Panuk rushed forward. “What did you do? He would have certainly shared his kill with us.”
Karazmovsky picked up the hunter’s shotgun and pumped it once to make sure there was a shell in the chamber. “Maybe I do not like to share,” he said. “Or maybe it has simply been too long since I last killed.”
He raised the shotgun.
Panuk’s eyes widened as he realized what Karazmovsky intended. “You still need me. I will take you to Juneau for nothing. No charge. I won’t say anything.”
“Ah, but you are bargaining with commodities I already own. A dead man can neither collect a fee nor tell secrets. You’ve unknowingly taught me enough about handling the sled to complete the rest of the trip on my own. And besides, the dogs are starving after this difficult journey.”
Karazmovsky pulled the trigger.
GOVERNOR WILLIAMS WAS KNOWN as a patient man, but even his vaunted self-control was being tested. He sighed as he tested a Christmas cookie from a batch waiting to be served at the Christmas open house.
“The answer is no. We are having the open house. Please consider the debate closed.”
Fitzmeyer stood behind the governor, hands clasped in front in the classic stance of security personnel. “But, sir, think of the security risk—”
“Ron, if I’d had any inkling of canceling the event, your obnoxious insistence on broaching the subject would have pushed me in the other direction. You ought to know me well enough by now to know pressuring me to take one course of action is an excellent way to ensure I do the opposite.”
“I have only your best interest at heart, sir. That and those of your family.”
“Of course, of course. Still, the matter is closed.”
Fitzmeyer nodded. “Very well, sir. I won’t mention it again.
BURKE AND LYNDSEY watched as Dot leaned across the kitchen table in her picturesque house, convulsing with laughter. Burke crossed his arms.
“If she goes into cardiac arrest, I’m not going to do a damn thing to help.”
“Me neither,” Lyndsey said. “I used to think she was cool, but she has a real mean streak.”
“I told you she was awful. Maybe next time you’ll trust my character judgment.”
“I thought she was only mean to you. I appreciated that.”
“Not so fun when you’re on the receiving end, is it?” Burke shrugged out of the Christmas sweater. “I guess I can take this damn thing off, now that I know it fits.”
“Aw, come on,” Rance said, leaning against the wall, a wide grin on his face. He was obviously enjoying their discomfort.
Burke scowled. “If this is some sort of payback for my little joke with the air horn, consider us even.”
“I will,” Rance said. “Once you wear those to the Christmas party. And trust me when I say it’s good local garb for the occasion. It’s not only revenge. It’s also practical.”
“You can feel as pleased with yourself as you want,” Burke said, “but eventually, you need to start earning your money.”
Rance pushed away from the wall. “Funny you should bring that up.”
“You’ll be paid once the job is over,” Burke interrupted.
“It’s not that. I have info.”
“You do? On our man?”
Rance nodded, looking extremely smug. “I have friends all over the place in this territory, including the ferrymen. I’ve found it pays to curry relationships with those folks.”
Burke nearly forgot his chagrin with the sweater. “And?”
“I sent Karazmovsky’s picture around to the ferrymen I know and just got a couple of hits.”
“They saw him?”
“Or someone who looks a lot like him. Once at Whittier and once at Skagway.”
“What about Juneau?”
Rance shook his head. “Not yet. It’s possible he’s not here yet.”
“Or maybe he’s coming into town another way.”
Rance shrugged.
Burke was immediately all business. “Okay, the open house is tonight. Rance, you’re on stakeout duty. Take your car and set up shop down the street from the governor’s mansion, someplace where you’re not obvious but still have good line of sight.”
“I got this,” Rance said. “Stakeouts are something I’m well used to.”
“Good. Lyndsey and I will go over the blueprints of the mansion and make sure we know all the possible entrances and exits, not to mention places that pose potential threats.”
“Shouldn’t I be in on that?”
Burke shook his head. “Your job is to stay out of sight and keep your eyes open. I don’t even like the idea of you taking a gun.”
