Targets of Revenge (35 page)

S
ANDOR’S EYES HAD
adjusted to the darkness. He stretched his muscles and took another inventory of his injuries, judging that no serious damage had been done from Ivan’s punches, the blow to the back of his head, or the restraints that had cut his wrists and ankles.

When he heard footsteps coming toward him from outside the metal door he was ready for them.

It sounded as if there were only two men, likely Ivan and Vaknin returning. That would certainly make things easier.

Sandor listened to the dead bolt retract and the knob turn. He was standing now, and did not hesitate as the door swung open and the light from the hallway collided with the pitch darkness of the room. Before either of the Russians could react he leveled a blow with the hard wooden chair leg at the first man in. It was Ivan, and it caught him squarely in the neck. As he grabbed for his throat Sandor jammed the end of the wooden stick hard into Ivan’s stomach, doubling him over and leaving him vulnerable to a third shot across the back of his head that sent him sprawling to the floor.

Vaknin had already turned and was running toward the stairway. Sandor leapt over Ivan’s inert body and caught the Russian in three strides, bringing him to the ground with a nimble open-field tackle around the ankles. Having dropped his wooden bludgeon in the process, Sandor spun the man onto his back and held his knife to Vaknin’s jugular.

“Don’t move, don’t make a sound,” Sandor said as he reached
down and felt for a weapon. The man was unarmed, so Sandor pulled the blade away from his neck but kept him down by pressing his knee into the nerve just inside the crook of Vaknin’s shoulder. “I came here to deliver a message, which I’ve done. Which means you’ve now had a chance to check me out. What have you been told.”

“Nothing,” Vaknin groaned.

“You’re a liar. If you found out nothing you would have let me rot down here until you did. You reached out for Sudakov?”

He nodded.

“And?”

Vaknin glared up into Sandor’s angry gaze. “I couldn’t make contact with him directly. But his man says you’re some sort of fed.”

“I told you that myself. What else?”

“That you’re dangerous.” He hesitated, so Sandor drove the knee harder into the Russian’s soft flesh between his pectoral muscle and rotator cuff. “That you need to be removed,” Vaknin groaned.

They heard Ivan begin to stir from behind them.

“Get up,” Sandor ordered Vaknin. As they got to their feet he took hold of Vaknin’s left wrist and twisted his arm behind his back, forcing it up to his shoulder blade. He then pushed him forward until they were near enough for Sandor to kick Ivan hard in the side of his head, catching him in the temple and returning him to unconsciousness. Then he bent over and withdrew the Glock from Ivan’s holster, finally letting go of Vaknin.

The Russian rubbed his arm and shoulder. “What do you want from me?”

“I’ve already told you. I want you to help me stop this shipment.”

Vaknin gaped at him as if he was mad. “Even if I were that crazy, what could I do to stop it?”

“You could tell me its entry point in this country.”

“I’d be signing my own death warrant.”

Sandor lifted Ivan’s Glock until the barrel was pointing directly at Vaknin’s left eye. “You’ve already been told I’m dangerous. And you’ve already said that I’m reckless. You have a life-and-death decision to make right now.”

Vaknin appeared to be giving it some real thought.

“My job is to prevent a terrorist attack, and I’ll do anything it takes to accomplish that. You don’t tell me what I need to know, the world is going to be short one more drug dealer, and I won’t lose any sleep over it.
Ponyal?
”

Vaknin nodded his understanding.

“We’re out of time here. What’s it going to be?”

“If I tell you what I know, you would have no reason to ever say that you learned anything from me.”

“None.”

“Lower your gun, then.” When Sandor did Vaknin relaxed slightly. “Sudakov is a different breed. I think you understand that.”

“I do.”

“But I can’t believe he’s become involved in terrorism.”

“I’m not here to make you a believer, I’m here for information.”

“I have nothing to do with Adina.”

“Let’s say for the moment I believe you,” Sandor replied with growing impatience. He had that familiar ache in the pit of his stomach, the pain that comes from dealing with one sort of evil to catch another. “Just tell me how they’re getting the drugs into the States.”

