The Fifth Man (10 page)

“Who are you?” Cavanagh asked when he reached the porch.

“I’m Anna’s friend,” Matt replied. “Matt Massi.”

“Matt Massi. Am I supposed to be impressed? Who the fuck are you?”

“I told you, I’m Anna’s friend.”

“You are not allowed to be here,” Anna said. “You are drunk.”

“I want to see the kids.”

“You can’t.”

“Oh no?” Cavanagh turned as if to walk away, then turned back with a pistol in his hand, which he pointed at Anna and then Matt. “Go get the kids, Anna, or your new boyfriend’s a dead man.”

“Wait,” Matt said, “let’s talk. Here, have some coffee.” As he said this, Matt reached for the glass coffee pot, held it up to his chest as if it were a chalice filled with wine, or nectar, a peace offering, and then, using both hands, flew it at Cavanagh’s face. Anna’s husband, his eyes widening, stepped back to avoid the coffee pot, but not quickly enough. The pot thumped against his forehead, spilling hot coffee onto his face and chest. It broke into pieces with a sharp
crack
when it hit the ground. Matt pulled his Glock from his belt and stepped toward Cavanagh who, reeling backward, aimed his gun at Matt. Then Matt heard a shot and Cavanagh went down, his gun clattering to the ground. Turning quickly, Matt saw Anna holding her Glock out in front of her.

“I thought you never used it?” he said, turning back just as quickly to face the man on the ground.

“He was going to kill you,” Anna replied, moving to stand next to Matt. “And then me.”

They watched as Cavanagh, bleeding from his right thigh, grunted, sat up and began groping for his gun, which was at his feet. Matt stepped forward and kicked the gun away in one swift movement, then fired a round directly into Cavanagh’s heart.

About to die, Skip Cavanagh stared at Matt for one mad second and then fell backward, blood oozing from his wounds, his arms splayed in supplication.

Matt pulled out his cell phone and dialed a number.

“Uncle Frank,” he said when his call was answered. “I have a problem.”

20.

Skopelos, August 25, 2012, 10:00 a.m.

Chris shaded his eyes and looked out at the harbor.
Eleftheria
had moved during the night to an anchorage just inside the rocky spit of land that formed the southern pincer of Panaramos Bay. Sheltered as she was, she could still be at sea in under five minutes. He took his cell phone from the front pocket of his white linen shirt and tapped a speed dial screen.

“Anadochos,” Costa Vasiliou said.

“Costa, the picture you showed me, Andrei Kamarov.”

“Yes.”

“He also goes by Nico Pugach. He worked on the Scorpion with Matt.”

“Yes, Anadochos.”

“I need to know who he is. His family, everything.”

“It will be done.”

“And Mr. Dravic, the same.”

“Ochi problima, Nonos.”

“And our waiter friend? Was I right?”

“Yes, Nonos. A drifter.”

“Any friends?”

Silence.

“Just Tess.”

“Yes, Nonos. He was hired to do a job.”

“Has he returned?”

“He will not return. His body will be dumped at sea.”

“I agree. Thank you, Costa.”

Chris powered his phone down and put it back in his shirt pocket. He had woken up thinking of his conversation with Marko Dravic over coffee last night. Now he went over it again in his mind:

What does the Kremlin want of me, Mr. Dravic? I am just a businessman.

They want you to help stop a terrorist attack.

Who are they?

GRU. I assume you know who they are.

No, tell me.

It is Russia’s military foreign intelligence agency. Its civilian counterpart is SVR.

What do they think I can do that they can’t do themselves?

The attack will take place in Prague. GRU has certain information that could help prevent it. You have business interests in Prague. You will be the intermediary between GRU and SIS. Do you know SIS?

It must be the Czech domestic intelligence agency.

Yes, correct.

Why do they need an intermediary?

They hate us in Prague. They will not believe us.

If it works out, you could mend fences.

They hate us. You know why of course.

You had your boot on their throat for fifty years. Two generations.

I see you are an idealist, Mr. Massi. A rarity in your line of work.

Chris had let this pass.

Are you interested?

Does U.S. intelligence know about this?

They do not believe it to be credible.

Who have you spoken to?

Ah, that is a murky world, Mr. Massi. I have spoken to no one. But others have.

Who’s behind the attack?

GRU believes Caucasus Emirate. Do you know them? Chechen Islamists?

There are lots of groups that I hear about.

Yes, I’m sure.

How do I reach you?

Here is a number to call. Just leave a message. “Prague Yes.” Simple.

It won’t be me who leaves the message.

I understand.

And if I say yes?

Ah yes, the payoff.

Chris had remained silent. They were in a sitting room next to the north terrace, facing each other in the linen-covered minimalist lounge chairs that had been a housewarming gift to Chris from a client in Morocco. An intermittent breeze coming in through the room’s open windows and French doors cooled them and occasionally brightened the flames of the simple black candles that Christina had lit on the small marble table between them when she brought the coffee. In the candle glow Dravic’s pale face had been pleasant enough, his blue eyes not without warmth, but rarely was anyone cast to type in Chris’s world, where villains could and often did look like angels and angels like circus freaks.

