From Russia Without Love

21

Chris’s cell phone rang, waking him. He’d fallen asleep on the couch in the Azerbaijan safe house, and the morning sun shone through the curtains. Mikhail was wide-awake sitting on a wooden stool at the kitchen counter and looking at his cell phone. Sonny lay on the floor snoring. Young’s name showed in the caller ID.

“Hello,” Chris answered.

Young’s voice was full of excitement. “In Xander’s Marine Finder account, he saved the names of four ships. All Azeri oil tankers.”

“What were the names of the ships?” Chris asked.

“Babek, Shusha, Binagadi, and Zengezur.”

“Anything else?”

“That’s all I got,” Young said.

“That narrows it down for us. Can you maintain a monitor on the Marine Finder account and keep us updated of any new activity?”

“Will do.”

“Thanks, brother.”

“Later.”

Young ended the call, and Chris dragged himself into the kitchen. “Were you awake all night?” Chris asked Mikhail as he entered.

“Figured you guys could use some sleep,” he said, “so I stood the watch.”

“Thank you,” Chris said. “Want some breakfast? We could use a good meal.”

Mikhail smiled and nodded.

Chris rummaged in the refrigerator looking for something to cook. After spotting eggs and cheese, he decided on omelets. There were plenty of tomatoes, bell peppers, and onions, so he grabbed those. Searching for ham, he found none and remembered Azerbaijan was a Muslim country and eating swine was haram, unlawful. So he snagged some ground beef instead.

“Do you want help?” Mikhail asked as he put away his phone. “I can set the table. I can also make toast, but you don’t want me to cook anything else. Trust me.”

“Sure,” Chris said with a chuckle. “Thanks.”

Soon, Hannah came into the kitchen, yawning and her hair a mess, but as beautiful as ever. “That smells good. We’re going to have to change your call sign to the Galloping Gourmet,” she said.

Breakfast was ready, so Chris walked into the living room and gave Sonny a playful kick. “Wake up, sweet pea.”

“Hey,” Sonny complained, rolling over to face away from Chris, but he must’ve smelled the food because he sat up and said, “Breakfast!”

They all sat around the table and began to talk about their next moves while they ate.

“If Xander succeeded in slipping into the country,” Mikahil started, “he could try to board a ship here in the Baku Bay, or forty-five klicks south of here is Sangachal Terminal, where they process the natural gas and produce oil. It’ll be a lot easier to board the ships in port than at sea.”

“We could recon both, familiarize ourselves with the area, until we figure out exactly what his plans are,” Chris said, washing his food down with some water.

“We should prep most of our gear in the SUV,” Sonny said, “so at a moment’s notice we’ll be ready for a variety of contingencies.”

They all agreed.

Chris shared their call signs with Mikahail. “Infidel, Sunshine, and Reverend.”

“My call sign is Jirtdan, but English speakers call me Dirt Dan,” Mikhail explained.

“Does Jirtdan have a special meaning?” Chris asked.

“In Azeri, it means little. There is a fairy tale about a small boy named Jirtdan who helps his friends escape a monster by crossing the river. When the monster asked Jirtdan how they crossed the river, Jirtdan pointed to a millstone with a hole in it and said, ‘We held that over our heads as a life preserver to help us cross.’ When the monster held the boulder over his head like a life preserver, he drowned, and Jirtdan became a hero.”

“I like Jirtdan better than Dirt Dan,” Hannah said, smiling.

After cleaning up, they prepared to go out low profile, armed only with pistols on their person and keeping their rifles tucked away in the back of the SUV. Soon they exited the condo, and Mikhail drove them in a gray Toyota Prado SUV. Many of the vehicles on the streets of Baku were SUVs.

The four of them did a recon of Baku Bay, and in the afternoon they ventured the forty-five klicks south, remaining on the Caspian seacoast, to Sangachal Terminal, where there was a complex of pumps, storage tanks, and support buildings. That evening, they checked out both locations again. Chris took notes as he tried to put himself in Xander’s shoes, seeking patterns of weak security and targets of opportunity.

In the evening, as they drove out to Sangachal Terminal again, Young called Chris’s phone.

“What’s up?” Chris asked.

“I don’t know if this is helpful or not, but we were trying to gather more intel about Lullaby and we came across two reports from different sources that claim Lullaby ordered a hit on Xander’s wife,” Young said. “At the time, it was thought Xander had done something to irritate Lullaby, but it wasn’t clear what. It was reported that Xander mourned deeply for her, but at that time, no one knew Lullaby and Xander were the same person.”

“So Xander had his wife killed,” Chris said, tapping Hannah and Sonny on the arms in an effort to share the info. “Why would he do that?”

