Another Way to Kill Read online

  Dane placed another spread on the table, a split between reds and blacks.

  A new player joined as one couple departed. He exchanged plaques for chips and placed a short stack on red 71.

  He wore a tux like Dane’s, a Rolex on his left wrist, and had slicked blonde hair. Nina frowned and examined his face further. A thought tried to break through the vodka fog in her head.

  The blonde man did not notice her.

  Nina finished her drink and crunched an ice cube. Dane raised an eyebrow. She ignored him.

  The wheel spun and the ivory ball began its hypnotic counter-roll.

  The blonde player watched the ball with hands in his pockets; a waitress asked if he wanted to order, but he waved her off.

  Nina tried to grab the thought in the back of her mind.

  Something about… the Rolex!

  The blonde fellow had no other distinguishing features. He wasn’t bad-looking, but he was also from central casting. Could have been anybody. Instead of a detriment, his ability to blend in was the secret of his success. He could have been a good spy, Nina once thought, but he became an excellent thief instead.

  John Blaze, in the flesh. She never thought she’d see him again.

  The ivory ball dropped onto red 71.

  The other players congratulated the blonde man as his short stack grew larger with the winnings. He tipped the wheelman, cashed in and smiled as he left the table.

  “He knows when to quit,” said Dane. “I’d better take a lesson.”

  Dane cashed out as well, and he and Nina wandered across the casino to the patio doors, where they joined other guests in the fresh air. The ocean sparkled under the moonlight.

  Nina smiled.

  “What?”

  “That blonde player. Something just turned up.”

  “Should I have recognized him?”

  “He’s a thief named John Blaze. Englishman. Likes high-end jobs, art and jewels, that sort of thing. He once tried to rob a Moscow art exhibit. I was on the FSB team that tried to catch him.”

  “But he slipped through the net.”

  “It was a draw,” she said. “He didn’t get away with anything either.”

  Dane pulled her close. “And what are you thinking?”

  “He’s probably here on a job. It would be fun to see what he’s up to.”

  “Nina—”

  “Steve, I’m so—”

  “B-O-R-E-D. I heard you. There might be a reward. We could use the money after tonight.”

  “True. Let’s talk more about it tomorrow. We should go back to the room and see if we can get lucky another way.”

  Dane didn’t argue.

  JOHN BLAZE visited the cashier to trade his chips for cash and took the stairs to one of the casino’s restaurants, where he ordered a late dinner, grilled salmon with asparagus. He paged through a small notebook, sipping water with a lemon wedge, while he waited. The notebook contained his initial brainstorms for the Trent operation.

  He always worked alone, so nobody accompanied him. He’d passed the Countess’s test but let her down with his sudden departure. Business of the crown, he’d told her, and her confusion about what that meant still amused him.

  The waiter brought his meal and refilled the water glass. He put the notebook away. The fish and asparagus needed no knife. His fork cut through both. After this he’d spend a little more time in the casino before turning in. He had another twenty-four hours to learn the layout of the casino and neighboring hotel, where Trent and the Russian would meet.

  Somewhere in Moscow…

  THE HEATER of the ZIL sedan warmed the inside well enough, but Alexander Arkady still wore a heavy coat. Another cold day in Moscow. He sipped a flask full of hot coffee rather than vodka.

  The ZIL traveled down Simonovskaya nab, presently connecting with Vostochnay nab and passing drab buildings jammed together in a tight cluster. The driver stopped in front of a tall brick building across from empty tennis courts. Too cold to play. The driver shut off the motor.

  Arkady was not alone in the sedan.

  Two FSB officers rode with him, one up front with the driver and the other in back with him. Arkady and the two cops exited the vehicle. Their breath formed clouds as they walked up the entrance steps to the apartment. One of the FSB officers held the door for Arkady, who entered without pause.

  Tall, thin, with a partially bald head and a narrow nose that hooked slightly downward, Arkady resembled a hawk, so that’s what he was known as “the Hawk.” The man who swooped down to do Putin’s dirty work when the targets of such dirty work least expected.

