Deadly Crossing (Tom Dugan 2) (25 page)

He turned to his right as he entered the small but luxurious cabin of the executive jet, and saw Ward facing him at the far end, sitting across a coffee table from two dark-haired men, both with their backs to the door of the plane. Ward smiled as he saw Dugan and began to stand.

“Okay, Jesse,” Dugan said. “Care to tell me what all the cloak and dagger shit is—”

“UNCLE THOMAS!”

Dugan froze, confused, as both dark heads turned in unison, and one man leaped from his seat and moved toward him, wearing Cassie’s smiling face topped with a short mop of black hair.

“UNCLE THOMAS!” the figure cried again, and there was no mistaking the voice. It was Cassie, however impossible that seemed, and she flew into his arms. He hugged her tight, unable to speak as tears flowed down his cheeks and his shoulders shook.

“Oh, Uncle Thomas, I’m so glad to see you!” Cassie was crying herself now as she returned his hug, and they both lapsed into silence, clinging together and unable to speak. Time seemed to stand still, and they stood there motionless, as a thousand questions crowded Dugan’s mind and he was unable to articulate any of them. He just stood in joyful acceptance of the miracle, indifferent for the time being as to how it came about.

Dugan looked over Cassie’s head to see Jesse Ward standing a few feet away, beaming.

“Can I assume,” Ward asked, “that you’re no longer pissed off at me?”

Dugan blinked back tears and returned Ward’s smile, still unable to speak. He nodded.

“Good,” Ward said, “and I don’t want to rush your reunion, but we have a lot to talk about. But first, I don’t think you’ve met Karina.”

Dugan looked at the other person he’d assumed was a man, to see a beautiful young woman perhaps an inch taller than Cassie. There was no mistaking the family resemblance.

“Yo-you’re Ilya’s niece.”

Karina nodded. “
Da
, but I am not so sure he will recognize me with new hairstyle.”

Dugan returned her smile. “Trust me. He won’t care if you’re bald. I can’t wait to see his face when I tell him—”

“About that,” Ward said, “you can’t tell him, at least not yet. But that’s going to take some explaining, so take a seat.”

Dugan raised his eyebrows but allowed Cassie to lead him to a seat by the coffee table. He settled in the seat as Ward sat down across from him.

“So when did you find them?” Dugan asked.

“Yesterday. I was goin—”

“YESTERDAY! Why the hell didn’t you call…”

Dugan shut his mouth and stared down at the coffee table.

“That’s right,” Ward said, “not exactly the kind of information I’d leave in a voice mail, is it? So why the hell didn’t YOU return my calls?”

Dugan nodded. “You’re right. I’m sorry. I’ll shut up and let you bring me up to speed.”

“Can I get you something to drink first? This may take a while.”

“Well, the sun’s hardly up, but I think I could use a drink. Bourbon if you got it. Neat.”

***

Half an hour later, Dugan drained his glass, then looked at the two girls and shook his head. “Well, the hair makes a huge difference, but these two still don’t look like Filipino seamen to me. I’m amazed they were able to sneak past the authorities and get ashore.”

“The crew hid us when the authorities were searching the ship,” Cassie said. “We only pretended to be seamen to get out the port gate, and it was at night.”

“
Da
,” Karina added, “and we did not try to pass the guards at the gangway, because they were checking very carefully. We went by rope ladder down the side of ship away from dock and swam further down the wharf. Then, out of sight of ship’s gangway guards, we met with a group of the Filipino seamen who went down the gangway in normal manner. They wore extra dry clothes under their own clothes and also had identification cards for two of their shipmates who remained on board. We all walked out the port gate together, holding up identification cards. Port guards don’t pay so much attention to seaman leaving; they seem more interested in people coming into the terminal. When we got away from the port, we gave them the identification cards back, and they gave us some money the ship’s officers had collected for us.”

“I didn’t know what else to do,” Cassie said, “so I called Agent Ward.”

