Targets of Revenge (33 page)

With that, Ivan came from behind Sandor’s chair and stood looking down on him, a mirthless grin crossing his lips.

“Come,” Vaknin said, “let’s take our guest to the basement. I need some answers and I want to be sure he is motivated to tell us the truth.”

V
AKNIN SUMMONED TWO
more men to his office and instructed them to tape Sandor’s mouth shut, lift him—still tied to his seat—and carry him downstairs.

The men did as they were told. They slapped some duct tape across Sandor’s lips, then hoisted him in the air and made their way out of Vaknin’s room and down a set of stairs in the back of the old building to a dank, poorly lit basement. They carried him through a doorway into a small room, where they dropped the chair to the ground, sending a hard jolt up Sandor’s spine. After Vaknin gave the nod, one of them ripped the tape from Sandor’s face.

If they expected him to cry out in pain, they were disappointed.

The two henchmen exited the way they had come, slamming the door shut behind them, leaving only Vaknin and Ivan to deal with their prisoner.

Vaknin grabbed a metal chair from the corner of the room and sat down. “Now we can talk.”

Sandor looked around. The room was a concrete bunker with no windows, the only light provided by an old fixture just above his head. There were a couple of other chairs and a table against the wall to his left. “Somehow I get the feeling you’ve entertained here before,” he said.

“Yes, it’s a convenient spot for quiet conversations. Both intimate and soundproof.” Vaknin pulled a silver case from the breast pocket of his coat, took out a filterless cigarette, and fired it up with a gold lighter. He drew deeply and blew out an ugly cloud of smoke. “Now
Mr. Sandor, or whatever your name may really be, I am going to ask you some questions and I expect you to respond truthfully. I am going to ask Ivan to encourage you to be, uh, candid with me.”

Sandor never saw the punch coming, but strapped in the chair there was not much he could have done even if he had. Ivan caught him in the side of the head with a right cross that rattled his teeth. Then, before Sandor could shake that off, the tall Russian moved in front of him and unleashed four quick jabs to the body. Bound as he was, Sandor could barely double over as the blows caught him squarely in the solar plexus.

When Ivan took a step back, Sandor did his best to prepare for another onslaught, tensing his stomach muscles and pressing his jaw against his shoulder to cushion the next shot. But Vaknin waved his man off to the side. “So, tell me who you are and why you are here.”

Sandor was still catching his breath as he said, “I’ve already explained that to you. I’m here to prevent a terrorist attack.”

“And you thought I would be likely to help you.”

“To help yourself.”

“So you said. And you are some sort of federal agent?”

“I am.”

“But you came here with a New York City policeman. Who you then sent away.”

“I asked him to bring me here to make this introduction.”

“You came without a warrant. Without backup.”

“I told you, I’m not DEA, and I’m not here to search your place. I’m here to talk with you.”

“To that end you gave yourself into my custody. With a full awareness of who we are and what we do.”

“That’s right.”

“You are a reckless man, Mr. Sandor.”

Sandor had managed to shake his head clear and was doing his best to sit upright. “It’s been said.”

“Others must obviously know you are here. Explain why you would have come alone.”

“If I brought a team of ten men with me, how likely is it that we’d be having this discussion?”

Vaknin nodded, then had another drag on his cigarette. “I see your point.”

“You would have demanded a warrant, as you’ve just mentioned. You would have lawyered up. We’d have spent days going back and forth and you wouldn’t have told me a damn thing.”

“Agreed. But now that you are here, what is it that you expect me to tell you?”

“I expect you to tell me when and where the shipment from Sudakov is arriving.”

Vaknin stared at him for a moment, then broke into his wheezy chortle. “Preposterous,” he said, just before the laughter again turned to coughing. He gestured to Ivan with a casual flick of his wrist and his enforcer quickly stepped forward. He smacked Sandor hard across the face, backhand and forehand, repeating it until Vaknin ordered him to stop and retreat again into the shadows.

Having caught his breath, Vaknin said, “You are either very stupid or very crazy, Mr. Sandor. Certainly you have a better plan than simply asking me to incriminate myself in a combination of narcotics smuggling and terrorism?”

