Читать книгу Dying Art - Don Pendleton - Страница 10
ОглавлениеCasa del Mar Resort Baja California, Mexico
It was 2:45 a.m., and the party was still going strong. The cacophony emanating from the exclusive resort was loud, and the smell of marijuana wafted down from the white stucco buildings and over the rows of cabanas and the large potted palm trees along the private beach. As well as the sweet odor of the cannabis, the lively music and sounds of laughter carried far into the warm summer night. Several couples strolled down the multitiered stone staircase toward the rows of smaller thatched-roof shelters along the beach. Some walked in the moonlight near the wire fencing that separated this section of oceanfront from the vacant expanses on either side of the resort. A few ventured out into the shallow portion of the surf. One particular couple had retreated into a beachfront shelter, apparently to enjoy the modicum of privacy the shadows offered.
The tension was coiling within Mack Bolan, aka the Executioner, as he checked the directional indicator on his smartphone and then focused his night-vision binoculars on the amorous pair. Half a dozen solitary men, all carrying Heckler & Koch MP-5 submachine guns, followed the would-be lovers at a close, but respectable, distance.
Bodyguards for the drug lord’s son, no doubt, Bolan thought.
He and the team of Mexican marines had been in place for hours, and the waiting and watching had long since grown tedious. But he knew it was also necessary to monitor various couples if they wanted to catch the brass ring.
Sergeant Jésus Martinez checked the directional scope and said, “Those two.” He was a big man, dressed in the camouflage uniform of his team. He and Bolan had worked missions together before, and the Executioner felt a confidence in the man’s abilities and expertise. He’d specifically requested that Martinez and his men accompany the two Americans on this special, unauthorized mission south of the border. The balaclava mask that usually covered Martinez’s face during ops was rolled up on his forehead. The area around his eyes was blackened with camo paint. “You see them?”
“The pair necking in the shelter?” Bolan whispered. He pointed to the area. “You’re sure?”
Martinez brought his own night-vision binoculars up and studied the amorous pair intently for several seconds. Then he grunted. “Sí.”
Bolan took another look at the man and the woman. They were stretched out on a lawn chair under the thatched roof of one of the beach shelters, only a scant hundred feet or so away. She was deliberately turning her face to the side, assuring that her visage would be clearly visible to them. Sergio de la Vega was nuzzling at her neck, his hands exploring her body through her clothes. Hopefully, he wouldn’t rip the gold cross from around her neck. It held the directional transmitter. They had to move fast.
“You’re certain she can be trusted?” Bolan asked. He slipped his smartphone into his pocket.
Martinez grunted again, this time closer to an expression of disgust. “Sí. Both of her brothers were murdered by the cartel, and they have threatened to kill her father. She has no love for Los Bajos Diablos.”
“Let’s get ready to move.” Bolan keyed his mic and told Grimaldi, who was several miles away in an orbiting helicopter, to get ready.
“Hot damn,” Grimaldi’s voice whispered back through Bolan’s in-ear receiver. “We’re finally getting some action!”
“Let’s not get overconfident,” Bolan replied.
“Yeah, I know. It ain’t over till it’s over.”
Martinez whispered into his mic, instructing his own men to get ready to move.
Los Bajos Diablos was the name of the drug cartel run by Don Fernando de la Vega and his son and intended successor, Sergio. Both Don Fernando and Sergio were wanted on drug trafficking and murder charges in the US, but thus far had avoided any attempts of arrest or extradition. But their respective behaviors had no similarity. While Don Fernando stayed in the periphery, dancing among the shadows and rarely allowing himself to be seen in public, his son had a penchant for being more audacious. Not only did he openly stride through the streets of various cities with his array of heavily armed bodyguards, he would often live stream his activities or post them on the internet. It was his open and defiant invitation for the police and members of the other cartels to try to crash his upcoming party that had attracted the attention of both the US and Mexican authorities.
