Targets of Revenge (43 page)

“You’re not going to just shoot me, Sandor.”

“Don’t bet on it. You’ve already called me a renegade, and I’ve already told you I’d just as soon see you dead as listen to anything you have to say. At least I’m offering you a choice.” Sandor leaned on the desk, the barrel of the Walther not more than two feet from Cleary’s eyes.

“I don’t know anything about anthrax,” Cleary said, his voice less certain now. “There are rumors of a big shipment coming from Venezuela. They say Adina might be involved. The only thing I’ve heard about anthrax comes from you.”

“That’s all you got?”

“That’s all I know.”

Sandor nodded. “Who else you working with in the DEA? You don’t look smart enough to be doing this on your own.”

“I want to call my lawyer.”

“You keep saying that and I have to tell you, it’s really annoying.” Sandor moved the gun to within a foot of the man’s eyes. “You’re sure there’s nothing else you want to tell me first?”

“Screw you.”

Sandor stood up and removed Cleary’s revolver from his waistband. Without another word he calmly walked around the side of the desk, fired a shot into Cleary’s knee with his automatic, then fired a shot from Cleary’s revolver into the ceiling.

The door burst open and Raabe came rushing in with his gun drawn. Cleary had fallen out of his chair and was on the floor, writhing in pain.

“It’s under control,” Sandor said with a shrug. “He went for a gun in his desk drawer, I wrestled it away from him, but when I grabbed his revolver both weapons went off.” He didn’t even bother to look
down at Cleary as he added, “Unfortunately, he seems to have been hit in the leg.”

The sound of the gunshots also brought one of Byrnes’s NCS teams onto the scene, the other two men holding their position outside.

Sandor repeated his story, then said, “Don’t bother with an ambulance, it’ll attract too much attention. Just walk him outside between the two of you, then take him to the Gables and lock him down.” He had another glance at Cleary, then said with a smile, “We wouldn’t want some pain-in-the-ass innocent bystander getting in our way.”

Cleary, barely able to string words together, did manage to spit out a disjointed string of expletives.

Raabe turned and glared down at him. “If I were you, buddy, I’d shut the hell up and be thankful his gun only went off once.”

S
ANDOR LEFT
R
AABE
and LaBelle with the men from NCS and drove to his next stop, a restaurant called Chazz, on Aliceanna Street near the harbor in Baltimore. Cleary had warned his cohorts that Newark was under watch, leaving Baltimore a relatively safe harbor. That meant no one in the Coast Guard or DEA wanted to give any sign that security had been tightened around the port. Sandor arrived alone, choosing this Italian restaurant, renowned for its authentic coal-oven pizza and casual attitude, as a suitable place to meet with DEA Agent Evan Walters, designated by the task force to spearhead the efforts here.

Walters was waiting at the “owner’s table,” which sits in an alcove against the far back wall of the main dining area. Sandor had barely taken his seat when the man staked out his territory. “I want to be clear, I’m only seeing you as a courtesy. I don’t want some spook acting outside his authority to screw up our operation.”

“Nice to meet you too.”

“We’ve got a full Coast Guard presence in Baltimore, my team is on full alert, and the locals will back us up as needed. So, what else can I tell you to get you on your way?”

“I’m glad to see the era of interdepartmental cooperation is alive and well in Charm City.”

Before Walters could respond, a waiter came by with menus.

“We won’t be eating,” the man from DEA told him. “Just bring me a club soda with lime.”

“Jack Daniel’s, rocks,” Sandor said. After the young man ambled off to get the drinks, Sandor said, “I assume you’ve been fully briefed about the danger of the toxins in this shipment.”

“Of course.”

“We don’t know if the narcotics have been contaminated, which we doubt, or if the poison is hidden inside the cargo, which is more likely.”

“Please tell me something I don’t already know.”

“All right,” Sandor said, leaning forward and lowering his voice. “If it weren’t for me, you wouldn’t even have a clue these goods are on their way here. So save the tough-guy act for someone you can impress.”

