Читать книгу Payback - Don Pendleton - Страница 9

CHAPTER TWO

Stony Man Farm, Virginia

Bolan watched as Hal Brognola poured himself a cup of coffee. The big Fed took a sip, shook his head with a disgusted expression and asked Bolan if he wanted a cup. It was closing in on 6:00 a.m., and Bolan had barely slept on the plane ride from Mexico to Stony Man Farm.

“No, thanks,” he said. “I want to hit the sack for a few and then the range later on.”

“The range? I figured you’d want to sleep for a week after your abrupt trip south of the border.”

Bolan shrugged. “Have to keep in practice. We didn’t fire a shot down there.”

Part of the reason he was in the office Brognola sometimes used when he was at Stony Man Farm was to give his old friend the briefing so he could, in turn, brief the President. The other part was to get some answers. Bolan wished he had better news. He’d given Brognola a partial sitrep by sat phone on the flight back. Sleep had proved elusive after that, and even Grimaldi’s attempts at humor as he piloted the plane hadn’t shaken the darkness from Bolan’s introspection.

“No sign of Avelia, eh?” Brognola said as he set the cup on his desk. His face showed the fatigue and creases of little or no sleep, so Bolan knew he was in good company.

“Like I said on the phone, somebody beat us there. They hit the place hard, left a bunch of bodies and an empty tiger cage that I assume they’d been using to hold Chris.”

“A tiger cage?” Brognola shook his head. “I thought those things went out a couple of wars ago.”

“Evidently not,” Bolan said. “It looks like they tortured him, too.”

The big Fed winced. “Damn. No sign of Jesús De la Noval, either?”

“As far as we could tell,” Bolan said. “We checked as many bodies as best we could, and didn’t see him. But at that point I figured, since things had already gone to hell in a handbasket, there was no sense sticking around waiting for company.”

Brognola nodded. He picked up the coffee cup and took another sip. “Ah, Aaron outdid himself making this batch. You could run a deuce-and-a-half on it. I knew I should have declined his offer to make a fresh pot of coffee before he headed back to the computer room.”

Even Brognola’s attempts to lighten the mood talking about Aaron Kurtzman’s legendarily terrible coffee did little to lift Bolan’s spirits. The big Fed seemed to sense that. “I’m sorry we missed finding Chris. Do you think there’s any chance he may still be alive?”

The fact the tiger cage had been empty, except for the shackles, meant that Avelia had most probably been there, but had then been removed at some point prior to Bolan’s arrival. Too much time had elapsed between the discovery of his capture and the rescue mission. Somebody had messed up on this one. Badly.

“It’s hard to say,” Bolan said. “Did you find out what Chris was working on?”

“Not a lead in sight, but Aaron’s keeping at it.”

Bolan shook his head. “They hung him out to dry.”

“Yeah.” The sadness was evident on Brognola’s tired face. “That’s obvious.”

“A couple more things are obvious,” the soldier said, holding up two fingers. He tapped the first one. “They should’ve pulled him sooner. Or had a react team on standby in the area. Whoever was in charge of putting him in there undercover dropped the ball as far as scheduling the rescue, and needs to be fired.” He clenched his fingers into a fist. “Or worse.”

“Damn straight,” Brognola said.

“And,” Bolan continued, “somebody who knew we were going in there had advance notice and sent in another team to beat us to the punch. I don’t know if they got Chris, but it’s a likely probability.”

“You think maybe Jesús De la Noval took Avelia?” Brognola asked.

“Run with a prisoner he knew was a federal agent? Not likely.”

Brognola compressed his lips, and then nodded. “Yeah, I agree.” He stared at Bolan as an uneasy silence descended over them. The higher-ups in the federal government never liked to admit they’d made a mistake when an operative ended up compromised, especially in cases where the screwup caused a loss of life. They both knew there would be substantial hand-wringing and finger-pointing as everyone struggled to avoid culpability. But that didn’t change the facts: Chris Avelia hadn’t been properly protected and was most likely now in enemy hands, or dead.

Finally, Brognola said, “There was a leak somewhere along the line. I’ll see what I can find out about that, and get back to you. And I’ll make sure that the President knows, as well.”

Bolan nodded. He knew his friend would do his best in that regard. “Have Aaron check into something else, too. Jack and I saw some helicopters leaving as we approached. It’s doubtful they belonged to De la Noval. They looked like old surplus U.S. military. They had to have transported the team that hit the compound before we arrived. Maybe he can track them down.”

“We’ll get right on that, too,” Brognola said. “Anything else I need to brief the President on?”

