Extreme Faction Page 6

  “We talked about his work,” Swanson said. “I was interested in his recent research with pesticides. I figured if it worked so well on Ukrainian bugs, why not Oregon bugs?”

  “And?”

  “And what?” Swanson started to turn but was stopped by a stiff object against the side of his face. It could have been a cane or an umbrella, or maybe even a gun. “What are you doing?”

  “I told you not to turn.”

  Swanson swiveled his head back and took another sip of his drink. “Listen, I don’t know what in the hell you want.”

  “You got the money?”

  “Yes, of course. But I thought that was for what we had discussed earlier. Showing favoritism is one thing...”

  “Shut up. Not so loud.”

  Swanson hadn’t realized his voice had risen. “All right,” he whispered. “What can I do for you.”

  “That’s more like it.” The man paused for a moment. “You have a man working for you. A Jake Adams. What does he know of all this?”

  Swanson was wondering what “all this” was. “Adams knows Odessa. We had heard that the Ukraine was going through growing pains. Was a little wild. When we got our Visas the state department had warned us that businessmen had been murdered. He’s here for security.”

  The man was silent, thinking about it. “What kind of background does he have?”

  What was with this man’s interest in Jake? What the hell difference did it make. He and Jake had been at each other’s throats since they met. “Air Force intelligence, I guess. He used to work here.”

  “That’s it?”

  Swanson finished his drink. “Yes. As far as I know.”

  “Why isn’t he here tonight with you? Protecting you.”

  Swanson laughed. “I thought it was stupid to hire him in the first place. A waste of money.”

  “Can I talk with him?” the man asked.

  “Go right ahead.”

  “Where’s he staying?”

  “Same hotel as us. Across the hall. But—”

  “I’ll get back with you.” The man stood up. “As I pass you, turn and head to the bathroom. Don’t come out for two minutes. Don’t try to look at me. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, but...” Swanson felt something across his back, so he rose quickly and went into the bathroom. He waited there for a good five minutes. When he came out, he talked with the bartender. Asked him what the man had looked like sitting next to him. The bartender thought he was nuts, but he described him carefully, as if he would never forget the man. Swanson felt good about that. He had outsmarted the man at his own game.

  9

  Nearly twenty-four hours had passed since Yuri Tvchenko collapsed into Jake’s arms, yet the Odessa police, who had ordered an immediate autopsy, had given no indication of the results of that examination. The problem was, there was no legitimate reason Jake should know the results and he knew it.

  He had tried to rest, tossing and turning in his hotel bed, uncertain what to do next. On one hand, he couldn’t help thinking about Tvchenko. What had he been up to? More importantly, perhaps, were his guilty feelings about MacCarty and Swanson. They were paying him to protect them, and he had been off all day looking into Tvchenko’s death. It wasn’t like he didn’t try to help the two men. On the plane trip over, he had briefed them on ways to keep from becoming targets. But once the three of them had actually landed, and the two of them had seen that the city wasn’t infested with ten-foot beasts, they figured they would be safe enough on their own. Jake had protested, relenting when he realized that the two men were adults; old enough to decide some things for themselves.

  It was true that Jake would help negotiate any contract if Bio-tech decided to build a business there or convert an existing facility. Maybe that was MacCarty’s true concern. It was also true that Odessa had gotten more dangerous over the years. Tvchenko’s death had proved that, as well as the intelligence briefings Jake had gotten from Tully his first day there. In the old days undesireables were simply whisked away, never to be seen again. Taken to some frozen Siberian resort, no doubt.

  It was ten p.m. now. Jake waited in relative darkness at the base of the Potemkin Steps in the heart of the harbor region. He had always been told that there were one hundred ninety-two steps in all, but he had never found a good reason to count them.

  Out on the street toward the harbor, cars frequently streamed by, their tires squealing on tight turns. Taxis mostly at this hour, carrying drunken sailors from one bar to the next.

