Targets of Revenge (24 page)

All this, and Sandor without so much as a Rohrbaugh 9mm in his pocket.

“So,” the Immigration officer said in perfect English, “you were visiting Sharm el-Sheikh?”

Sandor affected the relaxed manner of a Brit on holiday, someone who was used to standing in lines and having his personal life poked and prodded. “I was,” he replied.

“How did you enjoy the diving?”

“Not my sport, I’m afraid.”

That earned him a curious look. “Sharm is famous for its reefs,” the man said, seeming a bit annoyed that someone had come all this way to visit his country and not at least have a look.

“Ah yes, so I understand. I prefer the beach.”

The young officer responded with a slow nod, then looked down and stamped the passport, handing it over without another word.

————

Crossing the large courtyard under the blazing afternoon sun was the next ordeal. If his photo had been circulated and they were watching for him, someone in the tower above might spot him through binoculars. He did not want to walk with his head down or do anything suspicious that might draw attention. The makeup applied by Hasani had actually done a decent job of aging him a bit, running a little gray through his hair and using a cream that dried up into some temporary wrinkles around his eyes. He would have to rely on that and the hope the search for him was not as intense as Farrar had feared.

The elderly man in front of him had gone through the security line first and now waited. Sandor caught up to him just as they were about to leave the building. Once again the man seemed pleased to have the company. They made their way outside and trudged across the neutral area toward the Israeli border compound.

Sandor made comments about the bright day, the efficiency of the Immigration officers, all the usual banal chatter one expects from a total stranger. Then the old man turned to him without altering his pace.

“Have we met before?” he asked.

“Before today? I don’t think so.”

He studied Sandor’s face as he continued to walk on. “Strange, isn’t it?” he asked with a smile. “After you reach a certain age, you begin to think you’ve seen everyone, at least once.”

“My grandfather used to say something like that.”

“Your grandfather was a wise man. Were you close?”

“Very,” Sandor said, then paused. He and his mother had lived with her parents after his father was killed, but he was not about to share that much with a complete stranger. Instead, he replied, “He lived a long and full life.”

“Well,” the man said, still without breaking stride, “I only hope you also live long enough to experience that feeling, Mr. Sandor. For now, I will do my part to see that you do.”

S
ANDOR HAD HOPED
that Farrar was feeling proud of his son. Not only had Hasani organized a means for him to leave Egypt, but the young man and his father had also arranged an escort. Sandor allowed himself a slight smile as he and his elderly companion were herded by guards along the paved roadway that stretched ahead of them. The sea was to one side, and Mount Tallul loomed above them on the other, a no-man’s land separating two hostile nations.

“It seems we have common friends.”

“No,” the old man corrected him, “we have uncommon friends.”

Sandor nodded. “Who am I to argue?”

As they neared the Israeli checkpoint Sandor knew he was about to undergo a different level of inquiry. He had just exited a country that had no particular concern about letting people leave—not unless an all-points alert had been issued to apprehend a murderer on the loose. Now he was seeking entry into a tiny nation where the fear of enemy infiltration was a national obsession, but refusal was not an option—being sent back to Egypt would be a death sentence.

Allowing his new friend to go first again, Sandor was then beckoned to a table by a young man wearing a military uniform and a serious mien.

The questions began at once. Where had he been? Where had he come from? Why did he want to visit Israel?

The routine was more intrusive and more intense than on the Taba side of the crossing. He had been to Israel more than once and he was
prepared, determined to maintain his casual demeanor. He answered each inquiry in the unhurried pace of a man on vacation.

After the Israeli soldier took a moment to read through the passport he held it up with his thumb and forefinger, waving it at Sandor as if it were some filthy piece of business he did not want to handle. “I saw you speaking with that man over there. You traveling together?”

“No, just met on the bus. Nice fellow.”

The soldier nodded. “Where are you staying in Eilat?”

“I’m not, actually. Thought I’d have a look around this afternoon, then fly to Tel Aviv.”

