The Romanovsky Stain

By Duke Zimmer

Jacob Steiner left the intelligence world to join the NYPD where he worked until he was recently terminated for over zealous police work -- he beat the crap out of a child molester and broke the molester's skull in the process. Contemplating a quiet life in Los Angeles, Jacob soon discovers that a lifelong nemesis and former KGB agent, Sergei Romanovsky, has other plans for him.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Feb 21, 2018
• ISBN: 9781948282598

Book preview

29

he room was cold. Too cold for my taste. It was supposed to be a standard debrief. It wasn’t shaping up that way. It was beginning to feel like an interrogation. The difference? A debrief is for the grunts. The guys putting their butts on the line. Our guys. Interrogations are for everyone else. I’m a grunt. So why did this feel like an interrogation?

So this Romanovsky character is real?

Oh, he’s real, all right. Romanovsky may not be his real name, but he’s as real as you or me.

About your age, Steiner?

I got the dig. I’m old. Older, I think. A few years anyway.

The guy questioning me was well over six feet and looked like he’d been cut from black granite. He said his name was Fenton, though you can never be sure with DHS agents. Fenton today, Wilson tomorrow, something else on Friday. The silent one was pudgy, like me, only younger. He didn’t give his name. He just watched and listened. Like the granite dude, the room was hard, angular, and devoid of feeling. Homeland Security planned it that way. Interrogation, debriefing—it didn’t matter. It was all the same to them.

How’d you hook up with him?

"Who?

Don’t be a smart-ass.

What do you know?

It was the pudgy one’s turn to speak. Everything. Five years with Military Intelligence. Ten years with the CIA and six years with Major Crimes. Quite a career, Jake. You’re a real shoot ‘em up cowboy, he said, thumbing through a thick manila folder. It’s all here. Gregory Oresisky. The beating. The trials. Forced retirement—everything.

Good. It’ll save us some time. And my name’s Jacob—that is unless you want to piss me off.

"My mistake, Jacob." The sneer in his voice told me he couldn’t care less. DHS agents don’t like being one-upped. And here I was, an old, fat has-been who had one-upped them to the max, and they weren’t happy about it.

Tell us about Oresisky, the pudgy one said.

Granite leaned against the wall with his arms across his chest, glaring in my direction.

Sometimes debriefs are easy. Not this one. What about Oresisky?

You cracked his skull.

Had to be done.

Haddock feel that way?

Fred Haddock was my former partner. Probably. Ask him.

We would if we could find him.

Liars. They didn’t know everything. I wondered how much they had been told about Romanovsky or the stain. No use wondering. I leaned back in my chair and stared at the ceiling, remembering how I got here. They wanted a debrief. It had been a long couple of weeks and all I wanted was to go home and get some sleep. I decided not to leave anything out and told them what happened.

After leaving the NYPD, I drove across country to Los Angeles. After a week in LA, I was getting bored and made my way down the coast to Venice Beach for some visual recreation. I was standing on the boardwalk looking around at the mélange of denizens gathered on the shimmering ribbon of sand between the ocean and a strip of concrete lined with bungalows and touristy shops. Except for the nearly naked chicks on Roller Blades, the place gave me the willies. The nearly naked chicks gave me something else. Gunshots sent the beach crowd scattering.

I dropped to one knee while reaching for a gun that wasn’t there. Old habits die hard. A shadow caught my attention. I turned in time to see a tall hooded sweatshirt running toward me with a cash bag in one hand and an automatic in the other. As I rose up, the sweatshirt turned to see if it was in the clear and didn’t see my outstretched arm.

The clothesline spun him around like a rag doll, sending him sprawling to the ground. My knee on his chest and a right to his jaw stilled his desire to get up. That’s when I heard the unmistakable sound of guns clearing leather and a female voice telling me to freeze. I complied.

I felt a pair of small hands pulling my arms behind my back and heard the clunk of handcuffs. I started to speak. Just shut up, the female voice demanded in an accent I couldn’t quite place. I looked around. Two bicycles were on the ground, and a buff young man in tight bike shorts and a polo shirt with a cloth LAPD badge was surveying the crowd. The gun and the money bag were gone.

