Читать книгу Rebel Force - Don Pendleton - Страница 14

Bolan got out of the taxi on a secondary street in Grozny’s renovated financial district. The gigantic, gutted structure of the old Oil Ministry building cast long shadows over the Meltzer Import Export Emporium. The covert station house was a tasteful, discreet building with darkened, lead-lined windows and subdued walls.

The soldier surveyed the building. He’d tried to avoid making contact with Grozny station only because Sanders himself had avoided using the place in making contact with higher authority. Bolan would have preferred to slip in and out of this operations region without officially entering the fiefdom of the local station.

But Sanders’ failure to show for the meet and subsequent events had made such an approach unworkable. Bolan had no intention of leaving the drop envelopes with them. He’d put them in a safe at the secure house before taking a shower and going to bed.

Bolan entered the austere offices and approached a pretty receptionist behind a massive desk. A plaque on her desk read Ms. Pong, and her face seemed locked in a mask of perpetual boredom. She regarded Bolan with a disinterested stare. He smiled his good morning.

“You speak English?” he asked.

“Of course.”

“I have a question about goods.”

“Yes?”

“I was wondering if you could tell me whether or not the futures in Chechen oil could be considered robust?”

The receptionist didn’t blink at the covert parole code. She stared up at Bolan with expressionless, black eyes. Her voice was monotone when she answered.

“I wouldn’t know. We only handle manufactured goods,” she said. “Please wait in there.”

The receptionist indicated a door set discreetly in the wall toward the back of the lobby, away from the elevator banks and half-hidden by a potted rubber tree plant. She reached a well-manicured hand under her desktop, and a muted buzzer sounded.

Bolan crossed the room quickly and went through the door. He heard an electronically controlled dead bolt slide into place as the door swung closed behind him. He looked around.

He was in a short, well-lit hallway. A line of comfortable chairs sat against a wall decorated in muted tones. Bolan sat, looking for the security cameras. Unable to spot them, he decided they were using telescopic fiber optics.

A door in the hallway opened and a man walked out. Bolan sized him up and didn’t like the vibe he picked up. He was Caucasian and big. Big in the way Eastern Europeans and Russians seemed to get as they slipped into middle age. The man stood almost a full head taller than Bolan and had to have weighted in at close to three hundred pounds. He looked like a bear right before hibernation—powerful muscles covered by copious amounts of fat.

The man wore a mustache and beard, shot through with gray, and his hairline receded prodigiously. His suit was expensive-looking, as was his gold watch. He strode up and stopped before Bolan, who had risen at the man’s approach.

“You are from the DNI,” the man said.

It wasn’t a question and he didn’t offer to shake hands.

“I already know that. Who are you?” Bolan said calmly.

The man stepped forward into Bolan’s space in a maneuver clearly designed to intimidate the newcomer. It was the kind of bluster that occurred every day in boardrooms, but it was a disrespectful move that could get a person killed in a prison yard or the wrong kind of bar.

Bolan stepped into the looming approach and both men stopped within a hairbreadth of butting chests. The man’s gut was considerable, but up close he looked strong enough to wrestle tigers. Bolan didn’t back down. The pair locked fierce gazes, neither man blinking.

“I see you’ve met case officer Kubrick,” a cultured voice from behind them said.

Bolan’s eyes flickered away, and he took in the second man who had just emerged from one of the office doorways. A mousy woman stood behind him, arms hugging a massive pile of folders and paperwork.

“You are here about the Sanders situation, correct?” the new arrival asked.

“Yes,” Bolan replied.

Bolan turned and put his shoulder into that of the man identified as Kubrick. He stepped forward, dipping slightly at the knees as he did so. As the Executioner stepped past Kubrick, he rose up and caught the heavier man in the ribs with his shoulder, where he had a leverage advantage. Bolan brushed past the larger man, unbalancing him so that he stumbled.

Kubrick swore, and Bolan turned his back on him as the second man addressed him.

“I am Claus Lich, station principal.”

“Matt Cooper,” Bolan said, extending his hand.

“That is my director of operations, Herman Kubrick. He’s been running the institute case.” Lich met Bolan’s eyes with his own unaffected gaze. “He’ll be your liaison in this matter. Herman?”

