Once she’d proofread the statement and softened her mea culpa even further, Brown printed out the document. She would have copies run off downstairs and then passed out to the reporters across the street in lieu of her holding another press conference. She wasn’t about to make that mistake again.
Brown was shutting down her computer when her cell phone rang. It was Buddy Carman.
“What’s up, Captain?”
“I’m glad you called back,” Brown told him. “I was just heading out your way and wondered if we could meet. It’s important.”
“With you it’s always something important,” Carman chuckled. “How about a social call now and then?”
“I’m saving that for a special occasion.”
Carman laughed again, then told Brown, “I’m where I always am this time of day. Come on down.”
“I’ll be there in about an hour.”
“What’s so important this time?”
“I’ll tell you more when I get there,” Brown told the man, glancing over the reward offer in her press release, “but it’s a way to make some easy money.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Stony Man Farm, Virgina
“I don’t know about you,” Hal Brognola told Barbara Price as he huddled with her at the workstation she’d appropriated in the Annex Computer Room, “but I’m starting to think Striker must’ve been a cat in a former life.”
Price managed a smile. “More like a litter of cats,” she said. “I think he’s used up a few more than nine lives.”
“Let’s try not to keep track.” The big Fed gave his mission controller a reassuring pat on the shoulder then turned his focus to the cybercrew.
“How are we coming, gang?”
“I just finished running a check on the Rosqui waste facility,” Huntington Wethers reported. “It’s been up and running almost ten years now. There’s been the usual political controversy, but its record’s clean. In fact, most of those years they’ve gotten higher inspection ratings than any other plant in the country.”
“How up-to-date are the ratings?” Brognola asked. “Do they cover this new outift?”
Wethers nodded. “DOE and the Nuclear Safety Commission stepped in for a few months during the transition, then turned things over to Global Holdings. Same clean record the past six quarters.”
“What about GHC?” Brognola asked Carmen Delahunt. “Do you have a lowdown on them yet?”
“I can give you the once-over-lightly if that’ll help,” Delahunt offered.
“That’d be a start.”
Brognola raided his trench coat for a cigar tube. He’d long given up smoking cigars but rolling one between his fingers or chewing on one remained a benign way to work off stress.
“They’re headquartered in Antwerp,” Delahunt reported, “and most of the Board of Directors is made up of EU heavyweights. Top dog there is Evgenii Danilov. He’s Russian-born but has been out of the country for years. He’s got six homes, none of them anywhere you’d associate with Moscow.”
“All the same,” Brognola said, “if he’s got any motherland in his blood, it’s worth seeing if we can tie him somehow to this Cherkow fellow.”
“I think I’m already there,” Aaron Kurtzman called out from his wheelchair. He was poised before his computer, coffee cup in one hand, mouse trapped beneath the other. “I was scanning headlines while waiting on a download and saw something about that casino attack in Bolivia.”
“Alfredo Cavour’s place?” Brognola asked.
“Yeah, the Inca Treasure,” Kurtzman said. “ELN has taken credit and it fits their agenda.”
“Not to mention their M.O.,” Akira Tokaido ventured.
“What’s this have to do with Danilov or Cherkow?” Brognola wanted to know.
“I’m getting to that,” Kurtzman said. “Seeing as I already had casinos on the brain, I did a little digging to see if there’s been a Russian influx in South America there since the Russian clampdown. Check out what I came up with. Screen eight.”
The assembled Stony Man team directed its attention to the far wall where, for the second time in as many hours, Kurtzman called up a mug shot from one of his international crime databases. The man on screen eight was gaunt in the face with a full head of dark brown hair.
“Dmitri Vishnevsky,” Kurtzman said. “This is an old shot from a few years ago when he was blackballed at several casinos in Moscow for counting cards at blackjack.”
“Nerd City,” Tokaido said. “All he’s missing is a pocket protector.”
“That’s probably how he wanted people to see him back then,” Kurtzman said. “At any rate, there’s intel on him cleaning out these other casinos while he was on payroll at the Regal Splendor.”
“The same casino Cherkow worked at?” Delahunt queried.
