“I can improve on it a little, but it is basically sound,” Bar-Lev told Maria Simpson.
Viktor Bardzecki had just landed at Kindley Field in Bermuda with his fellow passengers on the Sarnev Cessna, Fredrick Haus, Bern Division, and Simon Percy, London Division. Viktor had been seated the whole time while in the air, except to rise to make a vodka, which Percy had lost count of all the way from Moscow. He was nervous—more than nervous, he was fearful. He had the feeling he would never see his beloved Moscow again.
*****
The disappearance of Andre Sarnev should be blamed on him; after all, it was his personal security team that had failed to keep Andre out of the hands of the kidnappers. What was so disconcerting to him was that Lehan had not thrown any blame his way, not yet, which was uncharacteristic of Joseph.
Their car moved into the gated entrance, and all three men were asked to exit. Their bags were brought into the glass-fronted security building as they stood waiting by the side of the car for their belongings to be searched inside. After their bags were returned to the car, they were escorted in, and each man went through a body scan. Bardzecki’s wide girth filled the scanner’s inner chamber to capacity.
All three men were cleared and reentered the vehicle and were driven inside the compound to the underground garage beneath the seven floors that made up the main estate. There were three attendants waiting for them to carry their luggage. They would follow them up to the fourth-floor living quarters after the three took the passenger elevator up.
Each man was familiar with the estate and its luxurious accommodations a five-star hotel would be put to shame. There were two basement floors that housed the working area and staff for the estate, also what was called the war room that could accommodate up to fifteen working cubicles and a military-grade computer system that monitored Sarnev Internationals global operations.
There was a central control room that watched every inch of the estate through a massive camera system. It was always staffed with no less than two security personnel. There were some exceptions to what they could see—bathrooms and the private living area of Joseph Lehan, who would soon move up to the fifth floor to occupy the now vacant and opulent living area of Andre Sarnev.
Bardzecki was shown to his room on the fourth floor. He had an Atlantic-side view, but he barely looked out the window. His focus was on the credenza that held the bar. He found what he was looking for, a bottle of the Jewel of Russia Vodka. Since it was 1700 hours, he smirked at the thought of Percy telling him it was too early to drink when he got on the jet. Since it is now late afternoon, he said out loud, “I have a double, maybe triple, you pompous Englishman.”
He grabbed a glass and poured it full then sat on a couch facing the southwest, wanting this day to end. He had only eaten some pastry on the plane. His stomach growled as he emptied his glass. He called the kitchen and ordered dinner—a rare steak would be good. The meeting was scheduled for 1000 hours the next morning, plenty of time to drink and sober up by then.
Chapter 4
We landed in Port Angeles an hour behind our ETA and taxied to a small hangar on the south end of Fairchild Airport. It was at the very end of Fairchild Road, away from the main terminal and any security. Since my bags contained two weapons, my .50-caliber Desert eagle and a collapsible AR15, along with over a hundred rounds for each. The chance for an inspection of the plane or my bags were slim to none at this private hangar. Bo had arranged to leave the Cessna in covered portage for several nights until his return flight on October 6. He planned on spending a couple of days with his old friend just catching up.
Eddie Mize was waiting in his truck next to the hangar as we taxied in. After we stopped and shut down the engines, Bo talked to a hangar worker. The worker would tow the plane to its resting spot. We then pulled out our bags and walked across the tarmac to Eddie’s truck.
When we were walking to his vehicle, Eddie slowly got out. I could see that age had not been good to him. He used a cane to balance as he stood there, waiting for us to reach him. Bo got to him first and was restrained in his hug on the man. I just extended my hand, introduced myself as Alan Ames, and shook with a gentle grip.
“Eddie Mize,” he said back to me with a smile. “Good to finally meet ya.”
Eddie was a small man unlike Bo. He was clean-shaven and bald. He was Bo’s age but appeared much older. The past two years had been rough. His wife of forty-three years had passed away recently, and Eddie had watched her suffer. The Toyota Eddie was going to sell me was her car, low miles, he told me when we made the deal over the phone.
“Toss your bags in the back. We can squeeze in the cab.” He looked at Bo. “You better ride shotgun, my friend, roll down the window so some of you can hang out. Give us all more room.”
I saw Bo smile, then he said, “This is the crap I had to put up with for three tours.”
“I can still dish it out,” Eddie shot back.
Eddie’s home was located off Hurricane Ridge Road. Out of town and in the hills above Port Angeles. He was on a knoll that had a 360-degree view, the Salish Sea to the north with lower mountains, then peaks to the west. He had lived up there for over thirty-five years. When I got out of his truck, looked around, and took a deep breath of the fresh air, I understood why.
I would spend the night with the two men then start my journey to Questa early the next morning.
The Toyota Eddie was selling me was like new. It had been kept in a garage and out of the elements, twenty-three thousand miles, barely broken in. I had already placed the agreed-upon cash payment in an envelope. I was carrying a large amount of money with me and didn’t want to flash it around. Even though I trusted Eddie, I didn’t know if anyone else would be at his house.
That night, we had a fine pasta dinner. Eddie and his wife used to own and run several restaurants in the Port area. He was a well-known chef, and his businesses were quite successful. After two helpings, I excused myself and retired for the night. When I was alone in my room, I tried a call to Mike Groves. It was 2100 hours his time. The phone rang many times, but he never picked up. I left a message. I would try again in the morning. I wanted to let him know when I expected to arrive in New Mexico.
The next morning, I hugged Bo and thanked Eddie for his hospitality. He wanted to make me breakfast, but I was anxious to move on. I wanted to make Rock Springs, Wyoming, by nightfall. I took a strong cup of coffee in a go mug from Eddie’s Keurig, said my goodbyes, and headed down Hurricane Ridge in the Four Runner to 101.
My planned route took me east to Spokane then to Coeur d’Alene, Idaho. I made good time. The weather was on my side. I continued onto Interstate 90 into in Montana. I was in some of the most beautiful country I had ever seen. In Missoula, I connected with Highway 15 south to Idaho Falls.
I was in Wyoming about 1700 hours, made highway changes, and was in Rock Springs about 2120. It was dark and cold. I was tired, more than tired. A thick steak and a warm bed were all that was on my mind. I found a Motel 8 on Commercial Way. It had a vacancy sign lit up in the office window, an inviting sight. I pulled the Toyota into the lot and headed to the office.
A young lady behind the counter must have been bored working the night shift. The blond was preoccupied with her phone. I had to clear my throat to get her attention.
She looked up, and without a greeting, just asked, “Checking in?”
I used restraint and didn’t get snide. “Yeah, just one king if you have one.”
“Let me check,” she said and went to her computer. “Yes, a room on the second floor, okay?”
“That would be great.”
I gave her all my information and paid cash. She told me she needed to run a credit card in case there were additional charges.
I asked, “Like what?”
“Phone use, damage to the room,