1

ODESSA, UKRAINE
Now

A red glow lingered across the Black Sea harbor, as the dark Volga sedan pulled up to the curb at the base of the Potemkin Steps. The driver cut the lights, but kept the engine running.

In the passenger seat, Jake Adams started to open the door.

“Just a minute,” the driver said, reaching for the glove box. He retrieved a bundle, a rag wrapped around something and held in place with a rubber band. “Here. You might need this. Odessa is a dangerous place now.”

Jake took the package from Tully O’Neill, the Odessa station chief for the new CIA. “I see the Agency spares no expense with packaging,” Jake said.

The driver let out a breath of air as he lit one cigarette from another.

As Jake unwrapped the package, he found what he had asked for earlier in the day, a 9mm automatic. “A Makarov?” Jake said. “Jesus Christ, are you trying to get me killed?”

Tully hunched his shoulders and puffed on his cigarette, bringing the tip to a bright orange. “Short notice,” he said. “Took it off a dead Russian last month.”

“How’d he get that way?”

The Odessa station chief smiled, letting out a stream of smoke in the process. “His magnetic personality attracted a shitload of lead.”

Jake inspected the gun, pulled out the magazine from the butt and ran his thumb over the top round. “Standard Soviet-era 9mm jacketed.” He shook his head. “I’ll be lucky if the fuckers don’t blow up in my face.”

Shrugging, Tully continued his assault on his cigarette.

Jake strapped the gun under his sweater and then swung his leather jacket over that. He went for the door handle again.

“Keep an eye on Tvchenko,” Tully said. It was more of an order than a request. “I’ll bet my left nut he still has ties to the GRU.”

“I don’t know about that.” From what Jake had heard, Russian military intelligence had truly become the oxymoron civilians joked about.

“Trust me.” Tully smiled like a politician about to screw his constituents. “The Cold War might be over, but there are some who’d rather go back to the good old days.”

“He’s denounced chemical and biological weapons publicly...” Jake stopped himself in mid-thought, knowing that he didn’t believe his own words.

“Yeah, I heard the two of you got along like a couple of comrades,” Tully said. “Bought his vodka-induced drivel when he told you the Russians forced him to come up with the most deadly fuckin’ weapons known to man. The kind that make you wish you’d been nuked all to hell.”

Nobody had to tell Jake about that. He was constantly haunted by the memory.

“People change.”

“Don’t count on it.” Tully checked his watch. “You better get going. Your employers might be expecting a little protection. After all, that’s what they hired you for.” He let out a slight laugh and then continued, “Call me after dinner and I’ll pick you up and debrief.”

Jake got out and shut the door on a cloud of smoke. Almost immediately the Volga pulled away from the curb, its lights flicking on, and then lost its way around the harbor road.

Glancing around, Jake started up the long flight of stairs. When he reached the top of the Potemkin Steps, he hesitated for a moment and swiveled his head about, studying both directions of the quiet street.

Suddenly, two blocks up the road, a dark Mercedes sedan pulled away from the curb, turned its lights on after twenty meters, and cruised toward him slowly.

He tensed his left biceps against the gun butt under his jacket, almost reached for it, and then thought better of it as the sleek sedan passed by. No concern there.

Letting go with a cleansing breath, he glanced back down the stairs he had just climbed.

Satisfied he had not been followed, he stepped lightly along the cobblestone sidewalk, the cushioned soles of his hiking tennis shoes barely audible over his own heart beat.

Jake Adams knew he was being excessively cautious. It was a habit he had learned first in Air Force intelligence during his counter terrorism briefings. Never pattern yourself. Never travel to work the same way each day. Later, when he worked for the old CIA, he had refined those skills. Backtrack unexpectedly. Use windows for mirrors. It was all coming back to him in the darkened streets of Odessa. Some things he could never forget.

As he got closer to the Maranavka Hotel, one of the oldest and best preserved in Odessa, he noticed others dressed in their finest suits, dropping off expensive cars with the valet, and then regally strolling through the grand entrance like movie stars at a premiere. He, on the other hand, wore casual khakis, a gray sweater, and a black leather jacket. He assured himself that the blood red tie, although barely visible, was dressy enough for any occasion.

He continued toward the hotel door.

It had been one of the most beautiful spring days the city had seen in years. The agricultural conference at the university had kept all the attendees inside, locked in meetings on how to reduce crop loss to insects, and how new strains of wheat were far more resistant to harsh winters. Luckily, Jake had avoided that.

Flashing a name tag at the two armed doormen, Jake wandered inside.