I figured the voice belonged to a similarly attired female standing behind me with a gun to my head. A siren approached. I wondered if the buff cop in the tight bike shorts could talk. The crowd was quiet, and annoying music boomed in the distance. It’s LA. There’s always annoying music booming somewhere.

A black-and-white pulled up, and the buff cop nodded to the driver. There was someone in the front passenger seat, but the glare of the windshield hid his face. I got that feeling you get when you know something’s about to happen and there isn’t a thing you can do about it. The small hands pushed my arms toward the squad car. My body followed. The back door opened, and I felt myself being pushed inside. No Miranda, no Watch your head, no get in. Just a shove and the door slamming shut behind me.

Something was wrong, and I figured I was about to find out just how wrong. As the black-and-white sped off, I raised my head to try and see where we were going. Big mistake. I caught a glimpse of a very big flashlight. Then everything went black.

woke up with a headache a bottle of aspirin couldn’t cure. A musty, oily odor hung in the air, stale and stifling, like a damp basement. The room was dark. I tried pulling myself up. No good. My hands were cuffed to a heavy pipe running along the floor, and my ankles were taped together. I half pushed and half pulled myself along the pipe to the wall. It was damp and metallic. Definitely not a police station. Unless the cells were in a medieval dungeon. Moving in the opposite direction, I estimated the room to be about thirty feet long. I stretched out my body and tried to touch the opposite wall, no luck. The room had to be at least ten feet wide. I put my ear to the pipe. Voices, distant, muffed, angry. I wasn’t alone. The knowledge didn’t make me feel any better. Neither did the sound of a door opening.

The figure of a man stood in the doorway, backlit by glaring light. From the heat, I knew it was sunlight.

Lo, Jake, the heavily Russian accented said. Is long time?

The voice made the bile in my stomach churn. It was like a bad dream that wouldn’t go away. I didn’t have to ask his name. I knew.

Not long enough, Sergei, I said.

Is not same as Germany days.

No need to apologize I didn’t have time to finish before Sergei’s foot landed square on my jaw.

The first time I ran into Sergei Federov Romanovsky was in the early 1960s, and I was a young counterintelligence agent with Sixty-Sixth Military Intelligence Group in Germany. I was a kid, wet behind the ears and just macho enough not to know it. There were lots of Russian spies running around Europe at the time. Sergei was one of them, not the best but good. Nearly half a million Soviet spies trained in the clandestine arts from an early age. They were ruthless and dedicated to the Soviet Union. Sergei was one of the most dedicated and most ruthless spies in the First Chief Directorate of the KGB. Square-faced, with cold gray eyes, Sergei had been a kid too. A dedicated, ruthless kid. The worst kind. The kind that means trouble. It looked like it still did. He moved toward me. There was something in his step that told me I wasn’t in for a good time.

We talk, he said, maneuvering my face with his foot, forcing me to look at him.

All I could see was a dark void under a snap-brim fedora. A ghoulish Indiana Jones in an ill-fitting suit ringed by glaring light.

Okay, okay, I said, figuring that since I wasn’t dead, Sergei wanted something. No use beating around the bush. What do you want?

Old green convertible is not hard to see. You are no longer a hard man to go behind. He was laughing, not openly, but you could hear the chuckle in his voice. He was gloating over an inside joke that he wasn’t letting me in on.

Not old, Sergei. A classic.

Is old car. He laughed. Very old car.

A classic, Sergei. A very nice classic. So you followed me from New York? I already knew the answer. Sergei couldn’t resist confirming my suspicions.

Of course.

Why?

That’s when I knew the robbery had been staged, staged for my benefit. The perfect prisoner snatch. Out in the open. The police taking someone in for questioning. No one knew me. No one knew I was here and no one would ask about me. No need to call the police. The police were there. But why? Walking back the cat, I clicked through the angles. Nothing fit. Why go to the trouble? Why such an elaborate ruse? Why not spike my drink or hit me in the head? Something simple, direct, and easy. Why not just kill me and be done with it? There are plenty of unsolved homicides in LA. Plenty of unidentified bodies in the morgue, but an abduction in broad daylight? Why?

