Chapter Seven

At his cottage, Vosenko shows Jake the screenshot some anonymous person sent him, explains that was how he got onto the Reckoning threat. They don’t discuss it much as they are both damn hungry. Sun’s going down now and the darkness gathers quickly.

Vosenko scrapes up a fair meal of chops and potatoes, the usual bachelor fare, and as they are finishing dinner, Vosenko makes a startling admission.

“I decided to kill you,” he says.

Jake stops his last fork midflight to his mouth. “Thanks for telling me. I’ll be sure to sleep with my Glock.”

“Seriously,” Vosenko says.

“Seriously. I’m sleeping with my Glock. But I didn’t kill her.”

Vosenko throws back the inch of vodka in his glass. He has not drunk like this in years. But seeing Jacobs again has opened the past like a chasm. A void that needs filling with something. He turns the empty water glass in his large hand, watches it catch the overhead light.

“Why, then? Who?”

Jake shakes his head. “That’s one I’ve been trying to figure out for three decades. I was against the snatch. Stupid damn thing to do and for what? Just to piss off the KGB? Get one back for all the Soviet agents we’d lost? Made no fucking sense.”

Vosenko looks from the glass to the gnawed bones of the pork chops on their plates, the half-empty bottle of vodka on the table.

He grabs it, tops up his glass.

“Damn,” Jake mutters. “Never could keep up with you guys on the sauce.”

Vosenko shrugs. “Part of agent training.” But he takes a smaller drink this time, remembering what the doctors said.

“The op came from Langley,” Jake says. “Had the smell of Armitage all over it. Our chief of station didn’t like it, either. But from Langley, you know? Not to be ignored.”

Jake pours himself a shot of vodka now, takes it in one swallow. “We thought you might’ve killed her. She was setting you up.”

Vosenko blows air at this suggestion. “Never. I really loved her. Still do. Knew she was working for your side, but I could never kill her.”

Silence for a time except for the hush sound of the burning turf in the Rayburn stove.

“You have backup that night?” Jake asks.

Vosenko shakes his head. Scoffs at the idea.

“So,” Jakes says, “I didn’t kill her. Pretty sure Sandy didn’t do it, and you say you didn’t, which leaves us with Driscoll. And that was the first and last time I ever saw the guy. Fresh in Vienna that day, pulled out the next on his way back to Virginia. We figured it was him, but…?”

“I do not understand,” Vosenko says. “Why would CIA order her hit?”

“Maybe some things just don’t have an explanation,” Jake says. “Maybe it was all just a fuck up. Driscoll was the new boy to the team, didn’t know the rules, didn’t know the ground. Mistakes happen. People panic. So, he gets jerked the hell out of there the next day to cover up the fiasco. Make it go away. No grand plan. No CIA machinations. Maybe the truth is just so damn mundane we don’t want to accept it.”

Vosenko slaps the empty glass on the table, then moves to fill his glass again and his whole body begins shaking. He drops the bottle, jerking back and forth in his chair.

“What the fuck?” Jake says.

Vosenko reaches in his shirt pocket for the pill packet. It’s not there. Panic makes the attack worse. His teeth chatter. Must’ve dropped out of his pocket at the lake when he was hiding in the gorse. Heart pounding in his chest and losing control.

“Hospital,” he hisses. “Quick. Letterkenny. Hospital.”

Jake is on his feet, no questions asked. Throws the big man over his shoulder, dead weight but twitching like a fish out of water.

“Hold on,” he says. “I’ll get you there.”

He piles the lanky man into the back of the rental SUV, hops in the driver’s seat and heads off north. Hears the chatter of teeth from the back seat. He’s seen seizures before, had a friend in college who had epilepsy. Stomps on the gas, tearing along the narrow country road to the main route north, headlights bumping on the road ahead of him. No sound from in back now, no thrashing about.

“Vosenko?” he calls out. “Hey, man. Talk to me. You okay?”

No response. He pulls to the side of the road, leans over the seat and feels for pulse. Got it, and respiration, but very shallow breathing, weak pulse.