Dugan nodded. “Well, I think you both did great.” He turned to Ward. “But what are we supposed to do now, Jesse? Are they supposed to disappear forever and live under assumed names? That doesn’t sound too workable.”

“Truthfully, I don’t know,” Ward said. “But I do know that we need to keep them under wraps for the next few weeks at least until we can figure out what to do. I mean you may be able to protect THEM here in the UK, but there are all sorts of vulnerable targets you can’t protect, like Karina’s family, and now the families of the guys on the Kapitan Godina. Hitting the soft targets is the way these Russian mobsters work.”

Dugan nodded. “Well, hopefully Borgdanov will have some ideas along those lines. Just because we’ve gotten the girls back, I don’t think he’s going to cancel his plans. If anything, I expect he may see them as even more of a necessity to keep these bastards at bay. That’s probably the solution to everything anyway, just making the Russian mob guys understand that their least damaging option is just to leave us all the hell alone.”

“Have you heard from him?”

Dugan shook his head. “No, and that’s a bit troubling. Ilya’s chomping at the bit to get to Russia and getting nervous, but he promised Borgdanov he’d wait for word. Borgdanov’s playing it by ear, and he didn’t want Ilya to show up until he’d established a firm cover.”

“Well, I hope he knows what he’s doing. This could backfire big time.”

“We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it. Right now, I’d like to take these young ladies for a little visit and make some people I know very happy.”

“Ahh, at the risk of pissing you off again, I don’t think you should do that just yet. That’s the main reason I contacted you alone.”

“I understand. We’ll continue to play along. We’ll go ahead with the memorial service and—”

“That’s my point. The Kairouzes have many friends as well as business colleagues and associates, and I’m presuming the service is going to be well attended?”

Dugan shrugged. “I’m sure it will be. What of it?”

“And just how do you think Alex and Gillian will behave if they see Cassie before the service? They’ll be a lot of eyes on them, perhaps even from our Russian friends. They have to be convincing as grieving parents.”

“I’m sure they can handle it.”

“Really? Like you? Whether you know it or not, you’ve had a shit-eating grin plastered all over your face from the moment you realized Cassie was alive. Relief and elation are hard to disguise, especially to trained observers.”

“Then we’ll cancel the service.”

“You’re not thinking straight. How would that look? You’d likely draw even more attention to the situation.” He shook his head. “No, best have the service with the Kairouzes and Ilya genuinely distraught in plain sight. Then we can secretly reunite them with the girls.”

“I’m not putting those people through another twenty-four hours of hell just as window dressing,” Dugan said through clenched teeth. “Alex and Gillian are already—”

“Mr. Dugan,” Karina said, “I am sorry to interrupt, but I think Agent Ward is right. I do not want to see Uncle Ilya suffer more, and I think Cassie also feels pain for the additional suffering of her poor parents, but it is MY family that may be in danger if we are somehow discovered, so I would beg you to listen to Agent Ward. Also, I am not sure what means ‘shit-eating grin’ or why anyone would smile while eating that, but he is right that you have been very happy since you saw Cassie. I think it will be even more difficult for her parents to hide their joy.”

Dugan looked at Karina and then turned to Cassie, who nodded.

“I don’t want Mum and Papa to suffer anymore either, Uncle Thomas, bu-but they’re right, I think,” Cassie said.

Dugan sighed. “Shit! All right. So how do we do this?”

“Good,” Ward said. “What I figure is that I’ll bring the girls to Alex’s house during the memorial service. If you can get the Kairouzes and Ilya there, with maybe Anna and Mrs. Hogan, we can tell them all at once right after the service. Will that work?”

“I’m not sure. When Mrs. Hogan was first talking about the service yesterday, I believe the plan was for people to come back to the house afterwards. I think people have already begun dropping off food.”

“Can you kill that? Maybe have the minister announce that the family’s too distraught to receive visitors?”

“I can try, and that’s not far from the truth. But things are a bit strained at the moment, and I’m not sure I can just go in rearrange whatever they’ve already set up.”

“The quicker we can get everyone together without an audience, the quicker we can end their anguish.”

