Chain Reaction

by Don Pendleton

  Bolan tapped in the number that would connect him with Stony Man. When Price came on he asked for the Bear. Kurtzman listened to Bolan’s request, then told him he would download the cell phone’s message contents and pass the results to Erika Dukas, the Farm’s top language expert.

  Dukas had skills in an ever growing list of foreign tongues. Her natural ability to master languages, to translate, and her ability to understand dialects had proved her worth to Stony Man. Since joining the Sensitive Operations Group, Dukas had helped out on a number of operations.

  Bolan knew that the translator would come back with a full breakdown of the cell phone’s contents. With Kurtzman’s promise Bolan finished the call.

  “These people you can call on,” Mitchell said. “They seem capable of handling pretty much everything you ask.”

  “Pretty much.”

  “Any chance they could help me with my tax return?”

  The door to the club crashed open, and Seminov stomped in. From the look on the Russian cop’s face Bolan knew things had not gone well. Seminov was muttering to himself as he stood over Lubinski. Nikolai Dimitri, his pistol still clasped in his hand, eased around his commander and faced Bolan.

  “We missed them,” he announced. His dismay was obvious as he looked around and saw the results of Bolan and Mitchell’s encounter. “At least you got a result.”

  “DeJong and the other guy got away from us, too,” Mitchell said. “It would have been hard to locate anyone in the general panic out there. Nikolai, don’t beat yourself up over it.”

  “She’s right,” Bolan said. “You and Valentine caught the bad end of the deal.”

  “I don’t like to let my friends down,” Seminov grumbled as he turned away from the groaning Lubinski. He sighed. “Still, at least we have Lubinski. OCD has been after that piece of shit for a long time.” He caught himself and glanced at Mitchell. “Forgive my language.”

  “Agent Mitchell has her own choice phrase when she gets mad,” Bolan said lightly.

  Mitchell smiled. “Valentine, I sympathize with you, so pay no attention to Mr. Perfect Cooper.”

  Dimitri was on his cell phone, calling for OCD backup and requesting medical help for Sergei Lubinski. When he had finished, he crossed to the metal table and stood looking at the stacked money. He was like a child viewing presents in a Christmas store.

  “How much do you think there is?” he asked.

  Mitchell picked up a wad of the cash, flicking through the bills.

  “These are hundred dollar bills,” she said. “Not new. I’d say each wad is around five grand. So we have a lot of money here. A lot.”

  “The question is,” Bolan said, “who was paying whom?”

  Seminov stood over the moaning figure of Lubinski.

  “Who was giving the party, Sergei? DeJong? Or the man with no name?” He nudged Lubinski’s leg. “Don’t waste my time. Who was the paymaster?”

  Lubinski realized he was not going to win in this situation.

  “DeJong,” he said bitterly. “He brought the money for me. He works for Hegre.”

  Lubinski passed out before Bolan could ask him any more questions.

  Russian efficiency was working well and they picked up the shrill sound of sirens within a few minutes. A pair of medics appeared, a wheeled gurney ready to take Lubinski. They bent over the man and worked to stem the blood flow from his arm before they loaded him on the gurney, strapping him securely.

  “Valentine, we need answers,” Bolan said.

  Seminov nodded. He spoke rapidly with the medics, then to Bolan.

  “They can bring him around for a while. You can talk with him in the ambulance before it leaves. Ask your questions.”

  “Thanks.”

  The club area was empty as Bolan and Mitchell followed the gurney outside. Seminov was staying behind to handle the removal of the money and the bodies. When they emerged from the club, the parking area had already been cleared, leaving only the ambulance and the OCD vehicles. A number of Seminov’s men, all armed, were patrolling the front of the club. The area was crisscrossed by the flashing lights from police and medical vehicles. A group of local journalists was gathering, cameras flashing as they recorded the scene.

  Mitchell found herself scanning the immediate area, checking rooftops on the opposite side of the street. It was normal practice, drilled into her by the FBI training she had been given. Bolan was doing the same, and it was only their vigilance that prevented the sudden attack from being successful.

