“What else?”
“A makeup compact. Just those two things.”
“Anything else you can tell me?”
“That I don’t want to be here.” She looked at him sadly. “Not at all.”
She hung her head, and Kit thought he heard soft sobs. But he tuned her out. He’d deal with her and whatever her truths were later.
Bennings knew he’d just achieved a small victory in his war with Viktor Popov. They were in America now, not Russia, and “the Bear” had just been stung. He prayed Staci would not be hurt as a result, but he had to become proactive, to fight back. He’d been off-balance and on his heels in Moscow, reduced to taking orders not only from a Mafia don but from his minions.
So this little business here today was a message to Popov that he was no longer in total control. And for better or worse, Kit had Yulana. Whether or not she was a bargaining chip remained to be seen. The SEALs had to get back to Coronado later that night, but with Buzz, Angel, and Jen, he had a pretty good team. And one way or another, he intended to win.
Still, this was no time to get cocky. The action today reminded him of history, history from WWII. America was at a low point after Pearl Harbor, the fall of the Philippines, and other defeats. America needed a victory, and so an all-volunteer group of army aviators called Doolittle’s Raiders launched a dangerous, daring aerial operation to bomb Japan. Not much damage was done to the Japanese, but the attack gave Americans a much-needed morale boost, while denting Japan’s aura of invincibility. And the raid made the Japanese feel vulnerable and caused them to commit more forces to the protection of their mainland than they would have liked.
And like the Doolittle Raid, today was just one small skirmish in an all-out war. Bennings had much to do and hoped there would be time to do it before the cell phone in his pocket would ring with a call from the Russian Mafia don who had already turned his life upside down.
CHAPTER 15
Viktor Popov sat at a table in West Hollywood’s Plummer Park, playing chess with an elderly Russian gentleman who had been playing chess in the park—the heart and soul of Los Angeles’s Russian immigrant community—every day for twenty-two years. As the men played chess, Russian American teenage boys shouted catcalls at teenage girls who strutted through the park in groups. Old women gossiped and bragged about their grandchildren. Moms and dads brought their kids to play on the swings and slides as they sipped Cokes and ate Russian pastries.
A lot of the folks in the park were here only because in 1974, Congress passed legislation designed primarily to force the Soviet Union to allow its Jewish citizens to emigrate. Most of them went to Israel or the United States. The Soviets didn’t like what America had done, so in a duplicitous gesture—a master stroke of maskirovka—the KGB emptied the gulags and prisons of the most undesirable criminals, crooks, and killers. The convicts had the word “Jew” stamped on their passports, whether they were Jewish or not, and the United States opened its arms to them, not knowing their true past.
Thus, an invasion of hellish thugs, mixed in with the good folks, landed on the shores of America. And for reasons lost in the fog of time, many of those Russian immigrants gravitated to West Hollywood, when it was still a funky, loosely regulated, unincorporated part of Los Angeles County. And just as with every other location where the Russians settled, the cancer called the Russian mob soon infected the body of the community.
Viktor Popov noshed on a take-out plate of dumplings and kebabs from Traktir on Santa Monica Boulevard and sipped homemade infused vodka in a plastic cup. He’d arrived in Southern California several hours earlier, after flying on an executive jet into Santa Monica Airport, where the city had raised landing fees in an effort to discourage pilots from actually using the historic facility. The city of Santa Monica wanted to close their airport and develop the land—similar, thought Popov, to how the city of West Hollywood wanted to develop “Little Russia,” including Plummer Park, with a new general plan. West Hollywood and Santa Monica were already two of the most overregulated, overdeveloped cities on the planet, but there’s no accounting for greed and power-grabs. And people think I’m a crook, thought Popov.
In short order Viktor won the chess game and shook hands with his opponent, who moved to another table, smiling. A number of Popov’s bodyguards were discreetly posted around the park, and they nodded when Mikhail Travkin, wearing a conservative but expensive suit, approached from the parking lot and sat down close to his boss. With soft brown eyes, pale skin, and a receding hairline, Mikhail looked the picture of corporate success: quiet, smart, and ruthless. Only in his early thirties, he understood the digital world and how to steal from it better than most. Mikhail was Viktor’s top man in Los Angeles. And his nephew. A cautious number cruncher with an MBA as well as an engineering degree, he was the heir apparent to his volatile uncle’s empire.
“There’s been a problem,” said Mikhail softly.
“Okay, but first? You see the guy playing tennis without a shirt on? Black bikini shorts? Only a Russian would play tennis looking like that.”
“So?”
“So he’s selling drugs out of his gym bag. If he’s working for one of our friends, just gently let them know their guy shouldn’t be selling drugs in a park where young children play. Look,” said Viktor, pointing to some babushka grandmas pushing their grandkids in strollers, “there are little kids right there. But if the guy is a freelancer, make sure he never comes back.”
Mikhail nodded solemnly.
“Now what’s the problem?” asked Viktor.
“Bennings had friends waiting at LAX. They created a panic with smoke bombs, and he got away with Petkova. The Feds think it’s some kind of terrorist dry run, and it’s all over the TV news.”
“And your men?”
“They took some hits, so their pride was hurt. And Vitaly and Yuri were arrested for carrying concealed weapons.”
Viktor looked sharply at Mikhail.
“They’re out on bail,” said Mikhail.
“Not very smart carrying a gun into an airport. This isn’t Chechnya.”
“I agree. And there was something odd. They were questioned by sheriff’s detectives from San Bernardino County.”
Viktor took another sip of vodka.
“The detectives were probably there for Bennings. You should have considered that possibility, Mikhail. There was no need to send an armed group to the airport.”
Mikhail nodded slightly. “Yes, Viktor, you’re right. Shall I send Vitaly and Yuri out of town until our deceptions are complete?”
Viktor shook his head. “No. Put them on stakeout duty. That’s their punishment. Their job is to be seen. Understood? I want Bennings to see them so he suspects I can find him anywhere, but they are not to make contact or to follow him.”
“I understand, but… this brings me to my big concern: Bennings’s behavior.”
“He’s trying to establish some control. He’s back in his own country and feeling like he can take charge.” Viktor didn’t seem particularly surprised or disturbed by Bennings’s “escape.”
“I understand using him was always a calculated risk, but he’s dangerous,” said Mikhail. “The FBI will be investigating what happened at the airport. Bennings doesn’t mind taking a big chance. That’s reckless, and it draws too much attention toward us. Maybe we should hurt his sister some more and let him see it.”
“No, I don’t want him to rage emotionally more than he already has. And just who ordered the sister to be beaten, anyway?”
“She knocked Lily unconscious during the snatch. So Lily got some payback.”