The cuban, p.5
The Cuban, page 5
“Do you ride?” Richards asked, catching his look.
“When I get the chance,” Michael said. “Unfortunately, that’s not as often as I’d like.”
Richards grinned and reached for his bag, opening the trunk of the sedan with the press of a button. He deposited Michael’s bag in the trunk and pulled something out.
“It must be your lucky day, mate,” he said, tossing him a helmet. “Your bag will be taken to your hotel.”
Michael caught the helmet in surprise, glancing at the motorcycles.
“You’re serious?”
Richards pulled out a second helmet, pulling it over his head, and that was all the answer Michael needed.
Berlin
Viper stepped out of the innocuous looking building that contained the morgue and pulled her sunglasses off her head, dropping them onto her nose. She turned to stride up the sidewalk, lost in thought. The body she’d gone to see had been killed with a single round through his forehead, a .22 caliber bullet that left a small entry wound and no exit point. It was a caliber she’d used quite a bit herself. It was small, devastatingly deadly, and the preferred choice of assassins around the world.
The body belonged to a man named Marcel, and he was an Interpol agent. He had turned into a reliable source of information for her over the past year. Marcel had eyes and ears all over Eastern Europe, a fact that had rendered him virtually invaluable over the past two weeks. She’d last heard from him two days ago when he called to tell her that he’d found something. His tone had been uncharacteristically urgent when they spoke, but when she told him to send her the information, he refused. He said it was too dangerous. He’d bring it to her personally. They were supposed to meet in Paris, but he’d been killed before he could leave Berlin.
Viper stopped at an intersection and glanced behind her before crossing the street. Officially, Marcel had returned from a trip to Poland the day he contacted her, but she knew that wasn’t his only stop. He’d told her that much over the phone. The information he was bringing her had been found in Minsk. Marcel had crossed the border into Belarus during his stay in Poland, something that was significant in itself. Belarus had suspended its participation in the EU over the summer while it supported Russia’s offensive in Ukraine. The country had been placed under severe travel restrictions, and that included most Interpol agents as well. Yet Marcel had followed a lead into Minsk, and come away again with something that he was convinced was too dangerous to transmit even through encrypted means.
Surprisingly, she’d learned of his death from his handler in Interpol. The man had gone through Marcel’s laptop, pulling case files and information before wiping the hard drive, and had come across her number in relation to one of Marcel’s cases. Performing his due diligence, he’d called her to find out who she was and what her connection to Marcel had been. He’d hung up again convinced that she was simply a nobody, a random witness that Marcel had spoken to six months before. He’d got no information from her, but she had learned all that she needed to know from him. Marcel was killed in an alley the same day he contacted her. His handler seemed to have no idea what he was working on when he was killed, but Alina did.
And so did the person who killed him.
She was two days behind the assassin, and Viper knew that that was two days too many. Every minute counted now if she was going to discover what it was that Marcel was trying to get to her when he died.
Alina went into a coffee shop and ordered a large black coffee. She needed to know what happened in that alley, and that meant knowing everything that Interpol knew. She couldn’t call in a favor. There wasn’t time. It would have to be done the old-fashioned way.
A few minutes later, she was seated at a table in the corner with her laptop open before her and her coffee next to it. It was time to get to work.
Chapter Six
The pain didn’t seem as bad as it had been.
That was the man’s first thought as he slowly came awake, the comforting darkness of sleep evaporating despite his efforts to cling to it. He didn’t know how long he’d been allowed to sleep, but he was awake now. His body was getting used to the irregular wake-up calls and was adjusting to sleeping in very short bursts to compensate. He wondered why they hadn’t been in yet to drag him off for another pain-filled torture session. He supposed he shouldn’t complain. Every minute they left him alone was another minute his body could use to try to regain what little strength he had left.
He lay on the floor against the wall, wrapped in a blanket, staring across the eight-by-eight cell. The thin wool did very little to keep the damp chill from the stone floor at bay, but the man was grateful for the soft barrier between himself and the stones nonetheless. It was the only concession his captors had made to his comfort, and he suspected that it was more due to the fact that they didn’t want him dying from exposure before they got what information they needed and could properly kill him.
He shifted and sucked in his breath as pain seared through his side. So much for it not being as bad as he was used to. He frowned and moved his hand to the burning sensation, running his fingers over a raised welt about the size of a large sponge. Grimacing, he removed his hand and closed his eyes again, trying to remember the last session. What had they done to him?
They had asked about Igor. The thought popped into his mind and he opened his eyes, filing that memory away with a frown. If he ever managed to get out of this hell hole, that interesting little tidbit could be very useful. In fact, their entire line of questioning was interesting, and not what he would have expected. Of all the things that they could dig out of him while they had him, they wanted to know about a dead accountant from Belarus. Someone that he hadn’t thought held any significance at all.
He stared across the cell. How had he even got here? He had no idea. The last thing he remembered before waking up in this cell was the hotel in Minsk. Where here was, exactly, was another question. His interrogator spoke Russian with a southern dialect, but one of the guards didn’t have the same accent as the others. He sounded like he was from Ukraine, but that seemed unlikely. Or was it?
