Читать книгу Uncut Terror - Don Pendleton - Страница 9
ОглавлениеDetention Center 6
Krasnoyarsk, Siberia
ALEXANDER GRODOVICH SAT on his bunk and watched as the four men squirmed on the bed next to the door. The others huddled in a semicircle. Two of the burlier ones held the new prisoner facedown on the bed, the man’s pants bunched around his ankles, his buttocks exposed. Oleg, the chief tattoo artist of Krasnoyarsk, flashed a gap-toothed grin at Grodovich as he dipped the makeshift needle into the cup of ink and bent over the prone man. Oleg pinched the soft, flabby skin between his forefinger and thumb and began the quick piercing that would imbue the ink onto the man’s buttocks. The picture of a huge, open eye and partial nostril seemed to stare back at Grodovich.
He felt no pity for the restrained prisoner, who was being labeled as a provider of sexual gratification. After all, the man was a child molester.
The prisoner squealed as the pointed metal pricked his skin. Oleg laughed and gave the soft flesh a quick slap.
“Be still,” he said. “Or we’ll turn you into a eunuch, as well.”
The others laughed, too. One of them turned toward Grodovich with a knowing cackle, but the leering grin quickly faded as Mikhal stood up from his bunk.
Grodovich glanced at his hulking protector and smiled. Upon his unexpected transfer from Ariyskhe, Grodovich had immediately put his monetary resources to work, first bribing the guards to be kept in isolation, while scouring the prison for a suitable protector.
“You want Mikhal Markovich,” the head guard whispered to him through the cell door. “He’s serving a life sentence for murdering ten people, but he has a mother in Novosibirsk who comes to see him every month. She scrubs floors in the railway stations for a pittance and still brings us rubles each month so we’ll give him extra rations.” The guard grunted. “When you see him, you’ll know why she is concerned. He is a giant.”
And so he was. Huge in body but simple in the head, as the guard had explained. But this lack of guile, this simplicity, made him among the most feared inmates in Krasnoyarsk. He was oblivious to pain and completely without compassion or fear. And he was serving a life sentence. Bother him and you could be assured he would strike back without concern for punishment or retaliation. Mikhal had already killed three men inside the walls. These deaths were the result of the secret prisoner fights the guards held periodically. With a few payments to the guards and a series of monetary gifts to Mikhal’s mother, that giant quickly assumed the role of Grodovich’s protector. Fiercely loyal, he made sure that the only tattoos Grodovich received were the eight-pointed stars on his chest and knees that assured he would not be bothered inside the walls of Krasnoyarsk.
The new prisoner squealed again, begging for them to stop, which elicited more laughter from the group.
“Soon you’ll be getting all the attention you can handle,” one of them said.
A whistle sounded from the hall and an electric current shot through the dormitory room.
The guards were approaching.
Oleg quickly stepped back and shoved the cup of ink and the “needle” under the mattress of an adjacent bunk. The two men holding the child molester released him and motioned for him to pull up his pants.
The door burst open as the prisoner was buckling his trousers. All the men stood at attention as the three uniformed guards, armed with heavy black batons, entered the room and looked around. The lead guard’s gaze settled on Grodovich.
“You,” the guard said. “Come with us.”
Mikhal turned his huge head toward the man, and the guard’s face registered a bit of alarm.
“What is this about?” Grodovich asked.
“You have a visitor,” the guard said. “An official one.”
Grodovich considered this. He wasn’t expecting anyone. His lawyer came once a month to attend to his needs, and deliver the bribes to his keepers, but he’d been here less than a week ago. Still, a visitor was always a welcome diversion. He stood and grabbed his cap from the post on his bed. Mikhal picked up his cap, as well.
“Not him,” the guard said, pointing at the giant. “Just you.”
Grodovich smiled and placed a hand on Mikhal’s massive shoulder.
“Wherever I go,” he said, “he goes.”