  The entryway had dirty white walls and stained tiles. Mailboxes covered either side of the walls. Arkady and his men bypassed the elevator, which probably didn’t work, and started up the stairs, pushing aside a young couple exiting the stairwell. The male half almost raised his voice until a glare from the FSB men ended whatever he was about to say.

  The heavy boots Arkady and the FSB men wore clunked loudly as they marched up the stairs to the third floor. One of the FSB held the hallway door while Arkady followed the frayed brown carpet to an apartment midway down the hall.

  The FSB men unzipped their coats to draw MP-443 Grach 9-millimeter pistols, which they held beside their legs. Arkady raised a fist to pound on the door. Then he stepped back to let one of the FSB kick the door open. The door crashed inward, slamming against the inner wall, one hinge coming loose from the frame. Arkady and the FSB marched inside.

  The apartment wasn’t large, and the front door opened on a living room with a kitchenette. An older man in shabby clothes and uncombed gray curly hair sat at a table against the wall, spoonful of stew halfway to his mouth. He stared with wide eyes as Arkady approached. The FSB officers, their Grach pistols well in view, spread out. But the older man’s eyes did not leave Arkady’s.

  Arkady spoke in a low voice. “Georgi Koskov, you are under arrest for the possession of illegal drugs.”

  Koskov dropped his spoon, a spray of stew dotting his shirt. “You’re mad, Arkady.” He rose. “There are no drugs in this apartment, only a man who will not abide by the madness of your precious Putin! And tell your thugs to put away their guns! Have some respect!”

  Arkady gestured with his left hand, and the FSB officers put away the pistols. They quickly searched the room, turning over sofa cushions, knocking books off shelves, making a racket and a mess.

  Koskov watched with unblinking despair. Arkady sipped coffee from his flask.

  Koskov turned from the FSB men to Arkady. “You cannot do this. There are no drugs here. Unless you planted them. You’re arresting me because of my articles!”

  “Stop talking, Georgi.”

  “You’re taking us backward! You’re going to start a war!”

  One of the FSB returned from the bedroom. He held up a bag of white powder for the Hawk to see, but Arkady didn’t even give the officer a glance.

  “Such a shame, Georgi.”

  The color drained from Koskov’s face as the other FSB officer locked handcuffs around the writer’s wrists, wrenching the man’s arms behind his back. Koskov winced.

  “Gently,” Arkady said. “He’s older.”

  Koskov cursed Arkady as the officers led him out. The curses grew in volume as the men headed down the hallway.

  Arkady looked around at the mess and the wrecked door. Koskov’s neighbors could pick out whatever they wanted, should they be so inclined. He turned on a heel and followed after his FSB escorts. He had another meeting soon. With Vladimir Putin himself.

  SQUASHED BETWEEN Arkady and one of the FSB men in the back of the ZIL sedan, a thoroughly demoralized and subdued Koskov made no further protests as they traveled to FSB headquarters. Once they arrived, the two FSB officers unloaded Koskov and escorted him inside. Arkady settled back with a sigh and a sip of coffee as the driver merged with traffic once again and drove to the Kremlin.

  As he watched the center of Russian government grow in the distance, Arkady
could not help but reflect on Koskov’s words. Putin had made no secret since day one of his presidency that he wished for a Russia restored to its glory days. No doubt eyes and ears in the West were watching as well. But Putin had the young people of Russia seeing the virtue in the old ways. Deals were being made to bring valued hard currency back into the economy. Koskov’s voice of dissent stood in the way; now, he’d be an example to others to shut up. Arkady knew it wouldn’t be that easy, and he’d be planting much more evidence in the days, weeks, and months to come, because, for now, such arrests needed a cover story.

  Koskov’s rants in the press would be judged to be those of a paranoid cocaine addict, and that worked to Putin’s advantage.

  The majestic white stone building of the Kremlin sat larger than life outside his window. The driver stopped for the guards at the gate. Arkady powered down his window so the armed soldier could see his face. He handed over his ID, which the soldier examined and handed back. The driver drove on and parked in a reserved spot with other ZIL sedans in the neighboring spaces. Arkady stepped out before the driver could open his door. He required no escort from this point.

  He walked toward the entrance as his driver lit a cigarette.

