Extreme Faction (11 page)

Disturbed, the older woman, whose job normally consisted of running coffee and refilling juice containers, snatched the plates from the young man and swept out through the swinging doors.

The young man excused himself to go to the bathroom. Once in the back bathroom, he poured the remaining contents of the salt shaker into the toilet. He wrapped the shaker in a handkerchief, smashed the glass container into a thousand pieces and dumped it too into the toilet, and then he flushed everything. Next, he stripped off the white smock, rolled it into a ball, and stuffed it under his right arm. Then he casually walked out and left the building from a back exit, throwing the chef's clothes into a dumpster.

●

After nearly fifteen minutes of waiting, the older woman plopped the plates in front of the Americans and refilled their coffee cups. The eggs looked slimy and the bacon was more like a chunk of fat with tiny strips of brown thrown in for color. Neither looked cooked very well, but by now the two of them were extremely hungry. Besides, the continental fare had already been removed from the buffet tables. There was no turning back now.

“Ummm... This looks good,” MacCarty said.

Swanson didn't seem to mind. He was already working on the eggs.

MacCarty reluctantly took a bite of eggs. He noticed a strange flavor, but figured it was simply a difference in the spices used in the Ukraine. Swanson was scooping the eggs in as fast as his fork would work.

“You don't think these taste a little funny?” MacCarty asked.

“Probably free range chickens,” Swanson said, his mouth full of eggs.

MacCarty ate one egg and switched to bacon. It wasn't bad. It reminded him of the bacon he used to make on hunting trips in eastern Oregon.

In just a few minutes Swanson had eaten every bite on his plate and was eyeing the leftovers MacCarty couldn't stomach. Then they sat back and washed the food down with a final cup of coffee.

It didn't take long for Swanson to start feeling funny. In less than five minutes he felt pressure in his stomach. Then his chest felt like it would explode.

MacCarty, who had eaten half as much as Swanson, felt fine for now. But he could see that something wasn't right with Swanson. His eyes seemed to enlarge. He was sweating profusely. Much more than normal. When Swanson's arms reached for his chest, MacCarty thought his assistant was having a heart attack. Then Swanson grasped his own throat and crashed to the floor, and MacCarty started yelling for help. In seconds the half-full dining area erupted into panic.

●

Sitting across the dining room at a table by himself, Omri Sherut watched the Americans. He had been able to pick up much of their conversation. But when the fat little bald man, who had thought he was so smart the night before, started gasping for air, Sherut knew it was time to leave.

He threw down his cloth napkin to the table, disgusted.

It was a clear, cold spring morning in Odessa. Jake stopped by a small coffee shop to meet with Sinclair Tucker prior to his morning meeting at Tully O'Neill's office.

Sinclair rushed in and took a seat across from Jake, nearly fifteen minutes late.

“Still on London time?” Jake asked, looking at his watch.

“Sorry, Jake,” he said. “I had to stop by our front office to read a message. I see you've started without me.” He nodded toward two empty cups of espresso in front of Jake.

“Yeah, I didn't get much sleep last night, as you know.” The problem was he didn't feel like eating a thing, since his ribs were killing him, and he figured the thick coffee might at least fill the void in his stomach.

Sinclair Tucker ordered tea. “How are the ribs?”

Jake tried not to think about the pain, but it was difficult. “I've felt worse. I'm pretty sure they were only cracked or bruised.”

A young woman delivered the tea to Sinclair and smiled at both men as she swayed back toward the counter.

“I think she likes you, Tuck.”

“Let's not go down that path again,” Sinclair said. “Remember that good looking waitress in Adana? The one with the eyes so big we thought they had to be glass?”

“So.”

“So, I'm not going through that again.”

Jake laughed. “How could we have known she was a man?”

“You bastard. You knew. That's why you let me have her...it...whatever.”

“I suspected,” Jake said. “That's all.”

Sinclair shook his head. “Listen, Jake. I've got a problem.”

“That's obvious. I'm sorry. Go on.”