Of course, Sergio had been too crafty to give more than a vague hint of where and when the party would take place; the time, date and location had been intercepted by Stony Man Farm. The recruitment of two dozen beautiful women had led to one of them, Consuelo Diaz, who, as Martinez mentioned, had her own ax to grind with the cartel: two dead brothers. Through the network of informants of her father, a well-known Mexican reporter, Consuelo had been contacted and persuaded to assist in a special operation of the Mexican marines. In reality, it was a joint, but totally unauthorized op, between the Mexicans and the Americans designed for secrecy and geared to eliminate the red tape that had frustrated officials on both sides of the border who wanted Los Bajos Diablos brought down.
The plan was simple. Once the location of Sergio’s party was known, Bolan, along with Martinez and his men, were inserted farther inland to make their way surreptitiously to the edge of the resort. Consuelo Diaz, who was wearing a tiny directional transmitter, would lure Sergio away from his bodyguards, ostensibly long enough for a romantic interlude, at which time Bolan and the marines would sweep in and grab Sergio. Grimaldi was standing by in a specially equipped Black Hawk helicopter to whisk the prisoner and the team away. For safekeeping, Diaz would be taken, as well. That was one part of the plan that Bolan didn’t like: putting innocents in the line of fire. Plus, if the woman could not maintain her composure during the subterfuge as they were taken into custody, she’d be marked for certain death by the cartel. Even though he didn’t know her, Bolan wasn’t going to let that happen.
He got to his feet with a practiced ease, despite the heavy ballistic vest and pistol belt laden with weapons and equipment. Martinez did the same and then rolled down the balaclava to cover his features. Bolan wore black camo paint on his face and no mask. He didn’t need one. With luck, he’d be leaving Mexico this night, while Martinez and his men would be staying.
Martinez told his solitary overwatch sniper to target the bodyguards, while the rest of his men began moving down the slope toward the beach.
Bolan checked Diaz and Sergio again. They were still engaged in the preliminaries and by planned design were in the last beach shelter in the row—and the one closest to the fence line. He slipped the binoculars into the case on his utility belt and flipped his night-vision goggles down.
Time to get down and dirty, he thought as he began his descent. And get that woman out of harm’s way.
The outcropping provided easy access to the wire fencing that separated the property of the resort with the rest of the area. It had been purposely left undeveloped by the resort owners to ensure the privacy of its patrons, and provided adequate concealment right up to the metallic privacy rampart. As Bolan approached, he saw that two of the marines were busy with the wire cutters. The man with the cutters finished quickly, and the second man pulled back the fence. Bolan slipped through, followed by Martinez and two others.
Both the sergeant and one of the marines carried MP-5s. Bolan and the other man had only handguns, but the Executioner’s weapon was a Beretta 93-R, with an extended magazine and sound suppressor. His pistol could fire three-round bursts, as well as single shots. Additionally, Bolan had a Taser. The plan was to stun and subdue Sergio so he could be taken alive. That way he could be brought to trial and also be bait for an even bigger fish, Don Fernando, his father and king of the cartel.
Bolan held up his fist to stop the others and then flattened out on the sand. The greenish embellishment of his night-vision goggles showed that Sergio was now trying to strip off the young woman’s clothes. She was doing a little to delay him, but her face was showing signs of a growing distress.
Martinez crawled up next to him.
“We had better hurry, my friend,” he whispered.
Bolan silently concurred and rose to a crouch. Glancing toward the beach, he saw the bodyguards had congregated in a small group by the water’s edge. They were passing around a lit cigarette, most likely not tobacco.
The pitfall of having easy access to the cartel’s product, Bolan thought as he ran toward the beach shelter with the Taser in his hand. He was perhaps twenty-five yards away now. Almost close enough for a risky shot. Sergio’s back offered a tempting target, but Bolan wanted to be sure of a good, solid hit.
The young woman’s moans of protest carried in the velvety darkness. Bolan’s knowledge of Spanish was adequate enough for him understand. “You are going too fast, Sergio.”
