I’ve published nine books and the occasional short story featuring Dr. Derek Stillwater. The first was THE DEVIL’S PITCHFORK and the most recent was a collection of three novellas, STILLWATER 3. Over the course of the books, Derek, an expert in biological and chemical terrorism, has gone through careers including Homeland Security, the State Department, and the CIA. Most recently, he was co-founder and COO of a company called Threat Assessment, Inc. A couple years ago I started a very ambitious novel titled, appropriately, enough, THREAT ASSESSMENT, INC. I abandoned it after 10,000 words or so. I haven’t exactly given up on it. I rarely do if the story sticks in my head. I’ve gone back to several books years after abandoning them only to see my way forward and eventually publish
This novel follows three or four of TAI’s staff investigating things that eventually meet. It’s entirely possible that each of these investigations could make their own book. Anyway, one reason I gave up was how much the situation in Ukraine changed since I wrote this. That would be a fairly easy fix – pick another country, for example. But although I sort of understood the “why” of the incident in this snippet, I wasn’t sure the “why” was plausible enough for a novel. Maybe it’ll come to me.
Anyway, I hope you enjoy.
THREAT ASSESSMENT, INC.
Mark Terry
© 2023
1
Ukraine
Derek Stillwater was watching the kid. He guessed the kid’s age was maybe ten or eleven and he was outside the perimeter of the Tereshchenko Oil Refinery kicking a soccer ball around. The kid wore blue jeans and a gray T-shirt. From this distance Derek couldn’t tell if there was anything printed on the shirt. He thought maybe there was.
Konstantin Nikitinov looked where Derek was gazing. “He’s outside the perimeter.”
“Yeah, I know. Just watching. What’s the update?”
Konstantin gave a very Russian shrug. He was average height, thick-chested, with thinning brown hair and a carefully trimmed beard. A former FSB agent in Russia, he now ran Eastern European operations for the company Derek co-owned with former Secretary of Homeland Security, Jim Johnston. The company was Threat Assessment, Inc. and ran out of Baltimore.
“I’m happy, for the most part, with what you’ve done here,” Derek said.
“For the most part?”
Derek smirked. “I’m happy with it, Kon.”
TAI, as they referred to the company, had been hired by the Ukrainian billionaire and energy magnate, Igor Tereshchenko, to develop and provide security for his oil refinery. It was one of a handful of private oil and gas refineries in Ukraine and Tereshchenko was concerned not only with Russian soldiers messing with his refinery, but a laundry list of potential terrorist organizations and competitors.
Tereshchenko was not a popular businessman in Ukraine, or perhaps it was just the nature of Ukrainian business and politics. There had already been two attempts on his life. One was a machine gun attack on his armored limousine, which had been ineffective. Rumor was that they had been hired by a business rival.
The rumor went a little further than that. Rumor was that Tereshchenko hired an intelligence team to determine who the assassins had been. Once they were identified, he had the team and his people kidnap them, cut them into pieces and deliver them in eight Nike gym bags to the business rival that hired them. For some reason, the rumors were very specific that the gym bags were Nike brand.
The second attack, which wasn’t a rumor, was a bomb that was almost successful, in that it took out Tereshchenko’s intelligence and assassination team. Of course, Tereshchenko didn’t call them that. He called them part of his security apparatus.
Derek hadn’t been particularly thrilled when Tereshchenko contacted TAI about setting up a security program for the oil refinery. Jim Johnston had said, “It’s going to be a tough business to run if we approve of the morals of all of our clients.”
“Let’s try to have some standards,” Derek said. “Let’s draw the line somewhere.”
Where to draw that line was one of the toughest parts of owning TAI, Derek thought. They’d turned down a couple African warlords who wanted TAI to train their guerillas. There was a French military contractor who could have hired dozens of experts to provide personal security, but wanted to check out TAI.
It was the U.S. government contacts, Derek knew. Which was probably why Tereshchenko wanted TAI. Maybe he hoped if the Russians did try to take over his refinery, the U.S. would be forced to do something. That Jim Johnston, with his former roles in the U.S. Army and Homeland Security, would act as a stopgap. Or that Derek Stillwater, who was a friend and associate of the previous Secretary of State, would beg his buddy to convince the U.S. to do something.
Derek and Johnston were skeptical, but they took the contract. Konstantin was taking care of the project, hiring and training personnel. Tereshchenko’s personal security was somebody else’s problem.
Konstantin hired and trained a bunch of Ukrainians to provide security for the facility. Part of the contract with TAI was not only to develop the system, but oversee it for the next three years, with possible renewals afterward.
