Political Thriller: RUSSIAN HOLIDAY, an American Assassin story

  Robert hit again and again and again, left, right, left, right, until it seemed like all the strength had gone out of Lyosha, like a tire losing all its air. He raised his arm, clenched his fist and aimed straight for Lyosha’s nose, ready to deliver the kill shot. Lyosha suddenly opened his eyes and looked at Robert. It was a look of betrayal. A look that said they had fought together for survival, had become brothers, and now Robert had to uphold the code. Like a Samurai upholding the bushido, the code of a true warrior, Robert sensed in his eyes a relief that his death would come at the hands of a true warrior.

  Robert, who was never one to show mercy to anyone, suppressed his killer instincts and, like an emperor in the Roman Coliseum, granted Lyosha a pardon. Satisfied that Lyosha was no longer a threat, Robert stood up, grabbed a flashlight from Lyosha’s belt and his knife, and ran to the entrance of the tunnel. He screwed the noise suppressor onto his Glock and slumped forward. As he walked away he could hear Lyosha moan, “Nooooo!”

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  Robert staggered down the stone stairs into the abyss, not knowing what the next surprise conformation may be. He was bruised and sore, bleeding from his superficial gunshot wound, and weary from the battle and the fight with Lyosha. The tunnel was cool and musty, and smelled like an ancient tomb, like the kind he had visited in the Valley of the Kings in Egypt. It felt like it hadn’t been used in years.

  It was smooth going for about 700 meters until he came upon an obstruction. He shone his light on it. The passage was completely blocked. It wasn’t made by a cave-in by happenstance or an explosion. It was as if the rocks had been stacked together, like bricks in a brick wall, in order to block the passage. If it had been a collapse, it would have looked more random. This looked like a stone wall separating the fairways on a Scottish golf course. He quickly began removing the stones, throwing them behind him until he could feel the rush of air on the other side. He worked faster, picking stones with both hands and throwing them behind him. The hole was getting bigger and bigger. But, suddenly, he heard the sound of footsteps behind him.

  Lyosha!

  Robert had, so far, made a hole big enough for his shoulders. He tried to crawl through the hole like a cat, but got hung up on his body armor. The footsteps were getting closer. He threw his Glock and two mags through the hole, ripped off his jacket, his shirt, and the armor, and squeezed into it, scraping his arms and wiggling until he was stuck by the hips, wedged against jagged pieces of rock sitting on top of one another.

  “Boab! Stoap!”

  Robert planted his palms against the stone wall on the other side and pushed with all his strength, tearing his pants and ripping a layer of skin off his leg, just as he heard gunfire and the ricochet of bullets off the wall. He grabbed his gun and the mags and ran. There was no way Lyosha could get his bulky frame through the hole Robert had made. He would have to make a bigger one.

  Robert ran as fast as he could from the breach in the wall. He could hear gunfire coming from it, and bullets ricocheting against the walls of the tunnel, but was well out of range without suffering a hit. He reached the tunnel exit, and creeped up the stone stairs into an abandoned building, and instinctively reached for his spy mirror, but his plate carrier and belt were gone. He twisted the silencer onto the muzzle of his Glock, peeked above the opening and saw a solitary guard. He shot, and he dropped to the dirt floor like a sack of potatoes.

  Anticipating more guards outside, laying low to the ground, he peered out into the street on both sides. There was one solitary guard, standing watch, holding an AK-104. He snuck up behind the soldier, knife in his right hand, seized him by the neck, forcing it sideways, pierced the point of the knife into his throat and cut sideways, feeling the knife cut through tendons and flesh, and the warm flow of blood on his arm. The man fell, gurgling, blood spurting from his carotid artery. Robert picked up his gun and looked into the street. It was a no-man’s land, but probably loaded with snipers. He turned to his left and ran to a destroyed wall, keeping close to it, then ran to the next one and the next one. There was nothing he could steal to make his escape. He would have to find where he had stashed the cycle.

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  The sun began to peek above the horizon, bathing the ruins of Aleppo in a yellow-orange glow. Robert hurried along the streets, mindful they could be filled with trigger happy rebels or Syrian patrols, both of which would shoot him on sight. He was tired and sore, bleeding from the leg and shoulder wounds and his mouth was dry, like it had been wiped out with cotton, crying out to quench his thirst. Bare-chested with torn pants, he looked like the Incredible Hulk after turning back into David Banner.

  It was difficult to get his bearings, tough to look for landmarks in a city where every street seemed to be destroyed, but his fine-tuned stalking abilities were on full alert. He had calculated his location. If he went east, he risked running into bands of rebels. If he went west, he would run into Syrian patrols, which were probably on high alert, and possibly looking for him. He decided to take his chances going west. Syrian forces would be in uniform, more organized and traveling in groups. They would be easier to hide from than the rebels. The bike was northeast of the citadel, but it was in disputed territory. If there was one to steal, he would have opted for it.

  He hung close to the destroyed buildings, keeping away from open spaces, scurrying through the ruins as he did in the citadel, from one burned-out, bombed-out wall to another. He could see the citadel looming above. It was aflutter with activity – helicopters flying overhead, illuminating the castle and its embattlements. He could hear the sounds of high-flying jets in the sky.