Kurtzman nodded. “Yeah. And we have a present-day photo.”
“Hardly even looks like the same guy,” Brognola observed.
“He’s now going by the name Dominic Fishciel,” Kurtzman explained. “He helps run the biggest casino in Santa Cruz and has offered a reward for bringing in whoever masterminded the attack on the Inca treasure.”
“Okay, I’m following you so far,” said Brognola. “You’re saying Dolgoprudnenskaya has its fingers in this other casino?”
“I’m just about to look into that,” Kurtzman replied. “Obviously, if they’re invested there it’ll be under the table so I’ll need to dig deep.”
“Go for it,” Brognola said. “You might as well check to see if GHC’s hiding in the woodwork while you’re at it.”
“If you’re looking for a shortcut,” Wethers suggested, “Bolivia probably has some sort of gaming commission that’ll have photo IDs of all casino employees. You could cross-reference with the databases where you got the shot of Cherkow and see if it turns up any of his people.”
Kurtzman gave Wethers a thumbs-up. “Good thinking, Hunt.”
“I’ll rattle a few cages with CIA and Interpol down in Santa Cruz,” Brognola said. “If they don’t have something on Vishnevsky already, I’ll see if they can divert someone over from the bombing investigation.”
“You think the Russians might’ve had a hand in the attack?” Delahunt asked.
“Can’t rule it out,” Brognola said. “It’s their M.O. as much as ELN’s.”
“Well,” Delahunt replied, “if we’re right about them being in on this whole New Mexico business, it’s pretty clear they don’t mind killing a few innocents.”
“True,” Price said, “and that doesn’t take into account the people we’ve still got missing out there.” She was speaking about the Colt family as well as Jeffrey and Leeland Eppard.
“You got that right,” Tokaido said. “And I hate to say it, but the longer we go without a ransom demand or some kind of contact, the less I’m liking their chances.”
Glorieta, New Mexico
AFTER ALL THE HOURS he’d been held captive in the boarded-up room, it took a while for Franklin Colt’s eyes to adjust to the bright New Mexico morning. Only a few wispy clouds marred the clear blue sky, and the sun beat down on him as he sat on a tree trunk gouged from its use as a chopping block for the pile of firewood neatly stacked a few yards to his right. There was an ax propped next to the woodpile, but one of Frederik Mikhaylov’s men was standing next to it, armed with a considerably more potent Bizon 2 submachine gun. Even if the man hadn’t been there, Colt’s hands had once again been duct-taped behind his back and his ankles were similarly bound, as well. They were in the narrow clearing that separated the farmhouse from the barn, and moments ago Zhenya Ilyin and another of Mikhaylov’s underlings, Yuri Reinhart, had emerged from the nearby walk-in freezer lugging the large javelina Mikhaylov had put a bullet through the night before. Long dead and half-frozen, the javelina still gave off its trademark stench, turning Colt’s stomach as he watched the two Russians set the beast down at the base of a well-used engine hoist. Two large meat hooks had been affixed to the crane’s b
oom. Once Reinhart had lowered them to the ground, he and Ilyin skewered the javelina’s hindquarters, then used a hand crank to raise the creature off the ground. They stopped cranking once the javelina was fully suspended so that it swayed slightly on the boom, upside down, its snout facing the ground.
“You wouldn’t believe it from their smell,” Reinhart told Colt when he noticed the prisoner’s discomfort, “but if you barbecue them just right they don’t taste half-bad.”
Colt presumed the barbecuing was done in the large pit that lay between the hoist and the woodpile. The pit was surrounded by small boulders and nearly a dozen thick chunks of mesquite had been stacked in the center atop a layer of muddied ash from previous fires.
“They just need a little tenderizing,” Ilyin quipped.
“And you’re in luck,” Reinhart told Colt. “Today we’re going to try out a new way to do the tenderizing.”
The two Russians shared a laugh and the man guarding Colt joined in. Colt didn’t understand the joke. For that matter, he was unclear what the men had in store for him. He hadn’t been questioned on the way from the farmhouse and while the men had bound him they’d contented themselves to converse in their native Russian.