  Jake thought about the sleepless night before, where he and Tully O’Neill, the Odessa station chief, had quickly gone to Tvchenko’s apartment, been nearly blown to pieces, and then discovered the tape with the Kurds. He thought about Tvchenko, trying to make sense of his death. Was it simply the GRU cleaning house? Jake didn’t think so. Tvchenko must have been selling information to someone, until, much like a drug deal gone sour, that group decided they were getting a raw deal, or were being set up.

  He regretted not finding Chavva at the Odessa Hotel that afternoon. There was something about her that was both disturbing and exciting. She had a certain naughty quality that transcended normal, rational behavior. He had never gotten her full name, just Chavva, like some movie star or rock singer.

  Hopefully, Tully O’Neill had gone back to the office, made copies of the tape, and sent the original back to Langley by diplomatic pouch for a linguist to analyze.

  Slipping his hand out of his pocket, Jake rubbed the scab in his palm where the cryptic note had been injected just before Tvchenko had crumpled into a convulsive ball. What did it mean? He knew nearly everything about the city of Halabja and its horrid past, but what was Tvchenko trying to tell him?

  And what was he doing here in the dark? After his vain attempt to rest, he had gone down to the front desk in the lobby, where there was a message for him. It had only said, “Be at the bottom of the Potemkin Steps at ten p.m.” Nothing more. Not who had sent it, or for what reason. Since going private, Jake realized he was alone most of the time. Back in his Agency days he would have been backed up with double layers protecting his back and moving in behind anyone approaching the area. But now he was on his own. Sure he could have disregarded the note, but what the hell, full living meant taking chances. And the note had been curious if nothing else.

  He scanned the darkness for any movement, but there was only an occasional drunk sailor off in the distance at the pier. He felt for the Makarov under his arm. It reassured him, even though he had not fired the weapon. Would it work if he needed it? Hopefully Quinn Armstrong would get him a new piece soon.

  In a moment, a large dark car approached slowly down the street and stopped, its lights blinding Jake from twenty feet away. The two back doors opened and two figures appeared—then there was the distinct clicking of automatic weapons chambering rounds.

  Jake reached for the Makarov.

  “That wouldn’t be wise,” came a harsh voice in broken English.

  Jake slid his hand out from inside his coat and thought of dashing toward the harbor and diving into the water. “What do you want?”

  “Answers.”

  “Who are you?” It was a stupid question and Jake knew it. But he thought he’d try.

  “It does not matter. This will only take a short while. Assuming we get the right answers.”

  Taking a few steps forward, Jake tried desperately to identify the car. But in the bright headlights, it was impossible to tell the make for sure. It wasn’t a normal pattern. More like someone had modified the light scheme. “Well? You ask the questions and I’ll try to answer them.”

  “I’m afraid it’s not that simple.”

  There was only a faint blowing sound, like a pellet rifle. Jake felt a pain in his neck, reached up and touched the dart, and that was the last he remembered.

  10

  His head swirled uncontrollably, as Jake tried desperately to lift his body from the cold cement. His knees ached. There was a sharp pain in
his ribs, and he rubbed them now with his hand to ease the stabbing spasm that felt like a knife was still there imbedded in his chest. Then there was the swelling throb in his neck. All these problems were minor compared to his feelings of utter stupidity. How had he let himself get into this situation?

  High overhead there was a single light, not bright enough to allow a good view of his surroundings. He could only see perhaps twenty feet in all directions. There were crates stacked high on two sides of the room, a crude wooden structure with windows, an odd attempt at an office on another side, and a high metal door on the fourth. Even through blurry eyes, Jake suspected he was in a warehouse of some sort. He could still smell the ocean, so he was probably in the harbor region.

  Out beyond the light, he heard whispers. Then footsteps coming his way. He was on one knee and one foot, with a hand on his chest and the other trying to squeeze life back into his head. Feeling with his left arm, he realized the Makarov was gone.

