Читать книгу Uncut Terror - Don Pendleton - Страница 10

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Somewhere over Germany 33,000 Feet

BOLAN HAD MANAGED to sleep in fits and starts over the course of the flight from New York. A few times he feigned sleep to escape Grimaldi’s comments about how he could have flown the plane more efficiently. Finally, once his partner had drifted into a deep slumber, accompanied by some heavy snoring, Bolan straightened his seat and turned on the dome light. The flight attendant, a cheerful brunette, came by and asked if she could get him anything. Her English was tinctured with a heavy German accent. Bolan ordered a coffee.

He and Grimaldi were scheduled to arrive in Moscow at 0345, Tuesday morning. They’d left New York on Monday, so they’d lost a day to transit. Once they landed the plan was to get through customs as quickly as possible. Bolan fully expected their equipment would be scrutinized by the officials.

Lawrence Burns, a former employee of the NSA, had defected to Russia from his post in Manheim, Germany, citing a “crisis of conscience” with US policies toward the rest of the world. Burns had worked in the intelligence division and had been privy to a lot of top-secret messages and computer files. The extent of his betrayal was still being assessed, even after almost a year and a half. This probably explained why the Agency had requested “outside” help bringing the traitor back. Many agents, sources and assets had not doubt been compromised by the defection. Thus, the president’s overture to Hal Brognola for some special assistance now that Burns wished to return to the country he’d once betrayed.

Bolan had little use for traitors, but he understood the government’s eagerness to get Burns back in the United States. Without knowing exactly how much he’d told the Russians in exchange for his asylum, the real damage could only be speculated. A full accounting was indeed in order. And the instructions to get both Burns and his lover, Kropotkan, safely out of Russia meant that the G planned on using the latter’s immigration status as an interrogation tool.

Cold, but effective.

The flight attendant brought him a cup full of steaming liquid. He smiled as he accepted it and thanked her.

“How much longer before we land, miss?” he asked, lowering his tray table.

“It should be only another two hours, sir,” she said.

“Two hours,” Grimaldi said, rousing from his slumber. “Heck, if I was flying this crate we’d be touching down by now.”

The flight attendant looked startled by his snarl.

“Yeah,” Bolan said, sampling the coffee. “But we’d probably be landing in Kiev instead.”

Grimaldi snorted and readjusted his pillow. “The jokers flying this thing shoulda stuck to piper cups. They must’ve hit every bit of air turbulence over the damn Atlantic.”

“Can I get you anything, sir?” the flight attendant asked. “Something to settle your stomach, perhaps?”

“Hey, babe,” Grimaldi said, giving her the eye. “I left my stomach back over Hamburg, but I wouldn’t mind taking you out for a drink when we land.”

The flight attendant’s cheeks reddened as she flashed a nervous smile and walked away.

“Aww, whatever,” Grimaldi said, fluffing his pillow again. He resumed his recumbent position.

Good old Jack, Bolan thought as he drank more of the bitter coffee. Able to fly anything with wings or rotors and completely adept at being internationally disconcerting.

Moscow, Russia

THE MAN LOOKED lean but extremely powerful as he stood in the center of the large apartment. The building had once housed a factory but was converted to residential dwellings after the fall of the Soviet Union, when people began moving back into this section of the city. This particular dwelling could easily house two or three families. It was certainly much larger and more sumptuous than his own home. But then again, Stieglitz had no need of the extensive gymnasium equipment this one held.

He stood patiently as Boris Rovalev, also known in certain secret government corners as the Black Wolf, continued his assault of punches and kicks against a large, suspended canvas bag. The bag was the type boxers used but much longer. Its tail end hung only a few inches above the floor. Rovalev was shirtless and his body glistened with sweat. The hair on his back and shoulders made his nickname seem more appropriate, as did his lupine facial features—long nose, brownish-yellow eyes, swept-back dark hair and a thick but well-trimmed beard.

The bag continued to dance and jerk with each series of blows.

Stieglitz was in awe of the man’s speed and power and silently wondered how he would fare if pitted against Mikhal. But whereas the giant’s body was literally covered with tattoos the Black Wolf’s skin was devoid of any such illustrations, a result of his having been selected for intelligence work by the FSB fifteen years ago. Rovalev had barely been out of high school when he was one of the finalists for the Russian Olympic boxing team. A sharp-eyed government agent realized the young man’s talents could be put to better use after Rovalev methodically beat an older, more experienced opponent to the canvas after the man had floored him with a supposedly unintentional foul.

The Black Wolf delivered a series of punches to the heavy bag, stepped back and executed a spinning kick. As his foot smacked against the canvas the bag jerked from the power behind the blow.