“Just that Chris is a good man. Tell him I’m not about to stop looking until I find him. He’d better not, either.”

Brognola’s expression grew sadder and he nodded. At this point the chance Chris Avelia would be found alive was slim to none. Once Bolan knew for sure, his mission would shift from one of rescue to revenge, or as he called it, moral justice.

Tucson, Arizona

THE LIAISON WITH Ellen at their usual spot, the Holiday Inn, was turning out to be anything but the romantic interlude that Lassiter had anticipated. In fact, it was having just the opposite effect on him. The first thing she did was have him take off his shirt, which he took as a good sign. Then he noticed the bed. It was covered with fresh towels. What was that about?

They’d been meeting there for the better part of a year, ever since Dr. Allan Lawrence had brought her in to assist with the GEM Program. Lawrence had introduced her as “Dr. Campbell,” and said, “I’ve brought her west from D.C. She was my finest student at Johns Hopkins.”

Lassiter couldn’t care less about that. One look at the young, twenty-something blonde, with oval glasses and a knockout figure even in a lab coat, and he was smitten. He didn’t hesitate at all when they’d moved to the private examination room and she’d told him to strip down for his physical.

“I’m ready to check anything you want,” he said with a smile. “Demonstrations can be arranged also.”

She’d smiled, too. Briefly. Just a hint of perfect white teeth flashing behind an almost shy expression. But she wasn’t smiling now. The blue eyes looked deadly serious...and sad.

“We need to do this now?” Lassiter said as he reclined on the rather hard motel bed and extended his bare arm toward her. He used his other hand to fluff up the pillow. “I’ve only got about two hours, you know.”

She shot him one of her piercing glances as she tied a rubber ligature around his massive biceps.

“Is this going to hurt?” he asked, trying to sound playful. Getting an IV right now was probably the last thing on his mind. What the hell had gotten into her that this took precedence over them enjoying each other’s bodies for a while?

“I’ll try to be gentle,” she said as she wiped the inner aspect of his right elbow with an alcohol swab. Her dainty fingers looked glossy in the thin, latex gloves. Those were a bit of surprise, too. If she was worried she was going to catch something, it was way too late at this point in their relationship.

“What’s with the gloves?” he asked.

“John, please,” she said, looking around. “I need something to hang this bag on.”

He glanced toward the door. “Too bad this isn’t one of those old bed-and-breakfast places. They’d probably have a coat rack handy.”

She reached into her medical bag and pulled out a catheter. He barely felt the needle slide into his distended vein. A few drops of blood fell out of the shunt before she attached it to the IV line, secured the hookup with some tape and then straightened, holding the plastic plasma bag over him.

“Hook it on the mirror over that.” He pointed toward a dresser adjacent to the bed. “Use one of the coat hangers.”

She looked, and then told him to hold the bag as she went to the small closet and tried to pull one of the thick metal hangers from the clothes rack. They were secured by a circular design that kept patrons from stealing them. Swearing, she turned to him with a frustrated look.

Lassiter was already off the bed and moving toward her. She started to protest, but he held the IV bag above his head as he walked. When he was next to her he asked, “Need some assistance, milady?”

Ellen bit her lower lip, then reached up and took the bag. “Do you think you can pull one of those off without disturbing the hookup?”

He grinned. “Does a bear shit in the woods?”

“John, be careful. Don’t bend your arm. I’m serious.”

He kept his right arm straight as he grabbed the hanger. The fingers of his left hand curled around the thick, circular metal. For a moment the muscles in both his arms flexed like gigantic pythons awakening. He bent the circular clasp, freed it from the rod and handed the hangar to her. “How’s that?”

“Fine,” she said. “Thank you. Now go back and lie down.”

“Don’t I get a kiss as a reward?” He leaned close to her, his lips brushing hers.

She kissed him softly, but with a gentle urgency, and he once again sensed that something was off.

“What’s going on?” he asked.

“Go lie down. Let me get this hung.” Still holding the IV bag, she guided him toward the bed and waited while he resumed his position of repose. Then she slipped the tab of the IV bag over the bent portion of the hanger and looped it over the corner of the mirror.

Lassiter watched the steady drip of clear liquid as it fell from the transparent bag into the plastic line attached to the adapter.

“What is that stuff?” he asked. “More GEM goodies?”

She blinked, holding her eyes closed a second or two longer than she should have, and then smiled. “It’s a combination of antibiotics and some other medications.”

“Antibiotics?” He grinned. “Afraid I picked up an STD south of the border?” When she didn’t smile back, he added, “For the record, I didn’t.”