  Bolan saw the movement on the adjoining roof—a dark outline of head and shoulders rising above the parapet. The long outline of a rifle was angled at the gurney as it rolled toward the ambulance.

  “Mitchell...” Bolan warned.

  She had seen the threat and her reaction was identical to Bolan’s.

  They shouldered aside the medical assistants and grabbed the rails of the gurney.

  The distant rifle snapped out a shot, the slug hitting the concrete in the wake of the gurney. More shots followed, the hard crack of the rifle sending a stream of shots that chipped at the concrete as Bolan and Mitchell hauled the gurney into the cover of the parked ambulance. A couple of shots hit the opposite side of the vehicle as the gurney was shielded by the gunfire.

  One of the medics was down, clutching at his hip where a ricochet had hit.

  Bolan moved to the rear of the ambulance, his Beretta in his hand, rising to track the figure across the street. Behind him Mitchell stayed by Lubinski’s side, covering him with her own weapon.

  The shooter was still visible when Bolan stepped out from behind the ambulance. He raised the Beretta and ran forward, heading across the street. Behind him Seminov and Dimitri emerged from the club, weapons in their hands. Seminov bellowed orders to the OCD cops and they began to move, rushing across the street, stopping traffic as they fanned out to cover both sides of the building.

  Realizing he was about to be surrounded, the shooter emptied his magazine and laid down a hard volley, firing more for effect than gaining target acquisition. There were a few seconds when the firing ceased as the guy ejected the empty magazine and reloaded, then started to fire again. This time he took his time and two OCD cops went down.

  Bolan put away his Beretta and crouched in the middle of the street, scooping up a weapon dropped by one of the shot OCD officers, a 7.62 mm Molot VEPR semiauto rifle. In the seconds he had as he took a grip on the rifle, Bolan noticed the 10-round magazine. He looped his arm through the webbing strap to stabilize his aim. Still on one knee, he shouldered the Russian rifle and held the target in his sights, ignoring the slugs peppering the street around him. His finger caressed the trigger.

  The rifle cracked, once, twice.

  The rooftop shooter jerked upright, his weapon flipping skyward.

  In the split second he was exposed Bolan fired again and his slug slammed into the shooter’s head, just over his left eye. The guy’s head snapped back, a splash of blood spurting from the rear of his skull as he toppled out of sight.

  Seminov appeared at Bolan’s side, issuing more orders.

  “I have never seen such shooting, my friend. And in such poor light. That was impressive.”

  Bolan tapped the rifle in his hand. “Good weapon,” he said.

  “Something we still can make,” Seminov replied.

  Dimitri was helping the medic to load Lubinski into the ambulance. The medic pulled a med kit from the vehicle and went to his shot partner. The wail of sirens grew louder as additional emergency vehicles raced to the scene.

  Mitchell stood by, waiting for Bolan. He jerked his head at the ambulance and they stepped inside. Lubinski had his eyes open again, a look on his face that indicated he had no clear idea what was happening.

  “Some friends you have out there,” Bolan said.r />
  “They were trying to kill me?”

  “Looks like your partner DeJong made a call,” Mitchell said.

  “They’re worried what you might say about them,” Bolan added. “That you’ll give away their plans.”

  Lubinski tensed as a surge of pain rose.

  “They are...” Lubinski said.

  “Don’t kid yourself,” Bolan said. “Those shots were meant for you.”

  “You still want to protect them?” Mitchell asked quietly. “The people who abandoned you. Hegre?”

  Lubinski stared at them, nodded, as the truth hit home. “A bad association on my part.”

  “What was your part in this?” Bolan asked.

  “I can tell you that,” Seminov said from the open door of the ambulance. “This dumb wit is a transporter. He provides trucks and the like to move goods. Any kind of contraband goods.”

  “If I am a ‘dumb wit,’” Lubinski said in a moment of defiance, “I have stayed out of your reach, Seminov. OCD has been trying to catch me for years. Who is the dumb one now?”