“And where are you staying in Tel Aviv?”

“At the Hilton.”

“You have a reservation there?”

“If I don’t, there’ll be hell to pay with my travel agent,” Sandor said with a weary smile.

The man paused, as if considering whether he should call the hotel to see if there was a reservation in the name of Scott Kerr. “What flight are you taking to Tel Aviv?”

“You have me there,” Sandor said. “Figured I would wait to see how much time I spend in Eilat. Must be enough flights I would think.”

The soldier locked eyes with Sandor, then pointed at the bag he had already gone over twice. “You travel light for a man on vacation.”

Sandor nodded. “Only way to go, really. Had some things shipped through. Just hate luggage, don’t you? Especially when I’m going to be sightseeing all day.” The man did not reply, so Sandor added, “Thought I might do some shopping too.” Then he waited out their staring contest until the man finally relented.

“All right,” the officer said, stamping an insert he then placed inside the passport. “Welcome to Israel.”

————

When Sandor was finally allowed through, he made his way to the exit door and out to the street. He took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. His elderly friend was there.

“Everything all right?” the man asked.

“Everything is fine. Come,” Sandor said, and they began walking toward the taxi stand across the street. “Where do you go from here?”

“There’s a very nice restaurant down by the shore. I thought I would have an early dinner. Care to join me?”

“I have a flight to catch. Another time perhaps.”

The Egyptian nodded.

“I appreciated your company on our short journey. I believe it was very helpful.”

“I was glad to do it. Uncommon friends are rare.”

“They certainly are,” Sandor agreed. “I’m going to grab a taxi to the airport. Can I drop you someplace?”

“Better not.”

“I understand.” They reached the line of cabs and Sandor held the door so the old man could get in the first one. “Thank you again,” he said.

“May God grant you a safe journey,” the elderly gentleman said, then climbed inside and the cab drove off.

Sandor got into the next taxi and, still employing his British accent, told the driver to take him to the airport. Then he sat back and stared out the window, realizing he had never even asked the old man’s name.

S
ANDOR CAUGHT THE
first flight he could get to Tel Aviv. When he landed at the large, modern airport he used his credit card to gain entry to a first-class lounge, found a quiet corner, and powered up his international cell phone.

He knew the first call he should make would be to Langley, but he decided that would have to wait. Instead he called an old friend from Special Forces who was now a senior official with the DEA, stationed in Texas. After negotiating his way through a receptionist and personal aide, he finally reached Dan LaBelle.

“My God,” LaBelle said, “when your associate called earlier to say you’d be in touch I couldn’t believe it. It’s been what, three years?”

“At least,” Sandor agreed.

“How the hell are you?”

“I’m okay. What’re you up to these days?”

“The usual. Trying to monitor a fifteen-hundred-mile border that can’t be monitored. Trying to stop illegal drug traffic that can’t be stopped. Dealing with impossible politicians and bureaucrats. What else is new?”

“Like you said, the usual.”

“What about you?”

“Same old, same old.”

“Still pissing off your director?”

“Just as a hobby. It’s not my main line of work.”

“I suppose I shouldn’t ask you what your main line of work is these days.” LaBelle paused. “Or maybe I should. From the sound of this connection I’m going to take a wild guess that you’re not in the neighborhood.”

“Correct.”

“Should I ask where you are?”

“My line is reasonably secure.”

“So is this one.”

“I’m in Tel Aviv.”

“Then dinner tonight is definitely out of the question,” LaBelle said with a laugh. “Your man told me you need some information.”

“What I need is deep background about Russian involvement in the drug trafficking business.”

“When you say Russian, are you asking about their government or the black market?”

Now it was Sandor’s turn to laugh. “Is there a difference at this point?”

“You’re talking about a complicated area, geographically and politically. You want to be a little more specific?”

“What do you know about Roman Sudakov? Calls himself Ronny.”

“Sudakov? He’s on the transportation end, runs more drugs through this country than Johnson & Johnson, but he’s a shrewd operator. We don’t have so much as a traffic ticket on the guy. Haven’t been able to get near him.”