Rovalev might just be able to beat the giant, Stieglitz thought, although it had undoubtedly been Mikhal who had decimated the three Chechens at Krasnoyarsk.

Stieglitz looked at his watch. Rovalev had insisted on completing his workout before discussing his assignment. Had his lack of deference been a deliberate sign of disrespect? Stieglitz wondered as he watched the Black Wolf deliver several more blows to the bag before stopping to strip off his gloves.

Finally, thought Stieglitz, but Rovalev was not yet ready to begin. Instead he ran past Stieglitz toward a pair of thick ropes that were suspended from the high ceiling next to a winding staircase. The Black Wolf grabbed the rope and went hand-over-hand up to the top, his legs held at a ninety-degree angle from his body. When he got to the top he paused and then did a quick descent. Again, Stieglitz glanced at his watch, more obviously this time. Didn’t this low-level government FSB agent know to whom Stieglitz reported?

He cleared his throat as Rovalev dropped to the floor, his feet bare and covered with thick calluses. They looked like they could split a brick wall with ease.

“We have much to discuss,” Stieglitz said. “And I am a bit pressed for time.”

Rovalev stared back at him, silent and motionless.

Stieglitz suddenly felt an unsettling twinge in his gut and wished he’d brought his security detail with him, but that was impossible. His orders were clear: the secrecy of the plan was imperative. It was indeed like looking into the eyes of a feral wolf.

Finally, Rovalev broke their locked gaze as he turned and reached for a nearby towel. He wiped his face and upper torso.

“So what are your instructions?” Rovalev asked.

Stieglitz let out a slow breath and frowned.

The other man tossed the moist towel to the floor and it landed on top of Stieglitz’s shoes.

“Do you know who I am?” he asked. “To whom I report? I could have you severely punished for your disrespect.”

Rovalev smiled, his white teeth glinting in his swarthy face.

“And who would you send to do that?” he asked.

Stieglitz maintained his stare for several seconds before answering. If he didn’t need this insolent bastard for the completion of the plan... It was clear he needed to pull out the big gun. He removed his mobile phone and punched in the special number.

The Black Wolf stared at him with a smile on his face.

The phone rang three times before the voice answered, “Yes?”

“I am sorry to disturb you, sir,” Stieglitz said. His voice cracked as he spoke, and he tried to muster enough spittle to swallow. “I am having a bit of difficulty with Rovalev.”

“Oh? What type of problem?”

Stieglitz glanced back at the yellowish-brown eyes staring at him with amusement.

“He does not seem to grasp the importance of this assignment,” Stieglitz said.

“Give the phone to him.”

Stieglitz handed the phone to Rovalev. “He wishes to speak to you.”

The Black Wolf smirked as he accepted it and put it to his ear. “And who is this?”

Seconds later his jaw sagged slightly and his face paled. “Yes, sir.” He seemed to become more erect, almost as if he were standing at attention. “Yes, sir, I understand completely... I am sorry for any misunderstanding, sir... I assure you, it will not happen again... Yes, sir, I shall do that... Thank you, sir. I look forward to serving with the utmost enthusiasm.” He nodded, as if this would be visible through the mobile phone connection, mumbled another apology and assurance, then blinked as he handed the phone back to Stieglitz.

Stieglitz placed it next to his ear.

“It has been taken care of,” the voice said. “Is there anything else?”

“No,” Stieglitz said. “Thank you, sir.”

The connection was terminated. Stieglitz replaced the mobile in its case and looked at the Black Wolf, raised an eyebrow, but said nothing. He waited for the other man to speak. When he did, it was the apology Stieglitz was expecting.

Stieglitz nodded slightly, letting the gravity of the phone call weigh on the other man’s shoulders. Rovalev had been humbled, castigated, but perhaps he also surmised that he was to be an integral part of things. That would explain his initial audacity, so Stieglitz decided to come at him from a different direction, while still capitalizing on the advantage the phone call had wrought.

Perhaps it is time to appeal to this mercenary’s venality, he thought, now that the metaphorical wave of Kremlin authority has washed over him. Stieglitz allowed a slow smile to lift the corners of his mouth.

“I must admit,” he said, “you are everything I was informed you would be. I have reviewed your previous successes, especially in Chechnya and the Ukraine. I do hope, however, that your penchant for insolence does not override your ability to follow orders. As you now know, this is a matter of great importance to—” Here he paused again and allowed the Black Wolf’s imagination to complete the sentence. “Also know that you will be compensated extremely well once the plan has been completed.”

Now it was Rovalev’s turn to look pensive. His amber-colored eyes darted down, then back to Stieglitz.

