The Skorpion Directive (22 page)

“Marcy . . .”

She rounded on him with some heat.

“Shut up, Brendan . . . Ray . . . whatever your name is. You and me, we’ll sort this out later. Go on, Miss Turrin,” she said, coming back. “You have got my full attention.”

Nikki hesitated, took some wine, organizing her thoughts.

“Last winter, Mr. Fyke, along with other government agents, stopped a major terrorist attack on the Port of Chicago. I was part—a small part—of that operation—”

“What sort of terrorist attack?” asked Marcy, giving Fyke a look. Nikki gave her the A version, leaving in enough to lay out the risks taken and leaving out anything about Micah Dalton.

Marcy’s expression softened considerably as Nikki unfolded Fyke’s tangled career narrative. Nikki was putting a shine on Fyke’s record, but the story was, Nikki realized as she was telling it, essentially an honest portrait of the man.

“You said earlier that Brendan—
Ray
—had gotten himself crossed up with the ICC. How’d he do that?”

Fyke stopped her there, and Marcy turned to look directly at him for the first time since they had all sat down at the table.

“I was on a ship, the
Mingo Dubai
, a gypsy tanker, a rust bucket. We were boarded by pirates at the eastern end of the Malacca Straits. They were Malays, Dyaks, working for a Serb named Branco Gospic. They killed most of us, and I killed some of them, and then, for health reasons, put myself overboard. A Singapore patrol boat fished me out of the water, and I got charged with sinking the ship, which wasn’t sunk at all but was being reflagged for Gospic’s people. A guy named Chong Kew Sak was the head of the Singaporean SID—sort of their CIA, Marcy. He was in on the deal, locked me in Changi Prison, and was in the process of having me beaten to death when a friend of mine—”

Nikki shook her head slightly.

Fyke got the message.

“Can’t say who got me out of Changi. We did some things together in the South China Sea. Ended up in the Port of Chicago last fall, where I first heard of Miss Turrin here. We’d never met, but I saw her picture on the operations monitor. Anyway, when it was all over, well, having the likes of me around made the dons at Langley a tad uneasy. I might pee on the Bokhara or start humping a table leg. So they got the head reptile to walk me to the door, check my pockets for silverware, and kick me down the lane—”

Here he gave Nikki a look.

Cather,
she realized.

“So, being at liberty, with a pittance in my pocket, I went back to Singapore to see about this Mr. Chong Kew Sak. Led me quite a chase, he did. Finally ran him down about six months ago, in Papua New Guinea, at a little village called Sogeri, upriver from Port Moresby, where we had what the House of Lords would call ‘a frank exchange of views.’ After that, things were a little warm in Southeast Asia. The ICC had a warrant out for me, and so did Singapore, so I picked up an old legend again and came out here because the U.S. doesn’t recognize an ICC warrant. Yet. Here I met you, Marcy. Thought I was gonna live happily ever after until Miss Turrin shows up.”

Fyke sat back, finished off his glass of Chianti, got the waiter’s eye, and ordered up another. The silence came back, but now it seemed slightly more amiable. Marcy Cannon looked at her glass for a while, turning it in the glow from the lamp. Fyke watched her carefully, his green eyes bright in the table glow, a vulnerable look on his battered face. Cannon took the bottle, filled Nikki’s glass, and then hers. She sat back with a sigh, took Fyke’s left hand in her right, and looked across the table at Nikki.

“I guess now is where we find out why
you’re
here, Nikki.”

Nikki gathered herself, rode down her guilt, and went straight at it, addressing herself to Fyke.

“You heard about an explosion in Vienna two days ago?”

“I saw something on Fox about it,” said Fyke warily. “A car bomb near a church? Terrorists, they said.”

“It’s a bit more complicated. An Israeli citizen was killed, along with two police officers. The Mossad is involved—”

“Oh Jeez. Nobody does revenge better than the Shin Bet.”

“Yes. That’s the problem. The man they’re after—”

Fyke got there before she finished the sentence.

“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph,” he said. “You’re not talking about . . . about the
crocodile
, are you?”

“Yes.”

“Who the hell is the crocodile?” asked Marcy, understandably confused. “Is that some sort of spook code name?”

