Rebel Force Page 11

  Bolan put his burst directly into the back of Kubrick’s seat and saw the big man shudder with the impact of the rounds. Then the car lurched backward and Bolan was forced to dive onto his own vehicle to avoid being run down.

  The Mercedes missed Bolan by inches and struck the back bumper of the soldier’s car, knocking it aside and spilling Bolan onto the pavement. He struck the ground hard, tearing the flesh of his left hand, but he stubbornly refused to release his Uzi machine pistol. Bolan pushed himself up as Kubrick straightened his car. The Executioner didn’t have a clear angle into Kubrick’s automobile, but fired anyway, cracking the rear passenger window with his burst.

  Bullets from Bolan’s gun streamed through the back of Kubrick’s car as the man swung it around. They flew wide of the driver’s seat and burrowed into the dash. Bolan caught a glimpse of the housing from Kubrick’s steering wheel flying apart under the impact of the 9 mm rounds.

  Pieces of the steering column housing flew up and Kubrick released the wheel, instinctively covering his face with his hands. The Mercedes swerved out of control and rammed a parked car. The Mercedes rebounded from the impact and stalled, the hood crumpled upward under the impact.

  Bolan staggered to his feet and lifted his weapon as Kubrick threw open his car door and struggled out of his vehicle. Twisting, the agent lifted his pistol and pulled the trigger.

  Bolan dived and Kubrick’s rounds burrowed into the back of the BMW. Rolling over his shoulder, Bolan came up with his weapon ready. Kubrick darted around the front of his car while pedestrians cowered on the sidewalks or fled into shops.

  The big agent jerked open the door of a vehicle stopped in the middle of the street. A balding, middle-aged man in a bright yellow track suit shouted something at Kubrick who clubbed him with the butt of the H&K pistol. The man sagged under the impact, and he was pulled out of the car and into the street.

  From behind the cover of the car door, Kubrick turned and fired on the maneuvering Bolan, forcing him to dive for cover. Kubrick jumped behind the wheel of the seized car. He accelerated forward, the undamaged vehicle responding well under his hand. Bolan fired aburst at the retreating vehicle, saw a spark fly off the back frame and then twin shatter marks burst on the rear windshield.

  All around him people screamed in terror. Chechen rebels had kept up resistance in the mountains, but Grozny had remained largely pacified since the second conflict. The civilians had no idea what to make out of the gun battle. Kubrick was more than a block away and moving fast by the time Bolan made it back into his car.

  Bolan shoved his car into gear and cranked it around so that it was pointing in the right direction. He pushed the gas pedal to the floor and drove the car away from the scene. In Kubrick he had found a dangerous opponent as committed as himself.

  Bolan assessed the situation. He had a magazine and a half of ammunition left for the mini-Uzi, two for the Glock 17 and one for the Victor High Standard. He was bruised and roughed up but not truly injured. His vehicle had taken some shots and was no longer inconspicuous but still ran well. That by far, along with a choking timetable, was Bolan’s greatest worry at the moment.

  Kubrick put himself on Vlidstaka Avenue and instinctively Bolan knew the man was cutting for the city’s main arterials. That meant Kubrick was heading away from the International District where the Caucasus Data Institute was located. Kubrick had made contact with others and he was attempting to use the confrontation to draw Bolan away from Vesler.

  Bolan forced himself to cool his blood. He needed to remain tightly focused on his objective, keep his eyes on the prize. Kubrick was, at the moment, a means to an end and not the end himself. Bolan pushed his car forward, coming closer to Kubrick in his stolen car, forcing the illusion that he still chased him.

  The soldier whipped in and out of traffic, trying to close the distance between himself and the other man. If he could catch a shot before Kubrick made it onto the highway, then Bolan would take it. Otherwise, he would terminate pursuit once Kubrick committed himself to the on-ramp and was locked into a course of action.

  Bolan didn’t need a situational role reversal with Kubrick tight on him while he tried to beat a second team to the CDI and Vesler.

  Three streets whipped past with Bolan hard on Kubrick, but in no position to take a shot. Both of the men drove their vehicles intensely, weaving in and out of slower traffic at nearly suicidal speeds. Bolan realized he was never going to get a good shot at Kubrick and tossed his weapon to the side.