She was trying her best to hold him off.
“Shut up, bitch.” His guttural reply was punctuated by the sound of his hand striking her face and then the ripping of cloth. Diaz screamed.
Glancing toward the bodyguards, Bolan saw they were still laughing and passing around the joint. They wouldn’t be getting any rewards from Don Fernando when all this was said and done. Or at least none that they would enjoy.
Bolan covered the last few yards in a few seconds and raised the Taser, centering the laser sight between Sergio’s shoulder blades. The accompanying pop mixed in with the sound of Consuelo Diaz’s cries.
Sergio’s entire body stiffened as Bolan let him take the full electric ride for about thirty seconds. The drug lord’s son fell to the ground and writhed as the 50,000 volts coursed through him. Martinez and the other marine flattened out in the shadows of the beach shelter and pointed their MP-5s at the group of bodyguards.
“Use these,” Bolan said, handing the third marine a pair of flat black handcuffs. The man took the cuffs and snapped them over Sergio’s wrists, then wrapped a gag around the prone man’s mouth and tied it tightly behind his head. He pulled a black hood from his pocket and secured it over Sergio’s face, then he slipped two pre-tied nooses around the man’s knees and ankles. Within sixty seconds, their quarry was trussed up tighter than a snug gym shoe.
Consuelo Diaz stood up and crossed her arms over her bare breasts. Her blouse and brassiere had been completely ripped off. Her eyes darted to Bolan’s face and then to the ground. The Executioner handed the still-connected Taser to the marine and slipped off his black shirt. He held it toward the young woman and whispered in Spanish for her to put it on.
She accepted it, murmured, “Gracias,” but still did not look him in the eye.
Satisfied that her modesty had been preserved Bolan shot a quick look toward the bodyguards. Their reckless indulgence had not slackened. Keying his mic, Bolan called Grimaldi.
“Jack, you ready for the diversion?”
“Ready, willing and able,” came the reply.
About forty seconds later Bolan heard the unmistakable sound of the approaching rotors. Apparently, the bodyguards noticed it, too, as one man tossed the joint and they began to trot toward the beach shelter where they’d last seen Sergio, MP-5s up and ready for action if need be. Bolan and the marine pulled Sergio and Consuelo farther back into the shadows. Martinez let the two runners get almost too close before he and his partner took them out with silenced head shots.
The bodyguards twisted and fell to the sand. Martinez grabbed one and jerked him into the shadows, stripping him of his weapon. The other marine did the same.
“Paco, is everything all right?” one of the bodyguards on the beach called out in Spanish.
“Yes,” Martinez yelled back, standing and giving a quick wave. It was a gamble. They were about fifty yards away, and dappled by moonlight and shadows, but the big marine probably figured the marijuana usage had sufficiently impaired the faculties of the bodyguard.
The gamble turned out to be wrong as the bodyguard on the beach stiffened and then brought up what was apparently a pair of night-vision goggles hanging from a strap around his neck. A few seconds later he called out an alarm and began running toward them, his MP5 spitting rounds. Another man joined him.
“Vincente,” Martinez said into his radio mic.
A second later one of the running bodyguards jerked and fell to the ground, courtesy of Vincente, the sniper.
“Stop firing, idiot!” one of the other bodyguards yelled. “You could hit Sergio.”
The first running man, disobedient of the cautionary command, switched to a zigzag pattern and fired off another burst, and the rounds zipped around them.
Maybe this gunner figured he had nothing to lose, Bolan thought. Perhaps the marijuana had lowered the guard’s inhibitions, or perhaps he realized that Sergio’s father would be none too pleased about their performance regardless.
Bolan had been counting on their ballistic restraint, figuring they’d be reticent to open up for fear of hitting the boss’s son.
Drawing his Beretta 93-R, Bolan fired a quick, three-round burst that stitched across the running man’s chest. The man continued one more step before slamming face-first into the sand.
