Uncut Terror Read online

  “Doesn’t look like your typical FSB thug guard,” Grimaldi said.

  “He’s not,” Brognola replied. “He works for the Kremlin in the Bureau of Economic Affairs. Typical mild-mannered bureaucrat, except for one little thing.” Brognola paused. “He happens to be quite close to our star defector.”

  Bolan studied the image on the screen, committing it to memory.

  “How close is close?” Grimaldi asked.

  Brognola sipped his coffee again before answering. “Let’s just say they know each other in the Biblical sense of the word.”

  Grimaldi snorted. “I’ll bet that’s going over like a lead balloon, considering how the Kremlin feels about homosexuals.”

  “Apparently, the Kremlin doesn’t know about it yet.” Brognola set his mug down as he leaned forward. “And that’s exactly why Mr. Burns wants to come home.”

  “And he wants to bring Kropotkin with him,” Bolan said.

  Brognola nodded. “Exactly. That’s one of his conditions.”

  “Conditions?” Grimaldi said. “Since when does some turncoat defector get to set conditions with us?”

  Brognola shrugged. “I agree with you, but he’s also let on that Kropotkin is a wealth of information and has something significant to trade.”

  “So the Agency needs us to help get them both out?” Bolan asked.

  Brognola nodded. “We’ve arranged for both of you to be sent there as sports reporters to cover the International Martial Arts Tournament being hosted this week. As you know, the Russian president is a big judo fan, and he’ll be making some appearances at the tournament.”

  “So I’ve heard,” Bolan said.

  “Aaron’s setting everything up,” Brognola continued. “If you guys can assist the Agency in the operation, the President and I will be very appreciative.”

  “When do we leave?” Bolan asked.

  Krasnoyarsk Province, Siberia

  GRODOVICH WATCHED WITH amusement as Mikhal’s huge hands fumbled with the seat belt. The center armrest in the airplane had been retracted to accommodate his immense frame, but now he struggled trying to figure out how to insert the metal flange into the buckle. Grodovich realized that Mikhal had most likely never been on an airplane before. He had never driven a car, either, and the only vehicles he’d ridden in were the bus that had taken him to prison and the van that had transported them from Detention Center 6 to this airport, where Stieglitz’s jet had been waiting.

  A private jet, Grodovich thought. Interesting and elucidating. Some heavy hitters were involved in this scheme.

  The pretty flight attendant smiled as she gently took the two parts from Mikhal and connected them, then showed him how to pull on the excess to tighten it. The giant recoiled at her touch, and this further amused Grodovich. He wondered if his huge friend had ever experienced the pleasure of a woman’s body. From the big man’s uneasiness, he doubted it. After all, Mikhal had been imprisoned since his mid-teens, and he was now around thirty. The landscape of tattoos covering his massive body told of his journey through the penal system.

  Grodovich recalled how long it had been for him, as well. How long he’d been incarcerated, and how long it had been since he’d had a woman. Soon that would be rectified...for both of them.

  Stieglitz had initially balked at the idea of releasing Mikhal, but Grodovich countered that the condition was non-negotiable. It had been a risk, that was certain, but one worth taking. Grodovich had sensed that it was one of the rare instances when he might have the upper hand. Stieglitz had not journeyed all the way from Moscow to not bring back the prize his superiors wanted. Grodovich also knew his ability to dictate terms would fade quickly once he was out and under a new form of control. Thus, having someone at his side, someone he could trust, would be Grodovich’s only real assurance. He knew that if the time came when his new masters decided they no longer needed him, the payoff would probably be a bullet to the head. With Mikhal, he stood a fair chance of survival beyond the completion of this scheme. In the meantime, he had only to enjoy his newly found freedom.

  Relax, he thought as he watched big Mikhal squirming in the seat as the flight attendant’s hand rested on his shoulder.

  She wore jeweled earrings that glistened under the cabin’s lights, and this brought Grodovich back to the original question he had posed: What exactly must he do in exchange for this pardon?

