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  The Handler

  A CHUCK BRANDT THRILLER

  ROGER WESTON

  This book is a work of fiction. The characters, names, incidents, dialogue, and plot are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons or events is purely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2014 by Weston Publishing Enterprises

  All rights reserved.

  CONTENTS

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  CHAPTER 1

  Lloret de Mar

  Costa Brava, Spain

  A tall, dark-haired man wearing sunglasses slowly approached the center of the seaside town of Costa Brava. As he strolled along the busy sidewalk in a loose tan shirt, he studied the tourist-filled street between the high-rise hotels. He had already surveyed the area from a block out in three different directions. He knew that anytime a man like him committed to being at a certain place at a certain time he was taking a huge risk. But now was a time for taking chances because with two of his three agents confirmed dead and the third missing, he needed to find out who was behind the killings and if his last man was still alive.

  The stranger kept moving. As he did, he continued to scan the scene. Towering palm trees flanked the street in both directions, and merchant stalls filled the sidewalk between the stately trees. The merchants had set-up shop along the boulevard in an attempt to lure the tourists who were flocking to see the start of the historic Costa Brava car rally. The starting gun would go off in a few minutes. That was good. Just enough time for him to do what he needed to do.

  The high-pitched whine of a high-performance engine got his attention as a beefed-up Fiat drove slowly down the road in front of him. The rich scent of burnt hydrocarbons filled the air, and the man admired the sponsors’ decals and the roll bar of the revving Fiat. More vintage cars followed single-file down the boulevard of Lloret de Mar. They were heading to the starting line of the famous race. The stranger examined the tools of the trade as the cars passed by and was impressed. He knew that excellent tools could be the difference between victory and defeat, between life and death.

  He wandered down a pedestrian-only street that sat in the shadow of a high-rise hotel. Colorful t-shirts hung on the entrance of a merchant stall and flapped in the breeze. The stranger continued down the boulevard, then stopped at a bull-fighting gift stand. He walked into the small stall and picked up a four-inch high bull carved from grey marble. He studied it for a few minutes then set it down and walked over to a display of red bullfighting capes. He noticed that each cape was expertly sewn. It was obvious that the Spaniards took great pride in their national pastime. He wandered over to a wall where several banderillas were displayed. He reached for one of the wooden rods and pulled it off the display rack. He admired its three-centimeter long razor-sharp steel point for a moment. Another finely crafted tool. The two-foot long stick was wrapped in red and yellow curled paper, giving it a festive look, but he knew the pain that this tool was designed to deliver. He knew that at the beginning of a bullfight two men called banderilleros enter the ring and use the sharp steel point of the tool to stab the muscular ridge between a bull’s shoulder bones. The banderilleros repeatedly stab the big animal until he is bloodied and angry. Only then does the matador enter the ring.

  The stranger was noticing much more than the sharp tip of the banderillas, however. Behind his sunglasses, his gaze took in the masses of people who were scurrying about. His eyes scanned the people watchers sipping their beers at the cafés that lined the street, and the shade umbrellas that dotted the beach across the way. He warily glanced at the locals who intermingled among the visitors of Lloret de Mar.

  When the stranger resumed his stroll up the bustling road, he saw what he was looking for. There she was, perched on a stool at a lively sidewalk café—brown hair, anxious smile, competent eyes. He recognized her immediately, even after so many years. The man sitting across from her was tall, strong, and watching the street like a guard dog. The man’s alert gaze passed over the stranger and then settled on something beyond him, but the stranger knew that the man was watching him.

  The stranger did not move. He kept his eyes on the girl. A current of visors, copper tans, earphones, and sun hats passed in front of him as the crowd drifted down the sidewalk toward the starting line up of the Costa Brava car race.

  He pretended to be fascinated with all of this, but his attention was focused on other things. He was looking for the lone assassin who was trying to blend in. There were a number of single men drifting along with the crowd, but he did not see any telltale signs of concealed carry. He scanned the rooflines, but saw only seagulls whose cries were drowned out by the high-performance engines revving under the hoods of the various race cars that were heading to the starting line.