“I’ll try.”

“Do you think there’s any safe way to get word to Nigel on his ship?” Cassie asked, obviously hesitant. “I don’t want to put anyone in danger, but I’m sure he’s worried. We were video-chatting when I was taken and—”

“Nigel hasn’t left our sides since you were taken, Cassie. In fact, he alerted the police and left his ship right away to search for you.”

“He did?” Cassie beamed.

Dugan nodded. “Yes, he’s quite a resourceful and determined young man. I’ll make sure he’s there along with everyone else. He certainly deserves to be included.”

“All right then, it’s settled,” Ward said. “I have a place here to stash the young ladies. I’ll take them there, and you try to get the after-service gathering canceled. We’ll play it by ear from there. And Tom” — Ward laid a hand on Dugan’s shoulder, &mdash: “when the others see the girls alive, they’ll forget all about being mad at you.”

“Yeah, until they realize I could have told them about it twenty-four hours earlier. Then they’ll get really pissed.”

Ward grinned. “Well, concentrate on that. It’ll help you keep a grief-stricken look on your face for the next day or so.”

“You know, Jesse, sometimes you’re an asshole.”

“You know, Tom, sometimes I have to be. It comes with the territory.”

St. Petersburg
Russian Federation

Borgdanov sat at a corner table in the Starbucks, still crowded at late morning, sipping a double espresso. He would have preferred a local place, but anything Western was popular in Russia, and crowds were his friend. Even so, it didn’t pay to get too comfortable, and he studied the patrons around him over a folded newspaper as he reflected on his progress. Crowds might be his friend, but situational awareness was his best friend.

He wasn’t overly concerned with being spotted. Russia was the last place the
Bratstvo
would expect him to be, and his disguise was complete. His week-old beard was dyed jet black, a bit in contrast to his now salt-and-pepper hair — just another aging man vainly trying to hold time at bay. The oral prostheses in his cheeks made them look puffy and bloated, and a bit of padding under his loose and somewhat shapeless clothing spoke of a man attempting to disguise a thickening waistline rather than conceal a rock-hard body. A pair of horn-rim glasses completed the disguise, and he looked threatening to no one or nothing, except perhaps the half-eaten pastry that sat on a plate on the table in front of him.

In his pocket was a passport and wallet full of credit cards, a driver’s license, and other documentation identifying him as Vasily Gagarin, a Ukrainian of ethnic Russian descent who was in town to purchase textiles. His ethnicity accounted for his flawless Russian, and now that Ukraine was a separate country, the foreign passport made things a bit more difficult for local law enforcement to verify his identity should he be stopped for any reason. Most police wouldn’t bother to follow up if there was too much work involved.

Despite his ability to move freely, things had been more difficult than he’d imagined. Corporal Anisimov had been a willing recruit, even before Borgdanov had described his need, but the others had been less enthusiastic. While some warmed to the idea of a fresh start with new names in America, they balked at doing so as fugitives from the
Bratstvo
, especially since Borgdanov could not yet clearly define the mission. So far, he had Anisimov and two other former comrades, but he was nearing the end of the short list of people he felt safe contacting, and rapidly coming to the conclusion that he would have to organize the men he had and summon Ilya. Then they would do the most damage they could with the manpower available.

He raised his cup and took a sip of the now lukewarm coffee, the bitter dregs a suitable companion to his growing disappointment.

Chapter Thirty

Offices of Phoenix Shipping Ltd.
London, UK

Dugan sat at his desk, reviewing vessel position reports and making a few notes to email to his subordinates. After returning to the flat to check on Anna, he’d decided to come into the office for a few hours, if only to escape the funereal gloom that permeated the apartment. With nothing to occupy their time or thoughts, both Nigel and Ilya merely sat listlessly staring at the television, present but disengaged, no doubt reliving the events of the past few days.

The atmosphere in the office was only marginally better, but there was some mindless comfort to be found in familiar tasks, and before he knew it, Mrs. Coutts walked in and set a bottle of water and a sandwich from the corner deli on his desk. Dugan looked up, surprised.

