The Opportunist

By John E. Douglas

Most of us think we know ourselves, and some of us actually do. Clive Mason was neitherhe didnt care.

Our protagonist, for he could hardly be called a hero, was one of the fortunate people; he loved what he did, did it well, and was successful. For him, it wasnt the moneythough that helpedbut the buzz he felt when hed completed what hed set out to do.

Many experience a Road to Damascus moment in their lives, and Mason is one of those. Though those of us who have experienced it know it can come in many different forms.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Oct 31, 2014
• ISBN: 9781499082616

John E. Douglas

John Douglas, the legendary FBI criminal profiler and veteran author of true crime books, has spent over twenty-five years researching and culling the stories of America’s most disturbing criminals. A veteran of the United States Air Force, he has directly worked and/or had overall supervision in over 5,000 violent crime cases over the past 48 years. He is currently chairman of the board of the “Cold Case Foundation.” One of the foremost experts and investigators of criminal minds and motivations, he currently lives in the Washington, D.C. area. Mark Olshaker is an Emmy Award-winning documentary filmmaker and author of ten nonfiction books and five novels, including Einstein’s Brain and The Edge. His books with former FBI Special Agent and criminal profiling pioneer John Douglas, beginning with Mindhunter and, most recently, Law & Disorder, have sold millions of copies and have been translated into many languages. Mindhunter is now a dramatic series on Netflix, directed by David Fincher. He and his wife Carolyn, an attorney, live in Washington, D.C.

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Copyright © 2014 by John Douglas.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Rev. date: 12/04/2014

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Contents

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty One

Chapter Twenty Two

For Zanna, with love.

Prologue

It was early January 1993. A small passenger aircraft was about to land in Tallinn, Estonia; it had just flown from Helsinki for at that time there are no direct scheduled flights from London. The old concrete loving-Soviet system airport loomed up out of the frozen mists as the aircraft made its final landing approach. It taxied its way to the dilapidated concrete monstrosity that passed for a terminal, the passengers, ignoring the rules, made ready to disembark to whatever awaited them. Amongst the mixture of Russian, Finnish, and Estonians was a lone Englishman, whom it seemed, was the only one interested in having landed there. He remained seated looking out on a world that was as bleak as it looked; only the fading light softened its edges.

Gorbachev had gone and the rapidly-crumbling Soviet system was being led by Boris Yeltsin still carrying the flags of Perestroika and Glasnost minus communism, plus far more besides, amongst which was any recognisable form of law and order. At that time, little Estonia was an emerging nation full of tensions and contradictions. To the Estonians who made up just fewer than sixty percent of the populous, it was a good time, they were, at long last, free of the Russian yoke, plus their Russian overseers whom they despised. To the Russians - the great left behind – it’s the exact opposite, they felt deserted and lost in that new ‘free world’ which most neither like nor understand. The role reversal of suppressed and suppressor didn’t sit well with them, although the ethnic Estonians revel in their usurpers discomfort, trying at every opportunity to make it worse. They should, of course, have acted with magnanimity like a certain Mr. Mandela, but Mandelas were hard to find there at that time.

The curious mixture of passengers were disembarked down a slippery gangway into the same frozen mist and snow viewed on their approach, with the Englishman bringing up the rear. They had to walk a short, shivering distance to the terminal where they were greeted by yet more concrete in the form of steps, with only holes where the handrails used to be. These, led up into a shabby almost derelict luggage reception area where a luggage carousel tried desperately to rotate, its broken and bent wooden slats clattering along as it attempted valiantly to hold together. Plastic tiles, those that are left, peel up from the floor, while the missing ones present a picture, a mosaic of non-existent maintenance. To complete the collage of neglect, the faded green wall paint tried heroically to cling on to its host, but failed miserably in the attempt. That was the legacy in microcosm left to the Estonians by their departed Russian overlords.