  As he approached the café, he walked toward her. The crowd thinned out a little, but not enough. He could hear the sound of a classical guitar struggling to be heard over the growling engines and screeching tires. Laughter, cheering, and shouts filled the air.

  As he approached her table, he was struck with what a lovely woman she had grown to be. Straight brown hair framed the face of an angel. She watched the festivities with soft brown eyes. Warm emotions flooded through him. He had saved her once, and now she might need him again. He noticed her long, lean legs wrapped together under the table, a black attaché case at her side. He knew she was here to meet the ambassador, but the man had been dead for hours. So why was she here and who was the guy that was keeping an eagle’s eye watch over her?

  “Maria,” the stranger called as he approached the table, raising his hand to wave to her.

  She stared at him, looking confused. Her lips parted, but she didn’t speak.

  The big guy stood up, “Who are you? What do you want?”

  “Name’s Chuck Brandt.”

  At that moment, the bodyguard jerked and fell backwards over the next table, wine spilling over the three women who occupied it. The man landed hard on his back, and two red spots appeared on his freshly pressed shirt where two bullets had entered his body.

  Out of reflex, Chuck grabbed Maria, almost knocking her over as he whisked her into the café.

  Chuck grasped for her hand and pulled her out the back door. As he dragged her down the alley, a man cut him off and pulled out a handgun.

  Chuck grabbed a trash can lid and flung it like a Frisbee into the assassin’s face. The man grunted and staggered backwards.

  Chuck took Maria’s hand and cut left, leading her into the open service door of a hotel. As they ran down the dark interior hallway of the hotel, Chuck pulled the frightened girl along as they made several turns and then finally spilled into the busy hotel lobby. Chuck drew Maria near him and whispered into her ear, “Walk slowly. Act natural.”

  As he spoke, he scanned the lobby. A dozen tourists were gathered around chatting excitedly. A woman was standing at the front desk, talking to the clerk. Chuck noticed a security guard watching them carefully. Chuck leaned over and kissed Maria on the cheek. “Everything will be alright,” he said. “Follow me.”

  She looked at him with anxiety-filled eyes.

  Chuck peered over his shoulder and saw a man with dead eyes enter the lobby from the stairwell. When Chuck led Maria into the hotel
turnstile, the man followed. As Chuck stepped out of the rotating door, the smell of car exhaust flooded his senses. The plaza in front of him was bustling with people who were swarming around the colourful banners that bordered the starting line of the Costa Brava Rally. The banners waved wildly in the wind, and the crowd conglomerated around the cars that were preparing to start the race. In the next moment, a Ferrari exploded off the starting line. Then a silver Porsche pulled forward to the same spot, waiting for its turn to start the famous race. Chuck turned to check on the man with the dead eyes who had been following them, but he was gone.

  Chuck grasped Maria’s hand and led her along the sidewalk. Now he spotted a broad-faced thug staring straight at them. When the thug reached his hand under his jacket, Chuck yanked Maria through the crowd, ducked under the ropes that lined the roadway and jogged up to the idling silver Porsche. He opened the driver’s door, dragged the racer out of the car, and shoved him to the ground. Gasps and shrieks rose from the crowd of spectators.

  “Sorry,” Chuck said, hopping in the sports car. He put the silencer under the nose of the gray-bearded man in the passenger seat. “Time to get out.”

  The man fled the car, and Chuck instructed Maria to take his place. When Chuck worked the clutch and shoved the stick shift into gear, the car burned rubber and shot down the road. Just as he took the corner, he glanced in the rear-view mirror and saw a gunman hijack the next race car in line, a souped-up green BMW.

  Costa Brava got its name because of the region’s rugged coastline. Now Chuck was learning about it firsthand. The road twisted and turned endlessly. He looked at Maria. Her face was pale.