The guards looked at each other. One of them glanced at the urine stain on the bed, then to the impassive faces of the line of prisoners.
“Not this time,” the chief guard said. “Orders. Just you. The front office. Let’s go. Now.”
Grodovich felt the muscles of the giant’s arm tensing. Still, a confrontation with the guards would put him in solitary confinement. Grodovich smiled and patted Mikhal’s arm gently.
“It is all right, my friend,” he said. “I will see you when I return.”
Grodovich squared his hat on his head as they headed for the door. The three guards followed, ushering him down a long corridor flanked by dormitory rooms on the right and windows covered with heavy metal screening on the left. The light that managed to filter through the encrusted filth on the panes dappled the mustard yellow walls. A myriad of dust motes floated in the speckles of sunshine. They came to the end of the corridor and moved down the stairwell toward the third floor. At the second landing, the ranking guard told everyone to halt. He turned and looked at Grodovich, who noticed that the man’s face was now damp.
The hairs on the back of Grodovich’s neck rose. He thought about calling out for Mikhal but doubted the giant could get there fast enough.
“What is going on?” Grodovich asked. “Didn’t you receive your monthly payment?”
The ranking guard said nothing. He pursed his lips and motioned toward the stairway.
“Go wait for us down there,” the guard said, pointing to the dimly lighted first-floor landing. “We have to attend to something on the second floor.”
“Attend to what?”
“An emergency,” the guard said. “Now go.” He and the others immediately opened the door and ran into the hallway.
Grodovich stood there, listening to the fading sound of their boots on the tiled floor.
Someone was waiting for him down there. Had he been marked for death, and if so, by whom? He began to creep back up the stairway, careful not to make too much noise. From the floor above he heard a low whisper and then a laugh. A swarthy face appeared around the corner, a gap-toothed smile stretched across it. Grodovich recognized the man as a fellow inmate, a Chechen.
The man held up his left hand and waggled his fingers, making a come-hither gesture. He stepped fully into the landing and Grodovich saw the man’s right hand held a long, metallic blade, probably fashioned from one of the soup cups.
Grodovich turned and ran down the stairs toward the second-floor landing. Should he try to summon the guards?
No, they had set him up. They would do nothing to help him now.
He rounded the corner and continued his descent toward the first floor. Suddenly three more Chechens appeared, blocking his path. Each one held a crude blade. Each one smiled.
Grodovich froze. He stooped and reached for his own shank, a thin strip of metal that he’d managed to liberate from the sole of a worn shoe, but he was inept at using it. Still, he would not go down without a fight. He backed into the corner of the landing as the four men approached from both above and below.
“What is this?” Grodovich asked. “I have done nothing to offend you.”
“We have our orders,” one of the Chechens said as he continued creeping up from the first floor. “It is nothing of a personal—”
A sudden gurgling interrupted everything. Grodovich glanced up in time to see a huge hand encircling the throat of the Chechen who’d been coming down from the third floor. He attempted to stab the big hand, but another large hand closed over that one. The man struggled like a puppet as his feet dangled and swung in open air, then all movement stopped. Mikhal’s enormous form became visible behind him. The giant picked up the strangled marionette and held him at chest level while he strode down the stairs. When Mikhal reached the second-floor landing he flung the dead man toward the other three.
One of them was knocked off his feet, another staggered back. The third one, the closest, made a lunging stab with his blade.
Mikhal stepped back with the agility of an acrobat and seized the Chechen’s wrist. Seconds later the man howled in pain. Mikhal forced the Chechen’s knife back into his throat and let him drop to the floor, lumbering toward the two others. They both scrambled down the stairway with Mikhal in pursuit. Grodovich glanced around, then called to him.
“Wait,” he said. “Don’t chase them. It could be a trap.”
The giant halted, his face flushed with exertion, his breathing hard.
