The Glinkov Extraction, page 13
part #3 of Scott Stiletto Series
“You think they’ll send us back?”
“I’m not sure what they’ll do.”
Rina came over. “No, wait. He gave me his password.”
Stiletto said, “He what?”
“While you and Anastasia were at the nightclub, he made me memorize his password.”
Stiletto put the beer down and hurried to his seat, where there was a tablet computer bolted to the fuselage. He went through the retrieval process with Rina over his shoulder, and when the documents were open, scrolled through each one carefully. Presently he sat back, stunned.
He glanced over at Xenia, who sat in front of the television watching a cartoon. She had no idea of the real-life drama taking place behind her. If his sacrifice resulted in the little girl living a normal live in the U.S., he considered the mission a success, however the unanswered questions that lay ahead still gave him a twinge of doubt. The last thing he wanted was for her to be sent back to Russia to face the certain death of her father and perhaps her mother too.
He smiled to show the confidence he didn’t quite feel, but the Glinkovs needed to see.
“I think we’ll be just fine after all,” he told them.
Chapter Twelve
THE SHOWER felt good.
Stiletto turned off the water and stepped out of the steamy stall, dripping onto the blue shower mat, drying off in front of the window and grateful for the foggy mirror which concealed his reflection. He didn’t want to see his face. He didn’t know what to think of the Moscow adventure. He was scared about his future. Surely the C.I.A. would want him out, but was the Cabal a better option? Or was San Francisco? Had Ali changed her mind since their visit?
He pulled on some clean clothes, all provided by Number One. Their trip from Russia to Germany to Washington, DC had been smooth, a respite prior to the final battle between Scott and the Agency bureaucrats. Glinkov’s family was two floors below while Glinkov himself was at a clinic being treated for his wounds. The physical ones, anyway. Guilt was going to crush Glinkov before anything else harmed him. Scott wanted to find a way to alleviate that, if he could.
His cell phone sat on the writing table and he had a text message waiting from the General: DCI agrees. See you soon. Welcome home.
Stiletto had contacted the office and asked the General and DCI Webb to be at his hotel at four o’clock. It was two in the afternoon. He had time to prepare.
IKE FLEMING heard the heavy footsteps of the guard behind him and Webb as they walked down the quiet hallway to Stiletto’s hotel room.
They stopped short when they reached the door. It was already open a crack. The linebacker-looking guard pushed between them, drawing a pistol as he pushed the door open and took two steps inside.
Stiletto sat at the table, legs crossed, holding a bottle of beer. “You’re late,” he said.
The General and Webb entered and told the guard to stand by the door. They approached Scott and stopped halfway into the room.
Fleming said, “Hello, Scott.”
“General. Director Webb.”
DCI Webb said, “This is highly irregular, Stiletto.”
Scott gestured to the two empty chairs near the table. “Have a seat and we’ll talk.”
“I don’t think you’re in position to do much demanding,” Webb said.
“I get the sense that you’re upset with me, sir.”
Webb and Fleming sat down. Fleming kept his mouth shut as Webb sounded off.
“You’ve broken Agency rules and regulations; you’ve violated the sovereign space of another country; the Russians want you for murder; there are all kinds of reasons I’m upset.”
Stiletto placed the beer bottle near a thin stack of paper Fleming judged to be about 100 pages long. Webb kept his eyes on Scott.
“Have anything to say for yourself?”
“I deserve what I get, according to Agency disciplinary procedures,” Scott said. “The murder charge isn’t true. An accessory charge, maybe. The woman who killed Pushkin died at the refinery.”
“That’s a whole separate issue. I don’t even know where to start on taking you apart for that one.”
“I don’t care.” Stiletto pushed the stack of papers their way. “This government will extend asylum to the Glinkov family, or that information goes public.”
“Are you blackmailing me?”
“Yes.”
A red flush crawled up Webb’s neck. He opened his mouth but Fleming silenced him by placing a hand on his arm. “Sir, let’s see what he has.”
Webb snapped to Fleming. “Are you on his side?”
“I’m on the side of the truth, Carlton. Let’s see the document.”
Webb took the papers and started reading. Fleming didn’t rush him. He looked at Stiletto. Scott winked. Fleming shook his head. Stiletto took a drink of beer.
“This is outrageous,” Webb said.
“It’s all true, and that’s just a copy. The rest of the files are stored on the cloud. I’m not kidding about that asylum.”
“Mr. Stiletto,” Webb said, handing the pages to Fleming, “as of this moment, you are no longer an employee of the C.I.A. We cannot allow your breach of protocol to go unpunished. Everybody’s watching to see what I do.”
“May I at least empty my desk?”
“I’ll have somebody clear your desk and deliver your personal items.”
“That’s fine.”
Webb frowned but said nothing more as Fleming read the opening pages. He whistled. The document detailed Vladimir’s Putin’s arrangement with the Russian Mafia to be his proxy in other nations. Activities included the murder of dissidents and those of other nationalities Putin deemed a threat to New Russia.
“This can’t get out, Carlton,” Fleming said.
“No kidding.”