  He entered the grounds of a large building, and came up on a street filled with a couple of burned-out cars and a disabled tank. He scanned the tops of the buildings for signs of snipers and scurried across the street. He took a convoluted route to avoid being anywhere near the citadel, turning what would have been a 17-minute walk into a 30-minute one.

  The air was still and filled with the stench of garbage and the smoky smell of burnt wood. He kept on his meandering path, staying close to the buildings and using his roving eyes to keep aware of all his surroundings, walking at a normal pace.

  At the next street crossing, Robert ducked down as a ragtag patrol of Toyota trucks came rolling by, which meant he was entering a patch of rebel territory. He lay low as they slowed and shone a spotlight in his direction. He could see the shadows shifting around him from the light. He stayed still, like he would if being charged by a dog.

  Come on guys, there’s nothing here for you.

  ***

  It was midnight in New York, but Ted Barnard had still not gone to bed. He had been receiving intelligence reports all night about the citadel siege and his phone had never stopped ringing. It rang again and he put it to his ear. It was still hot from the previous calls.

  “Barnard.”

  “Sir, this is Officer Jeffries.”

  “What have you got, Jeffries?”

  “Reports from Aleppo that the rebels attempted a siege on the citadel but it was thwarted by the Syrian Army.”

  Barnard clenched his teeth. Any news on our asset?”

  “Negative, sir. Assumed dead.”

  Barnard harrumphed. He could care less whether Robert had been killed, except for the dead American body which would have to be denied away. And, if Paladine wasn’t dead, he should be.

  ***

  Robert recognized the street and knew he was close to the hiding place for his motorcycle.

  If it’s even still there.

  Robert entered the bomb-blasted area where he had covered his cycle with debris and, to his relief, it was still there. He excavated it from the rubbish and wheeled it slowly out to the street, where he kicked it to life and it whisked him away.

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  Nobody was waiting or standing by to pick Robert up, which was no surprise. This time there was no botched extraction because they obviously didn’t expect him to make it,
or they just didn’t want him to. The whole mission stunk and, if he had his free will, he would have never been a part of it. He made up his mind right then and there he would take advantage of his presumed death and simply disappear. He cursed the man with no name as he made his way to the hole in the ground he used for storage. Once he got there, he grabbed a bottle of water and practically sucked it dry, then used the water from another bottle to splash his bloody and dirt-soaked face, arms and chest, and poured it on the surface wounds on his shoulder, arms and legs. There was no way he could present himself at the border crossing looking like a refugee or a battle-weary soldier. Cracking open his first aid kit, he took a large bottle of liquid antiseptic and dowsed his cuts with it. He changed into civilian clothes and packed everything back into his pack and saddled up again.

  While the Commander of the U.S. Central Command was on television, denying U.S. involvement in the Aleppo siege, Robert was flying over moguls in the Syrian Desert, staying off the road as much as possible to avoid rebel and Syrian Army checkpoints.

  He reached the border crossing of Bab al-Hawa in about an hour, scooting between the busy lanes, making a beeline for the border. As he approached the border crossing station, he looked at the overhang and its painted sign that said “Goodbye” and swore to never come back to this place.

  Good riddance is more like it.

  Crossing a border was always a nail-biting event for Robert, sometimes even more than an assignment, because, when you’re entering another country, they control all the variables. You are a naked, worthless commodity which they decide whether they want or not, and the decision is usually made by a policeman who was put in the position of border guard because he wasn’t good enough for anything else. This tended to give people a false sense of power. The good part about this border crossing, if there was one, was if there was any problem, the right amount of bribe could make that problem go away.

  Robert presented his alias passport, the one with the Turkish visa already stamped in it, to the border policeman, a Turk, and greeted him in Turkish with a smile.

  “Merhaba.”

  The man nodded, examined Robert’s passport and visa and gave him a good look. Then, he stamped the passport and handed it back to him.

  Robert headed straight for Iskenderun to wipe out his safety deposit box. He stopped on the way in a gas station restroom to clean up and make himself presentable for banking. Wary of any followers, he took special precautions, including “thanking” the bank manager for his business. The manager was a 30-something, ambitious Turk named Basri Demir, whose taste in clothes led Robert to believe he had taken special tips before. He greeted Robert and directed him to his private office. Robert declined.

  “I think it’s better we meet in the vault, if you don’t mind.”

  Demir looked confused, then agreed. “Of course.”

  “You can understand my desire for complete privacy, can’t you? The vault is a place where I feel that is possible.”

  “Yes, yes. That’s fine.”

  Robert signed into his box for the last time and the manager took both keys to the vault while Robert watched from the door. Robert waited in the private room, where he had already disarmed the camera with his laser light. The manager brought the box in and set it on the table.

  “Would you excuse me for a second?”

  “Of course.”

  Robert emptied the contents of his box into his backpack and withdrew a brick of hundred dollar bills. He extended his hand to shake Demir’s and when Demir met his gesture, Robert released the brick into his hand. Demir looked at it as if he were surprised.

  “I just want to thank you for your service and discretion. I hope our banking relationship will continue in the future with complete discretion.”

