Читать книгу Shadow Strike - Don Pendleton - Страница 10

CHAPTER THREE

Barcelona, Spain

The blazing sun shone mercilessly on the bustling metropolis of Barcelona. The streets and sidewalks seeming to reflect the waves of searing heat like parabolic mirrors until the entire city appeared to be shining.

Traffic had slowed to a crawl, and most of the pushcart venders had closed shop. There was no sign of tourists, and even the locals had abandoned the daylight to seek the cooler realms of basements and air-conditioned cafés.

At a small private airport located far outside the city limits, three Hercules seaplanes sat baking on an isolated strip of cracked asphalt. One of the big planes was closed, its ramps rigidly locked in position. The other two had their access ramps fully descended, the shadowy interior of the aircraft dimly visible through the wavering heat from the ground.

Dripping sweat, twenty men and women surrounded the hulking aircraft, AK-47 assault rifles carefully balanced in their gloved hands. The Icelanders had stripped down as far as decorum allowed. Everybody was wearing tinted sunglasses, their pale, exposed skin oily with suntan lotion.

The gold had been divided into three parcels, and now each plane contained roughly a hundred million dollars’ worth. The sheer numbers made Hrafen Thorodensen feel slightly drunk. But it was nothing, a drop in the ocean, to what Britain would end up paying for their inhuman greed.

“Well, any sign of them yet?” Gunnar Eldjarm demanded, tying a handkerchief around his head to stop the sweat from pouring down his face and washing away the sunscreen.

“Speak of the devil,” Thorodensen replied, lowering a pair of binoculars.

A small dust cloud was coming their way from the west, and as it drew closer, he could dimly see an armored truck accompanied by a dozen motorcycles. The riders were masked in combat gear, body armor and mirrored helmets, and Thorodensen tried not to imagine how hot it had to be for the guards, in that heavy equipment. Still, he did appreciate their professionalism.

The truck and escorts braked a hundred feet away from the idling planes, and a second later the wake of dust arrived, to flow over the area like desiccated fog. The Icelanders started coughing, but held their positions, alert for any treachery by the infamous Spanish bankers.

Before the armored vehicle had fully stopped moving, the rear doors burst open and out rushed a dozen men carrying an assortment of weaponry—American assault rifles, German autoshotguns and Russian grenade launchers.

Watching timidly from the shadows inside one of the big planes, Professor Lilja Vilhjalms marveled at the open display of ordnance, and double-checked the EM scanner in her hands for any sign of a tracer signal or microburst. She had personally neutralized the GPS dot from each bar of gold, and destroyed them inside a standard microwave oven. The clever British had thought of everything but that. As her old science teacher had liked to jokingly say, advanced technology was just so damn primitive.

Climbing out of the cab of the truck, a slim man stepped onto the shimmering tarmac. Dressed in a three-piece business suit, he carried a small laptop slung at his side, and had a leather briefcase in one hand. If the heat had any effect on the dapper man, it wasn’t noticeable.

“Good morning, Mr. Loki!” he called out, casually walking forward. “I am Hector Gonzales. Lovely day, is it not?”

“Yes, wonderful day. Spain must be the home of God,” Thorodensen said diplomatically, trying not to breath too deeply. Then he added, “Gibraltar.”

“Malta,” Gonzales replied with a smile. “Well, now that’s done, shall we proceed to business? How much of a deposit are you making this time, sir?”

“One hundred million dollars in gold,” Thorodensen said, glancing at the closest Hercules. “And I need another hundred million converted into German bearer bonds.”

“Please accept my hearty congratulations on your success in such a slow economy,” Gonzales said, swinging up the laptop and typing away. This wasn’t their largest account, but it was most definitely in the top ten. “Does the gold need to be, ah, washed?”

“Yes.”

“Very well. Then after our usual fee for the service, your deposit will be…thirty-four million dollars. Correct?”

“Correct,” Thorodensen growled, trying not to bridle at the open thievery. The money was flowing away like water running downhill, and they were still a long way from their final goal. But every journey started with a single step.

At a gesture from Gonzales, the bank guards swarmed forward, advancing upon the two open Hercules as if the airplanes were an enemy position, their weapons constantly sweeping for danger. Gonzales strolled up the ramp of one and patiently waited while a pair of guards broke out laboratory equipment and inspected every gold brick for purity. When the amount was confirmed, the guards relayed the gold bars into the armored truck, and Gonzales ran off a receipt from a small printer attached to the laptop.