There were no other aircraft, no other passengers except those from the aircraft that had just landed, they were funnelled to two small sentry-type wooden boxes with half glazed front and sides containing – nothing. Here they waited, cold and shivering, there was no heating. Two uniformed female personages appear from a small door in the wooden screen wall behind their allotted cubicles. They enter their enclosed world, their combined facial expressions and demeanours suggested it was not really where they wish to be. There’s was a sudden surge of bodies, all male, there were no females on the flight, all trying to be first. The Englishman hung back with a bemused wry smile watching them pass through emigration. The last one passed scrutiny, he stepped up to face the humourless visage of the hard-nosed female border guard. She seemed intent on avoiding eye contact, concentrating her gaze on his passport. It appeared he’d passed muster, with two heavy stamps on his documents, she slid, nay shoved them back under the glass divide separating them. Being English, he thanked her, she looked at him as if he’d called her something he shouldn’t, as he’d noted, no one else had spoken a word to her. With her continued cold questioning stare, she reached up a laconic hand and with a deep weary sigh, pulled down a black roller blind cutting off all further contact…

Welcome to Estonia.

He picked up his case having been warned before he came not to let it out of sight or he may never see it again, he pushed through the door the border guards had entered by and passengers exited. It led to a narrow claustrophobic passageway with numerous doors off, with one at the far end. Instinct told him it was the exit, there were no markings. He passed through, emerging into the hanger-like area that was general reception, similar to everything else: cold, bleak, and empty. He cautiously went out into the encroaching night, not knowing what awaited him. His faith returned, a long line of taxies, at least they looked normal. He entered the first one and said.

‘Hotel Olympia.’

The short drive to the hotel was notable only for its lack of light, apart from reflected starlight, the taxi’s headlamps bouncing off the lying snow, and an occasional street lamp that worked, the place looked as if it was expecting an air raid.

Stabbing white light from the headlamps picked out the piles of dirty city snow as the taxi neared its destination; all that, although noticed, was not relevant to the taxi’s sole passenger, his thoughts were about what that little emerging country held by way of business. Of greater interest, was its access to its erstwhile oppressor’s borders and all that lay beyond.

****

Chapter One

On obtaining his pre-booked room, all that interested him was sleep, his day had been long and arduous; so when he rose the following morning his stomach felt distinctly forgotten. His room was two-thirds the way up that tall building and at its rear, it gave him a panoramic view of the snow covered rooftops of Tallinn, which in daylight looked far more attractive and decidedly superior to his night time experience.

He was directed to a designated breakfast area and approached it with an air of hungry anticipation, he was ready for some serious eating. He may have been but the hotel had other ideas; what greeted him was cross between a French and Scandinavian one. Fine as far as it went, but lacking the sustenance his body was demanding, by then, he could have eaten the table.

His first appointment that day was at the British Embassy which was a shared bolthole in a back street conjoined with the Americans; eighty-percent American, twenty-percent British. As he’d found out just a stone’s throw from his hotel, which was more by luck than judgement. It was early, even so there were queues of cold shivering bundles of humanity waiting for admittance. They were there for one reason only, visas to either country.

Large heavy wooden doors lay hinged back against the exterior stone walls exposing an equally-heavy pair of internal glass ones; that was all that separated the embassy from the fidgeting masses, waiting in freezing anticipation. He had no intention of joining that motley-looking crew but strode up the two marble steps, freshly cleared of snow, to the internal glass doors. He pressed his open passport against the glass and shouted to the formidable uniformed character behind it he had an appointment. The man looked first at him, then at his passport, and with an air of complete disdain, which seemed to be a permanent fixture of his countenance, strode off into the interior of the building, none of which was carried out with any great sense of urgency or purpose. The Englishman drew his heavy coat around him it had started to snow again. He turned, and looked more closely at those gathered there seeking pastures new, or maybe, just maybe, they were like him?

