Chain Reaction

by Don Pendleton

  “Hegre earns its fees,” Seminov said. “All very professional.”

  “We’re hoping to change all that,” Bolan said.

  His sat phone rang. It was Aaron Kurtzman.

  “Your guy Raz Malik is one of Fikri’s faithful henchmen.”

  “There’s a word you don’t hear much these days. Henchman.”

  “I’m attempting to increase my word power,” Kurtzman said.

  “I’m impressed.”

  “You want to keep on insulting me or hear my information?”

  “I’m all ears, Bear.”

  “Malik is in a number of databases. Some of ours. Mossad, of course. He’s a cool son of a bitch, a sharp negotiator, and he can be a hard hitter when the need arises. He has a rap sheet of around eight kills. Known but never made to stick, which tends to be the norm for these guys. Malik moves around a great deal, working for the cause, which is anything that benefits his ayatollah. According to his sheet, he’s an arrogant character with not a shred of remorse in his body, and he always seems to wriggle out of tricky situations.”

  “He did that in Moscow,” Bolan said. “Okay. Any idea where he might be right now?”

  “Thanks to Erica I might have an answer for you. She translated the messages in the cell phone he left behind. Nice list of numbers we’re tracing as we speak. But the data you’ll be interested in was in a couple of messages left for him that would tie in time-wise to when you had that set-to in Babushka.”

  “You’re starting to interest me.”

  “Two short messages he wouldn’t have been able to reply to, asking where he was and telling him to call back ASAP. Erica passed us the caller’s ID and we backtracked. The calls came from a landline in the Kazakhstan city of Aktau on the coast of the Caspian Sea.”

  “That’s the best news I’ve had today,” Bolan said. “You just confirmed what we’ve been working out.”

  “We’ll keep checking. I’ll let you have any other goodies that show up.”

  “It’ll be hard to top the one you just handed me.” Bolan said goodbye and ended the call.

  “Good news?” Mitchell asked.

  Bolan related the information Kurtzman had given him.

  “Wonderful news,” Seminov said. “Now I suspect you will want to go to Aktau.”

  He beckoned to Dimitri. “Arrange a flight from Domodedovo, Nikolai, for our two friends to Aktau.”

  “Pity we’re not collecting frequent flyer miles,” Mitchell said. “With all the points we’d be getting, we could buy our own plane.”

  “When you reach Aktau,” Seminov said, “be careful. My advice would be trust no one except the man I will put you in contact with. Local loyalties in Aktau can favor Fikri. There is a large Muslim population in Kazakhstan. Christian, as well, but it will be difficult to recognize friend from enemy. Be extremely cautious, Cooper. This time you will be stepping into the unknown. Watch each other’s backs and sleep with your eyes open.”

  “Officer Timoshenko,” Bolan said, “thanks for your input. You’ve been a great help. Much appreciated.”

  Timoshenko blushed at the praise and offered a smile.

  “I hope the rest of your mission is successful.”

  After she had left the room Seminov gave one of his wide smiles.

  “You see, Sarah, what a charmer he is. I cannot remember the last time Timoshenko smiled the way she did just now.”

  “Oh, I know how persuasive he is, Valentine. Do you know another man who could get a girl to leap out of a falling plane while hanging around his neck?”

  Seminov laughed. “There I believe you have created a new record, Sarah Mitchell.”

  “Cooper, you’re a record breaker,” Mitchell said. “What do you have to say to that?”

  Mack Bolan said nothing.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  Hamid was shaking with rage when he slammed down the phone. He crossed to stare out the window, across the dusty landscape, as dust devils skittered across the dry land. The hot air touched his skin, and he felt himself yearning for something cool to reduce his anger.

  “What is it, brother?” Kasim asked. “Is there a problem?”