More armed men sprinted toward them—perhaps a dozen—and they began firing now, but their shots were wide and probably intended for show until they could get closer. But it was all for naught. Seconds later a blur of blinding lights zoomed into view above them as Grimaldi swept overhead, the helicopter’s rotors slicing the air and the forward-mounted machine guns strafing the beach with an accompanying staccato popping on his first pass. Then the Black Hawk seemed to freeze in midair and swing back over the beach again, this time in the opposite direction, after turning on a dime in midair to send two 70 mm Hydra rockets streaking into the stone walls that tapered down toward the beach. The stone shelves exploded, belching a billow of smoke and cascading rocks.
Grimaldi’s appearance had been the cue for the team to get moving. Bolan jammed his Beretta into its holster and picked up Sergio, slinging him over his shoulder like a sack of rice. He motioned for the other marine to help Diaz, and they ran back toward the hole in the fence through which they’d come.
Back up the rabbit hole, Bolan thought and he went down to one knee and dropped his burden onto the ground so he could be pulled through the fence. Two marines on the other side pulled Sergio through the opening. Martinez, almost breathless from the running, spoke into his mic to order all his men to the LZ.
Bolan helped Diaz through the opening and then went through himself. First one in, last one out, as usual. Behind him, he could hear the sound of more explosions. He picked up Sergio’s bound body and ran for the LZ, hearing the man’s raspy breathing.
Martinez had his men count off as they made their way through the shrubbery toward the long expanse of beach.
The number verified that everyone was accounted for as they formed up at the predetermined location. The scream of the approaching helicopter’s rotors sounded like the beating of a thousand bat wings. The Black Hawk descended with perfect ease about thirty feet from them. A few shots sounded from the bodyguards, and the marines on the perimeter returned fire. Bolan got to the open door of the helicopter and tossed Sergio onto the hard metal floor.
Bolan turned and helped Diaz into the chopper, then jumped aboard himself. Positioning himself by the door, he swung the M60 machine gun on the swivel mount, adjusted the belt and pulled back the lever. The rest of the marines piled inside, followed by Martinez.
As the helicopter began to lift off, a few rounds skidded off the outer shell. Bolan fired a burst from the M60, and then heard Grimaldi’s voice come over his in-ear receiver.
“Those guys still want to dance? I got something for them.”
He used the mounted M240 machine guns to strafe the resort side of the beach again, and as they ascended Bolan could see the men below scattering like shell-shocked ants.
Bolan snapped the safety on the M60 and swung it back behind against the wall of the cabin. He pulled the door closed and turned to check on everyone. With the high-pitched roar from the rotors spinning at max speed, conversation was next to impossible. He flashed a thumbs-up to Martinez, who had rolled his mask up on his head. Sergio still lay on the floor, immobile, but quivering. Martinez gave a thumbs-up back. The Executioner went to the cockpit and sat in the copilot’s seat.
Grimaldi pointed to the headset, which Bolan then slipped on.
“We’ll be touching down on the Mexican side in fifteen,” Grimaldi said. “To make our deposit.”
Bolan acknowledged him.
Despite a few minor bumps, the op had gone pretty well. Still, they had to drop off Martinez, his marines and Diaz, before flying to US soil and delivering Sergio to the waiting DEA agents. Since this mission technically did not exist, Bolan assumed this second drop-off would be accomplished with minimal conversation and complications. Everything wrapped up nicely and tied off with a pretty bow.
Still, he worried about the young woman.
Should Sergio figure out that it was she who set him up, her life wouldn’t be worth a handful of pesos. There was no way to keep Sergio from his lawyers, and therefore the eventual communication with his father, Don Fernando, was inevitable. But Martinez had assured Bolan that the marines would protect her.
“That is all we have been doing lately,” Martinez told him. “Protecting reporters, informers and their families.”
This time they had their work cut out, Bolan thought.
