Sabotage

by Don Pendleton

  “You!” An electronically amplified voice sounded from the anteroom outside the office. “You, inside the office. Come out with your hands up. This is the Orlando Police Department. You are under arrest.”

  “Well,” Bolan said, “looks like you’re out of time.”

  “It is you who is out of time,” Trofimov said. He went to his desk and opened the center drawer. He was chuckling now. He withdrew from the desk a belt harness connected to a small metal box with an antenna built into it. There was a second, smaller box connected to a wrist strap. Trofimov strapped the small box around his right wrist and shrugged into the harness. The metal box sat in the center of his chest, the antenna jutting prominently from it.

  “This is your last warning,” the officer with the bullhorn said from outside.

  “So very trite,” Trofimov said. “Soon, I will be giving him orders,” he promised. He flicked a switch on the side of the box. “Do you recognize this?” he asked.

  “It looks like one of your transmitters,” Bolan said. “I destroyed the factory that produces them.”

  “Oh, very good.” Trofimov nodded. “Yes, you are right. This is one of the clever devices that idiot Winston designed for me.”

  “I met him,” Bolan said. “It didn’t go well for him.”

  “Stop interrupting me,” Trofimov said testily. “Now, you wait here. I must go speak with the police.”

  Bolan watched Trofimov go. As soon as the Russian was out of sight, he began working his wrists back and forth more quickly.

  From the hallway, Trofimov was easily audible. He spoke to the police. “I am Yuri Trofimov,” he said. “I have a message for you, Orlando Police Department. This device strapped to my chest is a bomb. It is controlled by a wireless transmission generated by this device on my wrist. You should know that the wrist unit monitors my pulse, and if my heartbeat ends, the bomb will detonate. You cannot jam the transmission of the signal, for it is specially modulated to prevent this. And even if you could jam it by attempting to isolate it, you have no way of knowing what it is, for it only transmits in the event of my death and the bomb’s detonation.”

  Bolan managed to get his wrist free. Keep talking, he thought. Tell them all about it, Yuri.

  “There is enough plastic explosive built into this box,” Trofimov said, “to destroy this entire floor. But there is more. Built into my desk itself is a much, much larger bomb. It is connected to a very powerful neurotoxin. There is enough neurotoxin in the canister under my desk to kill everyone for a ten-block radius, should the bomb and the top floor of this building explode.”

  Bolan’s eyes narrowed at that. He got both wrists free, then quickly untied his ankles. Moving behind Trofimov’s desk, he got down on his knees and looked underneath.

  There was a metal canister, all right, marked with a biohazard label. There were Cyrillic characters stenciled across it. Bolan knew the language well enough to know what he was looking at. Cold War–era nerve gas, possibly brought by Trofimov when he emigrated, or perhaps simply purchased from the black market back home when Trofimov had the money to do so.

  So Trofimov did have some tricks up his sleeve.

  Trofimov had stopped talking. Bolan got up from behind the desk and hurried to the side of the doors, pressing himself against the wall.

  “That will keep them at bay for a while,” Trofimov said happily, walking back in. “Cooper, I am going to enjoy torturing—”

  He stopped when he realized his prisoner was no longer tied to the chair. To late, he turned.

  Bolan’s fist smashed into his face.

  Trofimov toppled backward, his nose broken and streaming blood. He had dropped the knife, which stuck point-first into the floor. It quivered slightly. Trofimov made no effort to rise.

  “Well,” Trofimov said, “you are free, but that changes nothing. If you kill me, the bomb will detonate.”

  “And if I don’t kill you, but I don’t let you go, you’ll detonate the bomb yourself just to make us all pay,” Bolan said. It was a gamble, and it paid off. He watched the fleeting expression cross Trofimov’s eyes.

  “Yes,” Trofimov said. “Yes, you have it exactly. Do as I say, or everyone pays.”

  “You’re lying,” Bolan said. “You never considered suicide, did you, Yuri?” he said, amping up the arrogance in his voice. “Poor, scared little Yuri, who just wants to live.”