  Kubrick turned, crossing into the wrong lane as he passed other vehicles. Bolan followed close behind him. The agent made no attempt at subterfuge in his driving. He simply bullied his way into the right-hand-turn lane and sped toward the freeway on ramp. Bolan followed Kubrick around the corner, feeling the center of his vehicle’s gravity shift at his hard cut. He laid off the accelerator and watched Kubrick’s speeding vehicle widen the gap between them.

  Kubrick, thinking Bolan was right behind him, sped up the on-ramp and thrust himself into traffic. Bolan shot past the freeway entrance. Once past the onramp, drove off the main streets and searched for a fast and convenient place to stash his battered vehicle.

  15

  Bolan got out of the taxi and paid the driver.

  He surveyed the building and grounds of the Caucasus Data Institute as the taxi drove away. The building was made of sturdy, respectable old brick and obviously dated from before the Second World War. It was surrounded by a high chain-link fence with a single security manned entrance off the main street.

  Two Russian nationals, in private security uniforms and boasting side arms, directed traffic in and out of the electronically controlled front gate.

  Bolan lifted his knapsack to his shoulder and checked traffic before crossing the street. He felt time, like the slow burning fuse of a detonator, burning down on him. At any moment, opposition could come screaming in like dive-bombers. He had tripled the cabdriver’s fare to coax the man to excessive speeds, and he felt hopeful that he had made good time—especially if Kubrick’s plans were off the books.

  Government advice and subsidies, due to the delicate nature of the institute’s work, had provided for expensive, if unspectacular, security upgrades. The security booth in front of the electronic gate was bulletproof and camera monitored. The two guards worked the post, checking IDs before opening the remote controlled gate to allow access.

  One of the guards looked over at Bolan as he approached the booth. The man made no attempt to open the door as Bolan walked to him. He was built thickly but flabby, with a pockmarked face and a light dusting of dandruff on his navy colored uniform shirt. His partner was a younger, thinner and more hygienic version of the first man.

  “Hello. My name is Cooper,” Bolan said. “I don’t have an appointment. Please alert the receptionist that I’m from the Meltzer Import Export Emporium.”

  The pockmarked guard stared at him with flat, muddy eyes. He blinked them once, reptilian in composure.

  “You understand my Russian?” Bolan asked.

  “I understand,” the man answered.

  “Great. Now. Will you alert the receptionist? Tell her I’m from the Meltzer Emporium.”

  “I’m sorry, sir, but our protocols are very strict.”

  “I’m not asking you to let me through the gate without an appointment. I’m asking you to check me in with Mr. Vesler’s receptionist.”

  Bolan kept his face impassive, though at any moment he expected car loads of reinforcements to roar around the corner and gun him down where he stood.

  “Mr. Vesler is a very busy man, sir,” the guard said.

  “That’s why I’m asking you to contact his receptionist first.”

  “This is highly irregular. Perhaps if you had some sort of paperwork for me….” The man’s voice trailed off, thick with innuendo.

  The younger guard behind him snickered, and Bolan realized he was being shaken down for a bribe. He sighed and then reached reluctantly inside his jacket
. The older guard allowed a little smile to play on his rubbery lips, and he slid open the metal door to the security booth.

  “I think I have a few papers here that might persuade you,” Bolan said. “You don’t mind American papers do you?”

  “Depends.” The man grunted the word noncommittally, but betrayed himself by leaning forward, avarice gleaming in his eyes. The younger guard was grinning openly. He idly picked his nose while he watched the transaction unfold.

  Bolan pulled out his wallet, held it open while the older guard’s eyes went to it. He dropped it and watched the man’s eyes follow the money. Bolan struck like a snake uncoiling.

  Reaching out with one bear trap of a hand, Bolan snatched the guard around his wrist. He yanked hard as the man leaned in, snatching the man off his stool. As the guard fell forward, Bolan’s left hand struck him hard in the shoulder. He smoothly stepped inside and spun the man, locking his arm up behind his back.

