The Spy Devils by Joe Goldberg (top rated books of all time .TXT) 📕

you go again with what your father will do to me,” said Bridger, cutting him off. “I have an idea! Why don’t we call him? What do you say? The Wi-Fi booster signal is great. It is picking up the coastal network surprisingly well. Where is your phone?”

Oleksandr’s hooded head was still and signaled to Bridger the puzzled feeling of a child who unexpectedly got exactly what he asked for.

Bridger pulled an iPhone from his pocket. “Could this be it? You should use a passcode. Let me look at your contact list. Ah, I see one here that says FATHER. I will assume this is it.”

He held down a number releasing the electronic speed dial beep. He pushed the speaker button, leaned forward, and placed it between the debris on the coffee table.

“It is on speaker. Oh, I speak Ukrainian—chudovo—perfectly. So, if you are thinking about saying something inappropriate, don’t.”

Demon grunted in response.

Clicks and ringing came from the phone. After a few seconds, a sleepy voice answered. It was also just after 1 a.m. in Kyiv.

“Who is this?” said a muffled, sleepy voice.

“Father! It is Oleksandr.”

“What?”

“It’s Oleksandr. I—I am in trouble.”

There was an uncomfortable pause. Then the voice continued—its words spoken methodically. “You are in trouble? You are always in trouble. Or drunk. Or on drugs.”

“Father!” Oleksandr pleaded in a shocked voice.

“You will have to deal with whatever it is. I am going back to sleep.”

“There are men. They have come aboard the boat and taken me hostage.”

“Boat? You have a boat?”

“I…well…I,” Olek knew he had made a mistake mentioning the boat.

“What do they want?”

“I am not sure. They want to talk to me.”

“So, you called me to tell me you are talking to some men?

“Yes, but—”

“No more money. And don’t go crying to Ira. She isn’t your mother. Don’t call me again until you become a man.”

There was a click, then a double peep, and then silence. Oleksandr sat motionless. Slowly, his hood sunk to rest on his chest. Bridger heard a slight sniffle, then he saw Oleksandr’s shoulders start to quiver. Bridger walked over, sat on the couch's arm, rested his hands on his thighs, and leaned toward the boy.

“Do you want to talk now?”

The hood nodded. The sound of sobbing came through the hood. His shoulders were bent over and shaking.

Bridger circled back to the food, picked up an olive, and popped it in his mouth. “I want to know everything,” he said, a look of satisfaction on his face. “Right. Now.”

Sitting in the safe house apartment on Baseinaya Street located in the center of Kyiv, Milton powered off his phone and disconnected it from his laptop. Beatrice filled three glasses with a few inches of red wine.

Exhaling a deep breath, Milton took a glass and sat back against the fake leather couch.

“What’s the matter, Milton?” Imp asked with weary sarcasm. He also took a glass. “It worked just like I said it would.”

“Like I said it would,” Milton replied.

“It went very well. You both did well,” Beatrice spoke up, acting as mediator.

“It did, didn’t it?” Milton reached for the bottle and poured the remainder of the wine into the empty glass. “It worked perfectly. That kid is crapping his pants now that daddy has rejected him.”

Under the auspices of a software engineering company owned and operated within the Spy Devils’ cover network, Milton worked with third-party tech vendors to develop an artificial intelligence program that could learn any voice and mimic it perfectly in seconds. Milton inputted into software algorithms videos of dozens of Viktor Bondar’s Ukrainian and English language interviews, speeches, and sound bites. The computer program analyzed his speech for idiosyncrasies, pronunciation, phonations, articulation, or any other characteristics of the spoken word.

When Bridger called from Olek’s boat, Milton spoke Bondar’s fake responses into the computer. The program immediately created near-perfect sentences in Bondar’s voice.

“It helps that the idiot on the other end of the conversation is, well, an idiot. If he wasn’t, we wouldn’t be here. He is crying like a baby,” Imp said, sitting back and resting his feet on the coffee table. “Now, quiet, we have to listen to this.”

31

Sharks in the Med

Off the coast of Cyprus

On the yacht, a devastated Oleksandr sat on the couch. His bound hands still made sitting awkward. Muffled short breaths escaped as he swayed his stooped shoulders a few inches to the left, then back to the right. Bridger sat to his right with his hand resting on the shaking shoulder.

“Olek. Now is the right time to start talking. I will listen.”

When Oleksandr finally spoke, he explained the boat was purchased with Kirkwood monies. He provided the name of Theo Giannokis as the family banker in Cyprus. He explained that the Bondar family owned the bank to hide any business transactions his father wanted hidden.

“This is all very interesting, Olek, but it isn’t near enough,” Bridger said scornfully.

Bridger knew that his Kyiv-based team would be listening through a secure audio channel Bridger had opened using the ship’s Wi-Fi. In less than fifteen seconds, a “got him” squawked through his secure communications earpiece. Olek was telling the truth.

“I need you to tell me the connection between Theo and his main counterpart in Kyiv. Second, as I said earlier, I need to find this case. Have you ever heard of Hillcrest?”

“No. I don’t know anything about any of that,” he said defiantly.

Oleksandr’s defiant reply did not sit well with Bridger. Oleksandr was regaining his senses. He had stopped his swaying. His posture was more erect.

“Olek, how come I don’t believe you? I think you know more than you are telling me.”

“Talk to my sister, Ira. She knows everything. Ask her.”

“Oh, I plan to. Right now, I am talking to you and trying hard to believe you. I am. But I don’t.”

“I don’t care what you think. I have told you everything.” His defiance was a mistake.

“This is bullshit. If he doesn’t answer, I am going to toss him overboard,” Demon said, still leaning