  Putin’s assistant, a young man in a black suit, greeted Arkady in the outer office. He knocked on a connecting door, opened it far enough to stick his head in and announced Arkady’s arrival.

  Vladimir Putin’s deep voice boomed from the other side of the door. “Send him in.”

  The assistant escorted the Hawk inside. The wood floor was covered with a thick roll of carpet, gray, with layered curtains over the windows. Bookcases lined the walls, with a sitting area on the opposite side of Putin’s oakwood desk, which was spotless with a polished sheen. Golden eagles from the czarist regime sat atop another case. Putin rose and greeted Arkady with a hearty handshake.

  “Welcome, Alexander.”

  “Good morning, sir.”

  Putin, wearing his own dark suit with loosened tie, guided Arkady to the sitting area. Arkady took a seat on a leather couch. Putin’s assistant poured coffee and brought the mugs to both men. The coffee let off wisps of steam; the mugs were emblazoned with the Russian flag. Putin dismissed the young assistant, who shut the office door behind him.

  “I asked you to come here for an important reason, Alexander,” Putin said. “Operation Nightshade.”

  Arkady sipped his coffee. “I’ve read the file.”

  “We’re going forward. As you know, Trent came to us, which is more than we could have asked, after he lost his bid with the U.S. government to a competing company. When you go to the U.S. to see Trent’s prototype, I need the competing company’s weapon destroyed.”

  Arkady raised an eyebrow.

  “It would be nice if Trent could be blamed for the destruction,” Putin said. “We need not dispose of him ourselves. Let the U.S. authorities do that.”

  “Some would say such action—”

  “Is an act of war, yes. I’m well aware. That’s why Trent needs to, as the Americans say, take the fall.”

  Arkady started to speak. Putin held up a hand.

  “We are at war, Alexander. And whether we want to admit it or not, as we continue our efforts here, the world will oppose us. The Americans will oppose us. They oppose us now. In acquiring Trent’s laser weapon, we have the opportunity to gain an upper hand. We need to make sure the Americans suffer a setback. A scandal. While they prosecute Trent and sort out the mess, we surge ahead with our plans.”

  Arkady said, “He expects to sell the weapon, sir. Am I supposed to buy it?”

  Putin waved him off. “Steal it, Alexander. I’m not paying forty million dollars for something we can just take.”

  “All of what you describe requires special assistance, sir.”

  “Of course. What do you need?”

  “A ship. And Marco Cavallos.”

  Putin cracked half a grin. “You’ve been thinking about this.”

  Arkady sipped some more coffee.

  “Why not our people, Alexander?”

  “Cavallos has the connections and the skills.”

  “He’s wanted by how many governments?”

  “And he’s managed to avoid capture in spite of that,” Arkady said. “There’s nobody better.”

  Putin nodded. “You will have him. A direct energy weapon will give us a tremendous edge in the days to come. Of course, if you are caught or killed… need I say more?”

  “No, sir. It will be an honor to achieve this, Mr. President.”

  “Alexander. You can use the other word. Better days are coming.”

  “It will be an honor to achieve this,” Arkady repeated, adding: “Comrade Putin.”

  4

  A Short Drop

  THE THIRTYSOMETHING couple stepped off the elevator, and the male half kept an arm around his wife. She used a key card and they entered their room. The wife went into the bathroom while the husband removed a rectangular device from the drawer where he’d lined up his socks.

  Marco Cavallos turned on the device and started a circuit of the room, corner to corner: the lamps, under the bed and table, the window frame, the picture frames hanging on the walls. The green light on the device never turned red. There were no bugs in the room.

  The toilet flushed and presently Roxana came out. “Okay?”

  Cavallos nodded. Roxana went into the closet and took out a briefcase, which she brought over to the writing table.

  The couple looked completely normal, Marco with his olive skin, dark eyes and sharp jawline. He kept his hair cut short. He might have been a Telemundo soap star, or a truck driver. Born in Venezuela, he had long ago trained himself to speak without any hint of an accent.

  “Have some coffee sent up while I change,” Roxana said. She left the table to collect pajamas from the dresser and went into the bathroom once again.

