Point of Contact Read online

Feet were jogging through the forest, along with whispered, hurried voices.

  He waited until the sounds faded before easing his way out of the bush and toward the farmhouse, then hid behind a tree.

  Three men took up positions just outside the house. One faced out, his foot on a stump with an ax buried in it. The other two stepped carefully onto the porch, pistols out, hands on the door.

  Paul’s heart raced. Those had to be Zvezdev’s men.

  It was a trap.

  Rhodes was a dead man.

  77

  Rhodes knocked on the farmhouse door. He was greeted by a smiling Zvezdev.

  “Weston! You’re early. Come in.”

  The two men shook hands and Rhodes stepped in. The door closed behind him.

  A gun stuck in his ribs.

  “What’s this?” Rhodes asked, raising his hands.

  Zvezdev patted him down with one gloved hand, and pulled Rhodes’s two guns out with his other, shoving both into his right coat pocket.

  Rhodes surveyed the rustic living room. Rough-hewn boards, hand-woven carpets, homemade furniture. Simple, but large and comfortable. It would be considered primitive in any Western country, but by Bulgarian standards it was better than most.

  “Guns make me nervous. Or should I say other people’s guns.” Zvezdev holstered his pistol and smiled again.

  Rhodes lowered his hands. “You had me worried there for a moment.”

  “Then how about a rakia to calm your nerves?” Zvezdev crossed over to a weathered sideboard, the only factory-made piece in the room. He poured two glasses.

  “Don’t mind if I do. Nice place. Yours?”

  “Recently acquired.” He handed a glass to Rhodes.

  “ZiL still running well?”

  “I’d rather have a Buick, but what can you do? Nazdráve.”

  “Nazdráve.”

  They tossed down their brandies. Zvezdev poured two more.

  “So where is the fellow?” Rhodes took more brandy from the Bulgarian.

  “In the kitchen. You’ll meet him in a moment. Good doing business with you, Weston. Nazdráve.”

  “Nazdráve.”

  They drank again.

  “Let’s get to it, shall we?” Rhodes said. “Clock’s ticking.”

  “Of course. Follow me. Oh, wait. I almost forgot.” Zvezdev reached into his left coat pocket and produced the Makarov and handed it to him. “You’ll need this.”

  The kitchen was attached to the living room, separated by two green woolen Army blankets that served as a room divider. Zvezdev pushed through the blankets, Rhodes followed.

  Inside the kitchen was a wood-burning stove, a small refrigerator, cupboards, and a table and chairs.

  And a corpse.

  The body lay sprawled on the wooden floor, facedown, the head matted with blood.

  “Is that my defector?” Rhodes asked. His eyes drifted to the table: a stack of money, a bag of coke.

  “Yes. A filthy Roma, but a good smuggler.”

  “What happened?”

  “Earlier this evening, I followed him here. Discovered him taking the money you gave him for the drugs he brought you. I came in just as you shot him, but you turned your gun on me, and I had to shoot. At least, that will be the official story in my report.”

  Rhodes felt the blood drain out of his face. “What’s the problem we’re having here, Tervel? I thought we had an understanding.”

  Zvezdev raised his pistol and pointed it at Rhodes’s face. “We did, until you threatened me.”

  “I just needed one big score, I told you that.”

  “Sure, ‘one big score,’ and then there would be another and then another, always with the threat hanging over my head. I know how it works, Weston. I use the same technique myself.” He nodded at the corpse. “He was a problem, too. Two birds? Is that what you say? And when I tell my bosses, they will be pleased. Maybe even give me a medal.”

  A man’s scream broke outside the farmhouse. Zvezdev turned toward the living room. Rhodes raised his Makarov and pulled the trigger.

  Click.

  Empty. Rhodes’s heart sank.

  Zvezdev had switched guns on him.

  Gunshots rang out as the front door crashed open. They couldn’t see what was happening.

  Zvezdev pivoted toward Rhodes, his pistol held high, as more shots rang out from the living room.

  Rhodes recoiled from the gunfire, slamming his back against the kitchen wall. The butt of the Bulgarian’s gun cracked into Rhodes’s head, knocking him senseless.

  Zvezdev grabbed Rhodes by the collar and retreated to the back of the kitchen as the body of one of his men crashed through the blankets and spilled onto the floor, an ax buried in his spine—followed by Paul, blood-spattered and crazed, a gun in his fist.

  Zvezdev lifted his pistol to shoot, but Rhodes had recovered enough to push the Bulgarian’s arm down as he fired. Paul grunted as blood erupted from his knee.

  Paul grabbed at his wound with one hand as he went down, but he lifted his pistol with his other, taking aim at Zvezdev, now cowering behind Rhodes. He held a fistful of Rhodes’s hair in one hand and jammed his pistol into the back of Rhodes’s neck.

  “Weston! Tell him to put the gun down!” Zvezdev shouted from behind Weston’s back. “We can work this out!”

  Rhodes’s hands were up, his face a grimace of pain and fear.

  “Paul! He’s right. Take it easy. We can work this out.”

  Paul’s aim didn’t waver. “Let him go.”

  “Drop your gun first,” Zvezdev shouted.

  “Let him go,” Paul repeated.

  “Okay. Okay. I’ll let him go. Don’t shoot. All friendly, yes?”

  Zvezdev released his grip on Rhodes and lowered the pistol.

  Paul saw Rhodes relax.

  Zvezdev shoved Rhodes forward, took aim—

  Paul’s weapon fired.

  78

  SULLY, IOWA

  PRESENT DAY

  The rifles fired a third time. The seven CIA Honor Guardsmen lowered their weapons and stood at ceremonial rest.