  Chuck screeched tires around a corner, ground the gears, and did his best not to blow up the engine or slide off the road. He stole a glance down the steep cliffs that fell away from edge of the road. He figured he was driving pretty well because after several miles, he still had not seen the pursuit car. On the fifth mile, he caught a glimpse of it on a straightaway. He poured on the gas, and the Porsche caught air over three rises in the road.

  The lime green BMW appeared behind him after a series of sharp curves. On a brief stretch of straight road, the BMW rammed the Porsche from behind.

  As the BMW backed off, Chuck hit the brakes, causing a second collision. The other car fell back. Chuck slowed down a little more and allowed his pursuer to race up alongside. As Chuck tapped the breaks, the other driver aimed a handgun at him and fired.

  The driver’s window shattered as Chuck jerked the wheel to the left. He retaliated by slamming the Porsche into the BMW, but the bigger car stayed on the road. As Chuck downshifted, the little car tore out in front but then slowed down as he navigated into an S-turn. When the Porsche lost traction and slid toward a cliff, Chuck turned into the slide long enough to regain control and redirect. He downshifted and ripped around a bend in the road.

  The BMW swung up alongside once more, but the road snaked along ridges and curved back on itself, so the driver had to keep his hands on the wheel. The two cars drove almost side by side, screeching around corners, grinding gears, and straining engines. On the straightaway, the BMW rammed the rear quarter panel of the Porsche, causing the back end to slide out. Chuck regained control just as he caught air over a bump. As he came down, he tapped the breaks. Tires screeched.

  He swung the wheel and rammed the BMW as it landed. The lime green car flew off the road, rolled down a bank, and disappeared into the trees.

  In his rear-view mirror, Chuck saw two more cars closing in, a black Mustang and a red Alfa Romeo. A shooter leaned out the window of the Mustang. The assassin was trying to get a good shot, but Chuck was swerving around corners, making it tough for him. As the road curved back and forth, shots rang out. A slug shattered the back window and Maria ducked down. Another bullet cracked the windshield from inside. Chuck hit the gas and almost lost control right where the edge of the road dropped hundreds of feet to the sea below.

  He regained control on a hairpin turn. Then the Porsche hit a bump, got up on two wheels, and almost flipped over. Chuck swore under his breath. He took the next corner aggressively and kept all wheels on the ground.

  As the road straightened out, he poured on the gas and glanced in his rear-view mirror.

  Getting sideways on the last corner, the Mustang behind him slammed into a telephone pole and snapped the wood pole like a matchstick, spreading high voltage wires across the ground. The Alfa Romeo slipped out from beneath the falling wires just in time.

  Chuck drove hard and fast for the next two miles, putting space between him and the pursuing car. A thick stand of pine and oak trees lined the roadway.

  When he swept around a curve too fast, he went into a slide towards a cliff. When the wheels caught traction, the Porsche ended up sideways in the middle of the road.

  He sat there for a moment, breathing hard. The car still idling, he rammed the gear shift into neutral and pulled up the emergency break.

  Chuck ran around the car. He pulled Maria out of the passenger door. “Follow me,” he said. They ran into the pine trees that bordered the roadway. Under the cover of the trees, they ran up the hillside and onto its bluff. There they stood and watched the road below. Moments later, Chuck heard the whine of the Alfa Romeo and the screech of its tires around the corner. Then he saw the red car slam into the silver Porsche and soar over the cliff. The Porsche’s back corner panel had been crushed, but it was still on the road. Chuck ran out of the woods, released the hand break and pushed the car over the cliff. It fell a hundred feet and then tumbled down a steep bank end-over-end, splashing into the ocean below.

  Chuck watched it sink into the churning surf.

  Maria stood next to him shivering in the sun. “Now what are we going to do?”

  Chuck held her for a moment. “Don’t worry. I’ll take care of you.”

  He led her into the thick forest of oak and pine trees, and they hiked down to the rocky shoreline of Costa Brava.

