Fog of War (Justin Hall # 3) (10 page)

Justin’s mind wandered back to the documents obtained from NCS. He had started pouring over them as soon as they left the CIA complex. Carrie drove, while Justin analyzed the reports. Before parting ways at Dulles International Airport, Justin made copies of all materials. Carrie took the originals CIS headquarters in Ottawa, to verify their authenticity, confirm the information, and brief McClain on this new development. Justin flew to New York and spent the hour-long flight and most of the night examining the NCS data.

When he finally allowed himself a short sleep, he was convinced al-Shabaab had obtained sensitive intelligence about CIS’s recent operations. Transcripts of calls intercepted by NCS among al-Shabaab militants confirmed they had prior knowledge of at least two CIS missions: the joint operation with the Navy SEALs in Somalia and Justin’s mission in Iran. He was unsure how and when that intelligence had been stolen or leaked, but had logically eliminated a few scenarios that were simply impossible. Together with McClain and Nathan, they were going to track their steps, in order to identify the weakest link in the chain of their secret communications.

Justin had tried to push away these thoughts and plans as he and Anna enjoyed the best of New York during their short vacation. They took a sightseeing helicopter flight that gave them some gorgeous views of Manhattan’s skyscrapers and the Statue of Liberty. The flight lasted only fifteen minutes, but Anna took hundreds of pictures, preserving their fond memories. They enjoyed a walk in Central Park, brunched in a cozy French bistro nearby, then boarded a tour bus for most of the afternoon. After the first hour, the images of city’s landmarks started to become a blur in Justin’s mind. More squares, more shopping centers, more churches. He was able to feign a reasonable amount of attention for Anna’s sake, but his mind inevitably returned to the daunting task waiting for him back at CIS headquarters.

Justin glanced again at his wristwatch. It was now seven forty. He thought about calling Anna. He had tried a few minutes earlier, only to be rebuffed by a busy signal.
She’ll call me once she’s free,
Justin thought. He felt a bit guilty for not being too upset about missing the show. Anna found true joy in watching musicals. Justin went along to please his fiancée.
I hope she has already taken a cab or it might be too late.

He looked at a few taxis driving toward him. One stopped in front of the Ambassador Theater and an elegantly dressed middle-aged couple got out with some difficulty. Then a black stretch Mercedes-Benz slid out of the Crowne Plaza Hotel’s parking garage, across from the theater. The driver forced his way into the busy traffic and cut in front of a city bus, causing a volley of honking from other cars. Then he switched lanes and rolled to a stop in front of the theater.

Justin glanced at the dark-tinted glass of the windows, seeing nothing but the skyscrapers’ reflections in the glass. He noticed the wide tires of the low-riding limousine. It was probably an armored vehicle, the favorite of many New York celebrities and corporate executives. The front passenger stepped out. He was a big, muscled man, perhaps six feet five inches tall. He buttoned his black suit, straightened its collar, and walked toward Justin. Instinctively, Justin took a couple of steps back, putting some distance and a few obstacles—three bystanders and one of the metal traffic barriers along the sidewalk—between him and the passenger, in case the man was looking for a fight.

The man kept his brisk pace, a grin forming in his face framed by a buzz cut and a square jaw. When he was about six feet away from Justin, he stopped. His left hand pointed at the Mercedes-Benz, while his right hand casually brushed against the front of his suit. Justin noticed a small bulge where the man was likely wearing a shoulder holster, with the unmistakable shape of a pistol. As Justin’s mind was calculating his next moves, the man spoke in English with a thick Russian accent, “Mr. Romanov would like to talk to you.”

Justin flinched, then looked at the limousine. Yes, Romanov could both afford and thrive in such luxury.
But I can’t be sure it’s him. How does he know I’m in New York? What does he want?

“I can’t talk to him right now.” Justin nodded toward the theater. “My show is starting right away.”

“Mr. Romanov said this will only take five minutes. And you will not miss your show.” His words were not a suggestion; they were an order.

