Targets of Revenge (16 page)

Sandor, his champagne flute still in hand, followed Ronny to an unoccupied couch, where they sat side by side, doing their best to face each other. “This is a magnificent yacht. I take it you are the lucky owner.”

“I am, and I thank you. I take great pride in the
Odessa
.”

“As well you should. Feadship, I imagine.”

“Very good, Mr. Sandor. Wonderful shipbuilders.”

“Yes, they are. And call me Jordan.”

His host nodded in appreciation.

“Ronny is an unusual name for a Russian.”

The man smiled, an exercise that clearly did not come easily to him. “My given name is Roman. A bit regal, no? Chosen by my father. My mother was a fan of the American actor Ronald Reagan, called me Ronny from the time I was born. One of life’s little ironies, is it not? I am a Russian named for the man who brought down the Soviet Union.”

“Which I assume you regard as a good thing,” Sandor observed with a wave of his hand at their luxurious surroundings.

“Let us say that capitalism has been better to me than communism was to my parents.” He was about to take a drink from his glass, then apparently thought better of it. “So what brings you to Sharm el-Sheikh?”

Before responding, Sandor had a look at the other men in the room. They were trying unsuccessfully to appear not to be eavesdropping on this conversation. When he smiled at them they all turned their heads away, as if on a single swivel. Sandor turned back to his host. “I’ve been traveling, had a few extra days, thought I might stop over and arrange some banking transactions. As well as some scuba diving,” he added with a smile.

“You’ve been here before?”

“In fact I have, but always on business. Never had a chance to dive the reefs.”

“Well you are in for a treat then. A few of us are heading out tomorrow morning. You must join us.”

“That’s very generous of you, but I already have plans.”

The Russian waved that off as if Sandor’s arrangements were of no consequence. “We thought we might go out at ten, then come back here for lunch. I hope that works for you, yes?”

Sandor managed a disappointed look. “I booked an earlier start, but thank you anyway.”

Ronny’s translucent gaze told Sandor that he was dealing with a man not accustomed to refusals. “Well, we can certainly accommodate a new friend. Eight early enough?”

Sandor had received an answer to his first question. They had gotten him here and were not about to let him go so easily. It took no effort for him to respond with a smile and say, “You make it very difficult to say no. Eight would be perfect.”

“That’s settled, then. Let me get you a real drink and some caviar.” He snapped his fingers and a steward materialized, as if from the ether. “Bring us some vodka and a plate of the Osetra. How do you like your vodka?”

“Straight and cold would be fine,” Sandor said.

They were served the food and drinks by two young men who took less time to set the table before them than it takes to draw a pint of beer. They were then left to drink Stolichnaya Elit poured from a frozen bottle, snack on the caviar that had been heaped with a silver spoon onto small blinis, and tell each other lies.

Ronny described his days as a star defenseman on the Russian national
hockey team. He explained that his connections in sports led naturally to connections in government, since the Kremlin ran all the national athletic programs back then. His contacts eventually helped him to amass considerable wealth making oil deals once the USSR fell and the fever of capitalism spread throughout Mother Russia. “I have been very fortunate,” he said, failing in the effort to sound humble.

Sandor already knew the story about hockey was true and that there had even been a series of oil deals in Sudakov’s past. He was also certain that his host was neglecting to mention his most profitable enterprises.

When it was Sandor’s turn, he used his customary cover, claiming to have spent time in diplomatic service for the United States government where he made his own international connections. The additional layer he added for this mission was a story about having become independently wealthy through hedge fund trading and related transactions. He then apologized, saying that the world of finance was simply too boring to spend any time discussing, especially since he had branched out into areas, as he put it, “that do not bear description.” The best part for him, he said, was the extensive travel. He made it clear he had been to the Middle East many times. And, of course, to Russia.

“I’m surprised our paths have never crossed before. We probably know a lot of the same people.”

Sandor shrugged. “It’s a big world.”