Then it hit me. If I had any question as to why taking down the hooded sweatshirt with the gun and money bag had been so easy, now I knew. Sergei could. More importantly, he wanted me to know that he had the power and connections to do anything he wanted, connections that would allow him to abduct me in broad daylight on a crowded a boardwalk. The only thing I didn’t know was why, and that was a very big question.

Gregor, he work for us.

Us? Who’s us?

Businessmen. We have very good business with him and—

"Had, Sergei, had a very good business." I couldn’t resist correcting him. He didn’t appreciate the lesson.

You know this business? He snorted as his foot landed in my gut, knocking the wind out of me. He was well-trained. He knew how to cause maximum pain and minimal damage. I found myself wishing he hadn’t been such a good student.

Always have the smart mouth, Jake.

I’m glad I’m not disappointing you. And no, I do not know about your business.

His foot glanced off my chin, just missing my throat. I tried not to wince. No luck with that.

Gregor is important man in organization.

Why tell me?

He was not good man—important, not good. But I do not concern myself with such things. I am businessman now. It is, how you say, good for business, good for businessman.

Sergei was twenty-one and I was nineteen when I first encountered him outside of a bar in Bochum, a large industrial city in the German Ruhr. It was a place frequented by former members of the German SS and a host of other types bent on less-than-good citizenship.

The mission wasn’t supposed to be dangerous. Go have a beer or two and keep my ears open. I spoke German like a native, so it should have been simple. There was nothing Amerikanisch about me. Haircut, clothes, shoes, money—all German. I had passed easily before. The one thing I wasn’t counting on was my photograph in a Stasi dossier called up from a dusty East German archive.

Sergei taught me that danger is a relative concept. I was there to listen, gather information. So was he. We were both after the same information but for different reasons. Well, maybe not so different now that I look back. But while he’d read my dossier, the US Army hadn’t reciprocated. Seems the Soviets knew more about us than we knew about ourselves. That’s dangerous, too dangerous for a still wet behind the ears intelligence agent.

Long story short, you can’t fool everyone. Two hours and two drinks later, I was running for my life with a nasty gash in my right thigh from a round from a nine millimeter Makarov. The bullet had only grazed me. It hurt, but the pain was tolerable. Then again, maybe it wasn’t tolerable. Maybe it was the adrenaline rushing through my body that just made me believe it was tolerable. It was the last time I went on a mission without a weapon, but it wouldn’t be the last time I had a run-in with Sergei. Now, like me, Sergei was an old spy with something other than Mother Russia on his mind.

After a stint with the 101 Airborne Division in Vietnam and leaving with enough metal in my body to set off a metal detector seven feet away, I left the Army and headed off to college. Afterward, I got a gig with the CIA through a friend and former teammate in Vietnam, Daniel Bornaire. We called him Zippo, Zip for short.

After Nam, Danny joined the CIA and was involved in setting up front groups for clandestine operations. The European Quality Trade Union, or EQTU, was one of those groups. Danny brought me onboard. Officially I was a trade rep. Unofficially I was a spy. I worked for the EQTU until my cover was blown by a chance meeting with Sergei in the summer of 1988 at the Cologne Trade Fair. After that, no matter where the Agency sent me, Sergei was there waiting.

After 9/11, things changed at the Company. Danny was lured away by the Department of Homeland Security and asked to set up the Agency’s fledging antiterrorism counterintelligence unit. I left the Company and turned my investigative talents to the NYPD. We lost touch after that, and the intelligence stuff faded from my everyday consciousness.

The NYPD was a good gig. I could sleep at night—not always but most nights. At least people I didn’t know weren’t trying to kill me while I slept, not like now.

