Chapter Fifteen
Tess
A KNOT FORMED in the pit of my stomach. This was the moment when six months of field work would finally pay off.
“How can I help?” Sasha asked.
“My client is a history buff. World War II in particular.”
“A popular subject these days,” Sasha said.
Mr. B nodded. “My client is wealthy, powerful, and represents several Jewish families who have all claimed losses during the war. I’ve been led to believe that you are the man who can help me reclaim some of those losses. If you are, I’m willing to split the finder’s fee fifty-fifty with you.”
“And who may I ask led you to believe such a thing?”
“That’s not important in the slightest,” Mr. B replied. “What is important is you telling me if it’s true.”
I’d never seen Sasha set back on his heels before and I couldn’t believe it was Krist Darwood who’d put him there.
“That’s a sticky business,” Sasha replied.
“Do you have the connections or not?” Mr. B snapped.
Sasha nodded. “I have some siloviki in my book of contacts. Oligarchs with military ties going back to the German occupiers.”
“So, it’s true?”
“It’s true that I have clients who may possess appropriated artwork, but I’ve never been on either side of any related deal. Ilya wants nothing to do with the Nazis. Past, present, or future. His grandparents were killed during Operation Barbarossa when Germany invaded Russia in 1941.”
“The fact that I’m here proves you don’t share everything with your adopted father,” Mr. B said.
“That’s true. You’re here because I wish to expand my reach beyond Ilya’s grasp, but I would never betray him. Times are changing in Russia, and I need to have backup channels in place should the Petrakov empire ever crumble.”
“And you would like me to be one of those channels?”
“Of course,” Sasha said. “You’re one of the most feared and respected men in the game.”
“But you can’t offer me access to what my client needs?”
“Not this time, but request something else and I’m at your service.”
“If you’re expecting me to raise my offer, you can fucking forget it.
” Mr. B was moving in for the hard sell now.
“Half is more than fair, but I gotta have access to these clients of yours. I’m telling you, kid.
We stand to make a lot of money on this deal, and you know the kind of money I’m talking about, too. ”
“I wish I could help you,” Sasha said.
Mr. B leaned back in the leather chair and crossed his legs. The right pant leg of the ill-fitting suit riding up, unknowingly exposing his ankle monitor.
Shit.
Spotting the ankle monitor as well, Cameron stood straight up and walked towards the bar, with an empty glass tumbler in hand.
“Woo, that was some strong stuff, Sasha,” Cameron said, with a slight slur in his speech. “I told you I was a lightweight.”
“What is that?” Sasha asked, pointing at Mr. B’s leg. “On your ankle. What is that?”
Just then, Cameron faked a stumble, hurling his body towards Vova.
When Sasha’s bodyguard put his arms up to brace for the collision Cameron slammed the heavy glass tumbler down on his head, blood instantly pouring from the wound.
Cameron then reached around Vova’s back and grabbed a pistol hidden in his waistband.
I don’t know how Cameron knew it was there, but I was glad it was in his hand and not Vova’s.
* * *
Cameron
Sasha began to reach underneath the desk but I leveled the gun at his head, convincing him to stop. I don’t know if he was going for a silent alarm trigger or a hidden weapon and I didn’t particularly want to find out.
“Put both hands flat on top of the desk or I’ll put two in you,” I said.
Vova, recovering from the shock of his traumatic head injury, growled and took a step toward me. That one step was as far as he got, as Agent Hart convinced him to stop by putting what looked like a toy plastic gun against Vova’s temple.
“Don’t take another step,” Officer Hart ordered. “Sit down on the floor, right where you are and put your hands behind your back.” Vova did as he was told. “Now you just sit there and bleed like a good boy.”
“It’s not a real gun, Vova,” Sasha called out to his bodyguard.
Hart retorted by firing a round into what looked like a very old vase sitting on top of a bookcase.
“That was a Grueby Faience!” Sasha shouted.
“To you, maybe. To me, it was an ugly vase that I shot with my real gun.”
“What the fuck is that thing?” I asked.
“It’s a 3-D printed gun,” Hart replied.
“Printed? What do you mean? It’s made out of paper or something?”
“No. The printer uses a plastic resin to create 3-D objects. That’s how I got it through the metal detector. It’s a new cutting-edge technology.”
“Oh, cool,” I said.
“Thanks,” he replied.
“Who the fuck are you guys?” Sasha asked. “FBI, Interpol?”
“No,” Tess said, shaking her head. “Worse. We’re CIA.”
“What about him?” Sasha asked, pointing to Mr. B.
“Oh, he’s with us,” Cameron said. “He really is the Man from Brussels, only he works for us now.”