  “This time you have gone too far,” Dimitri snapped. “The material being transported is illegal uranium.”

  “Stolen from a mine in Kazakhstan,” Bolan said. “To be transported from Kazakhstan to Iran where it will be refined to be used in nuclear weapons. But then you would know that, Lubinski.”

  “No. Not that. Only the part about transportation.”

  “That makes it a pretty serious hole you’ve got yourself in,” Mitchell said.

  “You provided the vehicle,” Bolan said, “which means you’re in this up to your neck.”

  Lubinski shook his head. “My deal was to give them what they wanted, a specially adapted fuel tanker with a hidden compartment underneath the main tank. They paid far more than the job was worth. A lot more. With the money I would be able to buy more trucks. It was a good deal.”

  “What else?”

  “All I know is what they wanted. The completed vehicle was to be shipped by regular rail freight to Aktau, Kazakhstan. I know nothing else. The tanker would be picked up from the rail depot.”

  “Hegre has this pretty well worked out,” Bolan said.

  “We need to find out what happened to it,” Seminov stated. “Then stop it.”

  “Not until the uranium is loaded,” Bolan said.

  “I helped,” Lubinski pleaded. “You’ll remember this. You have to.”

  “The less you say, the better,” Dimitri warned him. “Don’t forget OCD officers have been shot during this incident, and one of the medics tending to you. That will be hard to ignore.”

  “Let us not forget the money you were receiving for this venture,” Seminov reminded Lubinski. “I have a feeling it will come under illegal payments during a criminal act. That should warrant more charges. And confiscation of that money.”

  “No. You can’t do that. It would be stealing.”

  “Hearing that from you,” Seminov said, “gives me a warm feeling inside.

  “Go with him to the hospital, Dimitri,” Seminov told his sergeant, “in case his conscience begins to bother him.”

  “One thing, Lubinski,” Bolan said. “The Middle Eastern contact. Who is he?”

  “His name is Raz Malik.”

  The ambulance pulled away. An OCD cop approached Seminov and spoke to him.

  “They have identified the shooter from the roof,” the Russian said. “Taras Buleva. What you would call a gun for hire. He’s nothing but a low-class assassin, one who would work for anyone if they offered him enough money.”

  “A free agent?”

  “Da. Buleva might have been a killer for hire, but the man had a way of staying clear of convictions. For some time he is reported to have worked for Soviet security. Maybe even KGB. And, of course, they protected him. After the breakup he started working for the criminal fraternity. Buleva had no religion where business was concerned. He took everyone’s money. He slipped through our fingers because he had friends to keep him untouchable.” Seminov managed a slow chuckle. “Of course, no one told you he was under protection.”

  “Does that mean you’ve upset someone else?” Mitchell asked.

  “It won’t be the first time,” Bolan said.

  “He was pretty sharp off the mark,” Mitchell pointed out.

  “On a situation watch,” Bolan said, “hired to be around to back up the meeting. If Hegre had him installed on that roof, he would have been able to see what happened. It would only take a quick call from DeJong to alert him. Buleva was attempting to cut Lubinski out of the picture.”

  “This Hegre,” Seminov said. “Very organized. Nothing is left to chance.”

  “It’s why they’ve been around a long time,” Mitchell said. “But I think we’re starting to get to know them. Since Cooper’s first involvement and now that we took their diamonds away from them, I think we’ve cracked the wall they built to protect themselves.”

  “Making a crack isn’t enough,” Bolan said. “We need to bring that wall down to the ground, taking Julius Hegre and Lise Delaware with it.”

  * * *

  NONE OF THEM noticed the slight figure some distance away, in with the other media figures taking photographs of the scene. The guy dressed in an ill-fitting suit was using a camera fitted with a powerful telephoto lens that enabled sharp close ups, even from a distance. He concentrated on taking a number of shots of Bolan and Mitchell, before he backed away from the busy scene and eased into the shadows.

