Jet (30 page)

Jet hit the surface hard and sliced through the water, staying deep enough to be invisible to the gunmen above, and pulled with powerful strokes toward the rocks. Only once she had covered fifty meters underwater did she risk surfacing for air, turning so only her face broke the surface. She stared back at the building’s burning silhouette and the gunmen outlined against the fiery backdrop, their weapons pointed at the water as one of them yelled orders. She gasped air deep into her lungs and submerged herself again, the image of Leo’s jacket on the pier seared into her brain as she swam for the adjacent wharf with all her remaining energy.

Bangui, Central African Republic

The strident ringing of a telephone echoed through the manor house, shattering the stillness. Moments after it fell silent, a knock sounded at the master bedroom and the muffled voice of one of the servants jarred Abel to full wakefulness.

“Sir? I’m sorry, but it’s Captain Roberge. He says it’s urgent.”

Abel blinked and stared at the time. Three in the morning. As he pushed the covers aside, the girl next to him stirred, her skin gleaming like onyx in the faint light from the clock. She made a sound like a baby kitten and rolled over, covering her face with one arm as the warlord pushed himself to the end of the bed and stood.

He pulled on a silk kimono and cinched it around his considerable waist, and then made his way to the door, where the servant waited outside with a portable telephone. Abel took it from him and stepped into the hall. The servant scurried down the stairs, leaving the warlord to his call. Abel padded to his office and switched on the lights, and then settled into his chair.

“Well? Is it done?” he boomed into the phone.

“Sir, I…everyone’s dead. Lucien too. The weapons were destroyed and the diamonds are gone.” The captain of the cargo ship gave a panicked report of the events at the wharf, his voice shaky. When he finished, Abel’s words were dangerously measured.

“So we have nothing for our trouble and have lost a small fortune,” he hissed.

“I’m afraid so, sir.”

“But the Russian miraculously walked away from it,” he said.

“It would appear so. We saw him taken aboard his boat, and then the police and fire brigade arrived and things got crazy.”

Abel’s voice was so quiet it was almost a whisper. “Was he carrying anything?”

“I…I can’t be sure. It was dark…” The captain drew in a sharp breath. “You think this might have been deliberate?”

“I don’t know what to think, other than it is fortuitous for the Russian that everyone involved in the transaction is dead, leaving no witnesses.” Abel paused. “What do you think happened?”

“I assumed they were attacked.”

“By whom? And why?”

“I…I don’t know.”

“Exactly. This was the Russian’s home turf, using his security, yet some mysterious attacker discovered when the transaction was occurring and, for unknown reasons, destroyed everything? How likely does that sound to you?”

“Put that way…”

“I have a call I need to make,” Abel growled.

“What do you want me to do?”

“Nose around, see what you can learn. Other than that, there isn’t much you can accomplish, is there?”

Abel hung up and searched for a number on his computer. He quickly did the math in his head on the time difference as he dialed. An American voice answered.

“This is Red Hawk. Have your boss call me. Now,” Abel snapped, and terminated the call.

Three minutes later the phone rang.

“That was fast,” Abel said.

“You heard about the disaster at the dock?”

“Yes. Very disappointing.”

“We’re still trying to understand what happened.”

“I can tell you what happened,” Abel growled. “I delivered fifty million dollars’ worth of stones to you, as agreed, and they’re gone. I’m out the arms and the diamonds, and nobody knows how it happened.”

“We’ll figure it out.”

“Yes, well, there’s not much for me to figure out. You owe me fifty million. This was your man. You vouched for him. It’s on you.”

“I understand how you feel…”

“Not how I
feel
. I still require the weapons. You need to either get them for me, as of yesterday, or arrange for the return of my fifty million. There is no third choice.”

The American was silent for several moments. When he spoke, his tone was guarded. “I’ll speak to my superiors.”

“Yes. Do that.”

~ ~ ~

A team of analysts was gathered in a conference room at CIA headquarters, reviewing the reports they’d received on the explosion at the wharf. Lou Demond, the case officer who’d been handling the exchange of diamonds for arms, was pacing in front of a whiteboard, his face set in a frown and sweat staining the armpits of his dress shirt.