“I felt I should follow you,” Mikhal said. He seldom spoke, and when he did his voice sounded almost child-like. “I looked down the hall and saw that Chechen bastard sneaking around.”
“I’m glad you did, my friend. Once again, you have saved my life.” Grodovich heard the thudding of boots coming from the second-floor hallway. He motioned upward and told Mikhal to run. “If the guards see you here, they will use it as an excuse to place you in the solitary ward. Go.”
The giant hesitated for a split second, then strode up the stairs, taking them three at a time. Grodovich tossed his own blade and pressed himself into the corner of the landing. The door burst open and three different guards emerged.
“What is going on here?” the ranking guard yelled, his eyes widening as he surveyed the scene.
“A disagreement between two inmates,” Grodovich said. “They fought and killed each other. It was terrible to behold.”
The guard’s mouth worked, but no words came out. He licked his lips, pulled out his radio and spoke into it with clear precise tones, ordering more men to come to his position. He scrutinized Grodovich, who held up his hands to show there were no traces of blood.
“Some of your compatriots were taking me to see an official visitor when they had to leave,” he said with a smile. “I hope their emergency has run its course without incident.”
Judo Training Center
Arlington, Virginia
MACK BOLAN, the Executioner, sat on the edge of the mat and watched as the judo master demonstrated the last few techniques, throwing his much younger partner around with ease. The gi felt heavy on Bolan’s shoulders. He preferred to train in his regular clothes, wearing his standard gear, but the owner of the dojo had insisted that all attendees had to wear the traditional judo garb. It was a small price to pay for being able to see a master such as Kioshi Watinabi at work.
Jack Grimaldi, who was seated next to Bolan, leaned over and whispered, “Ah, it looks like the one guy’s faking it.”
Bolan shook his head and brought his index finger to his lips.
“Whatever,” Grimaldi said sotto voce. He leaned back and sighed.
Bolan watched as the master executed the final move, Hiza Guruma, the wheeling knee throw. As the opponent stepped forward, the master stepped back and smacked the sole of his left foot against the other man’s knee. Twisting the opponent’s upper body in a circular motion, the master sent the other man over with a quick flip.
Grimaldi snorted. “Like I said, all fake.”
Bolan shot him another quieting look, but it was obvious the judo master, an Asian man in his fifties, had already cast a glance their way. His eyebrows lifted slightly as he stared at Grimaldi. Then the master and his opponent bowed to each other, turned and bowed again to the audience.
Grimaldi stretched and yawned. “Ready to blow this pop stand?”
Before Bolan could answer the master held up his hands and waggled his fingers for the rest of the class to move forward, saying something in Japanese.
“The master wishes you to pair up for individual instruction,” the young assistant said.
The group of spectators got up and shuffled to the center mat. Bolan and Grimaldi paired off and gripped the thick lapels of each other’s gis. The master called out commands for each technique. The first was O Goshi, the major hip throw. The second was Harai Goshi, sweeping hip throw.
“You want to go first?” Bolan asked.
Grimaldi shook his head. “Nah. I want to prove to you that this stuff doesn’t work. It’s just like professional wrestling.”
“Okay,” Bolan said and pivoted, pulling Grimaldi off balance and stepping inside his guard. Bolan slipped his right hip against Grimaldi’s abdomen as he stepped back with his left foot and twisted, throwing Grimaldi over with a quick flip.
Grimaldi slammed onto the mat, managing to break his fall with a slapping motion of his left arm.
“You all right?” Bolan asked.
Grimaldi grunted. “I know how to fall.”
Master Watinabi strode over to them, speaking in Japanese and motioning for Grimaldi to get to his feet. As he did the master continued to give instructions to Bolan along with numerous gestures. The young assistant began translating.
“Master Watinabi says your technique is very good,” he said to Bolan. “But he suggests bending lower if the opponent resists.” He turned to Grimaldi and said, “Stiffen your arms.”