  Cavallos called room service for the coffee, then set about unpacking the briefcase. He unfolded a map and spread it on the table. He then placed glossy photographs also taken from the briefcase around the map. There was a red circle in the center of the map.

  Roxana emerged wearing pink pajamas; she tied on a bathrobe and joined her husband. Even under the layers you could see the swell of her hips and get a hint of a small frame. She wore her hair short like her husband, but with blonde streaks in the brown locks. She was French, her accent also gone, part of the price one paid to blend in while fighting for a cause nobody could remember anymore.

  Now they just fought for themselves.

  “Tomorrow’s the day,” she said.

  “You secured the helicopter?”

  “I did. You got the machine gun?”

  “I did.”

  Room service knocked. Cavallos signed for the coffee and poured two mugs. Two sugar cubes for Roxana, black for him. They sipped the brew and stood over the map and pictures. HM Forest Bank, Manchester. Off the Irwell River and the place where the Crown had sent two al-Qaeda operatives caught in London.

  The map showed the countryside location of the prison; the photos were close-ups of the complex that Roxana had taken when they’d hiked the surrounding area.

  Cavallos and Roxana traced the route they intended to fly. Up the Irwell, with a cut across Agecroft Cemetery, which would give them a straight shot at the prison.

  The AQ operatives were housed, with the rest of the prisoners, on the north end of the property in a cluster of five buildings. Those buildings extended from a center circle like a windmill. Spaces between the buildings served as the exercise yards for the various wings, the prison’s way of keeping the bulk of the population separate. They had to fly across the property, pepper a few selected spots with machine gun fire to create panic and land long enough to pick up the AQ operatives and whisk them to Scotland. In Scotland, they would hand over the former prisoners, ditch the helicopter and drive all the way back to London.

  Roxana refilled her coffee mug. “What’s our window?”

 
; “Between noon and 12:15,” Cavallos said. “We’ll have no flexibility on this, dear.”

  Roxana shrugged. “Been worse.”

  Cavallos and Roxana had met as members of the Basque underground in Spain, where they learned the tools of their trade. Engagements with Spanish authorities had tested them thoroughly, and they had managed to carry on while comrades fell. Able to make money on the freelance market, they now worked for various individuals and organizations that had horns instead of halos. It wasn’t a bad life, but they had no real home or sanctuary. Always on the run, looking over their shoulders, one job to the next.

  After ten years, both were growing weary of the existence. They weren’t ready to quit, but a home base would certainly be welcome.

  When the AQ representatives had approached them about liberating their comrades, Cavallos had not only accepted but based his plan on a similar prison rescue in Canada. The perpetrators of that effort had been captured, but Cavallos figured out how not to make the same mistakes and, best of all, his plan had passed Roxana’s critical eye.

  “We can talk about this all night,” he said, “but I think we need to get some rest.”

  “After the coffee? We’ll be up for a while yet.”

  He smiled and pulled her to him. She looked up at him and bit her lower lip.

  “What shall we do?” he said.

  “We can think of something if we put our minds to it.”

  They did.

  THE HUEY helicopter sat in a private hangar that Roxana had rented for two months, cash paid in advance. She was halfway through her pre-flight check, one side panel of the chopper open so she could look at the oil level and examine the hoses, when Cavallos drove his car inside.

  Turning off the motor, he exited to open the trunk and lift out a heavy item wrapped in a blanket. A steel tube with a vented muzzle attachment stuck out one end.

  Roxana continued her pre-flight, moving down the fuselage to the tail rotor, while he unwrapped the U.S. surplus M-60. The machine gun had a base stand with a rotating clamp. He placed the base inside the chopper cabin, making sure there was enough room to close the door with the weapon in place. Back to the car for a drill. Cavallos, with safety glasses over his eyes, proceeded to drill four holes in the cabin floor and lined the base up with the holes. With a power screwdriver, he bolted the base to the floor, then lifted up the M-60 and placed it on the rotating clamp. He tightened the clamp and tested the movement. It was a little stiff. A few drops of oil from Roxana’s oil bottle corrected that problem, and then the M-60 moved freely in any direction Cavallos moved it.