“Is it lunch time already?”

She nodded. “I just assumed you’d want your usual.”

“I’m really not hungry, Mrs. Coutts. But thank you.”

“That’s what I thought you’d say, which is why I didn’t ask. Did you have breakfast?”

Dugan thought back to the bourbon he’d had on Ward’s plane.

“Ah… sort of.”

“Which means no. So you can either promise to eat that sandwich, or I’m going to sit here and stare at you until you do.” As if to back up her words, she sat down in the chair across from Dugan’s desk and fixed him with a disapproving stare.

Dugan smiled. “All right, you win. But why is it I’m often unsure exactly which of us is the managing director around here?”

“I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about, sir. And talk is cheap. I haven’t yet seen any action to back up your promise.”

Dugan sighed and reached down for the sandwich. He took a big bite.

“Sah-dis-vied?” he asked, around a mouthful of food.

“Yes.” she stood up, “But don’t talk with your mouth full. And don’t think you can get away with throwing half of it in the rubbish bin, because I intend to check.”

Dugan watched her retreating back and shook his head. For all, or perhaps because of, Alicia Coutts’s peremptory ways, she was hands down the best secretary he’d ever had, and seldom wrong. A fact he was rediscovering once again, as he realized he really was famished and wolfed down the rest of the sandwich. He washed it down with the water, feeling a great deal better than when he’d arrived at the office. The feeling quickly evaporated when he turned to the next task at hand.

He’d given it a lot of thought and decided the best approach was through Father O’Malley. He looked the priest’s number up and dialed.

“Saint Mary’s. Father O’Malley speaking.”

“Father, Tom Dugan. How are you?”

“I’m fine, Tom, though it’s me that should be asking you that. How’re you holding up, lad?”

“As well as can be expected, I guess, Father.”

“Things will heal in God’s own time and not our own, though it’s a bitter pill to swallow. Now how can I help you?”

“It’s about the memorial service tomorrow, or more specifically, the gathering after. I just… I just don’t think either Alex or Gillian are up for it.”

“Aye, you might be right. I have spoken to Gillian, and though she seems understandably distraught, I’m more concerned about Alex. Mrs. Hogan has made a couple of attempts to get us together, but they’ve come to naught. I understand Alex isn’t handling it well.”

“That’s an understatement, I think. My understanding is that he’s neither dressed nor bathed nor shaved since he heard the news, and mainly crawled inside a brandy bottle.”

“Your understanding? So you’ve not seen him, then?”

Dugan hesitated. “He… he hasn’t wanted to see me, Father. I think he blames me for what happened to Cassie, and to be honest, he’s probably right.”

“It’s a black day that causes us to harden our hearts against those that love us and mean us no harm. I’m sure it’s just his grief talking, Tom. When he can see clearly again, he’ll be sorry for his actions now, I’ve no doubt.”

“I hope you’re right, Father, but Alex is pretty much a basket case right now. I’m sure he can probably sit through a short service, but I don’t know if he’ll be able to handle a houseful of people attempting to comfort and console him. He just doesn’t seem ready to interact with anyone right now — like you said, it will require God’s own time, and we’re not even close yet.”

There was silence on the line, as if the priest was mulling over what he’d just heard.

“All right, Tom. I’ll discuss it with Gillian and suggest canceling the post-service gathering. If she agrees, I’ll make an announcement at the end of the service to the effect that the family is too distraught at the moment to receive visitors, and ask all gathered to keep you all in their thoughts and prayers. I’ll suggest to Gillian that perhaps we can have a celebration of Cassie’s life in a few weeks, when the wounds aren’t quite so fresh. Of course, you know it will be up to her?”

“Of course. Thank you, Father.”

“And Tom, though this is Gillian’s decision, if she decides to cancel the post-service gathering be aware it might upset Mrs. Hogan. I just thought you should know that.”

“Ahh Okay. But why?”