A cab driver parked behind the limousine slammed on his horn to express his anger about the vehicle taking up the parking space designated for taxis. The Mercedes-Benz driver jumped out of his seat. He was a perfect copycat of the man talking with Justin, only the look ironed on his face was harsh. He marched to the taxi, his hands tightening into fists. A stream of expletives both in Russian and in English and a couple of swift punches that probably left dents on the hood of the taxi gave the cab driver the incentive to step on the gas pedal and disappear into the fast moving traffic. Justin remembered seeing the driver in Moscow four years ago—the last time he had seen Romanov face to face—but could not recall his name. He was one of Romanov’s trusted bodyguards and was always by his side.

“Mr. Romanov hates waiting,” the man said, impatience clear in his voice. “We should go now.”

Justin nodded.
I can still take Anna’s call in the Merc. Let’s get this over with.

He followed the man to the limousine and waited for him to open the back door. He stepped inside and was greeted by a thin cloud of cigarette smoke and Romanov’s loud voice, “Welcome, Mr. Hall. I’m glad you could spare a few moments.”

“Romanov.” Justin sat across from him in the comfortable black leather seat and shook Romanov’s extended hand. “I wasn’t expecting you.”

“I was in town for a meeting and had some free time.”

Romanov was dressed in a pearl gray suit tailored to fit perfectly on his large body and somewhat hide his round belly. He had a crisp white shirt and a black bow tie. His shiny silver hair was neatly combed back and trimmed at neck length. The skin of his broad face with high cheekbones looked smooth and rosy. A bushy moustache a shade darker than his hair curled under his aquiline nose. A half-smoked cigarette dangled between the thick fingers of his left hand. His gold ring and Rolex glinted in the soft light inside the limousine.

Romanov said, “I thought about watching
Chicago
before flying back home to Russia. But then something came up. You know I’m a fan of musicals, right?”

“Right,” Justin said in a dubious tone.

“It’s true. I’m a big donor to the theater,” Romanov said with a nod. “It helps when I take business partners and their wives out for an exquisite evening, dinner and a show, like the Americans say.”

The Mercedes-Benz glided forward.

“Yes, and we’ll miss the show. Where are we going?” Justin asked.

Romanov held up his BlackBerry, which was sat on the console separating the large seats. “I’ve asked them to postpone the show for half an hour. I have another meeting after we’ve finished talking, so this will be just a short ride around the block.”

Justin raised an eyebrow. “They’ve postponed the show because you asked them?”

“What did I say? I’m a big donor,” Romanov said with a shrug.

“So, it was a coincidence you ran into me.”

Romanov grinned. “Not exactly. One of my sources checked the theater’s list of guests, and the name of Anna Worthley came up. She and one guest.”

Justin tightened his jaw and dug his fingers deep in the leather console by his seat. The surface was impeccably smooth, with a rich texture and a host of buttons on the top.

“How is she doing?” Romanov asked.

“Fine,” Justin replied in a cold, flat tone.

“And your dad?”

“He’s fine too. Smoking for fifty years gave him lung cancer as a retirement present. It will finally catch up to you as well.”

Romanov smiled, his tiny gray eyes glowing in the semi-darkness. “Ha. My Russian blood kills all nicotine. I don’t have to worry.” He took a puff from his cigarette, then blew the smoke out slowly in small circles.

“You’ve been spying on me, Romanov, and I don’t like it.” A dark frown had appeared on Justin’s face, but he was not sure Romanov could see it. He decided to word his feelings, so the Russian oligarch would hear and understand him.

Romanov leaned back in his seat and stretched his legs. “Keeping tabs on old friends and caring about their lives is not spying in my books. But you know, like I know, there are some people who are looking very hard to find you, dead or alive, but preferably dead.”

Justin did not blink. Romanov had eyes and ears in many places, and by now the fatwa and bounty on his head was old news. “It’s true, but unrelated to our conversation. Now that you found me, what do you want?”

Romanov put out his cigarette by stubbing it out in an ashtray, then slid the ashtray back into the console. He took a deep breath and leaned forward. “I want you to take care of something for me. I had something stolen, and I want it back.”

Justin locked eyes with Romanov. “I already have a job and I don’t freelance.”

Romanov waved his right hand in front of him. “It’s a favor.”

He did not say it, but he did not have to. Justin understood what Romanov meant: it was time for Justin to repay an old favor. He knew borrowing Romanov’s Bugatti Veyron for his unauthorized covert operation in Nice earlier that year was going to come back to haunt him. He just did not know where and how. Now he would find out.

Justin nodded. It was sufficient to express his agreement to at least listen to Romanov’s proposal. “Who dares to steal from you?”