The first day of the three-day conference was over, and most in attendance had looked forward to a dinner party where much of the real business would take place. He knew the scientist he had met years ago would be there to give a speech, and he was looking forward to talking with the man again to see for himself the transformation he had heard about. Had the man really changed that much?

Hesitating in the entrance of the expansive ballroom, Jake scanned the room. The place was over a century old, with mirrors on both sides that reminded him of the Palace of Versailles, giving the room a false impression of great width. The domed ceiling was high, its carved white wood trimmed with gold.

Noticing his colleagues across the room at the bar, Jake smiled at MacCarty and Swanson as he approached them.

“I see you two have started without me,” Jake said, picking up a glass of champagne from a tray on the bar. Technically he was working, but one glass wouldn’t hurt.

MacCarty and Swanson were from Bio-tech Chemical Company of Portland, Oregon. During the day they had split up into various lecture halls, pitching their most recent insecticides and fertilizers. Bio-tech president, Maxwell MacCarty, and his assistant, Bill Swanson, the vice president of research and development, had wanted for years to push for lucrative new markets in Eastern Europe and the former Soviet countries. They already had an extensive share of the U.S. market, had penetrated the tough Western European countries, and had started making a move in Southeast Asia. But the Ukraine, the bread basket of Eastern Europe, was a wide open market and MacCarty knew it.

And that was one reason MacCarty had hired Jake just a week prior to his departure for the agricultural conference in Odessa. Jake had built his security business in Portland into a respectable, exclusive entity of one. His reputation had grown significantly in the three short years since going private. Working alone had its advantages, not having to depend on someone else’s mistakes, but he did miss the camaraderie of his past.

The dinner party was just beginning. Guests were still streaming in. There were company representatives from all the major industrialized nations: Germany, France, Italy, Japan, England, as well as from countries like Spain, Israel, Russia, Belarus. All of the companies had one thing in common. They wanted to sell their products to anyone who would buy them, and perhaps exchange ideas that could be useful in their home countries.

In his late thirties, Jake had already lived an interesting life. Had seen more of the world than a dozen others would ever see. He had a strong face that always needed a shave. His longer, dark hair, looked like it had come directly from a stiff breeze and he had combed it back hastily with his fingers, which was never far from the truth. Dressed as he was in leather and cotton, he looked more like a hunting guide than the company executive he was pretending to be.

His employers resembled the comedy duo Abbott and Costello. MacCarty was the tall, slim one with just enough brains to keep the short and socially inept Swanson from making a total ass of himself.

MacCarty, dressed impeccably in a three-piece Italian suit, set his glass on the bar. “Did you meet up with any old friends?”

Jake shook his head. “Afraid not. They’ve all been transferred.” Jake had told them that he had worked for a while at the Odessa consulate. He had actually passed through many times during the destruction and withdrawal of chemical and biological weapons from the Ukraine, after attending a quick course at the defense language school in Monterey. At the time, he was a captain with Air Force intelligence, and an expert in chemical and biological weapons. His degree in geopolitics and his master’s in international relations had given him a broad picture of the world. That was one of the reasons the CIA had originally recruited him, and even a better reason to quit. He wasn’t great at following orders blindly. Those were things for ignorant young soldiers to do. And God knew the world had always needed those.

Swanson was a short, balding man with a tubular midsection. His exercise regimen consisted of turning the steering wheel vigorously as he searched for the closest parking spot to a burger joint, while maintaining control of his jelly donut.

“You missed the last meeting today, Jake,” Swanson said. “It was an interesting talk by the former chief of the Agriculture Research Institute in Kiev. They’ve discovered a chemical that kills bugs on the spot and then infects the larvae as well. It makes them sterile.”

“Too bad we couldn’t do that selectively for humans,” Jake said, smiling. He had come to a rather abrupt agreement with Swanson early on. They had agreed not to love each other.

Not answering, Swanson picked up another glass of champagne and sucked most of it down in one gulp. Then he raised his bushy brows as he noticed an attractive woman crossing the open dance floor.

Jake turned to see what was so interesting. The woman was tall and dark in a sleek, black dress cut low in the front and back. Her black hair, thick and curly, flowed over her shoulders with each step. When she reached a table of four men, they all rose to greet her, shaking her hand and then kissing the back of it.

“Now that’s a woman,” Swanson declared.

“I agree,” MacCarty said.