  Jack Junior stood solemnly, his eyes glued to the casket as it lowered into the ground. It should’ve been him being put into the cold earth today, not Paul. He felt grateful, and ashamed.

  The funeral ended. President Ryan shook hands and offered condolences to the friends and family in attendance, ignoring his chief of staff’s silent reminders. They were supposed to be wheels-up in forty-five minutes for the flight to Beijing and they were more than an hour away from the airport. Ryan shot him a look that finally drove Arnie off. First things first.

  Jack Junior approached a distinguished, silver-haired gentleman chatting with John Clark. He offered his hand. “Captain Miller, good to see you again. I just wish it wasn’t under these circumstances.”

  The airline pilot smiled. “I understand, on both counts.”

  “How do you two know each other?” Clark asked.

  “I could ask you the same thing,” Jack said.

  “David and I go back a long way, don’t we?”

  “When dinosaurs ruled the earth.”

  The two old vets shared a chuckle, and obviously an unspoken bond.

  “And you both knew Paul,” Jack said.

  “All of us old-timers knew Paul Brown,” Miller said. He glanced back at the grave. “It’s a shame more people won’t.”

  Jack shook Miller’s hand again. “Take care.”

  “Same to you.”

  Jack drifted over to the other gravestones, weathered but well maintained. A lot of Browns. Paul was laid to rest next to Carmen, but he was surrounded by five generations of family. A long history in one place. Jack felt a hand on his shoulder.

  “How’s that busted wing coming along?”

 
; Gerry’s voice was unmistakable. Jack turned around and lifted his cast. “You know, this thing would make a pretty good weapon.”

  “I bet. And how are you doing, son?”

  Jack shrugged. “Can’t shake the feeling I let Paul down.”

  Gerry shook his head. “You were out of commission. Paul stood up when it counted.” He nodded back toward the grave. “He’s with Carmen now. He would tell you everything is as it should be. The two of you did a helluva job. Thanks to you, the world economy is still humming along, and the world never knew about it. That’s a good day’s work, as far as I’m concerned.”

  “Paul was the one who figured it out while I was running around chasing my own tail. Speaking of which, any news on Yong Fairchild?”

  “Probably in China for the foreseeable future. The Dalfan deal with Marin Aerospace is dead in the water. Dalfan stock took a hit because of that, but not too bad, and the Singapore authorities are combing over their databases and records to see what Yong might have stolen. It’s a mess, but not a catastrophe, thanks to your tail chasing.”

  “Thanks.”

  “I just got off the line with the AG. No charges will be filed against you by the Singapore authorities for anything you did over there.”

  “You read my after-action report. That’s hard to believe.”

  “Dr. Fairchild is an influential man, and Lian made you out to be quite the hero. The government of Singapore is officially ‘grateful for your service.’”

  Jack shrugged. “I’ll take it.”

  Gerry pulled him closer. “And the thirty million dollars of emergency aid we’re sending them for the cleanup effort didn’t hurt any, either.”

  Jack rolled his eyes. “Seriously?”

  “They need the help after that typhoon, believe me.” Gerry turned serious. “I also wanted you to hear this from me. Rhodes cut a deal with the FBI.”

  “What?”

  “It’s the way the world works, son. You bait the hook with the little fish in order to land the big fish. That software on Rhodes’s USB drive was dangerous stuff. Our people are sure it was written by the North Koreans, but Rhodes never dealt with them, only a middleman by the name of Zvezdev. We need to roll up Zvezdev if we’re going to nail Choi’s hide to the wall. So it’s going to be fifteen years at a Club Fed for the ex-senator, seven with good behavior.”

  Jack shook his head, disgusted. “Can I at least get in on the action?”

  “I’m afraid not. Mary Pat is running the Zvezdev operation. But I’m certain we’ll have some black-side work coming up soon—if you’re up for it.”

  Jack grinned. “Are you kidding? A black-side op sounds great. After a white-side gig like Singapore, I could use the rest.”

  79

  BRODARICA, CROATIA

  TWO WEEKS LATER

  Zvezdev had purchased the modest stone-and-red-tiled home because it was on the Adriatic Coast and he loved the sunset, and also because it was near his favorite beach bar. Or at least that’s what the realtor said in her interview with the SOA, Croatia’s intelligence service.

  The American team leader was on sat comms waiting for orders from DNI Foley. The seven men under his command—three Croatians, four Americans—wore tactical gear and NVGs. The team leader assured her that four hours of surveillance found no evidence of either guards or kinetic defenses.

  “Place looks empty,” he reported.

  Bad intel, or bad luck, Foley offered. She gave the word to go.

  The breaching team went first, the others followed. They cleared each room. Nobody was there, least of all Zvezdev.

  The NVGs came off and someone popped the lights on. The team leader ordered a thorough check of the house, and to bag any evidence they found. They’d all been briefed. Zvezdev was tied to a North Korean operation, and they needed to shut it down.

  One of the Croatians opened the refrigerator, half looking for a cold water—or a beer. Instead, he found something else.

  “What the fuck is that?” the Croatian asked the man standing next to him.

  An American named Suh took the chilled jar from his hand. “Looks like kimchi.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Korean food. Fermented cabbage, onions, chilis—you name it.” Suh unscrewed the jar and sniffed it. “Smells funny.”

  He held the jar closer to his face. Examined it closely. His eyes narrowed.

  “Oh, hell no.”

  The team leader broke into his comms. “Say again?”

  Suh rescrewed the cap.

  “I think we found Zvezdev.”

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