Romanov grinned. “Their families have already paid dearly for their sins. They betrayed me. It was a few men whose loyalty to me had a price.”

Higher than the one you were paying them,
was Justin’s first thought. He nodded.

“A crew of eight men was aboard a cargo plane headed for Jizan, Saudi Arabia. En route, they changed their flight course, diverting into Sa’dah, in northern Yemen.”

Justin frowned. “The plane wasn’t carrying equipment for the oil refineries of Jizan, was it?”

Romanov shook his head. “No, it wasn’t.”

“Do you care to tell me what the cargo was?”

“I think you already know the answer.”

Justin let out a deep sigh. “Yeah, I was afraid of that. The cargo contained weapons. I didn’t know you’ve branched out into the arms trade.”

He smiled. “A small investment to test the market.”

“What kind of weapons are we talking about?”

It was Romanov’s turn to sigh. “SA-24s.”

“What?” Justin fell back in his seat. “A planeload full of surface-to-air heat-seeking missiles is gone now, probably in the hands of Yemeni terrorists?”

Romanov’s eyes narrowed. “I would have not called you if it was a batch of Makarov pistols.” He scratched his drooping chin, before continuing, “And the cargo is not gone. The crates have trackers, so I can follow the delivery to its destination. My sources tell me they haven’t fallen into terrorists’ hands. Yet.”

Justin weighed on Romanov’s words. SA-24s had the same capacities as the American-made Stinger missiles. One of them—in able hands, and Yemen had plenty of able terrorist hands—was sufficient to bring down a heavy combat helicopter or a low-flying small airplane. These shoulder-launched missiles could destroy targets as high as 11,000 feet, over a distance of three and a half miles. “Where is the cargo now?”

Romanov took a second before replying, “Somewhere north of Sa’dah. I have the exact coordinates.” He tapped his BlackBerry.

“That’s a terrorist stronghold. Houthis insurgents control all the roads in and out of the area. They also have a large number of men and weapons stationed there.”

“Yes, but they haven’t gotten hold of my cargo. The thieves were planning to sell the cargo, but the original deal went bad, so they are looking for a new deal.”

Justin put his hands together, locking his fingers. “And that’s your plan, to send me in as a potential buyer?”

He nodded. “It’s an idea, unless you want to charge into the warehouse and kill them all.”

Justin grinned. “Yeah, that was my first impulse. You don’t have someone else you can trust to take care of this?”

Romanov looked out the dark windows. The glow of outside lights came in filtered and distorted, as if through a thick haze. “In case you haven’t noticed, I’m having some trust issues with people around me.” He spoke the words in a hushed tone, as if he did not want to hear his own confession. “But you’ve never given me a reason to doubt your motives or your abilities.”

Justin blinked. He had never heard Romanov use flattery as a currency.

Romanov paused for a moment, then turned his right hand into a fist and slammed it into his left palm. “And I’ve got to get these bastards. I’m not going to let eight bastards put me to shame.”

Justin glanced at Romanov’s face. His eyes had turned black with anger. “There’s more at stake here than this cargo. It’s my reputation. I always deliver on my promises,” Romanov said. “Saudi Arabia is a big arms market. They spent over thirty billion dollars in weapons last year, and the Americans, of course, took the lion’s share. We’ve seen our exports cut in half, and we’re losing ground to the French.”

“So the Saudis don’t know their shipment is missing?”

“It’s not missing, it’s delayed until you,” he pointed his thick finger at Justin’s chest, “you retrieve it.”

Justin began to shake his head, but Romanov raised a dismissive hand. “Your interest and the interest of the Western world are for Yemeni insurgents
not
to get hold of these missiles. I don’t have to explain you the consequences if al-Shabaab or al-Qaeda add these weapons to their arsenal. It may even tip the scales of their ongoing war against the Yemeni government.”

“My Service will not approve of this operation,” Justin spoke softly, carefully selecting his words. “Even if they do, which is highly unlikely, it will take time to put together a team and execute a well-planned mission. Yemen is a hellhole.”

“Time is a luxury we don’t have. Take my proposal to McClain and explain its urgency. I have the exact location of the cargo, and I’ll know if and when it’s on the move. If your boss wants me to sweeten the deal, that’s open for negotiation.”