Читать книгу Resurgence - Don Pendleton - Страница 11

New Jersey Turnpike, northbound

“I didn’t catch your name back there,” Bolan said when they’d covered several miles with no sign of pursuit.

“Natalia Volkova,” the lady said.

That pegged her accent. Russian.

“Okay,” Bolan replied. “Don’t get me wrong. I’m grateful that you helped me out back there. But could you tell me how you happened by?”

She glanced at him around a spill of auburn hair that draped the shoulders of her conservative suit. She hardly needed makeup, but she wore dark lipstick and some eye shadow. Bolan couldn’t be sure of colors in the red-orange dashboard light.

“I did not, as you say it, ‘happen by,’” Volkova corrected him. “I have been watching these Albanian mudaki for nearly six weeks.”

“Mudaki?” Bolan echoed.

“A figure of speech,” she replied with a hint of a smile. “My point is that I am investigating them, not saving you. You understand?”

“I’m getting there. One thing’s still a little hazy, though. Which agency is it you’re representing here, again?”

She lost the smile, so tenuous to start with. “You would argue jurisdiction now? Perhaps I should deliver you back to the place I found you, eh?”

“Relax,” Bolan suggested. “I just want to know where I should send my thank-you note.”

After a silent mile, she said, “I am not from your country, yes? I think you know this.”

“It was sinking in,” Bolan agreed.

“Lorik Cako and those he serves are not only a problem in your great New Jersey and New York. They plague a list of countries, mine among them.”

“Which would be?” As if he didn’t know.

She missed a beat, then said, “The Russian Federation. Are you frightened now? You wish to jump out of my car?”

“I’ll stick at least until we hit a Waffle House,” Bolan said. “So, what are you? FIS or FSB?”

“FSB,” she replied, in a voice that almost made it sexy.

“Aren’t you supposed to operate primarily inside the federation?”

“Primarily,” she said. “But like your FBI, we are empowered to pursue domestic cases when they lead abroad.”

“So Washington knows that you’re here, and what you’re doing?” Bolan asked.

“I’m an investigator, not a diplomat,” Natalia said. “I follow orders, leaving all negotiations in the hands of my superiors. And you?”

“No one’s ever accused me of diplomacy,” Bolan replied.

“From what I saw tonight, you are a man of action. Not entirely legal action, granted. But I envy you a little.”

It was Bolan’s turn to frown. “Be careful what you wish for,” he replied.

“Sorry?”

“Forget it. After what you saw and heard tonight, why did you pick me up?”

“Perhaps because you’ve done what I have wished to do since I began tracking these animals. Perhaps I hoped that we could share intelligence and bring them down together. That sounds foolish, I suppose?”

“Not necessarily,” Bolan said. He’d collaborated with the FSB before, but had to ask, “What will your people say?”

Volkova shrugged. “Sometimes, what they don’t know won’t hurt me, eh?”

“I hear that,” Bolan said. “It’s risky, though.”

“You seem to favor risk.”

“The calculated ones, at least,” Bolan stated. “I’ve never cared for jumping off a cliff blindfolded.”

“Did you know what to expect at Cako’s house tonight?” she asked.

“An auction.”

“Da. That bastard sells women and children as if they were cattle. I hoped to gather evidence and give it to your FBI if all else fails. But now…”

“I know. Tonight I missed the women and the buyers,” Bolan said.

“The limousines?” Volkova asked.

“Long gone,” Bolan replied.

“Perhaps not,” the Russian agent said.

“Meaning?”

“First things first,” she answered. “You did not walk out to Cako’s home tonight, with all those guns. Where is your car?”

“Back in East Keansburg,” Bolan said. “A rental. Nothing in it that can hurt me, but I’ve lost my clothes, some extra hardware.”

“We can go back for it,” she said.

“Tonight? Police will have the neighborhood staked out and locked down tight.”

“Perhaps tomorrow, then. Or we can get another car. As for your clothes—”

“About those limousines,” he interrupted her. “What did you mean?”

“I know Cako’s buyers,” Volkova replied. “Every one of them a foreigner, like me. They won’t fly out tonight, for Hong Kong, Bogotá, wherever they come from. First they will wish to shout at Cako, then relax and sleep. Perhaps, when they have slept, even complete the business that they came to do.”

Bolan considered it. Something to hope for, anyway. Better than abject failure.

“Are you on to something?” he inquired. “Or is this wishful thinking?”

“I can tell you where the customers are registered,” Volkova said. “A few calls will confirm if they’ve gone back to their hotel rooms. And if not, I know where Cako is most likely to conceal them.”

“And the women?” Bolan asked.

“They’re valuable merchandise,” she said. “Why throw it all away, if he can make a profit for his masters, after all?”

