The Tahitian Pearl: A John Otter Novel (John Otter Novels Book 2) Read online

  Chapter 39

  John lay unconscious on the back deck as Ingrid hurried from the interior with the medical kit. Claire stepped out and saw the pool of blood covering the swim platform. She let out a cry and pushed past Ingrid to kneel at John's side. Alexi held both hands over John’s left shoulder wound, trying to stem the bleeding. The blood, however, still seeped through his fingers. Claire grabbed John's head in her hands.

  "John! John answer me!" she screamed. John's head was limp, and he was unresponsive. Claire looked up into Alexi's cool, blue eyes, and she saw fear there.

  Ingrid walked up and knelt beside Alexi. She opened the medical kit and pulled out the IVs and bandages. She looked at Claire, holding John's head, tears streaming down her cheeks, and Ingrid swallowed hard. This is what men wanted, she thought.

  "Claire, leave him, you're getting in the way," Ingrid said as harshly as she could muster.

  Claire shook her head, like a small child. Ingrid felt a rare pang of guilt, and something else. Fear? Despair? It was every emotion she was so used to shoving down deep inside and hiding in order to protect herself. She couldn't bear Claire's tears any longer. She knew that she, too, was on the brink of crying. That would only hurt John. He needed the calm, detached professional that Ingrid was, and not an emotional girl.

  Alexi sensed everything and looked at Claire. "Claire, please, step back, let Ingrid help John."

  Ingrid thanked Alexi silently for not having forced her to ask Claire again. She knew her voice would have probably cracked with emotion if she had. She looked at Mary, who came up behind Claire and placed her hand on her shoulder. Claire laid John’s head down softly on the deck like precious cargo before getting off the wet deck and following Mary inside.

  Ingrid braced herself and looked at her surrogate father's face. His look was grave.

  "It's bad, through and through, lots of blood loss," Alexi said in Russian.

  Ingrid nodded and removed the heavy gauze from the medical kit.

  "On my mark, turn him on his side. I will cover both entry and exit wounds at the same time," Ingrid said. Alexi nodded.

  "Now," Ingrid commanded and Alexi rolled John onto his side. He removed his left hand from the exit wound, which was ragged and large. A crimson streak of blood crept down John's back. Ingrid covered the wound quickly, with heavy gauze and tape, then she preceded to do the same on the front. Dmitry appeared on the aft deck when Alexi saw him.

  "Dmitry, get the stretcher, open the guest cabin starboard side, clear out everything. We will put him in there."

  Dmitry put down the rifle, it's barrel hissing from the steam of touching the wet deck and he went to retrieve the stretcher.

  Moments later, they picked up John and carried him inside. His wound was dressed, but when Ingrid checked his blood pressure, she found it dangerously low. Ingrid began to set up an IV. She knew that Alexi was tired, and she worried about his heart.

  "Alexi, go, take Dmitry and I'll continue here. There's nothing else you can do."

  Alexi nodded. He knew she was right. Although he loathed to admit it, he was exhausted. His heart was hurting, and he knew he needed to sit down. The last thing he needed was for Ingrid to have to take care of two people.

  Ingrid slipped the IV into John’s arm, and he stirred a little before passing out again. She wanted to give him morphine for the pain, but his low blood pressure made her nervous about doing it. He would have to endure the pain until she was able to bring him up to a more normal blood pressure.

  The gauzes were already colored a deep red. She would be able to sustain him aboard for, maybe, 10 hours, but he needed a doctor and a hospital, badly. Otherwise, she knew he wouldn't make it.

  She sat down heavily on the edge of the bed. She looked at his face, a pale white compared to its normal walnut complexion. She felt deep sadness, and something else. She reached out her hand and touched his cheek softly. She brushed the hair from his face, and she realized she already missed him. His smile, always broad, full of light and joy, and all the things she tried to repress tugged at her. She thought of their night together, and how after she had pulled away as she always did with men. Fearful to let them too close. She wished she had made a different choice with him.

  "Come back to me, John," she said softly as she leaned in and kissed him gently.

