Chain Reaction

by Don Pendleton

  “You see,” Melchior said. “Now you are thinking straight again. Feeling a little better?”

  “Getting there.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  “Babushka is deserted,” Seminov announced the following morning. “The place is closed down. Everyone has gone, scattered to the four winds. I have been trying to get that club closed for months. You show up in town and manage it in one day. How do you do it, Cooper?” The OCD cop held up a big hand. “Yes, I know, it’s a gift.”

  Bolan and Mitchell, along with Seminov and Dimitri, were at a table in a café along the street from the OCD building. Seminov had arranged for his American guests to have a room at a local hotel, giving them the chance to shower and change clothing before they met the next day.

  Seminov had put out the word for DeJong and Malik.

  Lubinski was under armed watch in his hospital room. He had undergone an operation on his badly damaged arm. The Russian had lost a great deal of blood from the wound and had not responded well to the surgery. The Russian medical team was maintaining a close watch over the man and were still debating the possibility Lubinski might need more surgery.

  “So, Cooper, what are your thoughts?”

  “Hegre has to get that uranium to Iran. They must know the authorities are going to be on the lookout for it. Trying for a fast transport would be asking for trouble.”

  “Good thought,” Seminov said.

  Mitchell topped up her cup from the coffeepot on the table. Her gaze wandered across the café and settled on a young couple. The woman was bending over her laptop, busily working the keyboard as she talked to her male partner.

  Something clicked in Mitchell’s brain.

  Computer.

  Stored information.

  “Did you assign anyone to keep watch at Babushka, Valentine?” she asked.

  “Local cops, yes.”

  “What is it?” Bolan said.

  “I can’t help thinking maybe we missed something,” Mitchell said. “When we busted Lubinski and his guests, did anyone notice a computer? Laptop or otherwise?”

  “Things were happening a little fast,” Seminov said. “But it was a stupid mistake not to order a full check of the building before now. You make me look an amateur, Sarah Mitchell.”

  “You had things to do. People hurt. That was your priority, Valentine.”

  “Cooper, your partner knows how to ease the pain.”

  “Valentine,” Mitchell stated, “you said Lubinski was a sharp operator. Don’t you think he would keep a record of his deals? Perhaps Lubinski had information written down. With an operation the size he was running, there had to be records somewhere.”

  They trooped outside and climbed into the SUV. Dimitri handled the big vehicle well, swerving in and out of the Moscow traffic without a pause.

  Seminov took out his comm set and made a call. There was no response. He tried a second time. Still nothing.

  “Now that I do not like,” he said. “Foot down, young Nikolai. And turn on everything.”

  The screech of the siren accompanied the flashing lights on the SUV. The heavy vehicle slid around the final street corner, tires protesting at the misuse. The Babushka parking lot was empty except for a single Moscow Police Department patrol car, the vehicle empty. Dimitri swung the SUV around the deserted car and brought it to a stop facing the club’s entrance.

  Bolan was the first out, his Beretta in his hand, Seminov close behind. Mitchell moved to the right and checked out the chain-link fence. The gate was open.

  “We might have visitors back here,” she said.

  “Go check it out,” Bolan instructed her. “Valentine, with me.”

  “Dimitri, go with the lady,” Seminov said.

  Bolan moved toward the club’s entrance. Seminov was at his rear, clutching his pistol.

  The main doors were partway open.

  Bolan edged closer and used the toe of his boot to push the door wider. Low wattage security lights had been turned on. The illumination was dim, but there was enough to show the huddled form on the floor a few feet ahead of them. Seminov recognized the MPD uniform. He crouched beside the still body, checking for a pulse. He shook his head in Bolan’s direction, holding up his hand to show the dark gleam of blood.

  “Throat has been cut.”

  “Valentine, are there living quarters above the club?”

  “Da. Access from behind the bar.”

  Bolan moved quickly across the empty dance floor and spotted the door set in the wall next to the bar. The plain door was ajar. Bolan used his left hand to widen the gap, checking the short corridor and the staircase. He took out his comm set and keyed the button.

  “Door behind the bar,” he said quietly. “Valentine and I are going up to the next floor. And we found one dead cop.”

  “One back here, as well.”

  “Watch your backs.” Bolan clicked off, glanced in Seminov’s direction. “They found the other cop.”

  Seminov swore vehemently in Russian.

  Bolan scanned the stairs in front of him. They were not the open kind. Both sides were boxed in, which was not an ideal situation if an enemy appeared. It was, however, the only way to reach the upper floor.

  Seminov touched him on the shoulder. “I will cover you, Cooper. You can trust me.” The pistol in Seminov’s hand was a 9 mm all-steel Yarygin PYa/MP-443, a Russian-made pistol with a 17-round magazine and an additional load in the chamber. “Russian gun. Like real vodka. Hell of a kick.”

  “Let’s move,” Bolan said.

  He could see light on the ceiling and moving shadows.

  Bolan moved fast, keeping his body low, so his head and shoulders remained out of sight as he powered up the stairs. Despite his solid bulk, Seminov moved equally as quickly and made virtually no sound as he stayed close to Bolan.

