Death Before Dishonor Read online

  Terry searched Ninpo’s mandates for wisdom into dealing with depression but found none. It was surprising—and a bit disappointing—that a culture that had been founded during a time of severe political strife and rebellion and that based its existence on the conduct of asymmetric warfare hadn’t devised a technical means of coping with the emotional injury that came with the seriousness of being Shinobi. Perhaps Terry was missing something implicit to the mandates, though. Perhaps adherence to conviction was therapy in its own right. Perhaps he had begun to slip in his devotion and needed to realign and to reprioritize. Easier said than done. He’d need something prolific to shake him out of his melancholy.

  Or was it dishonor that he felt rather than depression?

  The mouse-like alarm on his watch chirped—1:13 AM local time—and shook him free of his drift. He set himself to purpose, checking his gear one last time, after he silenced it. He began with the mask and snorkel hanging from a carabineer attached to his shoulder, looking it over. Then he moved on to his wetsuit, flotation, oxygen tank, weighted harness, and dive fins. Everything on his body was in order, so he pulled out a waterproof bag that he had stowed underneath the bench. He unzipped it and drew out his night vision goggles, placing them over his eyes, pulling the strap over the back of his head, and toggling the power on.

  Faint dancing lights on the horizon suddenly materialized into a grainy green-on-green feed of a towering mega-yacht backed by a green-black oceanic horizon. The yacht was a mobile mansion that sported decorative lights all around its waterline, a pool on the forecastle, and four weather decks dedicated to entertainment. There was even a helicopter pad on the afterdeck. Three lower decks were staterooms, maintenance, and engineering as well as a small boat dock—a convenient place for Yuri to swim up and board the vessel.

  Terry keyed his microphone. “I’m in position,” he said. He had been waiting for the yacht’s course to stabilize.

  “Currently tailing the target” was Yuri’s reply and not what Terry wanted to hear.

  “Well, cut it out! You’ll make him suspicious!”

  “How about you let me work?” Yuri bubbled into the mic. Certainly, it was imprudent to hover over a target, but he was just trying to add a little thrill. Could a guy want some thrill once in a while? Besides, the likelihood of the target realizing Yuri as a threat was about as likely as finding a one-night stand in a nunnery. After all, Yuri was a professional—a tiger skulking through tall grass, trying to close within a hair’s breadth of its prey—and the target was inebriated and high by the look of it.

  Yuri had boarded the vessel via its at-sea dock thirty minutes prior. Terry had dropped Yuri off in the no-wake segment of the channel, from where Yuri was able to swim—sprint, really—to the yacht and grab hold. From there, Yuri held on to an overboard drain pipe until the yacht was into the main thoroughfare and could make way. Once the vessel started to pick up speed, Yuri slid aft, hand over hand, until he reached the dock and pulled himself out of the water. Once he was onboard, he made his way to his insider’s stateroom to change and suit up.

  When he arrived, he stripped his wetsuit off and had to take a moment to rest; the forty minutes that he had spent hanging from the side was brutal with the wave action and speed. He didn’t look forward to doing that again. How was it, though, that Yuri always ended up hanging from the bottom of cars or the side of boats? He was sure Terry had designed it that way. Then he noticed how messy the room was. One thing was for sure, his insider was a first-class slob, since she had only been onboard a couple of hours. No matter, he needed her to be good at what he had hired her for, not for cleanliness.

  Once he had gotten his wind back, he climbed into the tuxedo that his insider had brought aboard for him—it was hanging in the closet. Once dressed, he ventured out into the party to track down their target and figure out how he was going to get him into the small boat with Terry.

  The job required that Terry and Yuri make the hit look like an accident and leave no connection to any party involved. The agreed-upon payment was $500,000, with twenty percent of the total payment upfront.

  The target was an ultra-partisan political-upstart Eurocrat named Vyasa Henchoz. He had built a reputation within the European Union’s Parliament for leading aggressive campaigns and intimidating opposition. His constituency reflected his policies: they either loved him or hated him. He won elections by landslides, mustered support in areas where he had seemed to have none, and pushed legislation that was initially doomed to failure. It seemed that everything he touched turned to gold, and many Eurocrats rallied to his side in hopes of finding an ally in his political entrepreneurship.