  “The uranium is ready to be moved out of Kazakhstan,” he said, “but the American has been recognized in Russia. No doubt he is searching for the shipment. I have been told he almost caught Malik in Moscow. There was shooting and DeJong and Malik were lucky to escape with their lives. Malik says DeJong sent a team back to the Russian’s club to search for his computer and the American and his female accomplice returned and killed them. The Russian police were also involved. We can be assured the computer will be in their hands now.”

  “Should this concern us, Hamid? We are tasked only to take charge of the shipment when it has landed on Iranian soil.”

  “You must understand. This American—Cooper—he has been interfering too much, attempting to prevent the uranium from reaching us. If he has information that might bring him to Kazakhstan, then the shipment could be at risk. Now that it has reached this far, we cannot allow it to be taken away from us.”

  “We could arrange for our people in the city to intercept and stop this American.”

  Hamid grasped the suggestion immediately. “Do it, Kasim. Use whatever assets we have in the country. There are believers in Kazakhstan who would be willing to work in God’s cause. If we can prevent this American murderer and his agent from sabotaging the operation, then we will have done a great service to the cause.”

  “I will call Yussef and order him to gather his people and search for this Cooper.”

  “Make him understand the man cannot be allowed to step in our way.”

  * * *

  MINUTES LATER THE phone rang in a coffeehouse in the city. The man behind the counter answered the call, spoke, then lowered the handset.

  “Yussef, there is a call for you.”

  A tall, wild haired man seated at a table stood and walked to the counter. He took the phone thrust at him.

  “Yes?”

  “Yussef, I have something for you to do. Meet me in twenty minutes at the Shevchenko Monument. Have your people ready to work. I will explain when we meet. Twenty minutes, Yussef. Do not be late.”

  Yussef returned to his table and spoke with the men there. They left the café and stepped into the busy street. On Yussef’s orders the men with him departed to carry out the orders he had given.

  Yussef began to walk to the monument for his meeting. His lean figure moved effortlessly through the thronged street, and he was at his destination well before the appointed time. He stood close to the monument, lighting a thin, dark cigar. He drew in the bitter smoke, enjoying the taste.

  He had barely smoked half the cigar when he saw Kasim walking toward him. The well-dressed figure, lean and gray haired, had the calm of a college professor; that was not far from the truth. In his time Kasim had been a student of politics and had given lectures. Now he was second in command of the team operating in Kazakhstan, his life dedicated to God. He followed Ayatollah Fikri, reborn as a soldier.

  “As salaam alaikum,” Kasim said.

  “Wa alaikum salaam,” Yussef responded.

  The traditional greeting between two seemingly old friends held suggestions of harmony that were nonetheless a precursor to the planning of death and violence.

  The two men walked slowly side by side, in deep conversation. When they parted, Yussef had his orders to hunt down and kill the American named Cooper and the woman who worked with him. The sentence had been extended to include anyone considered to be assisting Cooper.

  In Yussef’s pocket was an envelope that contained photographs of Cooper and Sarah Mitchell. They had been taken in Moscow by one of Hegre’s people and passed along to Hamid.

  Yussef took a cab that
dropped him outside a workshop on the west side of town. He pushed in through the bleached wooden door and made his way through a quiet courtyard leading to a shadowed, former woodworking shop. His men were already gathered, playing cards and smoking.

  “We have orders that come directly from Ayatollah Fikri. A hit against this man and woman,” Yussef said, laying the photographs of Cooper and Mitchell on the tabletop. “Americans threatening the delivery of the shipment of uranium. We have orders to seek out this pair and execute them in God’s name. They have already interfered with our brother in Russia. Now it is our privilege to stop them.”

  “Do we know where they are at this time?” one of the men asked.

  “They were in Moscow, but I suspect they will not be there much longer. When Malik was forced to flee from Lubinski’s club, he unfortunately left behind his cell. If it was recovered, which is likely, and analyzed, I am certain the Americans would have deciphered his messages. There were calls made from here to Malik. The Americans would have been able to trace where the messages came from and this man Cooper will no doubt follow up the source.”