Setting the question aside, the man shifted again, grimacing at the dull ache that went through his body. He had no idea where he was, or how he’d got here, but he knew that his time was very limited. He’d heard the guards talking again when they threw him back in here. They were impressed that he’d lasted this long, and they were even more shocked that he hadn’t talked yet. He was the subject of a wager, apparently, and one of the guards was betting heavily that he would outlast the longest record for survival. He’d already beaten the standing record for keeping his information to himself.
The man felt his cracked and swollen lips curve into a distorted smile. That was something at least. While his memories of the interrogations were sporadic and interrupted with blank spots caused by the pain or unconsciousness, at least there was no doubt that he hadn’t cracked yet.
And that made all the difference.
He forced himself to straighten his legs and flex his muscles, grimacing as pain raked through him. He had to keep the muscles moving as much as possible. He couldn’t let them grow weak. Shifting again, he struggled to sit up and lean against the wall. They had pumped him full of some kind of drug this last time. He recognized the effects as ones that he’d been subjected to before. In training, perhaps? Or in the field? This wasn’t the first time he’d been drugged. Obviously, the chemical hadn’t worked as intended, or there would be no wager among the guards, and no need for the matching electrical burns on either side of his rib cage.
Leaning his head back against the wall, he peered around his cell tiredly. He would be very glad to see the last of this place...if he could just stay alive long enough to get the hell out of here.
Michael stepped into the hotel suite and looked across the room at the man standing in front of the window. He waited for Richards to close the door softly behind him before speaking.
“The bike was a nice surprise.”
“I thought you’d appreciate it.” Charlie turned from the window and motioned him to one of the armchairs. “It was a precaution. I wanted to be sure that you weren’t followed.”
Michael raised an eyebrow and went over to seat himself.
“Is that a concern?”
“It’s always a concern, but let’s just say that I’m not willing to take any risks at the moment.” He sat down and crossed his legs comfortably. “Having our allies involved does pose the problem of greater visibility than I would like. I’d rather you remained invisible as much as possible.”
“We’re really working with MI6?” Michael asked, surprised. “I thought you never worked with other agencies.”
“Work is a misleading term. I prefer to consider it a sharing of resources.”
Michael grinned. “All right. What resources are we sharing, exactly?”
“Right now, only information. But we may have need of personnel before this is over.”
Michael studied Charlie for a moment, then sighed.
“What’s going on? Why am I here?”
“There’s been another incident. Another executive was found dead, but this time it was on our turf.”
Michael raised an eyebrow. “American?”
“Yes. He was found in his home in Texas. His wife and toddler were killed as well. It was staged to look like a murder-suicide. The local police believe he killed his family before hanging himself in the garage. He even left a note.”
“But you don’t think that’s what happened?”
“Given the similar circumstances of several of the others, no.”
Michael made a face and nodded.
“There were four others with the same MO,” he agreed. “Seems to be a rash of murder-suicides sweeping across the world all of a sudden.”
“This death brings the total to fifteen dead in eleven months. The international community continues to look the other way, but we no longer have that luxury. We have to find the person behind all of this. Fifteen executives in the largest energy corporations across the world don’t suddenly become suicidal.”
“Oh, but some were of natural causes,” Michael pointed out, a tremor in his voice. “Don’t forget the Chinese man who died of a sudden heart attack. Of course, it was most likely spurred on by the fifty-foot drop from the crane.”
“My mistake,” Charlie murmured. “Of course.”
“My personal favorite was the one from Moscow who committed suicide by shooting himself twice in the head.”
Charlie grunted.
“The Russians certainly don’t lack imagination. They’ve thrown them out of hospital windows, down stairs, shot them, poisoned them, and caused fatal car accidents, all of which were covered up by their state news outlets. If it wasn’t so serious, and hadn’t spread into the global energy sector, I would find it amusing.”
“But it has, and now apparently even as far as Texas. Who was it?”
“William Mosley, a Vice President and senior consultant for the Federal Energy Regulatory Commission.”
“And his replacement?”
“Is yet to be announced.”
Michael exhaled and rubbed a hand over his face.
“No doubt they’ll follow the same trend as all the others. Not that we know what they have in common yet, but it must be something. The only reason to purge so many high-ranking executives is to replace them with people who’ll do what you want.” He dropped his hand and looked at Charlie squarely. “Everything that I’m coming across is leading back to The Cuban. I really believe he’s the one behind it all.”
“To what purpose? Why would an international arms dealer be interested in energy?”
“I don’t know, but all roads lead to him.”
Charlie was quiet for a long moment, then he nodded slowly.
“I know they do. Have you uncovered any indication as to his identity yet?”
“Nothing substantial. I know he’s a male, and I think he’s either Russian or Eastern European by birth, but I believe he was educated in the States. Really, the man’s a ghost. There are plenty of people who claim to have been in meetings with him, but all of their descriptions vary drastically. Most of his meetings are conducted by trusted associates, but there’s no doubt that he runs his business with an iron fist. No one speaks without him first telling them what to say, and everyone is afraid of him. Hell, no one even knows his real name. The Cuban. That’s all we have, and we only have that because he likes to gift a box of Cohiba Robusto cigars with large purchases.”