Grimaldi grinned and locked his arms, which were much longer than Watinabi’s. The two men stepped back and forth and suddenly Watinabi thrust his right foot into Grimaldi’s stomach and fell backward. Grimaldi flipped over and landed on his back with a thud. As he got up, Watinabi grabbed him once more, slipped into a modified hip throw and swept Grimaldi’s legs out from under him, flipping him over on his back again. Grimaldi got up a bit slower this time and Watinabi grabbed him once more and thrust his hip into Grimaldi’s stomach.
The master paused and the assistant said, “Grab his belt and attempt to lift him backward.”
Grimaldi smiled and reared back, lifting the smaller man completely off the mat, but Watinabi lifted both of his legs to his chest then thrust them downward, at the same time grasping Grimaldi around the neck. As soon as Watinabi’s feet struck the mat Grimaldi was launched over the master’s right hip, his body flying pell-mell before slamming once again onto the mat.
He lay there trying to get his breath.
“That is a useful technique against a taller opponent,” the assistant said.
Watinabi grinned at Grimaldi as Bolan reached to help him up.
“Good thing you know how to fall,” Bolan said.
Before Grimaldi could respond with one of his standard wisecracks, a cell phone rang.
The Executioner glanced to the edge of the mat where his and Grimaldi’s clothes and shoes had been stacked.
“Oh,” Grimaldi said. “Saved by the bell. Is it yours or mine?”
“It must be yours. I turned mine off.”
Grimaldi grinned as he lay back. “In that case I’m really saved by the bell.”
“Don’t be too sure,” Bolan said. “It’s probably Hal.”
Detention Center 6
Krasnoyarsk, Siberia
THE GUARDS MARCHED on either side of Grodovich. They were near the front offices of the prison, this much Grodovich knew from his orientation seven months ago. This was only the second time he’d been so close to the entrance. What was going on?
Another transfer?
Perhaps they were sending him back to the less severe prison at Ariyskhe. After all, his crimes did not involve violence, only paper: conspiracy to avoid paying appropriate governmental fees and taxes and unethical business dealings. At least the crimes they knew about. There was no way he should have been transferred to Krasnoyarsk. He had never received an explanation as to why they’d placed him into this hellhole. But at Detention Center 6, one did not ask.
The lead guard stopped at a solid-looking door and lightly knocked three times.
Such deference indicated a person of no small importance was on the other side.
This piqued Grodovich’s curiosity.
A voice from inside the room told them to enter. The lead guard motioned for Grodovich to place his hands on the wall and assume the search position. Grodovich complied and felt the hands of the other two guards squeeze every part of his body with practiced efficiency. He was used to the indignities of life behind the walls and was glad he’d dropped his blade in the stairwell, for they surely would have found it.
The aborted attack by the Chechens still floated before him. He’d done nothing to provoke them. Why had they accosted him, and why had the guards, to whom he paid protection each month, led him into such a clumsy trap? The answer was obvious. Someone had paid them more. But who, and more important, why?
The Chechen had muttered something right before Mikhal had terminated him: “We have our orders. It is nothing of a personal—”
What had he meant? And why had he said it?
A strange prelude for this meeting.
The lead guard opened the door and pointed for Grodovich to go in. He squared his black cap on his head and tugged his now misaligned clothing into a semblance of order. As he went inside the room he saw a thin man with a completely bald head and a pair of gold-rimmed glasses. The man wore a dark blue suit and his black shoes had a shine on them. He stood there watching and assessing as Grodovich entered and stood at attention. For the better part of thirty seconds, the bald man did not speak, then he took in a copious breath and motioned for Grodovich to sit in a nearby chair.
“I am Vassili Stieglitz from the interior ministry of economics,” the man said. “And you are Alexander Grodovich.”