“Oh, I’m taking my gun,” Rance said. “What was that little training exercise for, if I can’t even take my gun?”
“Fine. But only as a precaution.”
“Naturally.”
“Good.” Burke was not comforted by Rance’s casual acceptance of the terms, but he had little choice but to let it slide. “You should get going. Karazmovsky is somewhere between here and Juneau, and we don’t know his arrival time. Set up shop and don’t move until we contact you.”
10
After feeding Panuk and the hunter to the famished dogs, Karazmovsky tied the animals to the cabin porch and went inside. He spent forty-five minutes there, fifteen for eating the hunter’s moose stew and thirty for sleep. Then he was up and ready for the final leg of the trip. He had watched his guide carefully over the miles, memorizing every move, every command, trying to internalize how the man handled the sled and dogs. He would not be an expert, but Karazmovsky felt he would at least be able to cover the remaining ground without the help of Panuk—especially now that he had fed the dogs. The man who fed the dog became the dog’s master.
The remainder of the journey was uneventful, and he knew this to be a good thing. He had already left too much of an imprint on this land. But Karazmovsky craved action and he felt more relaxed having killed.
While Juneau is not accessible by roads in the traditional sense, with the dogsled, he was able to traverse through the terrain and deep snow to reach his destination. He would not have been able to manage this by foot, and the ferry would have likely left him vulnerable to exposure. He didn’t know how much the Americans knew, if anything, but he couldn’t take any chances.
On the day of the open house, Karazmovsky arrived beyond the area locals referred to as “Out the Road.” The snow was falling at a rapid pace, an early blizzard for the coastal town of Juneau. But he felt happy for the storm, even though it heightened his chill—it made it easier for him to move about undetected.
Using the memorized coordinates, Karazmovsky located a boulder that sat between two trees. He halted the sled and dismounted. He waded through the snow to the large rock and dug beneath it, at last pulling out a plastic bag containing a satellite phone, a pistol with an attached suppressor and an extra magazine, and a laminated set of blueprints. He smiled grimly when he saw the phone. On the back were written several digits—contact information for his American counterpart. He still resented having someone else to account for. He had always worked best alone. The more people involved, the more things could go wrong. And Karazmovsky hated it when things went wrong.
He stared at the dogs. While killing his fellow human beings did not concern him in the slightest, he was less eager to kill animals—dogs, at least. He’d always had a soft spot for dogs. However, he couldn’t simply leave them here to freeze or starve, and he had no way of knowing when someone would find them. He checked the pistol and found it was already loaded. He was about to fire, when he checked himself. The sound of a gunshot, even one through a suppressor, would likely travel a good distance in this weather. The stillness would betray any foreign noise. He felt in his boot for a knife.
DOWN THE STREET from the governor’s mansion, Rance and Lorelei sat in his Honda CRV. Rance held a camera with a zoom lens and used it to pan back and forth. He had his own camera, of course, and used it ext
ensively in his line of work. But this one had been provided by Burke, compliments of SpyCo, and was a much better model than he could have afforded. He hoped he’d be allowed to keep it after the job was over. Perhaps he could “misplace” it or something. Maybe claim it had been stolen and pin it on Lorelei. He’d think of something. It was one sweet camera.
Rance had a love-hate relationship with stakeouts. If there was activity, he enjoyed being a watcher. Staring into people’s private lives always gave him a bit of a thrill. And, if he was lucky, at least one woman would forget to close the blinds all the way while undressing. But now it was late morning, the most boring time to be on a stakeout. And that was why he had brought Lorelei, even though Burke had demanded he not do so.
