Burdin’s approach broke his reverie. The big fool was grinning.
“What is it, boss?”
“I just wanted to be certain you were clear on your assignment. They will no doubt text you when they are within range. Be sure you answer them expeditiously.”
“Don’t worry,” Burdin said. “I got it.”
“Good. Then don’t fuck it up.”
Burdin stroked his thick mustache. “I won’t. In a couple more hours the Americans will be lying there to feed the bears and the ravens.” The space between his bushy eyebrows furrowed. “Hey, you all right? You don’t look so good.”
Rokva shook his head. “Heavy hangs the head that wears a crown.”
Burdin laughed. “I like that. Who said it?”
“No one you would know.” He took out his pack of cigarettes and placed one between his lips.
His subordinate’s face showed alarm. “Hey, boss. I wouldn’t light that up right now.” He waved his hand in front of his face. “Too many vapors from the refueling. It gets real messy.”
Rokva held his lighter between his fingers but did not ignite it.
After staring at the other man and enjoying his sense of alarm, he smirked. “I have no intention of lighting anything at the moment,” he said.
Burdin flashed a nervous, acknowledging grin that quickly evaporated. “Sorry. I should have known better.”
“Yes.” Rokva noticed that they had finished loading the cargo and that the refueling was complete. Sergei waved to him. “You should have. Now get out of my way. It is time for my departure.”
Burdin nodded and stepped aside.
As the Georgian walked across the plowed expanse toward the plane, he did the mental calculations. Twenty-four kidneys and twelve livers. The additional hearts, corneas and the rest of the stuff that Boris Kazak had taken had been packed rather haphazardly due to his haste, but they could be repackaged by Patel once the journey was over.
Additionally, there were twenty-two more bodies housing organs that were in no danger of expiring. He thought about placing a call to Patel in Vancouver to advise him of this additional cargo, but decided against it. He did not want to tip his hand too soon. They were expecting the usual amount. Still, the notification would have to be made before their final arrival.
As a penultimate move, it would be better to advise them to have extra money on hand so the final sale and departure could be accomplished as quickly as possible. The additional women and children would more than double his estimated profit.
Somewhere over the interior of Alaska
Bolan felt ill at ease and a bit unsettled as the DHC-6 flew through the still dark sky. Although they’d been underway for almost three hours, the sun had yet to make its appearance. Since they were flying east, he figured that might not be such a bad thing, given the glare that would inevitably accompany the sunrise.
He pulled his parka around him to stave off the persistent chill. The three Russians sat at the other end of the cabin, the two men slumbering fitfully. The bags with three collapsible Kalashnikovs and several loaded magazines lay between them. Bolan hadn’t been surprised when they’d transferred the weapons from the truck to the plane prior to takeoff. Nikita had winked as he’d scrutinized her bag. He knew immediately from the shape that it most likely held a rifle.
“We are here on a diplomatic mission,” she’d said.
Her smile had a wicked edge.
Weapons smuggled in via a diplomatic pouch, he thought. And diplomatic immunity passports with protection to operate with impunity within the US.
Bolan had figured as much, but hadn’t made an issue of it. He was actually glad to have her and her two friends along, having worked with her before in the Caribbean where they’d thwarted an attempt to assassinate the vice president of the United States in Puerto Rico by detonating a stolen Russian submarine nuke. She’d proved both resourceful and tough.
But also totally loyal to Mother Russia.
He knew she was SVR, so her allegiance was not in question. In this case, however, they both seemed to have the same goal: putting an end to these human traffickers. It mattered little to Bolan if the credit was given to Kournikova and her cohorts, as long as the vicious killers were stopped.
Their eyes met in the semidarkness of the plane’s cabin. It was spacious, but even in this gray twilight her features were discernible. She was quite the classic beauty.
Another round of chills swept through him. His head ached and when he brought his hand up to massage his temples, his fingers came away wet with perspiration.
It was strange to be sweating in the cold cabin.
Kournikova kept staring at him.
Bolan decided to check on Grimaldi. As he rose, a twinge of unsteadiness made him sway a bit. He moved up to the cabin and spoke to the Stony Man pilot over the roar of the twin engines.
“How you holding up?”
“Glad you asked,” Grimaldi said. As his head turned, Bolan saw that his face was covered with sweat, as well. “I’m beginning to feel like I was rode hard and put away wet. I thought I had more stamina than this.”
Bolan had found himself thinking the same thing.
“It must be a delayed reaction from those shots,” he said.
“Yeah. I hope it doesn’t last much longer.”
“Maybe I could spell you. This thing got an autopilot?”
“Fat lotta good that would do.” Grimaldi grinned. “This is like driving a stick-shift, bootlegger’s jalopy with no power steering.” He reached out and gently patted the instrument panel. “Requires a whole lot of tender lovin’ care. Got to make sure to put just the right amount of carb heat in when required. Besides, we should be on site in a little bit. Maybe fifteen minutes or so.”
