Don Pendleton - Blood Vendetta

Yezhov moved in front of the man, stopped circling. He pinned the guy under his gaze.

“What now?”

“Our sources in Scotland Yard said they identified the two bodies,” the man said.

“Hardly a surprise.”

“Sir?”

“You hired known criminals to kill this woman. Neither was high-profile, but both had criminal records. It’s no surprise the police identified them. It was only a matter of time.”

The man opened his mouth to protest, apparently thought better of it, and slammed his jaw shut.

“Now, we have two corpses and a home that has been shot all to hell.”

“Yes.”

“And the woman lives.”

“Yes, she does.”

“And we have no idea where she is.”

The man paused, studied his black wingtip shoes for a couple of seconds before nodding in agreement.

“We have people looking for her,” he said. “It’s only a matter of time—”

“Before you mess this up even more.”

The man replied, but Yezhov didn’t bother to listen. He turned and saw his own reflection in a mirror that ran the length of the wall behind his desk. The rectangular mirror stretched from about the middle of the wall up to a foot short of the ceiling. It was one-way glass, on the other side of which was a small room packed with a console that controlled an array of audio and visual recording equipment. While he didn’t record every meeting, this one included, the setup came in handy when he gathered with high-level business executives and government officials from Russia and other countries, allowing him to gather blackmail material on the participants. As he’d said in rare unguarded moments, he had no business partners, only future victims.

Yezhov saw plenty in his reflection to admire. Though he stood a couple of inches below six feet, he was broad in the chest and shoulders, straining the fabric of his shirt. Arms crossed over his chest were thick, corded with muscles created with an exacting exercise regiment and anabolic steroids. His head was shaved clean. Small hazel-colored eyes, set far apart, peered out from his wide face, and were separated by a large nose that had been broken twice, once in combat and once in a bar fight.

For some reason, the annoying buzz of the other man’s words reached Yezhov, prompted him to turn back around and face the man.

“We’ll find her,” he said.

“No,” Yezhov said, shaking his head, “we’ll find her. You’ll have no part in this.”

Surprise registered on the other man’s face.

“Sir?”

“You’re done.”

“But—”

“But nothing. You had a location. You had a name. You had money, my fucking money. You fucked it up. You’re done.”

The man opened his mouth to speak. Yezhov silenced him with a gesture.

“Shut. The. Fuck. Up,” he said. “This was a simple operation. A snatch-and-grab. One woman. The bitch was a banker, not a soldier. You hired two criminals, neither of whom apparently was up to the challenge.” He came around the desk and put himself between it and the other man. “I sent you to solve a problem, one fucking problem. Instead, you created more for me.”

“Sir...” the man began.

Yezhov, who’d been resting his backside against the edge of the desktop, arms hanging loose at his sides, made his move. His arms snaked out. The man flinched, but had no time to move before Yezhov’s fingers encircled his throat, thumbs levering down on the man’s windpipe. A pitiful gurgle escaped the man’s lips and he brought up his own hands, grabbed at Yezhov’s forearms. For a skinny man, his grip was surprisingly strong, Yezhov thought. Yezhov rewarded the man’s efforts by pressing harder against his throat. More seconds passed before the man’s body went limp. When Yezhov finally was satisfied that his failed employee was dead, he released his grip and let the man’s limp body strike the floor with a thump in a boneless heap.

Yezhov turned and motioned for one of his guards to step forward. That the guard, a combat veteran who’d killed Chechen militants without fear or conscience, hesitated pleased Yezhov. The Russian leader pointed at the body lying on the floor.

“Get that thing out of here,” he said.

The man nodded. Stepping forward, he knelt next to the corpse and raised the dead man’s torso at an angle, rested it against a bent knee. Grabbing the dead man from under his arms, the guard stood and dragged the limp form from the room.

“Lovely,” Yezhov muttered under his breath as he watched the whole thing.

A glance at the other guards situated around the room told Yezhov they were trying hard not to look at him, making a show at staring into their drinks or at one of the flat-screen televisions positioned throughout the room. That they were scared made him feel all the more powerful. But, he told himself, it wasn’t just about venting his anger. He wanted to teach these bastards a lesson. The price of failure in his organization was steep. And in his latest venture, with its high stakes, failure needed to be dealt with quickly and severely, not just because it made him feel good, but as a practical matter. Everyone needed to function at the highest levels possible.

Turning, he went back to his desk and hoisted the receiver on a secure telephone that stood there. Going from memory, he punched in a series of numbers. After a couple of seconds, it began ringing, his impatience growing with each ring. Finally, a familiar voice answered.

“What?” the man rasped.

“It’s me.”

A couple of seconds passed. “Okay.”

“I have a job for you.”

“A job for me?” Dmitri Mikoyan’s voice sounded incredulous. “Go to hell.”

“Look, you ungrateful—”

“Ungrateful? Remember Tajikistan? You almost got me killed ten times over. I’m grateful to be away from you.”

“I need you to run an operation,” Yezhov said. Mikoyan said nothing, but Yezhov heard him clucking his tongue on the other end of the connection. From experience, Yezhov knew that sound meant Mikoyan was thinking. Yezhov wasn’t even sure whether the other man even was aware of the noise, the habit.

“How much money?” Mikoyan asked.

“Don’t you want to hear the job first?”

“No. I know you. If you called me, it’s a crap job. The details don’t matter because the job will suck no matter what. So tell me about the money first and I’ll decide whether it’s worth my time.”

“Trust me, it is.”

“What is it the Americans say? Money talks. Bullshit walks. Give me numbers.”

Yezhov said an amount, twice Mikoyan’s usual fee.

Mikoyan laughed. “What am I? A bag lady? That is crap pay!”

“It’s also my only offer.”

More tongue clucking sounded from the other end of the line.

“Okay, I’ll take it.”

“I need you to snatch someone—a woman.”

“Sounds horribly complicated,” Mikoyan said, sarcasm evident in his voice.

“You’ve heard of the Nightingale?”

“Nightingale? Sure, I’ve heard the stories. Total bullshit. No one can steal all that money and get away with it.”

“It’s not bullshit.”

“Sure it is,” Mikoyan insisted. “It’s a story some crooked accountant cooked up after he embezzled money from the wrong guy. Did it to save his own ass. Don’t tell me you’ve bought in to this fairy tale.”

“I have.”

“Please—”

“She stole from me.”

“How much?”

“It doesn’t matter. It was a lot. The point is, she stole from me. I can’t tolerate that.”

“You want the money back.”

Yezhov shrugged even though the other man couldn’t see him. “I have little hope that will happen.”

“Why?”

“Think about it. You think she has dollars sitting around in suitcases somewhere? My guess is she takes what she steals, splits it into a dozen or so accounts and makes it all disappear. The last thing she wants is for someone to track her or take what she has stolen.”