  “We would like you to renew your old contacts on the international front as you go back into the diamond business...and with the Robie Cats,” Stieglitz had said.

  What exactly did that mean? The Robies had sprung up the last two years, mostly while he’d been imprisoned. They were essentially an instrument of his former partner, who’d formed the group and sponsored them. They had become as adept at stealing jewels as their fictional inspiration, John Robie, from that old movie.

  Grodovich turned and peered through the oval window at Stieglitz, who had yet to board the plane. He was still standing on the tarmac by the stairway talking on his mobile phone, and from the man’s body language he was obviously speaking to whoever was in charge of this farce. Initially, Grodovich had wondered if the Chechen stooges had been sent by Stieglitz to add an incentive to accept the offer. The transfer from Ariyskhe could have been designed to produce the same effect. Those in control had obviously arranged the chess pieces on the board in a particular manner and planned their moves well in advance. He wondered which one he was. The intricate manipulations indicated he was far more than a pawn... A knight, perhaps? Or maybe even a bishop?

  The flight attendant tugged Mikhal’s seat belt snuggly across his hips and the giant responded with a foul-smelling burst of flatulence.

  The woman’s head jerked back and she smiled before scurrying off.

  Grodovich laughed. As rancid as it was, he and Mikhal were both breathing free air. And he intended to keep breathing it, despite any temporary effluviums that might drift his way.

  “I am sorry, Alexander,” Mikhal said. “I could not help myself. Have I offended her?”

  Grodovich placed his hand on the giant’s meaty thigh and gave it an affectionate squeeze.

  “Do not concern yourself,” he said. “Soon we will be in Moscow and partaking in pleasures you have only dreamed about.”

  The huge face twisted into a smile. “I have been thinking about that.” The giant licked his lips, and then his massive visage took on a serious expression. “I will never forget that I owe you for my freedom.”

  Grodovich squeezed the enormous leg again. It was like the trunk of an oak tree. He nodded in reassurance but said nothing.

  A knight or a bishop, he thought. It matters not when I have my own loyal rook.

  * * *

  STIEGLITZ STOOD SHIVERING in the cold wind that blew along the length of the airfield as the voice on the other end of the connection spoke with slow deliberation.

  “I assume that everything went as I instructed?”

  “Yes, sir,” Stieglitz said. He felt the pressure growing in his bowels. Just hearing the other voice did that to him. He knew he could be exterminated in the blink of an eye.

  Should he tell his superior about Grodovich’s condition, the release of the giant, or keep that to himself? He’d been under orders to enlist Grodovich’s cooperation using any means necessary. But Stieglitz had not been prepared for the intrusion of the giant, nor had he anticipated the audacity of Grodovich.

  “Are you there?” The voice was petulant.

  Not wanting to incur any wrath, Stieglitz answered quickly. “Yes, yes, of course. I’m on the airfield and they’re fueling the plane now.”

  After a few seconds of silence, the voice came back on the line. “How much have you told him?”

  “Only that we have a special assignment for him involving diamonds.”

  “We? You told hi
m of my involvement?”

  “No, no, of course not.” Stieglitz felt himself almost lose control and void himself. “I was merely using a figure of speech.”

  More silence.

  “As far as he knows,” Stieglitz continued, “I am the one in charge.”

  Stieglitz heard nothing. Had the connection been lost? Was his death being ordered? Then, “Very well. Tell him what I instructed you to tell him. I have arranged for Rovalev to meet your plane in Moscow.”

  Rovalev, the Black Wolf. He would most assuredly report the matter of the giant being released. Stieglitz had to do the same, lest it seem as if he were concealing something.

  “There is one more matter,” he said nervously.

  “What?”

  Stieglitz tried to swallow, his mouth suddenly very dry, his hands so wet he was worried the special phone would slip from his grasp. “Grodovich wanted another convict, his...his companion, to be released, as well. I...uh...did that to appease him.”