Grodovich resisted the urge to comment. With the virtually endless sentence before him he had little to lose, but he had been incarcerated long enough to know that there was no sense throwing rocks at the gatekeepers. Besides, this meeting had some significance to bring an interior minister all the way from the Kremlin. Whatever this man wanted was worth finding out. There would be plenty of time for reflection on missed opportunities for sarcasm later, when he was back in the cell block.
Stieglitz inhaled again. “How do you like the facilities here in Krasnoyarsk?”
This was too much. The absurdity of the question made him laugh. “I have stayed in better.”
Stieglitz raised his right eyebrow. “I’m certain that you have.” He held Grodovich’s stare for several seconds and then said, “And you still have a substantial sentence yet to serve.”
Grodovich said nothing.
The bald man maintained his stare. “And what would you say if I offered you a way out?”
A shiver shot up Grodovich’s spine. Was this some sort of trick? Was this man toying with him? What did he want? It had to be money. His Swiss accounts.
Grodovich had been expecting such a financial deal when he was first arrested, although the opportunity to negotiate never materialized. His lawyers told him that such a deal could be made, but the conditions were absurd: total capitulation. They offered him a penniless freedom, with no guarantees on their part. He would either end up in prison or living as a beggar on the streets.
Thus, he’d held out, refusing to give up the numbers of his Swiss accounts. It was his only bargaining chip, because these bastards could not be trusted. The monthly bribes to the prison guards were still arriving on time, despite his transfer to Detention Center 6, and, most important, Mikhal’s sainted mother received her monthly allotment in Novosibirsk.
The first few days of Grodovich’s arrival had been hell, but still, he had survived. This was no doubt round two. The transfer to the more brutal surroundings had been a prelude to soften him up. So this was a negotiation, and he must show strength. He could not let this bald government rodent know his desperation.
Grodovich took his time before answering. “I would indeed be interested, but it would depend.”
Stieglitz’s brow furrowed. “Depend upon what?”
Grodovich managed to smile. He’d regained a modicum of self-respect, if not some purchase on the slope of the negotiation.
“Upon the nature of your request,” Grodovich said. “You obviously wish something from me, the cost of which must be evaluated before any decision can be made.”
“Are you mad?” the bald man asked. “I’m offering you a way out of this hellhole and you have the audacity to attempt to set the conditions?”
Grodovich smiled again. He was indeed gaining purchase. “Everything,” he said, “even life in here, has conditions.”
Stieglitz snorted. “I do not have time for games.”
“All I have is time,” Grodovich answered. He kept his expression bland. It was like a game of chess, waiting for your opponent to make the move that allowed first blood.
Stieglitz clasped his hands behind his back and strode to a dirt-streaked window covered with an iron grate. He stared through the filthy glass for several seconds. “All right,” he said finally, turning back to face him. “I can appreciate that you have been toughened by your incarceration. But let me assure you I did not come all the way from Moscow to play games. I am, quite simply, offering you your freedom. A presidential pardon for your crimes. Immediate, total and absolute freedom.”
Grodovich could hardly believe it. But he waited for the other shoe to drop, and he was betting it had a steel sole. He tried his best to conceal his excitement, wondering what the cost would be. Still, he knew it really did not matter. At this point he would sell his mother’s soul if it got him out of here a day quicker. But to show weakness in a negotiation was tantamount to capitulation. He composed himself and said, “What exactly must I do in exchange for this pardon?”
The corner of Stieglitz’s mouth tweaked, like a flicker from a hungry, feral cat, and he smiled. “We would like you to renew your old contacts on the international front as you go back into the diamond business.” He paused. “And with the Robie Cats.”
Stony Man Farm
Virginia
AS BOLAN AND GRIMALDI entered the War Room, Bolan noticed two steaming cups of coffee on the front edge of the table. Hal Brognola leaned back in his chair as he sipped from his own mug with a sour expression stretched across his face.
“I told you we should’ve stopped by Starbucks,” Grimaldi said, grinning. “I take it Aaron whipped up his customary brew?”