Think, Jacob. Do something. Anything, just do something. The words hammered in my head. I didn’t know what Sergei was up to but didn’t doubt that whatever his current motivation, he was as dedicated and ruthless as ever. Knowing that didn’t help, but it made me wonder what I was in for. All I knew was that it wasn’t for some minor slight. The Russian mob doesn’t bother with minor slights. If they want you dead, they kill you. Simple, clean, efficient. Ditto for Russia’s new KGB, the Federal Security Service or FSB. I wasn’t dead—not yet, anyway. So either Sergei was working for the FSB, or the Russian mob had something special planned for me. Either way, I wasn’t looking forward to what he had in mind.

We talk later. Another swift kick in my gut reminded me of my place in the world as if I needed reminding. Sergei backed out of the room, no doubt savoring the spectacle of his adversary handcuffed to a pipe on a cold steel floor with blood oozing from his nose and lips. The door banged shut plunging me into darkness. The older you get, the more susceptible you are to pain, and I was hurting—hurting badly. But hurting badly was better than being dead.

The room was quiet. I put my ear to the cold pipe and listened. Nothing. I twisted my body so that I could depress the dial illuminating button on my analog Seiko. The watch read 4:30. The sunlight told me it was late afternoon. Venice Beach was six hours ago. Funny, it seemed longer. The queasiness in my gut told me that more than a bump on the head was involved. Knock me out, then give me something to keep me quiet. Easier to handle that way.

The dial blinked off, leaving me alone in the dark with my thoughts. I wrenched my body around and tried to rip the heavy tape binding my ankles. It wouldn’t free me from the pipe, but it was a start. One thing at a time. One thing at a time, Jacob — I kept telling myself.

The muffed rumble of a motor passing by followed by the lapping of water on steel provided another indication of my whereabouts. A ship, I was inside a ship. Since there was no discernable movement, the boat had to be tied up somewhere, but where? The ship was big, and the smell of saltwater filled the air. It had to be someplace nearby where a ship wouldn’t be out of place. Probably a Russian ship. I couldn’t be sure. Wherever we were, one thing was certain. Sergei would have muscle with him—a lot of muscle. Unless they’d flown me out of the country, there were only two deep-water ports within four hours of Venice—San Diego and Long Beach. The thought made me feel better, not much but a little. At least if I could get free, I might have a chance. Make it to the side, jump overboard, and swim to shore like my life depended on it. It was a nice thought, but useless if I couldn’t find a way to escape.

I made a mental note about the tape around my ankles, I felt the cuffs around my wrists. Metal, heavy, loose latch. Careful, there. Don’t pinch them too tight, I heard myself saying. Next, I felt along the links of the chain for a rough surface. Sometimes the links holding a pair of cuffs together aren’t fully welded. A weak link. Something to work on. Maybe. I could only hope. No luck. The links were as smooth as if they’d been polished.

I managed to shimmy my gut up to my hands and undo my belt. Using the belt’s prong, I tried to insert it between the sides of the slide and make contact with the ratchet gear. The prong was too thick. Scraping it against the pipe, I managed to wear o a small amount of material. Scrape, scrape, scrape. Listen. Hearing nothing, I scraped some more. Every few strokes, I’d stop and listen, then test the prong to see if it’d fit. Progress was slow. Then it slid in between the slide and the case. I felt for the ratchet gear. Click. The slide eased back. Another click. It eased back some more. A few minutes later, the cuffs were off, and I was tearing the tape from my ankles.

My legs throbbed, two bendy appendages unable to hold my weight. I braced myself against the wall as I felt along the bulkhead for the door. My hand touched something round. A blind person would have recognized a porthole cover in an instant. It took me a little longer. Loosening the bolts that held it shut, I opened the cover, illuminating the room. My eyes ached in reaction to the bright light as I looked out on an expanse of blue water. It didn’t look like we were in port. All I could tell was that I was somewhere below decks and on the portside of the ship. Maybe I wouldn’t be swimming after all. Time for a new plan, one that didn’t include the backstroke.

The room was just as I imagined, except larger. I was in one of the holds. Crossing to the door, I stopped long enough to pick up the cuffs and stuff them in my pocket. Never know when they might be of use. I opened the door. The steel butt of an AK-47 hit me in the gut, sending me to my knees.