New Jersey Pine Barrens

LORIK CAKO HAD stepped outside his house to make the call, smelling the pitch pines all around him. He was glad now that he’d left to come outside, as Arben Kurti’s shouting through the cell phone made his ear ache.

“What do you mean, you don’t know who’s responsible?”

“Arben—”

“I have police already calling me, now on their way with questions. What am I supposed to tell them, Lorik?”

“Tell them nothing, Arben. You know nothing. It’s true! They can’t break you on that.”

“Break me? Break me? No one breaks me, you punk!”

Cako cringed and answered, “No, sir. Of course not.”

“What about the women, then? Are they safe?”

“The buyers were my first concern.”

“It should have been security,” Kurti replied. “You’re sure these weren’t police?”

“Impossible,” Cako replied with perfect confidence. “American police don’t come in shooting. They bring warrants, helicopters, lights and cameras. Reporters follow them. It’s not at all the same.”

“Which leaves my question still unanswered,” Kurti said.

“I’ll find out who it was,” Cako assured his lord and master. “You can trust me.”

“I’ve already trusted you,” Kurti said. “Now I wonder if I should regret that choice.”

“I cannot tell you what to think,” Cako replied, bluffing it out. “But if you let me prove myself, you won’t be disappointed, sir.”

Kurti considered it and offered no direct response. Instead, he said, “The sale is ruined, I suppose. We’ll have to pay the clients back for traveling so far for nothing.”

“I believe we can proceed,” Cako suggested, “once I’ve calmed them down. Some discounts may be necessary, but I think that they would hate to go home empty-handed.”

Kurti spent another silent moment on the line, then said, “Do what you can with them. The merchandise cost nothing, after all. Disposing of it may create more problems than a discount sale.”

“My thought exactly, sir.”

“And find the people who caused me this headache,” Kurti said. “I want them alive if it’s possible. Dead, just as good. But be sure, understand?”

“Absolutely.”

“Your job now depends on it. As does your life.”

“Understood.”

Despite the warm night, Cako felt goose bumps rise on his arms, as a chill snaked its way down his spine. Before he had the chance to speak again, try ending their talk on a slightly more positive note, Kurti broke the connection. Cako heard the dial tone buzzing in his ear and killed his cell phone.

He couldn’t fault Kurti for his anger. All Cako could do now was fulfill his promises and hope that his success restored the confidence he had enjoyed before tonight.

First, calm his buyers and persuade them to permit another showing of the merchandise, perhaps at bargain prices. He would have to lay on more security, assure them of their safety—but where better to conduct the sale than in the vast Pine Barrens, shielded from the eyes of man and God alike?

Next, Cako knew he had to identify the bastards who had stormed his home, humiliated him and put his life doubly at risk. They’d failed to kill him outright, as was plainly their intent, but he was still in danger from his own captain if he could not find some swift way to rectify the situation.

Failure in this case was not an option.

It was do or die.

And when it came to agonizing death, Lorik Cako believed that it was best to give, rather than to receive.

THE ROOM WAS SMALL but tidy, had a lived-in look about it and smelled pleasantly of Volkova’s perfume. Bolan was no connoisseur of ladies’ fragrances, but thought this one had some kind of flower etched on blue glass bottles, which presumably helped to boost the price.

Whatever. Under different circumstances, he imagined it would do the trick when skillfully applied to someone who resembled his companion.

In the full light of her motel room, Natalia Volkova lived up to Bolan’s first impression—and then some. She was what the British tabloid page-three writers like to call a “stunna,” see-worthy in any setting.

But this night she was all business.

“You know the Pine Barrens?” she asked, while Bolan sipped a cup of halfway decent java from the coffeemaker that the motel provided for its guests.

“I know of it,” he said. “Pine trees and cranberries, with very few inhabitants than anybody bothers counting. Something like a million acres of it is a national reserve. Odd animals. Some say the Jersey Devil hangs around out there.”

She smiled and asked, “Are you afraid of monsters, Mr. Cooper?”

There’d been no harm he could see in giving her the standard cover name. Bolan had plentiful ID to back it up—a valid driver’s license, passport, credit cards—but she’d made no attempt to verify his name.

In fact, she likely didn’t care.

For all he knew, her real name could be Anna Khrushchev or Josefina Stalin. As long as she was fairly straight with him and they were moving in the same direction, toward a common goal, what difference did it make?

The cover world was all about illusions, anyway.

“The monsters I’m familiar with are human beings,” Bolan said. “They haven’t scared me yet.”

That wasn’t strictly true, of course. A soldier who denied ever experiencing fear was either lying or a stone-cold psychopath. Her could have been more accurate and said the human monsters in his past had never scared him off a mission, but Natalia got the point.

