath still labored, “I’m going to kill you.”

  “I tell you what, we’ll see about that later. Right now what I want is to meet your boss. That’s all. No need for all the rough stuff, I just want to sit with the man. You got that?”

  Ferriello was standing between the two bouncers and Sandor, his weapon still at his side. For a moment no one spoke and no one moved. Then the two beefy henchmen stepped apart as another man came up from behind them to join the scene. He was also Russian and muscular, although not as tall as the others. He was older and had a full head of hair. He was wearing a dark blue suit with a white shirt and red tie.

  “What’s going on here, Ferriello?”

  “Vaknin,” the policeman greeted him, then holstered his weapon. “Your manager here got rough with my friend.”

  “I saw what happened from my office,” Vaknin said, then looked down at the men on the floor. “Would you two like to get up now?”

  Sandor released the pressure on Ivan’s neck and began to stand. But the big man was not done. He lashed out with his left fist, attempting to nail Sandor in the groin. Sandor managed to sidestep the blow, then kicked the Russian in the side of the jaw.

  “Enough!” Vaknin commanded.

  Ivan froze, still on the floor.

  Sandor stood beside Ferriello. He handed the policeman Ivan’s Glock, then brushed himself off. “Hope the big guy has a permit for that thing.”

  “You and your friend are disrupting my business and upsetting my customers,” Vaknin declared in an angry tone that displayed absolutely no respect for the fact that Ferriello was a New York City police officer or that Sandor had just dispatched his manager without so much as wrinkling his own sport jacket. “Are you here to cause trouble or do you have some legitimate purpose?”

  Sandor did not wait for his companion to respond. “That depends entirely on you.”

  “Who are you?”

  “I’ll tell you who I’m not. I’m not a policeman. And I’m not your friend. But I think you’ll want to hear what I have to say.” He looked around, then back at Vaknin. “In private.”

  Vaknin nodded slowly. Then he said, “Follow me.”

  CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE

  BRIGHTON BEACH, BROOKLYN

  SANDOR AND FERRIELLO followed the well-dressed Russian to the back of the large room. They were followed by the two bouncers, leaving Ivan behind.

  Meanwhile, the loud music had continued playing and customers resumed doing whatever they were doing before. Sandor figured it was a place wh
ere this sort of action is not all that unusual.

  To the right of the kitchen entrance was a door that Vaknin opened by punching in a series of numbers on a keypad that he blocked from view with his body. When the door swung open he bid them all enter, then followed them in.

  The five men were now in a dimly lit antechamber. Straight ahead were four steps leading up to another closed door. The Russians were not moving anywhere, at least not yet. The two bodyguards had pulled out their weapons and held them to the heads of their guests.

  “Now,” Vaknin said, “before we discuss anything in private, you will hand me your weapons.”

  “You know I can’t do that,” Ferriello said. “And drawing a weapon on a police officer is a felony.”

  Vaknin responded with an impatient nod. “Yes, and I would like to see you prove it happened. In the meantime, your weapons.”

  Sandor ignored the automatic being pointed at him and turned to Ferriello. “This is where we say good night pal. I appreciate the introduction to Mr. Vaknin, but it’s time for you to go.” Ferriello began to shake his head, while Vaknin could not hide his surprise at the exchange, but Sandor cut off any further discussion on the topic. “I will give you my weapon,” he told Vaknin, “then you have your men escort Lieutenant Ferriello out of here. Like I told you, we need to have a private discussion.”

  Ferriello said, “I’m not leaving,” but Sandor was already reaching inside his coat with his left hand for the Walther PPK he was carrying. He lifted it from the holster by the butt of the gun, using only his thumb and forefinger, then dangled it for one of the bouncers to take away.

  “I don’t know who you are,” Vaknin said, “but you take chances.”

  “That’s the business I’m in,” Sandor said, then turned to Ferriello. The policeman responded with a disgusted look before he followed the second henchman back into the club.