Until now Chris had kept his distance, suggesting by the quietness of his gaze and the stillness of his body the temperament simply of a cautious businessman listening to a proposal, an exotic proposal, but just a business proposal, nevertheless. Now he looked carefully at the fifty-something, clear-eyed, sandy-haired Russian sitting across from him sipping Christina’s coffee from the house’s best espresso cups, his manners and his English impeccable.

Let us say, Dravic had finally said, you will be left alone.

21.

Panaramos Bay, Skopelos, August 27, 2012, 10:00 p.m.

“Have you spoken to Matt?” Max French asked.

“Yes. He’s coming here tomorrow.”

“What happened?”

“The woman at the storage place.”

“I thought so,” Max replied, remembering the image of Anna Cavanagh in her low-necked T-shirt, gun in hand, yellow hair falling randomly to her shoulders, like something from the soldier of fortune magazines he read when he was a boy. He loved those fucking magazines. And then there was that bad eye. How sexy was that?

“What did he tell you?” Chris asked.

“He told me he had something to do, that he’d be back for the flight. Sal couldn’t go with him. He never came back.”

“The woman. You met her. Who is she?”

“She’s a Czech national,” Max replied, “who married an American. Two young kids. One eye is cocked. She’s tall and blonde, thirtyish.”

Max paused to gauge Chris’s reaction. He was waiting for more.

“Yes, she’s good-looking,” he said.

“What else?”

“I only saw her for a few minutes.”

“Nothing?”

Max paused again. This is why I like working for this guy, he thought, he knows me for the freak I am.

“She has a secret,” Max said, finally.

“Good. Find out what it is.”

“I will.”

Max French had met Chris Massi in 2004 and, though he had worked with him three times since, this was only the second time he had been face-to-face with him. He eyed him now across
Eleftheria’s
mutely lit below-decks lounge, trying, with little success, to assess the changes in the man whose father had been a professional killer and who had himself gotten away with murder in 2003. When Massi did not reply after a long thirty seconds, Max decided to speak.

“These things happen, Chris,” he said. “He’s twenty-two.”

“I understand.”

“I’m the only one they trust in Warsaw,” Max said. “You said we only had a few days.”

“You had to leave.”

“Yes.” But I don’t blame Matt for staying behind, for disobeying his father. I might have too. For Ms. Cavanagh. That eye! It makes her more beautiful.

“What did you do in Warsaw?”

“Waterboard. It only took an hour.”

“They were in sync?”

“Yes.”

“Are they related?”

“Brother and sister.”

“What did they have to say?”

“They believed they were working for the
Odessa Mafya
.”

“Don Marchenko,” Chris said. “
Odessa Bratva
.”

“Yes. They were to do everything they could to sell the diamonds to Matt. When they found out about the two million, they killed the locksmith and went after the cash.”

“Skip the diamonds. It makes sense.”

“The thing is, they were acting on their own when they went after the cash. They got the storage unit number from a local locksmith and then killed him.”

“You’re kidding?”

“No. They were told if they couldn’t make the deal with Matt, they were to come home. They never told their contact about the cash or the locksmith.”

“The locksmith wasn’t in on it?”

“No.”

“Did he have a family?”

“Two kids.”

“How did they know they were working for Odessa Bratva?”

“Their contact told them.”

“Who was that?”

“The captain of the Scorpion.”

“Stavros.”

“Yes.”

“So they had to sell these particular diamonds and it had to be to Matt.”

“It looks that way.”

“Did he talk about his so-called girlfriend, Irina Tabak?”

“He was paid to kill her.”

“By whom?”

“A man he met in a bar in Odessa.”

“Eliminated by now, I’m sure.”

“I agree. What now? You haven’t told me about Tess.”

“A Russian named Marko Dravic got her out to his yacht on the bay.”

“How?”

“He used a handsome drifter, a waiter in town. He said he knew the chef—that Dravic was away. They were supposed to have a drink. All in the open.”

Max shook his head. He had never met Tess Massi, but had fallen in love with her picture, a phenomenon in his life that he knew was a problem that would one day have to be confronted. He fell in love with pictures, not real women. “Is she still here?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“What did Dravic want?”

“He wants me to carry a message to SIS in Prague. GRU has come upon a plot to set off bombs in Wenceslas Square on September eleven.”

“By whom?”

“The Chechans. Supposedly.”

“Everything is
supposedly
until it happens in this business.”

Chris nodded.

“Why you?”

“That’s the big question,” Chris replied. “He said the Czechs won’t believe the Kremlin, too much bad blood.”

“What do you think?”

“I think it might be about me.”

“You? How?”

“An old grudge. A score to settle.”

“They picked a pretty elaborate way to do it.”

“I agree.”

“What do you want me to do?”

“Costa is checking out Dravic. You do the same. Go to Prague. Talk to our people there. Ask them if they hear anything about an attack in Wenceslas Square on 9/11.”

“Should I let Mr. White know what’s going on?” Max asked.

“Yes. I may need his help. My children are involved.”

“Should I tell him that?”

“Yes.”

“What kind of help? In case he asks.”

“Reconnaissance. Maybe a drone.”

“A
drone
? Chris…”

“You know the deal we made, Max.”

“Okay,” Max said, thinking,
that’s the problem when you have kids, people you love
. Then, out loud, he said, “Chris, about Matt…”

“He’s on his own, Max. It was always going to come down to that. I’m responsible.”