“Cako has a house in the Pine Barrens,” she informed him. “Not on state land, but nearby. There are no neighbors. It is his retreat, what you might call a home away from home, yes? He can do things there that might be dangerous in East Keansburg. I’m confident that he will be there now, perhaps with those who came to see him for the auction.”

“And the women,” Bolan said.

“Most probably. Whatever he decides to do with them, tonight has taught him to proceed with greater privacy.”

Whatever he decides to do with them.

They could be dead already, Bolan realized. It might be Cako’s smartest move, eliminating witnesses and evidence, but there was still a chance that the Albanian would try to turn a profit on the deal that had gone sideways for him, thanks to Bolan.

And the mobster would be wondering who was responsible for his embarrassment. Somebody higher up the food chain would be riding him for answers, breathing down his neck in the pursuit of sweet revenge.

“You know where I can find this home away from home?” Bolan inquired.

“I know where we can find it, Mr. Cooper.”

“It’s Matt,” he said. “And no offense, but all I’ve seen from you so far is fancy driving. I appreciate the lift and all, but if we’re talking penetration of a well-defended hardsite, that’s another story altogether.”

Sitting on the bed, leaning toward Bolan where he occupied the small room’s only chair, she said, “So far, all I have seen from you, Matt, is a chase you nearly lost, together with your life. I spent four years in the Russian army, three of them with Spetznaz, before moving to the FSB. I was a member of the Special Operations Service and participated in my share of actions against Chechen terrorists.”

Spetznaz was Russia’s equivalent of the Green Berets, well respected worldwide for their training, skill and demonstrated ruthlessness. Sometimes they went overboard, as in the Moscow theater siege of 2002, when critics blamed Spetznaz troops for killing a hundred-odd hostages along with thirty-three Chechen militants.

Bolan wondered if Volkova had been there, a part of the action, and decided not to ask.

“Okay,” he said. “I’ll take it that you have the nerve to pull a trigger. Do you have directions to the target? Better yet, a layout of the house and grounds?”

She smiled and tapped her temple with an index finger as she answered, “Right in here.”

ARBEN KURTI HAD CHANGED his mind. After a transatlantic phone call that had literally left his ears burning, he had decided—or, to be precise, Rahim Berisha had decided for him—that he could not leave his buyers solely in the hands of Lorik Cako. This underling had been capable enough until this day, but one mistake was often fatal in the world Kurti inhabited.

And if a head had to roll, Kurti didn’t intend it to be his.

So he was driving with a dozen of his soldiers through the night, with a surprise for Cako. The man would resent it, but if he was smart he’d keep his mouth shut and accept the wisdom of his betters as his own best chance to stay alive.

Kurti was taking over.

He would charm the foreign buyers, salve their wounded feelings with whatever balm it might require. He had no end of alcohol and drugs available, and Kurti might even allow them to take turns sampling the merchandise. Enough, at least, to whet their appetites for more.

At a reduced price, certainly.

But not too much reduced.

Life was a business, after all. And so was death.

Kurti had only visited the vast Pine Barrens once before. On that occasion, two of his unruly soldiers had required a dose of special discipline. Kurti had driven them to Cako’s woodland hideaway, where no one but the members of a hand-picked audience could hear them scream.

And scream.

For hours on end.

Kurti pretended to derive no pleasure from such terminal events, because excessive lust for blood could be a weakness, just as surely as a fear of spilling any blood at all. A man should manage to control his base emotions at all times—except, perhaps, at the climactic moment of his rutting with a whore.

And even then he should be able to react effectively if threatened by an enemy, confronted by some crisis.

Anyone who lost control completely was a fool.

And easy meat for adversaries.

He was counting on a certain weakness in the men who’d flown halfway around the world to bid on human merchandise. They had been shaken up this night, endangered, and would naturally be irate. Their dignity was ruffled, even if they’d suffered no real injury.

In situations such as this, dealing with ruthless men of power, Kurti knew certain concessions had to be made. He would admit responsibility for their discomfort, to a point, and offer his assurance that the insult would be punished. He might tape that punishment, as it unfolded, and provide free copies for the personal amusement of his guests.

As for the women, they were still available. Still lovely and unsullied by the incident that had disrupted Cako’s first attempt to sell them off. Would any of the buyers choose to go home empty-handed and declare their trips a total waste?

Kurti thought not.

His thirty-year career in crime, devoted to obtaining profit from the misery of others, had taught Kurti not to miss a trick along the way. Instead of granting his unhappy guests access to any of the merchandise, he thought it might be fun to stage a little show for them. Let them observe the girls with one another.

Wait until their lust took over, and no discounts were required.

He might even increase the asking price.

Why not?

His buyers were men who lived by the rule of supply and demand.

And sometimes died by it.

It had crossed Kurti’s mind that the men who had raided Cako’s estate might follow up with a strike at the Pine Barrens site. He deemed it unlikely, but part of him hoped that it would come to pass.

