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

a blinding brightness. Pavlo flopped his head to his chest. Snot and drops of blood trickled from his nose onto his shirt.

Rudenko came into the room and grinned at Koval.

“These men are serious. I want them to stop, so you and Tinka can leave. I can only hold them off for so long. And then I can’t stop what they do to Tinka, or you. Now is the time. Not a minute from now. Not ten seconds. Now.”

“The bank. In the basement,” Pavlo whispered immediately.

The lights dimmed more.

“We need to go get it. Can you help with that?”

Pavlo nodded.

“Excellent. Don’t worry about Tinka.”

“I…I want…to see her…see Tinka,” Pavlo panted each word with heavy breaths.

“She will be fine, as long as you help me.” The voice was closer. Pavlo looked up to see a man in a cap standing over him. “Tell me all about the case and the bank.”

Pavlo nodded again. He was broken.

38

Truth is Stranger than Fiction

Over the Atlantic

When Peter opened his eyes, he felt like he had fallen asleep in the boring black-and-white corporate intelligence world and awoke in the magically colorful world of espionage.

It was right out of a Daniel Silva novel.

The future of his company and perhaps his career rested on his assignment to locate some mystery case from an evil oligarch in Kyiv. He was working with an even more mysterious bunch of spies named the Spy Devils. The man who created the private intelligence consulting industry—and in some spheres was considered one of the most powerful men in the world—was treating him like a colleague.

“My home in the sky,” Chapel told Peter, as he glanced around the tans, browns, and polished wood accents of his Bombardier Global 7500 private plane.

“Quite a home. It is bigger than my split-level hovel in the Chicago suburbs,” Peter quipped. “Saying ‘this is nice’ is an understatement.”

“It does serve a purpose. My life can be somewhat hectic.”

Chapel smiled, then picked up an already open bottle of red wine, filled a glass, and handed it to Peter. He filled one for himself and set the bottle down.

“Never too early,” Chapel declared. “It is a simple Louis Jadot Pommard 2010. A full-bodied red. Look for the hint of raspberries, spices, and mint. Cheers.”

Chapel swirled his wine, looked at it, stuck his nose inside the glass. He inhaled, sipped, sucked it around his mouth, then swallowed. His face showed his satisfaction.

“This won’t take long—a quick hop over the Atlantic. A stop at Heathrow to refuel, then on to Ukraine. From there, I will let you proceed with your plans. Until then, make yourself at home. Ms. Stead will take care of you. If you will excuse me, I need to take care of a little business.”

Chapel turned toward the rear of the plane, opened a door, and disappeared.

“May I get you something?” a pleasant voice said. Peter turned and was face to face with a smiling woman wearing a white shirt with Danforth Chapel Company sewn over her left breast. She was in her twenties and wore the look of someone who enjoyed her life flying the world with powerful people.

“Maybe some peanuts?” Peter replied, trying to appear as if he was a regular on private jets.

“Certainly.” Ms. Stead turned and walked to the galley.

Peter sat in the most comfortable seat he had ever sat in on a plane. Moments later, Ms. Stead re-appeared with a white ceramic bowl filled with warm mixed nuts.

“Anything else, Mr. Schaeffer?”

“Um, no, thanks.” He didn’t know why he was surprised she knew his name, but he was.

Peter found a card that described the jet and looked it over.

Maybe I will get one of these someday.

The interior was divided into four sections. The flight deck and crew suite were in the front. Next was a lounge and dining area where Peter was sitting. Eight leather seats facing each other in two sections of four. The third section—where Chapel was now, he figured—was an office and lounge with couches and desks. In the rear was a private master bedroom suite. The air smelled like a new car.

Dinner was prime rib. Vegetables. Baked potato. Chocolate cake.

The ride was so smooth he had to remind himself he was in a plane over the Atlantic Ocean and not sitting in front of his TV at home. Chapel spent most of his time in the office section and in his master bedroom. From what Peter could tell, he was on the phone talking, yelling, cajoling, and laughing. Peter figured lots of people needed the help of the world’s best fixer.

Peter was impressed with Chapel’s stamina as he heard him on one call after another. Peter just wanted to sleep.

The sounds inside the plane and interior design made it hard for Peter to eavesdrop on Chapel’s side of the conversation, but he still tried. There was a Hollywood star whose phone was hacked, resulting in sex videos being posted online. A senator was caught in an airport restroom doing something Peter couldn’t make out, but Chapel convinced the person not to jump off a ledge. A world leader was checking on his fortune before fleeing the angry populace of his country.

Peter was a little jealous. His conversations with Chapel were mostly brief and causal. Chapel did the asking. Peter did the answering. Work. Family. Career. As much as he hoped he would, Chapel never mentioned Bridger or the Spy Devils.

There was one exception.

After the refueling in London and during the shorter hop to Kyiv, Peter realized he must have fallen asleep. It took a moment for the fog in his brain to comprehend where he was. Then he saw Chapel sitting in the chair facing him. His legs were crossed. His manicured hands were in his lap. His eyes were fixed on Peter.

Peter quickly pushed the button on his chair to bring it from recline to a normal sitting position.

“Mr. Chapel.”

Chapel eyed Peter for a few more seconds.

“Peter. Danny, please.” He flashed his mesmerizing smile.

“Yes, Danny, sorry.” Peter cursed himself