Goliath-in-uniform returned and started to open the glass doors, there was a surge of movement from behind, the waiting Englishman was almost dragged inside and the glass doors hurriedly shut behind him. On the other side of the glass divide it was a good twenty degrees warmer; but by the look on the man-mountain’s face ‘he’ was not employed to instil warmth. Goliath pointed silently but positively to the stairs, the Englishman dutifully followed his directions. At the head of the stairs stood an attractive young woman who again said nothing but pointed to a door across the narrow landing, slightly ajar. He smiled, pointed at the door, she nodded, turned, and like her compatriot below, disappeared into the bowels of the building.

He knocked on the door, didn’t wait for a reply but entered. Sat behind a small desk, in an even smaller room, was a man of indeterminate age. His hair was receding slightly from his temples, though showed no sign of greying. His almost childlike skin was still taught on his face. He had a hawkish look with sharp prominent nose and thin lips but it was his eyes that were his overriding feature. They were like smooth oval pebbles and had the look of a trained observer. He looked up slowly from the paperwork before him and gestured his visitor to sit the other side of his desk, casually watching him as he did so. His visitor, for his part, seemed oblivious and dug in the inside pocket of his topcoat and took out his passport. He slid it across the desk, face-up and over the top of the paperwork. Hawkeye pick it up, lent back in his chair, and went through the motions of studying it.

‘Ah yes, Mr. Mason, Mr. Clive Mason, and what brings you to the delights of Estonia?’

Mason didn’t answer directly but rather mimicked the gestures of the man opposite, leant back in his chair and looked around the room, paying particular attention to close circuit TV camera on the far wall observing them. Next to it was a small screen showing where he’d been stood awaiting entry. Hawkeye placed the passport down, in a short quick movement, his guest shot out a hand, retrieved it, and placed it back in his topcoat, which he’d not removed. His gaze locked on to the official opposite. ‘Well I’ll tell you this, it wasn’t the delights of your emporium’ he gestured about him.

That diplomatic masque painted on all who took up his line of employment showed the smallest sign of slippage, he suppressed a smirk, as it left his face he said with a light hearted grimace. ‘By your passport Mr. Mason you look to have been about quite a bit?’

‘I have, and I’ve come here to put myself about a bit more, in the way of business that is.’ Mason’s gaze sharpened on the man sat opposite, he continued, ‘You know perfectly well why I’m here as I’ve been in contact with this embassy over the last three or four weeks telling you precisely that, plus asking for any advice or assistance you might be able to offer in that direction. Now, I’m here purely to register my presence in the country, as I know, through past experience, that you guys like it…well, I’m here, register me!’

The faintest of smiles did cross those thin lips and it tended to linger longer than before as he took a deeper interest in the person sat opposite him. He asked, ‘Do you have any other kind of travel plans Mr. Mason apart from the flesh pots of Estonia?’

Mason didn’t answer, but leant further back in his chair and stared intently at the man asking questions. Running through his mind was that he didn’t look like any kind of diplomat he’d ever seen before, in his line of work, he’d seen quite a few. For starters he wasn’t suited and booted but wore an open-necked shirt, admittedly white, with his cuffs turned back at the wrists. His demeanour was one of relaxed, yet concentrated efficiency. Added to which was how he framed and asked his question, something which at first meeting, Clive Mason found difficult to fathom, he returned the official’s gaze and with a flippant retort said, ‘Depends on what might happen here.’

There was a long drawn out ‘yeees’ from the official, ‘I thought you might say something like that.’ Hawkeye leant across his desk and fixed his guest with those penetrating pebbles that were his eyes. ‘Well, if you do, let me know before you go wandering off, will you? Tell me, are you going to attend the trade conference and exhibition at the Hotel Viru tomorrow?’

Mason stood up, pulled his heavy top coat about him, and started to fasten the buttons, still looking at the seated man. Mason leant towards him but not enough to imply mock intimidation, ‘Look, if we’re going to work together, and it looks that way, know this about me; I don’t stand on any kind of ceremony, I like it straight from the shoulder, and everyone I know calls me Mace, just Mace. So, what handle do you answer to?’

