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  “Man, you’ve really got a downer on this place,” Freeman said calmly. “Why don’t you try my room? I haven’t had any trouble with my plumbing.”

  “Lucky you,” Slaughter replied sarcastically.

  “Yeah, well, maybe you should try talking nicely to it. Actually, maybe you should try talking nicely to anyone or anything. If these tests prove to be correct, then this is not going to be a third world country for much longer.”

  “It isn’t now. I was being unkind to the third world,” Slaughter commented as he dried his hands, then took the printouts from his colleague. “What do they say?”

  “They say that we haven’t been wasting our time. The gas might have been a strike, but the mineral deposits are right where we figured.”

  “Does Lisa know what this says?” Slaughter asked.

  Freeman grinned. “Not yet. If she did, then we’d already have half the engineering force down on us, ready to dig, before any contracts were in place.”

  Slaughter returned the smile. “Then maybe we should go and tell her. I’ll hold her down and stop her from getting too excited.”

  Freeman agreed. Although they were only too happy to joke about it now, Lisa Acquero, their manager and expedition head, had been on their case all week, pushing for results. No matter how many times Freeman or Slaughter tried to explain to her that data could only be analyzed when tests were completed, and those tests were reliant on reactions that took time to be effected, all she could come back with was a litany of the pressure that she was under from the Chechen government, the U.S. State Department and the major mining companies whose consortium had used the financial and political muscle to set up this uneasy liaison.

  “I’m only telling you this to bring home to you guys how much I’m taking the heat and keeping it off you,” had become her constant refrain, seemingly blissfully free of any knowledge of the irony. Slaughter had been keen to point out to her how the transfer of pressure was affected by her attitude, but the calmer head of Freeman had stayed his hand.

  “Now you have no need to hold me back,” he said smugly as they approached her room.

  “Hey, I wasn’t doing it for you,” Freeman remarked. “You think I want to be stuck here with you two at loggerheads?”

  “Fair point, Bryan. Remind me to do the same for you sometime,” Slaughter said as he entered Acquero’s room without bothering to knock.

  “Again, it would be nice if what you said made sense,” Freeman muttered, shaking his head as he followed, knowing that Slaughter was not listening.

  Inside her room, Acquero was pacing by the window, listening intently to her cell phone and only occasionally managing to get a word in by way of response. Her stiff posture told Freeman that just maybe she hadn’t been feeding them a line all this time. He could almost feel sympathy for her as she struggled to put across what was happening.

  “...Okay, that’s true, but...These are trained engineers and analysts we have here. Of course a twelve-strong team costs money, but...You can’t hurry that...but...no, it doesn’t work like that. I’m assured that the tests...Of course you’ll get the results as soon as I—”

  Slaughter picked his moment. As she spoke, he thrust the printout under her nose. She stopped speaking as she looked at it. On the other end of the cell phone, Freeman could hear the barking of an executive unused to being ignored. Acquero looked at the figures, frowned and then looked at Slaughter.

  “Does this mean what I think it does?” Slaughter nodded, and the woman momentarily returned her attention to the cell phone. “I’ll call you back in ten. This is important.” She killed the phone call, leaving the executive to fume impotently on another continent.

  She took the printouts from the analyst and scanned them again. “Bear in mind I’m not an expert and it’s been a long time since they last sent me to head up an operation like this. This looks like the mineral deposits under this region are bigger than we could have hoped for.”

  “That about sums it up. Of course, their positioning makes it a little difficult to mine. The soil and rock strata in that area can be a little unstable, so it will cost a sizable outlay to tunnel safely.”

  She waved dismissively. “The government here will pay for that, long term. We pay them for a license to mine, then loan them the money to start mining. They contract us, and give us back our own money.”

  “Meanwhile, the license we have to pay them we recoup in consultancy fees for the pleasure of being here,” Freeman added with a sardonic grin.

  “Pleasure?” Slaughter queried with a moue of distaste as he eyed the Chechen idea of a luxury suite.

  “Dude, with the money they’re going to make from this even after the company takes its cut, they’ll be able to build a palace to rival Vegas,” Freeman told him.

  “The company will leave them with that much?” Slaughter queried.

  “We are very fair with our partnering states and governments,” Acquero interjected, mindful that the room may be bugged and that these men were employees under her charge and should at least keep their views to themselves.

  “Lisa, you kept a straight face,” Freeman quipped. “Hey, they pay us. We have no right to take the moral high ground when we take the money. Besides, now that we’ve got the results, things will start moving back home, right?”

  “Contractual discussions will commence, of course,” Acquero began, “but in the interim we may be asked to stay on and act as consultants for the Chechen government as they have no experience of such delicate matters.”

  “Of course,” Freeman said dryly. “So I guess we don’t get to go home yet?”

  “That depends on head office and what its decision is,” she began, hitting speed dial on her cell phone. “It’ll be twenty-four hours before we get a decision, so in the meantime I suggest you take the chance to chill out a little.”