Brognola swallowed and gave his head a quick shake. Then he looked toward the door, checking to see whether Aaron “The Bear” Kurtzman, Stony Man’s computer expert, was close by. “Worse. You could use this batch to clean rust off a spark plug.” He indicated the two empty chairs in front of the desk.
Bolan sat down, leaving the cup where it was. He knew better than to sample it.
Grimaldi took a tentative sip from his and howled. “Damn, you could pour this into an old deuce-and-a-half if you ran out of gas.”
“What’s up?” Bolan asked. “We left a very interesting judo seminar to be here.”
“Judo seminar?” Brognola said. “Don’t you guys get enough practice beating people up?”
“You know the motto of our superhero here,” Grimaldi said, motioning toward Bolan. “It’s never too late to inflict some pain.”
“Especially if you provoke the instructor,” Bolan added.
Brognola laughed. “I can’t wait to hear about that one.” He set the mug down and cleared his throat. “But in the meantime, I have a favor to ask.”
Bolan nodded. He was accustomed to such sudden requests. Usually they came to Brognola indirectly from the White House. Special details that were too hot to go through normal channels. From the look on Brognola’s face, Bolan knew this one had the ring of immediacy and urgency. He waited for Grimaldi’s customary wisecrack.
“A favor?” Grimaldi said. “Who’d a thunk it?”
Brognola leaned forward, placing his forearms on the tabletop. “As I’m sure you’re aware, things have been tense between us and Russia lately.”
“Don’t tell me our side finally realized the old reset button isn’t working?” Grimaldi said.
“The current round of sanctions is causing a bit of havoc on their economy,” Brognola said. “Just how much remains to be seen.”
“You want us to fly to Moscow and check things out?” Grimaldi asked. “If so, I’d prefer to go now, before the winter sets in. That place is damn miserable then.”
“A trip to Moscow is in the cards,” Brognola said. He paused, picked up a remote and pressed a few buttons. A large screen began lowering from a metal roll on the opposite wall as the lights in the room became subdued. An overhead projector hummed to life and a bright, square patch was illuminated on the screen. Brognola pressed another button and a man’s face appeared. He was dark haired, had with heavy acne scarring and was wearing dark sunglasses. “Look familiar?”
“Larry Burns,” Bolan said. “The Kremlin’s second favorite American defector.”
“Don’t tell me you want us to drag that little creep back here by the scruff of his neck,” Grimaldi said. “It’d be my pleasure, but the Russians wouldn’t let us get within spitting distance of him.”
“Let’s just say that Mr. Burns is ready to come home,” Brognola said. “He’s been secretly meeting with our Agency personnel for the past two weeks.”
“Why don’t they just take him to the Embassy?” Bolan asked. “I’m sure the Russians have already gotten everything they need out of him.”
“Ordinarily, that would be the plan.” Brognola clicked the remote again and another male appeared on the screen. This one was a rather portly man with glasses and blond hair. “Except for this guy. Arkadi Kropotkan.”
“Doesn’t look like your typical FSB thug guard,” Grimaldi said.
“He’s not,” Brognola replied. “He works for the Kremlin in the Bureau of Economic Affairs. Typical mild-mannered bureaucrat, except for one little thing.” Brognola paused. “He happens to be quite close to our star defector.”
Bolan studied the image on the screen, committing it to memory.
“How close is close?” Grimaldi asked.
Brognola sipped his coffee again before answering. “Let’s just say they know each other in the Biblical sense of the word.”
Grimaldi snorted. “I’ll bet that’s going over like a lead balloon, considering how the Kremlin feels about homosexuals.”
“Apparently, the Kremlin doesn’t know about it yet.” Brognola set his mug down as he leaned forward. “And that’s exactly why Mr. Burns wants to come home.”
“And he wants to bring Kropotkin with him,” Bolan said.
Brognola nodded. “Exactly. That’s one of his conditions.”