“I want to beef up your immune system a bit.” She patted his arm gently, ending with an affectionate squeeze.

“What’s going on?” he asked. “Really?”

She gazed at him, her blue eyes misty, then looked away quickly.

He grabbed her arm, harder than he intended, and she jerked. Lassiter immediately released her and ran his left fingers softly over her cheek.

“Sorry.” He waited a couple of beats, and then added, “Tell me.”

“I’m not sure yet.” Ellen leaned down and kissed him on the lips, keeping her chin on his shoulder, her face out of his sight. “Let the medicine do its work.”

This whole scene was starting to resemble one from some kind of crazy movie.

“Do its work?” He pulled her back so he could look at her face. Streams of tears had found their way down both her cheeks.

“Hey,” he said. “What’s wrong?”

“I want you to know that I need to run more tests. I don’t know everything for certain.”

“What exactly are you saying?”

She looked away, wiped at her cheek, peeled off her latex glove and turned back toward him, her expression caring, but severe. She opened her mouth, but no sound came out.

“Ellen?”

“John,” she said, regaining control, “I don’t know for sure yet, but I’m afraid you could be sick.” Despite her almost professional demeanor her words came out choppy, truncated, like a ball bouncing unevenly down some steps. “From the GEM treatments.”

“Sick?” he asked. That couldn’t be. He felt great. Strong, powerful, never better. “What are you talking about? I feel fine.”

“Like I said, I’ve got to run more tests.” She wiped at her eyes. “But depending on how things go, we might have to start an aggressive treatment plan.”

“Huh?”

She went into another rambling discourse with terms he didn’t understand, about having to do more tests and it being too early to assume anything, least of all a prognosis, but he barely heard her words. Only three of them reverberated inside his skull, over and over again.

Aggressive treatment plan.

What the hell was going on?

Washington, D.C.

THE RUBBER BALL bounced off the far wall, struck the floor and then sailed toward Senator Brent Hutchcraft. He deftly swung his racket, sending the ball back toward the far wall again. Gregory Benedict, assistant director of the CIA, stepped in and slammed the ball as it shot back toward them. Now it was Anthony Godfrey’s turn, and he purposely let the ball zoom past him.

“Aww, come on, Tony,” Hutchcraft said. “You weren’t even trying.”

“Too much on my mind,” Godfrey said. The ball bounced against the rear wall in a lazy loop and Godfrey grabbed it. “We’ve got a lot to discuss. Why don’t we get some steam?”

The steam room was Godfrey’s favorite place in the club. He’d reserved it for the three of them. The accompanying attire, bath towels and nudity, assured him that no one in the room would be wearing a wire, and any attempts to bug the place would be fruitless. Not that he was worried about Hutchcraft and Benedict. They were both in as deep as he was, and had infinitely more to lose, but he hadn’t survived twenty-five years in the Washington, D.C., political rat race without exercising due caution. Plus, it worked both ways. His associates took a measure of comfort in these precautions for the same reasons. To assure that they weren’t disturbed, Godfrey had one of the senator’s security detail standing by at the door to the steam room. The guy was as big as a house, plus he was packing a SIG Sauer .357 semiauto pistol. Godfrey looked at the hulk as he held the door open for them.

It pays to have friends in high places, Godfrey thought with a smile on his face. And in low ones, as well.

Wisps of steam hung in the air. The locker room attendant had sprayed a dash of eucalyptus in the air, just as Godfrey had requested. He moved to the tiled bench, adjusted his towel and sat. Hutchcraft, obviously proud of his physique, and how he was keeping in shape despite being in his mid-forties, tossed his towel on the bench with careless abandon and sat beside him. Benedict, always guarded and cautious, glanced around nervously and then sat across from them, his back to the wall. The man moved with an almost reptilian precision.

“Okay, Tony,” Hutchcraft said. “You called this little tête-à-tête. Suppose you lead off.”

“Last night’s activity was a mixed bag,” Godfrey said. “As you’d previously advised, the White House did authorize a rescue mission to extract Avelia.” He looked at Benedict. “Luckily, your strike team arrived first and snatched the target, along with the intended cash and drugs.”

Benedict nodded. “As expected.”

“And the weapons our less-than-reputable friend thought he was purchasing?” Hutchcraft asked.

“Safe and to be delivered to my Arizona warehouse facility tonight,” Godfrey said.

Hutchcraft smiled. “Ah, I love it when a plan comes together. So what’s the bad news?”

“Avelia was delivered to our motorcycle friends in such bad shape that they weren’t able to get much out of him. We don’t know how much he found out and who he told.”

