The Handler Page 7

  Mika smiled at him, but it was a malevolent grin. “You do what we agreed to and there’ll be no problems, but don’t even think of coming after me. Nobody has ever survived such a foolish task.”

  Gonzales glared at Mika, fury stamped on his face. “Don’t forget, this is my town.”

  Mika smiled and shook his head. “You have nothing to worry about, Sargento. This is an amicable relationship we have. We are friends, you and I.”

  “Yeah, right.”

  “Lazar will compensate you for your cooperation. Be sure to use it to treat your family well.”

  “Sure, amigo,” Gonzales said, his face twisted with disgust.

  Mika gave a hand signal to his men. After a couple of minutes they joined him. “Come on, men. It’s time for us to have some fun.”

  Gonzales watched them as he twisted his mustache between his thumb and forefinger. After they were gone he hurried into the darkness.

  A few minutes later, Mika and his men descended upon the streets of Lloret de Mar.

  CHAPTER 11

  Washington D.C.

  Reporters sat in rows of lawn chairs with notepads in their hands. They were flanked by a line of cameramen. Their faces were masks of adoration and wonderment as the president of the United States walked out into Rose Garden and took his place at lectern. A man of dark hair, pale skin, and distinguished appearance, he wore a blue suit and a red necktie. As he briefly reviewed his notes and gathered his thoughts, his face was solemn. The American flags in the background lent gravity to the sad occasion. A reverent and hushed silence lay across the garden. The president glanced across the assembled reporters and began to speak: “I have just met with my national security team on today’s tragic events in Spain, and I would like to make a brief statement. First, as you know, our ambassador to Spain was assassinated earlier today, and this was followed by the death of his bodyguard and two other men whose identities have not yet been released. These men were simply doing their duty when they were gunned down by a ruthless assassin. Our prayers are with the families who have lost their loved ones or are still awaiting news. If, as it now appears, these targeted assassinations were acts of terror, they were despicable and cowardly acts. We know who was responsible. We will find him and hold him accountable. The man in question is a former covert operative for U.S. intelligence, an operative who went bad. If his intention was to derail our efforts to promote peace and security abroad, he will fail—utterly. I have directed the Department of Defense, the F.B.I., and the State Department to send officials to Spain to begin an investigation. Secretary Taylor has spoken to officials in Spain, and we expect to work closely with the Spanish government as we proceed. Our embassies in the region have been put on heightened alert. I strongly condemn the murder of our ambassador today. I understand that this rogue agent may have been hired by Iranian fanatics; however, there can no possible justification for violence. I condemn all acts of violence. Let me say this to the agent: now is the time to stop the bloodshed. Now is the time to turn yourself over to authorities.”

  The president adjusted his tie. He addressed the attentive reporters. “Thank you all for coming. The State Department will offer a briefing today and will be able to answer the questions that are relevant to today’s events. God bless.”

  CHAPTER 12

  Lloret de Mar, Costa Brava

  At 2 a.m., neon signs lit up the streets of Lloret de Mar. Pulling down the brim of his newly-acquired baseball cap, Chuck went into a disco. Making his way through thick smoke, he saw a mix of young tourists and sharp-eyed locals. He stood in the crowd frowning, avoiding eye contact with anyone, but allowing his eyes to generally roam across the room. His posture was rigid. He kept hearing Werther’s voice in his head. Chuck regretted that he’d ever trusted the bureaucrat. Over and over again, Werther’s voice replayed in Chuck’s mind. He heard his excuses for allowing the ambassador to die.

  Chuck stood with his thumbs in his pockets, his hands curled into tight fists. His body vibrated from the bass sounds pounding through the speakers of the disco. Strobe lights rotated in the smoke, making a blizzard of multi-colored beams and illumination. Bodies gyrated to the beat. A cocktail waitress in a short black skirt moved through the crowd and approached Chuck. “Que quieras?”

  Chuck shook his head and turned away from her. He drifted through the mob, scoping out the security situation and memorizing the exits. With his back to the wall, he stood by a group of people and pretended to watch the dancers, but he was eavesdropping on the conversation. He wanted to learn the word on the street about who shot the ambassador’s bodyguard. What theories were floating around? What news? This group of tourists was talking about sights in France, so he moved on.