  He walked to a car parked a couple of streets away, slipped behind the wheel, took out a cell phone and made a call.

  “I have photos you’ll be interested in. Of the scene around Babushka and the main players. Yes, the American and the woman with him. I can send the photos to you within the hour. The usual email address? No problem. Excellent. I look forward to checking my account in the morning. Always good doing business with you. Goodbye.”

  * * *

  “LUBINSKI DIDN’T GIVE any more away on the ride to the hospital,” Dimitri said when he rejoined them in Seminov’s office on their return to the OCD.

  “Maybe because he doesn’t know anything more to tell us,” Bolan said. “He was paid to construct the tanker and deliver it to Kazakhstan. The theft of a substantial load of uranium is going to have the Kazakh cops running searches. Hegre will keep it undercover and wait until the panic dies down before they attempt to ship it out.”

  Seminov was scanning a map pinned to the wall. He ran a finger across the sheet.

  “From Aktau there is a direct route to Iran,” he said.

  “By commercial ferry across the Caspian Sea,” Bolan stated.

  “Goods are moved that way all the time. If this special tanker is loaded with the uranium in a concealed base...”

  “With a conventional load in the main tank,” Mitchell said. “Do you think they could carry it off?”

  “Possibly,” Bolan said. He studied the map. “It’s there. What we need to know is where.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  “Now he shows up in Moscow. With that damned FBI agent. They broke up the meeting between DeJong and Malik. Lubinski was wounded and taken prisoner. DeJong had someone waiting on a roof across the street from the club as backup. DeJong called him to take out Lubinski if he had the chance. He has not had any feedback. So we don’t know what happened after he and Malik left. Time is at a premium, Dom. The theft of those Australian diamonds was supposed to be a means of recouping most of the loss we suffered when we lost the virus. Until Cooper dealt himself into the deal and took the diamonds away from us. The uranium is our current operation. If we satisfy the Iranians, our standing will rise. We have to succeed to restore our credibility. Eyes are on us. Future clients. Customers we already have. But now Cooper has shown up i
n Moscow and has already interfered. And wherever he goes the FBI agent goes.”

  “The deaths of those FBI agents has involved the Bureau. Killing them has made you their target, as well. Don’t brush Cooper off, Lise. Or Agent Mitchell.”

  “Do you need to mention that woman?”

  “She is proving to be a capable agent.”

  Delaware shrugged. Her attempt to brush off the FBI agent did not convince Melchior. He was aware of her dislike of failure. She did not take it lightly. Up until her initial clash with Cooper, Lise Delaware’s record had been spotless. Now that she had been proved human, her reaction was expected by Melchior. He understood the human condition; unbroken success created a false sense of invulnerability. When that confidence was broken, it left the recipient shaken and it was that uncertainty that could easily lead the individual to make mistakes.

  When he glanced at her again he saw, not Lise Delaware, the driving force behind Hegre, but the girl she had once been. Some part of her commanding presence had deserted her. She sat in the seat, staring at some point over Melchior’s shoulder. Her thoughts were elsewhere for that moment, and Melchior knew he had to bring back the Delaware he knew and respected.

  “Lise, listen to me. Take the next step. Accept the setbacks. Give your orders. Activate the team. Contact DeJong. It’s vital to get the consignment moving in Kazakhstan. Have a second team out looking for Cooper and the woman. They need to prevent him from going after the uranium.”

  Delaware absorbed his words. Eye contact was made, and Melchior recognized the familiar expression in her eyes as she snapped out of her dark moment. She picked up the phone on her desk and hit a speed-dial number.

  “Find out where DeJong is,” she said when her call was answered. “I need to know what’s happening in Moscow. Then get me Becker. Have him report to me on our assets in Russia. No, he will report to me now, not when he has a moment. Remind him who runs things around here.”

  She slammed the phone down and gave Melchior a tight smile.

  “I want Lubinski’s club checked out in case he left anything behind that might incriminate us. He was wounded and taken to the hospital. He wouldn’t have had any chance to get rid of anything that might point the finger.”