  CHAPTER 2

  Costa Brava, Spain

  A quarter mile offshore

  Ten miles to the south of where Chuck ditched his car, the monstrous 220-foot yacht Volga swung at anchor in the shining, deep-blue waters just north of the tourist town of Lloret de Mar. Her white hull and superstructure glistened like a floating pearl in the radiant Mediterranean Sea.

  General Ivan Lazar was a short, bulky man with thick, grayish-black hair and bushy eyebrows. In the super-yacht’s salon, he paced back-and-forth in front of the sprawling ten-foot windows that framed the panoramic view of the rugged coastline of Costa Brava.

  He stopped for a moment and admired the wooden pillars that flanked the ship’s main salon. He had had the pillars hand-carved from rare Amazonian wood and installed on the Volga more for aesthetic purposes than for structural support. There were six pillars in all. These pillars of dark and ancient rainforest wood were works of art worthy of the best museums in the world. All six featured elaborate relief carvings of various victorious military conquests fought throughout history, from ancient Greece to the Napoleonic wars and even the more recent conflicts on the world-wide stage. The intricate sculptures formed a continuous band of combat and domination that spiraled up from floor to ceiling culminating in the greatest victory of all, Russia’s second Chechen war. Lazar had long ago studied all of these wars and internalized their tactical lessons. His own exploits graced the top of the fifth column.

  The general continued to pace the salon. After a few minutes of contemplating lessons learned from the greatest conflicts of history, he approached the salon’s conference table where a 4x6 map of Lloret de Mar was spread out on the luxurious dark-wood surface. His bold plans to eliminate a dangerous problem were currently being executed. The strategy was clear, and it called for bold, decisive action. Every detail of the plan had been considered with profound focus and thought.

  Throughout his life Lazar had studied the lives of the great conquerors. He had learned as much about victory from them as any man who had ev
er lived. These men were his invisible counselors; they whispered advice to him. General Lazar knew that it was his thoughts, and his alone, that had brought him a lifetime of stunning success. But the inspiration gained from the great minds of the past was invaluable.

  He shuffled along the hardwood floor of the salon, just as he had for days, driven by the torment of his pressing problems. He advanced and retreated and weighed one option after another. His brilliant intellect flew through the decades and centuries, searching for a solution to his present problem. Knowing the extreme risk of his current operation, he brooded over a thousand details, any one of which, if overlooked, could lead to failure. In the planning phase, every point had been meticulously considered. Even the smallest detail had been profoundly meditated on. Every eventuality had been rehearsed and alternate courses of action plotted in case the fickle winds of fate shifted course. Nothing had been left to chance. Now, all that was left was the execution. As always, it was a matter of training, precision, and boldness.

  His thoughts drifted to his past. He recalled walking among thousands of common citizens along Leningrad’s Neva River when he was a boy. Numerous canals and bridges divided the city, and he had always walked by the river even when it was frozen in the winter. He was a barely a grown man in those days, but even then he had possessed boldness and precise judgment. Those instincts had helped him rise above his classmates with ease. It was during the white nights of summer before darkness came to Leningrad that his thoughts centered on now. Lazar and his old friend Yevgeni were weaving through the throng of commoners along the embankment.

  It was long ago, but his recollections of the day were the height of clarity. No man alive had clearer recollections of the events that had happened decades earlier. He recalled every detail—the glowing twilight, the crisp, fresh air, the gurgle of flowing water, and the sounds of gravel crunching under the tires of the little black militia cars. He even recalled the foul smell of a drunk that brushed past. The crowd was gathering for the nightly opening of the Neva River drawbridges. Once they were open, freighters would be able to enter and exit the Port of Leningrad. Lazar and his friend approached the Palace Bridge. As it began to rise, they sprinted up the tilting platform. A police car chirped its siren and a loud speaker ordered them to halt and come back. They did not listen. As the bridge rose, they leaped over the widening gap. Yevgeni missed. He fell into the river and was fished out by the police. Lazar made the leap by a hair. Perfect timing and execution. It was a trait that had never failed him.