“No,” said Fyke. “Just a nickname. For an old friend. A lovely man. Is the Agency doing anything to help him at all?”

“No. Quite the reverse. The latest is, the Bureau of Diplomatic Security sent a covert unit to Venice last night, trying to arrest him.”

“Did they,” said Fyke with a glint in his green eyes. “And how did that work out for them?”

“Not well. The BDS now has five agents sitting in a prison block in Mestre and two more in a hospital—”

“
That’s
my lad.”

“And all without any papers. And the Carabinieri—”

“Brancati?”

“Yes. Major Brancati is threatening to send them all to a terrorist lockdown in Milan and hold them there indefinitely unless the U.S. government can explain—and also justify—why they violated standing protocols and formal undertakings in an attempt to kidnap someone who was enjoying the protection of the Italian authorities.”

“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. What a cluster . . . What a sorry fix it all is. What’s Langley doing about it?”

“They’ve denied any involvement. They say it was a BDS mission, ordered out of the embassy in Rome—a State Department matter—and they know nothing at all about it. As for our friend, they’ve effectively given the Mossad a free hand. They’re staying well clear.”

“Running for cover, now that there’s a Special Prosecutor, is that it? Like Pontius Pilate? Letting all their hard boys twist in the prevailing wind that’s blowing out of the President’s arse? The Mossad will do their sticky work, the clouds will all roll away, the golden lads and lassies at Langley will climb into the sunlit uplands of prosecutorial immunity, the President gets on
Oprah
, and everybody on the wrong side of the blanket offers up a quiet novena for the late and unlamented.”

“Yes. Essentially. You know the old story about the scorpion and the crocodile who meet at a river?”

“I do. I bloody well do. So poor bloody Mikey’s out there on his poor bloody own, is he?”

“No,” said Nikki. “We’re hoping he has you.”

Thirty-one hours and 1,756 kilometers later—290 from Venice to Zagreb, 390 from Zagreb to Belgrade, 450 from Belgrade to Bucharest, and another 626 from Bucharest to Sevastopol—and Dalton, who had somehow managed to sleep much of the way in spite of the five different planes involved in the journey, each one more rickety and bone-shaking than the last, was finally installed in a wicker chair on the shining-white pillared balcony of the Sevastopol Hotel’s restaurant. In honor of a Free Ukraine, he was smoking a sky-blue, gold-tipped Sobranie Cocktail, nursing a G & T so cold it was hurting his fingertips, and watching the lights of Sevastopol Harbor come flickering on all around the shoreline. The broad bay, steely under a pinto sky, was studded here and there with the matte-gray spearheads of six Russian destroyers moored out in the offing, their amber running lights shimmering in the damp evening air. Because the eye-blink-brief tourist season was now under way, an armada of pleasure craft and tour boats was circling around the gunships like tropical fish darting around in a shark tank.

Sevastopol, shelled into ruins by the Brits during the Crimean War and halfheartedly repaired by czarist Russia, today nominally a Ukrainian holding, was still living under the shadow of the Russian Navy, which had a twenty-year lease on the port, granted in 1997 by the Ukrainians, a reluctant concession profoundly influenced by the guns of the Black Sea Fleet.

The town itself was pleasant enough to look at, full of lights and glitter, with many charming white limestone homes, blue-roofed town-house developments, gaily canopied seaside restaurants scattered along the embankment, dense, tree-shaded neighborhoods of apartments and town-house blocks rising up into in a cascading range of green hills, some neoclassical buildings dotted here and there about the town, and a large drum-shaped war museum set out on a hilltop, dominating the town and the harbor.

But to Micah Dalton, it looked, walked, talked, and smelled like a Russian satrap, which to him had always meant the dead-meat stink of totalitarian oppression and the mute, miasmic dread of a captive citizenry. Dalton had been here before. He had followed the progress of a Russian trawler through the Black Sea, a trawler that was suspected of carrying a shipment of missile-guidance systems to the Iranians. Dalton had found the place . . . unfriendly, having to leave by private boat under the cover of darkness just a few hundred yards ahead of a detachment of Russian naval security forces.