  “Fool,” Trofimov said. This time, he wasn’t lying, and that was clear in his manner. “I do not have a detonator switch, no,” he said. He pulled a small .25-caliber pistol from his pocket and put it to his temple. “But I will die before I go to prison. If I take my life, the bomb explodes, and many people will die. You may not care about your own life, but I am willing to bet you care about those innocent people of whom you speak so convincingly.”

  “I do,” Bolan said. “That’s true. And I’m going to make sure you can’t ever hurt anyone again.”

  “Shut up!” Trofimov demanded. He started to get to his feet.

  “Oh, no,” Bolan said, taking a step forward. “Stay on the ground, Trofimov, or I’ll put you down and keep you down again.”

  Trofimov wisely did not move. “I could use the gun.”

  “But you don’t want to. You like living too much.”

  Trofimov had nothing to say to that. Eventually he said simply, “You cannot hold me forever.”

  “I don’t have to,” Bolan said easily. “I just have to wait until the police get tired of waiting. Then they’ll come in, and the stalemate will be broken.”

  “That is unnecessary,” Trofimov said, his tone conciliatory. “Come, Cooper, we can come to an agreement. I have money. I have a great deal of money.”

  “Not anymore,” Bolan said. “SCFI has been thoroughly cracked. Your Vault has been seized.”

  “As I always knew was possible,” Trofimov said. “Do you honestly think I did not plan for that eventuality? Any idiot knows he cannot foresee every calamity. I did not keep all my eggs in one basket. I have many foreign accounts. I own entire foreign banks. Your simpering, foolish countrymen have made me a wealthy man, Cooper.”

  The sound of weapons cocking surprised both men. The SWAT team had converged in the doorway. The men outside were pointing automatic weapons at them.

  “Stand down, Officers,” Bolan ordered. “This man is wearing a dead man’s trigger. He wasn’t bluffing. Kill him, and you kill a lot of innocent people.”

  “Don’t worry, Agent Cooper,” one of the officers said. Obviously, Brognola had made good on his promise and gotten through to those in charge. “We won’t. Your instructions, sir?”

  “Stop talking to him!” Trofimov said. “I am in control here!”

  “Just wait him out,” Bolan said. “If one of your people have a beanbag gun or a taser, have that brought forward. Take him down and we’ll bundle him off to a nice, deep, dark hole in the ground, some nice maximum-security prison somewhere, for the rest of his natural life.”

  Trofimov went pale. It was as if the possibility that such a fate might indeed be his, that he could spend the rest of his days locked away, had never truly occurred to him. Now, staring at the guns of the SWAT team and the big man looming in front of him, he seemed to decide that he really did prefer death to capture. His shoulders slumped.

  “You…you have won,” Trofimov said. The little pistol at his temple did not move, however. “You have beaten me.”

  “You were beaten before you began,” Bolan said. “Your kind always is.”

  “Spare me your philosophy,” Trofimov said. “I am in no mood. Understand this, Cooper. I have done more than any who tried before me, including Mak Wei and his incompetent commandos. But I am not alone. There are others like me. There were others before me. Your nation cannot stop us. You are breeding us. Whenever you invade a country that does not comply with your wishes, whenever your United Nations sticks its nose into the affairs of people who are simply doing what they must, whenever your inspectors and your ‘peace
keepers’ and your military push your might and rattle your sabers around the world, you are creating more of me. You will never stop the Yuri Trofimovs of the world. There will always be more of me. They will not always have my wealth, my power. But they will eventually swamp you. They will eventually defeat you. They will eventually make you pay. What I do now, I do for them.”

  “Wait,” Bolan said. He could sense Trofimov readying himself for the final act. He began to inch closer, hopefully imperceptibly. The range was wrong. He just needed to get a little closer.

  “Yes, Cooper?” Trofimov suddenly sounded very tired. That was bad. He was resigned to his fate. He would pull the trigger at any moment.

  “Sir,” one of the officers behind him said. “Agent Cooper, sir, the building is on fire. The fire department is on scene, but they’re saying they’re not sure if they can contain it.”