Walters was a thickly built, broad-shouldered man, at around forty just a couple of years older than Sandor, and apparently just as ready to mix it up. For a moment it looked as if he was going to come out of his chair and across the table, but he apparently thought better of it. Instead he said, “I’ve been warned about you, Sandor. A loose cannon if ever there was one, which is exactly what we don’t need right now. So unless you’ve got something to tell me that might help with this assignment, I’m outta here.”

Now Walters did begin to rise, but Sandor fixed him with a dark look that warned him to sit his ass back in the chair. The man was somewhere between standing and sitting when Sandor said, “You’ve got some major leaks in your agency relating to this shipment. My guess is that you haven’t been read into that part of the program.”

Walters lowered himself back into his seat. “Has this been confirmed up above or is this a story you just invented?”

“We’re not sure if we’ve identified everyone involved. The only reason I’m even discussing this with you is that Dan LaBelle says you can be trusted.”

“Is that why you’re here?”

“I’m here to tell you that you need to watch your back on this operation. We can’t afford to have anyone warning Adina or Sudakov that we’re still targeting Baltimore.”

When the waiter returned with their drinks, the looks on the faces of his two customers told him he best not ask if they’d changed their mind about ordering food. He quickly left them alone again.

“This mole in the agency, is it someone highly placed?”

“I can’t tell you that,” Sandor said, “but it doesn’t matter. The concern is that he may not have been working alone.”

Walters nodded.

“You’ll be hearing back from LaBelle or an agent in my department, Craig Raabe. You’re not to discuss this with anyone but the three of us.”

“Got it.”

Sandor drank down half of his whisky. “You’re going to have to play this pretty close to the vest within your own agency.”

“I guess so.”

“You know a Russian dealer in Brooklyn, Timur Vaknin?”

“I know of him.”

“He’s likely the buyer here, at least for some of the cocaine, if that information helps.”

“It might.”

“I also have intel that the trucker supposed to take the goods away is Transnational.”

Walters gave an appreciative nod. “That will definitely help.”

“Good,” Sandor said, then drank off the rest of his whisky and stood. “I’ve got a flight to catch.”

S
ANDOR WAS GLAD
to be back in his apartment.

The Company plane made the short flight from the BWI Airport to Teterboro, New Jersey, where a car was waiting to take him home. Now he had time to do some stretches, shower, put on clean clothes, and draw a few deep breaths.

He went to his bedroom, unlocked the panel in his closet, and took out the metal box where he kept his weapons, emergency funds, and other tools of the clandestine trade. He was already armed with the PPK so he strapped on an S&W .38 snub-nose revolver in an ankle holster, took extra ammunition, then replaced the box and began pacing from room to room while he waited for a phone call.

Craig Raabe was still in D.C., coordinating the information being gathered. LaBelle had also stayed behind. Based on what they had put together so far, Sandor was convinced of three things. First, he believed Adina’s target was New York. Baltimore and Washington were possible, but the intel developed from the discussions coming out of Washington Heights pointed to an attack somewhere in Manhattan.

Second, the information Raabe got in Mexico, as reinforced by the ongoing interrogation of Mateo, indicated a short timeline. A container ship from the western reaches of the Gulf of Mexico was likely heading up the east coast of the United States and would arrive in Baltimore in less than two days.

His third premise was far more speculative. He did not believe the anthrax was still inside the shipment of narcotics.

This was one time, he admitted to himself as he paced from one room of his apartment to the next, he hoped he was wrong. If the toxin was still within the cargo container it should be easier to intercept. It would also give them these next two days to identify the ship carrying the contraband. If he was right, he feared the means for a widespread biological attack was already inside the country.

It would be classic Adina, like the unmanned subs he launched in the Gulf Coast that were nothing more than a diversion from the real destination of the weapons that had already been smuggled into Louisiana. And that was only one example of how the Venezuelan terrorist played chess. Even if the rumors were accurate about Adina having become persona non grata in Caracas, and the analysis in Langley was correct that he needed to cash in on the narcotics shipment, Sandor was still certain of the man’s priorities.

He would be focused on the attack against the United States and would do everything he could to make that happen.