  He moved slowly from one group to the next, always looking around, as if he was trying to spot a cocktail waitress or someone else. He heard snatches of conversations on good restaurants and live bands. He heard conversations in Spanish and French and Russian. He heard about personal water craft and a yacht anchored offshore, about happy hours and Swiss chalets. He heard about the fabulous gardens north of town. Despite it all, he heard Werther’s voice in his head saying, “Must have been a screw up in the bureaucracy. My request must have been passed around in circles at the State Department. So what? You forget it and move on.”

  Chuck was an island in the middle of the crowd, watching the multi-colored strobe lights slashing through the thick haze. He watched clones in the mirrors and heard voices all around him. Three or four times he heard talk of the shooting and the hijacked race car. He heard bits and pieces, most of it nonsense.

  “...cars were hijacked. The Israeli Mossad was behind it.”

  Voices swirled through the pounding music.

  “A woman was taken hostage. She...” Thrashing drums shattered floating words and shook Chuck’s bones.

  “The victim was the dead ambassador’s bodyguard.” Guitars screeched like a two passenger ships scraping sides and tearing steel plates. “An American assassin is wanted for ...”

  Werther’s voice drifted in and out of Chuck’s head: “If you walk out of here, Brandt, you’re on your own. You understand? You’re out in the cold.”

  Two men behind Chuck were arguing over a woman. Someone slammed into Chuck from behind. On reflex, Chuck whirled around and delivered an elbow into the side of the man’s face. He dropped to the floor and rolled over in a semi-conscious state. The crowd backed away and made room.

  The man on the ground had a tattoo on his neck. Now the dude’s friend reached into his jacket for something. Chuck flew at him, grabbing the tattoo-covered shooting arm and twisting it like he was wringing out a wet towel. The man shrieked in agony and dropped to the floor. Chuck delivered a brutal blow to the base of his neck, a blow that that knocked him out. People were heading for the main entrance with the music still pounding. Chuck slipped out a back door. He walked for several blocks. A warm wind was blowing now, and rain pelted him.

  He saw a police car heading his way with flashing lights, so he slipped into a hole-in-the-wall pub.

  The place was quiet and forlorn and thick with smoke. The only customer was a sun-tanned man with deep creases on his face who was sipping on a glass of red wine.

  The bartender, a thin, bald man in his late forties was watering half-dead plants which were growing in buckets of cigarette and ash-covered dirt.

  “You speak English?” Chuck said, pulling down the brim on his hat.

  “Sure, what can I get for you?” The man finished watering the plant and walked behind the bar. The wall behind the bar was covered with a dozen cured pig legs, ready to carve into sandwiches for anyone who could breath the smoky air long enough to finish a meal.

  “Tonic water,” he said. Alcohol was never an option for him. Not in this business. He knew he wouldn’t live long with dulled senses.

  The bartender gave Chuck his drink and said, “You visiting?”

  Chuck made up a story fast. “Yeah, just sailed in.”


  “What you sail in on?”

  “A cargo ship in Barcelona.”

  “A sailor, huh?”

  The tanned man nursing his red wine at the bar said, “You see those mega yachts offshore?”

  Chuck nodded and took a sip from his drink.

  “See the one named Volga? I sure hope it’s not filled with more Russians. We don’t need any more of those mafia types around here, driving up the cost of real estate.”

  Chuck looked up for a moment then squeezed the lemon into his drink.

  “How about the races?” the bartender asked. “You see the races today?”

  “Nope.” Chuck shook his head. “Showed up too late.”

  “Señor, you missed all the excitement. There was a shooting in town. Then some crazy guy hijacked a Porsche at the starting line. He kidnapped a girl. There was a chase. I don’t think they’ve found them yet.”

  “Too bad.”

  “I’ve lived my whole life here,” the tan man said shaking his head. “Things like that never used to happen. Those Russian Mafia types, they’re driving up the crime rate.”

  The bartender scoffed at him. “No, they’re not.”