Colt was still pondering his fate when Frederik Mikhaylov stepped out of the barn and slowly strode toward them across the dirt parking area.
“Did you tell him what we have in store for him?” Mikhaylov asked his counterparts.
Reinhart shook his head. “We thought he’d enjoy being surprised.”
“I’m sure you’re right.”
The Russian circled the woodpile and disappeared for a moment behind the large walk-in freezer. When he returned he was carrying what appeared to be a bulky wet suit layered with thin strips of what looked like black plastic. Colt had seen the outfit before; it was the prototype for Alan Orson’s thermal body armor.
“Recognize this?” Mikhaylov said.
Colt glared at Mikhaylov. “Where’s Orson?”
“You’re just like your lovely wife,” the Russian responded. “You seem to think you’re here to ask questions instead of answering them.”
“I’ve already told your men,” Colt said. “I have no idea what it is you think I’m supposed to tell you.”
“Maybe I’ll help you out in a few minutes,” Mikhaylov said. “In the meantime, excuse me, but we want to see what kind of job your friend did with this monkey suit of his.”
Mikhaylov turned his back to Colt. With Reinhart’s help, he draped the armored suit around the javelina and guided the dead beast’s front hooves through the suit’s pant legs. Thick, flat strips of wiring dangled from the pant leg cuffs to a pair of thin, rubberized-looking boots. Similarly, a set of gloves were attached to the upper sleeves, which the Russians allowed to dangle freely rather than try to fit around the meat hooks. The suit had Velcro straps as well as a zippered front. The javelina’s girth was too wide for them to zip the suit up so they made do with the straps. When they were finished, the men held the swine until it was still, then took a step back and surveyed their handiwork.
“It looks like a dead superhero,” Ilyin observed. “A dead, fat superhero.”
“Porky the Wonder Swine,” Mikhaylov deadpanned. “Doesn’t have much of a ring to it.”
Reinhart gestured at Colt and told Mikhaylov, “He’s already heard the tenderizer jokes.”
“I see,” Mikhaylov said. “Then we might as well get to the punch line.”
The Russian gestured for the guard’s submachine gun, then took a few more steps back and leveled the weapon at the javelina. When he pulled the trigger, gunshots echoed across the farm and the slain pig resumed swaying as the Bizon’s 79 mm rounds slammed into the armored suit drawn tightly around its underbelly. Colt finally understood the tenderizing jokes and found himself even further despising his captors.
Mikhaylov returned the subgun and followed Reinhart and Ilyin back to the engine hoist. They murmured to one another as they looked over the armored suit and ran their fingers over the plating. Colt’s view was blocked, and it wasn’t until they’d undone the straps and pulled the suit open that he was able to see that while the javelina’s exposed underbelly showed signs of discoloration where it’d been shot, none of the rounds had penetrated the armor.
“I’m impressed,” Mikhaylov told Colt. “Your friend was obviously very talented.”
Colt’s heart sank at hearing Orson referred to in the past tense. He stared at Mikhaylov but said nothing.
Reinhart and Ilyin began to peel the suit off the javelina. Mikhaylov gestured at the guard, who stepped forward and flicked open a switchblade, using its sharp edge to cut away the duct tape binding Colt’s wrists and ankles. All the while he kept the subgun trained on Colt’s head. As an added precaution, Mikhaylov drew his Makarov and pointed it at the prisoner.
“Don’t get too comfortable,” Mikhaylov told Colt. “You’ll be bound up again once you change into the suit.”
“You just saw that it works,” Colt countered. “What’s the point in testing it on me?”
“We still need to test its thermal capacity,” Mikhaylov responded.
Reinhart brought the suit over and handed it to Colt, grinning. “Sorry about the smell.”
Once the guard had pulled off Colt’s boots, Mikhaylov told the man, “Go ahead and put it on. I have a little more work to do with our friend Porky.”
The Russian holstered his pistol and reached for a sheath strapped to his thigh, pulling out a short-bladed skinning knife.