“Anything I can do?”
Grimaldi blew out a long breath. “Not unless you can get me about eight hours’ rest. You know, the pilot’s union rules say I’m supposed to get at least ten hours off between flights.”
“You can file a grievance later.”
“Yeah, the same time we file our taxes, right?”
Bolan allowed himself a slight smile. They’d both been living off the grid for so long that the idea of a normal life seemed like ancient history.
“I’ll see if there’s a first-aid kit somewhere on this bird,” Bolan said. “Maybe there’s some aspirin.”
Grimaldi nodded and wiped his forehead with his sleeve.
When Bolan returned to the cabin, Kournikova was standing there waiting for him.
“Is Jack all right?” she asked.
“We’re both feeling the effects of those shots. Any idea how long it’ll last?”
She shook her head. “It varies. Some reactions can be worse than others.”
He opened the door to the supply closet and began examining its contents.
“What are you looking for?” she asked.
“Aspirin.”
Her lips compressed into a straight line.
“It is a typical reaction to the shot,” she said. “I suppose I should have warned you.”
“It beats the alternative,” he said.
Her eyes narrowed slightly as she stared at him. She reached up and placed the back of her hand against his forehead.
“Damn. I am afraid that it is going to get worse before it gets better.”
“Oh?”
She took a deep breath, still staring up into his face with an intensity that Bolan found both compelling and enigmatic. He felt she wanted to tell him something but was burdened by uncertainty.
After a quick glance to the side at her two male companions, she turned back to him and spoke in a low whisper. “There is more to this than you know,” she said.
Her words were barely discernible over the din of the plane’s engines.
Bolan looked
at the other two Russians. They both appeared to be sleeping.
“Suppose you enlighten me then,” he said. “Your friends look to be out of it.”
She shot another furtive glance their way then pushed the supply closet door partially closed as she guided him forward, toward the cockpit. The space was narrow and Grimaldi was only a few feet away. After halting Bolan’s movement, the Russian agent turned and opened the door to the supply closet once they were on the other side of it, so that it blocked them from being seen by the two other Russians.
“As you know,” she said, “cases of bubonic plague are relatively rare these days.”
Bolan nodded.
“And with the Cold War having ended decades ago,” she continued, “the furthest thing from my government’s mind would be to conduct any experiments using germ warfare.”
Bolan didn’t like the sound of this conversation.
“The usage of germ warfare has been outlawed by civilized governments,” she said. “Including my own.”
“Where’s this going?”
She closed her eyes momentarily, as if deciding whether to continue, then opened them. Even in the darkness, Bolan could see their intensity.
“Those men who were butchered back there,” she said. “They were criminals serving life sentences in a gulag in Siberia. While in prison, they were offered leniency if they submitted to some scientific research experiments.”
“Involving a weaponized strain of bubonic plague,” he said.
Her lips compressed again. She said nothing, but she didn’t have to. Her eyes said it all.
After a few more moments of silence, he said, “I appreciate your candor. This can stay between us.”
Her eyes locked with his for several seconds more and then she smiled. “And Jack, of course.”
“So let me ask you another question,” Bolan said. “How quickly does this strain work and will Nikoloz Rokva and his men be affected?”
“They were in the Russian army. Most likely they have received the standard inoculations. It might make them temporarily ill, like you and Jack are feeling now, but the chances of them being impaired significantly are negligible.”
“It also means that if this reaches a vulnerable segment of the population, it’ll spread like wildfire.” He took out his sat phone. “On second thought, I’d better notify Lieutenant Case.”
She put her hand on the phone. “Nyet. I mean no. Do not do that. He will be all right. That is why I inoculated the three of you. The disease will no longer be contagious if the host dies and the bodies are disposed of using the proper precautions.”
He stared at her.
“And I’m supposed to take your word for that?”
Her head lolled back slightly and she pressed her body against his, her fingers tracing lightly over his lips.
“Oh, l’vionak,” she said. “Do you think that I would lie to you?”
Farther south over the Alaskan Interior
It was still dark outside the plane’s window and Nikoloz Rokva figured it would not be light for a few more hours. Sunrise came late, and left early, but that was to his liking.
Some things were better accomplished in the dark, he thought.
Rokva swallowed a few more pills that Boris Kazak had given him, but nothing seemed to help. His head ached and his gut was beginning to feel like he’d swallowed some hot coals. He yelled for the doctor to bring him something more for relief and saw the man’s head, the size and shape of a soccer ball, bobbing up and down as he sorted through his medical bag.
The fat idiot seemed to be worse off than he was, Rokva noted as he approached, sweat pouring out of him and one hand clutching his stomach.
Kazak commented that he wished the plane had a toilet.
“I will make sure we fly back to Moscow in the first-class section,” he said. “Now go rest.”