  “Look what happened today.”

  “¿Qué hay de ti?” the bartender crowed. “It’s the law enforcement that is corrupt.”

  The bells of the door chimed and a brawny blond man walked into the dark bar. He sat at a small table near the door. The bartender went to tend to the man.

  Ice chinked as Chuck gently swirled the tonic water around in his cup. He sat there for a moment, sipping his drink. Then he put cash on the bar and left.

  As he walked out the door he made eye contact with the large man at the little table. The man’s eyes flattened into a squint. Chuck nodded his head and smiled at the big guy. Then he hit the street, his mind spinning: Russian Mafia, yacht offshore, corrupt policemen, dead ambassador, missing man, sirens … It was time to go.

  CHAPTER 13

  Coast of Costa Brava

  After Chuck left the bar, he headed to the beach and cast his eyes out to sea. The dark waters off Costa Brava were calm, but the smooth surface of the sea masked the eternal warfare that had gone on under its cobalt surface since the beginning of time. Fish swim along, minding their own business, then—WHAM! They are attacked and eaten. Predators know that they have to kill to survive, and men do the same. Just ask Werther.

  Chuck knew that it wouldn’t be long before a faint spark of light would creep over the horizon, bringing day with it. He needed to get back to the stone house and back to Maria before dawn reared its ugly head. He scanned the shore and saw a dozen rowboats lining the beach. He walked to a dark blue boat that was near the shore and pushed it into the ocean, jumping in as the small vessel glided over the dark liquid. Grasping its wooden oars with strong hands, he put out to sea. He dug the sticks into the ocean over and over again. While he could hear waves slapping and washing along the sides of the little rowboat, he could not see the water around him. It was pitch dark. Not even the moon or stars filled the sky. He could see light along the shoreline, though. The only other light came from one of the mega-yachts that was anchored a mile north of town, a quarter mile offshore.

  As he rowed northward along the coastline towards the stone home where Maria was waiting for him, the face of the ambassador flew in and out of his mind. He had been a good man, a man trying to protect America, a man downed and doomed by the enemies of freedom, including his own people. Chuck hacked at the water. He half rowed and half beat the surface like a swordfish does as it is brutally reeled into a deep-sea fishing vessel. Chuck continued to row along the coastline parallel to the lights of the yacht, which was half-a-mile away, when a speed boat rushed past. All he could see in the darkness were the running lights and the outlines of several burly men. Camouflaged by the night and the dark color of the rowboat’s hull, the men on the shore boat didn’t even see him. He watched as the craft turned and ran straight to the big yacht offshore. As it turned, he saw T/T Volga emblazoned on the stern of the little boat. It was the tender to the Volga. The Volga. That was the yacht that the old man had been talking about at the bar. The one with the Russian Mafia onboard.

  Chuck heaved on the oars. He thought of Maria, of her brown hair and her brown eyes. He remembered her sleeping just as he’d left her. His oars plunged into the broth and rose again, dripping salt water back into the sea.

  His adrenaline was flying. Did the Russians have something to do with the murder of the ambassador?

  Working just one oar for a moment, Chuck changed directions. Then he heaved toward the yacht. He estimated his chances of boarding the Volga and returning alive were slim to none, but as long as he wasn’t spotted onboard, he knew his chances were good. It was a risk he was willing to take. He had to find out who killed the ambassador, where his missing man was, and who was behind the plan to harm America. Was it the Russians?

  Chuck pulled on the oars. His shoulders burned, and he felt the sting of oxygen deep in his lungs as he sucked in air. The ambassador’s image swung through his mind like a bell in a bell tower.

  He took a deep breath and threw back the oars, over and over. Only resistance propelled a boat through the water, he thought. Only suffering caused a man to reach deep down into his soul to find his best self and reach out to heaven like David’s silent prayer in the face of Goliath. Chuck smiled. He would learn what these Russians were up to. He would find out what was going on. He hauled the oars with renewed vigor and strength, and the little boat leapt across the water.

