Targets of Revenge (26 page)

“The cartel controlled by the Colombians has altered its methods in recent years,” Greshnev explained. He described how, in the past two decades, the cabal known as the
hermandad
headquartered in Cartagena had opted for large shipments of product. Strategies such as “mules” hiding plastic bags of cocaine in their stomachs or couriers stuffing carefully wrapped bricks of narcotics inside the floorboards of cars passing across the border from Mexico to Texas had been left to the small-timers. Given the risks, rewards and expenses, it made better business sense to transport cocaine by the ton. They use customized ships, or planes that fly under the radar. “The business has simply become too big to be left to amateurs,” the Russian said as he used his cloth napkin to wipe a bit of creamed herring from the edge of his mouth.

“You’ve got to love the global economy.”

Greshnev nodded. “Small shipments became impractical. Too many people involved, too many details to manage for just a few kilos getting through at a time. The product itself is cheap to produce. If a large shipment is lost there’s always one right behind it. Their new approach to transportation is sophisticated, modern and technologically
advanced. They refit old tankers and make exchanges of cargo at sea.” He paused to spear a piece of gravlax. “Of all people, I don’t need to remind you how vulnerable we are in our ports.” He took a moment to chew the salmon. “They bring in the goods using double-hulled containers that have false compartments and pass them right under our noses.”

“And our dogs’ noses.”

That provoked a loud guffaw. “How right you are. The best drug-sniffing canines in Vladivostok never get a whiff of the stuff.”

“Once the narcotics enter the United States, it seems there are any number of distribution networks that become involved, including the Russian mob.”

“Centered in New York City. Brighton Beach.”

“You’ve been there?”

“I have,” Greshnev said. “A dangerous group, I can tell you that. Russians at their worst can be a vicious people.”

“Only at their worst,” Sandor said with a grin.

“Of course.”

“So how does Sudakov fit into the hierarchy?”

“He told you he made his fortune in oil. That is partly true. He was in the shipping business, moving crude from here to there, but he was not a major player. Among the new Russian oligarchs he was no Prokhorov. He wanted more money and found a way to get it.”

Sandor nodded.

“When the Colombians revised their tactics and decided on bigger paydays, they had to be cautious about looking for ships. That type of purchase carries a paper trail, and retrofitting old freighters has to be done with complete discretion. Who better to ask for help than someone on the other side of the world? Who better than a greedy neocapitalist from Moscow?”

“You’ve become quite the capitalist yourself, Vassily.”

Greshnev offered up a sad smile. “Socialism was always nonsense, anyone with an ounce of sense understood that. You cannot deprive man of motivation and then expect him to perform.” He shook his large head as if dismissing a bad thought. “The concept of expecting each to contribute according to his ability only works if the man
or woman using those abilities is going to be rewarded, am I right? Otherwise he might as well sit under a tree while someone else plows the field.”

“No argument here.”

“Worse than that is the foolishness of giving to each according to his need. What rubbish. That becomes a tired idea very quickly, especially for the people doing the giving. This is the very problem you have in your own country today, is it not? The principle that is destroying your economy.” He put his fork down for the first time in an hour and leaned forward on his elbows, his hands folded in front of him. “In a capitalist system, the rich become rich because they work smarter, they innovate, they hire others, and they ultimately create wealth. It is human nature that the poor will resent this, but as long as the lower classes have the incentive and opportunity to pull themselves up and create their own success, the system works. That’s the point of the American Dream, is it not? Invent something. Start your own business.” He shook his head. “It’s when the underclass becomes entrenched in its own poverty that things go bad. When the state hands out more and more in the way of welfare and benefits it ultimately destroys the impetus for the poor to work. They have food stamps and health care. They are given subsidized apartments. I hear they even receive free cell phones.” He chortled, then picked up his fork and went back to eating. “What a sad irony for the world’s greatest power. You have created a society where the poor have no reason to improve themselves. Or to educate their children. And what are you left with?”

“Class warfare.”