He was back now, checked into a nice suite of rooms under the name of Dylan Castle, an investment analyst working for a London-based private bank known to the fiscal set as Burke and Single. The Castle “legend,” which had worked well enough to get him out of Venice and all the way to the Crimean, had been laid out by Porter Naumann under the cover of Burke and Single, a CIA false-front bank monitoring currency transactions around the world. It was only safe to use now because Naumann had firewalled the legend from Tony Crane and the people at London Station, mainly because he was afraid that one fine day he’d need it himself.

Along with a lot of other things Dalton had inherited from Naumann, the Dylan Castle cover was about the only ironclad thing he had left now that Mariah Vale and the CIA had shut down his bank accounts, his credit cards, published his picture and description all over the covert world, and taken initial steps to freeze his assets in London and Venice.

As Dylan Castle, he had a valid American passport, two credit cards—one from Barclay’s and the other from the Banca Raiffeisen—and peripheral supporting cards. It was risky taking a legend that existed literally under the eaves of the CIA, but it had been his experience that the CIA, always obsessed with the big picture, often overlooked tiny details sitting on its doorstep.

Dalton checked his watch and looked seaward again for any sign of the Nordside ferry, which was now about fifteen minutes overdue. Yes. There it was, a small oblong of yellow light butting through the channel swells, carving a white curve through the darkening water. By the time it docked in the little harbor below his balcony, thumping into the concrete jetty with an audible crunch while the props boiled the water at her blunt stern, Dalton had called the waiter over and placed an order for a bottle of chilled Bollinger and two iced flutes, and made detailed arrangements for a large rack of lamb to follow.

A tall, long-legged and elegant woman in a charcoal knitted sheath dress under a long black coat, her black-and-silver hair flying in the wind, came striding down the gangplank, trailing a black leather rolling bag, one gray-gloved hand shading her eyes from the floodlights as she scanned the hotel balcony.

Dalton lifted a hand, and the woman waved back, crossing the jetty and disappearing under the trees.

Four minutes later, the glass doors behind him opened—he was, of course, now standing—as Mandy Pownall, listed in Burke’s Peerage as Cynthia Magdalene deLacey Evans Pownall, late of London Station, now on a kind of tactical sabbatical, came through the doors with a broad smile on her fine patrician features, her gray eyes shining, the cashmere dress clinging to her graceful curves like a morning mist on the bend of a river.

She stepped lightly into Dalton and gave him a full-body hug, nose to toes, pressing herself into him so tightly he could feel her full breasts, her gently rounded belly, the heat of her hips, while her scent, White Linen, overloaded his senses, as she knew damned well. She kissed him full on the mouth, a lingering kiss, her red lips parted and her spicy breath blood warm on his burning cheek.

She stepped back, gave him a delighted assessment, taking in and approving of his light gray suit, his gray shirt, the gold silk tie, his black Allen Edmonds slip-ons.

“Well, for a desperado, you look very chic.”

“I try to please, Mandy,” he said, feeling his somber mood lighten as it always did when Mandy was around. “You do look splendid.”

Mandy surveyed the crowded harbor as they sat down, sniffing at the usual Sevastopol smell of kerosene and diesel and seaweed but approving of the clear, tangy scent of the eucalyptus shrubs that ringed the balcony. She watched with a slight smile playing on her fine-boned, pale-skinned face as Dalton poured her a flute of Bollinger and held out his cigarette case, lined with fresh Cocktails, thinking, with an internal flinch, of Veronika Miklas back in Venice locked away in the Arsenale.

Mandy lifted her glass in a toast, they
ping
ed and sipped, and then she sat back in her chair, drew on her cigarette, turned her head to blow the smoke away, looking very much like the young Katharine Hepburn as she did. She then let her smile lose some wattage and gave him a considering glare.

“So. Did you screw her?”

“Screw who?” asked Dalton rather weakly.

“That little Austrian gumshoe. The one who latched onto you in Vienna. Vickie Mukluks or something like that?”

“Veronika Miklas?”

Mandy waved that away with a dismissive hand.

“Answer the question, you slithering toad.”

“Do toads slither?”

“You do. Out with it. They say confession is good for the soul, although I’ve never tried it myself. Did you shag the girl?”

“No,” said Dalton, summoning as much force as his guilty mind could muster and working heroically to keep his expression expressionless. “No. I did not.”