Targets of Revenge (21 page)

The weapon tumbled from his grasp and Nadia collapsed onto the fiberglass deck, giving Sandor the opportunity to fire off two more rounds. The Russian had fallen to his knees so the rounds sailed high. Sandor stood for a better angle, but before he could take aim he heard a loud burst of gunfire and saw the Russian’s chest and face rip open. Only then did Nadia manage to get to her feet, her right shoulder stained with blood, the Uzi in her left hand.

T
HE SITUATION WAS
complicated, even by the murky standards of Farrar’s world.

Ronny Sudakov had chartered a dive boat from Captain Sadiki, sending out three of his men and Jordan Sandor. His expectation was that the boat would return with those three men carrying Sandor’s corpse and a tragic story about the American’s horrific diving accident.

Instead, one of the Russians was missing somewhere in the depths of the Red Sea, the other two had been shot dead—one with his own weapon—and both Sadiki and his niece were now in the local hospital being treated for wounds sustained in the battle.

And Sandor was missing.

As Farrar towed Sadiki’s boat to shore and Sandor tended to the wounds of Nadia and her uncle, the four of them dealt with the obvious problem—how they would explain what happened to the authorities.

They agreed that Sadiki and Nadia would say their boat was boarded by armed men in masks shortly after the divers went over the side. When the four divers returned, all three Russians were killed in the struggle, one of whom was thrown overboard, and the assault team then drove the boat out to sea where they met their own vessel and made off with the American. Sadiki and his niece were shot in the crossfire and left for dead.

Sandor did his best to keep the details simple, knowing that Sudakov’s
men would ultimately get to Sadiki and his niece. Inconsistencies, hesitation, or even reluctance to tell their tale, could be fatal.

Convinced they had done the best they could, and with Farrar’s boat coming within sight of the dock, it was time for Sandor to disappear. Just before he slid over the side to make his own way to shore, he apologized one more time to Nadia.

“He was going to kill me,” the girl said. “I know that. You did the right thing.”

Sandor nodded. “Sorry I had to hit you first. It was the only shot I had at his chest.”

“Well then,” she said with a weak smile, “I suppose I should be grateful you weren’t aiming at his head.”

————

Word of the shootings had spread all over town by the time Farrar met with the police and harbor patrol at the hospital. He answered their questions, staying with the script, then asked if he might go get a change of clothes. Since he was not accused of firing on anyone and thus far had been described as the person responsible for rescuing Sadiki and Nadia, they let him go for the time being.

Despite being released Farrar assumed he was being watched—by the authorities or Sudakov or both—so he made a phone call and arranged for one of his associates to meet him a couple of blocks from the Ritz-Carlton. They passed on the street and, without exchanging a word, Farrar handed off the keycard to Sandor’s hotel room. Then he hailed a cab and returned to his shop on Naama Heights Street.

Sandor, who had made his way there on foot by a circuitous route through the backstreets, was waiting in the small office, anxious for news.

“So far we are all right,” Farrar told him.

“What about Lilli? Is she at the hotel?”

“We’ll know soon enough. I gave the job to Malik.”

“Reliable?”

“Very. Although I trust you left nothing of value in your room.” He shrugged his shoulders. “Malik is a good man in his way, but everything has its price. Whatever you left behind you will certainly never see again.”

“The least of our troubles,” Sandor conceded. “My go bag is in your safe, so I’m fine. Right now I could use a chilled vodka or an aged bourbon. What have you got?”

Farrar called in the girl and arranged for two Stolis on ice. Then they spent the time reassessing their risks.

“I didn’t expect things to get so far out of control,” Sandor said. “I never meant to put you at risk.”

The Egyptian forced a smile. “I knew very well who I was dealing with.”

Sandor forced a tired smile. “You mean the Russians, of course.”

“Yes, of course.”

“And you did have the foresight to bring the rifle.”

“Praise Allah,” Farrar responded with a rueful nod.

Sandor fixed him with a serious look. “At some point Sadiki will either cave in or louse up the details. Sudakov is going to find his way to your door.”

“Perhaps,” Farrar said, trying to sound less worried than he felt. “You’re the one he wants. By the time he gets to me you’ll be long gone and I will be of no consequence.”