  The guard squawked out loud as Bolan shoved him roughly up against the metal-edged door of the booth. The other guard, mouth gaping, leaped to his feet in protest. Bolan smoothly unholstered the guard’s Tokarev pistol. The younger man froze, eyes bulging.

  “Sit!” Bolan snarled.

  The guard sat.

  Bolan threw the pistol onto the ground inside the guard station. He shoved the older guard in after his weapon. The man sprawled into the arms of his comrade, who struggled to keep from falling to the ground.

  “If I have to get on the phone and call the receptionist myself, and tell her that the gate guards prevented a representative of a valuable client like Meltzer’s Emporium from solidifying a contract, there will be hell to play. Now. How are my papers?”

  The younger guard scrambled to pick up the phone in the booth. He turned his back on Bolan while the older man retrieved his weapon, a sullen look on his face. As the older guard stood, the other man hung up the phone and turned to face Bolan, his face flushed.

  “You may report to the receptionist.”

  BOLAN PRESENTED HIMSELF before the camera overlooking the front entrance to the institute. He waited a second, then there was a buzz as the lock to the dead bolts were disengaged. He reached out and pulled one of the heavy doors open.

  Stepping into the Caucasus Data Institute, Bolan felt a strange sense of arrival. The tangled trail that had started in Garabend’s lair had begun here. Secrets had flown out of this place, betrayals and political gambits had been spit out like bills from an ATM. Bolan had picked up the disparate pieces of information, broken lives, bloody fingerprints and followed them all back to this quiet, efficient building.

  He looked down the hallway past rows of office doors on either side. At the far end of the hall a skylight had been placed above a solarium and in the center, behind a formidable desk, sat a sharp-eyed receptionist. She glanced up as the door swung closed behind Bolan then returned to typing busily on a PC workstation.

  Realizing that he looked nothing like either a research scientist or an executive, Bolan began walking calmly toward the woman. If he could keep her from alerting the Grozny police or sending a security detachment down on him, he thought he’d be doing pretty well. He passed a door marked Sylvia Tan as he made for the reception desk. The office was dark and shut up tight.

  Bolan stopped in front of the desk, taking in the plethora of potted plants arrayed around the otherwise rather clinical room. The nameplate read K. Sari. The woman stopped typing and looked up at him. Her looks were classically Scandinavian and pretty in the no-nonsense sort of a way Bolan associated with college professors and intelligence officers. She seemed to be slipping into late middle age with dignity and poise.

  “Hello,” Bolan said.

  Looking over glasses, Ms. Sari took in Bolan’s casual dress and the black knapsack slung casually over his shoulder. Bolan could see her deducting points behind her cool exterior. He tried to prevent himself from smiling.

  “You are from Meltzer’s?” she asked.

  “Please inform Mr. Vesler that a representative of Mr. Kubrick’s is here to speak with him.”

  Ms. Sari arched a questioning eyebrow at him. Bolan smiled back at her. He was acutely aware of the sinister black eyes of multiple cameras focused on him. He was fairly certain that Vesler had been alerted to his presence upon arrival and was likely looking at him through a closed-circuit TV screen inside his office.

  “One moment, please,” Ms. Sari said.

  She picked up a telephone and punched a number. Her voice dropped to a discreet murmur. Bolan waited patiently as Ms. Sari listened to the response. She placed the handset carefully back into its cradle. She looked up at Bolan over her glasses.

  “Mr. Vesler will see you. Please follow me.”

  Bolan stepped back to give the woman some room as she stepped out from behind her desk. He took the opportunity to admire the way her posterior moved under her fitting, but tasteful skirt.

  Ms. Sari smiled perfunctorily and stepped aside as she pushed open a door of dark wood and ushered Bolan into Vesler’s office. Bolan nodded agreeably and walked past her. He hoped he wouldn’t have to frighten Ms. Sari by beating her supervisor half to death in order to get the information he needed.

  The office was a large corner unit with blinds drawn across floor-to-ceiling windows. The room was done in mahogany and leather, with a dark chocolate carpet.