Rance had been there for almost ninety minutes and seen nothing but children sledding down a hill and the occasional jogger. Joggers, he thought, were crazy. And in this weather? It wouldn’t take a private investigator to figure out that Rance Rainwater didn’t spend time sculpting his body. He lived for the moment and enjoyed himself. At forty-nine, he gave himself another fifteen years, unless he got some bad cocaine. If that happened, it was, as the Tlingit say, Yak'éi yagiyee (good day). He was going to enjoy whatever time he had left and that did not mean spending two hours a day in a gym surrounded by sweaty meatheads and overweight housewives trying to squeeze into spandex and sweat off the baby fat. Hell, no. Not Rance Rainwater.
Lorelei knew Rance well and she knew he was bored. She knew how to cure that boredom. While he dutifully watched the mansion, she unzipped his pants and teased him with her tongue. Rance groaned and gripped her hair, letting the camera fall to the floor. Lorelei looked up at him and smiled, pulled down her panties, hiked up her skirt, and climbed onto his lap.
KARAZMOVSKY CHECKED into the hotel under a false name and, once in his room, fell backward onto the bed, reveling in the comfort. Then, making good use of the available room service, he ordered and devoured a hamburger, French fries, half a jar of pickled herring, and four fingers of Vodka. He slept exactly forty-five minutes and then rose from the bed. He was in the process of deciding what to order for his next meal when the satellite phone made a pinging noise from his backpack. He picked it up and stared at it angrily. It was too much to expect, of course, that he would have been able to proceed with the entire mission without at least brief interaction with the American contact, but it annoyed him nonetheless. The mole had been useful in terms of timing and information, but Karazmovsky had no desire to let him in on the action. That belonged to him and to him alone. Of course, if he didn’t answer, that might cause even more trouble. Better simply to answer and put minds at ease.
“Hello,” he said.
“You’ve made it?” a voice said. “You’re in town?”
“Yes. Everything is ready.”
“Excellent. I will be on the lookout for you.”
“Don’t bother,” Karazmovsky said. “I can handle this on my own. Better to keep things simple.”
“There’s no need to go it alone,” the voice argued. “I will simply have your back. You never know what could go wrong.”
“Things do not go wrong on my missions, as long as I am allowed to do my job the way I see best.” Karazmovsky was nearly spitting the words.
“Nevertheless, I can hardly avoid being on the scene,” the caller said. “But I will do my best to stay out of your way. One thing I can do, however, is cause a diversion to allow you easier access into the mansion. Let me know when you’re ready and I will put my plan into action.”
Karazmovsky surrendered. “Very well. That may be useful. Goodbye for now.”
Karazmovsky was miffed on two counts. First, he had an unknown counterpart to consider. Second, the contact obviously knew what Karazmovsky looked like, as he had promised to be on the lookout, but Karazmovsky had no idea what the contact looked like. This was not an ideal state of affairs. Karazmovsky had half a mind to scrap the entire thing and fly back to Russia, but he knew his professional reputation would take a damaging hit from such a move.
He walked to the hotel room window and looked out. One could feel the festivity of the street below. The townspeople were beginning to get into the holiday mood. From his backpack, he took out a pair of compact binoculars and performed a quick scan. Then he worked his way back, giving more attention to every person and vehicle. He also checked for any security cameras that might be present. Everything seemed normal and uninteresting, until Karazmovsky’s binoculars slid over a small SUV parked some distance away. Behind the wheel sat a heavy-set man who appeared to be scanning the street with a camera equipped with a zoom lens. A reporter? A travel photographer? A warning bell sounded in Karazmovsky’s head. Something wasn’t right. As he watched, the man appeared to become distracted and the camera fell to the floor of the SUV. Then Karazmovsky saw a woman’s head and he smiled. The cameraman was getting a blowjob on duty, whatever his job description may be. Well, as thoughtless as it might be to ruin the man’s good time, Karazmovsky had to find out what the man was doing with that camera. Probably just a coincidence, but it wasn’t worth the risk to assume so.
The walk to the SUV took Karazmovsky past the governor’s mansion, a large white structure that towered above Calhoun Avenue. A white picket fence and a series of large white columns contradicted each other, the first a nod to home-style Americana, the other lending an official air. The columns and the fence were bedecked with Christmas lights that would make for a dazzling evening display.