La Fortaleza Diabla
Baja California, Mexico
Don Fernando de la Vega sat calmly behind his large teakwood desk smoking one of his Havanas and contemplating the recent turn of events. His rise to power as leader of Los Bajos Diablos had not happened overnight, and he prided himself on possessing an abundance of virtues, not the least of which was patience. He gazed about the empty room, plush in its opulence. Mayan statues decorated the walls, as well as paintings by some of Mexico’s greatest artists, alongside the works of Rembrandt, Van Gogh and Gauguin.
He drew on the cigar and savored the smoke in his mouth. It suddenly turned bitter tasting as he heard a knock on the door and his thoughts returned to Sergio.
“Enter,” he said.
The door opened and Gordo, his immense and extremely loyal bodyguard, entered along with Lupe Garcia, another of his lieutenants.
Don Fernando blew out a cloudy breath. Garcia stood at attention, Gordo looking down at him with the watchfulness that had endeared him to Don Fernando for many years. Nothing could get by the giant, no one could move to hurt his master... Gordo would give his life to assure that, and he had many scars of failed attempts.
“Has it been verified?” Don Fernando asked.
He could see beads of sweat beginning to run down Garcia’s cheeks. That told Don Fernando the answer even before the other man could speak. Prescience was another of Don Fernando’s virtues. He could read other men as clearly as a book.
“Yes, Don Fernando,” Garcia said. He swallowed hard, then continued, “He was taken from the resort in the dead of night.” He took a breath and seemed ready to say more, but stopped as Don Fernando held up his palm.
Sergio, his only son, taken... But by whom? The reports said that a military-style helicopter had been used in the abduction. Surely none of the other cartels had such equipment. So had it been the Mexican government? Doubtful, since he had heard nothing from his internal sources that they would be mounting such an audacious attack. There was only one certain answer.
“The Americans?” Don Fernando asked.
Garcia swallowed again, then gave a quick nod. “We believe so. He has vanished without a trace.”
Don Fernando took another draw on the cigar. If that were so, it meant both good and bad news. Good news meaning that Sergio was probably alive and unharmed, bad that he was most likely not in Mexico anymore. Looking up at Garcia, he frowned.
“Where were his bodyguards when this occurred?”
Garcia compressed his lips briefly. “Four of them were killed. The others, I am having brought here as we speak.”
“How many of them?”
“Six.”
Don Fernando raised an eyebrow. “So you are telling me that ten men, whose loyalty is supposed to be beyond question, could not protect my son from an abduction?”
“They were taken by surprise, sir,” Garcia said. “They fought back. Four of them died.”
“Silence!” Don Fernando slammed his hand on the desktop with such force that it snapped his cigar in two. He tossed the pieces away and opened his humidor to retrieve another.
Garcia said nothing. The sweat continued to cascade down his face.
Don Fernando snorted in disgust as he rotated the tip of the new cigar in the flame of his lighter.
“When you have them all here,” he said, “assemble them in the courtyard.”
Don Fernando felt a growing agony over this situation, but he immediately suppressed it. He placed his cigar into the antique, mother-of-pearl ashtray, pulled open his desk drawer and removed a stainless steel 9 mm Taurus semiautomatic pistol. Pulling back the slide slightly, he verified that a round was in the chamber, then set the weapon on the desk in front of him. “I shall attend to this personally. Show everyone the price of failure.”
“Yes, Don Fernando,” Garcia said.
The cartel leader waved his hand dismissively, and the other man scurried out the door. When Garcia had left, he picked up his cigar and spoke to the giant.
“Gordo, after I have dealt with the traitors in the courtyard, kill him. Slowly.”
The giant’s face showed no expression. He simply nodded and left.
Patience... Prescience...
Don Fernando drew on his cigar as he contemplated one of his other virtues: cunning. He thought about the plan that he already had in place, and how he could modify it to ensure that whoever had taken his son would pay a terrible price.
