Storm Front

CHAPTER 31

HACKENSACK, New Jersey

They came to a stop at a combination gas station/used car lot just off the Turnpike, a seedy place that had seen everything — except a bullet-riddled Jaguar XJL limping into the parking lot on its rims.

“I’m still confused about one thing,” Cracker said as they climbed out. “How did he find us? I mean, you told me all those bugs were CIA… so it’s not like he could listen to us in my car.”

Storm thought it over as he pried open the trunk of the wasted Jaguar. He retrieved the Dirty Harry gun, putting it back in his shoulder holster. Its weight felt good. He checked the revolver. It was full.

“When you were with Volkov this morning, did he touch you at some point? Bump into you? Hug you? Grab you?”

Cracker thought it over. “No, I mean we shook hands, but… The only other time we had contact is when he asked to borrow my phone. But I don’t think we…”

“Let me see your phone,” Storm interrupted.

He turned the phone over and located a small piece of black tape that blended nicely with the back of the phone. Storm peeled away the tape to reveal a tiny microchip.

“He put a tracking device on it,” Storm said, showing Cracker the chip. “He collected his men and waited until we stayed put for a while. Then he moved in. I’m sure we gave him pause when he realized we were at an FBI office. But he knew time was on his side.”

Storm tossed the tape and microchip into a nearby Dumpster and was about to hand Cracker his phone when it rang.

Storm took a glance at the screen. The caller appeared as “GREGOR VOLKOV.”

Storm stared at it. “Don’t you ever die?” he asked, rhetorically. How could it be that Volkov had survived that accident, unless… Of course. He hadn’t been in the Lincoln. Storm realized he had never actually laid eyes on the man driving. Whoever it was, it hadn’t been Gregor Volkov.

It rang again. Storm answered the call with “What do you want?”

“Derrick Storm?”

“Yes.”

“I can’t believe it, it is Derrick Storm!” Volkov boomed in Russian-tinted English. “How delightful to hear your voice. I was very surprised to see you in Manhattan this morning. I had been under the impression you were dead. It was a very pleasant impression.”

“Yeah, well, the feeling is mutual.”

“You must be referring to that little scrape in Mogadishu,” he said, laughing.

“Actually, I was referring to the pickup truck that I just saw burst into flames on the New Jersey Turnpike.”

“Oh, is that what happened?” Volkov said, as if it were nothing more than the answer to a riddle he’d only casually considered. “I wondered why we lost communication. Too bad. Too bad. They were good men. But apparently not good enough. I should have known they were no match for Derrick Storm.”

“I’m assuming you didn’t call to praise me, so let’s cut to the chase: Whitely Cracker isn’t coming with you. He’s not going to make those trades for you. He’s with me and he’s staying with me. So you can either drop it and slither back to whatever hole you hide in, or you can die. It’s up to you.”

“Tut-tut, Derrick Storm. Do you really think a man as prepared as myself didn’t have a backup plan? I certainly hoped the gentlemen in the pickup truck would persuade Mr. Cracker to join me. But I got myself a little… insurance.”

Through gritted teeth, Cracker said, “What are you talking about?”

“Would you be so kind as to put me on speakerphone? I’d like you both to hear something.”

Storm turned to Cracker. “Put it on speaker.”

Cracker touched a button. Storm said, “Okay. We’re listening.”

Volkov spoke to a person in the room with him. “Go ahead, my dear,” he said. “Beg for your life.”

The sound of Mrs. G. Whitely Cracker V filled the air: “Whitely, honey? I love you. I’m so sorry… that I…”

“Melissa! Oh my God, what are they—”

“That’s enough.” Volkov cut them off. “Isn’t it fortunate for me that my men were able to grab her just before she hopped away like the little bunny she is. They tell me she almost made it out, too. Would you like to hear from your darling children, Mr. Cracker, or can you trust that if I’ve got your wife, I’ve got them as well?”

“What do you want, Volkov?” Cracker said, trying to sound brave. “You want money? I’ve got all the money you need. I’ll give you ten million for each of them, wired to any account anywhere in the world, no questions, no strings. Make it twenty million. Half now and half when—”

“Keep your money, Mr. Cracker. You must not have been listening to me this morning. Why would I want your money when I can have power? Ultimate power. For myself and my country. I assure you, there is not enough money in the world to make me give up that dream. Not even in your bank account.”

Storm looked at Cracker’s face. His expression was shocked and overwhelmed and utterly desperate. Without a single word spoken, it informed Storm that trying to talk sense into this man wouldn’t work. So, yes, Storm could tell him that there was no point in negotiating with terrorists. Storm could tell him that they needed to take control of this situation, to strike before being stricken, to trust that Volkov was ultimately a pragmatist who wouldn’t kill the Cracker family while he still needed them for leverage. Storm could tell Cracker if he acquiesced and did what Volkov wanted, he and his family would be dead the moment Volkov no longer found them useful.

But Storm knew Cracker was beyond listening. Cracker had clearly made his mistakes — his recent actions, in particular, made him anything but the tower of virtuousness the world took him to be. Still, at his core, he was a decent man who would do anything to save his wife and children.