The large yard afforded a remarkable view of Douglas Island and Gastineau Channel. The hills surrounding the mansion were steep and would no doubt be slick with snow and ice. It was forecasted to stay below freezing for the next week. If a quick getaway proved necessary, he would have to be sure to head out the front, where the street outside was level and flat. A journey through the yard or out the back door would be arduous and possibly fatal. Karazmovsky could not imagine going out in such a pedestrian manner—dying in the snow outside an American governor’s mansion, surrounded by holiday merriment. How horrible that would be.
As Karazmovsky took in all these details, he kept one eye on the SUV, the windows of which were now beginning to steam over. Now he didn’t even have to worry about being spotted as he approached. The man inside the SUV couldn’t possibly be an American agent; much too careless even for one of them.
Even so, Karazmovsky checked to make sure his pistol was in easy reach as he came even with the SUV. He tapped on the passenger’s window. There was a pause and then the window rolled slowly down. A woman with dark, disheveled hair looked out.
“Yes?”
“Sorry,” Karazmovsky said. “I happened to notice your friend was using a nice-looking camera. I’m something of a hobbyist and was wondering what the specifications were of that model. I couldn’t quite make it out.”
The driver was trying to put himself back together and puffing from the exertion. “Are you fucking kidding me?” he managed. “You interrupted us to ask about my camera?”
“I’m sorry, I didn’t realize Americans had become so open-minded as to allow public sexual acts.”
“Fuck you,” the driver said, still wrestling with his zipper.
“While I appreciate your singular focus, I really must decline.” Karazmovsky struggled to control his temper. He already hated this mouthy, pudgy American. “Are you a photographer? A journalist?”
“Look, asshole,” the driver said. “Back away from my car. Lorelei, roll up the window.”
The woman moved to obey the order, but Karazmovsky grabbed her wrist with an iron grip. She cried out, although whether in surprise or pain he wasn’t sure—nor did he care. The driver’s hand dove inside his jacket and Karazmovsky knew he was going for a gun. His own pistol appeared in his other hand, and he pointed it at the driver.
“Unlock the rear door.”
“What the—?”
“Do it, unless you want your brains splattered all over the inside of your vehicle. And yo
ur lady friend’s right after.”
The driver slowly pressed the power lock button and Karazmovsky heard the locks click. Never taking his eyes from the driver, the Russian opened the rear door and slid inside. He shut the door behind him.
“There,” he said. “Perhaps now we can talk a bit more sensibly.”
The driver turned in his seat to view his new passenger, for the first time getting a full view of Karazmovsky’s face. His own face went slack and turned several shades lighter. Karazmovsky smiled.
“Your reaction tells me much of what I want to know. Clearly you recognize me and the only way that would be possible is if you have been briefed by some intelligence agency.”
“No,” the driver said. “I just realized you’re right about public sexual acts. Not my first offense, you know. Probably get the book thrown at me this time.”
Karazmovsky almost laughed. “My friend, please don’t debase yourself with such pathetic lies. You know I am right. Admit it and let’s move forward like men.”
The driver said nothing.
Karazmovsky sighed. “I see you are determined to be difficult. Very well. I have neither the time nor the resources to deal with you properly. Start the engine and begin driving.”
“And if I don’t?”
“Then I will kill you both.”
“And if I do?”
“Then I will probably still kill you but will let the woman live.”
This, of course, was a lie, but the driver appeared to either believe it or decide it was worth taking a chance. He turned the key and the CRV thrummed to life.
11
Burke came through the door of the safe house and stomped the snow off his boots. “Any word from Rainwater?”
Lyndsey shook her head. “No. I’ve been calling his phone, but he won’t pick up.”
“I knew it was a mistake to involve a local,” Burke said. “Moore never used to do this stupid shit. I think that security breach in Istanbul scrambled his brain.”
Assignment- Danger A SpyCo Collection 4-6 Page 15