“Our man says that there was no sign of an attack from where he was watching,” one of the analysts said, reading from a report. “No vehicles came down the street, so if an attack occurred at all, it had to have been either from the sea, or…was preplanned and staged from inside the warehouse.”

“The African’s livid. He holds us responsible,” Demond said. “I can sympathize with his position.”

“We don’t have enough information to form a determination, sir.”

“Right. But we do know a few things: the diamonds and the arms are history. The Russian survived and is being airlifted out, or has been already, for treatment in Moscow. His security chief reported that a fuel truck was used in an attack on the meeting, but he doesn’t know why or who or even how they learned about the transaction. There are no other witnesses to corroborate or contradict his story, but to my nose, a lot of it stinks – starting with that if this is a setup, the Russians just screwed us out of fifty million, as well as the arms, for all we know. We have no proof that the Russian even acquired them. See the credibility problem?”

“He was injured.”

“No, he
claims
he was injured. We have no independent confirmation of that,” Demond corrected.

“Why would he do it, though? What’s his motivation?”

Demond laughed harshly. “Are you kidding? Money. He pocketed fifty mil worth of our skag, and he just took the Africans for fifty. That’s a lot of glass beads, even in Moscow.”

A thin analyst with a wispy goatee tapped his pencil on the conference table as he leaned forward. “We need to hold the Russian accountable. Put it back on him. The man’s rich. He’s got to make good on his botched op – that’s all there is to it.”

“I agree. But he’s incommunicado for now. And frankly, that decision has to be made at a level considerably above our pay grade. Our job is to prepare a report that doesn’t read like a fairy tale so I can brief the brass first thing in the morning. No guesses, no best hypotheses. Just the facts.” Demond paused. “If the Russian’s trying to play poker, he’s out of his league on this one. It’s not the Africans he’s trying to take to the woodshed, it’s us.”

“If he’s behind it, sir. We don’t know that’s the case.”

“Right. But we can use Occam’s razor in the meantime, and the shortest distance between two points is that he’s been playing us all along, and we fell for it. That’s my operating assumption until proven otherwise.”

The first analyst scowled. “We have other entanglements with him.”

“As of now, consider them aborted.”

Rostov-on-Don, Russia

Jet sat at a restaurant, sipping a cup of coffee, a newly purchased cell phone in hand. The crawl from the harbor over the slimy, barnacle-encrusted rocks that lined the shore had been painful, and she had more than a few lacerations on her hands. She’d dragged herself to safety and lain shivering until it had been safe to move, and had barely gotten out of the waterfront section when police cars arrived to block the roads behind her.

The hotel clerk hadn’t given her a second look when she’d entered wearing the hooker’s dress, her wet clothes in a bundle, and she’d spent two hours rinsing out the salt water and drying them on the radiator in the room before leaving for good and riding the reluctant motorcycle all night to the next big town.

She’d debated sticking around Novorossiysk, but had decided that could serve no good purpose. If Leo had survived and was still in the port town, he’d be under heavy guard and his location would be a secret. More likely, he’d have flown back to Moscow, where the hospitals were first rate compared to those in the far reaches of the Russian Empire.

As little as she wanted to undertake the thousand-kilometer journey on a crap motorcycle barely capable of beating her walking speed, she had no better option and had resigned herself to the slog north, grateful that it was still relatively warm out. Now, a third of the way to Moscow, she was feeling the effects of too little sleep and constant stress.

She took a long pull on the coffee, grateful for the stimulant effect of the caffeine reviving her, and pushed her breakfast away. The waitress took her plate and Jet glanced around to confirm there were no nearby diners to eavesdrop before dialing Matt’s number.

“So?” he answered.

“How did you know it was me?”

“Russian caller ID? I used my superpowers of deductive reasoning.”

“I’m a big fan of your superpowers, for the record.” She told him about the events on the waterfront. When she finished, she could hear the disappointment in his voice.