Hawkeye blinked, clearly not a line in conversation he’d often encountered, nor a question he’d been asked too many times in such a direct manner. However he rose to the occasion with an equally blunt reply. ‘Charlie’ he said smirking, ‘just call me Charlie.’

‘Well Charlie, I might do both those things.’ Mason grimaced sarcastically, and turned to leave the room, before he’d cleared it, he said back over his shoulder, ‘But then again, I may not.’

Mace descended the stairs with a wisp of a smile as he thought of a diplomat called ‘Charlie’. All the previous ones he’d ever met were the complete opposite to the man he’d just seen, with names like Rupert, Justin, or Tristram… not Charlie. His attire, his general appearance, didn’t fit any kind of pattern for people in his supposed position, well, not any he’d come up against. They were without exception, the suited and booted type, and normally holier than thou.

Leaving the building, he didn’t know it but as well as being filmed by the embassy CCTV, he was also being filmed by a camera in the apartment block opposite. The Russian regime may have departed in an official capacity, but it had left behind many tentacles of old order – plus much more besides.

Mace liked to familiarise himself with any new territory he’d just entered. That way he got the feel of the place and saw how it ticked. To him that could only be achieved on foot being on the ground, literarily, was his preferred method. For that reason he had set aside his first day in Tallinn, it had stopped snowing, for which he was grateful.

He entered the old town through the main square; there the massive medieval walls no longer existed, those walls were impressive, being built long before concrete-loving communism. The square set the scene for the rest of his sojourn through the old city of Tallinn; built in hanseatic times, run down, and drab.

It reminded him of a Hogarth painting or engraving, minus the people, for people in any great number there were not. Whereas Hogarth used people to set his scenes and give purpose and meaning those empty streets did that by their emptiness. He caught the occasional glimpse of someone scurrying in out of the cold, but for a capital city it was remarkably quite. It later dawned on him why that was so, there was virtually no commerce apart from: bars, cafés, and food shops. Everything else lay outside the old town walls.

Mace did his home work; there was no way he’d wander into a place blind, he already knew there was no love lost between the Russians and Estonians, to which the Gulags bore witness.

Estonia’s the most northerly of the three Baltic States, and faces Finland across the Gulf of Finland; they even speak a language very similar to Finnish and have little difficulty in understanding each other. Wandering the cobbled streets and alleyways of the old town Mace became convinced that since the Russians had held the water-based Olympics there the place had gone untouched with regard to any kind of maintenance.

The hotel in which he was ensconced was the last throw of that particular set of dice accounting for its name. If you were Russian it was the place you’d most like to be sent, it was close to the West, and communism tried its hardest, and failed, to mimic and impress its neighbours.

Tallinn is Estonia’s major city, capital, and sea port. It contains most of its industry and half of its population, hence Mace’s presence.

He looked at his watch surprised to see it was well into the afternoon. He should’ve known without consulting his timepiece, his stomach was grumbling to be fed. He set out, back through the cobbled streets to where he’d earlier seen an assortment of bars and cafés.

What made him enter the bar he eventually settled on he’ll never know for it was much like the rest. From the outside, like everything else, it had that same forlorn look. The only thing singling it out was its large picture window which extended to the floor. The tables and chairs clearly visible to the outside world; perhaps it was its openness?

His choice was confirmed, inside it was warm and cosy. He walked to the counter-cum-bar over a flagstone floor. Sat on the counter was a glass display cabinet containing the eats on offer, although far more appetising was the person stood behind the bar. He blinked, she was one of the most strikingly- beautiful women he’d seen in a long time, and she was watching him with an interest as intense as his own.

He asked for a beer and pointed to one of the open sandwiches in the cabinet. As soon as he’d opened his mouth she spoke, asking in perfect English, ‘Are you American?’