  “Yeah, there’s so much we can do,” Slaughter murmured. Then his face creased in a frown and he moved closer to the window, peering past his boss. She looked at him askance as her phone was answered on the other side of the world.

  “I haven’t seen any marked vehicles like those,” Slaughter stated as he indicated two trucks and four military-style jeeps on the street below. “I wonder what—”

  In an office in New York, those were the only words heard from Lisa Acquero’s cell phone before the line went dead.

  It was thirty seconds before the executive staring at his phone snapped out of his trance and dialed a Washington number.

  Chapter Two

  “You know, of course, that it was known for some time as the Mineral Republic, and although there was proof of this, under the Soviet regime it was always hard for us to gauge the truth of how much, and how much work mining these minerals had been undertaken.”

  “Even with our intelligence services—or yours, come to that?”

  There was silence at the other end of the phone. Hal Brognola could envisage the executive smiling softly before answering in his blandest tone. “Of course, Hal, I have no idea what you mean by that. We are a commercial company, and as such we have alliances with other companies who have similar interests. There is some sharing of information for business needs, but beyond that—”

  The big Fed shook his head and chewed his lip, biting back the comments that immediately sprung to mind. Instead he said, “Of course, Mr. Billings. What was I thinking? Our government departments would, in the same way, never divulge more than was necessary.” He added to himself, Unless the kickback had been large enough or it suited whichever cabal within the services had the relevant agenda.

  “I’m glad we’re on the same page, Hal,” Billings continued. “Since the second war in the region, we have sought to forge links that could be of benefit to all parties.”

  The big Fed gritted his teeth. The hope that his emphasis on refe
rring to the man by title would be taken up had either been ignored or unnoticed. Brognola was a fair man. Perhaps this executive made a habit of referring to those he spoke to but had no prior relationship with in an informal manner to put them at ease. Perhaps. To Brognola, it just sounded patronizing and as though the man assumed he had command over the government officer he was speaking to. It wasn’t something that endeared him to the man he was speaking with.

  “I’m assuming that when you speak of all parties, you’re referring to the Russians, as well,” Brognola said softly. The pause at the end of the line told him all he needed to know. He went on. “So would I be correct, then, in assuming that this is a little more of a local arrangement?”

  “At this stage, seeing as the mission was more by way of expedition than anything else, it was decided that the Chechen Assembly would work directly with us, and the Russian authorities would be informed should it deem necessary to move larger numbers of men and equipment into the region. Of course, they would be delighted to welcome trade and industry to a region that has struggled economically for the past quarter century.”

  “Delighted” was not the word Brognola would have chosen. The Russian president was combative at the best of times, and with mineral rights for the region sewn up between a U.S.-based mining cartel and a regional authority that was in a relationship both implicit and explicit with the Russian overlords, he would be less than pleased that his government got a third-hand, reduced share in the spoils.

  For a moment Brognola wondered if he should try to explain the complex nature of the political relationships in the North Caucasus to Billings, but then decided either that the man had full knowledge and had been deputed to make a move that took that into account, or that he had no idea and didn’t care. Either way, it wasn’t worth Brognola wasting his breath.

  Instead he said, “Really. It sounds like a winner all ’round, Mr. Billings. Which leads me to two questions. One, in that case, what does it have to do with me? And two, how did you get access to this number?”

  * * *

  ARGUN-mARTAN STOOD ON the bank of the Terek, at a point on the river where a twisting bend took it around the base of a mountain. The shallow cove made by the bend allowed the town to be secluded and relatively peaceful. That, and its proximity to the main mineral-bearing area as defined by initial surveys, made it a perfect location for the expeditionary mining party. By the same token, it also made it a perfect target for any group seeking to isolate and take over a town for its own ends.

  It was unfortunate for the inhabitants of Argun-Martan—and the American party—that the very thing that made the town such a perfect base should also be the very thing that ensured its own capture.

  Alexsandr Orlov could not believe his luck when the intelligence report first reached him. To make his group known on a international stage, to bring attention to its cause and also to ensure that his people were in a geographic position that would deter immediate Russian retaliation, he had picked this town after careful consideration. It had a small population, a lazy and corrupt police force even by Russian standards, which would capitulate quickly rather than risk its own deaths, and only one real route in and out, which would make it easy to secure for a group that was long on determination but short on human resources.

  For that town to then become a place where foreign nationals were present, well, that was more than an invitation, it was a gift. The fact that they were involved in mining and surveying meant little if nothing to Orlov. To grow up as an orphan in a land where your heritage had been raped by successive governments and occupying forces meant that the notion that the land had any intrinsic worth was an alien concept. Orlov saw only that these foreigners represented both a way to get more worldwide publicity for his cause, and also a way in which more money may be squeezed from their homeland for their return.