  Those that opposed his platform believed that his success was, in part, due to corruption, and they searched for information that they could use to shake his reputation as the next election approached. Months—and hundreds of thousands of dollars—later, the opposition found the information they didn’t want: Vyasa Henchoz was actually a former banker as well as an information broker and financier for the Yugoslav Civil War who operated under the alias of Miloradovic and helped engineer the siege of Sarajevo and the extermination of the Kosovars. He’d allegedly severed his ties with the Serbian front and silenced anyone that could identify him once things took a downturn. He’d faded into the European public—hiding in plain sight—only to resurface on the new European political landscape. In short, the skeletons that Henchoz’s opponents had found in his closet were quite literal, and they feared the backlash of exposing him.

  In spite of their fear, political obligation required the opposition to remove Henchoz from office, if not because he’d conspired to commit genocide, at least to deliver retribution to those Europeans who’d been killed by his ideology. To that end, two Croatian Eurocrats sought to employ Terry and Yuri.

  They—well, Terry—met with the Croatian officials at a coffee shop in Beirut, where they negotiated a contract and payment. Unbeknownst to them, Yuri sat at an adjacent table, with a concealed, albeit drawn, weapon in the event the meeting went awry and the brothers needed to kill the officials and beat a hasty retreat—one could never be too careful with powerbrokers. Fortunately, everything went according to plan.

  Never the type to procrastinate, the brothers got to work immediately. Terry went to Strasbourg, France, to collect information at the EU Parliament, and Yuri went to Salou, Spain, to collect information at Henchoz’s residence.

  They sifted through truckloads of information until they were able to piece together a telling dossier about Henchoz that was relevant to their job. What they found was that Henchoz frequently threw lavish parties on his yacht, which consequently had a nightly operating overhead that could purchase enough food to feed starving populations of small countries for days. With all the alcohol and substance abuse, it was the perfect setting to stage an accidental death—drowning would be ideal. They could throw him overboard and drown him without leaving signs of a struggle. All Terry and Yuri needed to do was appropriate a copy of the invitation to the upcoming event, board the vessel once it got underway, and make the kill.

  Additionally, the brothers noted that Henchoz had a weakness for blondes—the tall, busty, promiscuous type that lacked limits. Yuri recalled seeing a ton of just those types of professionals when he’d been in Dubai once. He made some phone calls and contracted a tall, Russian type named Sacha. Terry transferred half the money to her immediately, promising to complete the transaction once she had reached the terms of her employment, and flew her to Tarragona, Spain. Meanwhile, Yuri pulled some strings and pushed some extra money into the hands of one of the party staff to add Sacha to the guest list. She was told that the party was a celebration for Henchoz and that she was his gift; they also instructed her to carry a tuxedo onboard and keep it in the closet of her stateroom.

  Once Yuri was dressed and moving about the decks, it didn’t take him long to spot Sacha; she looked every bit as delicious as her pictures claimed. She was draped in a white evening gown with go
ld trimming and red stilettos and stood at the far end of the deck politely acknowledging everyone that addressed her, sometimes two or three at a time. Then Yuri spotted Henchoz at the other end of the deck tending to his guests. Yuri slithered through the sea of people in his direction. But as Yuri approached within striking distance, Henchoz broke off his conversation suddenly and angled towards the restroom. Well, Yuri couldn’t kill the guy, even if the bathroom was a perfect place to make the hit, so he decided that he’d have a little fun and play a little cat and mouse to pass the time. He wasn’t exactly sure how he was going to make the hit happen—perhaps he’d have to extract Henchoz from Sasha’s bed before sunrise—but he’d make it happen soon enough.

  There was an industrial swoosh of the toilet flushing followed by the click of a stall door’s lock, and Henchoz exited a restroom stall wiping his nose vigorously. Yuri was standing at the sink opposite the stall, adjusting the bowtie of his tuxedo and watching Henchoz in the mirror as he’d finished recharging his narcotic fix in the stall. Henchoz approached the adjacent sink and started the flow.