  Bolan stepped fully into the office and heard Ms. Sari close the door firmly behind him. Dieter Vesler looked up from behind a desk cluttered with papers, files and computer printouts of schematics and graph charts. Three phones and two computers sat on the desk in front of the man.

  Vesler blinked blue eyes behind thick glasses. He stood, rising to an impressive height and extended a big hand at the end of a long thin arm toward Bolan. Vesler wore a white lab coat, complete with a full pocket protector, over a stylish business suit of austere brown and a matching tie. His fingers were blunt, the nails cut short and his silver mustache was thick but carefully trimmed.

  Bolan met the firm, dry handshake with his own. The man wore a Rolex Executive watch and a heavy gold signet ring. Vesler appeared to be cosmopolitan and stylish without crossing over into effeminate. He seemed a man unlikely to bend under threats of blackmail, but heavy cocaine habits had made stronger men than him weak in the face of ruthless pressure.

  “You are from Kubrick?” His voice was curt, the tone clipped. “Excuse me for being blunt, but I hope you appreciate that I am a busy man.”

  Bolan nodded and settled into one of the big, comfortable chairs across from Vesler’s desk. When he sat down Bolan saw that one of the computer screens showed four separate views from a CCTV security feed, just as he had suspected.

  “In a manner of speaking,” Bolan answered, waiting for a reaction.

  “What does that mean?” Vesler snapped. “I do not have time for games, as I have said. Are you from the emporium?”

  “Let’s say I’m from the overseas holding company behind the emporium.”

  “Do you delight in being obtuse?” Vesler asked.

  “Not as much as you do in snorting coke.”

  “I’ve never—” Vesler’s voice was strangled with his outrage and his face had blossomed red in anger.

  “If you’d ‘never,’ then you wouldn’t have sold out my country and put the lives of better people than yourself in danger. Now start answering my questions,” Bolan said, leaning over the desk.

  “You have identification?”

  “That won’t be necessary.”

  “How can you expect me to speak!”

  “Shut up,” Bolan snapped. “I’m not here as a courier. I’m not here to give you security tips, or to strong-arm information out of you because the last hooker you were with took pictures of you snorting coke on her camera phone. Understand?”

  Vesler, despite his size, cringed from the more aggressive Bolan. His eyes blinked behind his glasses. Beads of sweat suddenly broke out across his wide, high forehead like fat raindrops
.

  “Understand?” Bolan repeated.

  “Wh-what?” Vesler stammered, growing redder. “What do you want?” His voice almost reached to a shriek.

  “Tell me where Sable is. I won’t ask again. Tell me and then get the hell out of here before Kubrick comes for you.”

  Bolan reached behind him and pulled out his silenced Victor High Standard and set it down on the desk. Any growing indignation Vesler might have been feeling at his rough treatment evaporated instantly.

  Vesler moaned and slumped forward in his chair before burying his face in his hands.

  Bolan gave Vesler an opportunity to collect himself. He carefully put away the .22-caliber pistol, this time in the front pocket of his jacket. He felt no sympathy for the corrupt man. Vesler’s refusal to face his personal demons had put the lives of others in danger.

  “It can end with me,” Bolan said. “It can end now. Tell me where Sable is, and there’ll be no one left to blackmail you. You’ll be free.” Bolan said.

  Vesler looked up, disbelief fighting with hope on his ruddy face. He didn’t trust the frightening man before him, but Vesler desperately wanted to believe. He seemed to come to some internal decision, and he straightened in his chair. He ran his hands through his thick, graying blond hair.

  Bolan waited impassively for the man to control himself. The clock was ticking. His face was all over CDI security film. Kubrick would know exactly who had been here when he left.

  Kubrick would have Vesler talking almost as fast as Bolan had, but the soldier couldn’t very well bring himself to kill Vesler just to tie up a loose end. Sanders had turned Vesler into Sable’s stringer. The pitiful excuse for a corporate executive had thought himself working under different elements of Western intelligence.

  Bolan looked at the video screen displayed on the second of Vesler’s two terminals. A gray sedan pulled through the open security gate. For a second the camera panned inside the vehicle, and Bolan quickly counted five men crammed into the midsized economy model.