Targets of Revenge (27 page)

He nodded, confirming his own thoughts. Even if his rivals in the government were foolish enough to try to move him aside, they would not be able to stop him now. No one could, because there was not enough time and because no one knew enough of all the pieces he had already put into play. He should never have shared as much as he did with this old crony, but the mistake was simply a reminder of what he already knew.

Trust no one.

Now he had effectively rectified the error. And he had also made arrangements to rid himself of the Jordan Sandor problem.

He nodded again. A good day, he told himself. All in all, a good day.

S
ANDOR SPENT THE
rest of dinner debriefing Greshnev on every imaginable aspect of Russian involvement in the narcotics business in the United States, especially where Sudakov might be involved. As Greshnev made his way through a perfectly prepared rack of lamb and a pile of mushroom blinis, he provided Sandor a thorough education in the workings of the Russian group in Brighton Beach.

“They are almost certain to be the recipients of whatever Sudakov is shipping.”

Sandor reminded him that Adina was his real concern.

“I understand that, but whatever Adina may be orchestrating is your area of expertise, not mine. What I can help you with is the connection between Sudakov and my countrymen in New York.” He went on to describe methods of importation, distribution and protection. He also focused a great deal on their abject ruthlessness. “They will kill you for nothing more than a suspicion that you are an enemy. And they will kill you in ways that no man should be made to die.”

“I understand.”

“I’m not sure you do, but my conscience is clear since I have warned you.”

“Well,” Sandor said as he lifted his glass for yet another toast, “here’s to a clear conscience.”

At the conclusion of the meal, after far too much vodka, wine and
after-dinner drinks, Greshnev said, “You can attribute my cooperation in part to professional courtesy.”

Sandor grinned. “I realize that sort of generosity goes against your better nature.”

“Perhaps I am getting soft in my old age, Jordan. But I must confess, it would delight me to see you bring down Sudakov, even if he is not your primary target here.”

“I appreciate the information, not to mention the sentiment.”

“Just remember, I said professional courtesy was only a part of my motivation.”

“I understand that I still owe you.”

“Yes, you do,” Greshnev said, “and I mean to collect.”

“And I take it you do not regard this as a long-term voucher.”

Greshnev treated him to the largest smile he had managed all night. “Precisely!” he exclaimed.

Sandor paid the exorbitant bill, which was certainly going to raise some eyebrows when he submitted it to accounting in Langley. Then the two men stood up to leave.

“You need to be careful with these people, my friend.”

“So you said, and so I will,” Sandor assured him.

The Russian responded with a long, searching gaze that was, for the moment, less drunk than concerned. “I hope so,” he said, then came around the table and wrapped Sandor in a bear hug.

————

Outside the Café Pushkin, Greshnev offered Sandor a ride back to his hotel.

“Thank you, but I think I’d better walk off some of those desserts you ordered.”

“Not to mention the vodka, eh?”

They said their goodbyes and Sandor started back toward the Metropol, using the night air to clear his head. Sandor reviewed everything Greshnev had shared by creating a mental outline, a device he used to memorize data and organize it into categories he could draw on later. He was becoming convinced that Adina meant to use the shipment of cocaine to conceal the anthrax. Ideally, Sandor would
find a way to intercept that cargo. Worst case, he had to determine how and where Adina meant to use those toxins, and then stop him at the point of attack.

He strode at a brisk pace around the circular center of Moscow. He reached the intersection of Tverskaya Street and Tverskaya Boulevard and turned on to Theatre Drive.

Greshnev had repeatedly cautioned him not to underestimate the Russian mob in Brighton Beach. “There are murderers and there are zealots, but these men are sadists who use their atrocities to rule by fear.” Sandor understood that murder, by definition, is a unique offense—once the action is taken it is irreversible. As obvious as that notion may be, there is no other crime against man, no matter how heinous, that cannot be survived. Sandor had seen men and women suffer unimaginable injuries from combat, natural disasters and terrorist attacks, yet somehow people struggle to go on.

Which led him inexorably back to Lilli Mindlovitch and the suffering she was made to endure before they slit her throat. She never had a chance, and that thought caused the anger to rise in the back of his throat like a wave of acid.

But Farrar had been right when he criticized him for acting unprofessionally in attacking the banker in Sharm el-Sheikh. Even Greshnev saw the rage of vendetta in his eyes. It was time to put all that aside, at least for now. He had a job to do.

There would be time later to settle other scores.

————

Inside the hotel lobby Sandor bypassed the front desk and headed for the elevator. He didn’t stop to ask for messages since only Craig Raabe knew where he was, and Raabe would make contact via cell phone if he wanted to reach him.

He rode the lift up to the fourth floor and headed for his suite. Inside, he bolted the door and pulled off his sport coat, tossing it on a chair. Then he went to the minibar for a nightcap.

He was leaning over the credenza, looking into the small refrigerator, when he sensed the man rushing at him from behind. Sandor sidestepped as he rose, then braced himself for the assault.

The man charging at him was stocky, a few inches shorter than he, and clutching a wire garrote tightly in both hands. He had obviously intended a swift and lethal stranglehold from behind, but Sandor had avoided that fate.

The attacker dropped the metal cord and reached for the gun inside his waistband.

Unarmed, Sandor had nevertheless taken away the man’s advantage of surprise. He leveraged his weight and sprang forward, coming up with the heel of his right hand, aiming for the man’s chin. Properly executed, the blow would have been concussive, but Sandor instantly learned he was dealing with a skilled professional. The man used his left forearm to fend off the uppercut, executing an agile counterstrike even as he continued to reach for the weapon with his right hand.

Thrown slightly off balance, Sandor was still moving forward enough to drive the crown of his head into the man’s chest while he grabbed for his right wrist, stopping him from pulling out the automatic and sending both of them toppling to the floor.

Sandor had now seized the upper hand, landing on top and knocking the wind out of the man. He drove his right knee hard into the man’s groin, but the attacker answered with two quick jabs into Sandor’s right kidney as he struggled to withdraw his automatic. Sandor responded with another head butt, this time directed at the man’s nose. The intruder managed a quick turn of his head, but not enough to evade a blow that sent blood streaming from his right nostril. A painful hit, but not enough to stop him.

Still pinned beneath Sandor, the man effected a powerful scissor kick in an attempt to turn them over, but Sandor responded with another head butt that caught the man flush in the face this time, dazing him for an instant, which was all Sandor needed. He scrambled to get his weight onto the man’s chest as he drove three punches in rapid succession into the side of his head.

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.

T
HE 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?”