“I told you to call me Grace,” she said as she lowered her weapon.
“Okay. Grace, please don’t tell me these were your people?”
“Lord, no, I only employ women,” replied Grace as she unscrewed the silencer from her 9mm Glock pistol. “And you’re welcome.”
“Sorry, thanks for saving my life,” said Mitchell. “If you’re not behind this, then why are you here?”
“I came to see you.” Grace placed her pistol away in her shoulder holster.
“Ryan, there’s no one outside,” called out Jackson as he ran back inside the hangar. When he saw Grace standing there with two dead bodies on the ground, he picked up the nearest tool he could find and looked over at Mitchell, who simply shook his head.
“It’s okay, Nate, I’d be dead without her. She’s on our side… I think,” said Mitchell.
Jackson walked over with the wrench still tight in his hand. “What happened?”
After quickly filling his friend in, Mitchell asked Jackson to go back and look after General O’Reilly. Jackson nodded his head and picked up one of the dead thugs’ pistols. With a suspicious glance at Grace, he left her and Mitchell alone.
Grace took her cellphone from her pocket, brought up a picture, and handed the phone to Mitchell.
“Son of a bitch, you found him!” exclaimed Mitchell, looking down at a picture of Eric McMasters. “Where is he?”
“Venezuela.”
“Are you sure?”
“I wasn’t until just now. This picture was sent to me late yesterday afternoon.”
“Who’s in Venezuela?” asked O’Reilly as he walked out from behind the plane, accompanied by Jackson.
“McMasters, sir,” said Mitchell, handing the phone to his boss.
O’Reilly studied the image of the man who had betrayed him and murdered one of his people; just looking at the picture made him seethe with anger. “I guess I had best inform Houston that his probe is probably with whoever is paying McMasters in Venezuela.”
“I wouldn’t be too hasty to do that,” said Grace as he took her phone back.
“Why would you say that?” asked Mitchell.
“Because that picture was taken on an oil rig off the coast of Venezuela,” explained Grace. “Ostensibly it, along with four other rigs, was nationalized three years ago by the Venezuelan government. However, the people who work on that rig are all employees of a Venezuelan company owned and operated clandestinely by David Houston.”
“Are you sure about this?” asked O’Reilly.
“One hundred percent,” answered Grace. “Besides, you don’t think a man like Houston would walk away from a four-billion-dollar investment, do you?”
The sound of police sirens wailing in the distance began to grow louder by the second.
“That’s my cue to leave,” announced Grace.
“Wait,” said Mitchell, leaning over to grab her arm. “I take it you’re still after the missing probe.”
“Yes.”
“Well then, I want to come with you. I have a score to settle with McMasters.”
“Ryan, if you want me, I’ll be in the hotel bar of the InterContinental Tamanaco in Caracas, Venezuela tomorrow night from eight to eight-fifteen.” With that, Grace gently removed Mitchell’s hand from her arm, turned on her heels and faded into the shadows at the other end of the hangar.
Mitchell was about to say something when his mentor pre-empted him.
“I’ll deal with the police; you and Nate had best get moving if you’re going to catch up with her,” said O’Reilly. “Don’t worry about me. I can handle the situation from here on out.”
“Yes, sir,” replied Mitchell.
“Ryan, if she’s correct, then this is larger than I suspected. Be careful down there, the current Venezuelan government isn’t too keen on American ex-Special Forces personnel skulking around in their backyard. If they catch you, they’ll lock you up for life.”
“Then we had best not get caught,” said Mitchell.
With Nate by his side, Mitchell borrowed a nearby battery-powered cart and drove towards the main terminal of the airport. He knew it was a crapshoot. O’Reilly could probably run interference for a few hours, making up excuses as to where he and Nate had gone. After that, the authorities were going to lose their patience with him and demand to speak to them about the murders. By that point, Mitchell hoped that they would be beyond the reach of the U.S. government.
19
Jen looked over at the small cottage nestled between two tall pine trees. The pathway leading to the front door was covered in snow. The curtains were drawn. If there hadn’t been smoke wafting out of a chimney, she would have sworn the home was deserted.
“Are you sure this is the right address?” asked Sam from the backseat.
“Da,” said Tokarev. “I have only been here once before, but I remember the house. This is where Pasha lives.”
Yuri opened the door and stepped out into the biting cold. “Okay, everyone out.”
Jen quickly bundled up as she got out of the car.
“Please let me do the talking, at least initially,” said Tokarev. “Pasha is a very withdrawn person. He was a helicopter pilot and lost a leg when he was shot down over Afghanistan. Some days, even for a Russian, he drinks a bit too much for his own good.”
They trudged through the snow to the front door. Tokarev knocked on the door and then waited. When no one came, Yuri walked over and banged loudly on the door with his fist.
“He could be sleeping,” said Yuri to Tokarev.
A couple of seconds later, the door cracked open a couple of inches. “Yes, what do you want?” asked a man with a bitter-sounding voice.
“Pasha, it is me, Valery,” said Tokarev. Pasha was the son of Vladimir Bykov, the senior mission planner for the Luna 15 mission.
“What is it?”
“Pasha, do you not remember that I called you a couple of days ago and asked if I could bring some people by to look over your father’s notes?”
Pasha hesitated for a couple of seconds and then opened the door. “Yes, I remember. Forgive me. Please come in.”
Yuri waved for everyone to follow them inside.
As they stepped out of the cold, Jen was pleasantly surprised at how warm it was inside Pasha’s little cottage. She unzipped her parka and handed it to Yuri, who collected everyone’s jackets. Pictures from Pasha’s days in the military covered the walls. A small television built twenty years ago sat silent against the wall. Jen wondered when it had last been turned on.
Pasha stepped back and ran a hand through his thinning hair. He was in his mid-fifties, short, with a round face that looked sad and tired.
Tokarev made the round of introductions while Pasha put on the kettle.
They all took a seat around the small dining table in the kitchen. Everyone made small talk, with Yuri and Tokarev translating for the non-Russian speakers. Pasha sorrowfully shook his head when he learned that both Sam and Cardinal had served in Afghanistan.
“Too many young men died there to keep a government in power that the people didn’t want,” observed Pasha.
“Only time will tell if we did any better,” replied Cardinal.
“Pasha, I don’t want to be rude, but we’ve driven a long way through the snow to get here. Could I please take a look at your father’s notes?” asked Tokarev.
Pasha pointed to a wooden chest on the floor. “They’re all in there. Aside from this house, those precious records of his were all my father left me when he died.”
Although Jen didn’t understand, she could hear a tone of bitterness and resentment in Pasha’s voice.