“Then you’re not coming back yet.”

“I have to finish the job, Matt.”

“The way you tell it, he might already be dead.”

“I checked the online news sources this morning already. Nothing about him. Some coverage of the explosion at the wharf, but no specifics. If he was confirmed dead, it would be news.”

“I suppose. Could be they’re just keeping a lid on it for some reason, and they’ll release it soon.”

“In which case I’ll have wasted a few days. What about your situation?”

“Nothing I can do about it. If they’re back on my trail, they lost it, at least for now, so I’m clean. But I’m thinking we might want to live in a cave in Afghanistan or something after this last nightmare.” Matt paused. “I pulled everything out of the bank, so sky’s the limit once you’re back.”

“Yes and no. Like I said before, my prints and my photo are in the system now.”

“Maybe time for that plastic surgery you’ve always wanted?”

“Believe me, it’s crossed my mind.” She hesitated. “This sucks, Matt. That we have to start all over again, uproot Hannah, find someplace we can disappear.”

“Look at the bright side. We’ve got money, documentation, our health and know-how, and each other. With that, it’s a big world out there.”

“Doesn’t seem that way right now.”

Matt was silent for a long beat. “How long do you think your errand in Moscow will take?”

“At least a few days. Maybe more. I have to locate the target, assuming my hunch is right, and then figure out how best to deal with him.”

“That’s what I was afraid of.”

“There’s nothing to be done about it, Matt. You know if I thought we could risk it, I’d be on my way back already. It’s not like this is pleasant for me either.”

“I know. I’ll break the news to Hannah.”

“Can I talk to her?”

“She’s in the bathroom. I’ll call you back when she’s out.”

“Okay. I’ll leave the phone on until I hear from you.”

Jet disconnected and lifted her cup, signaling for more coffee. The waitress arrived with a fresh mug and set it in front of her. Jet stared through the window at the street, lost in thought, replaying that last moment when she’d seen Leo being dragged away from the blast zone. How anyone near the container had survived was beyond her, but the bastard clearly had, leaving her with no option but to hunt him down and finish him. There was nothing she’d rather have done than abandon the entire thing and begin making her way to Romania, but her imperative wasn’t to do what was easiest – it was to do what would keep her family safe.

And as long as the Russian drew breath, they never would be. Not given what she’d already seen of his reach and the lengths he would go to in order to get his hands on her.

No, this was personal, and the only way to neutralize it was for one of them to die.

Jet tapped a finger absently on the phone as she calculated how long it would take her to reach Moscow. She’d need more money soon, but that would be simple in a world where there were always predators who viewed females as the weaker sex. In any large city it would be easy to rob one, the beauty being that men soliciting sex didn’t tend to file police reports. It was one of the first survival techniques she’d learned in her Mossad training – drug dealers, pimps, and their clientele were the easiest prey.

How she would locate the attorney was a more difficult question, but she’d figure out a way. And then she’d erase him without hesitation and wing her way back to her loved ones, to begin a new life somewhere far from the ugliness that for now was their lives.

Moscow, Russia

Rudolf stood near the hospital bed at the elite private clinic where Leo had been brought and listened as he spoke in a hoarse whisper. The doctors had said he’d recover from his injuries with time, but his throat and lungs had been badly damaged in the blast, as had the skin of his hands and one side of his face, and his hair had been singed off from the flames. It had been a minor miracle that he’d survived with only the damage he’d sustained. Lucien, who’d been mere footsteps behind Leo, had been roasted alive, his body blocking the worst of the explosive force and shielding Leo in an unintentional act of heroism for which he’d paid with his life.

Rudolf had been faster, and that additional speed had meant the difference between some scrapes and scorched clothes and Leo’s fate. Rudolf had been completely out of the building when the truck blew, whereas Leo had still been too close to the exit. Two seconds earlier and they would have both been barbequed.

Nobody had seen anything other than a blurry running figure after the attack, who’d leapt into the harbor and vanished without a trace. Rudolf was working with the authorities to learn more, but so far there was nothing but accusations and puzzled shrugs.