He drives on. Took him over an hour when he was coming down. Now he makes it to Letterkenny in forty minutes. It’s almost nine at night now, front doors closed. But there’s an emergency wing. He parks, runs in there and shouts at a nurse at receiving.

“Guy’s having a seizure. He’s out now. Losing pulse.”

She looks startled for a moment, then snaps into action. “That your car?” She points to the SUV parked in the red zone.

“Right”

“Bring the wheelchair,” she says, pointing to a chair folded by the side of the front desk. “I’ll get to him.”

By the time Jake manages to open the damn chair and wheel it to the car, she’s got her hand to Vosenko’s carotid.

“Fast, now,” she says. “Into the chair.”

They take an arm each, pulling and lifting Vosenko into the chair.

“Did he take his meds?”

“He was reaching for something in his pocket… Wait. You know him?”

“Mr. Vosenko. Yes. Let’s get him in.”

Jake is shooed away from entering the IC, as another nurse and a bleary-eyed doctor in scrubs rush in with the patient.

He takes a seat in the waiting area. One little kid and his mother looking big-eyed at him.

“He’s got a fever,” the woman says, rubbing her boy’s head.

“Right,” Jake says. Doesn’t feel like making nice.

The nurse from reception comes out after about twenty minutes. “They’re getting him stabilized. You a friend?”

Jake thinks a moment. “Yeah, right. And a colleague.”

“Well Mr. Vosenko is lucky to make it. This time. The doctor will speak with you when he has a moment.”

“What’s wrong with him?”

“The doctor will speak with you,” she says again, and then turns to the lady with her child.

“What is it this time, Mrs. Reilly?”

“Charlie’s got a fever.”

“Well, let’s see what we can do for him. Okay?”

Jake is left on his own now in the waiting area wondering how bad it is for Vosenko. Could be epilepsy, but then you think he’d be better prepared. Or brain tumor. Shit.

The doctor, when he finally comes an hour later, confirms Jake’s latter diagnosis.

“Inoperable, I’m afraid. And terminal. Just a matter of time. We told him as much at his last appointment.”

Sinking feeling. So much for getting a fighting team together, Jake thinks. And then feels like a shit. The man’s dying, for God sake. Have a little pity. A touch of empathy, asshole.

“Can I talk with him?”

“He’s awake now. Alert, and in fact he was asking for you. For the Yank that brought him in.”

Jake goes through to a curtained-off area in IC. Vosenko is hooked up to an array of electrical sensors, lights flickering on screens to both sides of the bed.

Vosenko looks sheepish but alert. “They did tell me to lay off the vodka.”

“Jesus. I’m so sorry.”

“To hell with sorry,” Vosenko says, his voice almost a whisper. “You saved me. You wanted me dead, you really could have done it this time.”

Jake says nothing.

“So, I guess I can trust you. We can make a team.”

“Hold on,” Jake says.

“No. No holding on. Not anymore. No time to waste. I’m okay as long as I’ve got my pills. And I’ll have a supply when we leave.”

“As in leave the hospital?” Jake asks.

Vosenko makes a curt shaking of his head. “Ireland. The server’s in Vienna. Remember? We’re leaving tomorrow.”

But it’s two days before they allow Vosenko to leave the hospital. Jake stays in a local bed and breakfast wondering the whole time what he’s going to do now. A dying man’s not the kind of partner you need in a deal like this. Empathy be damned, he has decided. You do not want the terminally ill covering your back.

No wheelchair at check-out. Vosenko walks out to the SUV on his own, and his step is sprightly, Jake notices. They drive in silence for a time. Then, “I want to thank you,” Vosenko says. “That was a type of proof for me. I can trust you.”

Jake says nothing. Wants to say it doesn’t matter now, but doesn’t have the guts.

“He told you I am dying?” Vosenko asks. “The doctor.”

“Yeah.” Jake keeps his eyes on the road.

“Did he say when?”

Jake shakes his head. “Just a matter of time.”