“Here you are, sir.” He smiled as he passed over the slip. “And here are the bonds you requested. If there is anything else?”

“Yes, please transfer one million dollars to this numbered account,” Thorodensen said, handing over a sealed envelope.

“With pleasure, sir,” Gonzales replied with a toothy grin, tucking it away inside his jacket. “Hope to see you again soon. Have a pleasant flight!”

Forcing a smile to his face, Thorodensen nodded in return, and didn’t allow himself to relax until the armored trucks and guards had disappeared once more into the distance.

“I have trouble believing that you just gave the Spaniards a million dollars as if it was pocket change,” Gunnar Eldjarm muttered, resting the Vepr on a shoulder.

“Have no fear, old friend. That amount is all the bastards will ever get from us,” Thorodensen stated, passing over the briefcase. “Now, take these bonds to France and purchase five more Hercules seaplanes. We will meet you at the established coordinates off the coast of Sardinia in sixteen hours. If we are not back from Greece on time, leave immediately for Peru. Wait there for two days, then leave. Spend the gold in good health.”

“No, I’ll come find you!”

Starting back into the airplane, Thorodensen smiled tolerantly. “Thank you, old friend. If we have not returned by then, it means we are dead.” He stopped to place a hand on the shoulder of the bony man. “Don’t take any chances, Gunnar. Trust nobody, and keep to the plan! Wait two days, then disappear. You know where to purchase false identity papers in New Zealand?”

Resting a foot on the access ramp, Eldjarm gave a curt nod. “Yes, the Two Billies Tavern, just outside of Christchurch. There are new names and passports waiting for all of us.” He stressed the last words.

“And with luck we will retire to the Gold Coast of Australia, and live in luxury and peace for the rest of our lives. But that can only be accomplished by adhering to the plan!”

“Thor, when you were the Icelandic ambassador to the United nations, where you this much of a pain in the ass?” Eldjarm asked with a friendly scowl.

“Of course!” he said with a laugh. “How else could I have ever gotten anything done, representing a country without an army?”

Muttering under his breath, Eldjarm swung away from the plane and strode off. Half the armed Icelanders followed, and the rest strode into the open Hercules after their leader.

As Thorodensen started for the flight deck he was joined by Professor Lilja Vilhjalms. She didn’t say anything, but from her tense expression, he could tell that she was deeply concerned about something important.

“What is wrong, Lily?” he asked, using his private name for her. The two of them had been very close once, sex partners, but not really lovers. These days they were much closer than that, partners in crime. The evaluation of their relationship amused him.

“Your plan is so complex,” the woman stated, moving closer to the big man. “Selling your home to rent the planes, making the mustard gas to steal the mines, and now… Are you sure it is not going to unravel?”

“No, my dear, everything is under control.” Thorodensen laughed, draping a friendly arm across her shoulders.

She thrilled at the contact and ached to touch him back, but restrained herself for the moment. They were in view of the others. Perhaps, once they were on White Sands… “So, we are not going to be caught?”

“By those fat fools in NATO? That would be impossible, Lily. Impossible!”

Vilhjalms frowned. “Yet you once told me that nothing is impossible to a strong will.”

That caught Thorodensen by surprise. He started to speak, then merely grunted in reply as they started up the steel stairs to the flight deck of the massive aircraft.

Durrës, Albania

FLYING TO A PRIVATE airfield outside of Durrës, Mack Bolan bribed officials to get a locked trunk through airport security, then rented a Range Rover with four-wheel drive and drove toward the capital city, Tirana.

Albania was the heroin hub of the world, supplying the narcotics to most of Europe. The Fifteen Families even had a sweetheart deal arranged with the drug lords of Colombia. They exchanged heroin for cocaine, and each group expanded its sphere of influence. A win-win situation, unless you were one of their customers, forced into thievery, prostitution or worse, just to maintain your supply of the deadly substances. Bolan considered them all narcoterrorists, and removed them from this world as quickly possible. But at least for today, he needed the willing assistance of the murdering sociopaths.

The rolling countryside was beautiful, with rich fields of soybeans, cotton, wheat and endless herds of grazing cattle. However, the roads were much less noteworthy. They were mostly paved, but not always, and were often so steep that the sidewalks had been replaced with concrete stairs. The tough Range Rover took the steep inclines without noticeable effort, aside from a few assorted rattles and a lost hubcap.

Traffic was light, mostly pedestrians, and a few small trucks hauling produce. But Bolan carefully marked the location of every military vehicle.