  It was 3 a.m., but the work at the oars kept him alert. Twenty more minutes of rowing brought him within a hundred yards of his target, the Volga. As he neared the vessel he heard classical music streaming through the ship’s sound system.

  In the dark of night, Chuck pulled up the oars of the rowboat, and sat back for a moment as the little craft glided silently toward the yacht.

  The Volga was massive; over 200 feet long. She soared four decks high. A heli-pad, on which sat a state-of-the-art helicopter, was perched on her bow, and an infinity hot tub overlooked her stern. As the rowboat came within reach of the ship, Chuck noticed that the tender boat was now tied up to the swim deck at the stern of the yacht and the men were out of sight. Chuck reached out, grabbed the tender, and loosely tied his rowboat to it. He figured he’d have five minutes max to find out what the Volga was doing in Spanish waters. The dramatic crescendo of Wagner filled the night air as Chuck climbed onto the shore boat and toward the swim platform of the yacht. He glanced up at the window-lined salon of the Volga.

  He saw the silhouette of a man walking past, so he ducked down. The sudden movement caused the keys in the ignition of the shore boat to jingle, and Chuck didn’t move for several seconds. Fortunately, the music and the chatter of men onboard the ship drowned out the sound. Chuck watched as a short, bulky man with fierce eyes and thick, grayish-black hair slid open one of the glass doors of the salon and entered the room where a group of men were congregating.

  Chuck’s heart raced and adrenaline licked his nerves.

  After the man was inside, Chuck climbed onto the swim platform and ascended the stairs onto the boat’s stern.

  He followed the exterior passageway of the sprawling vessel as Wagner played on. As he walked along the rail, the sweet perfume of cigar smoke wafted out of an open window and filled his nostrils. He continued walking and peeked in the windows of the salon as he did. He continued to watch and listen to the men who were projecting their voices to be heard above the din.

  Chuck stopped to listen. Several men talked of their efforts to find the man who hijacked the car from the Costa Brava Rally. They spoke of their desire to catch the man.

  “The guy is crazy,” a soft, hissing voice said.

  Chuck stole a glance at the man who spoke, a long, thin man with a cruel face.

  Chuck listened for another minute and despite the music heard, “…we will take care of the bastard.”

  Appare
ntly he was on their death list. Suddenly, a door opened to aft. Chuck crouched down, ready to spring, but nobody stepped out and came his way. He snuck back and looked around the corner. Then he crept forward, grabbing a life ring on the way. He climbed on the rail and swung the rope of the life ring up over a stanchion on the upper level. The end of the rope whipped around the stanchion and fell back down. Squeezing both ends of the rope together and hoisting himself upward, Chuck got his arm over the upper rail, and he pulled himself over. He dragged the life ring’s rope up after him, tossing it down along the edge of the upper walkway. He stole up to a window and crouched down low, confident that any noise he’d made had been easily masked by the sounds of the sea and the music still streaming through the sound system. He peeked through a crack in the curtains, but saw nothing.

  Breathing hard from the sudden exertion, Chuck allowed the warm Mediterranean air to penetrate his lungs for a minute. He left the window and moved aft. The air swirled through his hair as he leaned over the railing and peered down onto the deck below.

  ***

  On the lower deck, Alexi stepped out onto the exterior walkway of General Lazar’s yacht and lit up a cigarette. The crazy Chechen goons were already smoking inside, but he needed some fresh air while he smoked. He needed a little breathing room to contemplate his plan for tomorrow, his plan to sanction the Ghost. The general had promised to pay Alexi a bonus after the job was done. He had even offered to give him a job in South America once Brandt was eliminated. Lazar said he needed help managing an operation he had in Peru. He also said that it would be a good place to hang out for awhile. As Alexi thought about this, he started to sweat profusely. His underarms were as slick as oil, and several times he used the back of his wrist to mop his forehead. He ground his teeth to fine sand between drags on his cigarette. Taking out this man would be a high-profile job. It would be a big move, but could also be a curse. Once he did the job he would become high profile himself. That would make him a target of fifty other ambitious assassins who wanted to land the most lucrative contracts and make names for themselves. Yes, he would take up Lazar’s offer to go to Peru after this job was done.