Jake couldn’t believe his eyes. He had met Chavva at a state function over a year ago in Istanbul. She was the arm ornament of an Israeli diplomat at the time. He remembered her mostly for her wide, exotic eyes, even though she had no real faults. She was almost too perfect. Jake had flown to Istanbul from Rome looking for the daughter of a wealthy Seattle businessman. An Italian playboy needed a toy for a few weeks, and the young American woman was like a Barbie Doll to him. Jake found the young woman at the party and dragged her kicking and screaming to the airport. He hated those jobs, but the businessman had paid him well and the girl had been only seventeen. Chavva, on the other hand, was all woman. They had met just before he found the girl, set a date, and then couldn’t keep it. Damn babysitting.

Without explanation, Jake walked over to the woman. He stood off to her side as she talked with the men from an Israeli company. Her eyes were focused on an older man, an Omar Sharif in his later years. The man, like MacCarty, was dressed in a fine Italian suit that accentuated his broad shoulders and still-firm body. The Rolex watch and the four rings with multiple diamonds were nice touches.

Jake didn’t understand everything being said, but pieced together the standard chit chat about the weather and Odessa landmarks. When Chavva was done speaking with the man, she turned and immediately recognized Jake. She excused herself and walked over to him.

The Israeli businessman watched her carefully over the top of a wine glass, like a father or lover would.

“Hello, Chavva,” Jake said. “It’s nice to see a familiar face.”

She smiled. “I thought you said you’d give me a call.” Her English flowed with a sultry, thick accent.

“As you recall, I left in a hurry,” Jake explained.

She fixed her eyes on him, as if looking for a lie. “Do you always drag young girls off into the night screaming?”

“She was seventeen, the daughter of a friend who thought chastity was more than some cute preppie name.” He smiled at her and gazed into her wondrous eyes. He didn’t remember them being so large and round. So intense. So dark.

“Do you work here?” she asked.

Jake took a sip of champagne and then shook his head. “No. I work for a company that produces fertilizer and pesticides.”

She glared at him with disbelief.

“They needed someone who knew the area,” he said. “They’re thinking of opening a plant near Kiev.”

“I see. I’m certain you know a great deal about fertilizer.” She smiled and sipped her wine.

“Exactly.”

“Give me a call,” Chavva said. “I’m staying at the Odessa Hotel.”

She turned and walked back to the table of men.

Jake watched her smoothly swaying hips before returning to MacCarty and Swanson.

“Do you know her?” MacCarty asked.

Looking across the room at her, Jake said, “We’ve met.”

Everyone sat down for dinner. Jake was transfixed by Chavva the whole time. They exchanged glances and smiled. He thought back to his first meeting with her in Istanbul. There had been something strange about that. She had approached him as if she knew him, and he had to admit at the time that she did look familiar. But he had never figured it out.

After dinner, there were a number of speakers, with translators working overtime. Finally, the keynote speaker, Yuri Tvchenko, one of the foremost authorities on bio-chemical research in the world, came to the podium. Since the Soviet break-up, Tvchenko conducted research and lectured at Kiev University. He had only recently moved to Odessa, working for a private institute. Officially, he had become Ukraine’s greatest opponent of chemical and biological weapons. When they had met years ago while Jake worked for Air Force intelligence on one of his trips to the Ukraine, the man had impressed Jake as someone who believed implicitly in the deterrent nature of nuclear, biological and chemical weapons. Jake wondered what had changed the man’s mind.

After Tvchenko’s talk, the crowd mixed together for more drinks, attempting to do business. MacCarty and Swanson drifted off to the bar, while Jake stood alone at the edge of the ballroom watching the social ballet.

Tvchenko made his way across the ballroom, speaking briefly to admirers, shaking hands, and then, recognizing Jake, he headed directly toward him. Tvchenko was a large man with gray hair and a red face that looked as if a chemical had burned his skin at one time. He wore a cheap wool suit, Bulgarian probably, that seemed to drape over his pendulous body.

When Tvchenko was in the center of the ballroom, he bumped into Chavva and she spilled her drink on his sleeve. He apologized to her, and she wiped his suit with a napkin.

Continuing on, Tvchenko stopped next to Jake, and they shook hands briefly. Something wasn’t right with him. He was anxious or nervous or both. Tvchenko tried to open his mouth to speak, but his jaw clenched tightly. Beads of sweat poured from his forehead. He reached up desperately for his neck, where his blood vessels were bursting outward. He gasped for air, grasped his chest, and threw up all over the floor. Then he toppled down into his own vomit and twitched uncontrollably.

In a second he was dead, his eyes bulged open, looking up at Jake in horror. A woman screamed.

Jake quickly checked the man’s pulse, but Tvchenko was gone. He backed away a few steps and suddenly felt a pain in his right hand. Rubbing away a tiny dot of blood near his life line, he wondered how it had gotten there.

The next few minutes were a chaotic mess.