“Do I get what I want?” Scott said.
“They’ll be allowed to settle in the United States,” Webb said. “On the condition that this information is destroyed and I never see you again.”
“Can’t promise either,” Stiletto said. “I’m just getting started. Would either of you like a beer while we discuss this further?”
STILETTO STEPPED into the hospital room with the echo of a hallway announcement behind him.
Vlad Glinkov lay quietly in the bed staring at the wall, his eyes blank. He blinked and turned his head when he saw Scott.
“Hi,” Scott said.
Glinkov nodded.
Stiletto picked up the clipboard at the front of Glinkov’s bed, scanning the information there. He couldn’t understand all of the medical information, but some of the items were easy. Broken ribs, cuts and abrasions, dehydration, starvation, concussion.
“So they beat the garbage out of you,” Stiletto said, “and doped you up.”
The last line suggested evidence of needle injections on Glinkov’s right arm. Stiletto glanced but Glinkov’s arm was under the sheets.
Glinkov stared past Scott.
“There’s no way you could have beaten the drugs, Vlad. We all know that.”
Glinkov only nodded.
“You and your family will be able to stay in the U.S.,” Scott said. “Ravkin’s information guarantees that. I’ve threatened to release it if the government doesn’t cooperate.”
A new voice. “Quite a bold move, Mr. Stiletto.”
Scott turned to see Number One standing in the doorway, dressed in a dark suit, his vest buttoned tight over his belly. He held a box covered with pink wrapping paper. Number One approached the bed.
“This is for your little girl, Vlad.” He set the box on the bedside table.
Glinkov muttered thanks.
“Has Scott told you he’s been fired from the C.I.A.?”
Glinkov blinked in surprise.
“Part of the deal,” Scott said.
“He shouldn’t worry,” Number One continued. “He has a bright future. You too, Vladimir.”
Finally, Glinkov spoke clearly. “I don’t see much of one.”
“You didn’t give up as much as you think,” Number One said.
“They showed me the news.”
“They showed you what they wanted you to see.”
Glinkov frowned.
“Those news reports were propaganda for the public. Most of the anti-Putin cells were able to run or stay undercover and avoided the sweep. The thing is, Vlad, once my people got involved, we expanded the scope of the operations. Without your knowledge, of course. We recruited more people, sometimes deep within the government.” He turned to Stiletto. “That’s how we got you out.” Back to Vlad. “Most of the people arrested were criminals wanted by the FSB, gangsters, other kinds of criminals, that our people used to make the dragnet look good to the Kremlin. In other words, right now they’re making people sweat who have no knowledge whatsoever of a coup.”
“But the others--”
“Yes, those in your immediate network were compromised. But they are still alive. They are far too valuable to kill. We’re making plans to recover as many as we can, one way or another. The only ones we truly lost were Dimitri and Anastasia.”
The mention of those names drove a spike through Stiletto’s chest.
“You all knew the risks, Vlad. You have to be cold about this. About a lot of things. But none of this has been in vain.”
Glinkov nodded.
“The coup will happen. Putin will fall.”
Glinkov blinked and took a deep breath.
Rina and Xenia, Glinkov’s family, arrived. “We heard he’s awake,” Rina said. She and her daughter stepped up to the bed.
“I’ll let your husband share the good news, Mrs. Glinkov,” Number One said. “Mr. Stiletto and I need to have a private chat.”
It was hard not to feel like he was caught up in a whirlwind when Number One was around, Stiletto thought, as he followed the older man out of the room.
“I WASN’T kidding about your bright future, Mr. Stiletto.”
They walked outside the hospital building, near a garden with benches, but neither sat. Number One stopped in a shady spot, the leaves of a tree hanging above them. None of the leaves moved in the still afternoon air.
“I can’t work for you full-time,” Stiletto said.
“Why not?”
“I’ve decided to go free-lance.”
“I wasn’t expecting that at all.”
“I’ll be available if and when you need me,” Stiletto said, “but there are things nobody else will do that I need to give attention to.”
“Well, then this chat will be cut short. However, I’m glad you’ll be available, and we will need you, so we’ll provide the retainer we spoke of. That will help you get started on your own, at least.”
“Much appreciated.”
“By the way, General Ike wants to see you. He’s waiting on a bench near the Lincoln Memorial gift shop.”
STILETTO FOUND the General munching popcorn.
Fleming sat beside the Lincoln Retail Refreshment and Gift Shop, a stone’s throw from the memorial itself, the side of the structure visible from the shop’s outdoor seating area. A cluster of trees ahead stood between the shop and the reflecting pool. Tourists strolled but none made a lot of noise.
Stiletto sat next to his former boss.
“Nice day for a visit,” the General said.
“I’m not sure what to call you anymore.”
“’Ike’ will be fine, Scott.”
“Yes, sir.”
The General laughed and offered Stiletto some popcorn. Scott took a handful.
“Your dismissal is not what I wanted,” the General said.
“Couldn’t be avoided. Webb was right. If I’m the talk of the Agency, everybody’s was going to be watching to see what he did.”
“What’s your plan?”