Sandor stared deep into his friend’s ebony-colored eyes. “I hope you’re right, but remember that we took out three of his men. Sudakov is not the type to suffer that kind of loss without demanding payback.”

“Please, stop trying to cheer me up.”

“Just tell me what you want me to do.”

“I want you to stop worrying about me. I have many powerful allies here who will intercede on my behalf.”

Farrar’s cell phone rang and he took the call. He listened without speaking for what seemed a long time, then issued some instructions in his native language and rang off. When he looked up his expression told Sandor what he did not want to hear. “That was Malik. He could not get into your hotel.”

Sandor waited.

“He says the police are all over the place. The girl. They found her in your room. She is dead.”

W
HEN
S
ANDOR LEFT
Washington two days before, he told Deputy Director Byrnes that he would keep him apprised of where he was going. He had done that. He also assured him that he would let him know what was going on before the shooting started. On that score he had failed badly.

Byrnes knew that his agent was tracking a lead to Sharm el-Sheikh. Now his office was receiving intelligence reports from the station chief in Cairo about a violent incident on the Red Sea that might have involved men from the yacht
Odessa,
believed to be owned by the suspected narcotics dealer Roman Sudakov. Added to that was the murder of a young woman whose body was discovered, as a result of an anonymous tip to the local authorities, in a hotel room booked in the name of Jordan Sandor.

Byrnes’s attempts to reach Sandor had been unsuccessful so he called in Craig Raabe. He did not even give his agent time to sit down. “You have intel on Sandor’s contacts. I want you to reach out and let them know I expect to hear from him within the hour.”

Raabe did an about-face and returned to his office. Less than forty-five minutes later contact was made and the DD’s assistant put the call through.

Byrnes’s first question was “Are you secure?”

“I’m in Egypt,” Sandor replied.

“All right, what can you tell me that I need to know right now?”

“There’s another stop I have to make on the way home.”

“Do you want us to bring you in?”

“No, I’m fine.”

“What have you learned about our Russian friend?”

“Absolutely in the path of this thing.”

“I see. When will I have details?”

“Already en route to the usual recipient.”

“What about the murder of this young woman?”

There was silence for a moment. Then Sandor said, “It was completely unnecessary and I intend to do something about it when that opportunity presents itself.”

“What you need to do, Sandor, is your job.”

“Understood. I’ll handle this on my own time.”

“There’s no such thing, not for you.”

Sandor offered no response.

“I need you to stay in touch.”

“And I will,” Sandor said, then hung up.

Byrnes immediately summoned Raabe back to his office.

“Sandor was not in a position to communicate much, but he did indicate that information is already on its way. He’s passing it through you.”

“Yes sir.”

“Get it to me as soon as you have it.”

“Of course.”

“That’s all for now.” Then, before Raabe turned to go, Byrnes asked, “What happened with this young woman? Do we know yet?”

Raabe shook his head. “We’re still putting it together.”

W
HEN
S
ANDOR FINISHED
the call with Byrnes he angrily broke the disposable cell phone into pieces and tossed the remains into the trash can beside Farrar’s desk.

“We’ve got to get you out of the country as soon as possible,” the Egyptian said. “I have friends among the police, but there are just as many on the force who will be counted among your enemies after the obligatory bribes are paid by Sudakov. We cannot take the chance of you being placed in jail.” He paused. “You will not survive,” he predicted with characteristic bluntness.

Sandor nodded his understanding. He had been operating on pure instinct since hearing about Lilli and, despite his visceral desire to storm Sudakov’s yacht, he knew Farrar was right.

They retrieved Sandor’s leather bag from the safe and, as the two men talked, Sandor changed into the clothes he had packed. Gray flat-front slacks, a black polo shirt, and black rubber-soled loafers. He had two more disposable cell phones, one for use in the United States, the other set for international calls. He reached into the bottom of the bag, separated a finely sewn Velcro strip, and pulled out three passports. He chose the one issued to Scott Kerr of the United Kingdom, bearing Sandor’s photo, then carefully replaced the other two. He pocketed two credit cards issued in the name of Scott Kerr, some of the cash hidden there—a small stack of euros—then resealed the lining.