Hesitating long enough for a sip of tea, Sinclair said, “Quite the jocular fellow even with bruised ribs.” He paused to choose his words. “I haven't been given much support here,” he said. “I was hoping you'd help me out. After all, we're on the same team here.”

“True. But I'm not sure what I can do for you. I don't know anything yet.”

“But you will,” Sinclair said. “And I'd appreciate any help you could give me. Back me up, if I need it.”

It wasn't a question Jake found difficult to answer. They had history, and that meant more in this business than nationality. They had gone through so much in the past. The aftermath at Halabja. The refugees at the enclaves in Turkey following the Gulf War. It seemed somewhat strange that many of the times their paths had crossed the Kurds had been involved. And now even here, in Odessa, the Kurds had brought the two of them together.

“You know you can count on me, Tuck,” Jake said, patting his old friend on the shoulder.

●

Jake made it to Tully O'Neill's office at the consulate by nine-thirty. Jake had been to the office before when the old station chief had occupied the place. Things had changed a great deal since the height of the Cold War, he could see. There used to be large plants everywhere. Beautiful leather furniture. Nice paintings. But now, as if some bad joke had been played on the office, all that was fine was gone. Tully's desk was an old chunk of wood, worn down by time like a rock in a raging river. The walls were a drab Earth tone and needed paint. Tully had tried to cover bad spots with certificates and photographs of him in various cities. The carpeting had been ripped up, exposing an oak floor that needed a good sanding and coat of lacquer. Only the Persian rug looked somewhat new.

Tully was standing before the window overlooking a back courtyard that consulate employees used for breaks and to eat lunch on nice days. He was wearing a tweed suit, the best that Jake could remember him looking since they met a few days ago. In Tully's right hand was a copy of a message he had just finished reading.

Jake took a seat out from Tully's desk in the center of the room.

For a moment, neither of them said a word.

Finally, Tully moved away from the window and took a seat behind his desk in a high-back chair that squeaked with his weight. He lit a cigarette and let out a deep breath of smoke.

“What the hell's going on?” Jake asked. “It's like a damn morgue in here.”

Tully shuffled the papers he had set on his desk. “This classified message came in thirty minutes ago,” he said, taking another puff on his cigarette. “From our CIA director. It seems he wants you to lead this investigation.”

Jake shifted up in his chair. “What? I'm not one of you anymore.”

“He's aware of that.”

“Besides,” Jake said. “How in the hell does he even know I'm here?”

Tully smiled. “I'm afraid that's my fault. I had to mention you in my report on Tvchenko's death. The Director mentioned you to the president, and he insisted on asking you to work this for us.”

“The president?” Jake said. “He doesn't know me.”

“Afraid so,” Tully said. “He heard about something you did a few years back. Something dealing with computer chips and Germany and Hungary.”

Jake thought that case had gone unnoticed. “So, what do they want from me?”

“Like I said. Lead.”

Jake looked shocked. He thought he'd help out a little if he could. But lead? “Why?”

“Let's face it, Jake. You're an expert in chemical and biological weapons. You know Odessa better than any of us. And you even have first-hand knowledge of the Kurds. You should lead. Besides, as you know, the station chief can't afford too much exposure. It looks bad if we're ejected from the country for spying.”

This was true, Jake knew, but it was still shocking. What about Quinn Armstrong? It should have been his case.

“You can handle it, Jake,” Tully said.

“Thanks for your confidence, Tully, but I didn't seem to do things right last night. I've got the bruises to prove it.”

“You're still alive. That's something.”

Jake thought about being in charge. In charge of what? He had no idea what Tvchenko had been up to. He barely knew the man, yet Tvchenko had walked directly to him, planted the note with Halabja scribbled on it into his hand, and then collapsed with his version of a break dance. Someone had either jumped the gun or was now trying to cover their tracks. Jake suspected the former. Maybe Tvchenko's buyers had slipped and told him what they planned on doing with his newest nerve agent. Tvchenko suddenly realizes he cannot follow through with the deal. He panics. The other side panics. And now there's some terrorist group out there looking for what they had been promised. That was a helluva lot to place on any one man, and Jake was that man.