  “Let it burn,” Trofimov whispered. “Let it burn. Nothing matters now.”

  “Isn’t this the empire you created, Yuri?” Bolan asked him. He just needed enough time to close the gap. He prayed his luck would hold. “Would you see it burn to the ground so easily, so readily? Does it really mean so little to you?”

  “What would you know of creating, of building?” Trofimov snarled, indignant. “You kill for a living. That is all you are. You are like Twain. You will never be more.”

  “I wish you understood the difference,” Bolan told him.

  “Enough. I will die now.” He gestured with the gun.

  “Wait,” Bolan said. He took another step closer. “Trofimov, listen to me. The United States, the West, the free world…it doesn’t breed people like you. People like you need only hate to sustain them, to fertilize them. You generate yourselves. Your hatred is a product of your own failures, your own desires, your own thwarted wishes. There may always be more of you, Trofimov, but it isn’t because we create them. There are always more of you for the same reason there are always cockroaches. There will always be vermin in the world, Trofimov.”

  “How dare you talk to me like that,” Trofimov muttered, his finger tightening on the trigger.

  Bolan took one more critical step closer. “There will always be vermin, Trofimov, and there will always be exterminators. That’s what I am. I’m not a hero. Heroes are those who die for their country, who sacrifice. I haven’t made that sacrifice, Yuri. I’ve simply taken out the trash, time and time again. I’ve stamped out the fires. I’ve removed the garbage. And over and over again, I’ve exterminated the vermin. That’s you, Yuri. You’re a roach. There will always be more roaches. There will always be infestations. And they’ll always be rooted out.”

  “You talk and you talk and you talk!” Trofimov said. He shoved the pistol against his head, harder. “With a single bullet, I will end you!”

  “But, Yuri,” Bolan said, creeping closer, the range almost right, “you and I both know you fear what lies on the other side. You fear the oblivion of death. You fear what will happen when that bullet makes its way into your brain. That’s why you won’t do it. That’s why you’re hesitating even now. That’s why you have this elaborate plan already in place, Yuri. You want to live. But you don’t care how many people, how many men, women and children you endanger. You’re scum, Trofimov. You’re the lowest form of life. You’re the roach, Yuri, and I’m going to crush you under my boot.”

  “To hell with you!” Trofimov shrieked.

  Bolan struck. As he lunged, he grabbed the knife from where it stuck in the floor. In a single, fluid movement, he brought the razor-sharp blade up and around, slicing through the flexible wireless antenna jutting from Trofimov’s chest unit. The arc of the movement carried the blade up and around and over, straight into Trofimov’s neck. His scream turned into a gurgle, and then a wet death rattle, as the knife lodged in his artery and through his throat channeled his lifeblood onto the floor of his office.

  “Holy crap!” one of the officers breathed.

  Yuri Trofimov slumped to his knees, blood pouring from his neck. Finally he collapsed on himself. He fell sideways, and his face landed in the pool spreading around him. In the reflection of the overhead lights, he seemed almost to be staring at himself.

  Bolan stood over him. The transmitter antenna was neatly severed. It was a gamble, but it was the only play he’d had. From the look on Trofimov’s face, the stricken expression he could read in the dying man’s eyes, Bolan could tell his gamble had paid off.

  Trofimov tried to say something. The knife was still stuck in his throat. The only sound that came out was a horrible wet rasp. Bolan shook his head.

  “Don’t try to talk. There won’t be any doctor for you, Trofimov. It’s too late for that. A woman died like that today, you know. She died knowing that it was too late.” He watched the light fade from Trofimov’s eyes. “The difference between you,” Bolan said, “is that she died knowing she’d done the right thing. She died a hero. You, you’re just dying. And even though you’re surrounded by people, you’re dying alone.”

  Trofimov tried one last time to speak. Finally he breathed his last, his eyes glazing over in the finality of death.

  “Jesus,” one of the cops said, coming over to stand next to Bolan and look down at the body. “You don’t think that was a little harsh?”