“Precisely,” Greshnev said with a satisfied look, as if Sandor were a talented pupil he had finally reached. “The underclass in America has given up the dream. They complain about the rich, but who really suffers? The middle class, of course. They end up working harder and paying more taxes. This way the government can go on paying benefits to those who don’t deserve them and the middle class takes it in the neck, as always. So, my friend,” he asked with a throaty laugh, “which of our countries is socialist now?”

“I appreciate the civics lesson, and admit I cannot disagree with
anything you’ve said. But what does this have to do with Sudakov?”

“Ah yes, the subject at hand.” Grehsnev nodded. “In its purest form, capitalism should work for everyone, up and down the food chain. But then there are villains like Sudakov who operate outside the law, outside the conventions of decency. The problem on Wall Street is not with the honest traders and money managers. They may be overpaid, but at least they play within the rules. The problem is a thief like Madoff. He represents the underbelly of the entire system, and that’s where we find Sudakov.”

“I’m loud and clear about his morality. What I need is some practical information to stop him.”

Now it was Greshnev’s turn to hold the American’s gaze. “What I need is an honest answer as to why Jordan Sandor is chasing after a man trafficking in narcotics.”

“I told you, I have reason to believe he’s also a terrorist.”

“Yes, but you did not tell me why you believe that.”

Sandor smiled but said nothing. This evoked another guffaw from the Russian.

“Jordan, you come here and expect to buy my assistance with nothing more than a dinner at the Pushkin, but you disrespect me by refusing to share the reasons for your mission.”

“You have to admit, it’s quite a dinner.”

Greshnev frowned.

“I don’t mean to be disrespectful, Vassily, only cautious.”

The Russian waited, taking time to pour them each some of the Puligny-Montrachet he had ordered.

“Your intelligence sources no doubt told you what happened in the Gulf of Mexico last year.”

Greshnev lifted his glass and drained a mouthful of the Pauillac he ordered for the next course, then smacked his lips. “The attempted sabotage of an oil refinery.”

“That’s right.”

“I understand you were instrumental in preventing that disaster.”

“That’s not important. What is important is the identity of the man behind the attack.”

“Rafael Cabello,” the Russian replied without hesitation. “The
Chavez henchman known as Adina. Yes, we know. The KGB may be gone in name, but the spirit lives on.”

Sandor responded with an admiring nod. “I think Adina is working with Sudakov, or at least with the people Sudakov does business with.”

“So your concern is that Sudakov may be arranging to smuggle something into the United States other than cocaine.”

“Correct.”

“Arms?”

“Nothing that conventional.”

“Biological weapons then.”

“High marks.”

The lower lip was thrust out again as Greshnev took a moment to put it all together. “Yes, that would be Adina’s style. And I see how it could work with a cocaine shipment.”

“As you are so fond of saying, precisely.”

“That’s why you believe it is possible Sudakov is not even aware he is organizing a contaminated shipment?”

“It’s possible.”

Greshnev shook his head. “Sudakov is a psychotic, but he’s not a fool.”

“No, he’s not, but I’ll bet he’s never done business with anyone like Adina before.”

A
DINA WAS NOT
a man who had to be asked twice to leave. Once Minister Bargas made clear that it was no longer wise for him to remain at the SEBIN command center, Adina took the elevator down to his living quarters and made arrangements for a hasty departure.

He was also not a man who deluded himself with a belief in loyalty, friendship, or even discretion. As far as he was concerned, they only exist insofar as they serve someone’s purpose at a particular moment in time. He and the minister went back many years, and as long as Adina was safely entrenched inside El Helicoide it was useful for him to sketch out the general parameters of his assault plans for which he needed help, while carefully omitting key details and contact information. Having the support of the minister might have become important at some point.

Now, however, the man had proved himself just another spineless bureaucrat. The political winds were shifting as a result of Chavez’s infirmity and, rather than stand up for Adina and his strategy, Bargas had joined the chorus of weaklings too afraid to pursue an aggressive policy against the United States. When he advised Adina that he was no longer welcome, he couched it in terms that made it appear he was still a friend giving fair warning. Adina thanked him, adopting the same pretense of fraternity.