  He listened to dead air for several seconds until the voice spoke again.

  “His companion?” A harsh laugh. “Perhaps it will make him more amenable. After all, a happy man is an efficient one. And if there are any problems, Rovalev can handle it.”

  “Yes, of course, sir,” Stieglitz said, thinking of the subsequent reaction to the giant.

  “Is there anything else?”

  “No, nothing, sir,” he said. “Everything is as you instructed. Everything is under control.”

  “It had better be.” The voice sounded cool, efficient, merciless. “Call me when you land.”

  Stieglitz felt relief flood through him as he terminated the call. He glanced up the metal stairway leading to the open door of the plane and debated whether or not he could ascend it without voiding. He decided against it and began a shuffling walk back toward the gate. They would not take off without him.

  As he continued toward the structure he caught a glimpse of a face watching him through the window of the plane.

  Grodovich.

  It was a mistake to show weakness in front of this unctuous gangster, and Stieglitz hoped his truncated steps would not betray his anxiety.

  Perhaps he will assume I am a nervous flier, he thought.

  2

  Somewhere over Germany

  33,000 Feet

  BOLAN HAD MANAGED to sleep in fits and starts over the course of the flight from New York. A few times he feigned sleep to escape Grimaldi’s comments about how he could have flown the plane more efficiently. Finally, once his partner had drifted into a deep slumber, accompanied by some heavy snoring, Bolan straightened his seat and turned on the dome light. The flight attendant, a cheerful brunette, came by and asked if she could get him anything. Her English was tinctured with a heavy German accent. Bolan ordered a coffee.

  He and Grimaldi were scheduled to arrive in Moscow at 0345, Tuesday morning. They’d left New York on Monday, so they’d lost a day to transit. Once they landed the plan was to get through customs as quickly as possible. Bolan fully expected their equipment would be scrutinized by the officials.

  Lawrence Burns, a former employee of the NSA, had defected to Russia from his post in Manheim, Germany, citing a “crisis of conscience” with US policies toward the rest of the world. Burns had worked in the intelligence division and had been privy to a lot of top-secret messages and computer files. The extent of his betrayal was still being assessed, even after almost a year and a half. This probably explained why the Agency had requested “outside” help bringing the traitor back. Many agents, sources and assets had not doubt been compromised by the defection. Thus, the president’s overture to Hal Brognola for some special assistance now that Burns wished to return to the country he’d once betrayed.

  Bolan had little use for traitors, but he understood the government’s eagerness to get Burns back in the United States. Without knowing exactly how much he’d told the Russians in exchange for his asylum, the real damage could only be speculated. A full accounting was indeed in order. And the instructions to get both Burns and his lover, Kropotkan, safely out of Russia meant that the G planned on using the latter’s immigration status as an interrogation tool.

  Cold, but effective.

  The flight attendant brought him a cup full of steaming liquid. He smiled as he accepted it and thanked her.

  “How much longer before we land, miss?” he asked, lowering his tray table.

  “It should be only another two hours, sir,” she said.

  “Two hours,” Grimaldi said, rousing from his slumber. “Heck, if I was flying this crate we’d be touching down by now.”

  The flight attendant looked startled by his snarl.

  “Yeah,” Bolan said, sampling the coffee. “But we’d probably be landing in Kiev instead.”

  Grimaldi snorted and readjusted his pillow. “The jokers flying this thing shoulda stuck to piper cups. They must’ve hit every bit of air turbulence over the damn Atlantic.”

  “Can I get you anything, sir?” the flight attendant asked. “Something to settle your stomach, perhaps?”

  “Hey, babe,” Grimaldi said, giving her the eye. “I left my stomach back over Hamburg, but I wouldn’t mind taking you out for a drink when we land.”

  The flight attendant’s cheeks reddened as she flashed a nervous smile and walked away.

  “Aww, whatever,” Grimaldi said, fluffing his pillow again. He resumed his recumbent position.