“He’s the master of the most extensive arms network in the world, and yet the man is an enigma.”
“Yes. A dangerous one.” Michael hesitated, then cleared his throat. “But I think I might have a lead. I received a message while I was on the plane, from a contact in Paris. While I was there, I found what I thought might be another piece of the puzzle. I had someone look into it after I left.”
“And?” Charlie prompted when he hesitated again.
“I think some answers may be in Minsk.”
“Minsk?” Charlie repeated, surprised. “What do you think you’ll find in Belarus?”
“I’ve been building a list of The Cuban’s known associates, the ones he does business with regularly. It’s not a long list. The Cuban is notoriously suspicious and picks his friends carefully. One of them, Pedro Merino, was in Zurich last week overseeing the sale of a shipment of guns. He cut the meeting short to board a flight for Moscow, where he caught a connecting flight into Minsk. Now, Pedro is a man of very strict habits. He wouldn’t have cut the meeting short and departed at a moment’s notice unless he was being summoned to another, more pressing meeting.”
“And you think it was with The Cuban?”
“He was facilitating the sale on his behalf. It only makes sense that that would be who called him away.”
“What’s in Minsk?”
“A compound outside the city, in Dachnyi 6. Several other associates of The Cuban have traveled there over the past few months, and I think that’s where Pedro was heading. If it is, it’s looking more and more like that’s where The Cuban meets with his executives and associates.”
“It would be ideal. With travel so restricted in that area, there is little likelihood of any of them being followed into the country, much less apprehended.”
“Exactly.”
Charlie was quiet for a long time, then he exhaled.
“I’ll make the arrangements for the papers and identifications,” he finally said. “How’s your Russian these days?”
“More than adequate.”
“Good. Go and see what you can discover at this compound. I’ll have one of the assets on standby in case The Cuban is there. If he is, don’t be a hero. Let me know and I’ll send help.”
Michael made a face. “I thought we wanted him alive.”
For the first time since he entered the room, Charlie smiled faintly in amusement.
“They’re more than capable of extracting a target without killing them, Michael.”
Michael grunted.
“Unfortunately, they tend to leave a mess behind.”
“I can’t say that that weighs very heavily on my mind.” Charlie stood up and buttoned his suit jacket, the interview over. “I’ll have your papers by this evening. Go and get some rest. You leave tonight.”
Chapter Seven
Alina sipped her bottle of water, her eyes on the screen, while she sped through the black and white footage from the CCTV camera. It had been more difficult to get the footage than she’d anticipated, thanks to Interpol. Difficult, but not impossible. After some false starts, she’d finally located what she was looking for.
She capped her water and reached out to slow down the recording as the timestamp in the corner rolled over to the day Marcel had been shot. She jumped ahead to the evening, then sat back in her chair, propping her feet on the desk and crossing her arms over her chest. Settled in and resigned to watching at least an hour of the most boring television imaginable, Alina reflected that she missed her equipment. If she were home, she would have computers doing this for her, and it would be much faster. The time she was going to lose was time that she didn’t have to lose, but there was no other choice. She had to know what happened in that alley.
It was over an hour later when Alina straightened up suddenly, dropping her feet to the floor. There, coming around the corner, was Marcel. The image was grainy, but there was no mistaking him. He was running, and he barreled past a couple on the sidewalk, looking over his shoulder as he ducked into the alley. He leaned against the building, undoubtedly catching his breath for a few moments before he looked around the corner. After looking up and down the street, he turned and walked further into the alley, disappearing from the limited range of the camera across the street.
Frowning, Alina went to another tab and searched for a camera angle from the other end of the alley. After a few minutes, she landed on another camera and pulled up the footage, speeding through to the time stamp from the first camera. Slowing the playback down, she searched the dark alley for any sign of Marcel. The picture clarity of the new camera was even worse than the other, and she pressed her lips together impatiently as she tried to discern any movement past the fuzzy images.
Before she saw Marcel, she saw the man standing behind the large trash receptacle. He drew her attention when he moved, breaking the almost total invisibility that he’d gained in the shadows. When he moved, Marcel entered the frame.
Alina watched the two grainy figures on the screen, her lips pressed together. The shadow behind the trash container stepped in front of Marcel, raising a gun and firing immediately. There was no time for conversation, and certainly no warning for poor Marcel. He was shot point blank in the forehead. As he fell, the other figure bent over him, catching and easing him to the ground. Alina watched as he went through the dead man’s pockets quickly, extracting something small from one of Marcel’s jacket pockets. Freezing the image, she zoomed in and went about trying to clean up the image enough to make out what the assassin had found. After a few moments, she tilted her head and stared at the enlarged gloved hand. The object was small, about the size of a flash drive, and Alina sat back thoughtfully. Whatever it was that Marcel had been trying to get to her was now in the hands of the people who’d killed him.
