Plague Ship (48 page)

“I think it’s time, Juan,” she said into her phone, pretending to check a text message.

“Okay. Do it. Mike, get ready for Operation V.”

Julia waited until the roulette ball dropped into the number six slot and the dealer raked the losing chips, hers included, from the table before tossing him a tip and collecting her remaining stack. She pulled the two pills from her purse and started across the room. A few men eyed her as she passed, but most everybody was concentrating on his or her game.

There were no empty seats at the table where Kerikov and al-Asim were playing, so Julia hung back, waiting for her opportunity. When the Russian won a particularly large hand, Julia leaned close to him and whispered “Congratulations” in his ear. He was startled at first, then smiled when he saw how Hux looked.

She did it again when another player hit it big, and, suddenly, her presence here wasn’t that of a stranger but part of the gaming circle. She then placed a small wager on top of this second player’s stack, so that if he won so would she.

When he didn’t win, he apologized, but Julia only shrugged, as if to say it was no big deal.

She then gestured to al-Asim, wordlessly asking permission to place chips with him. He nodded, and, when she reached across the table, she set her hand next to his drink to balance herself. When she straightened, she almost knocked the glass over. She grabbed it just before it spilled, dropped the two pills in it, and set it back on its coaster.

The pills were a homeopathic compound that addicts on probation use to flush their bodies of drugs prior to testing, as a way of avoiding more jail time. Julia had studied the compounds and found they didn’t really work, but they had a side effect of making a person need to urinate. Doping al-Asim with it was their way of getting him to the casino’s restroom on their schedule rather than on his.

Al-Asim didn’t suspect a thing. He played his hand and won, grinning wolfishly when he handed Julia her winnings.

“Merci, monsieur,”
she said. She played one more time with a different player, lost, and drifted away from the table. When she stepped out of the gambling hall and back into the towering atrium, she called Cabrillo to tell him it was done.

“Okay, find a place to watch him, and let us know when he’s headed for the bathroom and then get yourself back to the marina,” Juan ordered as he headed down to the lavatory closest to the Salon de l’Europe. “Mike, you and Ski move into position.”

“On our way.”

There was a doorway a short distance from the restroom that led to the building’s service corridors, so the guests didn’t need to be bothered with seeing things like the janitors or the waitstaff who fetched patrons’ drinks. Juan loitered next to the door for just a moment before it opened slightly and Mike handed him the bottle of fake vomit. Juan let a few more minutes trickle by, to give the drug time to work, before entering the restroom.

Like everything else about the casino, the restroom was all marble and gilt. There was a man washing his hands when Cabrillo entered, but he left before Juan could even reach the stalls. With no one to hear his performance, he didn’t have to act out being ill. He just poured the noisome concoction on the floor and retreated to a stall.

It took only one patron entering the bathroom for a casino employee to be summoned. Juan didn’t understand much French, but the attendant’s assuring tone meant that the janitorial staff would be notified immediately. He could picture the attendant making for the nearest service entrance to notify housekeeping only to discover two janitors in the hallway already, as if they had been told of the mess.

The bathroom door opened again, and Juan heard the big trash barrel’s wheel squeaking as they pushed it in.

“Howdy, boys,” he said, and stepped from the stall.

“Why do we always get the glamor jobs?” Mike asked with heavy sarcasm.

“Because you know how to make a floor shine.”

The door opened again. Ski was there to shoo the patron away with an apologetic nod toward the filth being mopped from the floor.

“He just got up from the table,” Julia informed Cabrillo. “He’s going to be the next guy coming into the bathroom.”

“Roger that. See you later.” Juan retreated back into the stall.

When the door opened, Ski let al-Asim enter the restroom. The Arab made a face at the smell, but his need was greater than his revulsion and he practically sprinted to a urinal.

Cabrillo waited for him to finish before stepping silently behind him. Al-Asim felt his presence at the last moment and turned. His eyes widened at seeing his identical twin, but, before he could understand what was happening, Juan jammed the hypodermic needle into his neck and depressed the plunger. Al-Asim made to cry out, so Juan clamped a hand over his mouth and held him until he slipped into unconsciousness.

