Chain Reaction

by Don Pendleton

  Bolan drove on, away from the area before the first responders arrived. The explosion would have been seen and heard for quite a distance, and he couldn’t become involved with an official investigation.

  He remembered Sarah Mitchell’s face as she had fallen after being shot. Somehow he had to find out where her body had been taken. It was the least he could do. He had shared too much with the FBI agent to simply walk away. Her unflinching spirit had brought her through so much it would have been an insult not to acknowledge her. He was thinking about Arkady Greshenko, too. The man had offered his help and had paid the ultimate price.

  Returning to Greshenko’s home could turn out to be a high risk. It was possible he might walk into a police presence if the incident had been reported. Bolan couldn’t risk being apprehended by the law. He would have to consider a different approach. Somehow he would work something out.

  He owed them that much.

  Good people were dead because by strokes of fate they had allied themselves to Bolan. It had happened before. Allies died, becoming the friendly ghosts that peopled his dreams from time to time, while he walked away untouched. In the darkest nights he often wondered why that was. That he seemed to survive while others around him died. There was, he knew, no comforting answer. And he refused to allow it to crush his spirit. If he did, he would cease to be who he was.

  Mack Bolan.

  The Executioner.

  And he needed to stay hard to be able to do his work.

  That did not mark him as an unfeeling creature, immune to regret. He took on the loss of friends and allies. Bolan would remember them and their deaths would not be in vain. He would make sure of that. Their killers would pay. For every drop of spilled blood they would pay.

  Bolan drove until he hit the highway that took him back into Aktau. He followed the main road until he spotted the bright lights of a hotel facade and swung into the parking area. He stepped out and secured the SUV, brushed down his clothing and made his way to the main entrance.

  He walked through the front door and across the ornate lobby to the front desk. The young woman on duty smiled dutifully at his approach. There was a slight hint of concern in her brown eyes.

  His six foot plus figure with its slightly disheveled appearance had aroused her curiosity and his having no luggage wasn’t a help.

  “May I help you, sir?” she said.

  Bolan slipped his hand inside his leather jacket, withdrew his U.S. passport and showed it to her. She glanced at his picture and the smile remained.

  “Mr. Hamilton, do you have a problem? May I help?”

  “Stephanie,” he said, reading the badge pinned to her uniform blouse, “I really do think you can. I need two things right at this moment. A telephone and a room with a hot shower. Preferably in that order.”

  “You have no luggage, Mr. Hamilton.”

  “That was how it all started. They lost my bags at the airport. I spent a couple of hours trying to find them. Nothing. So I decided to drive into the city. Got myself lost and then had a blowout.”

  Stephanie showed him a sympathetic smile.

  “It doesn’t sound as though you’ve had a very pleasant day, Mr. Hamilton.” She tapped the keyboard in front of her. “We do have a deluxe room available. It’s rather expensive.”

  “My company is footing the bill...for everything.”

  Bolan had his wallet out by then and showed her the credit card issued to him by Stony Man. It took only a few minutes for Bolan to be checked in. Stephanie handed him his room swipe card.

  “You room is on the fourth floor, sir. If you require anything, call room service.”

  “Right now I just want a hot shower. I have lots to do in the morning. Thanks, Stephanie.”

  Bolan headed for the elevators and rode up to his floor. Walking along the carpeted corridor, he felt the Steyr pressing against the small of his back. It brought him back to his current position.

  Damn Lise Delaware. Damn her ability to cause suffering and death and still walk away, Bolan thought.

  Once Bolan was in his room, he placed the Steyr in the safe and scanned the room. It was well appointed, with quality furnishings. The king-size bed looked extremely inviting. He checked out the balcony with its open view over the Caspian Sea. Lights shone in both directions, fanning out from the hotel location. Bolan took a few moments to take it all in, allowing his body to wind down. A great deal had happened since he and Mitchell had landed in the country. It had all happened at breakneck speed.

  Bolan ran his hands through his hair, his mind clicking through things he had to do.

  He called room service and ordered a light meal and a pot of coffee.

  His second call was to the laundry service. He asked for his clothing to be picked up and cleaned for the morning.

  Bolan checked the room refrigerator and took out a chilled fruit juice and downed it quickly. After shedding his clothes, including his shorts and socks, Bolan dropped them into the laundry bag the room provided. The only things he didn’t include were his shoes and leather jacket. He went into the bathroom and got under the shower, turning the water to hot. He soaped himself, then stood with the water spraying over him. He dried, pulled on one of the complimentary bathrobes and came out of the bathroom just as someone tapped on his door.

  It was a valet for his clothes. Bolan handed them over. A few minutes later a second caller rolled in a cart with a large platter of sandwiches and a pot of hot coffee. Bolan handed the waiter several bills from his wallet. He poured himself a cup of strong, rich coffee and drank half before he sat down with the room phone in front of him.

  His first call was to Valentine Seminov. Even though it was late the Russian cop picked up.

  “Valentine, it’s Cooper.”

  “My friend, what has been happening? I have not been able to get through to Arkady. Or to your phone.”

  “It’s not good,” Bolan said.