He scowled and informed her he most certainly was not.

Her wide-open face lit up as if he’d conferred on himself some form of honoured accolade.

‘So you’re English? What brings you to Eesti?’

He watched as she prepared his request saying nothing. It was clear she didn’t normally do it for a living. She placed the beer and sandwich on the counter between them, Mace offered her a five hundred Kroon note, apologising for its denominational size. He stood waiting for his change, which eventually he received. Beautiful as she was, and she was very beautiful, he’d been around long enough to be wary of such a direct approach by any female; no matter how attractive. With his natural English reserve he was cautious, eventually answering guardedly. ‘Business.’ Imagining that was an end to it.

He went and sat in the corner by the window, placing his small repast on the table in front of him, he stared outside, fighting the urge to look back at her. He sipped his beer taking in the view of the empty icy street beyond the plate glass divide. He took a bite of his sandwich. It was bland, but his stomach was grateful.

The barmaid didn’t posses his scruples, nor was she easily fobbed off. She emerged from behind the counter, coffee cup in hand, and a wide friendly smile radiating from her lovely open face. Without the least hesitation, she came towards him, her high heels clicking sharply over the flagstone floor. He’d never figured out what it was about that sound that turned men on, but it does. It’s a good man who can resist looking up when he hears it. She stood poised looking down at him as she asked, ‘May I join you?’

Mace put down his beer and sandwich and looked at her, she was more than easy to look at. He could smell her perfume which was cultured and complex, definitely not Soviet. Trying not to let her see his interest, he looked her up and down and as he did, he felt a warm flush traversed his body. In that brief moment, he realised there was something other than her beauty that intrigued him.

‘What about all your other customers?’ he asked mockingly gesturing at the empty bar. She followed his gaze and with an even wider smile, and equally quick thinking, answered, ‘Oh I think I can cope with the rush.’ She repeated her request, ‘May I join you?’

He gestured palm uppermost to the seat on the other side of the table, ‘be my guest.’

She slid easily onto the seat the sound of her clothes rustling against her body increased his rising interest. Settling herself Mace sensed she was weighing him up, as he was her. She was around his age, maybe a bit younger, mid to late twenties. Her long flaxen hair wound round in a tight bun that sat neatly at the back of a perfectly-formed head. It showed off her slender neck and small ears which sat tightly against her head. Her pupils were a deep chocolate brown and shone out from a sea of pristine white. They were wide spread, giving her beauty a look of innocence, and a slender dainty nose sat over a full and sensual mouth. Everything about her was neat and tidy and in perfect balance, from her clothes to her bearing, definitely not the floozy bar maid type. Again her forwardness took him off guard, ‘My name is Natasha, what’s yours?’

As he was to learn this woman was if nothing else – very direct.

‘Mace, just call me Mace.’ With an air of caution he asked, ‘Tell me Natasha would I be correct in assuming you’re one of the great left behind, and serving behind a bar is not what you do best?’

Her expression changed, she regarded him with greater interest and scrutiny. She was adjusting her first impression. He watched her, watching him, and sensed she was not only direct but also astute. She oozed confidence, ‘Tell me Mr. Mace what part of the England do you come from?’

‘No particular part, wherever the mood takes me really – why?’ Being well-travelled, and in some unsavoury places, he’d never divulge such information to a complete stranger no matter how beautiful. He watched her open face as her eyes slightly narrowed, he sensed her readjusting her first perceptions.

Her smile reappeared as he finishing off his sandwich, supping at his rapidly-emptying glass and looking at her over the top of its rim. She asked if wanted a refill but he declined.

He leant back in his chair and took a long hard look at the stranger opposite asking personal questions. He pushed the plate and glass to one side and then leant on the table with his forearms, returning her gaze. Gone any reserve he may have wished to keep, ‘So what’s this all about Natasha? I can tell by your questions you’re no barmaid. What was your profession before you were left behind after the Great Russian withdrawal? You and all the others.’