“Well, I can’t be sure, of course, but Mrs. Hogan’s a bit traditional. I’m not trying to borrow trouble, mind you, but I thought I’d mention it.”

“Okay, thanks.”

“You’re welcome. And while I have you on the phone, why don’t you come round in a few days? It sounds like you might need a sympathetic ear yourself.”

“Ahh… thanks for the offer, Father. I’ll keep it in mind.”

O’Malley sensed the hesitation.

“Sure and that sympathetic ear is nondenominational, lad,” O’Malley said, a smile in his voice, “available even to unchurched heathens such as yourself. My door is always open.”

Dugan smiled. “Thank you, Father. I’ll remember that.”

***

Three hours later, Dugan powered down his laptop and slipped it in his bag. He hadn’t accomplished much, but his short foray into the office had been a welcome respite from the apartment. He considered calling either Gillian or Father O’Malley to see how things had gone. If the gathering was still on, he and Ward were going to have to revise their timing for bringing Cassie and Karina to the Kairouz house. He was reaching for the phone when the intercom buzzed.

“Yes, Mrs. Coutts?”

“Mrs. Hogan is holding on line one, sir, and she doesn’t sound too happy. Should I tell her you’ve gone for the day?”

Dugan sighed. “I wish it were that easy, Mrs. Coutts, but she has my mobile number, and if she thinks I’m avoiding her, I expect that may upset her even more.”

Dugan pressed the flashing button on the desk phone.

“Yes, Mrs. Hogan, what can I do for you?”

“Well now, you can start by telling me why you’re puttin’ your oar in the water and preventing us from givin’ our Cassie a proper farewell?”

“I’m not sure I’m following you.”

“Oh, so it wasn’t you that called Father O’Malley and suggested we cancel the gathering after poor Cassie’s service?”

“I suggested that neither Gillian nor Alex was up to it and that perhaps he might discuss it with Gillian to find out what she preferred. Until this moment, I didn’t know myself what decision she made.”

“And how would you be knowin’ what state they’re in, since you’ve not bothered to bring yourself round to the house, now have ya’?”

“Mrs. Hogan, you know that’s not fair—”

“Fair? Fair, is it? Is it fair our beautiful Cassie’s gone and we’ve not even a body to put in the ground? And who’s to blame for that, I ask you? And now we’re to say farewell without even the dignity of a funeral feast. Just a few words in a church and no gatherin’ to share tales, no relivin’ of her life? It’s neither fittin’ nor proper, I tell you. Even if himself can’t bear it, he could be sat in the study with his brandy to help him dull the pain, and there’s none that could begrudge him that solace. But what of the rest of us, I ask you. Did you think of that when you decided to go sticking your Yank nose in things that don’t concern you?”

“Mrs. Hogan, I know you’re upset but—”

“Upset? Oh, aye, I’m upset all right. And know this, Mr. Thomas Dugan, it’ll be a cold day in Hell before you set your feet under my table again.”

The line went dead, and Dugan sat holding the receiver a moment, then slowly returned it to its cradle. Feelings were obviously running high all around, and after everyone started coming down from the euphoria of Cassie and Karina’s survival, he was quite sure the realization that he’d kept the news from them all wasn’t going to endear him to anyone, regardless of the justification. The clear implication was that none of them were to be trusted with the secret.

Perhaps things might go better in his absence, but how would he explain that? He hesitated a moment and picked up the phone again, dialing Gillian’s mobile phone and hoping she wasn’t with Mrs. Hogan when she answered.

“Hello,” Gillian said.

“Gillian, this is Tom. Ahh… I just had a call from Mrs. Hogan and—”

“And it didn’t go well, I presume? That would account for all the muttered curses and slamming cabinet doors I hear coming from the kitchen.”

“Yeah, that’s what I’m calling about. I really didn’t mean to upset anyone when I called Father O’Malley—”

“No, actually you were right to do that. To be honest, I was already thinking along those lines. I wouldn’t have agreed to cancel the gathering otherwise.”