When I regained consciousness I was strapped to a metal chair in another part of the ship. Not only were my arms and legs securely taped to the chair, my sleeves were rolled up. I didn’t know what was going to happen. But, I knew I wasn’t in for a pleasurable experience. An elastic Penrose band had been wrapped around my upper arm causing the veins in my forearm to stand out like big blue welts. A woman in tight jeans, tennis shoes, and a T-shirt, busied herself with a syringe and vial and placed them on a small table in front of Sergei. Sergei smiled, holding up a fat ballpoint pen.

You know what is? he said, removing the top of the pen and revealing a flash drive.

Yeah, it’s a flash drive.So?

Good.

I concentrated on the wall behind him where eight monitors, with crisp black-and- white images, revealed Spartan rooms with pipes running along the bottom of the back walls about a foot off the floor. It was evident that all sources of light had been blacked out and that the bulbs had been removed from the fluorescent fixtures running along the ceiling. I ran my eyes over the images on the monitors and noted that one showed the tape I’d torn from my ankles was still on the floor. Someone had been watching my wretched attempt to escape. I had no doubt Sergei had enjoyed the show. The images reminded me of drawings I’d seen of slave ships. Human cargo, chained like animals below decks, forced to endure untold deprivations. That would explain the infrared cameras.

The crew could observe their captives without the prisoners knowing they were being watched. Keep people in the dark long enough and they lose track of time and become disoriented. A disoriented prisoner isn’t likely to be much trouble or try to escape.

A high-tech slave ship meant money. It also meant connections. I filed the revelation away among all the other garbage that was stored in my head. You never know when information, no matter how routine, might become important. I wasn’t impressed. While I didn’t put it past Sergei to be involved in slavery, I still didn’t know what he wanted with me.

Your partner is crook, he said. Sergei had a habit of being cryptic, and straight talk was never one of his strong suits.

What?

Thief. He steal flash drive from Oresisky.

Then ask him for it.

Yes, that would be way, but we not know where is.

You’ve been looking for him?

Of course.

So you followed me, thinking I’d lead you to him?

No. We know is not talking with you.

Okay. So what’s this about?

You will find him for us?

Strange way to ask for my help.

Is not request.

Sergei held up the syringe and forced a bit of clear fluid out of the needle, smiled, and held it to his nose.

Duratoxin, you know it?

I shook my head, Should I? I lied.

I’d read about the cuttlefish neurotoxin called Duratoxin developed by the Russians for use against the political opposition. It was slow acting, like a deadly time-release capsule, and, in the end, a miserable way to die. It was like being boiled alive, only worse. Maybe that’s why it was code-named Copper Kettle. The folks who come up with code names have a weird sense of humor.

Sergei smiled, It is, how you say, motivator. We give you five days, one hundred seventeen hours. He eased a bit more fluid from the syringe. I didn’t like the look on his face.

That’s not five days.

You will find Haddock.

If I don’t?

Is, how you say, unpleasant way—is how you say—die.

And if I do?

Sergei held up a small vial. Is antidote.

And I’m supposed to trust you?

Sergei shrugged, I am businessman. We have contract. You give me Haddock. I give you antidote.

Why me? Why not your goons?

Haddock is not easy man to find. You are friend. You know him.

How will I get in touch with you?

This is not problem.

Sergei handed the syringe to the woman in tight jeans. She swapped my arm with alcohol, thumped an already throbbing vein in my forearm, jabbed the needle into the vein and released the Penrose constricting the flow of blood to my arm.

You will have what we know.

What?

Sergei nodded, and someone pulled a dark bag over my head. A warm tingling sensation crept up my arm.

woke up on the top level of the Beverly Center parking garage. The sun was gone, replaced by the yellow-blue glare of xenon lights. I was in the driver’s seat of my Firebird, and the top was up. It took a couple of minutes to clear the fog from my head. I looked around. On the dashboard was a stamped access ticket to the parking garage. It read, Six thirty. Okay, I’d been in Long Beach. Next to me in the passenger seat was a thick folder. I