“Seems like she outlived her usefulness to him.”

“Seems that way.” Chris pinched his nose between the eyes. “Thanks, Young. Talk to you later.”

He hung up as they parked at Sangachal Terminal.

“What’s that?” Chris asked, pointing to a puff of smoke in an unlit corner of one of the terminal’s parking lots.

The four of them squinted from a street, a hundred meters away. It was a black Kia Sportage SUV parked with its engine running.

“The car is facing the sea,” Hannah noticed. “Whoever is inside might be watching the ships. Should we take a closer look?”

“Nothing ventured, nothing gained,” Chris said.

“And tip off Xander that we’re here?” Sonny said, playing devil’s advocate.

“I could pose as an Azeri security guard and check the car out,” Mikhail said. “Unless someone else here speaks Azeri?”

“That’ll work,” Hannah said. “I’ll take the wheel and keep the car running in case we need to get out in a hurry.”

“Sonny and I can stand by from a distance to cover Mikhail,” Chris said.

“Since when do you decide what I’ll do?” Sonny asked.

“Pretty please?” Chris fake-begged.

“Since you put it that way,” Sonny said, flipping him the bird and staying put in his seat.

Mikhail opened the door of the Toyota, its interior light already switched off. He stepped out and softly closed the door behind him. Then he walked in the direction of the SUV. Chris opened his door and stepped out, too, but before he closed it, Sonny got out behind him.

Mikhail closed half the distance to the SUV — fifty meters — and was well within an enemy’s rifle range and still within pistol range for Chris and Sonny. They drew their pistols and covertly kept them down at their sides. At twenty-five meters, Mikhail was in enemy pistol range. Mikhail closed in on the suspicious vehicle from the rear. Chris and Sonny moved forward. In the middle of the parking lot, they had absolutely nothing to hide behind or use as a shield to stop flying bullets. They aimed their pistols at one of the SUV’s tinted windows. If any shots were fired at Mikhail, Chris and Sonny would return fire first and ask questions later. Sonny stepped away from Chris, giving them separation so an attacker couldn’t easily hit them both with the same salvo.

Mikhail looked in the rear window. When he reached the driver’s side, instead of presenting a smaller target, the side of his body, he presented a bigger target, the full front of his body. He didn’t even have his weapon drawn.

Is Mikhail so tactically stupid? Or is he sure this isn’t a threat?

Chris’s heart thumped faster and his breath chased after it.

Mikhail tapped on the window. No answer. He tapped again. A woman’s voice screamed from inside. Chris’s pistol hand perspired, and his heart raced. There was a flurry of movement in the SUV in front of Mikhail before the engine revved and the vehicle sped away.

Mikhail calmly turned and walked toward Chris and Sonny. Mikhail smiled so hard that it seemed his jaw might crack.

Chris lowered his pistol.

“What the hell happened?” Sonny asked.

“Kids,” Mikhail said with a chuckle. “Making the beast in the backseat.”

Chris’s heart rate slowed as he holstered his weapon. He wiped his damp palm against his trousers. He shook his head, and they returned to their vehicle without a single lead.

On the drive back to the safe house, Chris gnawed on one question. Where are you Xander?

Inside the safe house, Chris studied a map of Baku Bay and Sangachal Terminal, and then he opened his guitar case and broke out his M4.

Hannah sat down next him. “I’m sorry to keep dragging you into these messes,” she said with a somber voice.

Chris cleared his M4 in order to do a function check. “I came because I wanted to. After Xander killed Michael, nobody had to twist my arm to make me stay. I wanted to get Xander. Still do.”

“This work is how I breathe.”

“I know.”

“But you don’t need this work to breathe,” she said. “Not anymore. Your life as a preacher gives you oxygen.”

Chris made sure his weapon was on safe, with the bolt forward, and squeezed the trigger. The hammer didn’t fall. “I’m not sure where this conversation is going.”

“Xander and his goons are brass knuckles tougher than I expected.”

He moved the selector switch to fire and squeezed the trigger. The hammer fell. “The only easy day was yesterday.”

Emotion trickled into her voice, but she held it in check. “If something happens to you, I don’t know what I’ll do with myself.”

Chris pressed down on the top cartridge in his magazine, making sure he had a full thirty rounds inside. “Nothing’s going to happen to me.”

“You’ve done more than most Americans to fight the bad guys. You’ve sacrificed more than enough for your country,” she said. “If you walk away from this now, I’ll still care about you the same way. We can still see each other just as often. We can still be friends.

He loaded the magazine into his M4. “Not more than enough. Not yet.”