Blood flowed from the corner of Sandor’s mouth as he turned to look for Ivan, who was standing somewhere behind him. “You and I are going to have another go at it sometime, pal. Sometime when I’m not all tied up.”

“I suggest you direct your attention to me,” Vaknin said, his tone having turned cold. “I warned you I am not a patient man and you are running out of time.”

“You’re a businessman, Vaknin. Assume for one second that I’m telling the truth. Assume we fail to intercept the shipment and it becomes part of an attack somewhere in the United States. You would have to agree that the consequences for you and your people would be catastrophic.”

“But what if your visit here is part of some clumsy ruse to seize this alleged shipment of narcotics?”

“There is no risk to you. All you have to do is contact someone who can inspect the cargo. If I’m wrong you’ve lost nothing. If I’m right you have numerous options.”

“Such as?”

“It depends on whether the toxins are mixed with the narcotics or separated from them in secure containers.”

“I see.” Vaknin puffed at his cigarette but said nothing more.

“You might also want to find out if someone in your organization is doing business with Adina.”

Vaknin thought it over. “If I were insane enough to be involved in a terrorist scheme, why wouldn’t I just kill you right now?”

“You would,” Sandor said. “I’m betting you’re a businessman and not a fool.”

Vaknin abruptly got to his feet and turned to Ivan. “Check that he’s good and tight.”

Ivan appeared from the darkness again, this time to ensure that the plastic strips around Sandor’s wrists and ankles were still firmly in place. “He’s not going anywhere,” the big man said. Then, for good measure, he lashed Sandor across the face with another backhanded shot.

“I’m telling you,” Sandor said as he licked at the blood on his lower lip, “you and I are going to have a rematch.”

“Brave words from a man in your position,” Vaknin said, then turned to Ivan. “Tape his mouth again and come with me.”

————

Left alone in the room, Sandor took a moment to assess Vaknin’s next move. The Russian’s first instinct would be to reach out to Sudakov, who was likely still somewhere on the other side of the world. If they spoke, there would be no reason for Sudakov to deny that the cargo in transit had been processed in Venezuela, but Sandor guessed he would not admit to any dealings with Adina. Sudakov would offer up a distorted version of the events in Sharm el-Sheikh. He would do his best to convince Vaknin that Sandor was nothing more than an agent working to dismantle their operation, someone they needed to eliminate.

If Sudakov was persuasive enough, Vaknin and his henchmen would return to this basement prison soon, and there would be very little in the way of further discussion. If Vaknin had any doubts, Sandor would have to work hard to enlist his help.

Or to force it.

Sandor knew that Vaknin was right, his story was indeed preposterous—a federal operative was asking a major drug dealer to compromise a large delivery of narcotics because it might be concealing biological weapons. And yet, why else would Sandor have come here alone and put himself at such risk? That was the riddle he hoped Vaknin could neither easily dismiss nor resolve based on Sudakov’s assurances.

Sandor wanted to stir enough concern for the man to investigate further. Given Sudakov’s reputation, Vaknin had every reason to determine if there was any chance Adina was somewhere in the mix. Whatever Vaknin learned and the action he took in response could be the source of Sandor’s next lead.

But it would be useless until Sandor got himself free.

Vaknin wanted him alive, at least for now, and Sandor had done his best to provoke Ivan so Vaknin would not trust him alone with his prisoner. It had cost Sandor several hard shots to the face and stomach, but the strategy worked. Now, with no one watching him, he had a chance to find a way out of his restraints.

The plastic ties that held him were too tight and strong to be stretched or loosened, and he could not get to the blade he had hidden in the lining of his sport coat lapel. His only option was to break apart the arms and legs of the chair, and he knew he hadn’t much time.

