Brad Thor - Full Black

Ralston’s eyes flicked to Sevan. What was he getting him into?

“Don’t worry,” the attorney said. “Aleksey is an informant for the task force. He’s not an agent.”

“I am one of the FBI’s sources within the Russian community,” Lavrov clarified.

“And what’s your connection to Mr. Lavrov?” asked Ralston.

“I’m his attorney,” said Sevan. “I actually arranged his relationship with the FBI’s Los Angeles field office, in exchange for dropping certain charges that had been brought against Aleksey.”

“And he owed you a favor.”

“Aleksey is a very smart man who realizes that it pays to have a good lawyer. Right, Aleksey?”

The heavyset man nodded.

Ralston looked at the Russian warily. “So what do you have for me, Aleksey?”

“Mr. Sevan explained to me that you think the men who tried to kill your friend, Mr. Salomon, were Russian. More specifically, Russian Spetsnaz. Correct?”

“Correct.”

Lavrov rubbed his chin. “Please. I am not being disrespectful, but many American people watch movies and think every Russian is Spetsnaz.”

Ralston looked at him. “Mr. Sevan did not explain to you who I am, did he?”

“He told me you work in movies. That you make sure people understand how to shoot guns and drive cars. I assume then that you are a stuntman. Correct?”

“You’re partially correct,” Ralston replied, glad Sevan had not told the man everything about his past. “I am a technical consultant on films. Before that, I was in the U.S. military. I have worked with Russian Spetsnaz before.”

“Then you must have been someone very important in the military. Russian Spetsnaz are not easy to kill. They are very difficult to kill. Even regular Russians are not easy to kill, but you killed four Spetsnaz?”

Ralston didn’t want to get into details with Lavrov. “You will have to take my word for it, Aleksey.”

“You are sure that these men were not Russian mafia, maybe?”

“One of the men had a tattoo right here,” he said, pointing under his arm. “It was his blood type, in Cyrillic.”

“This is Spetsnaz,” Lavrov relented. “You are correct.”

“So who in Los Angeles would have been able to coordinate a Spetsnaz hit team?”

The Russian thought about the question for a moment. “You would be looking at someone with experience within the Russian intelligence services. The FSB, or what used to be called KGB. Same people, same mentality, same game plan. Only the name is different. I can think of three men.”

Three? Ralston thought. He was going to have his work cut out for him. “I’ll need names, addresses, and what kind of security they may have.”

Lavrov held up his hand. “One of the men has been in Russia visiting family since the beginning of the summer. Another man is very old and lives in a nursing home. I don’t think these are the men you want.”

“Why not?”

“Besides one being out of the country and the other needing a nurse to feed him?”

Ralston knew that the Italian Mafia often ran operations longdistance and that some of their most senior members were also their most dangerous. The line about old age and treachery popped into his mind. “Yes,” he said. “Besides age and proximity, why should I discount those two?”

“The first man, the one who is on vacation in Russia, he was KGB Ninth Directorate. He operated the Moscow VIP subway. The man in the nursing home was in the Fifth Directorate. He dealt with censorship of writers and filmmakers. I still find it ironic that he ended up retiring in Hollywood.”

Lavrov raised good points. “Tell me about the third man,” said Ralston.

“His name is Yaroslav Yatsko. Former Russian FSB and current Russian organized crime figure here in Los Angeles.”

“What was his position with the FSB?”

“He was with the First Chief Directorate of the KGB, actually. He specialized in foreign espionage and stayed on through the transition from KGB to FSB. From what I understand, he continued with foreign espionage activities before moving to California.”

Ralston had to wonder what the hell was wrong with the American government that they let these kinds of people into the United States. “What’s he doing now? What kinds of things is he involved with?”

Lavrov shrugged. “Extortion, stock fraud, antiquities scams, identity theft, credit card fraud, money laundering, counterfeiting, human trafficking from Mexico, arms dealing, and film piracy. Take your pick.”

“What about murder for hire?”

“Violence and murder are the sine quibus non of Russian organized crime,” offered Sevan. “Without those two ingredients, there would be no Russian organized crime.”

“Yaroslav Yatsko,” said Lavrov, “keeps a very quiet, low profile. He hides behind multiple legitimate businesses in order to justify his income and comfortable lifestyle.”

“But is he known to carry out murders for hire?” repeated Ralston.

“Specifically? No. But it is rumored throughout the community that he has facilitated several high-profile assassinations in Mexico. Allegedly, he has carried these attacks out on behalf of warring cartels, politicians, and business leaders.”

“That’s Mexico. I’m talking about here. What about in the U.S.?”

Lavrov shook his head.

“Then I’ll want the address of that nursing home, too. It looks like I’m going to be busy.”

“That might not be necessary,” replied Sevan.

“Why not?”

“Because of the Mexico rumors,” said Lavrov.

“What about them?”

“Most of the victims had exceptional security. They had bodyguards, alarm systems, dogs; all of the things you would expect of the wealthy and powerful, especially in a Third World country like Mexico. Supposedly, that is Yaroslav Yatsko’s claim to fame. He can get around anyone’s security.”

“And how did he do that?”

“By eschewing local talent and bringing in his own people from Russia,” said Lavrov. “He is known for only using the best. He only hires Spetsnaz.”

If his cell phone hadn’t rung, Harvath could have easily slept another several hours. Fumbling for the device on his nightstand, he activated the call and brought the phone to his ear. “Harvath,” he said, looking for his watch to see what time it was.

“Scot?” asked a woman’s voice on the other end. “It’s Riley. Did I wake you up?”

“No,” he lied, sitting up in bed and trying to focus. “I’m still trying to beat back the jet lag. What’s up?”

“I owe you an apology.”

“For what?”

“For Massachusetts.”

Harvath knew who she was talking about, but not what. “I don’t understand.”

“His condition. Remember when I told you the Tasers weren’t designed for what you wanted to do?” she said.

“But it worked.”

“It did, but I thought it was just dumb luck, or maybe the hand of God, I don’t know, but I wasn’t ready to believe you could restart someone’s heart with a Taser-no matter how many times you zapped him. Well, we’ve been running tests here and it turns out that our patient has something called WPW or Wolff-Parkinson-White syndrome. It has to do with having an extra, abnormal electrical pathway in the heart. Symptoms often don’t appear until people are in their teens or early twenties. It can cause rapid heartbeat and in more serious cases sudden death.”

“So what’s his prognosis?”

“We’ve performed a catheter-based procedure known as ablation. It should correct the problem.”

“That’s great news,” said Harvath, and he meant it. They were overdue. “Does he have any brain damage?”