Albania had once been a kingdom, then Communist, and now was supposedly a democracy, but that was a lie. The entire nation was owned, body and soul, by the Fifteen Families, the largest and most powerful crime family in existence. They made the old Mafia look like a sewing circle. Albania was ruled by a secret dictatorship that used the military to control the police. The reason Bolan rarely tangled with them was because their main concerns were inside Albania. He felt sorry for the enslaved Albanian people, but never fooled himself into thinking that he could save the entire world. That was madness.

Traffic become thicker near the capital city, but the roads didn’t improve much. The majority were made with cobblestone, dating back to the Middle Ages. Very picturesque for the tourists, but not practical. Occasionally there was a smooth stretch of pavement, a remnant of the days when the Soviet Union ruled the tiny nation. But most of the streets were in very poor condition, dotted with deep potholes. More than one car was abandoned alongside the road, with a wheel bent sideways, the axle broken in an unexpected encounter with a particularly deep depression.

Standing on a small raised platform, a young policewoman in a crisp uniform and bright orange gloves was expertly directing vehicles around a traffic circle. She instantly noted that Bolan was a tourist and smiled as he passed. He grinned in return, but noticed that her smile quickly faded as she returned to work.

Just then, a limousine raced past the police officer, clearly going way over the posted speed limit, veering in and out of lanes without regard for the other cars, and generally ignoring every rule of safe driving. She bridled at the sight for a moment, then turned her back on the vehicle with a sigh.

Watching in his rearview mirror, Bolan guessed the limousine was owned by a member of the Fifteen Families, and noted that the vehicle rode low on military-grade, bulletproof tires. The limo was armored. He almost smiled at that. In the trunk of the Range Rover was something he had brought along from Brooklyn for just a target.

Hopefully, he wouldn’t have to use it. On the plane ride from the States, Bolan had placed a few phone calls and managed to set up a meeting with Rezart Kastrioti, a high-level member of the Fifteen Families. Bolan was posing as a representative for a cartel of American manufacturers to negotiate safe passage for cargo ships carrying Detroit-made cars to Europe. As always, the Fifteen Families were happy to talk business with rich Americans—if the price was right. Bolan should get what he wanted in only a few hours, and then slip quietly away. However, he knew from experience that it was wise to plan for what the enemy could do, not just for what they might do. Hence the XM-25 in the trunk.

The city limits of Tirana were marked by a sharp improvement in the road surface. It was a beautiful municipality, with its tan brick buildings and red tile roofs, and carried a sense of age. Everything in the country felt old, even if it was brand-new. He had encountered such a feeling before many times, mostly in third world nations where poverty was rampart, but also in Detroit, the so-called Rust Belt of the Midwest.

Circling the crumbling remains of an old Roman fortress, Bolan easily spotted his destination in the distance, the glass-and-steel structure rising from the older stone buildings as if a starship had landed in a junkyard. The King Zog Hotel had been built into the side of a small mountain. The slanted glass facade sparkled brightly, and even from a distance he could see a heliport on the rooftop.

The hotel was named after a legendary president of Albania, a gentle and wise man so deeply beloved by the people that they had given him the nickname King Zog. He had tried to stop the invasion by the Soviets, and failed, but his heroic battle still gave heart to the people.

Parking a short distance from the hotel, Bolan walked around the block a few times, casually dropping small packages into trash bins and down storm gratings. After checking the signal on the remote control, he returned to the Range Rover and drove to the front of the futuristic hotel.

For the meeting he was wearing business chic: a Hugo Boss three-piece suit, with a raw silk tie and gold Citation wristwatch. He had a miniphone clipped to his ear, and a fake prison tattoo of a spiderweb stenciled on his neck to indicate a rough-and-tumble past. His shoes were Italian, his sunglasses French and his briefcase burnished steel. His usual weapons were riding their accustomed positions, but he also was carrying a brace of knives in case some silent kills were necessary.

Underneath everything else, Bolan was wearing a ballistic T-shirt. It would stop only small-caliber rounds from penetrating, and his bones would still break, but under the circumstances he couldn’t wear any type of proper body armor. That would be an insult. And he needed to gain the trust of these killers.

Stepping out of the vehicle, he left the door open and flipped the keys over a shoulder. From a nearby kiosk, a teenage valet rushed forward to snag them in the air, muttering apologies for not being more prompt.

“Don’t worry about it, kid.” Bolan chuckled, pulling out a wad of cash. Peeling off a hundred euro note, he let it drop. “Just park it close.”