When Vaknin’s goons dropped him to the floor it was definitely painful but potentially helpful. Whatever they had done to weaken the joints of the heavy, wooden chair would prove useful. He began rocking, the motion allowing him to slide the chair backward, closer and closer to the wall. When he was near enough, he drove upward with his legs, slamming the wooden back against the concrete, once, twice, then a third time. But it was no good. This was a well-made piece of furniture and it was not giving way. Figuring the legs had taken the hardest shot when they dropped him, Sandor maneuvered himself sideways, barely able to bring the chair off the floor with his ankles in harness. He began driving the left front leg into the cement wall.

Good thing this room is soundproof,
he told himself.

After repeated
thump
s he heard what he had been waiting for, a distinctive
crack
. The restraints were cutting through his skin now, blood running down his shins, but he increased the intensity of his effort until the wooden leg finally gave way at the joint just below the seat and he tumbled to the floor on his side. He managed to bend his knee high enough to bring the broken leg of the chair into his left hand, then slid the wood from between his ankle and the restraint and got his left leg free.

Able to stand on that one leg now, he could generate far more force as he drove the side of the chair into the wall, smashing it again and again until he broke off the left arm and freed his wrist. From there he was able to pull out the blade from his jacket and cut the remaining ties.

He raced to the door of the room, not surprised to find it locked. He jimmied the knob, but it was a solid mechanism. There was no way he was going to kick his way through a metal door secured with a dead bolt and the blade was too large to help him pick the lock.

He picked up the largest remnant of one of the legs of the now-shattered chair. Together with his knife these were the best weapons available at the moment. He then lifted the metal seat Vaknin had used and placed it beside the door. Sitting down, he took a moment to check out his ankles and wrists. The bleeding was not bad; he could deal with it later.

Then he stood and had another look around the room. It was bare.

He stared up at the single light fixture, which hung above the spot where he had been seated. He used the wooden stick to shatter the bulb, plunging the room into total darkness.

He made his way back to the door, found the metal chair and sat down, then did the only thing he could as his eyes adjusted to the dark.

He waited.

I
N THE WORLD
of espionage, counterterrorism, and intelligence gathering, infrequent moments of intense action are interspersed with long stretches of tedious inactivity. Just as Sandor could do nothing but wait for his captors to return, Bergenn and Raabe had to spend the evening in their hotel room, waiting for a phone call from Felipe Romero.

“At times like this I wish I still smoked,” Bergenn said.

Raabe shook his head. “It’s times like this I’m glad you don’t.”

It was nearly eleven when the phone finally rang. Raabe picked it up.

“I’ve got the girls,” the voice told him. “You bring the money, I’ll see you where we said.” Then the line went dead.

Raabe hung up and looked over at Bergenn.

“Well?” Bergenn asked.

“He said he’s got the girls, that we should bring money and meet where we said.”

“So why the look?”

“I’m not sure, I mean we just met Romero, but I would tell you that was not Romero’s voice on the phone.”

Bergenn drew a deep breath and exhaled slowly. “All right, let’s go find out.”

They checked their weapons, each man chambering a round, then replaced the automatic handguns in their holsters. Bergenn pulled on a loose-fitting sport coat, Raabe a zipper jacket. They had a look
around the shabby room, then took their passports and money, not leaving anything behind that could identify or incriminate them. They knew they might not have the chance to get back here.

“It’s showtime,” Raabe said.

Bergenn nodded.

They rode the elevator down to the lobby in silence. The cocktail lounge, just off to the right, was small and dark and uncrowded. It was easy to see Romero was not there. Neither man broke stride as they surveyed the room on their way to the bar.

The bartender approached, a short homely man with a crooked mouth. “What can I get you?” His English was clear, filtered through a Mexican accent.

Raabe ordered a Dos Equis, Bergenn a Tecate.

It did not take long for the beers to be served, no glasses. Not long after that a man came up from Bergenn’s left and stood beside him.

“I understand you two are looking for some excitement tonight.”

Bergenn scanned him up and down. He was a few inches short of six feet tall, trim, with an oily complexion and nervous eyes. He wore black pants and an oversized print shirt that was not tucked in, making it easy to conceal a weapon. “Maybe,” Bergenn said. “We’re actually waiting for someone else, said he could line up a good time for us.”