  Ingrid wiped the tears from her eyes and got up to walk toward the door. She opened it to find Claire, standing there, her eyes red with tears. Ingrid wanted to shut the door, to keep her from him, but she couldn't bring herself to be that cruel.

  "He's sleeping now, Claire, you can see him, but don't disturb him," Ingrid said with a softness her voice hadn't had in years.

  Claire shocked Ingrid by grabbing her in a hug, so forceful and unexpected that Ingrid felt fresh tears forming.

  "Thank you," Claire said, as she released Ingrid and went inside.

  Ingrid closed the door. She walked down the hallway with feelings she hadn't felt since she was a little girl.

  Chapter 40

  Alexi walked into his study with Dmitry close at hand. He stumbled over to his couch and flopped down with relish as the exhaustion of the day's events began to take a toll on his sixty-five-year-old body.

  Dmitry sat down opposite from Alexi and looked at him with concern. Alexi was no longer a young man, and he suffered from high blood pressure. Dmitry wondered what toll the day's events had taken on his longtime friend's aging body.

  "Are you alright, Alexi?"

  Alexi didn't hear Dmitry as he picked up the phone by his chair and called the bridge. Sweeney answered.

  "Sweeney.”

  "How's John?" Sweeney asked.

  "Not good, he is bleeding badly. He is resting. Give me Captain Brown, please."

  Sweeney handed the phone to Captain Brown. Sweeney took over the helm, his hand still shaking a little as he grabbed the wheel. John might not make it.

  "Captain Brown, what is the situation with the naval Medevac?"

  "I have called the USS Enterprise and they say they are altering course to get within helicopter range. But it might be twelve hours. They need approvals."

  "Net!" Alexi screamed in Russian as he slammed the phone down.

  "Alexi," Dmitry started to say, when his friend's hand shot up in his face telling him to shut up. He recognized the familiar flame of anger in Alexi's face that, nowadays, was rarely exposed. He knew better than to push Alexi; besides, it was moments like these when Alexi shone.

  Alexi picked up the phone again and dialed 9 to get an open satellite line. He called the Moscow number he only used for the most serious of emergencies.

  The voice was groggy on the phone as it was picked up. "Da,” the voice said in Russian.

  "Defense minister, Alexi here. I need your help."

  Ten minutes later, the defense minister hung up the phone. He pressed the bell on his desk and a smartly dressed army bodyguard appeared at the door.

  "Summon the car, and call headquarters. I want a report of all Russian vessels in the Arabian Sea." The guard saluted and headed back out the door.

  The defense minister knew better than to cross Alexi. To not do as Alexi had requested was political suicide. Alexi had gotten him elected. Both he and the prime minister owed Alexi their careers. One didn't cross one of the wealthiest men in Russia.

  Alexi put down the phone and looked up at Dmitry. He forced a smile.

  "I'm fine, Dmitry. John, who can know?" He said as he ran a hand through his grey hair.

  He reached out for the glass tumbler of his favorite Cognac. A noticeable tremble made the ice cubes clink softly in the glass. He raised it to his lips quickly and took a deep drag of the amber liquid.

  "You have done all you can for him, Alexi."

  Alexi nodded. Dmitry waited for Alexi to speak, as he always did. Alexi was a man of few words, but he always needed to converse when there was a close call. It was the same back in Chechnya, and Dmitry knew that his friend would speak now.


  "Pirates, how strange. All these years, all the risks, and I almost die at the hands of simple pirates."

  He raised the glass again and took another swig before reaching the glass out toward the table. It shook again as he laid it down on the soft mahogany. Dmitry saw the shake, and Alexi smiled.

  "The adrenaline, always made me shake. You know that." Alexi smiled again. "Unless I was behind the rifle. Then it was surreal; so far, so calm."

  "And you were a better shot than me for it," Dmitry said.

  "Dmitry, we were a good team you and me. You did very well today."

  "Alexi, we have a problem," Dmitry said.

  Alexi shook his head. "I should have armed the vessel with soldiers. It’s a problem we can now remedy. Pirates," Alexi said again with wonderment. "I had no..."

  "Alexi, I have reason to believe they were not pirates."

  Dmitry dropped the envelope in front of him, which contained the photographs he had taken of the men aboard the pirate vessel. He handed them over to Alexi.