  “You think he will come here?”

  “He has followed the trail of the uranium this far. He will not give up now. Cooper will attempt to get here as quickly as possible, before we can move the uranium out of the country. Unfortunately for us, security has been heightened since we took the cargo and we have been forced to hide it until the police searches die down. They are watching ports and vessels. Have the photographs of Cooper and the woman copied and handed to all our informants and our own people. Bad enough the police are on alert, we now have this damned American on a personal mission to prevent delivery of the uranium to Iran.”

  Bashir, the man Yussef was talking to, said, “The airport will be his best choice. A flight directly from Moscow will bring him to Aktau in a few hours.”

  “Yes. My thoughts, too. Cover the airport well. If he is spotted, he must be apprehended and taken from the city.”

  “And?”

  “Both he and the woman are to be executed. Kill them and bury them in some isolated spot.”

  “The woman from Hegre wants the American delivered to her alive.”

  “That does not interest me, Bashir. Since when do I consider what a woman wants? Especially an American whore. She is of no consequence to me. Our responsibility is to complete our mission. We answer to Ayatollah Fikri and no one else. At present the uranium is secure. We must hold it until it is safe to move it to the docks. And in the meantime we concentrate on finding these Americans.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  The plane was a SCAT Airlines YAK-42, and not the most comfortable Bolan had flown in. The triple-engined, swept-wing, Russian-built aircraft rose smoothly enough from Domodedovo International Airport, Moscow, as late-afternoon light glanced through the plane’s windows. The flight time was announced as two and a half hours. From his window seat Bolan saw the landscape fade as they rose through the clouds. Ahead lay Aktau, in Kazakhstan’s Mangystau Province. At that moment it was all Bolan and Mitchell had, apart from the contact Valentine Seminov had provided.

  The Russian cop, with his unerring skill, had arranged for Bolan to be met at the airport by Arkady Greshenko, a covert Russian operative who had been based in Kazakhstan for a number of years. Greshenko was a veteran of a number of undercover missions in and around Aktau, where he kept an eye on the comings and goings in the city. Aktau’s position on the Caspian Sea, with direct access to Iran, had generated enough interest for the Russians that they kept a presence in the area. Greshenko represented Russian interests. His cover was a small travel agency, allowing him to maintain a presence in the city of Aktau. He arranged matters for Russians making visits to the area where the coastal city drew a small but steady flow of visitors.

  Seminov, with a wide sweep of contacts in Russia and elsewhere, had known Greshenko for many years. They had worked together on criminal cases many times and had a good relationship. Seminov’s call to Greshenko had resulted in Bolan and Mitchell gaining an ally in the Kazakhstan city.

  “Arkady will be of great help,” Seminov said. “He knows the city and the surrounding countryside. Trust him as you trust me. That is, of course, if you do trust me.”

  “Valentine, if you’re looking for a compliment, you’ve got one,” Bolan said. “If this Greshenko is half as good as you, then we have nothing to worry about.”

  Seminov grinned at Mitchell. “You see how he can flatter me, as well, Sarah.”

  Mitchell shook her head. “If you two would like a private moment, I’ll leave the room.”

  Seminov frowned, not immediately catching her meaning, then burst into laughter.

  Dimitri came into the office, clutching a folder. He held it out to Bolan.

  “Travel visas. Documentation that customs will require on your arrival,” he said. “Courtesy of the OCD. They are made out in your passport identities. You will not be able to take your weapons with you, but Arkady will furnish you with what you need. He will meet you outside the airport. We have emailed him your pictures so he will recognize you.”

  “Valentine, thanks for the assist,” Bolan said.

  “Thank me by finding that uranium and stopping this madness Fikri wants to spread. That will be enough, my good friend. You take care of yourself—and this beautiful young woman. If she comes to harm, I will be a saddened man.”