Stiletto explained.
General Ike nodded. “Fair enough. Just make sure you charge the numerical equivalent of a shit ton if we ever come looking to hire you. It’s only right you get something out of this organization.”
“I appreciate what you did for me.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Of course, sir.”
“There is one thing you can do.” The General placed the popcorn bag between them and pulled an envelope from his inside jacket pocket. “Open it.”
Stiletto slit open the envelope and drew the paper out halfway. Name and address of a woman named Susan LaRochelle.
“Who is she?”
“My niece,” the General said. “She’s an F.B.I. agent in New York who was covering the U.S. end of the Zubarev shooting. State Department got involved and pulled the plug, but not before she got some information you might like.”
“You want me to fly to New York?”
“Yes.”
“Is that an order, sir?”
“Consider it the last one I’ll ever give you.”
Chapter Thirteen
THE FLIGHT to New York was a long one. Stiletto stared blankly out the window, unaware of much that was going on around him. A screaming baby didn’t break his reverie.
He might have sounded confident about striking off on his own to take on the battles nobody else would, but he also wondered who he was kidding. That was no way to live. But he had to at least try. Maybe just a few months, a year. If it didn’t work, he’d call Ali in San Francisco.
And he’d miss the C.I.A. With all of its faults, the Agency had been home for a long time, and he had friends there who, presumably, were wondering about him after seeing a stranger clean out his desk. The gossip would be huge, but his phone hadn’t rung with anybody asking how he was doing.
The only thing to do right now was stay the course.
He landed at JFK and used his cell to call Susan LaRochelle, who agreed to meet him at her apartment that night. Stiletto checked into a hotel and took a long walk to try and clear his head. When that didn’t work, he found a bar and nursed a beer.
Susan met him on time and had Chinese food waiting. Over dinner they talked about General Ike, her work on the Zubarev case, and the file she’d been presented with before the State Department pulled the plug on her investigation. He listened with rapt attention to her story about the woman, Siyana Antonova, whom she believed pulled the trigger on the Zubarevs.
The information in the file confirmed a lot of the information Ravkin’s file had contained, except for the names of the local mob players. Stiletto wanted to know where they were. Susan said the top dog was Shishkin Pavlovitch. And she knew where they hung out.
Scott spent two days tracking the local bosses and presently settled on a plan. Pavlovitch and his buddies liked to play poker in the basement of one of their bars. Finding a back way in was easy. Stiletto contacted Number One and asked for some equipment.
It was time to get even, if only a little.
He heard them laughing as he moved down the hall.
Stiletto gripped the submachine gun a little too tightly. He’d probably over-oiled it from the residue dripping onto his gloves, but the weapon would not fail. He’d trained and planned too hard for anything to fail now. But deep down he knew he might not survive the night, even if he did succeed. If he saw the sunrise, he might just live to be an old man.
The dark hallway seemed to close in, the only illumination coming from the crack underneath the door ahead of him. He pushed the jitters away. The walls were not going to crush him. He had to stay focused. The laughter from behind the door continued. Stiletto adjusted his grip and stepped closer. Sweat coated his skin, his clothes clinging to his body. A trickle down the back of his neck irritated him and he almost wanted to stop and swipe, but he kept his eyes focused on the door.
The laughter stopped. Four voices reached his ears.
“I’ll take three.”
“One for me.”
“I’m good.”
“How about we start over?”
More laughing.
Stiletto counted down. Three. Two. . .
He lifted his booted right foot and slammed it into the wood. The loud thud shook the walls, but the door did not open. He kicked again. Another loud thud and the doorframe started to splinter. Stiletto put everything he had behind the third kick and that’s when the door swung open with enough force to slam the opposite wall, the collision sounding more like a gunshot than those that followed from the mouth of the submachine gun.
Stiletto stepped into the room, swinging left. The lone guard was reaching for the light switch; Scott blasted him in the chest and belly, cutting him almost in half, the guard leaving a smear of red on the wall as he fell. His hand still hit the light switch and plunged the room into darkness but it was too late. Stiletto’s combat senses had already pinpointed the remaining targets.
The SMG spat flame in measured bursts, Stiletto shifting his aim, the flash from the muzzle creating a mild strobe effect that highlighted the twitching bodies of the four men around the poker table. The chips and cards, splashed with blood and bits of flesh, were no longer the center of attention and the four men saw their lives flashing before them in the strobe. They screamed, cursed, arms flailing, their overweight bodies falling onto the floor with squishy finality. When the SMG clicked empty, Stiletto reached for the light switch. One man still lived, his cries of pain filling the room as the echo of the shots faded from Scott’s ears.
Stiletto pulled the magazine from the submachine gun and inserted a spare. He stepped into the carnage, doing his best to avoid the puddles of blood, but some of it still attached to the heels of his shoes. He walked around the table to the far side, where the survivor lay on his back, legs and belly torn open by the nine-millimeter flesh-shredders, his bloody fingers clawing for the holstered revolver under his left arm. The tips of those fingers, wet with what was leaking from the man’s body, could not wrap around the butt.