  Good old Jack, Bolan thought as he drank more of the bitter coffee. Able to fly anything with wings or rotors and completely adept at being internationally disconcerting.

  Moscow, Russia

  THE MAN LOOKED lean but extremely powerful as he stood in the center of the large apartment. The building had once housed a factory but was converted to residential dwellings after the fall of the Soviet Union, when people began moving back into this section of the city. This particular dwelling could easily house two or three families. It was certainly much larger and more sumptuous than his own home. But then again, Stieglitz had no need of the extensive gymnasium equipment this one held.

  He stood patiently as Boris Rovalev, also known in certain secret government corners as the Black Wolf, continued his assault of punches and kicks against a large, suspended canvas bag. The bag was the type boxers used but much longer. Its tail end hung only a few inches above the floor. Rovalev was shirtless and his body glistened with sweat. The hair on his back and shoulders made his nickname seem more appropriate, as did his lupine facial features—long nose, brownish-yellow eyes, swept-back dark hair and a thick but well-trimmed beard.

  The bag continued to dance and jerk with each series of blows.

  Stieglitz was in awe of the man’s speed and power and silently wondered how he would fare if pitted against Mikhal. But whereas the giant’s body was literally covered with tattoos the Black Wolf’s skin was devoid of any such illustrations, a result of his having been selected for intelligence work by the FSB fifteen years ago. Rovalev had barely been out of high school when he was one of the finalists for the Russian Olympic boxing team. A sharp-eyed government agent realized the young man’s talents could be put to better use after Rovalev methodically beat an older, more experienced opponent to the canvas after the man had floored him with a supposedly unintentional foul.

  The Black Wolf delivered a series of punches to the heavy bag, stepped back and executed a spinning kick. As his foot smacked against the canvas the bag jerked from the power behind the blow.

  Rovalev might just be able to beat the giant, Stieglitz thought, although it had undoubtedly been Mikhal who had decimated the three Chechens at Krasnoyarsk.

  Stieglitz looked at his watch. Rovalev had insisted on completing his workout before discussing his assignment. Had his lack of deference been a deliberate sign of disrespect? Stieglitz wondered as
he watched the Black Wolf deliver several more blows to the bag before stopping to strip off his gloves.

  Finally, thought Stieglitz, but Rovalev was not yet ready to begin. Instead he ran past Stieglitz toward a pair of thick ropes that were suspended from the high ceiling next to a winding staircase. The Black Wolf grabbed the rope and went hand-over-hand up to the top, his legs held at a ninety-degree angle from his body. When he got to the top he paused and then did a quick descent. Again, Stieglitz glanced at his watch, more obviously this time. Didn’t this low-level government FSB agent know to whom Stieglitz reported?

  He cleared his throat as Rovalev dropped to the floor, his feet bare and covered with thick calluses. They looked like they could split a brick wall with ease.

  “We have much to discuss,” Stieglitz said. “And I am a bit pressed for time.”

  Rovalev stared back at him, silent and motionless.

  Stieglitz suddenly felt an unsettling twinge in his gut and wished he’d brought his security detail with him, but that was impossible. His orders were clear: the secrecy of the plan was imperative. It was indeed like looking into the eyes of a feral wolf.

  Finally, Rovalev broke their locked gaze as he turned and reached for a nearby towel. He wiped his face and upper torso.

  “So what are your instructions?” Rovalev asked.

  Stieglitz let out a slow breath and frowned.

  The other man tossed the moist towel to the floor and it landed on top of Stieglitz’s shoes.

  “Do you know who I am?” he asked. “To whom I report? I could have you severely punished for your disrespect.”

  Rovalev smiled, his white teeth glinting in his swarthy face.

  “And who would you send to do that?” he asked.

  Stieglitz maintained his stare for several seconds before answering. If he didn’t need this insolent bastard for the completion of the plan... It was clear he needed to pull out the big gun. He removed his mobile phone and punched in the special number.