Ronny responded with a curious look. “Not so much, not anymore.”

The tenor of their discussion and the relaxed attitude of the other men present—who had given up listening to their colloquy and again occupied themselves with the young ladies in attendance—provided Sandor an answer to his second question. There was no intention to do him harm, at least not yet. First they would want information. He watched as the steward removed his champagne flute, then replaced the first chilled glass of vodka with a second. He assumed that they were already running his fingerprints.

His involvement in National Clandestine Service operations for the CIA was a closely guarded secret, but no secret is completely safe in the modern order. After the treachery of Vincent Traiman, the
turncoat station chief whom Sandor had dispatched a year earlier, it was not impossible that highly placed intelligence sources in other countries would at least be able to determine that Sandor’s work for the State Department had transcended his pose as a diplomatic paper shuffler. His hope was that his cover would hold up, and that his allusions to shady dealings might actually help to impress the Russian.

“So,” Ronny was saying, “you and our friend Lilli are recent acquaintances, yes?”

Sandor made a show of looking at his watch. “As I said, very recent,” he replied with a smile. “In fact we just met a couple of hours ago, at a bar in town.”

“Is that so?”

“Yes indeed. Lucky me.”

“She is quite an attractive young woman.”

“I agree. And imagine when I learned what she was up to.”

The tilt of Ronny’s head was almost imperceptible. “What she was up to?”

“I meant the fact that she was coming here. And that she invited me to join her. And to join you, of course.”

“Ah, yes, of course. I am very glad you did. In fact, you will stay with us tonight.”

“That’s very generous, but I couldn’t possibly. My clothes are back at the hotel and I’ve already arranged my diving gear.”

“We have enough equipment for you here,” he said with another dismissive flick of his hand, then took a turn at holding up his chunky gold wristwatch to show Sandor it was after one in the morning. “Look at the hour. The men who operate the launch are already in their quarters, asleep no doubt. I would hate to have to wake them.” When Sandor began to protest again, Ronny added, “Lilli is staying with us too. This will give you a chance to get to know her better.”

Sandor feigned a look of careful consideration, then said, “That would be nice, wouldn’t it?”

“Of course.”

“Well then, would it be all right if she showed me around the yacht a bit? I mean, I’m already dead on my feet, but I’d love to see some of it before I turn in.”

R
ONNY WAS HAVING
difficulty disguising his suspicions. He had offered Lilli’s companionship as an inducement for his guest to stay, but he was not going to permit Sandor and the girl to roam the yacht on their own. He was not a man that easily played.

“Why not let me show the two of you my beautiful
Odessa,
” he suggested.

Sandor smiled. “That would be such an imposition. It would be rude of me to take you away from your other guests.”

“Not at all. Lilli,” he called out. “Come, I’m taking you and Mr. Sandor on a private tour.”

————

Meanwhile, Sandor’s assumption about Sudakov’s efforts to vet his background was correct.

Farrar had gotten out the word that Sandor was a wealthy man with something illicit to buy or sell and looking for an appropriate bank through which to run the money. In Sudakov’s world, that news spread quickly, earning Sandor his invitation to the
Odessa
.

Now, as Sandor and the girl were being taken from cabin to cabin and salon to salon on a show-and-tell excursion led by their host, Sudakov’s men were working to verify the American’s identity—and his purpose in coming to Sharm el-Sheikh. His fingerprints had indeed been lifted from the champagne and vodka glasses and a background check was being run. By the time Sudakov escorted his two guests
into the impressive control room on the bridge, the prints had been transmitted through a computer system in Moscow and communicated back to the
Odessa
.

Yes, his name really is Jordan Sandor. Yes, he really did work for the United States government. Yes, he had been assigned to the State Department after service in the military. As they reviewed the details about where he had been stationed and what he had done in those years, it was as if his dossier was too clean.
Sanitized
was the term of art. There were long stretches of nondescript bureaucratic service followed by time engaged in private enterprises they could not corroborate. And his finances could not be authenticated, at least not yet. Taken all together, this usually meant one of two things—either he was that rare peddler of contraband who had managed to successfully fly under the radar, or he was a poseur engaged in covert operations.