  "What are these?"

  "They’re photos of the pirates, taken by the rifle scope."

  Alexi opened the file and spread the photos out on the wooden table. "They are not Somali, they look Arab. Perhaps a new group of Arab pirates trying to get in on the million-dollar ransoms?"

  "I would say this is a possibility. Except for one thing, Alexi." Dmitry handed over the shot of Abdul. "I know him."

  Alexi was stunned. He looked up at Dmitry with questions burned into his blue eyes.

  "Rather, we know him," Dmitry finished.

  "Tell me, Dmitry, how do we know him?" Alexi asked slumping back in the ostrich leather couch.

  Chapter 41

  Defense Minister Yuri Youchenco hung up the phone and rubbed his tired eyes. He knew there would be hell to pay, but he had no choice. All for some stupid American.

  Just 150 miles from the yacht, Ivana, a Kamov Ka-60 helicopter slid out from its hangar and began preflight checks. The Udaloy-class 1 destroyer, Severomorsk, was in transit from its home in the Black Sea at the Sevastopol Naval base to its stationing post at the strait of Hormuz, when the call from central command had come in.

  The helicopter was one of the finest in the Russian fleet; and also had one of the longest ranges. The air crew rushed to attach the additional long-range fuel tanks onboard the helicopters belly to give her even further range, nearly 450 miles.

  The helicopter took off thirty minutes after command had called and would be on the Ivana in less than 2 hours.

  Yuri picked up the red phone on his desk and dialed the number. The prime minister's residential secretary picked up. Yuri wanted to start the damage control as quickly as possible.

  Chapter 42

  Dmitry began to recount to Alexi how they knew the man in the picture, Abdul.

  Dmitri had recognized the Abdul in the rifle scope instantly. Dmitry generally preferred to operate on his own, usually using a small crew if necessary, for operations that required discretion. That way there were no leaks, and no loose ends. Alexi preferred it that way as well. However, there were certain parts of the world where Dmitry, the large six-foot six, pale white Russian with blue eyes, could not blend in. Egypt was one of those places.

  While sitting at the outdoor cafe in Cairo, Dmitry had noticed the same small, wiry, back of his contact. It was a full ten minutes before the man finally turned and approached Dmitry's table.

  He was jabbering loudly in Arabic on his cell phone, as was typical it seemed of Middle Eastern men. Dmitry motioned with his eyes for the man to sit; the man instead dropped a card on the ground and proceeded to walk by. Dmitry was annoyed by the Hollywood theatrics. Abdul had probably seen too many bad movies on ripped DVDs. Dmitry made no move for the card, nonetheless. He merely glanced at the card. It showed the name of some nondescript electronics store, no doubt nearby. He waited a while longer, ordering another coffee and a Turkish Danish, while enjoying the delicacies slowly just in case he was being watched. He had no fear of Abdul not waiting, as Dmitry was the money. People always waited for the money.

  After another half hour of waiting, Dmitry finally paid his bill and left. He sauntered slowly in the direction that Abdul had gone. He browsed at the windows of the many shops along the way, looking every bit the eager shopper. He noticed the electronics shop on the card in the reflection of the window he was gazing in. He made a show of examining an item in the street window before reluctantly making his way inside. Abdul was standing behind the counter. He smiled politely, and asked in English, "Can I help you, sir?"

  The first thing that Dmitry had noticed was that the man was very dark, darker than most Arabs. Dmitry had a feeling that he was a mix of some kind. African roots, no doubt. All that Dmitry had been told by his handler, was that the man was expensive, but worth every penny. He was virtually unknown to the authorities, which was always a plus, and he was discreet. Very, very discreet.

  "I'm looking for a camera," Dmitry replied, in his heavily accented English.

  "What kind?" Abdul replied, playing along.

  "Sony," he said, hoping that the charade would soon end.

  "I have one I think in stock. Please follow me, sir." Abdul shouted something in Arabic at an older looking man, with divots and scars on his face. The man grunted and took up a position behind the counter. Abdul led Dmitry toward the back of the building and through a small door. It was exactly what you expected in the back of an electronics store: a stock room with all manner of electronics lining the shelves.

