John Avery - Black Cobra

What was that all about? he thought, rubbing his temples. Flying all the way up to San Diego for an out-of-the-blue mystery meeting with some old Russian submariner? It was insane.

He took another look at the plane ticket and then slipped it into his pocket and closed his tired eyes.

Jason stepped out of the limousine in front of the Hotel Del Coronado shading his eyes from the Southern California sun.

His flight in from Grand Cayman had been delayed, and he’d been forced to sprint half-way across San Diego International to get to the waiting limo on time. Two years in the Caribbean had taken a bigger toll on his fitness than he had thought, and as he started up the red carpet runner he realized how tired he was.

Commander Fagan had rightly assumed that Jason would show up at the important meeting sorely underdressed, and on the ride over to Coronado, Jason found a designer suit, a silk shirt and tie, a slim leather belt, and a pair of hand-made Italian loafers with socks sealed in a garment bag next to him on the seat. It was clear that Fagan had gone to a lot of trouble, so Jason acquiesced, swapping his T-shirt and jeans for the suit.

Fagan had reserved a table overlooking the Pacific Ocean in the Del’s fabulous Crown Room, a cavernous space, with 30-foot-high, hand-carved wooden ceilings, capable of seating over 600 diners.

Jason checked his watch, 10:59 a.m. It was a miracle he had made it there on time. He straightened his tie, buttoned his jacket, and entered the famous restaurant from the north side through the set of heavy, wooden double-doors.

Jason looked around and spotted Richard Fagan seated at a table with two others at the far end of the room. He padded across the expanse of Victorian-era carpeting and approached the table. The three men stood to greet him.

Fagan handled the introductions. “Captain Vtorak Borisovich Pankov,” he said, “I’d like you to meet Jason Souther.”

“How do you do, sir?” Jason said, shaking hands with a man more than twice his age. His impression of the captain changed in an instant. Pankov was no ordinary old fart.

“It is a pleasure to finally meet you, Commander,” Pankov said, giving Jason’s hand a vigorous Russian-style shake.

His accent was strong but his English excellent, and Jason did a double-take at being called Commander again. “Thank you, sir, but I prefer Jason,” he said.

From what Richard Fagan had told him, Pankov had expected Jason to be a little more rough around the edges. “The suit looks good, Jason,” he said.

“Yes, sir,” Jason said, a tad embarrassed. He would thank Richard later.

Pankov turned to the fourth man at the table, a man about five years his junior. “This is my friend and loyal confidant, Captain Uri Ruden,” he said. “Himself a distinguished former Soviet submariner.”

Uri was pleased to hear that Pankov’s memory was sharper today. He shook Jason’s hand across the table. “How do you do, Jason?” he said. “My thanks to Commander Fagan for finding you.”

“Thank you,” Jason said, accepting the compliment. “I thought it couldn’t be done.”

Pankov found that amusing. He smiled and looked at Fagan. “For a man of Richard’s caliber it was an easy task — like pulling candy from a baby.”

Jason smiled at Pankov’s inaccurate attempt at the American idiom.

“Please have a seat,” Fagan said, gesturing to an empty chair, and they all sat down at the table.

Pankov had Jason’s leather-bound dossier in front of him. He turned to a marked page. “There is one thing puzzling me, Jason,” he said, more serious now. “It is about your dishonorable discharge. Why would you go AWOL from the United States Navy simply to visit your brother in prison for a day, knowing full well it may ruin your career as an officer? Is that not a bit extreme?”

Jason looked at him and for a moment considered walking out. Instead he took a deep breath and gathered himself.

“My mother and father died in a private plane crash when I was two,” he explained. “My big brother, my only sibling, was only nineteen at the time, and for ten years he set aside his dreams and aspirations to raise me. I tried to repay him for everything he’d done for me, of course, but I failed miserably, and he continued to bail me out whenever I was in trouble.”

He took a sip of water.

“Finally he took the rap for an armed, bank robbery that was all my idea and, while I walked, he picked up twenty. Johnny was one tough son-of-a-bitch, and he could hold his own in any fight, but at San Quentin things were different. He was just one man against many. I thought if I could just talk to him, and maybe help him out somehow, it might offset the huge debt I owed him. Don’t you see? I at least had to try.”

“Was it worth it?” Uri asked.

“Yes, Uri, it was,” Jason said. “My presence in San Quentin that day gave Johnny a renewed self-confidence, and inmates who had paid no attention to him in the past took a liking to him and started fighting alongside him. He went from having a life expectancy approaching zero to having his own army. I’d do it again in a second.”

“Why did you not tell me this?” Fagan said.

“It was my problem… not yours,” Jason said.

Satisfied with Jason’s answer, Pankov continued. “What we will ask you to do this morning will make you a rich man, Jason.”

Jason’s heart slid up into his throat.

“However, make no mistake,” Pankov added, “you will earn every penny.”

That sent Jason’s mind swimming. He hadn’t the slightest idea what was coming next, but he already knew his answer would be yes.

“If you choose to join us in this endeavor,” Pankov said, “several things will be set into motion immediately.” He sat up in his chair and picked up a menu. “But first we must eat. Commander Fagan tells me the food here is excellent.”

The four officers dined on a tempting variety of prepared-to-order omelets, benedicts, and other breakfast classics, supported by gourmet cheeses, charcuterie, sushi, king crab, lobster bisque, and hand-carved prime rib. Dessert choices included a chocolate fountain, a truffle tower, tiramisu, caramel flan, cobblers, tarts, cakes, and more.

Brunch included freshly squeezed mimosas and screwdrivers, and Pankov reminisced about the daily ration of white wine served to the crew aboard b-39 — a ration they commonly refused as not being the much preferred and officially banned vodka.

Fagan pointed out that the exquisitely detailed chandeliers there in the Crown Room were designed by none other than the author of The Wonderful Wizard of Oz , L. Frank Baum. Jason mentioned that Charles Lindbergh celebrated his famous transatlantic flight there, as well.

Pankov and Uri Ruden had heard of Lindbergh, of course, and both had seen the film adaptation of Baum’s book, so they were duly impressed.

Over coffee, Jason felt comfortable enough to broach the subject of his hiring. “Captain Pankov,” he said. “You were saying that if I take the job, several things would be set into motion immediately.”

“That is correct,” Pankov said, wiping his chin with a cloth napkin. “First and foremost, an account, in a sympathetic Grand Cayman bank, will be set up in your name with a balance of $5 million. Half held in trust, half available to you immediately.” He paused for effect.

Jason sucked in a quick breath and gripped his knees under the table.