  “No,” Bolan told him, looking him in the eye. “I don’t.”

  a cognizant original v5 release october 09 2010

  EPILOGUE

  Hal Brognola entered the interrogation room, deep in the bowels of a federal building just outside of Washington, D.C. The exact location of the facility was classified, as was its actual purpose. Only a handful of people who weren’t held there knew that it was there. As head of the Sensitive Operations Group, Brognola was one of those privileged few.

  The metal table in the center of the room was dented and scarred. The room was brightly lit by a bank of buzzing fluorescents set within the ceiling. There were no windows. A full-length mirror dominated one wall. The room was devoid of all furniture except for the table and a pair of metal folding chairs. One of these was occupied. Brognola pulled the other one out and sat across the table from the prisoner.

  Dressed in an orange jumpsuit, Congressman David Heller sat with his wrists manacled. His ankles were chained, as well, connected by a short tether that allowed him to walk—albeit slowly and uncomfortably.

  “I am an American citizen,” Heller said indignantly. “I have rights! I demand to know where I am. I demand to know what charges have been made against me. I demand to have access to my lawyer! You can’t keep me here.”

  “Congressman, and I use the term loosely,” Brognola said, his tone dripping with scorn, “I suggest you shut up.” Something in the man’s voice made Heller be quiet. He sat staring at his visitor. Removing the small digital video player from his jacket, Brognola placed it on the table in front of the congressman. He pressed a button on the face of the little device.

  The video playback on the small, full-color screen depicted a news report. The report wasn’t on TBT, the widely known cable news network, it was on a competing network, which had long fought TBT for ratings.

  Brognola turned up the sound on the digital video player.

  “…confirmation today that the widely circulated video purporting to show American servicemen engaged in a massacre in Afghanistan is a hoax,” the blond anchorwoman said, her expression a carefully composed mask of somber concern. “The Pentagon today released a statement indicating that it had been made fully aware of the findings of an internal investigation, as well as a report by its oversight committee…”

  “Look,” Heller interrupted, “this has nothing to do with me! I am—”

  Brognola shot him a look and the Congressman was silent again. The woman in the video clip was still talking.

  “…an address by the President tonight, in which the White House intends to speak plainly about the attempt to vilify the American military and undermine the war effort. Sources within the Pentagon indicate that an
independent investigation into the source of the hoax may result in charges of, quote, ‘high treason’ for those involved…”

  Brognola reached out and switched off the player. “I,” he said, “am Hal Brognola of the Justice Department. I’ve requested this interview with you, Congressman Heller, because I’d like to impress on you just how grave the allegations against you are.”

  “Look, look,” Heller said, “I can explain all that. It’s not my fault. This is all a big misunderstanding. I know about that video, I do, but I wasn’t in any way involved in it.”

  “Congressman Heller,” Brognola said, “are you aware that for some weeks you have been the target of an investigation by the National Security Agency?”

  Heller blanched. Obviously he hadn’t been.

  “There must…must be a mistake…” he stammered.

  “I assure you, Congressman, there is no mistake,” Brognola said. “You are a traitor to your country, Mr. Heller.” This time, the big Fed deliberately left off Heller’s title. “We have direct evidence that you have conspired with elements within the Chinese government to take direct and harmful action against United States military interests. You have aided and abetted in the commission of a series of high crimes, been at least complicit in the murder of American citizens and provided material assistance to the commission of, or conspiracy to commit, acts of terrorism both on United States soil and abroad. You are aware, are you not, that the late Yuri Trofimov has been implicated in the massacre video hoax?”

  “I…”

  “A real tragedy, that high-rise fire,” Brognola said. “Trofimov is lucky to have died in a freak accident, before he could face a high-profile trial. Seems he must have been so desperate for ratings he was willing to fake evidence and manufacture a scandal.”

  Heller blinked.

  “That’s right,” Brognola said. “You know as well as I do the true extent of Trofimov’s activities, but they’re being covered up, for the good of the nation. The world will remember him as a crank who tried to fake a news story, and not as one of the worst terrorists ever to conspire against American interests. Now, where do you suppose that leaves you?”