“Right. Not tomorrow. Not next week. Next month. People live for months, a year maybe with this sort of tumor, did he tell you that? You think I would take the diagnosis of a country doctor? No. I have visited a specialist in Dublin. Very expensive. Very good suits. Serious? Yes he says. Fatal, probably. But then none of us are going to get out of life alive.”

“Right.” Jake turns to him now. “What are you getting at, Vosenko?”

“Call me Yuri, please. And I am saying the Dublin doctor told me I could last for a couple of years. So, I am going with you to Vienna. We are alike, Jacobs. Both rather be the hunter than the hunted. If you say no, I go by myself. I have free will. You choose if we travel as a team or we each do it on our own.”

Jake slows down for a sharp curve, wondering about this sudden doctor in Dublin. He shoots Vosenko a look, sees the determination in his face. Fuck all. Man’s going with or without me. Stops thinking.

“Okay. But I’m not carrying you again. Almost broke my fucking back getting you into the car.”

Vosenko comes to him in the night. Jake is sleeping on the ratty divan in the sitting room, and is startled awake by a hand to his chest. Sees Vosenko in the dim light of pre-dawn. He’s got a finger to his lips and shakes his head as Jake is about to speak.

“Noises outside,” he whispers, so close now to Jake’s ear he feels the hot breath.

Jake squints at him. Whispers back, “Stray sheep?”

Vosenko again shakes his head. He’s got the Makarov in his free hand. So not a sheep.

“Visitors.” Again the hot breath of whisper.

Jake sits up slowly so as not to make the springs sound in the old divan. His body aches all over from the makeshift bed. Feet on the floor, slow rise to his feet. He’s still dressed and wearing his shoulder holster, pulls out the Glock, clicks the safety off. Round already in the chamber. No time to put his shoes on; Vosenko jerks his head for Jake to follow and they edge into the kitchen at the front of the cottage. Two doors there. Vosenko taps his own chest and points to the front door, then points for Jack to take up position at the door to the rear of the kitchen, leading to the outhouse. He puts one finger up, shrugs, and then a second finger. Another shrug.

One visitor, maybe two.

Shooting gestures now, then pointing to his watch and shaking his head. Don’t hesitate, shoot first, Jake interprets, fully awake now, and the adrenaline pumping.

Vosenko’s obviously not expecting any visitors in the deep of night.

They both take up positions to the hinge sides of the front and back doors. These open out, but still better to stay out of sight for that split second. Jake can hear a scraping sound now from outside. Sounds like metal against the rock and cement paths surrounding the cottage.

The fuck? he wonders. Then the rotten egg smell of mercaptan tells him there’s propane running outside. He can hear the hiss now. Bastard must have a blow torch, going to burn them out.

He motions to Vosenko, fingers to his nose to indicate the smell. But Vosenko’s obviously got the same thing going at his door, nods his head and motions to throw the doors open.

Vosenko holds three fingers up. Then a fist, then forefinger up. On the count of three. Middle finger now. Jake takes a deep breath, but before Vosenko’s ring finger goes up, both doors ignite into solid blocks of flame licking through the seams in the plank. Accelerant, Jake registers before kicking at the flaming door and jumping out, gun blazing into the dark. A bullet hits the propane tank, sparks fly and the guy on the other end of the blow torch is suddenly up in flames from escaping propane.

Guy’s beating at the flames, too freaked out to go for his own gun. Jake hears gunshots from the front, and suddenly he’s got a heavy finger on his trigger, the small man twisting as bullets take him down. Jake grabs the torch out of the dead hand, switches it off, kicks the propane tank away from the house, then takes a moment to see who the hell was trying to burn them out. Fire’s torched the guy’s clothes down to the skin, and the stink makes him want to throw up. A final lick of flame from the door illuminates the mean little face.

“Frank,” he mutters. Fucking Frank from Belfast. “Son of a bitch.”

Fire sizzles out on the door as the accelerant burns off. Door is charred now but usable.