When the security staff gathered as much data as they could for now, a steward was dispatched to find Ronny. He caught up with him as Sudakov was bragging to Sandor and Lilli about the state-of-the-art electronics inside the wheelhouse.

“Worthy of the largest cruise ships on the sea. Even better,” Sudakov said as he pointed out a variety of radar, sonar, and GPS screens. The captain had turned in for the night, but two other men were on hand. “We never have less than two crew members on duty,” Sudakov explained, “even when the
Odessa
stands at anchor, as it does now.”

“You can’t be too careful,” Sandor observed as he turned from the two crewmen seated at the control panel to the large Russian who had been accompanying them on the tour. He was one of the henchmen from the salon, who had wordlessly followed them since they began their stroll around the vessel. “Pirates, thieves, enemies, am I right?”

The steward had entered, but Ronny took no notice of him. He stared directly at Sandor as he said, “Yes, you are right. We live in uncertain times.”

“I would guess, then, that your men are properly armed?” He shot another glance at the husky bodyguard.

“Are you the nervous type, Mr. Sandor?”

“Let’s just say I’m the cautious type. Having worked in the State Department, I find it a healthy foreign policy.”

For the first time tonight, the Russian uttered a laugh. It was not a pleasant sound, resonating more of irritation than mirth. Turning to the steward, he asked impatiently, “What is it?” The young man handed him a folded piece of paper. Ronny read the note, then placed it in his pocket. “Well,” he said, “it’s gotten late and I won’t bore you with any more of this. Pavel here will show you to your staterooms.” He gave a slight nod in the direction of his bodyguard. Then he looked at Lilli, whom he had ignored throughout the entire tour. “I have placed you in adjoining cabins. I hope you find that satisfactory.” Without awaiting a response, he turned back to Sandor and said, “I am sure you will find the accommodations suitable. Sleep well.” Then he turned and left.

————

Their spin around the ship was mildly interesting and well choreographed—Sudakov only took them to the places he wanted Sandor to see, which meant there was no place Sandor was being shown that he would have to bother about later. Now that he had an understanding of the yacht’s layout he concluded that the activities he was interested in were being conducted on a lower deck—especially since Sudakov had twice pretended not to hear Sandor’s request to visit below.

Pavel walked them to their adjoining staterooms. As he had no doubt been instructed, the tall Russian waited until they entered and closed their doors behind them.

Sudakov was true to his word: the accommodations were certainly suitable. The cabin was larger than Sandor’s room at the hotel, and no less comfortable. He was just having a look around when he heard a knock on the door from the adjoining space. He opened up and Lilli walked past him.

“Is there any champagne in here? There’s none in my room.”

Sandor pointed to the ice bucket on the nightstand beside his king-sized bed. “I guess they expect me to be a good sharer.”

The girl smiled. “Works for me,” she said. “You want to open it or should I?”

————

As Sandor wrestled the cork out of the bottle of Roederer Cristal, Ronny was meeting with his security people in the communications room on the second level. They were standing around a highly polished teak conference table.

After describing the information they had compiled, the chief operative reported simply, “He’s CIA.”

“You are certain?”

“No. But everything points to that.”

“What if he is who he claims to be? Could that be consistent with the data you’ve gathered?”

“It’s possible. But after what happened in South America? I would say no, the timing would indicate otherwise.”

Sudakov nodded in agreement. “Anything new from our friend in Venezuela?”

The burly officer shook his head. “Just what we had yesterday.”

“Could this be the same man?”

“Not likely.”

“Perhaps he’s part of the same operation?”

“Possible.”

“Possible.” Ronny spat the word out as if it were a bad taste. “Why the hell would the CIA be interested in narcotics?”

“He could be from the American DEA, but I don’t believe that.”