“What is it you wish me to do?” the Black Wolf asked.

Stieglitz smiled. He had him now. Asserting dominance over a professional killer was always a bit tricky until you found the proper method with which to demonstrate it.

“Assemble your usual team of associates,” Stieglitz said. “You are to both guard and monitor a man. Two men, actually, but only one of them is significant to the plan.”

“And these two men,” Rovalev asked. “Who are they and what do they do?”

“That will all be explained shortly,” Stieglitz said. “For now, you need only know that one of them is in the diamond business.”

Rovalev nodded. “How soon do you need us?”

“Soon,” Stieglitz said. “Very soon. There is another slight matter to which you must attend to shortly. A loose end that must be tied up.”

The Black Wolf nodded and smiled. “That is one of my specialties.”

Domodedovo International Airport

Moscow, Russia

BOLAN AND GRIMALDI stood off to the side in a cramped room as custom officials went through every pocket and crevice of their luggage and equipment, which consisted of a couple of laptops, a camcorder and several cameras. The camcorder case had special compartments for secret pistols and other weaponry, but none was in the case at this time. There was only a large quantity of rubles, euros and US currency for traveling and bribing expenses. Bolan assumed that their weapons had already been delivered to the American Embassy by special diplomatic pouch. In the meantime, both he and Grimaldi stood by patiently and watched the thorough search.

Grimaldi yawned. “Let me know if you find anything. The tooth fairy might’ve left an extra quarter in there.”

The Russian customs agent turned to look at him. “Tooth fairy? Who is that?”

“My BFF,” Grimaldi said. “I give him a lot of business knocking guys’ teeth out.”

The customs agent frowned and went back to his search.

After finding nothing and reviewing both of their passports again, the agents allowed Bolan and Grimaldi to pass through the gate. As they mingled with the crowds moving through the massive airport toward the front entrance and the lines of taxis beyond it, Bolan did quick but comprehensive checks for any prying eyes or ears. Seeing nothing out of the ordinary, he took out his satellite phone and hit the app that detected any listening devices pointed at them. Finding none, he punched in the familiar number as they paused under the sloping archway that separated the main entrance of the airport from the adjacent aisles that contained the lines of taxis.

Brognola answered after the first ring.

“Greetings from Moscow,” Bolan said.

“Dobrobih vyeh-cher,” Brognola answered. “How was the flight?”

“Uneventful.” Bolan glanced at his partner. “Of course, if Jack had been at the controls it would’ve been a lot smoother and faster.”

Grimaldi grinned and shot him a wink.

“I hope he didn’t make an ass out of himself complaining to the flight attendants,” Brognola said.

“You know better than that,” Bolan replied. “Any updates?”

“Everything’s still on track, but don’t forget to pay your respects at the Embassy.”

“Roger that,” Bolan said. He knew Brognola was referring to the arrival of their weapons. Both men were used to using a code of sorts, even though the satellite phones contained the most up-to-date encryption devices available. Moreover, Bolan felt his current connection would be more secure than any of the phones at the American Embassy. It had been built by Russian construction crews and contained a myriad of listening devices embedded in every room. It was all part of the ongoing cat-and-mouse game. “Anything else we should know?”

Brognola sighed. “Maybe, maybe not. We just got word that Alexander Grodovich was released from prison.”

Bolan searched his memory of recent and past files. “The millionaire Russian businessman with purported ties to organized crime, right? He got sent up the river a couple of years ago.”

“Right. His release, which supposedly involved a presidential pardon, came out of the blue.” Brognola laughed. “Although the president must have been feeling magnanimous. He pardoned a few others, too, including those women’s rights protestors with the suggestive name. But we’re still wondering how this Grodovich thing is going to play out. So since you’re in the neighborhood...”

“We’ll nose around a bit,” Bolan said, glancing at Grimaldi. “I’m sure Jack wants to do some sightseeing.”

After promising to check back, Bolan disconnected and they hailed a cab at random. They had a rendezvous to make by twenty-one hundred.

As they got into the cab Grimaldi leaned back in the seat as Bolan gave the driver the address of their hotel. The man nodded and tossed his cigarette out the car window.

“Hey,” Grimaldi said as the vehicle took off with a start. “You know who we ought to look up while we’re here?”

Bolan said nothing.

“Natalia,” Grimaldi said. “What was her last name?’

Bolan knew her last name was Kournikova, but he still said nothing.

“You know who I mean, right?” Grimaldi said. “She owes us, big time, after the way we helped her out in that Caribbean deal.” He paused and grinned. “Plus, I think she kinda had the hots for me.”

“She did,” Bolan said, allowing himself a rare grin. “But only in your dreams.”