Then he remembers Vosenko; the shots he heard from the front.

“You okay?” he calls out.

No answer at first. A clutch of panic in the chest. “Vosenko?”

“Da. Am here. This bastard not here anymore, though.”

Jake goes to the front. It’s smoking from the flames but fire there is also flickering out. Vosenko is standing over a crumpled body.

Jake recognizes the grimy oilskin first. Then the blotched face from too much whiskey, too many cigarettes.

“Jesus. Dev. For fuck’s sake.” Bile in his throat. He was more than an agent runner with Dev. They got close. Or so he thought. Money? Threats? Whatever the motivation, Dev sold him. He felt like kicking the immobile body.

“You know him?”

Jake nods. “He was my sideman when I was posted here after Vienna. He helped me buy this gun in Belfast.” He glances at the back door. “Bastard back there’s the one who sold me the Glock. An evil little shit, tried to fuck around. Pointed a loaded gun at me. Stiffed me for extra cash. You don’t do that.”

“And let me guess, Jacobs. You pointed one back at him, correct?”

“Something like that. But how the hell did they track me here?”

Vosenko looks at the SUV. “Rental car, right? Nice navigation system, SatNav, tells you to turn right, turn left. Maps and all.”

“Shit. They keep track of that?”

“We did,” Vosenko says. “And that was back in the dark ages.”

Jake nods. “Makes sense. Rental company wants to know where its inventory is. And Frank, the bastard lying dead back there, he strong arms the rental company for the coordinates.”

Vosenko shrugs, like this is kindergarten information. “More better to ask what we do now with these two. And their car.”

Not good, Jake thinks. Got enough on our hands without this shit.

Then a second thought: Vosenko came through. Vosenko saved them. He may have a sell-buy date stamped on his lifeline, but the man’s still got it. A guy you want watching your back.

“Good job,” he says.

Vosenko recoils at this. “Not applying for a job, Jacobs. Just saving my own zhopa.” He pats his backside. “I repeat, what to do with these two?”

Jake sniffs, likes the man’s attitude. “Bodies are easy. Hungry fish up at Golden Lake?”

Vosenko nods slowly. “The big ones, they will eat other trout, even small mouses. A body melts, fish may help. But perhaps I will no longer want to fish there.”

Jake finally has a chance to get his shoes on, and they pile the bodies in the back of the Hiace pickup, along with Vosenko’s turf barrow. Vosenko throws in some rope and concrete blocks that are part of a retaining wall to the rear of the cottage. They don’t bother trying to close the burned doors, but head straight for the lake before daylight. Once there, they pile the bodies, one by one, into the barrow and hump them up the hill to the water. Vosenko is particular about where they set the bodies, finally finding a spot, saying, “Yes. Is deep here. Dropoff just by shore.”

They make a final trip to get the rope and cinder blocks with a decorative pattern cutout. Back up at the lake, these blocks prove easy to tie to the bodies, the rope passing through the cutout patterns. Three blocks on each man.

“Is heavy enough. Even when bodies begin to blow up like balloon…”

“Yeah, good,” Jake says. “I get the idea.”

Vosenko chuckles at this. “The stomach not so strong?”

“Not before breakfast. Let’s just get it over with.”

And they do; the bodies sink to the bottom just as the sun is peaking over the hills to the east.

“Now for the car,” Vosenko says.

But this turns out to be easier than Jake thought. Next to the outhouse in back of the cottage is an old outbuilding. Former tenants must have kept sheep in there during lambing season. Double doors open wide enough and the car Frank and Dev drove—a beat up Nissan—fits perfectly.

“What if they trace those two?” Jake asks as they close the doors. “Get the coordinates from the car company just like Frank did?”

“They?”

“Cops, whoever. Maybe Frank’s got more friends.”

Vosenko padlocks the door. “So they find the car,” he says. A smile on his rugged, sharp-featured face. “As you Americans say, we have bigger fish to cook.”

“Fry,” Jake corrects. “Okay.” Smiling back at Vosenko. “Time for Vienna.”