  “Yes, sir. Thank you very much.”

  Demir pocketed the cash.

  Robert held up a finger. “Oh, there’s just one more thing.”

  “Yes, sir?”

  “I need to be assured of the highest form of privacy. I wouldn’t want anyone to be able to obtain my private records.”

  “Yes, sir, of course.”

  “Can you assure me you will take care of my privacy issue?”

  “Yes, sir. I will handle it personally. No need to worry.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Can we offer you our car, sir?”

  Robert shook his head. “Thank you for your hospitality.”

  Robert exited the bank and mounted his motorcycle for the eleven-hour ride to Istanbul.

  CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

  It was almost daybreak when Robert cruised into Istanbul. He took a hotel in the old town for cash – no name on the register. His footprints in Turkey had to be invisible – like tracks on the sandy beach, washed away by the waves. Robert showered, cleansing the rest of the battle grime and dirt from his body. After toweling off, he fell onto the bed and was asleep immediately.

  He woke up two hours later, feeling partially rested, and headed straight for the Galata Bridge. The seagulls were calling, as if announcing his arrival. He passed the smoky, steamy fish grills of the balik-ekmek boats, where the waiters called out their famous fish sandwiches, until the smell of salt water and raw fish caught his nostrils. The fishermen were there, as always, sleeping on the benches and hanging over the rails with their fishing poles. Robert approached the grey-haired old man with the hat over his face.

  “Dimitri!”

  The old man slid off his hat, squinted and smiled.

  “Malaka, you are back!”

  Robert sat down next to him, and time seemed to take a vacation. They spoke for a while, but spent the rest of the time just hanging out. The old man took a hit of his nargile pipe, and offered the tube to Robert. Robert took in a sweet puff of ginger and mint, tasting it and blowing it out. Dimitri pulled in his line and rebaited his hook, then cast the line back out. He turned to Robert.

  “You don’t have a fishing pole or tackle box, malaka. That means you didn’t come here to fish.”

  Robert nodded. “No, I didn’t.”

  “And it looks like you have been in one hell of a big fight.”

  “Yes, I have.”

  “Then, how is it that this old Greek can help you, son?”

  The old man was smart. Smart and wise.

  “I need to get to Greece.”

  “It’s close, no need to ask my advice.”

  “Not traveling there. I think I’m ready to retire. Greece is where I’d like to do it – in private.”

  The old man searched his eyes for the real question. He nodded and Robert could tell from the nod he understood.

  “I see. With that, I’m sure this greasy Greek can help you. My nephew in my home town is in charge of resident visas.”

  “I think a passport would be better.”

  The old man ran scratched his moustache, thinking.

  “Yes, that is also possible. Just a little more complicated. I assume this is a matter of utmost privacy?”

  “Yes, it is.”

  “Then it will cost you, malaka. Not for me, but for the government man. Do you have ten thousand dollars cash?”

  “I do.”

  “That should be sufficient. Bring it to me this afternoon, along with a standard passport photo. We should have your paperwork in a couple of days.”

  Robert nodded, but began worrying that, in a couple of days, a full scale manhunt could be launched for him. Dimitri sensed his angst.

  “Don’t worry about time, malaka. You can borrow a fishing pole and some tackle from me.”

  Robert smiled, put his pack on his lap, and pulled out his passport cover. Inside were several sheets of passport photos. He handed a sheet to Dimitri.

  “You come prepared.”

  Robert reached back into his pack and pulled out five stacks of 100 bills, totaling $10,000.

  “Don’t you have to wave a magic wand over that bag first?”

  The old man laughed roughly, and began to cough. He put h
is fist over his mouth. “Okay, malaka, here.” He thrust the fishing pole into Robert’s hands. “Anything you catch, we split fifty-fifty.” Robert held the old man’s pole and slid back on the bench.

  ***

  The man with no name was finally back on U.S. soil, but he didn’t feel secure. That Paladine was running around out there somewhere, he could feel it, and as long as he remained on the lam, he was a loose end. He didn’t like loose ends.

  He made some calls, but nobody in the field could confirm whether Robert was dead or alive. He had not popped up on any system alerts. He hadn’t been seen anywhere. It was as if his trail had gone cold in Aleppo. He pulled up Robert’s file on his computer and typed out an assignment to activate one of his best sleeper agents. Robert Garcia was out there somewhere and he had to be erased.

  CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

  Robert gripped the fishing pole and watched the old man throw a small fish over the side of the bridge. One of the seagulls, who had been circling in a mad, noisy flock of them, caught it in mid-air and the fishermen cheered. The old man sat back down on the bench.

  “Today we pick up your passport and birth certificate.”

  “Already?”

  The old man laughed in his hacking way. “I told you a few days was not a long time.”

  “I don’t even know how long it’s been. Seems like just yesterday.”

  “Then why don’t you stay here, malaka?”

  Robert scratched his head. “I’d like to, but.”

  The old man nodded. “Where will you go in Greece?”

  Robert’s eyes drifted off into the distance. “I’d like to just get on a boat and cruise the islands.”

  “Good idea. The islands are a place a man can disappear from life. It will be good for you, malaka.”