After leaving Chavva’s room that morning, Jake wandered down Primorski Boulevard, sat at a park bench watching the boats move about the harbor, and tried to put some perspective into his current situation. He was confused by the factions involved in the case, and by his own late-night encounter with the beautiful Israeli woman that he knew very little about. Maybe that was the attraction. Sometimes the heated passionate tryst was just what a person needed to feel alive again. Yet, Jake couldn’t help wondering how this time had been different. Chavva seemed so familiar. So comfortable with him. It was as if they had made love a hundred times before.
She had told him very little about herself and the man she purportedly worked for, Omri Sherut. He was in reality an Israeli businessman, but his involvement with Mossad was uncertain as far as she knew. Jake had no idea if she was telling the truth. She had said that things were not always as they appeared. Perhaps that was her way of reversing or recanting her story. Jake knew that when he worked for the old agency, under the cover of a businessman, he had often denied any involvement with any American government agency. It was a little lie that all intelligence officers had to give. Security over sanctity.
●
Jake ate a scant lunch from a street vendor and wandered around the city. It was a gorgeous day. Windy, with dark clouds swirling overhead, and only a slight possibility of rain showers from the west. He knew he better take advantage of the fresh air now, because he’d heard on the radio that thunderstorms were moving into the area that evening.
He thought about Tvchenko and Petra, and how MacCarty and Swanson tied into their deaths. But he was drawing a blank. He knew there was a connection. Only time would tell what that was. MacCarty had talked about a deal he was working with the Ukrainian Agricultural Minister, Victor Petrov.
Standing before an old granite government building, Jake gazed up at the thirty-foot columns across the front. There were wide steps, the width of the building, leading up to tall wooden doors. The place resembled a typical American county court house built around the turn of the century.
Inside, Jake found the room number for the Agricultural Ministry on a directory, and he headed upstairs toward the third floor.
The third floor was marble and wood, some of which needed a good shellacking. The ministry office was through a wooden door.
Considering it was a Thursday afternoon, there were very few people walking about. The office had a reception desk and four wooden chairs with a coffee table cluttered with old magazines. It seemed that waiting rooms were waiting rooms regardless of country.
Jake stepped up to a young woman at the desk and smiled. “Good afternoon,” he said in his best Ukrainian. “I’m Jake Adams here to see Victor Petrov.”
“You are American,” she answered in English. “I am glad to know you.” She held out her hand to shake.
Jake shook her strong hand. She was a fairly attractive woman in her late twenties, but her grip resembled that of someone who had worked a farm herself for years. Perhaps milking cows by hand.
“That’s all the English I know,” she said in her native language. “Is Victor expecting you?”
“No. But I’m sure he’d like to talk with me. I work for Bio-tech Chemical.”
She raised her brows. Without saying a word, she picked up the phone and called her boss. She repeated the company name at the end, and then smiled and hung up. “He’ll see you, Mr. Adams.” She rose and let him through a door.
Victor Petrov was a large, thick man in his early sixties. He wore gray slacks and a white shirt with sleeves rolled up. His bright red tie hung loosely over his massive neck. He was grossly out of shape, but it was evident that he had been a magnificent specimen in his earlier years. He met Jake in the middle of the room and they shook hands. Then he offered Jake a chair and returned behind his desk, where he leaned back on an old creaky wooden behemoth of a swivel chair.
“What can I do for you, Mr. Adams,” Petrov asked in perfect English.
Jake hadn’t thought about where to begin. MacCarty had given him only limited information on the deal he had been working. “My employer, Maxwell MacCarty, told me you two had been working on setting up a production facility here in the Ukraine.” He paused to see if that would start things off.
The chair squeaked as the man twisted and put his hands behind his head. “Yes. I’m sorry to hear of his death. He was a good man.”
“Yes, he was,” Jake agreed. “I was hoping we could still work the plan. Is that possible?”
Petrov let out a heavy breath that whistled. “I’m not sure you’re in a position to do that, Mr. Adams.”
Wait a minute. How would this guy know what he was capable of? “Excuse me?”
“I’m just saying...Mr. MacCarty said you were working security for him.”
“When did he tell you that?”
“At the dinner party the first night.”
“You were there?” Jake asked.
“Yes.”
“You saw Yuri Tvchenko’s death?”
“I’m afraid not,” he explained. “I had stepped out to make a call. When I returned, he was lying at your feet.”
It was strange that Jake didn’t recognize the man from the party, but there had been a lot of people there. And after Tvchenko collapsed, things became hectic. “I was working security for MacCarty, but I had also planned on helping him set up a production facility.”
Petrov’s brows rose. “Is that so? He hadn’t mentioned that to me.”
They stared at each other for a moment.
Jake wasn’t sure how to proceed now. He didn’t like this smug bastard. If he asked for specifics on the deal, then he’d know Jake knew next to nothing about the plan. Yet, if Jake acted as though he knew everything, then there would have been no reason to ask for more information. Maybe it was time for a little bluff.
“I looked over the agreement in principle,” Jake started. “In fact, I sent a copy to Max’s son in Portland yesterday. Andy will be taking over the operation, and I’m sure he’ll want to proceed with his father’s plan.”
Petrov’s complexion seemed to change from ivory to a milky white.
Actually, Andy was a skinny fourteen-year-old who was worrying more about his acne problem and voice change than an international contract. Bio-tech Chemical was a privately held company, but it would take months in probate to figure out who was in charge. Jake’s early guess would be MacCarty’s wife, who had stayed active in the marketing and human resources departments over the years.
Petrov was considering what Jake had told him. Finally, he leaned forward on his desk and said, “I’m sorry, Mr. Adams. But I’m afraid we’ll have to proceed in another direction. It’s my understanding of international law that an agreement in principle can be broken by either party any time before a contractual commitment is reached. Our government needs to move forward in a new direction.”
So that was it, Jake thought. “So, you have another deal?”
Petrov shifted in his chair. “I’m afraid so.”
That was awfully quick. MacCarty and Swanson’s bodies had not even been released for shipment back to Oregon. “I see. May I ask which company?”
The Ukrainian smiled. “I’m afraid that’s confidential.”
This was going nowhere fast. Jake knew he’d get nothing more out of Petrov. He rose from his chair and reached across the desk to shake hands. “Thank you for your time, Mr. Petrov.”
Jake left the office, said goodbye to the receptionist, and went out into the stark marble corridor. His steps echoed back from the high ceiling, and he stopped for a moment to gaze at a painting on the wall. It was a bloody scene of Cossacks on horseback stabbing foot soldiers with long swords. He felt a little like those men on the ground. Only he was dodging bullets. He thought about MacCarty and the tentative deal he had reached. It was amazing that the Ukrainians had been able to come up with a new deal so quickly. Maybe more than just a coincidence.