“Okay. I’ll book the first flight I can find and will meet you there.”
Sam said, “Thank you, Catarina. I mean it; you’re the only one I can trust.”
“It’s all right, I’m happy to help,” she said. Her voice was soft, full of warmth and suppressed concern. “Have a safe train trip, and catch up on some rest.”
Sam smiled. “I will.”
Chapter Fifty-One
The cashier at the pawn shop called a number.
A man picked up immediately. “Yes?”
“I’m sorry to call you on this number, boss — I thought you’d want to know right away.”
“What is it?” the man replied.
“He was just here.”
“Who?”
“Sam Reilly.”
“You’re kidding me. What are the chances?”
“That’s what I thought.”
“Did he recognize you?”
“No.”
“Good. What was he doing there?”
The cashier said, “Looking for a Betamax player.”
“What did you do?”
“I sold him the only one I have.”
“And then he left?”
“No. He paid me double to use it on the premises. Then left without taking the Betamax player.”
“Did you see what was on it?”
“Yeah. But there was nothing that appeared to link you to the truth.”
“Good.”
The cashier asked, “What do you want me to do?”
The man on the other end said, “Nothing. I’m going to find out what happened to Andre Dufort. Then I’m going to make sure the man finishes the job I paid him to do.”
Chapter Fifty-Two
Andre’s cell phone started to ring.
Sam answered it.
A man on the other end of the line started speaking without preamble. “Holy shit, Andre! What the hell went wrong? First you tell me you killed the guy… and now I hear that there was an explosion on board the C17 and the pilots had to ditch the aircraft into the Baltic Sea!”
Sam grinned. “I’m sorry, sir. I’m going to have to stop you right there… Andre’s a little predisposed right now?”
“Where is he?”
Sam grinned. “Right now… he’s going for a little swim in the Neva River… but it doesn’t look like he’s very good at it. He seems to just bob up and down like a dead fish…”
The voice on the other end of the line cursed. “Sam Reilly?”
Sam nodded. “That’s what everyone keeps calling me.”
“You killed him?”
Sam shrugged, suppressed a grin. “Technically, he jumped out of a perfectly good aircraft without enough parachutes. When he realized his mistake, he kindly offered me his.”
“You’re not going to get away with this…”
Sam said, “Yeah… I guess you’re right. But if you’re wrong… well, let’s just say I’m going to make sure as hell that you get what’s coming your way.”
“Listen here, you arrogant fool. We’re coming after you, and when we’re done, no price will be spared to see you suffer.”
Sam grinned. “Then I suggest you try and send someone competent this time.”
Chapter Fifty-Three
The train hurtled through the spectacular countryside beyond the window. Sam had the compartment to himself and he was grateful for the space. A uniformed server bent with impeccable politeness.
“May I interest you in anything, sir?”
Sam thought. What did he like? What did he not like? He had no idea.
He smiled. “What’s good today?”
The server half-stood. “We just got a shipment of vodka from the Burn.”
Sam nodded. “That sounds good.”
“How do you take it, sir?”
Sam shrugged. “As it is.” He smiled. Judging from the state of his mind, Sam thought the stronger the better. The server’s brows rose.
“I’ll send out a side of ice, sir.”
Sam nodded and the man left.
Sam moved his newspaper and revealed what he’d quickly hidden at the man’s arrival.
In his lap rested a Makarov pistol.
It was a gun unlike anything he’d ever seen. It wasn’t large, but its compact size and forceful design made it powerful. He tilted it in his hand, remembering how he’d figured out its construction earlier when he’d discovered it in his suitcase. He shook his head.
He didn’t know how he took his vodka. But he intrinsically knew that in the gun in his lap the only force holding the slide closed was that of the recoil spring, and that upon firing it the barrel and slide did not have to unlock as they did in locked breech design pistols. He knew that the gun was simple and more accurate than designs using a recoiling, tilting, or articulated barrel. The gun was powerful for its moderate weight and size, and particularly well balanced.
It had been mass produced and was a masterpiece of engineering and interchangeability, a miracle of Soviet tooling, technology, and machinery. Makarov pistol parts seldom break with normal usage, and are easily serviced using few tools.
The only downside was that the design had a threat of firing if dropped by accident, though other than that it was an incredibly safe weapon. When handled properly, the Makarov pistol has excellent security against accidental discharge caused by inadvertent pressure on the trigger. Despite this, the heavy trigger weight in double-action mode decreases first-shot accuracy.
Sam knew that this was not a deterrent, because the men shooting this type of gun were particularly good shots. They often belonged to the Russian mob and as such had been shooting guns for as long as they had been brushing their teeth.
Sam heard footsteps down the hall and replaced the newspaper as the server returned with his vodka. Sam thanked him and took the drink. He waited to sip until the man was out of earshot and made a face. It was strong enough to clean the gun in his lap, but there was an undeniable flavor to it.
He shook his head and as he sipped, he ran over the things he knew for sure.
One: His name was Sam Reilly.
Two: He was supposed to be in The Hague in twelve hours.
Three: This vodka was growing on him.
There was only one problem with any of these three realizations. He didn’t know what he was supposed to be doing in The Hague.
Sam pushed his drink to the side and pulled out his phone. The train had wireless connection and he intended to make the most of it.
He pulled up The Hague’s website and searched for events that were going on there. They ranged from conferences detailing the situation in Syria, to a talk about the potential effect of solar power on the impoverished in India’s slums, to a hearing on War Crimes. He kept searching from different sites, but kept getting the same results. Sam couldn’t think of anything he had to do with Syria, India, or War Crimes that had no relation to the United States. He clicked on the link to the War Crimes. An article came up about a recent massacre of Pashtuns taking place by rebels along the Durand Line in Afghanistan, an international 1,400 mile, 17th century border between Pakistan and Afghanistan that remains heavily disputed to this day. The rebels were equipped with modern Russian weaponry, leading to theories the Russians had backed the rebels. This in turn led the American peace keeping forces to mobilize their base another thirty miles west, into the middle of the Durand Line.
Sam grimaced. What the hell did he have to do with Russia and the US? Did he know something about the Durand Line? Did he know something about the Russian Mafia? The problem remained: he didn’t know what he WAS involved in.
The name Tom Bower floated in his head.
When he’d called Tom, he had said they’d once been quite close. Sam had no memory of the man, but he was pretty certain he was the man who had betrayed him.