He built multiple chain-link perimeter fences topped with razor wire. He placed surveillance cameras all over the facility and set up training sessions and shifts so no one got too bored, and so everyone stayed motivated. He ran background checks on employees.
Employee parking was within another secure area. Employees had to badge in and out and be entered into a computer system by guards, both as they came into the parking area and when they left the parking area into the actual facility, where they were required to badge in again. It was a giant pain in the ass, but it worked.
Some of the employees bitched about it. But Tereshchenko, who bitched about every penny, seemed to approve. He was coming for a final inspection.
“That’s him,” Konstantin said, as three black limousines rolled to the gate. They all stopped at the security booth.
“Which one do you think he’s in?” Derek said.
“First.”
“Really? They’ve all got tinted windows. Strategically, you’d guess second.”
“He’s an egomaniac,” Konstantin said. “Always in the lead.”
“Twenty?”
“Dollars or hryvnia?”
Hryvnia were Ukrainian currency, currently worth about four cents on the dollar.
“Dollars.”
“Absolutely.”
The limos proceeded into a roadway that twisted and turned its way among concrete security bollards. It was designed so no vehicle could pick up much speed.
“He really bitches about this part,” Konstantin said. “He really wants a way to drive right to his parking spot by the front door.”
“Where he’s got a nice secure carport.”
“Let’s go there,” Konstantin said.
But the lead limo made it past the bollards and headed toward where they were standing.
“Ty che, blyad?” Konstantin swore. What the fuck?
Derek, whose Russian was good, but not fluent, knew that one. He leapt forward, waving his arms, pointing toward the carport fifty yards away, shouting, “Go over there! Over there! Don’t come . . . goddammit!”
The trio of limos was arrowing toward them anyway.
Derek and Konstantin ran to meet them. The rear door to the front limo started to open and Derek ran right up to it, slamming it shut. He couldn’t hear, but he could see the shape of the bulky Tereshchenko gesticulating at him, mouth moving. He had a pretty good idea what the Ukrainian was shouting at him.
Konstantin gestured for Tereshchenko to roll down the window. It did and Tereshchenko roared in Russian, “What the fucking hell are you two doing? How dare you slam the door on me, Stillwater!”
“We created these security protocols for a reason. You have to follow them or they’re worthless.”
“Step back from the door right now! Let me out!”
“Sir,” Derek said. “It’s for your own safety. Just drive to the—“
Tereshchenko pushed the door open and climbed out of the limo. Other limo doors popped open and his security team climbed out. All navy-blue suits, white shirts, red ties. A uniform. They all carried B&T TP9-N machine guns, SR-1 Vektor handguns in shoulder holsters or clips on their belts.
Derek sighed and glanced at Konstantin, who shrugged. “He’s the boss.”
“Fine,” Derek said. “English or Russian?” he asked Tereshchenko.
“Your Russian is good enough. Talk.”
“Please get back in the limo.”
“You are not part of my personal security team. I hired TAI to develop security for the facility. Let my team handle—“
The bullet hit him from behind. He staggered, dropped to his knees.
Tereshchenko’s team dropped into crouches, looking around for the shooter. Derek gripped Tereshchenko’s shoulders with both hands, turning to fling the Ukrainian to the ground in front of the armored limo.
A bullet tore across Derek’s bicep. Searing pain exploded in his arm.
Konstantin tackled Derek to the ground, taking Tereshchenko with him. The Ukrainian winced, getting upright to a crouch. Bulletproof vest, Derek thought.
“Get down!” Derek shouted in English the same time Konstantin shouted it in Russian. “Spuskat’sya!”
Stubborn to the end, Tereshchenko climbed painfully to his feet, turning to roar at his security. “Find the shooter! Get—“
The third bullet took out his throat in a gout of blood and tissue.
Both Derek and Konstantin crawled to the man. Konstantin ripped off his leather jacket and pressed it to Tereshchenko’s neck, but shook his head at Derek. He shouted in Russian, “Call an ambulance! He’s hit bad! Hurry!”
A bullet slammed into the hard ground inches away from Derek’s leg. He rolled right up to the front of the limo. Konstantin, dragging Tereshchenko, joined him.
Two of the agents were shouting into cell phones. One had hit the ground with them. White-blond hair, square jaw, cold blue eyes. Kneeling next to Tereshchenko, he said, “Is he going to make it?”
Derek and Konstantin shared a look. The security guard looked down at his boss. “Shit.”
In the distance, Derek heard the first sirens.
#
The agent with the National Police of Ukraine, the Politsiya, was wearing jeans, a black T-shirt and a black leather jacket, unlike most of the rest of the group that showed up. They all were dressed in standard navy-blue police uniforms and caps, and were cordoning off the area and taking photographs.