He watched her thinking, she returned to the developing game of cat & mouse. Pushing herself back she regarded Mace with greater scrutiny. ‘You’re well informed, and because of that, plus you’ve not made any kind of physical advance towards me, you are assuredly no American.’

‘Thank you,’ he said bowing slightly from the waist. ‘I’ll take that as a compliment. There’s no use coming to a country in which you hope to do business if you don’t first ‘bone up’ on how that country ticks, at the very least in a general way. So, what was your job or profession before the great retreat.’

‘I was linguist. Tell me what does ‘bone up’ mean?’

‘Figures,’ he smiled, ‘to coin an Americanism. ‘Bone up’ is a term used to describe, shall we say, checking your facts or learning more. Is your Estonian as good as your English?’

Her face lit up, she half laughed half chuckled, a sound soft and warm, like her eyes. Along with her lilting accent, it sent shivers of delight down his spine, which he trusted were well hidden as he tried to maintain his English cool.

‘It is,’ she replied, ‘my mother was Estonian and my father Russian. I speak both languages fluently and have a good grasp of French and German.’

‘I am impressed, who did you work for before the collapse?’

She hesitated. It was long enough for Mace to have doubts about her answer, she told him she’d taught. His gaze intensified as he studied the woman so full of personal questions, he gave her the proverbial double-take.

‘I think not, Natasha, you look as much like a teacher as you do a barmaid – KGB was it?’ his words were delivered as a flippant throw-away line. With no warning, she reached out her hand and placed it on his clasped ones still resting on the table. The smile left her face as her thoughts about him crystallised, in her warm soft Russian accent she replied, ‘You are a very observant man, Mr. Mace. You should do well in Estonia. How would you like a good and willing interpreter?’

Mace looked at her warm hand rested on his, then in the clear brown eyes of a woman he’d known for a brief moment. His gaze returned to her hand resting on his. What he said next surprised even him. ‘In business, Natasha, observation of the one with whom you intend to do business is most essential. Be at the Hotel Olympia at eight o’clock and we’ll discuss it over dinner.’

With more than a little reluctance and regret he withdrew his hands, giving her a gentle smile he stood, buttoned his coat, and left the bar. Walking into the fading light and softly falling snow he sensed those gorgeous brown eyes on his back.

Approaching the hotel, he still thought about her, it was difficult not to, his thoughts were those of self-chastisement. You’ve been steamrollered my lad, suckered in, allowing yourself to be manoeuvred by a beautiful face, you haven’t been in the country twenty four hours. Watch it, Mace, be careful where that lovely woman may wish to lead you.

Back at the hotel, he was learning that if wanted any of the normal requisites in life such as toilet paper, towels etc. you had to ask; because like a suitcase, if you left them lying around they disappeared into the ether, the thing that amused him most was the complete lack of basin or bath plugs. In his later travels, he became convinced somewhere in deepest Russia there was a plug mountain, watched over by the plug mafia.

He showered, there being no bath in the cupboard they called a bathroom, he was in the bar by seven-thirty. From there it gave him a clear view of the foyer and an early warning of the approach or otherwise, of his dinner guest. He noticed three heavies patrolling the foyer. Their main task, it seemed, was keeping the ladies of the night at bay, he witnessed them escort two disgruntled woman out into that cold bleak night.

No one could’ve missed Natasha’s entry; wrapped in fur from top to toe her entrance rivalled that of the Queen of Sheba. All that fur couldn’t hide that underneath there was one very commanding woman. She’d shown up, and how. Mace watched the heavies and waited for their reaction to her entrance, bracing himself to become her Knight Errant should it prove necessary. It didn’t, she appeared to know one of them; spending a moment talking and laughing with him she then pointed in Mace’s direction. He stood and nodded his recognition as she walked briskly towards him, divesting herself of the fur farm as she approached. Her