  “Beautiful night, no?” Henchoz said in French, politely acknowledging Yuri. Henchoz was a fifty-two-year-old balding man of Serbian descent who stood an easy six foot three inches and weighed in at an out-of-shape two hundred ten pounds. He wore a navy-blue suit and blood-red tie.

  Yuri looked at Henchoz in the mirror—his icy-blue eyes overflowing with menace—and replied in French with a smile, “To die for.”

  Henchoz left the bathroom for the main floor, and Yuri dried his hands.

  “To die for?” Terry’s voice, dripping with sarcasm, crackled over the radio. “What is this, an action-drama? Are you foreshadowing?”

  “Dude, drink Drāno.”

  Yuri exited the restroom to get eyes back on his target, but it seemed that Sacha was already doing that for him. Henchoz and Sacha made eye contact for the briefest of moments—eye contact that spoke volumes.

  Game on, Yuri screamed inside his head. A wave of mirth rippled through his body, and his jaw muscles flexed with elation. Now he just had to bide his time, so he grabbed a spot at a standing table and enjoyed the show.

  Henchoz made his way from the portside of the bar area to centerline as he greeted and exchanged formalities with his myriad guests: celebrities, politicians, undisclosed businessmen, etc. He attempted to be discreet, glancing at Sacha occasionally. Sacha, however, did not exercise the same subtlety. She barely paid any attention to any of her potential suitors, dedicating the whole of her attention to tracking Henchoz with her eyes. Finally, Sacha grew tired of waiting and approached Henchoz as he spoke to the leader of the Moroccan Action Party, saying something in Russian.

  He excused himself from the conversation and then said in French, “I’m sorry, I don’t speak Russian.”

  “Well, fortunately for you, darling, I do speak French.”

  “Splendid.”

  There was a moment of silence between them while Henchoz hung on the sound of her heavy Russian accent.

  “Forgive me. I’m Vyasa Henchoz,” he said, extending his hand.

  She clasped it. “I know who you are.”

  “Is that so?”

  She looked directly into him as she sipped her champagne. “You’ve been watching me all night, Monsieur Henchoz.”

  “You think so?” he countered.

  “Tell me you weren’t, and I’ll walk away.”

  “Okay,” he conceded. “I’m guilty.”

  “Do you like what you see, Monsieur Henchoz.

  “So far. I don’t believe I got your name.”

  “Sacha.”

  “Naturally.” He paused. “I don’t believe we’ve ever met. Are you someone’s date?”

  “I am, Monsieur Henchoz. I am your date.”

  He chortled. “Please, just call me Vyasa. What do you think of it?” he asked, gesturing to the yacht and the party.

  “It’s very big.”

  He smiled. “Yes, it is.”

  Sacha looked over her shoulder in the direction of the bar. “You should buy me a drink.”

  “Well, I don’t have to buy anything—I own everything here. Just tell me what you want.”

  “No, Vyasa—not everything. Not yet.”

  “Perhaps we should get some fresh air, instead, yeah?”

  Oh, this was perfect! Yuri couldn’t have asked for this to play out better. Sacha’s charms had hooked Henchoz in no time flat. She was every bit the consummate professional entertainer. Yuri did not exactly consider prostitution to be the most reputable profession, but who was he to judge? After all, he killed people for a living, and she had moved his target into the kill zone for some alone time without a struggle. Perhaps he and Terry should offer her a job when all was said and done. Now Yuri needed an approach.

  “He took the bait,” Yuri said, keying the mic. “And the bait is goddamn good.”

  “What are we looking like on time?”

  “Not long if we’re lucky. Brood or something. I’ll let you know when we’re good.”

  Yuri slinked his way through the gulf of tuxedos and evening gowns. His eyes fixed the bar lead, who was robotically filling orders and placing them on trays. Yuri swooped in to grab a tray, but the bar lead intercepted Yuri’s hand. “Wrong one, mate. Pay attention,” he demanded in a heavy Cockney accent, indicating a nearby tray.

  Yuri set his tray down, picked up the one the man had pointed out, and then disappeared into the crowd, holding it in one hand and using the other to lead block. He passed through the door leading onto the dimly lit catwalk where Henchoz and Sacha were making nice.

  “The target’s right where I want him,” Yuri whispered. “This couldn’t have gone easier. Get ready.”