“What kind of assets do you have here?” Jake asked.

Tully lit a cigarette from his first, and savored the first inhale. He blew out the smoke. “Pretty green, I'm afraid. Other than Quinn. And you've met him.” He smiled.

“Great.” Jake knew he could at least count on Sinclair Tucker. Then he remembered that he had come to Odessa to protect and help MacCarty and Swanson. He had no idea where his investigation may lead. Would he still be able to help those two? “What in the hell was Tvchenko up to?”

Tully propped his cigarette to the side of his mouth. “We need to pull in the source that worked with Tvchenko.”

“Petra Kovarik? Has Quinn found her yet?”

“No. He's making a few phone calls right now in the communications room,” Tully said. “He's a good man, Jake. Use him. He knows more about Yuri Tvchenko than anyone else in our office.”

“Why didn't they give him the lead on this one?”

“He was working Petra Kovarik,” Tully said. “She was getting nervous. We had to back him off for a while.”

“You think Quinn's agent was feeding him garbage?”

Tully swished his head and cigarette smoke rose up into his eyes. “We don't know. Quinn was playing with her, ready to set the hook, when Tvchenko gets killed.”

“So, you think she might have told Tvchenko she was leading on some American?”

“Right,” Tully said. “In fact, we speculated that she was romantically involved with Tvchenko, but we weren't certain. Quinn told me she wasn't much to look at, but she had a body that would stiffen a blind monk.”

Jake thought for a moment. He needed to talk with this source. If she was as close as Tully said, she would have known what Tvchenko was up to. Someone had to know where she was. He checked his watch. It was close to ten o'clock. “We've got to find Petra Kovarik.”

Tully leaned back in his chair. “What do you make of this woman disappearing?”

Jake rose from the chair and paced across the Persian rug. “Truthfully,” he said, swinging around toward Tully. “I'm not certain. But I'd guess she might work for the GRU. She could have been doubling you. When you got a little too close, she, or some of her buddies, decide it's time to kill the scientist.”

Tully exhaled a cloud of smoke. “I was thinking the same thing.”

“Orrrr...” Jake took a seat. “She could have been legitimate. She and Tvchenko were lovers, let's say. The GRU figures she knows everything Tvchenko knows. So they nab her for insurance. Maybe she breaks, tells the GRU Tvchenko is selling his newest chemical agent to another source. The GRU gets pissed and has the scientist killed.”

“It's possible,” Tully admitted. “But wouldn't the GRU still need Tvchenko?”

He had a valid point, Jake thought. You don't want to kill your main source without some assurance that you no longer need him. “That would mean that the GRU has everything they need from Tvchenko. But I don't think they did. Why trash Tvchenko's apartment? And Petra's? We probably won't know for sure until we talk to her. Does she have any relatives?”

“Quinn's checking that as we speak,” Tully said. He had just finished his cigarette and was staring at the pack on his desk, wondering if he should light another.

There was a knock on the door. “Come on in, Quinn,” Tully yelled.

Quinn Armstrong strolled in carrying a small bag and took a seat in a wooden chair against one wall. He gave Jake a sullen glare. The bruise on his left jaw was black and blue and still raised somewhat. He was wearing khaki pants and a dull brown shirt under a black, unzipped mariner coat. If he were walking down Deribasovskaya Street in Odessa, one would surely take him for a local. He crossed his legs, exposing black work boots. He groomed his little goatee between his fingers.

“What'd you find out?” Tully asked Quinn.

Hesitating for a moment, Quinn shifted in his chair. “She has no relatives. It's one of the reasons I recruited her. Our Kiev office checked with a few of her friends there, but none of them have seen her in nearly a month. Not since she came here to work with Tvchenko. We know she had been spending more and more time at his apartment.”

The way Quinn said it, Jake thought there might have been more to their relationship. He knew that often happened when officers ran agents of the opposite sex.

“Do you have any idea where she might have gone?”

Quinn wouldn't look at him. “Possibly. I just remembered this morning about a friend Petra spoke about here in Odessa.”