  "This is a clean room,” Abdul said quickly in fluent Russian. Dmitry was surprised to hear the man speak with such a native tongue. Dmitry said nothing and quickly removed two small devices from his coat. One was a RF frequency receiver, a very sensitive one. The device detected radio transmissions on any spectrum of radio frequency and would alert the user that something was transmitting information to the outside world. It glowed a solid green indicating that the room was not transmitting anything.

  The second device looked like a small tape recorder, but it was in fact the opposite. It produced a high frequency signal of white noise that tape recorders picked up and effectively drowned human voice conversation down to unintelligible blips. Abdul smiled at the precautions; the Russians were always so careful.

  Abdul removed the file from a shelf and handed it to Dmitry.

  "There is the information you requested," Abdul said.

  Dmitry removed the packet of five thousand dollars and handed it to Abdul. He opened the folder and looked at Alexi's current problem.

  Mohammed Abodeen, was an older man, nearly in his 60s, Dmitry guessed. Salt and pepper hair, and a progeny of noise hair under a heavy-set face, were his most outstanding attributes. As well as greed, of course. He said nothing as he flipped through Abdul's surveillance footage of the last two weeks. Abdul had done a good job. There were compromising photos of Mr. Abodeen entering a younger woman's apartment, no doubt a mistress of some sort. There were also bank transactions where he was stashing his bribes. It was more than enough evidence to incriminate a man of his standing in most countries, but not in Egypt.

  Mr. Abodeen was stealing and bribing just like everyone else in Egypt. Dmitry could have cared less, one more thief in public office in the Middle East was hardly newsworthy. But Mr. Abodeen made the unfortunate mistake of stealing from Alexi Popovich.

  He closed the folder and handed it back to Abdul. Abdul looked at Dmitry wondering whether he had done enough work to keep the Russian happy. The large Russian's face was stoic and hard to read.

  "Very good," Dmitry said.

  Abdul breathed a sigh of relief, and his white teeth blasted into a crooked smile contrasting heavily with his dark face.

  "Anything else?" Abdul asked hoping there was.

  "Yes, grab him, make it discreet, and bring him to this address." Dmitry handed over a small note with the address on it.

  Abdul frowned, ever the negotiator. "This will be very expensive. He is a
government official, very dangerous for me."

  Dmitry had expected this. "Fifty thousand dollars. Yes?"

  Abdul could hardly disguise his enthusiasm. "Perfect, sir, and in what condition would you like him to be delivered?”

  "Scared. Alive, but very, very scared."

  "Understood," Abdul said with a flourish, as he opened the door.

  Chapter 43

  Dmitry recalled sitting patiently in the dark, black room waiting for Abdul and his henchman to return with the very unfortunate Mr. Abodeen. Mr. Abodeen was a harbor pilot in the Suez Canal. Harbor pilots were highly skilled mariners located in virtually every port in the world. They were paid captains with local knowledge of the waters in a particular port and were required by law in most countries and especially through canals like the Suez. Without one, a ship was not allowed to pass.

  Abdul and his man Faris were over an hour late, and Dmitry was beginning to doubt the efficacy of the little Arab when he heard the sounds of tires on asphalt pull into the back of the building. Dmitry opened the door and watched as Abdul and Faris dragged the hooded man from the car. His rotund belly swayed as he struggled feebly against the bigger and younger men. Dmitry stepped aside and let the men pass. Abdul gave Dmitry a grin as he passed, and then threw the man into a chair set in the middle of the room.

  Dmitry knew enough about intelligence gathering to know that foreplay was essential. If you merely brutalized a person, they would say anything to make it stop. But if you warmed them up ahead of time, showing them what kind damage you were willing to inflict, the person would usually imagine things much worse than were really possible. It was the victim’s imagination that Dmitry liked to use to coax out information, not the torture itself.

  Dmitry sat down in his chair in the corner of the room. His questions were already in Abdul's head, he needed only to ask them to Mr. Abodeen. Had Dmitry questioned Mr. Abodeen himself, his accent would have tipped him off as to the identity of his employer. That would have been an unacceptable outcome since he was planning on letting Mr. Abodeen live.