“Absolutely, sir!” the valet gushed, beaming over the colossal tip. “I wash, too! Good job!” One hundred euros was a month’s wages.

“Yeah, sure, whatever,” he said, dismissing the matter with a wave. “Just don’t scratch the paint or I’ll break your legs.”

“Yes, sir! No, sir! Thank you, sir!”

Heading for the front door, Bolan noticed the armored limousine from the traffic circle parked in a handicap zone. Standing around the vehicle were four large men openly carrying Uzi submachine guns, with spare clips jutting from their belts like samurai swords. One of them had a dead white eye, and a military-style hand mike dangled over the shoulder of his white linen suit. Bolan instantly marked him as the crew chief.

The men watched him closely, shifting to a more aggressive stance, but Bolan ignored the street soldiers as if such a sight was an everyday occurrence. He would wager five-to-ten that the limo belonged to Rezart Kastrioti, the man he was supposed to meet in a few minutes for lunch.

Stepping through a revolving door, Bolan felt as if he was entering another world. The structure was hollow and rose impossibly high, the rooms arranged along the outer rim. By craning his neck, the big American could see straight to the vaulted roof some fifty stories above.

The air was cool and clean, smelling faintly of jasmine. Lush plants grew in orderly abundance, and carpeted steps led to a spacious lobby that stretched nearly the length of a football field. Glass elevators rose and descended at several locations, liveried staff rushed about carrying trays, and soft instrumental music played from hidden speakers. Bolan identified it as something by Debussy. Signs pointed the way to the indoor golf course, water park, brothel, restaurant, casino and skeet shooting range.

A score of elegant people moved through the lobby, the men in tailored business suits, the women in skimpy dresses that showed a wealth of cleavage and displayed long legs. Everybody was deeply tanned, and accompanied by secretaries, assistants, armed bodyguards, aides, butlers and maids, while nannies herded small children or pushed babies in strollers.

Bolan pretended to check his watch, barely able to believe the ebb and flow of people. It was more like opening night at the Metropolitan Opera than a simple Tuesday morning. Was this some national holiday he didn’t know about? That could be a major problem.

That was when he noticed the carefully disguised video cameras. They were everywhere, overlapping one another’s ranges. There was absolutely no way anybody could go anywhere unnoticed. This was prison level security. Bolan realized that this wasn’t merely some random hotel; it had to be owned and operated by the Fifteen Families. The King Zog was most likely the nerve center of Albania, a safe haven of luxury and comfort for the criminal elite, far from the misery and strife they caused.

Instantly, he changed his plans for an emergency escape. There were far too many innocent bystanders in the line of fire to do a blitz of any kind. Which left him only one option if things went wrong. But hopefully, he wouldn’t have to do anything that extreme.

Radiating confidence, he coolly headed for the restaurant. Appearing as if from nowhere, smiling waiters bowed and removed a velvet rope to usher him through to a private section. A young waitress gave a curtsy in passing. Bolan stayed in character and merely grunted in return.

Just past an array of private booths, Bolan found another part of the restaurant had been sectioned off by a wooden trellis covered with a thick blanket of live roses, a secret world hidden within the mob terrarium. Inside the decorative arbor were a dozen tables, all empty except for the largest. That could accommodate twenty, but there were only two settings, on opposite sides. Sitting at the head of the table was a short fat man in a reclining office chair, his dirty shoes on the linen tablecloth. Rezart “The Hacksaw” Kastrioti was puffing on a black cigar, a SIG-Sauer pistol peeking out from a shoulder holster under his tailored suit. The man was clean-shaved, including his head. A diamond twinkled from his right earlobe, and his left shoe had a extra-thick bottom, indicating that that leg was slightly shorter than the other.

Possibly from having rickets as a child, Bolan guessed. Which meant he had been poor once, but wasn’t anymore. He had to have worked his way up the organization, by being either smart or ruthless, probably both. That told Bolan a lot about the man.

“Get your damn feet off the table!” Bolan snapped.

With a start, Kastrioti instinctively obeyed, not used to being ordered about by anybody but his direct superiors in the organization. Then he scowled and started to go for the pistol under his jacket, until Bolan burst into laughter, sat down in a chair and put his own feet on the table.

“Stop hogging all the room.” He chuckled. “Is that how you treat a guest?”

Breathing deeply, Kastrioti did nothing for a long moment, and Bolan started to think he had read the man wrong. Then Kastrioti snorted a nasal guffaw and slapped the tabletop with an open palm.