Even if doing it would actually result in them all being killed.

“Okay,” Storm said. “So you’re holding the cards. How’s this going to go?”

“Mr. Cracker will present himself to me at the international departures entrance to Terminal B at Newark Airport in two hours,” Volkov said. “Since I know where your mind is going at this moment, let me start by saying that if we find Mr. Cracker suddenly placed on the No-Fly List or if there is anything else done to impede his progress out of the country, the consequences for his family will be severe.”

“I under—” Cracker started, but Volkov shouted him down.

“I’m not finished. Mr. Cracker will be carrying his passport, but he will have no other luggage. He will come alone. I have trained my men to know what your CIA agents look like and what their tricks are. If I or my men get even the slightest inkling Mr. Cracker is not alone or that you have organized some kind of resistance, trust that I will mail him back his family in pieces.”

“Okay, we got it,” Storm said before Cracker could respond. “But we can’t make that happen in two hours. Your men destroyed our car. His passport is at his house in Chappaqua. We can’t get a new car, get up to Chappaqua, and then get down to Newark Airport in two hours. Make it four hours.”

In four hours, Storm could prevail on Jedediah Jones to get a team in place. It would be a team that, whatever Volkov thought, no thugs would be able to sniff out, no matter what Volkov told them to look for.

But in two hours? It would be nearly impossible to coordinate all those moving parts and not have them looking like the Key-stone Cops. Someone would screw up.

And Volkov knew it.

“You’re a resourceful man, Storm. You can make it happen,” Volkov said. “I will see you in two hours, Mr. Cracker. Or I’ll enjoy raping your pretty wife while your children are hacked to bits.”

The next utterance out of Cracker’s mouth was a panicked what-will-we-do-now-how-are-we-going-to-handle-this-what-will-happen-to-us torrent that made even less sense as it went along. Storm waited it out.

When he was quite confident it was done, Storm said, “Give me your wallet.”

“Why do… why do you need my wallet?”

“Let’s have a return to the no-questions policy, please. Just hand me your wallet.”

Cracker reached into his back pocket and pulled out a slender, expensive-looking leather billfold. The only cash in it was a single hundred-dollar bill. Storm picked through the credit cards until he arrived at the black American Express card. He walked toward the used car portion of the gas station, entering a glass door that had a jagged crack running along its lower portion and bells tied to its handle.

Cracker tagged along but, in keeping with the recently reinstated policy, said nothing. The jangling of the door brought a tired-looking black man from a back room.

“Can I help you?”

“Yes, do you know what this is?” Storm asked, holding out the credit card. The man squinted at it for a brief moment, and Storm continued. “Actually, let me just save you the time. It’s an American Express Centurion Card, sometimes referred to as the American Express Black Card, for obvious reasons. It is the rarest credit card in the world, and it is only issued to individuals with a net worth of at least twenty million dollars. There is a rumor that it has no limit, but that’s actually not true. The last time I checked, the limit was about six million. Point is, it’s a lot.

“This is Mr. Whitely Cracker,” Storm continued. “As you can see from the lettering on the front, he is the holder of this card. He would like to buy two of your fine used automobiles, and he would like to do it very, very quickly. Can you help us with this transaction, or do we have to take our black card elsewhere?”

The man’s eyes had come to life. He didn’t need the Cliffs-Notes version of what Storm had just laid out. He was about to sell two cars — probably two more than he had sold in the two weeks leading up to this. “No,” he said. “I think I can help you.”

“Great. What’s the most expensive car you have?”

“I got an oh-four BMW five series,” he said. “It’s under forty thousand miles. I got it for sale at twenty-one. It’s just out there if you want to have a look.”

“No need. He’ll take it. And please charge him double. What else?”

“I got an oh-five Cadillac STS. It’s got a little bit of a—”

“No good. Do you have any Fords?”

“I got a two-year-old Fiesta, low miles, for thirteen five.”

“He’ll take it. Please charge him triple.”

“Uh… okay,” the guy said and was already banging the numeric pad of an ancient desk calculator. “With tax, that comes to ninety-two thousand, three hundred and—”

“Make it an even hundred thousand,” Storm said, handing him the card. “I dislike haggling. But we’re going to drive them out of here in the next three minutes.”

“You’re the boss.”

“Do they have gas in them?” Storm asked, handing him the card.

“Yes, sir. Full tanks. I’m going to need his signature on some—”

“Forge it. Just get us the keys as quickly as possible.”

“Give me two minutes,” he said, shuffling with a little more alacrity toward a computer in the back room.

Cracker waited until the man was out of the room, then said, “Can I ask a question now?”

“Make it quick.”

“Why two cars?”

“Sorry to tell you this, mate, but we’ve got to split up the band. You’re going to get your passport and get yourself to Newark Airport, like the man said. I suggest you drive quite quickly if you’re going to make it in time. Just make sure you keep your cell phone on in case I need to contact you.”

“And where are you going?”

“Bayonne.”

“Bayonne? As in New Jersey?”

“Yes,” Storm said. “I hear it’s lovely this time of year.”