The Rescue(14)

“I don’t like the sound of that—at all.”

“Neither do I, but I have everything under control,” said Harcourt.

“How the hell did this go sideways on you?”

Harcourt took a deep breath and exhaled. “I don’t know,” he said. “Someone from Decker’s past slipped through the cracks.”

“Have you contacted the Russians?”

“It isn’t the Russians,” said Harcourt, taking an oversize gulp of bourbon.

“Get in touch with them,” said Frist. “Just to make sure. They’ve proven to be thoroughly unreliable from the beginning. We don’t need them getting any strange ideas.”

“There’s no way this can come back to you. I’ve made sure of it.”

“Just like you’ve taken care of Decker?” A long pause ensued. “Sorry. We have a lot at stake in the upcoming week. Decker makes me nervous.”

“Your concern isn’t unfounded. Decker can be resourceful, which is why I’ve been trying to get rid of him for the better part of a year. That said, I don’t see how he could bring anything crashing down on us.”

“I’m more concerned about whoever rescued him,” said Frist. “Any ideas?”

“We conducted exhaustive research into his previous contacts and determined no threat of interference. He’s essentially a pariah. We’re going back over the list.”

“You might want to make a new one,” said Frist. “My guess is that someone has made a dangerous connection between what happened to Decker and our little enterprise.”

Harcourt took another sip from his glass, then said, “I’ll start with the Russians. I don’t think they’re involved, but they have their own network of informants—and they’ve been known to sit on information before.”

“Should we try to get ahead of this, in case word gets out that Decker is loose? If Senator Steele discovers that he’s on the streets, she’s going to raise hell, drawing a lot of attention to his miraculous, and frankly suspicious, release. I don’t need to point out how that could backfire on us.”

He didn’t. Harcourt had outsourced the Bureau of Prisons hack through a cutout, but nothing was untraceable these days, particularly if a powerful and influential senator demanded that the cyberbreach be aggressively investigated. Then there was the judge, who would no doubt come under scrutiny.

“I can take care of the judge,” said Harcourt, “but I don’t see how we can manage Steele’s reaction.”

“I can offer certain off-the-books services, free of charge, to make the situation right,” said Frist. “The good senator might find that idea appealing, given how unsatisfied she was with Decker’s sentencing. She wanted him locked up for life.”

“You have a knack for sniffing out opportunities,” said Harcourt.

“I’ve built a career on it.”

“If I can’t get the Decker situation back on track within twenty-four hours, I think we should proceed with your idea.”

“Keep me in the loop,” said Frist. “One week. That’s all we need.”

“One week,” said Harcourt, disconnecting the call.

Harcourt finished his drink and briefly considered another. Later. He needed a clear head right now, and the bourbon had hit him surprisingly hard.





CHAPTER TEN

Viktor Penkin pounded a tall shot of Russian Standard vodka, his third in a row, and settled into the leather booth. He tried to focus on the two women dancing on the stage in front of him, but he kept returning to the implications of the call he’d just received from the man that had orchestrated the Steele fiasco. He wondered if he might be better off taking the extended vacation his boss suggested—and sooner than later.

This Decker guy had already caused enough trouble, landing half of his crew in prison with the evidence he had collected on their operation. Evidence seized by the FBI when Decker took the fall for the crap the American mercenaries had pulled. Crap that nearly burned Penkin’s West Coast business to the ground. All the more reason not to trust these Americans. His boss had been smart to jump the gun on tanking the US attorney’s case.

“Get them out of here,” he said, pouring another shot.

The two women grabbed the scant clothing piled on the side of the stage and scurried away, their handler pushing them through a sparkling bead curtain that covered the entrance to a stairwell. The “women,” clearly teenagers, were kept upstairs with at least a dozen other girls until the club opened for customers. He glanced at his watch and shook his head. Sergei, his security chief, materialized from the dark hallway leading to the back of the club. The man took up most of the hallway when he appeared, a beast squeezed into a custom-fit suit.

“We’re leaving town until this Decker business settles,” said Penkin. “I want to be on the road in five minutes.”

“You got it, boss,” said the man. “How many are coming with us?”

“Two. Alexei and Vlad. I’ll let Alexei know.”

“Can you say where we’re headed?”

“I’m thinking the Caribbean,” said Penkin. “A nice, isolated villa.”

“I’ll start making calls,” said Sergei. “Does it matter what airport?”