  He related the events from the moment of his touchdown in Kazakhstan to the way it had ended in the derelict building.

  “Arkady? And beautiful Sarah? Dead?” Seminov uttered a long, deep sigh. “Such a waste,” he said. “Cooper, what can I do to help? Anything. Name it, and it will be done.”

  “I need to know where they took Sarah’s body. What has happened to her and Arkady.”

  “Tell me where you are.”

  Bolan gave Seminov the hotel’s number. He also added his room number.

  “What happened to the woman you were looking for?”

  “She’s gone. Escaped while I was handling her friends.”

  “That one has too many lives,” Seminov said. “Like the cat.”

  “They’re running out.”

  “You sound tired, Cooper.”

  “It’s been a long day.”

  “Then I will talk with you tomorrow.”

  Bolan contacted Stony Man, using the number that would reroute his connection through the cutout system designed to keep calls secure.

  “Striker? What’s going on?” Barbara Price failed to hide her concern.

  “I’m in a hotel room in Aktau.”

  For the second time that evening Bolan explained. He failed to get past Mitchell’s death without a moment of regret.

  “I called Seminov. He has contacts here. He’s going to try to find out details.”

  “And what about you?” Price said. “You sound so tired. I’m sorry about Sarah. By all accounts she was a top agent.”

  “She was. I’ll be back as soon as this is all cleared up.”

  Price’s voice became briskly businesslike again. “You said something about the uranium being destroyed. How?”

  Bolan told how he had incinerated the tanker and hopefully destroyed the cargo.

  “The vehicle was taken out o
f the picture and from the size of the final explosion, I’m hoping the uranium was scattered over the area. I don’t think there will be anything to transport to Iran. At least I hope not.”

  “I don’t think Fikri’s people will be able to get near the site. If there are any still in Aktau.” Price told him Brognola was not on site. “I’ll update him when he shows. You should rest, Mack. No arguments, mister, just do it.”

  “I’ll keep in contact.” He ended the call.

  Bolan ate, finished the coffee, climbed into bed and switched off the light.

  It took some time before he slept.

  * * *

  SOMEONE KNOCKING ON his door awakened him.

  “Laundry, sir. Your clothes.”

  Bolan wrapped himself in the bathrobe and opened the door. His clothes were handed to him in a zipped bag. He gave the man a tip, then hung the bag in the closet. He dropped the robe and went into the bathroom. There was a complimentary shaving kit on the shelf, which contained a disposable razor and shaving cream. He shaved, then showered and donned the robe.

  The day was bright, already warm. Bolan was at the window when the phone rang.

  It was Seminov.

  “It is a beautiful day, my friend. Do I find you rested?”

  “I slept, Valentine. Not sure about being rested.”

  “Good. I will be with you shortly.”

  “Where are you?”

  “At the airport. I will rent a car and join you. Seeing it is breakfast hour, I will have coffee with you.”

  Seminov cut the call, leaving Bolan slightly confused.

  He dressed in his clean clothing, absently noting that even his shorts had been neatly pressed. He pocketed his wallet and passport and made his way down to the lobby. The receptionist, Stephanie, had gone off duty. In her place was a smiling young woman who directed Bolan to the restaurant, which was serving breakfast.

  “I’m expecting a friend,” Bolan said. “A Mr. Seminov. Please tell him where I am.”

  Seated at a table with a view across the Caspian, Bolan ordered coffee and toast. The restaurant was slowly filling up as hotel guests filtered in. He picked up a cross section of languages.

  Bolan was on his third coffee when he spotted Seminov’s impressive figure. The Russian was dressed in a light suit and an open necked dark blue shirt. When he reached Bolan’s table, the cop embraced him as the soldier stood. Bolan asked for more coffee and an extra cup. After the server left, Seminov poured himself a cup and nodded approvingly after he tasted it.

  “Good,” he said.

  The Russian’s cheerful manner aroused Bolan’s curiosity.

  “How did you get here so fast?”

  “Better than that,” Seminov said. “I made many telephone calls before I left Moscow. As I said, I have contacts here in Aktau. They confirmed for me that my friend Arkady is dead.” Then Seminov reached out a big hand and clamped it over Bolan’s on the table. “But your Sarah Mitchell is alive.”

  “Say that again.”

  “Sarah is alive. She’s in hospital, recovering from the surgery to remove the two bullets that struck her. She’s in critical condition, but my contact tells me it is expected she will recover. Good news, yes?”

  Bolan nodded. “Is it possible to see her?”

  “We can go to the hospital when you are ready. It is a fairly new one, built three years ago so it has good facilities. Sarah Mitchell is in good hands. She is one strong woman.”

  Bolan drained his coffee. “Let’s go.”

  The news about Mitchell shifted some of the darkness. In his weary state the previous night, Bolan had not imagined the chance she might be alive.

  Seminov’s rental car had a built in navigation system, and the Russian tapped in coordinates.

  “I have not been to Aktau for a few years,” he said. “There is a great deal of new construction taking place. They are building a new city around the old.”