Ski had to refuse entry to another patron as Juan and Trono dumped the terrorist financier into the large trash can. Juan replaced his own watch with the slim Movado al-Asim wore and slipped al-Asim’s large ring on a finger.

“I should be finished with Kerikov before he comes to,” Juan said, checking himself in the mirror. “Just leave him where he won’t be found for a few hours and get yourselves back to the
Oregon
with Julia.”

“There’s a utility closet near the loading dock. At this hour, no one will be using it.” Mike finished restoring the floor to its glossy shine and tossed the mop in the bucket.

“See you boys later.”

Juan made his way back to the chemin de fer table where Kerikov was dealing from the shoe.

“Are you all right, my friend?” the Russian asked in English, the only language he shared with the Arab.

“A little stomach trouble, Ivan. Nothing to worry about.” Cabrillo had listened to several hours of taped conversation between the two men and knew how they spoke to one another. The arms dealer hadn’t given his appearance a second glance. The disguise worked perfectly.

They played for another forty-five minutes, Juan acting as though his condition was worsening, and it showed on how he played. He bet foolishly and cut al-Asim’s fifty thousand dollars’ worth of chips in half.

“Ivan, I’m sorry,” he said, holding a hand across his stomach. “I think I need to return to the boat.”

“Do you need a doctor?”

“I don’t think it’s that serious. I just need to lie down.” Juan declined the shoe when it was his turn to deal and got unsteadily to his feet. “You keep playing, please.”

It was a risk to make the offer, but it was something al-Asim definitely would have done.

Kerikov seemed to give it thought. He was up about thirty thousand dollars since they’d started gambling and he hated to walk away from a winning streak. On the other hand, the way things were going with al-Asim he might become one of his best clients.

“I have taken enough of their money for one night.” He pushed the six-deck shoe to the Asian man to his left. When he stood, his jacket bunched across his heavy shoulders.

They handed in their chips and left the money on account with the casino for when they returned the next evening. As they walked through the ornate atrium, Kerikov called his driver on his cell phone so the limousine would be around front when they exited the building.

The driver pulled up to the entrance but remained behind the wheel. It was Kerikov’s bodyguard who jumped from the front seat and opened the rear door. He was a good four inches taller than Cabrillo, with dark, distrusting eyes. He scanned the crowd, as Kerikov maneuvered himself into the car, and pegged Juan with a hard stare.

Instinct would have been to look away, and, if Cabrillo had, the guard would have known something was amiss. But Juan had spent a lifetime training to ignore instinct. Instead of lowering his eyes, he stared back just as fiercely, and asked, “Is there something wrong?”

The bodyguard softened his expression.
“Nyet.”

Juan got into the car and the door was closed behind him. It was a short drive to the marina. Juan played up his intestinal discomfort so he wouldn’t need to talk with the Russian as the limo wound its way down to the waterfront.

Kerikov had a private launch from his yacht,
Matryoshka
, waiting for them at the marina. The guard sprang out of the car as soon as it stopped to open the back door.

“Good thing we didn’t waste money on any ladies this evening,” Kerikov remarked as they walked to where the gleaming white launch was tied.

“I don’t feel well enough even to look at a woman right now. In fact, I’m not really eager for this ride out to your boat.”

Kerikov placed a beefy hand on Cabrillo’s shoulder. “It’s only a short hop, and the harbor is as smooth as glass. You’ll do fine.”

The bodyguard fired up the launch’s engine while the limo driver helped with the bow and stern lines. Five minutes later, they approached the broad transom of the
Matryoshka
, where a teak dive platform had been lowered and a flight of stairs gave access to the monster boat’s main deck.

“I should think you are going straight to your cabin,” Kerikov remarked as they stepped aboard. A servant was waiting at the top of the steps, should the Russian require anything, and Juan saw two guards, one up on the sundeck behind the bridge and other patrolling near the ship’s pool.

His team had estimated there were at least eighteen crewmen to run the megayacht and a ten-man security detail.

“Actually,” Juan replied, “I would like to talk to you in your office.”

“Nothing too sensitive.” Kerikov inquired at once. He knew how easily someone could eavesdrop on his ship so close to shore.