“Conditions?” Grimaldi said. “Since when does some turncoat defector get to set conditions with us?”
Brognola shrugged. “I agree with you, but he’s also let on that Kropotkin is a wealth of information and has something significant to trade.”
“So the Agency needs us to help get them both out?” Bolan asked.
Brognola nodded. “We’ve arranged for both of you to be sent there as sports reporters to cover the International Martial Arts Tournament being hosted this week. As you know, the Russian president is a big judo fan, and he’ll be making some appearances at the tournament.”
“So I’ve heard,” Bolan said.
“Aaron’s setting everything up,” Brognola continued. “If you guys can assist the Agency in the operation, the President and I will be very appreciative.”
“When do we leave?” Bolan asked.
Krasnoyarsk Province, Siberia
GRODOVICH WATCHED WITH amusement as Mikhal’s huge hands fumbled with the seat belt. The center armrest in the airplane had been retracted to accommodate his immense frame, but now he struggled trying to figure out how to insert the metal flange into the buckle. Grodovich realized that Mikhal had most likely never been on an airplane before. He had never driven a car, either, and the only vehicles he’d ridden in were the bus that had taken him to prison and the van that had transported them from Detention Center 6 to this airport, where Stieglitz’s jet had been waiting.
A private jet, Grodovich thought. Interesting and elucidating. Some heavy hitters were involved in this scheme.
The pretty flight attendant smiled as she gently took the two parts from Mikhal and connected them, then showed him how to pull on the excess to tighten it. The giant recoiled at her touch, and this further amused Grodovich. He wondered if his huge friend had ever experienced the pleasure of a woman’s body. From the big man’s uneasiness, he doubted it. After all, Mikhal had been imprisoned since his mid-teens, and he was now around thirty. The landscape of tattoos covering his massive body told of his journey through the penal system.
Grodovich recalled how long it had been for him, as well. How long he’d been incarcerated, and how long it had been since he’d had a woman. Soon that would be rectified...for both of them.
Stieglitz had initially balked at the idea of releasing Mikhal, but Grodovich countered that the condition was non-negotiable. It had been a risk, that was certain, but one worth taking. Grodovich had sensed that it was one of the rare instances when he might have the upper hand. Stieglitz had not journeyed all the way from Moscow to not bring back the prize his superiors wanted. Grodovich also knew his ability to dictate terms would fade quickly once he was out and under a new form of control. Thus, having someone at his side, someone he could trust, would be Grodovich’s only real assurance. He knew that if the time came when his new masters decided they no longer needed him, the payoff would probably be a bullet to the head. With Mikhal, he stood a fair chance of survival beyond the completion of this scheme. In the meantime, he had only to enjoy his newly found freedom.
Relax, he thought as he watched big Mikhal squirming in the seat as the flight attendant’s hand rested on his shoulder.
She wore jeweled earrings that glistened under the cabin’s lights, and this brought Grodovich back to the original question he had posed: What exactly must he do in exchange for this pardon?
“We would like you to renew your old contacts on the international front as you go back into the diamond business...and with the Robie Cats,” Stieglitz had said.
What exactly did that mean? The Robies had sprung up the last two years, mostly while he’d been imprisoned. They were essentially an instrument of his former partner, who’d formed the group and sponsored them. They had become as adept at stealing jewels as their fictional inspiration, John Robie, from that old movie.
Grodovich turned and peered through the oval window at Stieglitz, who had yet to board the plane. He was still standing on the tarmac by the stairway talking on his mobile phone, and from the man’s body language he was obviously speaking to whoever was in charge of this farce. Initially, Grodovich had wondered if the Chechen stooges had been sent by Stieglitz to add an incentive to accept the offer. The transfer from Ariyskhe could have been designed to produce the same effect. Those in control had obviously arranged the chess pieces on the board in a particular manner and planned their moves well in advance. He wondered which one he was. The intricate manipulations indicated he was far more than a pawn... A knight, perhaps? Or maybe even a bishop?