“About that. I assumed that even though the larger gathering was canceled that we could come over to the house after the service, but maybe that’s not such a good idea.”

“Don’t be silly, Tom. Of course, you and Anna must come, and Ilya and young Nigel as well. I just assumed that would be the case. Don’t even think about not coming. And by the way, since we’re forgoing the post-service gathering, I’ve moved the service to late morning. It will be at ten thirty.”

Try as he might, Dugan couldn’t think of a way to refuse gracefully.

“Okay. We’ll be there.”

St. Petersburg
Russian Federation

Borgdanov was once again sitting in Starbucks, consistency being part and parcel of his cover identity. While a man on the run might skulk in the shadows, Ukrainian textile buyer Vasily Gagarin was conspicuous by his mundane daily routine. In truth, there was little to hide, as he was having less than stellar success with his recruitment mission. He’d already lowered his expectations and begun to consider how best to use his limited resources.

He caught movement from the corner of his eye and glanced casually to the right. It was the man he’d seen come in a bit earlier, expensively dressed and carrying a leather briefcase, but it was his face rather than his clothing that caught the eye. He was horribly disfigured, thick ropes of burn scar extending up out of his collar and across the right side of his face. His body was twisted, one shoulder and hip higher than the other, and his ruined face bore the lines of constant pain as he shuffled toward the exit, dragging his right leg. Poor bastard. Borgdanov looked away, fighting the urge to stare.

As the man passed Borgdanov’s table, he stumbled and grabbed the back of an empty chair and the edge of the table for support, dropping his briefcase in the process.

“Oh! Excuse me,” the man said as he regained his balance.

“No problem.” Borgdanov stood and reached down to retrieve the briefcase. “Here, let me help.”

“Most kind of you.” The man took the case from Borgdanov and gave him a twisted smile. “Most kind of you, indeed. Thank you very much.”

Borgdanov nodded. There was something familiar about the man. The voice perhaps.

“You’re welcome,” he said to the man’s back as the stranger shuffled for the door, faster now, with an obvious sense of urgency.

Very strange. Borgdanov sat back down and picked up his newspaper. Something fluttered out of it to the floor, and he glanced down to see a folded square of white paper. On the front of it in block letters was printed BORGDANOV.

He stared down at the paper a long moment, willing his heart rate back to normal, then reached down casually, picked it up, and unfolded it.

YOU ARE NOT AS INVISIBLE AS YOU THINK. MEET ME AT 2AM. WHERE YOU FIRST TRIUMPHED. COME ALONE. A FRIEND.

1 AM
Kairouz Residence
London, UK

Fedosov crouched in the shrubbery watching the house, a suitcase on either side of him, eager to get to the task at hand. He’d been nervous when he’d monitored the bugs throughout the day, unsure how the cancellation of the gathering impacted his plan. The last call from the American confirming the presence of all three targets had come as a great relief. The entire thing was working out well, actually much better than he could ever have hoped. He’d been a bit nervous about targeting a gathering where he was unsure about the guest list — it would be just his luck to blow up a Member of Parliament or some other important personage — and identifying the potential victims specifically and reducing the collateral damage was an unexpected boon. The only question now was when the occupants of the house would go to bed.

Finally the lights on the ground floor began to wink out until only the study window showed a light. He heard raised voices muffled by the closed window and saw shadows on the glass indicating movement within, but finally that light was extinguished as well. Twenty minutes later, the lights on the second story went dark, and Fedosov let out a relieved sigh. He waited an additional half hour to allow the occupants time to fall asleep and then crept through the darkness to the small basement window, a suitcase in each hand.

Vavilovich Street
St. Petersburg
Russian Federation

Borgdanov stood well back in the shadows of a narrow alley, watching the front of the abandoned school building across the street. He’d arrived two hours earlier, casually strolling down the near deserted streets surrounding the old school, walking at least two blocks in every direction. Satisfied, he’d come back to wait in the shadows of the alley, shifting his weight from foot to foot and reliving all of his actions since he’d arrived in the country, racking his brain for what he’d done wrong.