“No, no, no,” Juan said at once. “Just something that occurred to me tonight.”

Kerikov led them through the luxurious vessel, passing by a dining room that could seat twenty and a movie theater with double that capacity. The former hard-line communist spy had certainly availed himself of the trappings of capitalism.

They reached the Russian’s private office, and, as soon as Kerikov closed the door behind them, Juan had his pistol out and pressed to Kerikov’s throat hard enough to tear skin.

“One sound and you’re dead.” Juan had dropped his phony Arabic accent and spoke in Russian.

To his credit, Kerikov didn’t move. He had probably been on the giving end of this situation enough to know that if his attacker’s motive was assassination, he would already be dead.

“Who are you?”

Juan said nothing while he fitted Kerikov’s wrists with a pair of FlexiCuffs.

“Even though you speak my language, you are CIA, I think, and not FSB. I must congratulate you. When I did my research on Ibn al-Asim, his background was unimpeachable. You went a very long way in establishing his bona fides. A great many trusted people assured me he was legitimate.”

“I’m not Ibn al-Asim,” Juan said.

Kerikov smirked. “Obviously not.”

“He’s back at the casino, in a trash can near the loading dock. He should regain consciousness in another couple hours.”

Kerikov’s eyes narrowed as he tried to get his mind around the situation.

Juan let him dangle a moment longer. “As far as I know, you and al-Asim are old college roommates in Monte Carlo having a few laughs together. I don’t care what you two are scheming. I’m here about something you stole from your former employers.”

“I stole a great deal from them,” Kerikov said with unabashed pride.

Juan had done enough research on the Russian arms dealer to want to put a bullet through his brain and rid the world of one less dirtbag. It took effort not to pull the trigger.

“I want the codes for Stalin’s Fist.”

The fact that he had mentioned the weapon only a short while ago to al-Asim wasn’t lost on Kerikov. He again asked who Juan was.

“Your assassin, if you don’t give me what I want.”

“You’ve had me under surveillance, haven’t you?”

“My organization has been watching you for some time,” Juan told him, which wasn’t exactly a lie. “We are only interested in the codes for the Orbital Ballistic Projectile satellite. Give me what I want and you and al-Asim can continue your arms deal without interference. Otherwise, you die tonight.”

When Juan had cleared this operation through Langston Overholt, the CIA man had insisted that it in no way jeopardized their long-term plan to turn al-Asim.

Cabrillo cocked his pistol to punctuate the statement.

Kerikov tried to stare him down, and didn’t blink when he saw Juan’s finger beginning to squeeze the trigger.

“Pull that trigger and my security team will be in here in twenty seconds,” he warned.

“My soul is prepared for martyrdom,” Juan retorted, clouding his role by making it sound he was on a religious quest. “Is yours?”

Kerikov blew out a heavy sigh. “God, I miss the Cold War. You’re Chechen, aren’t you?”

“If it appeases whatever remains of your conscience, I am not Chechen, and the weapon won’t be used anywhere within the former Soviet Union.” He could almost see Kerikov thinking that the weapon wouldn’t be used at all.

“The codes are locked in the safe behind that painting.” He nodded toward a nude hanging on one wall.

Juan used the barrel of his pistol to swing the painting back on its long hinge in case it was booby-trapped. The safe was about two feet square, with a ten-digit electronic pad. “Combination?”

“Two-five, one-zero, one-nine-one-seven.”

It took Juan a second to recognize the numbers, because Europeans put days ahead of months when giving dates. “The date of Russia’s October Revolution. Nice touch.”

He punched in the numbers, and made Kerikov stand directly in front of the safe when he threw the handle. Juan had recognized the safe model, and knew if an incorrect code had been entered a stun grenade would detonate. The code was legitimate.

Inside were stacks of currency, a pistol, which Juan stuffed in his pocket, and countless folders and files.

“Should be near the bottom.” Kerikov offered, to get this ordeal over with quicker.

Juan scanned some of the documents as he searched. The Russian was involved in some heavy deals, including arming Saddam Hussein before the U.S. invasion, and a triangle trade of Afghan opium for Russian weapons for African conflict diamonds.