He watched the obese physician wrap himself in a blanket and weighed the possibility of jettisoning him sooner than planned. Like Lebed, Kazak was quickly becoming more of a liability than an asset. Still, the man had the credentials and the skill, without any accompanying scruples. The necessity of having an actual doctor to do the harvesting could not be minimized. But, after all, this was their last shipment, at least until they regrouped. Once this transaction was completed, it would be a good time to reassess all of the options.
First, this game had to be won.
Rokva took out his satellite phone and replaced the battery. When he turned it on, he saw the power was getting dangerously low. He realized that he should have been more conscientious about charging it when he’d been at the logging camp. The generators that Emil Burdin had hooked up would have provided an ideal opportunity.
The damn headache was still with him and he blamed it for throwing him slightly off his game. Nonetheless, he would make sure to utilize the power supply on their next stop. He punched in Burdin’s number and his subordinate answered after half a dozen rings.
“Why did it take you so long to answer the damn phone?”
“Sorry, boss,” Burden said. “Your cargo left the floor area in a mess.”
“Never mind that. Has the other plane arrived yet?”
“No. But I have a couple of men watching for it.”
“They should be arriving soon. Have you lighted the oil pots to designate the landing strip?”
“Not yet.”
“Well, do it, you lazy fool,” Rokva told him. “Once you dispose of them, that plane is your ticket out of there.”
“It will be done.”
The mafiya captain heard him shouting to one of his underlings.
“Very well. Advise me by text when the task has been completed.”
“Of course.”
Rokva debated whether to repeat his other instructions. He decided that it could not hurt.
“And once it has been done, and your plane has been refueled, what else did I instruct you to do?”
He heard Burdin’s loud sigh. “Destroy the compound,” he said with much resignation. “But...”
The dangling conjunction was infuriating. “But what? Was I not perfectly clear before I left? Did you not understand?”
“Yes, boss. Sorry.”
Burdin’s tone was conciliatory, which did little to assuage Rokva’s growing rage.
“Then why are you so disrespectful to my authority?”
“I meant no offense. I merely thought that we have spent so much time rebuilding this camp to make it serviceable...” His voice trailed off.
The Georgian said nothing.
“It seems such a shame, a waste to abandon it.”
“It is not a question of abandonment,” Rokva said. He decided that Burdin had outlived his usefulness. The drunken oaf had now become an expendable entity. Sergei would take care of him, if he survived the encounter with the Americans.
He wondered again about the prowess of his unknown adversaries. Burdin, despite his shortcomings and insolence, had sufficient military training to dispatch a few pursuing police officers. Or did he? His American enemies had prevailed against Denisov, who was certainly no novice. Perhaps this would be a good test, after all.
“Boss?” Burdin’s voice sounded almost timid. “Are you angry?”
“I am furious.”
“Sorry, boss. I will do as you said. Exactly as you said.”
“Of course you will,” Rokva answered calmly, thinking this idiot had no idea what fate awaited him, even should he prevail. “I am closing my phone, so text me when you are underway.”
He caught a fragment of Burdin’s obsequious reply as he terminated the connection.
Yes, he thought. A good test of his adversaries.
But the possibilities of the pending conflict between Burdin and the Americans still hung in the air like an unpaid debt. It was time that he
stopped hiding and went on the offensive. No more dodging. He would leave his phone turned on to await Burdin’s confirmation that the Americans had been neutralized.
Rokva just hoped that he had not made the mistake of sending a pawn in place of a knight.
* * *
Bolan liked this scenario less and less as they drew closer to the coordinates for the landing strip. When they’d taken off, they had been operating on the assumption that Kournikova’s text responses to the leader, Nikoloz Rokva, would create a subterfuge allowing them to land on the airstrip. From there, the plan was to disengage from the standing aircraft and have the element of surprise when confronting their adversaries. But the more Bolan thought about it, the more risky it seemed. He hadn’t liked the idea of responding to the texts, and they had too little information about where they were going.
Bolan glanced at his watch: 0805. And it was still dark. That could play out both ways. If they were able to land with the cover of darkness, their chances for slipping out of the plane and finding some immediate cover were better than landing in daylight. But landing in the dark, on an airstrip of unknown design or quality would be challenge, even for a pilot with Jack Grimaldi’s skill. And at the moment, his old friend was far from being one hundred percent.
Bolan decided to check on him before he made the call to Aaron Kurtzman. He pulled his water from the duffel bag and took the bottle of aspirin up to the cockpit.
Grimaldi turned to grin and Bolan could see the man’s face was dripping wet.
“How you feeling?” he asked.
“Worser by the minute. I can’t wait to set this baby down.”
Bolan unscrewed the aspirin bottle and held it out to him.
Grimaldi grabbed the bottle and brought it to his mouth, shaking several tablets through the neck.
Bolan gave him the water and Grimaldi took a long pull.
“As I sometimes say to the bartender,” Grimaldi said, grinning again, “leave the bottle.”
Nice to see his sense of humor, Bolan thought.
Cold Fury Page 8