“I have,” Sandor said.

The response was silence. Then, “I’m listening.”

For now, Sandor was not going to mention Adina or the involvement of anthrax, not on an international cell phone call, secure or otherwise. Sandor only provided the headlines of what happened in Sharm el-Sheikh.

“You’ve been busy,” LaBelle said when Sandor finished. “Given Sudakov’s reputation you’re lucky you made it out of Egypt standing up.”

“I had help from some old friends.”

“And now you’re calling another old friend for help, is that the deal?”

“That’s the deal. I need as much intel on his operation as I can get. Especially as it ties in to drugs coming out of Venezuela.”

“Venezuela? Our sources say his trade routes come from Colombia and then through Mexico.”

“Always or just most of the time?”

LaBelle thought it over. “We’ve had some recent play in Venezuela. Not a big percentage of the action.”

“I’m looking for a small percentage play.”

“And you have reasons you’re not going to share with me now.”

“It’s one of the beautiful things about longtime friendships, Dan. Some things need not be said.”

“Right.”

“I want to know how they move these drugs, and I figure you would know who I to ask.”

“The ‘who’ is Vassily Greshnev.”

“You’re kidding me. That old KGB warhorse?”

“He’s the man. Still the same corrupt Politburo phony, just working a new angle.”

“Money talks and bullshit walks.”

“You got it.”

“Still comfortably ensconced in Moscow?”

“Where else?”

“Will he see me?”

“Only if I call him. He’s sort of my Russian counterpart in the war on drugs.”

“Except they’re not fighting quite as hard as we are.”

“Not when it comes to narcotics flowing into the States, no. He couldn’t care less. But I know he won’t speak with you over the phone. He’ll want a face-to-face. For many reasons.”

“I figured I would have to pay a visit, just didn’t know it would be Greshnev.”

“He’s the man.”

“And I assume money is one of the reasons he’ll want a face-to-face.”

“You got it.”

“But you think he’ll help me.”

“I know he will. He despises Sudakov. They have a lot of history and Sudakov has been a thorn in Greshnev’s side. Greshnev is probably jealous too.”

“Because Sudakov is cashing in on a large scale.”

“Give that man a stuffed animal.”

“So, you’ll make the call?”

“I will. Anything I can do to help someone jam a stick into Sudakov’s spokes I’m happy to do.”

“I hope to be that guy.”

“I’ll reach out for Greshnev. You’re serious about going to see him?”

“I can get a flight to Moscow from here.”

“You’re in the airport?”

“I am.”

“You’re a beauty, you know that. Call me back in an hour.”

An hour gave Sandor the time he needed to book a flight to Moscow and then make the next call, this one to Craig Raabe.

“How did Byrnes react?” he asked.

“Let’s say he’s gone from ice cold to lukewarm,” Raabe told him. “I called your friend in Dallas.”

“Just spoke to him. I’m onto something here.”

“What you were on, buddy, was the Interpol list for fugitives.”

“I need that to be cleared, and fast.”

“Byrnes already took care of it through back channels, but he wants you back here, and I mean pronto.”

“I’m practically on my way home.”

“When you say practically . . .”

“I have to make a stop first.”

“Where?”

“Moscow.”

Raabe could not suppress a chuckle. “Moscow. Well, sure, that’s basically on the way home.”

“Look at a map. It is.”

“So is Bali, but you’re not stopping there for a massage, are you?”

“Funny.”

“When you said you had to speak with the Russians I didn’t think you would actually have to go there.”

“Answers I want aren’t going to be found in their D.C. embassy, pal.”

“Okay, but time is tight. What’s your ETA?”

“With flights and time changes I should be home day after tomorrow. I can listen to Byrnes do his song and dance then.”

Raabe paused, then said, “What happened with the girl? We got a general report, but we’re short on details.”

Sandor took a deep breath, started to say something, then thought better of it. “I’ll call tomorrow,” he repeated, then hit
END
.