  Timing was everything in life. It was poor timing for the survey and expedition party to have not left town a day before; poor for them to suddenly come into information that multiplied their worth and made them all the more valuable to secure as hostages. It was good timing for Orlov and his group that they’d chosen this day to mount their invasion, seeing as they caught the foreigners at the peak of their earning power. On the other hand, if Orlov could have seen into the future, he may have seen it as a very poor piece of timing. In truth, he may have been better off abandoning his plans: not that it seemed that way when he stood in his jeep and announced that the Chechen National Socialists had now assumed control of Argun-Martan.

  * * ** * *

  “I DO NOT like the look of this at all,” Bryan Freeman breathed. In the pit of his stomach, a low growl signaled that his irritable bowel was echoing his thoughts. Freeman was a great believer in instinct. Flight or fight was a trigger to his condition, and he knew what he should be doing right now. Instead he stood rooted to the spot at Lisa Acquero’s shoulder, while Todd Slaughter spoke what, in Freeman’s opinion, was the biggest crock he had heard in a long time.

  “Man, if this is all they can muster for military maneuvers, then God help them if the Russians decide to clamp down.”

  “Fool—the Russians are the military around here,” Acquero replied. “No, this must be some kind of local militia. Civil defense, I guess.”

  Scratch that previous thought. Slaughter had come out with the second biggest crock. This little beauty won by a mile. When he spoke, Freeman had trouble keeping his voice even.

  “Far be it from me to burst any bubble of inane theorizing you might have, people, but can I point out two things. First, if there was any kind of militia or military action planned for around here, then the mayor or whatever the fuck he’s called around here would have told you about it, Lisa. Second, if they were Russians, Todd, they would have insignia and uniforms and not be dressed like they were the fucking Taliban. Jesus, don’t you ever watch CNN? Actually, there’s a third thing... Look at that. You think any kind of planned action is going to make the locals act like that?”

  Acquero and Slaughter followed Freeman’s pointing index finger. It was trembling, more from fear than indignation. Down in the street below them, the convoy of vehicles had come to a halt as two police cars screeched to halt, turning across the width of the street to try to block it, their sirens wailing briefly before they were silenced.

  Even though the window was closed, they were still close enough to hear the exchanges in the street below. None of them could claim to have a fluency in either Russian or the local dialect, having relied on interpreters for much of their stay, but Freeman had a smattering of the dialect picked up through a good ear for languages. As he roughly translated for Slaughter and Acquero, he began to think that ignorance would have been bliss.

  “Ah—the cop is yelling something like ‘what the fuck do you think you’re doing and who are you?’ Aw, man, that’s not going to go down well—”

  “What isn’t?” Acquero asked.

  “The asshole just asked the guy standing in the jeep if he was the son of a whore with syphilis and if this had softened his brain. Man, that’s stupid when you’re outnumbered like that.”

  “I don’t know, maybe it’s just a show of bravado,” Slaughter muttered.

  Freeman looked at the engineer as though he were an idiot, and then returned his attention to the scene below them.

  “My cell phone went down when they came up. You think they’re running some kind of interference?” Acquero asked, staring blankly at the phone as it began to dawn on her that their situation was less than promising.

  “If they’re the bad guys, then they’ve killed the tower, hon,” Freeman said softly. Reception was poor in this region, and they relied on one satellite link relay mast that was five miles outside the town, placed in the only spot for some distance that was live. That would make perfect sense. He wasn’t exactly sure what they wanted, but Freeman definitely had them tagged as the
bad guys. And it looked as though he was about to find out just how bad...

  The guy standing in the jeep exited the vehicle and stepped onto the road. He was of average height and skinny. His mode of dress looked odd, but there was something about his bearing that screamed he was the leader. It also screamed that he was dangerous: not that the opposing police chief seemed to notice that.

  Used to having his own way, the police chief left his men—five armed men who looked as if they wanted to be anywhere else, and had a clearer grasp of the danger than their boss—and started to swagger toward the lead truck. The driver sat impassive, whoever or whatever was in the covered rear staying, for the moment, under wraps.

  Freeman did a quick calculation in his head. This was not a large town, and as they had been resident for a month, come Friday, he was pretty sure that he had a measure of how big the police force was. By his reckoning, there was only double the number of men now on the street. Maybe half a dozen at most. Looking at the jeeps and the trucks, he could count more men than that in the convoy, regardless of whether there were any hidden in the covered backs of the trucks.

  The police chief was either incredibly brave or incredibly stupid. It was only conscience and judgment that made the line between.

  As the police chief reached the front of the lead truck, the other man held up a hand to stop him. Either because the man exuded authority, or just because he was baffled, the police chief halted for a moment.

  “Viktor, the local law corruption needs persuading of our credentials,” Freeman heard the man say in a calm voice that was not raised yet still managed to carry across the eerily silent street.

  The convoy had come to rest in such a manner that the trucks—to point and rear of the jeeps—were on the right hand side of the road while the jeeps were over to the left. That had enabled the man to make immediate eye contact with the police as they’d blocked the road, and had presumably been a part of his plan. In his mind’s eye, things were going exactly as he’d envisaged them.