“I like your style, Yank!” He laughed, pointing a finger across the table. “You take no shit! Me, too! I am Rezart Kastrioti! Welcome to my country!”

Never had Bolan heard that phrase used so accurately. It was his country, every rock, tree and bush. “A pleasure.” He smiled and gave a salute. “Now, do you want to talk business first or—”

“Business always first,” Kastrioti stated, pushing aside a plate to fold his hands on the table. “Afterward we shall have wine, women and song, eh?”

“Sounds good to me.”

“Agreed!” He smiled, then went darkly serious. “So…pirates have been bothering your ships. That is not good for profits. How can we help? Do you want armed guards on the ships, or military escorts, or—”

Bolan interrupted. “What I told my representative this meeting was about, and want I really want to talk to you about are two entirely different things.” Swinging his feet to the floor, Bolan slid the briefcase across the table.

Scowling, Kastrioti looked at the case while thoughtfully rubbing a ring on his thumb. Then he reached out to turn the case around and flip up the lid.

“Nice,” he whispered, fingering the stacks of cash before he closed the case again. “Very nice, indeed. Okay, Yank, what is it you really want? Slaves, drugs or guns?”

“Just some information.”

“What kind of information?” Kastrioti asked in a calculated manner, pouring a crystal goblet of dark red wine. He took a sip and waited.

“Somebody stole my property,” Bolan said, letting a hint of anger enter his voice. “I want it back.”

Kastrioti gave a nod. “As is only proper.”

“Unfortunately, I don’t know who has it,” Bolan said, observing a subtle movement on the other side of the rose trellis. His combat instincts flared, and he casually slipped a hand into his pocket to press the button on the remote control.

“That is a shame,” Kastrioti said.

“But you do know how it is.”

“Indeed,” the man replied, twirling the glass to inspect the wine in the overhead lights. “And I have this information because…?”

“Because they just made a sizable deposit in a Spanish bank,” Bolan said. “Your bank.”

“Me? I do not own a bank.” Kastrioti laughed, looking over the rim of the goblet. “But I may have a cousin who does. Several cousins, in fact.” He took another sip. “What does this thief look like?”

“I have no idea.”

“Then how—”

“He just deposited several million in gold bars,” Bolan stated, resting his elbows on the table. “That can’t happen every day, even to the Fifteen.”

Sipping more wine, Kastrioti gave no reaction to the mention of the organization. “No, it does not,” he said, setting the goblet aside. “Yes, I am aware of this person. The sum was truly impressive. But there is a small problem.”

“Which is?”

“You have not paid me anywhere near as much as he has deposited. Thus, he is more valuable to me than you.”

There was more movement on the other side of the roses, and Bolan distinctly heard the telltale click-clack of an arming bolt being pulled into place. Once again he changed the escape plan. Yes, this was a private little world, perfect for some bloody business far from the view of everybody else.

“At the moment, you’re correct,” Bolan said smoothly, shifting his weight. “But you see, in regards to the billions involved—”

“Billions?” Kastrioti interrupted in surprise.

Bolan smiled. “Of course! Did you—” Instantly, he surged upward, heaving against the heavy table with all his strength.

The candles and silverware went flying, while the heavier plates and wine bottles slid toward Kastrioti to crash in a noisy pile. Snarling curses, the Albanian toppled backward in his chair, but came up in a roll with the SIG-Sauer drawn.

“Freeze,” Bolan gritted, pressing his Beretta into the base of the fat man’s neck.

Startled that the voice came from behind him, Kastrioti started to turn, then stopped, easing his finger off the trigger of the deadly pistol.

“Smart move,” Bolan said. “Now drop it.”

“This is not good business, Yank,” Kastrioti muttered, letting go of his weapon. It hit the soft carpeting with a dull thud. “Simply tell us who you are working for, and you can leave alive.”

“Do the other one, too,” Bolan ordered, digging the barrel in deeper.

Kastrioti reached down to pull a small.32 Remington from an ankle holster.

“You really shouldn’t have put your feet on the table,” the soldier said, tapping the weapon out of the hands of the other man with the Beretta’s barrel. “Now, kick it away.”

Sullenly, Kastrioti complied.

“Okay, call off your boys,” Bolan commanded, watching the shadows move on the other side of the trellis. “Or you’re the first to die.”

For a moment, Kastrioti did nothing, panting deeply from the exertion of controlling his anger. “Not a chance in hell,” he growled, and dived to the floor.

A split second later, the entire trellis exploded as a dozen automatic weapons cut loose, spraying a hailstorm of high-velocity lead across the private alcove.