Tess turned to Darwood. “You know, I still don’t know why they call you the Man from Brussels.”
“Oh, dat old story,” he replied. “You see, in Cleveland they got these big ol’—”
“What the fuck do you people want from me?” Sasha shouted.
“What we want is your pipeline to Nazi plunder,” Tess said.
“And I told you it doesn’t exist,” Sasha said. “The old man won’t deal with those people. I’m telling you the truth.”
“Here,” I said, handing Vova’s gun to Hart. “Keep them covered. I need to have a private conversation with my partner.”
I led Tess to the opposite end of the room.
“This is all wrong,” I said.
“I think Sasha’s telling the truth about the stolen artwork,” Tess whispered.
I nodded. “I do too.”
“Why send me here to exploit a connection that never existed?” Tess asked.
“And why not bring you back when Andy Larkin was scrapped from the mission? Why send me in after under false pretenses?” I asked.
“The only good intel we have, we’ve found on our own and everything we’ve been told by management has been wrong.”
“Why did Leslie tell me the fires were set on Zivon’s orders?” I muttered, half under my breath, trying to figure out how the hell we got here.
“Leslie? Who’s she?” Tess asked.
“And what about the money trail from Katia to Zivon Pertakov that Booker found? All that money that was sent to her to start the fires,” I continued to mutter. “That money came from Zivon. He even told her about the insurance scam.”
“Who’s Booker?” Tess asked.
“But Leslie…he said…”
“Leslie’s a he? Tess asked.”
“Yeah, he’s my handler,” I said.
“Wait a minute. You’re talking about Frank Graves aren’t you? Graves is your handler,” Tess said excitedly.
“Yes, how did you know?”
“Forrester told me about Graves’s whole unisex codename schtick, but that’s not what’s important. What’s important is that I saw Frank Graves with Deputy Director Forrester at least three times before I left for Russia.”
“What’s odd about that?” I asked.
“Because Forrester hates Graves. I’m not sure why, but apparently there’s bad blood between them that goes back decades.”
“Maybe they made up.” I shrugged. “Went to couple’s counseling. Who knows?”
“Or maybe Frank Graves extended an olive branch by way of intel regarding stolen art being smuggled out of Russia. Giving Forrester one last shot at his old nemesis,” Tess said.
“So, he sends you here on the grounds of recovering wartime plunder, only…”
“Only it’s not true. Graves fed Forrester false intel. There’s no pipeline and Frank Graves knew it. Meaning I was sent here under false pretenses to fail.”
“Only you didn’t fail, your mission was bearing fruit enough to seem like progress to Deputy Director Forrester, which was the last thing Graves wanted. But why?”
“Maybe Graves wants to embarrass Forrester. Put a black mark on Forrester’s career before he retires next year.”
“Botched missions happen all the time,” I said. “Every department has a filing cabinet full of cases worked on bad intelligence. You can’t make an omelet without breaking eggs, everyone knows that. But a dead officer. A young, beautiful, female officer. That would leave a mark.”
“What about you? If Graves wanted my mission to fail, why send you in to assist?”
“Because the only thing worse than one dead officer is two. I think Graves sent me here to die alongside you.”
“What?”
“I think I can prove my theory. Come on.”
We rejoined the others.
“Sasha, why did you test La Servante?”
“Fuck you,” he replied before spitting at my feet.
“Look, I understand how you feel. You’ve been played, and it never feels good to find information like that out.
But you need to understand me when I say that we’re your only true friends right now.
Once Ilya finds out you’ve been working with a CIA operative for months, he’ll take your head before you have a chance to explain.
Even Zivon will come after you. And we all know what kind of animal he is. ”
“I haven’t been working with anyone,” Sasha seethed. “You’re setting me up.”
“The only way we can protect you from the Petrakovs is if you cooperate with us. Otherwise, adopted son or not, he’ll skin you alive if he thinks you’re a traitor. And believe me when I tell you just how easy it will be for us to convince him.”
“What do you want from me?”
“Tell me why you tested La Servante? I spotted a couple of forgeries in your gallery, so I don’t think your quality control has always been so strong. So, why the multi-spectrum analyzer? Why focus on that painting?” I asked.
“Let me give you a free piece of advice, pal,” Mr. B said to Sasha. “Once these guys have you, they have you. That’s it. You’re not the worm that wiggles off the hook. You’re bait now. So, either start getting used to the idea of being a worm or get used to being worm food.”
“I’m not afraid of their threats,” Sasha said.
“Then you’re not as smart as you think. Tell them what they need to know, start to establish trust with your new keepers. It’ll help you out in the long run,” Mr. B said.