Targets of Revenge (32 page)

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.”

S
ANDOR AND
F
ERRIELLO
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 where 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.

Once the door shut behind them Vaknin nodded to the remaining bouncer. The man took hold of Sandor’s arm, then brought the handle of his Glock crashing across the back of Sandor’s skull, knocking him to the floor.

————

When Sandor came to he found himself seated upright in a wooden banker’s chair, his wrists and ankles bound with plastic restraints. They were tight against his skin. As he regained his bearings he saw that he was inside what was obviously Vaknin’s private office. Sandor realized he was wet, which meant they had just thrown water in his face to revive him. He also realized his head hurt like hell. As his eyes began to focus he saw that he was facing Vaknin, who was sitting comfortably behind his desk.

“Was that entirely necessary?” Sandor asked. “You could have just invited me in and asked me to have a seat.”

Vaknin leaned forward and rested his elbows on the large desk. “I saw what you did to Ivan,” he explained, nodding toward the bank of monitors that showed the inside of the club from a variety of angles. “Ivan is considerably larger and stronger than you. And me, for that matter. I was certainly not going to take any unnecessary chances with you, especially since I still have no idea who you are or why you have come. You said that you wanted to speak privately and so I have arranged that.” Vaknin then reached for a Glock that lay before
him, taking it in his hand and pointing it at Sandor’s face. “But just so we are clear, I am prepared to kill you if I feel it would best serve my interests. I do not care who you are or that you came here with a policeman. I only care about your purpose and whether or not you pose a threat to me. If necessary I will arrange your disappearance and never give it another thought. Are we clear?”

“Your English is excellent.”

Vaknin bowed his head at the compliment. “Despite whatever you may think of the world I inhabit, I am an educated man.”

Sandor craned his neck around, doing the best he could to have a look at the entire room. “Are we alone or is there someone in back of me I can’t see?”

“We are alone, for now.”

Sandor opened his eyes wide and then closed them, repeating the motion several times. “I don’t suppose you have five or six Advil handy?”

“What is your name?”

“If I tell you, will that get me the Advil?”

Vaknin stared at him without speaking.

“Jordan Sandor.”

“Mr. Sandor, while you had your brief rest in my office, I took the opportunity to speak with Ivan. As you can imagine, I’m unhappy with him and he, in turn, is angry with you. Whether or not I give him an opportunity to express his anger and thereby resolve my unhappiness remains to be seen. He told me that you are insulting and impertinent, and I can see that his assessment is accurate. But you have obviously gone to considerable trouble and put yourself in grave danger to have the opportunity to speak with me. I respect that and concede that I am fascinated by the effort, so please do not waste the opportunity. I am not known for my patience.”

Sandor nodded. “How well do you know Ronny Sudakov?”

Vaknin sat back in his plush leather chair. “Why would that interest you?”

“Because he is about to put you and your associates at great risk.”

“And why would he do such a thing?”

“I’m not certain that he is doing it knowingly. In fact, I suspect he is not aware of the problem he is creating.”

“Come come, Mr. Sandor. You’ll need to be less cryptic if we are going to continue this discussion.”

“All right. I know that you are Timur Vaknin and that you are involved in smuggling narcotics into this country.”

“Despite what your friend Detective Ferriello may have told you about me, if that were true he would have arrested me long ago.”

“No, he would have arrested you only if he had sufficient evidence. The fact that you have been too clever to be caught does not disprove the ultimate fact. And, as you would say, let’s not waste the opportunity we have to discuss this matter. I know that you are in the narcotics business and I also know that Sudakov is one of your principal sources for transporting the drugs.”

“If that were so, why would he do me harm?”

“Have you ever heard of Rafael Cabello? Also known as Adina?”

“The Venezuelan?”

“Yes.”

“A close associate of Chavez, I am told.”

“A ruthless terrorist.”

“One man’s terrorist is another man’s freedom fighter.”

“I have never subscribed to the belief that murdering innocent people qualifies one as a freedom fighter.”

Vaknin leaned forward again. “Ah, this is becoming clear now. You are obviously not NYPD, because Ferriello would never have left you as he did. And you cannot be DEA, since you would never have approached me in such a reckless manner. You are here because of Adina, the drug trade emanating from Venezuela, and the rumors that the money is being used to fund anti-American terrorism. Are you from Homeland Security?”

“Who I am should not be important to you. What
is
important is how Adina has infiltrated your business for his own purposes.”

“And you’ve come here to save me? That really is amusing.” Vaknin enjoyed an asthmatic laugh that ended as a cough. “Damn cigarettes,” he said to himself, then returned his attention to Sandor. “Quite a story you’re peddling. What might be the nature of the threat posed by Señor Cabello?”

“You’re expecting a large shipment of cocaine that was processed
in Venezuela and is being shipped to the States through Mexico with the help of Sudakov’s people. There’s no sense denying it. I’ve seen the shipment and I’ve met with Sudakov. What you don’t know is that the cargo contains anthrax.”

Vaknin was about to say something, then stopped.

“Whatever the DEA and the NYPD have been doing up to now to demolish your operation, not to mention to arrest you and your people, will seem like they’ve been chasing down a traffic ticket compared with the furies that’ll be unleashed if it’s suspected that you and your associates are engaged in terrorism. Now tell me, Mr. Vaknin, am I making
myself
clear?”

Vaknin rose slowly from his chair, then reached down and pressed a button on the underside of the desktop. Almost immediately, Sandor heard a door behind him open and then close.

“For the moment, Mr. Sandor, I am done answering questions,” Vaknin said. “But you have only begun.”