  Finally, he could make out three men heading toward him. They stopped ten feet away, but their faces were covered with white, cold weather masks, like those issued to Russian troops in the winter. The two outer men wore cheap wool suits, much like the old KGB or GRU would wear. The middle man wore a fine Armani, or a reasonable fake. The two on the outside carried submachine guns, but in the darkness and from that distance Jake couldn’t see if they had rounds chambered. He supposed they did.

  “Well, Mr. Adams,” came a voice from the middle man. “I see you’re with us again.”

  It was the same man who had spoken through the bright headlights. What type of accent was that?

  “You’ve got me at a disadvantage,” Jake said, struggling to rise. He winced in pain. Someone had done a number on his body while he was out.

  The man laughed. “I’m afraid you’re right.” There was a long pause. “We need some information.”

  “Who’s we?”

  “I’ve heard you’re a difficult man.”

  Heard, my ass. Read in a security briefing perhaps. “What do you want? Make it quick. I think one of your courageous buddies there broke my ribs.” Jake squinted through the darkness to look for a reaction.

  “You were the last man to speak with Yuri Tvchenko before he died,” the man said.

  “He didn’t say shit to me,” Jake yelled, his voice echoing through the cavernous room. “Someone made sure of that,” he added softly, with pain.

  “Then why did you blow up his apartment last night.”

  Jake laughed and then started coughing. He could taste the iron of his own blood. So, they must have been at the apartment. They either followed Jake and Tully there, which was not likely, or they had been watching the place. Maybe they even set off the bomb. “Yeah, right. I got my ass fried there.” He thought for a second. “Where were you when the whole thing went down?”

  “I’m asking the questions here?”

  “Who do you work for?” Jake asked, not expecting an answer.

  “That’s funny, that was my next question for you.”

  Jake glanced around the dark room for some escape route. “I work for Bio-tech Chemical from Portland, Oregon. We make insecticides and fertilizers.”

  “That’s a nice little lie, Mr. Adams,” the man said. His voice became more serious. “Whatever happened to Captain Adams, United States Air Force Intelligence? Expert in chemical and biological weapons?”

  Damn. He knew more than Jake initially thought. But at least he hadn’t mentioned the CIA. Time to shift gears. “Yeah, well the Cold War is over, remember. The military didn’t need me anymore. So, like all good capitalists, I went private.”

  The man considered this, then whispered to one of his men. The man walked up to Jake and swung his leg up quickly, catching him in the chest. Jake reeled to his back and landed with a crash to the cement. Then he buckled in pain. If the ribs hadn’t been broken before, they were now.

  After a minute, the man spoke again. “You could make things so much easier for yourself if you’d simply answer my questions truthfully.”

  “And then what?” Jake forced out. “Your boys take target practice.” He had to stall. It was a gamble, but perhaps they wouldn’t kill him.

  “I assure you, my men need no practice,” the man said. “Now, where were we? You were going to tell me everything you know about Yuri Tvchenko. What he was working on. Who he was selling out to. The whole story.”

  “You seem to know more about him than I do,” Jake said, struggling to his feet. “After all, I’ve only been in Odessa a few days. I’m here to attend an agricultural conference. I just happened to be standing in the ballroom when Tvchenko was killed. I never even met the man,” Jake lied.

  “He was shaking your hand when he died,” the man screamed.

  Jake stepped forward, directly under the light. “I had never met the man.” He wanted the man to see his face when he lied. He had always been able to fool anyone with a straight face. First his mother, then his teachers, even his friends while telling a joke. He had also found it quite easy to fool a lie detector. The Air Force had never known this, but the Agency had its suspicions and did nothing. After all, that was a fine trait for a field officer.

  The man in the middle was clearly frustrated. He reached into his jacket and pulled out an automatic pistol, pointing it directly at Jake’s head. “I want the truth.”