Yes, he thought as he exhaled a cloud of smoke. There will be a reckoning... There will be vengeance...
Two months later
Istanbul, Turkey
Clayton Tragg watched as the miserable little man used a jeweler’s loupe to inspect the two halves of the hand-carved ivory spheres. This professor, Higgins, the handpicked expert his employer had selected to accompany them, was almost as pathetic as Lucien Bruns himself had been when he was originally contacted about the artifact. How two grown men could get so excited about a pair of old hand-carved pieces of ivory, much less be willing to pay a fortune for them, was almost beyond Tragg’s comprehension. Still, it was what he was getting paid for, on two fronts if the truth be known, so who was he to complain? With things drying up in Iraq and Afghanistan, lucrative new work for the dark ops section of what remained of Granite Security, Inc., was getting more and more scarce. Plus, it beat the hell out of escorting some US-backed mullah and aspiring politician around a perpetual war zone worrying about snipers and IEDs.
He watched the Turkish art dealer, Hakeem Karga, who had “acquired” the artifact known as The Lion and the Lioness Attacking the Nubian, purported to be from the Islamic Period, and made even more valuable because it dared to show human figures when such depictions were considered idolatry by Sharia Law. Two corresponding circular spheres of hand-carved ivory and mother-of-pearl over twelve hundred years old...
Tragg reflected on that. The piece had been around for over a thousand years, the last several decades of which it had spent in the National Museum of Iraq, only to have been “removed” when American tanks rolled into Baghdad. From there it passed through various hands before ending up here, in the possession of one of the biggest crooks in Istanbul, who’d most likely bought it from ISIS or al Qaeda, or one of the other regional bands. Once the militants finally realized they could make themselves some money selling stolen stuff from the museums instead of getting their religious rocks off by destroying it, they quietly set aside their strict ideology of demagogy and covertly entered into the more profitable black market business. Maybe they were smarter than they looked. And then again, maybe not. Tragg was sure that Karga had paid them a fraction of what he figured he could get selling it on the black market to some rich American or European collector.
Or maybe even a Mexican one. Tragg silently chuckled at the thought.
The dingy little room had a sour smell to it and the four Turks were smoking those foul-smelling cigarettes with the extended filters that had been mashed one too many times. Tragg could hardly wait to get the hell out of there. His eyes went to his partner, Tyrone Dean, who stood by impassively with his hand in the pocket of his black shirt. His shaved head was gleaming with sweat, but Tragg knew it wasn’t from nerves. He’d been with Dean on too many missions. He was an iceman. No doubt he had his hand around the grip of his Walther PPK, ready in case the art dealer tried to pull something. Not that Tragg thought he would. He’d dealt with this Karga before, and the man always made a substantial profit on these black-market dealings. If word got out that he’d pulled a double cross during one of them, his reputation would take a severe hit.
Besides, Tragg felt confident that he and Dean could take them all out if it ever came to that.
The mousy professor squirmed in his chair, his tiny fingers rubbing the mother-of-pearl inlays with the care and tenderness of someone stroking a beautiful woman’s body, all the while murmuring under his breath, “Yes, yes, yes.” Tragg watched with amusement, figuring the little man’s reaction must be a good sign.
Karga brought his cigarette to his lips, drew on it deeply, and then said with a smoky breath, “See? Did I not tell you it was genuine?”
The professor gazed up, the loupe still in place over his right eye, his lips pulled back showing a row of small inward-slanted teeth. “I do believe it is.”
The art dealer cocked his head to the side. His features curved into a knowing expression as he winked at Tragg. “Then we have only to discuss the price at this time, correct?”
He snapped his fingers and then wiggled them back and forth, indicating that the professor should hand the item back to him. The little man complied with the utmost care.
“Now,” Karga said, placing the two pieces into a velvet-lined box and then placing that box into a metal briefcase that he secured with a special lock. He handed the briefcase to one of his big bodyguards, who stood close to him. “Are we ready to do business?”