“But I’m working on that,” Benedict said.

Hutchcraft frowned. “I assume that loose end has now been terminated.”

Godfrey nodded. “As of this morning. But we’re going to have to brace for the fallout concerning the death of a federal agent.”

“Brace for what?” Benedict said. “He’ll just go down as another unfortunate casualty to our long, ongoing and unsuccessful war on drugs.”

“I might even find some purchase in the debates.” Hutchcraft’s voice assumed a deeper tenor. “Mr. President, please explain the reason you didn’t pull this young man out of harm’s way before he was discovered and murdered.” A smile stretched the corners of his mouth. “As Harry Truman used to say, the buck stops at the top.”

“Careful,” Benedict said. “There’s always a risk if you shit too close to where you eat.”

Hutchcraft looked almost wounded. “Please, spare me your scatological metaphors. I’m going out to dinner later.”

Godfrey didn’t want this to develop into a debate between the two of them. Hutchcraft had his sights set on becoming president, and if that happened, Benedict was the heir apparent to finally take over as director of the CIA. Both of them were so laser focused on their goals that they often lost sight of the big picture.

“Gentlemen,” Godfrey reminded them, “the devil is, as they say, in the details.”

“Very true,” Hutchcraft said, exhaling a long breath.

The temperature felt as if it was edging up into the unbearable range. That was another reason Godfrey liked this place. The longer you stayed, the more of a chore superfluous conversation became. It was like conversing in hell itself.

Hutchcraft stood, went to the shower head and doused himself with a jet of cool water. When he sat again, Godfrey saw the man was ready to talk facts. No more bullshitting.

“What about Jesús?” he asked. “You said the little bastard got away?”

“That’s what I was told.” Godfrey felt like going to the shower for a cool rinse himself, but decided to wait.

“I thought you sent Lassiter?” Hutchcraft said. “Didn’t you say he was one those GEMs you keep bragging about?”

“He is,” Benedict interjected. His mouth twisted in a frown. “He was the prototype.”

“Another triumph for SNPT Laboratories, a division of GDF Industries,” Hutchcraft said, affecting a deeply resonant tone. He wiped a handful of sweat off his forehead and flung the droplets toward the heating unit. “Well, don’t forget I was the one who steered the funding for that particular special program GDF’s way.”

“Before you start handing out cigars as the proud father,” Benedict said, “you should know he’s become something of a liability lately. He needs to be dealt with.”

“Oh?” Hutchcraft said. “What’s that story?”

Godfrey fidgeted. “It’s too complex to go into here. Suffice it to say, he’s outlived his usefulness. But that could work in our favor, as well.”

“How?” Benedict snorted. The heat was getting to him, too.

“Is your cleanup team ready to intercept the shipment tonight?” Godfrey asked.

“Of course.”

Godfrey cracked a smile. He could taste his own sweat now. It felt as if the steam was parboiling him. “With Jesús De la Noval on the loose, and angry at the overnight attack on his compound, it’ll seem logical that he’s behind the little retaliatory strike involving the shipment and the motorcycle whackos.”

Hutchcraft blew out another long breath. “I see your logic, Tony. But how does this benefit us?”

Godfrey rubbed his index finger and thumb together. “I’ve got another buyer lined up for the shipment. We simply take it away from the intended recipients, the Wolves, and then turn it around in a sale to our new interested party.”

“And who might that be?” Benedict asked.”

“Our old friend Dimitri Chakhkiev,” Godfrey said.

“That Russian son of a bitch?” Hutchcraft said. “I trust him about as far as I can throw him.”

“You’d better get used to dealing with him,” Benedict said. “If you want to be president, that is. Word is he’s on the Russian leader’s favorite persons list for building the new Russia.”

Godfrey had about all he could stand of the heat and his two companions. He stood and pulled the cord, giving himself a cool rinse, then reached for the door handle. “If we have no other pertinent business to discuss, I suggest we vacate this hellhole and wait until Greg receives verification that his cleanup team has taken care of Lassiter and his boys.”

“I’m expecting a call from Artie on that later tonight,” Benedict said. And it’s called a wet team, remember?”

“Whatever.” Godfrey started to pull on the door.

“You never did explain to me why you’re so anxious to get rid of Lassiter,” Hutchcraft said.

The senator was still laid out naked on his towel as if posing for some male nudie magazine. “I thought he was one of our best and brightest. Except for having been declared KIA a few years ago, that is.”

“He’s a walking dead man.” Godfrey looked at Benedict. “You explain it to him. I’m done here.”

He pulled the door the rest of the way open and stepped out of the oppressive heat.