  “Don’t be premature. If the time isn’t right—”

  “Hey, I’m fucking this goat. You just hold its head.”

  “Whatever. Don’t mess this up.”

  “Shut up, you. Get ready.”

  Henchoz was so completely enraptured by the exquisite rise and fall of Sacha’s cleavage that he didn't notice Yuri creep up. Sacha hadn’t noticed either.

  “Wine for you and the lady, monsieur?” Yuri asked in French with a terribly American accent, watching both of them jump at the sound of his voice.

  “You have the devil’s timing, lad,” Henchoz aspirated. Both he and Sacha placed their hands on their chests and laughed.

  “I’m not sure if that’s a good thing or a bad thing, monsieur.”

  “That would depend on how strong the liquor is on your tray.”

  “Only the best for you, Monsieur Henchoz,” replied Yuri, passing him a champagne glass. He took the glass, sipped it, and then asked for something a little stronger to chase it. Yuri asked what he’d prefer and then whipped around to go back to the bar to fill the order, but he was stopped dead in his tracks when his abrupt movement caused the tray to teeter and spill all over Sacha. She was outraged! Freezing alcohol stained her vestment and ran down her cleavage! Yuri apologized fervidly to the curse-spewing Sacha. Then she stormed off to the bathroom to attempt a rescue of her extremely expensive—albeit likely ruined—dress.

  Yuri watched her leave and then looked back at an incensed Henchoz before dropping down to clean the glasses. “I’m terribly sorry, monsieur. It was only a mistake.”

  “I should have you thrown overboard.” There was the real Vyasa Henchoz—Yuri knew he was in there somewhere. And how ironic that Henchoz considered overboard to be effective disposal.

  Like lightning, Yuri found his feet and whipped a hand at Henchoz’s throat, connecting just below the chin with the knife-edge. Henchoz lurched and grasped his neck. Yuri planted his palm against Henchoz’s face and pushed him into the lifelines. Henchoz clawed at the cables to regain his balance and keep himself from falling overboard. He tried to yell but couldn’t because his larynx was temporarily paralyzed from the strike. Yuri grabbed Henchoz, driving his arms outward first before grabbing hold of his suit, and heaved hi
m over the side. Henchoz flopped against the side, holding onto the lifeline for dear life.

  Yuri rolled his eyes and kicked Henchoz’s hand, forcing him to let go.

  Henchoz fell. Nearly three stories. Landing on his back in the water. Hard. Huffing all of his air.

  Henchoz finally surfaced, undoubtedly stunned by both the impact and the temperature. He could scarcely cry out with the waves forcing themselves down his throat and the Venturi effect throttling him against the hull as the yacht steamed at ahead-quarter.

  Yuri flung the tray overboard like a Frisbee and then gawked at his handiwork. Man, this couldn’t have gone any better. He’d thought for sure that he was going to have to get creative and spirit Henchoz out of his stateroom, down the passageways, and over the side without anyone noticing. While not impossible, it wouldn’t nearly have been as clean. Of course, having to be creative would have been better sport. Whatever, it was done, and that was all that mattered. Score one for Ninpo.

  Yuri bent over and pulled a waterproof infrared strobe light from his sock. “He’s in the water. I’m marking him with a strobe.” Yuri ensured the infrared filter was secured tightly and tossed it in Henchoz’s general direction.

  “I see it,” Terry replied.

  Henchoz finally pulled himself together and realized that he was alone in sixty-something degree water in the middle of the Mediterranean with his yacht steaming away. To make matters worse, he was not a great swimmer, and it was taking a sizable amount of effort just to keep his head above the water. The frigid water made his breathing labored, and the anxiety of being up to his chin in blackness put him on the edge of panic. This couldn’t be happening; he didn’t want to drown! He had to get out of the water!

  He screamed until he tasted blood mixed with salt water in his mouth. No one on the vessel could hear him over the festivities. How long would it be before they noticed he wasn’t onboard? Would they search the boat for him? Would Sacha notice that he’d disappeared? He looked fearfully in all directions for perhaps another boat, but he saw nothing. He never thought it would end this way, never in a million years. He was going to die alone, adrift at sea, and nobody would find him. Nobody would have an answer for his wife and his children.