  Seminov had no problems with the traffic congestion. He was from Moscow, where driving was more like a rally. He pushed the rental car through the traffic with practiced ease. It took them just under a half hour to reach the hospital, a white, four-story building. Seminov parked and they went inside. As with any hospital Bolan had experienced, the moment they crossed the threshold a silence descended. Everything around them, announcements and voices, was conducted at a hushed level.

  At the desk Seminov spoke to a receptionist and they were directed to a bank of elevators.

  “Just to advise you,” Seminov said as they stepped out. “There is a police presence. Just a precaution. I have already spoken to a colleague on the Aktau force. They are looking out for Sarah.”

  “And how about me?”

  “We are working together as far as they know. Cooperation between the OCD and an American task force.”

  “You think that’s going to convince them?”

  “Trust me,” the Russian said, “I have enough faith for both us.”

  They walked along the silent corridor to where a uniformed cop was standing at the door of the room. Seminov produced his OCD identification. Bolan showed his U.S. passport. The Aktau cop inspected them, stared at them both. His right hand rested firmly on the butt of his holstered pistol.

  To one side of the closed door there was a wide window that allowed a view inside the room. Bolan moved so he could stare in through the glass. He had seen enough hospital recovery units to know what to expect: the electronic monitoring, the stands holding fluids that were fed via plastic tubes attached to the patient.

  Sarah Mitchell’s motionless form was covered by a thin sheet, tubes inserted in her arms and nose, a plastic mask over her lower face to feed her oxygen. The vital and animated Mitchell he knew was reduced to a pale shadow. Her dark hair fanned out across the pillow.

  “I hope she makes it.”

  Seminov was at his side. “I think she will. This young woman is a fighter. She is not going to give up.”

  “And as much as I sympathize with your problem,” someone said from behind them, “I believe you have other pressing concerns to answer to.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  “Our diverse culture and our proximity to Iran can sometimes present us with—how shall I say—unique situations. The Aktau Criminal Division has a simple job to do on paper. Search out and deal with criminal activity above the normal run of things. Not unlike my friend, Seminov, here. In reality matters are not so simple.”

  Captain Iztak Taharun was a tall, spare man in his late thirties. A black mustache adorned his upper lip. His long, brown hands could have belonged to a dedicated pianist rather than a Kazakh lawman who had started out as a street cop and risen through the ranks to his present position. As he spoke, his dark, keen eyes were never still. He observed even as he talked of other things.

  He had taken Bolan and Seminov to the hospital’s cafeteria where they sat at a table close to the open windows. A fresh breeze offered some relief from the heat of the day. Over cups of dark, bitter coffee they discussed, mainly, Bolan’s position.

  “I believe the most urgent thing is to assist you to leave Kazakhstan, Mr. Hamilton. As a matter of interest, is that your real name and that of your lady friend?”

  “No,” Seminov said. “It is a cover name we used to get them into Kazakhstan. If you need someone to chastise for that, it is my responsibility.”

  Taharun smiled. “Ever since I first met him at a crime symposium in Paris, this man has been causing me problems. Valentine, you romance me every time we meet.”

  “Captain,” Bolan said, “I can’t let Valentine take the responsibility for this. The situation needed a fast response. I needed to make contact with the people running this deal and Ayatollah Fikri’s team. The objective was to stop that cargo of stolen uranium from leaving Kazakhs
tan. And I had no way of doing it by the book.”

  Taharun picked up his cup and sipped the hot coffee.

  “A diplomatic way of saying you couldn’t trust anyone here.”

  “There has been mistrust all along with this matter,” Bolan said. “Any delay and Hegre could have shipped that material out of reach. Officialdom is universal. It seldom equates with quick responses. Especially coming from someone your people wouldn’t have any knowledge about.”

  “Ah, admittance of entering Kazakhstan illegally,” he said. “Next would be the acts of violence that resulted in a number of deaths and the deliberate setting of a fire that destroyed property and an expensive commercial vehicle.”

  “I won’t try denying any of that,” Bolan replied.

  “Honesty at least,” Taharun said. He gestured out the window. “We have a beautiful city here. It is growing. We do not want more problems than we already experience. This scheme to smuggle out the uranium stolen from our own mines—solving it was dropped into my hands. I am angry this criminal organization—Hegre you call it—came here to Kazakhstan and caused such trouble. To find out Iran was behind it all makes it worse. That behind it all was an attempt to create nuclear weaponry does not bear thinking about. Here we are building for our future. The last thing we need is...”

  Taharun shook his head.

  “At least the threat has been removed,” Seminov said.

  “The fire service investigators have been able to inspect the tanker. What is left of it. They believe the main tank held gasoline. When the fire built to a certain temperature the contents ignited and blew. The vehicle was destroyed. They found the remains of drums of uranium in the false section. Most of them had burst open spreading the uranium around the area. It is contaminated with all kinds of debris. Unfit for any kind of use, we believe. Some was even fused solid by the heat. A specialized team will recover as much of the yellowcake as possible.

  “So your Hegre has lost its cargo and so has this Ayatollah Fikri.”

  “Yet the woman who organized it all has gone,” Seminov said. “I am sorry, my friend.”