The flight attendant tugged Mikhal’s seat belt snuggly across his hips and the giant responded with a foul-smelling burst of flatulence.
The woman’s head jerked back and she smiled before scurrying off.
Grodovich laughed. As rancid as it was, he and Mikhal were both breathing free air. And he intended to keep breathing it, despite any temporary effluviums that might drift his way.
“I am sorry, Alexander,” Mikhal said. “I could not help myself. Have I offended her?”
Grodovich placed his hand on the giant’s meaty thigh and gave it an affectionate squeeze.
“Do not concern yourself,” he said. “Soon we will be in Moscow and partaking in pleasures you have only dreamed about.”
The huge face twisted into a smile. “I have been thinking about that.” The giant licked his lips, and then his massive visage took on a serious expression. “I will never forget that I owe you for my freedom.”
Grodovich squeezed the enormous leg again. It was like the trunk of an oak tree. He nodded in reassurance but said nothing.
A knight or a bishop, he thought. It matters not when I have my own loyal rook.
* * *
STIEGLITZ STOOD SHIVERING in the cold wind that blew along the length of the airfield as the voice on the other end of the connection spoke with slow deliberation.
“I assume that everything went as I instructed?”
“Yes, sir,” Stieglitz said. He felt the pressure growing in his bowels. Just hearing the other voice did that to him. He knew he could be exterminated in the blink of an eye.
Should he tell his superior about Grodovich’s condition, the release of the giant, or keep that to himself? He’d been under orders to enlist Grodovich’s cooperation using any means necessary. But Stieglitz had not been prepared for the intrusion of the giant, nor had he anticipated the audacity of Grodovich.
“Are you there?” The voice was petulant.
Not wanting to incur any wrath, Stieglitz answered quickly. “Yes, yes, of course. I’m on the airfield and they’re fueling the plane now.”
After a few seconds of silence, the voice came back on the line. “How much have you told him?”
“Only that we have a special assignment for him involving diamonds.”
“We? You told him of my involvement?”
“No, no, of course not.” Stieglitz felt himself almost lose control and void himself. “I was merely using a figure of speech.”
More silence.
“As far as he knows,” Stieglitz continued, “I am the one in charge.”
Stieglitz heard nothing. Had the connection been lost? Was his death being ordered? Then, “Very well. Tell him what I instructed you to tell him. I have arranged for Rovalev to meet your plane in Moscow.”
Rovalev, the Black Wolf. He would most assuredly report the matter of the giant being released. Stieglitz had to do the same, lest it seem as if he were concealing something.
“There is one more matter,” he said nervously.
“What?”
Stieglitz tried to swallow, his mouth suddenly very dry, his hands so wet he was worried the special phone would slip from his grasp. “Grodovich wanted another convict, his...his companion, to be released, as well. I...uh...did that to appease him.”
He listened to dead air for several seconds until the voice spoke again.
“His companion?” A harsh laugh. “Perhaps it will make him more amenable. After all, a happy man is an efficient one. And if there are any problems, Rovalev can handle it.”
“Yes, of course, sir,” Stieglitz said, thinking of the subsequent reaction to the giant.
“Is there anything else?”
“No, nothing, sir,” he said. “Everything is as you instructed. Everything is under control.”
“It had better be.” The voice sounded cool, efficient, merciless. “Call me when you land.”
Stieglitz felt relief flood through him as he terminated the call. He glanced up the metal stairway leading to the open door of the plane and debated whether or not he could ascend it without voiding. He decided against it and began a shuffling walk back toward the gate. They would not take off without him.
As he continued toward the structure he caught a glimpse of a face watching him through the window of the plane.
Grodovich.
It was a mistake to show weakness in front of this unctuous gangster, and Stieglitz hoped his truncated steps would not betray his anxiety.
Perhaps he will assume I am a nervous flier, he thought.