While Sandor went about his business, Farrar made some calls to follow up on what Malik had told him.

Looking up, Sandor said, “Let’s have it.”

Farrar told him that a warrant had already been issued for Sandor’s arrest. He also had some details of the girl’s death. She was badly beaten—her face, arms and shoulders bore numerous contusions—and her throat had been slit. The crime scene indicated that the fatal wound, if not the assault, had occurred on the bed in his room. How she was brought into the hotel was not clear since they had yet to locate a witness. Farrar suggested that she had likely been drugged and brought up through the service lift, access being facilitated by a payoff to some maintenance worker who would not have guessed her intended fate.

“Your room, with your fingerprints all over the place,” Farrar said.

Sandor nodded. “An old KGB ploy, setting someone up for murder.”

“Yes,” Farrar agreed. “Brutal but effective.”

The problem for Sandor was not the flimsy attempt to implicate him in the crime, it was the sheer senselessness of Lilli’s death. She knew nothing. She had never heard of Jordan Sandor until last night. The Russians obviously learned that he was an American operative. What chance was there that he had shared any information with this complete stranger, a party girl sent on a mission to entice him onto Sudakov’s yacht?

Sandor lived in a world of brutality and deception, but even in the context of that shadowy existence there were still boundaries. This was depravity, pure and simple, and Sandor was going to be sure that the man responsible would be made to pay for the girl’s life with his own, regardless of what Byrnes or anyone else had to say about it.

Farrar sighed and then, in a soft voice, said, “You cannot be thinking about the girl now.”

Sandor responded with a blank stare.

“It is too late. Or too soon, depending upon what you are planning.”

“I’m planning to take care of things so you’ll never have to worry about Roman Sudakov. You have my word that I’ll take care of that.”

Farrar nodded. “But now it is time for us to go.”

“All right,” Sandor said, “but first I have a stop to make.”

————

It would not be long before the local authorities linked the fugitive Sandor to the local Farrar, and so the Egyptian was adamant they move quickly. Although the murder investigation had just begun, Sudakov would doubtless be funding his own expedition for the prompt apprehension of the American suspect.

Farrar was going to drive them north, where they would pick up another vehicle and Sandor could proceed from there on his own. Farrar offered to continue on with him but Sandor refused.

“Right now you need to stay with the story Sadiki and his niece are telling. You get caught with me and you’ll have a whole new set of problems.”

Farrar reluctantly agreed. “Although I cannot come back here, not for several days. Things need to cool down a bit.”

Sandor agreed.

Armed with the Sphinx automatic Farrar had given him the day before, together with additional ammunition, they headed out the back door to a small Fiat.

“Dendera’s car. No problem,” Farrar explained. “You just keep your head down and let me get you out of Sharm.”

“I told you, I have a quick stop to make first.”

“Do not be foolish.”

“It’s not as if there’s a dragnet out for me, Farrar.”

“Where do you want to go?” the Egyptian asked warily.

“The first bank I visited, the International Reserve.”

“What do you expect to gain from this . . . this lunacy?”

“I need to deliver a message.”

“A message?”

“Just drop me off a block away, then come around the corner. I’ll be in and out in three minutes.”

Farrar shook his head. “I don’t suppose you could send this message by email?”

————

Farrar brought the car to a stop just around the corner from the bank.

“Three minutes,” Sandor said. “When you drive by, if I’m not walking out then you just keep going. Got it?” He did not wait for a reply, swinging the car door open and climbing out into the bright sunlight and into the flow of pedestrian traffic along SOHO Square.

It never failed to amaze him how ordinary life maintains its ordinary pace even as extraordinary events are unfolding all around. The police were looking for him. Undoubtedly Sudakov’s men were as well. Lillian Mindlovitch lay dead in his hotel room, and three Russian thugs had just been executed—two still aboard Sadiki’s boat and one floating somewhere in the depths of the Red Sea strapped to an air tank meant to kill Sandor. Yet here he was, calmly strolling along until he made a quick right and pushed his way through the glass doors of the bank.