  Jake didn’t flinch. If it had come down to this, dying in some squalid warehouse, then he was prepared. His parents had died. He had no wife. No children. Not even a girlfriend any more. He had dedicated his life to his work. First his education, then the military and the Agency, and now his private company. “Go ahead,” Jake said. “I have nothing to live for. I work for a Goddamn pesticide company. So I’m basically a souped-up exterminator. I haven’t had a date in over a year. And even then I didn’t get lucky.” He was really laying it on now. He peered directly at the masked leader and the pistol muzzle. “You wanta shoot me. Go ahead. I’m not worth that 9mm parabellum slug.”

  The man slowly returned his gun to its holster. “You seem to know a lot about guns, Mr. Adams. Why is that?”

  “I grew up in Oregon. We’re heavily armed out west.”

  “And why were you carrying the Makarov?”

  Jake expected this question. “I’ve heard a number of businessmen have been shot in Eastern Europe and Russia lately. I was just trying to protect myself from...gangs.”

  The man whispered to his men. The two of them grabbed Jake by his arms and escorted him into the darkness. As they stepped outside, Jake could smell the saltwater and dead fish, and hear the light waves lapping against the wooden moorings. He felt a slight breeze across his face. Then there was a hollow thud as one of the men hit him in the back of the head.

  ●

  Ten minutes later, Jake woke in darkness. His whole body was shaking. He was wet. He felt down with his hands, and realized he was lying on a course netting. Fishing nets. Suddenly he felt a hand squeezing his left arm, trying to pull him up.

  “Get up, Jake,” the man above him said. “Are you all right?”

  He couldn’t see the man yet, but he recognized the voice. It was British. “What the hell are you doing here, Sinclair?” Jake forced out.

  The Brit pulled Jake up farther and stooped down to his level. Sinclair Tucker was wearing a long wool coat, nice dress slacks, and brown oxford shoes. He had a strong jaw that he had not shaved in a few days, which was unusual for him. If there was anyone Jake knew who took personal hygiene seriously, Sinclair Tucker was the poster boy. They had spent a great deal of time together in remote Turkish villages, with no running water, except for a stream, and Tucker always managed to maintain a clean appearance.

  “Well it’s nice to see you too,” Sinclair Tucker said.

  Jake sat up and pain shot through his chest. “What brings MI-6 out on such a fine Odessa night? Wait a minute. I heard you went home for the holidays?”

  “I bloody well did,” Sinclair said, tipping his
tweed driving cap to the back of his head. “I’m afraid my superiors had other ideas. The bastards forced me to leave in the first place, and then they ruin it once I’ve agreed. As if I had a choice.”

  “Can you help me here?” Jake reached his arm out to the Brit.

  Tucker lifted Jake to his feet. The Brit was a wiry guy. Over six feet, but with no visible fat. He had surprised Jake with unusual strength on a number of occasions, as if his muscles were a secret.

  “How’d you find me?” Jake asked.

  “Superior British intelligence, I suppose.”

  “Now there’s a triple oxymoron,” Jake laughed, as he started walking down the pier. His balance was shaky and his head was still in a great deal of pain. He stroked the knot on the back of his skull, where dried blood was caked to his long hair.

  Tucker was at his side. He swung Jake’s arm over his shoulder. “Actually, I had just gotten in from London and headed directly to your hotel. I assumed you’d know something about Tvchenko’s death. You got into a cab just as I was pulling up. I followed you. I guessed you weren’t going out on a late night tour of the city. So I thought you could use some backup.”

  Jake stopped quickly. “You saw the men take me?”

  Tucker nodded.

  “And you didn’t do anything?”

  “I took down the information on the car and followed it to the warehouse. I was in the warehouse when you gave them that bullshit story. You’re a helluva liar, Jake. I had them in my sights. When they hit you and dragged you down the pier, I was afraid they’d kill you and dump you into the harbor. Luckily they didn’t. They just left about ten minutes ago.”

  “Why didn’t you follow them?”

  Tucker laughed. “You dumb bastard. I came back to see if you were all right.”

  “Thanks.”

  “No problem.”