Vaknin paused. Then he said, “Baltimore. The information I have is that the goods are coming by container ship into the Port of Baltimore.”

“You’re sure?”

“I have no details. I never have anything to do with the transport part of the business.”

“The age of specialization,” Sandor said with a look of utter disgust. Vaknin spoke about his drug smuggling operation as if he were importing computers. “When?”

“Not sure, but the share of these goods coming to New York should arrive no later than the end of next week. That includes the time it takes for the shipment into Baltimore and then the transfer here.”

“Who brings it from Baltimore to New York?”

Vaknin uttered a weak protest but he was in far too deep now, and he knew it. “Transnational Truckers. They are the ones most likely to bring it north.”

“And then?”

“We use different warehouses, usually in New Jersey. They notify me after the drop-off.”

“I want the names and addresses of every one of them.”

Vaknin said there were only three warehouses that would be trusted to receive this sort of shipment, and he gave Sandor the information.

“Is that it?”

Vaknin nodded.

“If any of this turns out to be bullshit, or if you warn your friends, then I’ll be back for you.”

“Warn them? How could I do that without admitting I gave you information about our operation? I told you already, I’m not suicidal. I’m going to tell them you attacked Ivan, took his gun, and escaped. Nothing more.”

“We’ll see. Now tell me how the hell I get out of here without having to put two in your head and then shoot my way through your nightclub.”

————

Vaknin showed Sandor the way out through the rear of the building, then pointed down an alley that would take him back to Brighton Beach Avenue. Sandor relieved Vaknin of the wad of cash in his pocket—there was no way he was going back upstairs to retrieve his own money and weapon. Sandor had also left behind a cell phone, but it was one of his disposable units with no memory card, speed dial numbers, or other encoded history.

It was time to move out.

To help accommodate Vaknin’s claim that he and his bodyguard had been overpowered, Sandor hit him on the back of the head with the butt of the automatic, dropping him to the ground. He was sorely tempted to put one behind Vaknin’s ear, but a deal is a deal, and he might need the smarmy sonuvabitch again.

Out on the street Sandor found a gypsy cabdriver leaning against his car smoking a Marlboro. “Manhattan,” Sandor said, then flashed one of the hundred-dollar bills he had taken.

The driver immediately tossed the cigarette to the ground, got behind
the wheel, and started the engine for the ride into town. Sandor settled into the back of the well-used Town Car and began to sort things out.

Vaknin had every reason to lie about the shipment arriving in the Port of Baltimore—even if he believed what Sandor told him he still wanted his narcotics delivered and by the nature of who he was and what he did, he was not inclined to help a federal agent. At the same time, he literally had a gun to his head and every reason to believe that Sandor was someone who, if he had been misled, would come back for him.

For now, it was the best lead Sandor had until he heard something from the other end of the food chain, which was presumably being worked by Bergenn and Raabe in Mexico.

Sandor did not give the cabdriver his home address, just in case anyone back in Brighton Beach became curious about where he went after he left Ivan and Vaknin on the basement floor. Sandor told him to take the Brooklyn Bridge into the city, then had him head up the East Side Drive to P. J. Clarke’s on the corner of Fifty-fifth Street.

Inside, Sandor said hello to Mike McFadden, one of the bartenders he’d known there for years. He ordered a Gentleman Jack Manhattan, straight up, then asked to borrow McFadden’s cell phone. After making two quick calls he downed the cocktail, left a generous tip funded with Vaknin’s money, went back outside, and grabbed a taxi to his apartment on West Seventy-sixth Street.

————

The first of the two phone calls he had made was to Bobby Ferriello.

Sandor let the detective know he had gotten out of Brighton Beach in one piece, thanked him for his help, and assured him he would have first dibs on the major drug bust that was almost certainly going down. Ferriello was pleased on all counts and, for a moment, their tenuous relationship felt as though it might actually rise to the level of civility.

The second call was to the Deputy Director’s cell, and it was far less pleasant.