Back in his room, Adina received the call he was awaiting. The minister had done as he asked, he had reached Adina’s contact in Moscow. The man was put through and a brief discussion ensued.
Once that business was completed, Adina summoned his lieutenant Alejandro into his room.

“Call the minister’s office. Tell him I want to see him upstairs in the same conference room. Ask him to meet me there in five minutes. Alone. Tell him I must pass on some vital information before I leave.”

Despite what little he had imparted to Bargas, Adina was not about to leave even a general description of his intentions behind.

The call was placed, after which Adina gave Alejandro additional instructions.

————

The minister was not surprised to hear back from Adina so quickly, expecting to be informed of the result of the call with Moscow. However, when he arrived at the conference room he was surprised to find that only Adina’s man, Alejandro, was waiting.

“I have been asked to express Señor Cabello’s apologies, but he is in the middle of packing for our departure. He requests that you accompany me to his room.”

“Of course,” Bargas said, and followed Alejandro to the elevator.

Three floors down they stepped into the corridor. When they reached Adina’s room Alejandro knocked, opened the door, and moved aside to allow the minister to enter. He then pulled the door shut, remaining in the hallway as a sentry.

Inside, Adina was seated in a desk chair. “I am preparing to leave,” he said without wasting time on cordialities, “but before I go I am compelled to express my disappointment at the lack of support for my efforts.”

The minister remained standing, staring down at a man he knew to be the most dangerous in all of Venezuela. “You understand, my old friend, it is not I who created this uncertain political climate.”

“No, of course not. Was there ever a bad deed that was not an orphan, Gilberto?”

The man had no response.

“Well, what a shame for our proud country. And what a shame for you.”

As Adina got to his feet, Jorge emerged from the bathroom, moving purposefully across the room in three swift strides. The minister
turned to him, suddenly realizing that the man was holding a knife with a long, curved blade. Before he could react, Adina’s man drove the blade hard into the minister’s midsection, driving it upward in an arc that tore through his stomach, lungs and heart. The assault was so painful, the internal injuries so devastating, that all Bargas could manage in response was a futile effort to grab at the weapon as he exhaled a deep, guttural sound of primal anguish.

Adina studied the look of agony in the man’s eyes. He said, “You disappointed me, Gilberto,” then walked to the door, opened it and called Alejandro inside. “Quickly,” he said as he locked the door behind them, “before there’s blood everywhere.”

Jorge still held the handle of the knife in place with his right hand, doing his best to contain the growing stain of blood on the minister’s chest, his left arm supporting the weight of the dying man as Bargas’s knees gave out and he began to sink to the floor.

“Quickly,” Adina said again.

Alejandro brought two plastic garment bags from the closet and placed them on the carpet. Only then did Jorge lower the minister to the ground.

“Wrap him up as best you can,” Adina ordered.

They used towels and a small blanket, transforming the minister into a manageable package.

“Is he dead?”

Alejandro leaned over and felt for a pulse along the side of his neck. Then he looked up. “Yes.”

“All right, you know what to do.”

They had earlier loosened the cover to the air vent. Now Alejandro removed it and the two large men lifted the body, covered in plastic and cloth, and hoisted him above their heads. Then they shoved him into the duct.

“Get on the chair and make sure he’s far enough in there, where he won’t be seen.”

Alejandro did as he was told, then replaced the vent cover and returned the chair to the desk.

Adina had a look around and was quite pleased. “Well done,” he said. “The car is waiting for us downstairs?”

Alejandro nodded.

“Good. Get your bags and take mine. We’re leaving right now.”

The two men went about collecting the luggage as Adina checked the room over one more time. He knew they would find the man’s body in the next few days. Even as the cool air of the air-conditioning system passed over him, the odor would eventually give him away. But by then it would not matter, by then Adina would be a national hero and all would be forgiven.