Point of Contact

Paul pulled in behind a couple thick pines and killed the engine as Rhodes reached into a coat pocket. He handed Paul a pistol.

“You know how to shoot one of these?”

“My dad was a cop.” Paul weighed the 9x18mm Makarov in his hand as Rhodes checked the mag on his full-sized Beretta 92. “Why do I need it?”

“You probably don’t.” Rhodes snatched it back out of Paul’s hand. “You’d probably just shoot yourself anyway.” Rhodes pocketed the Makarov and reholstered his Beretta. “Just stay in the car and keep quiet until I return. It’ll only be a few minutes. Understood?”

Paul nodded, still fidgety.

Rhodes frowned. “Are you all right?”

“I’m fine. I’ll be here, ready to roll, when you get back.”

Rhodes patted Paul on the shoulder again. “Good man.” He carefully opened his door and closed it gently, avoiding making any noise.

Paul watched Rhodes pick his way through the trees and cut over to the road, and then march up to the front door of the farmhouse. Rhodes knocked and a man’s shape appeared in the doorway. Paul couldn’t hear anything from this far away, but everything must have been okay because he shook hands with the man and the two entered into the farmhouse.

Paul rolled down his window. The car was stuffy and smelled like stale cigarette smoke. His bladder screamed. Paul looked around again. Nothing, except the trees and the sound of the breeze in the pine needles.

He had to pee.

Paul carefully pulled on the handle and used both hands to open the door to keep it from squeaking, just the way Rhodes had done.

There was a tall bush on the other side of the car, open on one side, like a booth. He made his way over to it, unzipping his fly with each hurried step.

He stood in the middle of the man-sized bush and let go. A piss never felt so good. He directed his stream back and forth against the leaves to minimize the sound and to keep it from puddling. The splash made a little noise, but not much, like crunching leaves. It wasn’t long before he was done and wagging himself dry.

But the leaves were still making noise.

Paul froze.

Feet were jogging through the forest, along with whispered, hurried voices.

He waited until the sounds faded before easing his way out of the bush and toward the farmhouse, then hid behind a tree.

Three men took up positions just outside the house. One faced out, his foot on a stump with an ax buried in it. The other two stepped carefully onto the porch, pistols out, hands on the door.

Paul’s heart raced. Those had to be Zvezdev’s men.

It was a trap.

Rhodes was a dead man.

77

Rhodes knocked on the farmhouse door. He was greeted by a smiling Zvezdev.

“Weston! You’re early. Come in.”

The two men shook hands and Rhodes stepped in. The door closed behind him.

A gun stuck in his ribs.

“What’s this?” Rhodes asked, raising his hands.

Zvezdev patted him down with one gloved hand, and pulled Rhodes’s two guns out with his other, shoving both into his right coat pocket.

Rhodes surveyed the rustic living room. Rough-hewn boards, hand-woven carpets, homemade furniture. Simple, but large and comfortable. It would be considered primitive in any Western country, but by Bulgarian standards it was better than most.

“Guns make me nervous. Or should I say other people’s guns.” Zvezdev holstered his pistol and smiled again.

Rhodes lowered his hands. “You had me worried there for a moment.”

“Then how about a rakia to calm your nerves?” Zvezdev crossed over to a weathered sideboard, the only factory-made piece in the room. He poured two glasses.

“Don’t mind if I do. Nice place. Yours?”

“Recently acquired.” He handed a glass to Rhodes.

“ZiL still running well?”

“I’d rather have a Buick, but what can you do? Nazdráve.”

“Nazdráve.”

They tossed down their brandies. Zvezdev poured two more.

“So where is the fellow?” Rhodes took more brandy from the Bulgarian.

“In the kitchen. You’ll meet him in a moment. Good doing business with you, Weston. Nazdráve.”

“Nazdráve.”

They drank again.

“Let’s get to it, shall we?” Rhodes said. “Clock’s ticking.”

“Of course. Follow me. Oh, wait. I almost forgot.” Zvezdev reached into his left coat pocket and produced the Makarov and handed it to him. “You’ll need this.”

The kitchen was attached to the living room, separated by two green woolen Army blankets that served as a room divider. Zvezdev pushed through the blankets, Rhodes followed.

Inside the kitchen was a wood-burning stove, a small refrigerator, cupboards, and a table and chairs.

And a corpse.

The body lay sprawled on the wooden floor, facedown, the head matted with blood.

“Is that my defector?” Rhodes asked. His eyes drifted to the table: a stack of money, a bag of coke.

“Yes. A filthy Roma, but a good smuggler.”

“What happened?”

“Earlier this evening, I followed him here. Discovered him taking the money you gave him for the drugs he brought you. I came in just as you shot him, but you turned your gun on me, and I had to shoot. At least, that will be the official story in my report.”