Byrnes picked up on the first ring and assured Sandor he had not awakened him despite the fact that it was nearly midnight. The
DD was still in the office working on a crisis down south. When Sandor said he was using a friend’s phone—meaning his line was not secure—Byrnes ordered him, “Get to a proper line and call me back in the office.”

Hence Sandor’s quick departure from Clarke’s. When the cab stopped in front of his brownstone, Sandor ran up the stairs two at a time, let himself into his apartment, and went to the safe that was hidden in the ceiling of his bedroom closet. He entered the code on the keypad, took out the metal box, and pulled out an encrypted phone. He powered it up and got Byrnes on the office line.

“I’m secure on my end,” Sandor told him by way of greeting.

“Where have you been?” the DD demanded.

“Getting slapped around by the Russian mafia,” Sandor replied. “I’ll tell you all about it, but please fill me in on what’s going on that has you in the office at this hour.”

Normally the DD did not allow Sandor to set the agenda for their conversations, but tonight he made an exception. “Bergenn and Raabe are off the grid.”

“How long?”

“Not long, several hours. But they were scheduled to report back and we’ve heard nothing.”

“Any chance they’re someplace where they can’t safely communicate?”

“Possible, but we haven’t even had any fail-safe signals.”

“Did they meet the DEA agent LaBelle set them up with?”

“Bergenn reported in after they met him, name of Romero, working long-term undercover. They briefed him on our problem. He was going to find out what he could about the shipment, then circle back to them tonight.”

“What about Romero?”

“He keeps on the down low, not unusual for him to remain out of contact.”

“Damn.”

“This entire operation feels like it’s being pieced together with spit and string.”

“Part of that is owed to how Adina operates.”

“I can’t disagree,” Byrnes said. “By the way, we’ve heard some rumblings to the effect that Adina has worn out his welcome with the SEBIN in Caracas.”

“Is that so?”

“We all know he had a disagreement with the moderates after his near-miss in Baton Rouge, but the pressure has been building. Since you forced him to destroy his compound, the rumor is that he was staying at El Helicoide. With Chavez ill they finally asked him to leave, but apparently he didn’t take that very well. Had one of the ministers murdered, then made tracks out of the country.”

“Why would he take out a minister?”

“Chatter has it that he and this minster were close, at least back when. He may have known more than Adina felt comfortable leaving behind.”

“Typical Adina.” Sandor thought it over for a moment. “If he’s acting on his own he could be even more dangerous.”

“You may be right. Tell me about the Russians.”

Sandor briefed him on what he learned from Vaknin.

“Is it credible?”

“Don’t know. I had a gun to his head, which tends to inspire people to tell the truth. I want to compare what he said to whatever Bergenn and Raabe find in Mexico.”

“On the off chance this Vaknin was telling you the truth I should inform the authorities in Baltimore.”

“Agreed,” Sandor said, “but we want to be discreet about how we approach this. If these smugglers see us on alert down there it would be too easy for them to change destinations.”

Byrnes agreed, then said, “The Director has me forming a task force. We’re reading in the other agencies.”

“Makes sense,” Sandor said. This was one time they needed help. “I can see you’ve got your hands full, sir, but I have a request.”

“What’s that?”

“A company plane to get me down to Mexico. Right now.”

I
N THE END,
the simplest acts of evil are the most terrifying. With so many examples of inhumanity the world has been forced to witness in the past century, the indiscriminate murder of innocent people will always be the incarnation of man at his worst.

Which was the very purpose for which Adina devised his deadly assault on America.

Adina had no choice but to despise the United States. True democracy was anathema to his vision of a proper global order. Liberty, self-reliance, and basic freedoms are unacceptable to anyone who believes that power should be concentrated in the few; that the masses should be controlled through government-run businesses, health providers, and entitlement programs; and that the military should be used to maintain discipline if anyone begins to espouse a contrary view.

Lately, Adina had seen his countrymen growing soft in their allegiance to socialism. Oil profits were growing and the prospect of personal wealth was spreading like a cancer throughout the land. Adina witnessed the collapse of the Soviet Union, humiliated at the hands of the United States, and he was not about to allow his own country to fall prey to the same temptations and frailties.