“You are American?” Agent Chumak said, looking at Derek’s passport.
They were standing in the shade of the executive carport. Derek gestured at the passport with his free hand. The other arm throbbed, bandaged tight by one of the cops. “Right there.”
“What are you doing in Ukraine, Mr. Stillwater?”
“I’m the Director of Operations for an American security firm, Threat Assessment, Inc. Konstantin Nikitinov is my deputy director.”
“Yes,” Chumak said, tone flat. He turned his gaze at Konstantin. “The Russian. Formerly with the Federal’naya sluzhba bezopasnosti.” He bit off each word with distaste. The FSB was Russia’s Federal Security Service, which had evolved from the KGB.
“Key word there is ‘formerly,’” Derek said.
Chumak grunted. “So tell me what your company was doing here.”
With a nod to Konstantin, Derek leaned against the wall. Konstantin told Chumak what he had been doing for Tereshchenko.
“Personal security?” the agent asked.
“No. Tereshchenko has his own personal security. That whole team out there. But we were well aware of the two attacks on Tereshchenko’s life, so we incorporated his security into the procedures here.”
“Good job,” Chumak said.
“It would have been just fine,” Derek said, “if he’d followed the procedures. The sniper would have had to try something else.”
“Yes, your sniper. How many shots?”
“Four,” Derek and Konstantin said at the same time.
Glancing between the two of them for a moment, Chumak reached into his pocket and took out a pack of cigarettes, tapped out one, offering them to the two men. Derek shook his head. Konstantin took one, ignoring Derek’s raised eyebrow. Chumak used a gold-plated lighter to light first Konstantin’s, then his own cigarette.
“Three,” Chumak said, blowing a stream of smoke from his nostrils.
“Four,” Derek said.
With a shake of his head, Chumak said, “I’m sorry. I wasn’t questioning your opinion of the shots. I was referring to the number of times people tried to kill Tereshchenko.” He inhaled smoke, blew it out. “Not including today.” He shook his head side to side, thinking. “That we know of.”
“Any suspects?” Derek asked.
Chumak took the cigarette from his mouth and tapped ash onto the carport. “Several. Viktor Tataryn is at the top of the list. Not that he pulled the trigger.”
Derek remembered reading the name in a background file, but not too many details.
“So now what?” Derek asked.
Chumak shrugged. “We investigate. As for your company and your services, I suppose that will be up to Igor Tereshchenko’s replacement at the company. Assuming it doesn’t get closed down or bought by someone. I wouldn’t be surprised if Tataryn will make some sort of bid. We’ll see.”
“Keep us updated,” Derek said.
Chumak studied him for a moment. “Why?”
“Loose ends. Liability. All that business stuff.”
“Sure.” With a tone that suggested he had no intention of doing so.
“I’ll call you,” Derek said.
“I look forward to it.”
#
Derek and Konstantin walked back out into the open area around the refinery, looking at the nearby city. “Which building do you think the sniper was using?” Derek asked.
There were only three high-rises that would have been tall enough and close enough for the sniper’s nest. One was an apartment building. Two were office buildings.
“No telling from here. What’s that word you use to describe days like this?”
“Clusterfuck,” Derek said. “That the one you’re thinking of?”
“Hmmm. Is that the military acronym?”
“That’s probably snafu.”
“Right.” He seemed to search his English vocabulary. “Situation normal all fucked up. Does that differ from clusterfuck?”
“Not really, no.”
“What now?”
“Well, I believe you’ll need to go back and brief Ivan.” Their head man, Ivan Danko, had been hovering on the periphery. Konstantin had taken a few seconds to tell him what was going on and to keep everyone on task. “Unless you need me, I’ll get this arm looked at. Then I’ll head back to the hotel and call Jim, let him know what happened, start on my report. Check in on some other projects. All that sort of thing.”
Nodding, Konstantin said, “You’re not going to go poke around at any of those high-rises, are you?”
Derek shrugged. “Haven’t decided yet.”
“Something I want you to keep in mind.”
“What?”
“That last shot? A sniper should have known Tereshchenko was dead. That round almost took off his head. And the last shot, it wasn’t very close to Tereshchenko. I thought it was targeting you.”
“Hmmm.”
“Think about it.”
“Could have been a wild shot. Oh, and call Irina before I call Jim. If she hears about this from Jim after I call him instead of from you, she’ll be all over us.”
The Russian took a long drag on the cigarette, dropped it on the ground and ground it out under his heel. “Don’t tell her about the cigarette.”
“She won’t hear it from me. I thought you quit.”
Konstantin shrugged. “It’s a process. And get that arm taken care of. Before you start poking around at those high-rises.”