  The room was large and well furnished. At the far end an office had been set up with a desk and swivel chairs and filing cabinets.

  Three dark-clad figures were searching the room, making no attempt to do it quietly—or tidily. They were all armed with slung MP-5s.

  Bolan tracked in with the Beretta as the closest guy moved away from a standing wooden cabinet he had emptied by dragging its contents to the floor. Turning aside, he now faced Bolan. His empty expression changed in the instant he saw Bolan. He yelled a warning and grabbed for his SMG.

  The Executioner barely needed to alter his aim. He squeezed the 92FS, felt the pistol kick back and fired a second time. His shots were on target, slamming into the guy’s chest and pushing him back against the wooden cabinet.

  As Seminov reached the head of the stairs, moving to one side so he was not blocked by Bolan, he leveled his weapon and fired on the move, his slugs catching one of the intruders as he turned. The guy pitched facedown across the office desk.

  The third guy brought his MP-5 into play, opening up with a volley that peppered the walls above Bolan and Seminov. Plaster showered them as the 9 mm slugs ripped the wall open. The sound of autofire was deafening in the enclosed room.

  Bolan and Seminov fired in tandem, flame spouting from muzzles as they hit the gunner and dropped him to the floor, his chest spouting blood from a number of 9 mm hits.

  “Here,” Bolan said as he crossed the room.

  On the desk, next to the man Bolan had shot, was a laptop.

  “You think this will help?”

  “We’ll find out soon enough.”

  Bolan closed the laptop and picked it up. “We need to get this back to your department. Does OCD have any computer geniuses available? We’re going to need one.”

  “Then you are in luck. I have an extremely clever young woman by the name of Timoshenko who deals with that kind of thing.”

  “It wouldn’t be a bad ide
a to have some of your people go through this place, Valentine, to see if Lubinski has any other secrets stashed away.”

  The sound of footsteps on the stairs alerted them both. Then Mitchell’s voice reached them, the tone edged with concern.

  “Cooper?”

  “We’re clear,” Bolan said.

  Mitchell appeared at the head of the stairs, Dimitri close behind.

  “You okay?” she said.

  Bolan showed her the laptop. “Someone was interested in this,” he said.

  Dimitri spotted the three bodies. “So I see.”

  Seminov was already on his cell phone, giving the instructions that would bring an OCD team to Babushka.

  “Any trouble down there?” Bolan asked.

  “One man on guard duty,” she said. “Nikolai has him cuffed to a water pipe.

  “Backup is on the way,” Seminov announced, “and I have called for someone to remove our dead police officers. Cooper, these Hegre people have a lot to answer for.”

  “And they will,” Bolan said. “I’ll make certain of that.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  The President of the United States was seated on one of the Oval Office couches, across from Hal Brognola. They were both holding cups of coffee as they discussed the matter at hand. Brognola had arrived at the White House twenty minutes earlier, responding to a summons from the commander in chief. He had been ushered directly into the meeting, and the President had gotten straight to the point.

  “My advisers and I are in agreement that this possible purchase of uranium by Ayatollah Fikri is disturbing, Hal.”

  “I couldn’t agree more, sir, which is why I’m glad to be able to let you know that Striker is already involved.”

  “How involved?”

  “His last communication said he was following a lead that says the uranium is somewhere in Kazakhstan. He’s ready to move from Moscow to follow up that lead.”

  “How does Moscow fit into this?”

  Brognola managed a weary smile. “It’s a long story, Mr. President, that put Striker on the trail in the continental U.S.A., then Hong Kong and the Philippines, following a cache of hijacked diamonds a criminal organization was going to use to pay for the uranium. That led him to Moscow...”

  The President drained his cup, stood and crossed to refill it.

  “When does that guy ever sleep?”

  “I’ve given up trying to work that one out.”

  “Is this another of his lone-wolf missions?”

  “Not exactly.”

  “How not exactly?”

  “An FBI agent is partnering him. The Bureau is involved because they are actively investigating the murder of two of their agents, both killed while looking into the Hegre organization. SA Mitchell was running the team the two dead agents were part of.”

  “I take it this is a sanctioned endeavor?”

  “SAC Duncan gave his blessing.”

  The President wondered just what that meant, but accepted it was as close to an explanation he was likely to receive.

  “Drake Duncan?”

  “Yes, Mr. President.”

  “This Agent Mitchell. Is he a good man?”

  Brognola paused for a heartbeat. “From what I’ve heard Sarah Mitchell is one of Duncan’s best.”

  “Sarah Mitchell? As in ex-FBI Jonathon Mitchell’s daughter?”

  “One of the FBI’s legends. Sarah Mitchell is following in her father’s footsteps. Best in her class. She worked her way up to be one of Duncan’s top SAs.”

  The President had a smile on his face when Brognola looked.

  “That is some young woman,” he said. “I’ve met her. She’ll give Striker a run for his money.”

  “Sounds as if you believe we have a top team out there.”

  “No question, Hal. No question at all.” The President cleared his throat. “You keep me fully appraised. Now, what about Fikri?”