That way, Kurti could avoid expensive, time-consuming searches that exposed his men to greater risks from both their unknown enemy and the authorities. He had been lucky so far, with the FBI and DEA, whose focus on Albanians had cracked the Rudaj syndicate in Queens but left the group that Kurti served intact.

That luck had been too good to last, perhaps, but Kurti meant to take advantage of it while he could.

By this time tomorrow, he hoped to have good news for Rahim Berisha at home.

And to save his own life in the process.

VOLKOVA USED a piece of motel stationery to sketch a map of Lorik Cako’s place in the Pine Barrens, giving Bolan a bird’s-eye view of the spread and its lone access road.

“You’ve flown over the place?” he inquired.

“But of course,” she answered, smiling. “Several companies advertise tours of the region. I chose Jersey Devil Airlines. Their pilot was most attentive.”

“I’m not surprised. No photos, though?”

“I did not wish to give him food for thought, yes?”

“Right. Good thinking.”

Bolan guessed that he could trust her memory, considering the fact that she was set to bet her own life on it. What the drawing didn’t offer was a head count of the staff on-site or any hint concerning Cako’s possible security precautions.

“It’s a good-size house,” he said. “And that’s a barn?”

“Apparently. Of course, it may have been converted into lodging, or for other purposes.”

Like selling kidnapped women off as slaves.

Or chopping captives into bite-size pieces for the local forest scavengers.

“It’s too bad that I lost my rental car,” Bolan observed. “I had some gear stashed in the trunk that could’ve come in handy.”

“More than this?” she asked, half smiling, as she nodded toward his carbine and assorted other hardware piled beside his chair.

“More ammunition,” Bolan said. “A sniper rifle. And an M-32 MGL.”

“The grenade launcher? Forty millimeter, I believe.”

“That’s it,” Bolan concurred.

“It would be useful. I suggest we go back for your car, after we sleep.”

He had to frown at that. “Sounds like we’re wasting time.”

“Cako will need that time to calm his customers, if they’re still with him. If they’re not, we have lost nothing.”

“Nothing but the women,” Bolan said.

“You think he will dispose of them?”

“He might.”

“Cako may be a zhopa—what you call an asshole—but he’s first a businessman. He won’t dispose of valuable merchandise without good reason. More importantly, his masters would resent it.”

“After last night, he may think he has a reason,” Bolan said.

“I doubt it. Certainly, he faces inquiries from the authorities. His house may need repairs. But who can link him to the women or even prove they exist? In his mind, I assure you—and in Arben Kurti’s mind, as well—the living women still have value. Now, if they were rescued by police and were prepared to testify…”

She didn’t have to finish it.

“Okay,” Bolan agreed. “Let’s say you’re right. I have to get it done this time. Clear out the hostages and deal with Cako, then take Kurti out before he slips away.”

“You’re an ambitious man,” Volkova said.

“I dropped the ball tonight,” Bolan replied. “Call it damage control.”

“And I will help you.”

“Won’t your people be upset?” Bolan inquired. “I don’t imagine you were sent to hunt down the Albanians this way.”

She shrugged and told him, “My superiors appreciate results. There was no realistic prospect of collaborating with your FBI toward prosecution of Kurti or Cako. I’m more likely to be charged myself, for some infringement on homeland security.”

“I take it you don’t have a diplomatic pass?”

“Only a simple tourist visa, as it happens.”

Simple tourist. Right.

“Okay. We give the other side some time to pacify their customers, then see about my car when everybody’s heading off to work. Sound fair?”

“I’ll change now,” Volkova said, “to save some time.”

He watched her take some items from a dresser drawer and disappear into the small bathroom. Ten minutes later she was back, dressed in a tight black turtleneck and matching jeans, hair tied back in a ponytail. All that she needed was some war paint to cover her peaches-and-cream complexion, but Bolan wasn’t complaining.

“You’ve come prepared,” he said.

“I do,” she told him, ducking to retrieve a duffel bag from underneath her bed. She set it on the bedspread, opened it and pulled out an AKS-74U carbine. The U stood for Ukorochenniy—“shortened,” in Russian—and the stubby piece lived up to its name. It was a standard Kalashnikov AK-74 assault rifle, truncated to fire from an 8.3-inch barrel, with a skeletal folding stock. Ammo-wise, it chambered 5.45 mm rounds with the same magazines holding thirty or forty-five cartridges, with an effective range of six hundred yards and a full-auto cyclic rate of 650 rounds per minute.

“You didn’t pack that flying coach,” Bolan said.

“Indeed not,” Volkova replied. “The diplomatic pouch is good for something, yes?”

“Seems so. About that sleep…”

“We are adult enough to share the bed, I think.”

“Suits me,” the Executioner agreed.