  Dimitri drove them to Moscow’s Domodedovo airport. He followed them inside and said his farewells quickly.

  “Be careful,” he said. “We will be waiting to hear of your success.”

  He hugged them both, turned and left.

  “I believe that young man will miss us,” Mitchell said.

  “Me, no. But he will miss Sarah Mitchell.”

  “No.”

  “I think he enjoyed working with the lady FBI agent.”

  Mitchell grinned. “Aw, shucks, boss.”

  * * *

  “VALENTINE IS A good man,” Mitchell had said as the jet eased up off the runway. “A good friend.”

  She had then settled back in her seat and slept the entire flight, leaving Bolan to his own thoughts.

  Hegre.

  Lise Delaware.

  Delaware was a vengeful woman, orchestrating a cycle of death and organized crime that had pulled Mack Bolan across the miles to China and the Philippines, to close escapes and threats in Russia. And it was far from over as the chase continued, drawing the Executioner to Kazakhstan. There he would pick up the threads leading him to the stolen uranium and then remove it from the plans of Ayatollah Fikri, Iran and its seemingly insatiable desire to create yet more nuclear weapons to add to the list of the global threats. Removing Iran’s current scheme to add to the worldwide arsenal would not be an end to the nuclear horror, but it would hopefully take away that nation’s current hope to become a nuclear power. Bolan understood that, even if he succeeded, Iran would not end its search. The date of nuclear acquisition would be extended and, as long as that day stayed in the future, the possibility of some kind of peace might be resolved.

  No guarantees, Bolan understood, but any bit of hope had to be fought for.

  That end was no different from his own personal fight against the forces of evil, in whatever form they took. Bolan had long accepted that his War Everlasting was just that. A relentless fight against enemies who outnumbered him, who fell away on one battlefront only to be replenished by others. The numbers were against him, overwhelming if he sat down to count them. But that thought never occurred to Bolan. He fought because he had no other choice. However small his victories against darkness, they were victories. And for Mack Bolan it was enough. He would come through, maybe bloodied and battered, but never for an instant, bowed. It was not in his nature to accept defeat, or even to allow the thought to form in his mind.


  He glanced at the young woman next to him, marveling at her dedication. Since he had met Sarah Mitchell, his respect for her had grown. Out of her determination to take down Hegre and her loyalty to her fellow FBI agents who had sacrificed their lives, Mitchell had proved herself more than once. He had no doubt she would add to that distinction in whatever lay ahead of them. As courageous as she was beautiful, the FBI agent was a genuine example of the Bureau’s motto.

  FBI.

  Fidelity, Bravery, Integrity.

  Bolan could find no better way to describe her.

  * * *

  THEY MADE THEIR descent in bright sunlight, only a half hour beyond the stated arrival time. Bolan felt the aircraft bank as the pilot lined up on their runway, the plane trembling as the flaps were lowered. He caught a blurred glimpse of the strip as the plane completed its descent, heard the squeal as the wheels touched. The heavy bulk of the aircraft settled. The pilot reversed the jet’s thrust and deceleration pressed them into their seats. The plane slowed, trundling along the runway and finally turning onto the side strip where it came to a stop.

  Aktau’s Shevchenko Airport was medium-sized. It would have been dwarfed in the shadow of any of the major international American or Russian hubs. The terminal building was not particularly impressive, but it served its purpose.

  Passing through customs was fast and without problems. Mr. and Mrs. Hamilton, arriving in Kazakhstan for a private visit, were stamped and passed through with a minimum of delay.

  As they emerged on the other side of the checkpoint, Mitchell said, “That went well. Maybe too well.”

  Bolan took her arm and steered her across the arrivals hall. “Enjoy the moment,” he said.

  “Am I starting to show signs of paranoia?”

  “Just a mild attack.”

  They stepped outside, felt the heat. It was the kind Bolan could take. He placed his flight bag on the concrete, glancing around without making too much of a show.