“We need to phone our employer first,” Tragg said. “In private.”
Karga said something in Turkish to one of the bodyguards. “Very well. He will show you to a private room. But advise him that I am a very busy man.”
Tragg, Dean and the professor followed the big Turk down a narrow hallway. The professor was walking briskly at Tragg’s side trying to keep up.
“It’s authentic,” the little man said. “I’m sure of it. Of course, we’ll need some typing of the carbon thirteen to be absolutely certain, but I am ninety-nine percent convinced of its authenticity.”
“Good,” Tragg said. “You can tell that to the boss.” He took out his satellite phone and punched in the number. The big Turk stopped and pointed to a door. Dean disappeared inside for a few seconds, then stuck his head out.
“It’s clear,” he said as he stepped out into the hallway.
Tragg pulled the professor into the room and pressed the button to initiate the Skype call. He held the phone in front of him with his left hand and positioned the professor in front of him with his right. After completing the call and going through a series of underlings, Lucien Bruns’s round face came into view. His fat cheeks were somewhat distorted on the small flat screen, his eyes enlarged behind his thick spectacles.
“Professor Higgins has verified the item, sir,” Tragg said. “The L and L, A N.”
It was their code name for the artifact, which was no doubt on several Interpol and US Customs and Border Protection lists as having been stolen from the National Museum of Iraq.
Below Tragg’s chin, the little man’s head bobbed up and down like a yo-yo. “It’s definitely from the Islamic Period, and all the more rare due to the idolatrous aspects of its depiction of the human forms. I’d say it’s the genuine article, all right.”
Bruns’s eyes widened, and the tip of his pink tongue glided over his lips.
“That’s good news,” he said. “I assume the price is within the range as previously discussed.”
“Yes, sir.”
Like that would matter, Tragg thought. He knew how much Bruns coveted the damn thing. It had been all he’d talked about before sending Tragg and Dean on this special assignment to Turkey.
The Lion and the Lioness Attacking the Nubian... Two intricately carved little spheres of ivory that Bruns was willing to pay more money for than Tragg could ever hope to make in two decades. But if he and Dean played this one right, it would be a windfall for them that would set them up for the rest of their lives. And, there’d be enough left over to pay off the rest of the dark ops team, too. This wasn’t something the two of them could manage on their own. No, it would take a team effort, just like in Iraq, just like in Afghanistan. And it would require a whole lot of intricate planning, but what special ops mission didn’t? And this one would take them to the end of the rainbow.
“Good,” Bruns said. “Tell him it’ll be the same arrangement as the last time. As soon as the formalities are complete, we’ll make the transfer.”
“The formalities” meant the forged paper trail that Karga would create to “document” that the item was sold through proper and established channels. It was total bullshit, but Bruns had been burned before when he’d been ordered by US Customs and Border Protection to return a series of cuneiform stone tablets that he’d purchased without proper documentation. Now that things had settled down somewhat in the war zones in Iraq and Afghanistan, both the US and foreign governments were looking a lot closer at these transactions out of Geneva and Istanbul. The “transfer” referred to the actual exchange where the money would be wired to Karga’s special Swiss bank account, and the artifact would be turned over to Tragg for transport to Bruns. The mistake the rich son of a bitch had made the last time was transporting them directly to the United States. This time he’d arranged for them to come in the back door, via Mexico, which had in turn opened up the second, and secret, part of Tragg’s plan.
“There’s one more thing, sir,” he said as he placed a hand on the professor’s shoulder and pushed him toward the door. After the little man was shoved into the hall, Tragg closed the door behind him.
He studied the image of the fat man on the small screen. The twin creases between Bruns’s eyebrows were deep. “What’s going on?”
“It seems we may have a problem,” Tragg said.
“What?”
“There’s another bidder who’s interested.” Tragg waited a few seconds to heighten the tension. “And Hakeem seems to favor his offer.”