  “He’s a strict radical. Mossad has a dossier on him. Director Isaac Tauber emailed a copy of his file, and it makes grim reading. The man makes some of the other radical ayatollahs look positively benevolent. The man preaches hatred for Israel and the U.S., and condemns us all the way down the line. His life is one round of agitation. Even though other ayatollahs have modified their stance regarding Israel and the West, this guy threats to burn us to the ground. Destroy everything we represent. As far as Mossad can work out, the man has never set foot outside Iran. He pulls in young believers and gives them what they want to hear. He has some wealthy patrons, too.”

  The President sighed, a resigned sound that expressed the feeling he held. Brognola understood. No matter what the Man said, or offered to someone like Fikri, it would be ignored. There was no ground for negotiation. Period.

  “Hal, I’ve tried everything to get through to the man. His people won’t even grant a hearing. The word comes back that he will not speak to the man he considers an abomination against all that Islam stands for. We are and I quote, ‘lower than the worms who crawl beneath the earth and he will not soil his ears by even listening to our words.’”

  “That kind of lays it on the line,” Brognola said.

  “Fikri has supporters in the region. He’ll push the line until he gets what he wants.”

  “Director Tauber is losing patience. He sees Israel being backed to the wall. If he believes the Iranians are willing to go head-to-head, he will strike. If that happens, the region could go critical.”

  “Then we have to hope Striker contains the threat and cuts the head off the snake. Hal, give him whatever help he needs.”

  “It won’t be much, sir. The way he operates, he’s on his own. Most likely on risky ground. We can’t advertise our presence to back him in a foreign nation or we risk being accused of...whatever the offending party throws at us. That would just give the opposition free publicity to accuse the U.S. of reckless actions.”

  “You don’t need to quote the book at me, Hal. Damned if we do, damned if we don’t. I hate having to say it, but your guy is out there on his own. Not for the first time. And that goes for Sarah Mitchell, too. If anything happens to her, Jonathon Mitchell will not be pleased.”

  “If anyone can pull this off, sir, it’s Striker.”

  Outside the Oval Office windows, dark clouds heralded a stormy day. Rain was already streaking the glass. The weather suited Hal Brognola’s mood. The comparative comfort of his surroundings made him feel slightly uncomfortable. His thoughts were with his friend.

  “Stay safe, pal. Come home alive and well.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  The OCD technician was introduced as Ludmilla Timoshenko, a slim woman, with short blond hair above an elfin face. Her dark eyes were made larger by the glasses she wore. She made no concessions to her femininity, dressing in plain slacks and shirt that concealed her body. When she entered Seminov’s office, carrying the laptop from Lubinski’s apartment, she walked directly across to his desk and placed the computer down.

  “I take it you have conquered the machine?” Seminov said. “And please speak English for our guests from America.”

  Timoshenko peered over her glasses at Mitchell, then Bolan. A slight frown of irritation creased her forehead.

  “No Russian?” she said.

  “I speak Russian,” he said, “but my partner doesn’t, and we would appreciate your help, Officer Timoshenko. Any information you may have found is important to our operation. Commander Seminov tells us we are fortunate to have you assist us.”

  Timoshenko cleared her throat, glancing at Seminov as if to question this unexpected praise. Seminov nodded for her to continue.

  “Sergei Lubinski kept records of his transactions in an encrypted file. I think he was confident it could not be broken,” she said. “Actual
ly it was a simple code to break. Like most others of his criminal type, he did not fully trust those he worked with, and the hidden files were a form of insurance for himself in case anything went wrong. Once I broke through his barrier it was easy to run through the lists of past deals he has made.”

  “How far back do they go, Timoshenko?” Seminov asked.

  “A number of years. Is that important?”

  “It could help us uncover other criminal deals he has made. But for the moment we concentrate on his current activities. Namely anything on the lists that involve his dealings with Hegre, Henrick DeJong and Raz Malik.”

  “Those names occur a few times,” Timoshenko said. “They go back no more than a few months. In the last few weeks Lubinski has added notes about the contract he undertook for DeJong. It mentions the construction of a specialist tanker.”

  The OCD officer tapped keys and brought up a schematic of a long-bodied liquid-carrying vehicle. The side view showed where a false lower section would be constructed. Above this was the expected section where fuel would be pumped inside.

  “These are the work plans for the construction of the altered tanker. As you can see, where the filler hatches are situated, the interior has tubes that go down through the false floor to the actual bottom of the tank. If someone used measure gauges to check the load, the gauge sticks would show the correct level of liquid. To anyone inspecting the tank it would appear to have the correct capacity.”

  “Clever,” Mitchell said. “The drums of uranium would go into the lower section out of sight.”

  “Is there information on where the tanker might be going?” Bolan asked.

  Timoshenko returned to the main text, pointing her finger at a few lines.

  “A rented property in the city of Aktau, Kazakhstan.”

  “Hegre needed a location where they could load the tanker with the uranium and top up the remaining space with a genuine load,” Bolan said. “All very neat and smoothly worked out.”

  “Lubinski kept an itemized list of all construction materials and how long his craftsmen worked,” Timoshenko said. “Even the cost of the rail transfer from his workshop to the Aktau depot.”