The airports were being watched, but the photos of Adina being circulated were only computer enhancements of old pictures. The border authorities from Texas to California were on alert, but it was a mammoth job with all of the traffic coming across every day. Worst of all, it was likely that Adina had sent the toxins by messengers, possibly through more than one route, staying away from the epicenter of his assault, making detection even more difficult. Added to this dilemma was the fact that anthrax is a virtually odorless powder and—unlike an explosive device—would not be easily identified by X-ray.

He went to the kitchen, grabbed a bottle of water, and drank down the entire thing. Then his cell phone rang.

“Sandor?”

“It’s me. You get the warrant?”

“Done,” Bobby Ferriello told him.

“Perfect. When will you be ready to go?”

“We’re ready now,” the narcotics detective said. “We have a SWAT team prepared to move into position.”

“We don’t want to make a bigger scene than we absolutely have to. No way of knowing who else is watching.”

“Understood.”

“I’m on my way.”

————

Sandor picked up his old Land Rover from the garage down the street and took off for Brooklyn. When he arrived at Ferriello’s precinct he was not shown to the lieutenant’s office, but to a large space on the floor above. There were more than twenty officers present, ten of them in full combat gear.

Ferriello was standing with a couple of uniformed men, studying a map and a series of photographs all pinned to a fabric board against the wall. Sandor was escorted in and greeted by Ferriello. “I have to admit, the way things were left at Vaknin’s place I wasn’t sure I’d ever see you again. At least not all in one piece.”

Sandor nodded. “When they had me down in their little dungeon I wasn’t so sure myself.” He had a quick look around. “Your war room?”

“Something like that. Hey everyone,” Ferriello announced to the group, “this is Sandor. He’s with the feds, riding shotgun with me.” The brief introduction was followed by a series of quick nods and hellos, then Ferriello led Sandor to the map. “These are the positions they’ll take,” he explained as he pointed to buildings in Brighton Beach. “Three two-men SWAT teams on these rooftops, the other four men will be deployed at ground level. Once we get inside, no one is leaving the place without one of our men having a bead on him.”

“Everyone understands that we want to avoid a show of force unless it’s necessary, right?”

“Absolutely.”

“We need to take Vaknin, get his computer, his records, whatever else we find. We’re running out of time, but we also can’t afford to scare his friends away.”

“Understood.” Ferriello paused, then added, “A lot of the men and women here have been waiting a long time to nail this guy. We’re happy to get the chance.”

“That’s good,” Sandor said. “Then let’s try not to screw it up.”

Ferriello forced a smile. “Damn, and I almost forgot why I hate your guts.”

————

The heavily armed SWAT teams rolled out first. Their job was to reach their positions without being seen, then signal the all-clear. They traveled in a single, unmarked van.

Sandor rode in Ferriello’s sedan, leaving a couple of minutes later. Four plainclothes officers trailed them in two other cars for street-level backup. Those four, Ferriello, and Sandor were issued Kevlar bulletproof vests, which they now wore under their shirts.

Several uninformed officers remained in the conference room to monitor communications.

It was not long before the SWAT team leader radioed that they were in place.

Ferriello, who had been sitting three blocks from their destination, pulled out and made the turn onto Brighton Beach Avenue. He parked and led Sandor to the now familiar entrance to Little Siberia.

The two beefy types at the front door were the same pair they had met just a few nights before.

“Hello boys,” Sandor greeted them as he and Ferriello reached the top of the short staircase. “Remember us?”

One of the two large skinheads began to say something, but Ferriello was not in the mood, not tonight. “Stand down, asshole,” he told the bouncer.

“Wow,” Sandor whispered as they walked through the door and then past the red velvet curtains that led to the bar, “you on some sort of adrenaline high?” When Ferriello grunted his response, Sandor warned him, “Take it easy partner. We may have a long night ahead.”

Ivan was already on his way across the room, obviously having been given a heads-up from his men out front. He was scowling at Sandor by the time his long strides got him there.

“I owe you,” he snarled.

Before Sandor was able to offer his view of their relationship, Ferriello reached in his pocket and pulled out the search warrant. “This is only going one of two ways, Ivan, easy or hard. This warrant says I can do basically whatever the hell I want here tonight and believe me, I’ve got the manpower to do it.” Ferriello kept his voice down.
For the moment, he wanted this to stay a three-man discussion. “You follow?”