“Years ago I worked in a slaughterhouse,” he told Colt. “I haven’t lost my touch, but I like to keep in practice now and then.”
As Colt slowly fitted himself into the armored suit, he watched with horrified fascination while Mikhaylov took his knife to the javelina. With swift ease, the Russian made a series of strategic incisions, each time dragging the razor-sharp blade in a neat line. In less than forty-five seconds, he’d deftly skinned the swine’s hide and pulled it free of the carcass.
“Need a new wallet?” the Russian asked Colt. “Or a belt maybe?”
Colt ignored the wisecracks. “I still don’t know why you’re holding me,” he said, doing his best to sound reasonable. “Why don’t you just let us go?”
“For starters, you haven’t tested the suit yet,” Mikhaylov said. “Now zip up and put on the booties. The gloves, too.”
Colt slowly drew the chest zipper closed. “What kind of themal test can you do here? It’s not even cold out.”
“No, but it’s a bit cooler in the freezer,” Mikhaylov said. “We have it set to minus five degrees Fahrenheit. Not quite as cold as Siberia in the dead of winter, but it will do. We have a lot of meat stored, but you’ll have room to be comfortable. And we left the suit out in the sun an hour longer than the minimum needed for the thermal lines. You’ll be—how do you say it?—toasty.”
Colt pulled the suit’s hood over his head. It fit snugly and, like the suit itself, had an exoskeleton made of armored panels comprised of depleted uranium, ceramic and a few other compounds Orson had made a point never to disclose to him. The hood’s inside lining contained a number of shoestring-thin tubes that Colt guessed were conduits for the heat put out by solar generators built into the suit’s four-inch-wide belt.
“It looks better on him than the pig,” Ilyin commented once Colt had finished suiting up.
Mikhaylov handed the javelina skin to Ilyin then told Colt, “Before we send you off to our little Gulag, I meant to ask you—how much do you figure your wife weighs?”
“Why do you want to know?”
“I’m guessing maybe a hundred pounds,” Mikhaylov said. “About the same as Porky here.”
With that, the Butcher calmly thrust his knife into the javelina, just below the beast’s loins. He made a lateral cut from one leg to the other, then bent over and made a similar incision just below the creature’s throat. Then, midway across the latter cut, he planted the knife and drew it upward back to where he�
��d started, creating two near-identical flaps. When he pulled the flaps aside, half the javelina’s entrails spilled out and tumbled into the mud at Mikhaylov’s feet. His demonstration completed, he turned back to Colt, no longer smiling.
“Once you come out of the icebox,” he said, “it will be your wife on the hoist. She’ll still be alive. For how long will depend on what you’ve decided to tell us. A good place to start would be with this….”
Reaching into his pocket, Mikhaylov withdrew the prepaid cell phone Colt had used to send his incriminating evidence to the late Walter Upshaw.
“The time for playing dumb has passed, my friend,” Mikhaylov told Colt. “We’re onto you. All that’s left is for you to fill in a few of the blanks.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Outskirts of Santa Fe, New Mexico
“‘Didn’t follow protocol’?” Jack Grimaldi said, referring to Captain Brown’s explanation for having sent her men to track down Bolan as a possible instigator of the shootout at Franklin Colt’s property. “That’s the best she could come up with?”
The Stony Man pilot had just finished checking Astro into the emergency clinic and returned to the parking lot, where Bolan was being briefed by BIA investigator Michael Fisk, an overweight, dough-faced man in his midthirties who looked as if he spent far too much of his workday behind a desk. Kissinger was still at the hotel across the street and Detective Lowe had moved to the other side of the parking lot with the APD officer who’d helped rescue Bolan from Healer’s Ravine. They were turning over the Skycrane to the pilot who’d just arrived with one of the department’s Bell 206 JetRangers.
“That’s almost verbatim what I told her,” Fisk told Grimaldi. “She’s sticking to it, though. She wants me to cut her some slack, too, because she had a lot of info coming at her from all directions.”
“And she was erring on the side of caution,” Bolan said.
Blood Play (Don Pendleton's Mack Bolan) Page 19