“Yes, Mr. Lich?”

Kubrick stepped forward, brushing down the front of his suit where Bolan’s nudge had left him disheveled.

“Please show Mr. Cooper every courtesy. Bring him up to speed and then provide him with whatever help we can offer.”

Lich turned and ushered the tepid little woman into his open office door ahead of him. He turned back before he followed her in. He looked at Bolan like a lab tech trying to classify a distasteful, but possibly deadly, new strain of virus.

“Cooper.” Lich nodded.

Bolan nodded back.

Lich gave Bolan a freezing smile before disappearing into his office. He’d never looked toward Kubrick again after giving his instructions.

Bolan frowned reflectively as he watched the station principal’s door bang shut. He turned and looked at Kubrick.

“Well, Herman, we going to get this done?” Bolan said.

“Call me Kubrick, asshole. Follow me.”

Kubrick turned and walked toward the end of the hall where Bolan had entered. He moved fast for such a big man and he didn’t look back to see if Bolan was following him.

The Executioner looked impassively at the man’s retreating back before relenting and following him. Someone had tried to kill him, and Bolan wasn’t going to let macho posturing or turf wars keep him from his mission. Something was wrong in Grozny, and he meant to find out what.

“HOLD MY CALLS,” Kubrick said into his cell phone. “Tell them I have a breakfast meeting. I shouldn’t be gone long.” Kubrick hung up.

“Where are we going?” Bolan asked.

“I’m hungry. I know a place where we won’t be interrupted and the help knows how to mind their own business.”

“I imagine you know quite a bit about the restaurant scene,” Bolan remarked.

“Screw you.”

Kubrick navigated Grozny efficiently, using diplomatic credentials to pass quickly through security checkpoints. The Chechen insurgents had, for the most part, been pushed into the Caucasus Mountains and the bulk of combat operations were taking place along the Georgian border.

Bolan looked out the tinted windows of Kubrick’s Mercedes. He watched landmarks slide by they drove across the busy, modern streets of the city center. He had a feeling Kubrick didn’t spend too much time in the slums or out in the bush.

He and Kubrick were like two bulls in a field and butting heads came naturally to them. Bolan was an interloper on Kubrick’s turf, and Lich’s for that matter. Bolan had done his homework at the safehouse, and he was nominally well versed in the history of both men.

Lich had come up through the ranks old school. He’d been a logistics officer for Air America operations in the Asian theater during the sixties and had then been assigned to Berlin, running counterintelligence operations against Communist incursions on all levels. He’d made his bones working the iron curtain and he’d stayed there.

Other than that cursory background, Brognola hadn’t been able to access Lich’s agency file—a fact the big Fed had found very troubling. Lich’s background was buried so deep that Bolan, through Brognola, had been frozen out.

Kubrick was a different story. He was a classic Agency success story. He’d combined adequate fieldwork with a talent for playing the sycophant. He’d started out doing interrogation of captured North Korean infiltrators with the Defense Intelligence Agency before getting assigned to Berlin under Lich in the early eighties.

He bounced around playing the role as Lich’s number two for decades. Like Lich, he was rumored to have a considerable financial portfolio built using information gleaned during classified operations. The pair of them were known as down and dirty operators who brushed the line often—but as of yet no one had suggested that the duo had actually crossed it.

But Sanders had jeopardized his operational security to place that call from outside of station control.

Bolan mulled it all over while Kubrick drove. After about fifteen minutes they pulled up to a valet parking lot in front of a moderately expensive-looking restaurant in the International District. Such a place was real luxury—in a place like Grozny. A smiling employee in a red suit, took the keys from the massive Kubrick and gave him a paper ticket.

“This is on your expense account, not mine,” Bolan said, playing his part, as they entered the restaurant.

Once they were seated and had ordered food and coffee, the game was ready to begin.

“What do you know?” Kubrick demanded.

“I’m here to learn,” Bolan said, sidestepping. “Just start at the beginning. Walk me through it like I was a child.”

“Not much of a stretch,” Kubrick grunted.

“Then it should be easy,” Bolan said with a shrug.