Desperate Cargo Read online

  DeChambre felt the need for a cigarette. He thrust a hand into the pocket of his dark raincoat and pulled out a packet of Gitanes. The dark, extremely strong French cigarettes had been his favorite since his teenage years. His taste had never changed. With the current war on smoking—something DeChambre detested with a vengeance—Gitanes had ceased to be made in France. Ironically they were now manufactured in the Netherlands and DeChambre always kept a good supply in his apartment, bought from a small importer he knew. He lit one now, using a wooden match. He refused to pander to the trend for disposable gas lighters, convinced they ruined the flavor. Sitting back he drew deeply, inhaling the rich aroma. Wreaths of blue smoke drifted through the interior of the car. As he smoked he felt his mood ease a little. It was the effect of the tobacco, he knew. He was on his second cigarette when he recognized Cooper as the man alighted from a dark SUV. Cooper carried a bag with him as he went into the hotel.

  DeChambre took out his cell phone, deciding he needed some of Canfield’s backup crew. He saw that the phone was still switched off from the previous night. Still smarting from Canfield’s demands he had forgotten to turn the damn thing on before leaving his Rotterdam apartment. As it powered up DeChambre saw a number of missed calls up and he recognized the caller’s number.

  Canfield.

  He hit redial and sat waiting for his call to be picked up.

  “Where the bloody hell have you been? What’s the fucking point of a cell phone if you don’t switch it on? What the hell am I paying you for, DeChambre?” Canfield shouted.

  “Wait. I’ve spotted Cooper. He just walked back into his hotel. I’ve been sitting across the road for a few hours, but he’s here now.”

  “Am I supposed to happy about that?” Canfield’s voice rose an octave. “While you’ve been perched on your Gallic derriere Cooper has been busy. He turned up at van Ryden’s house first thing this morning. Disabled the security crew—three of them are dead. And so is van Ryden. The bastard wiped the memory from his computer. Now I’m bloody certain he downloaded all the data on van Ryden’s hard drive first. So understand why I’m not exactly wild with joy just because you’ve actually seen the bugger.”

  “I need some local backup and van Ryden should have given me a number to call—”

  “He isn’t exactly in any condition to give out numbers. And you don’t have time to wait around for help. Christ, Marcel, you’re a cop. Go into that hotel and arrest him. Drive to a deserted spot and put a bullet through him. The man is acting like a vigilante. No jurisdiction. Taking the law into his own hands. You arrested him and he tried to make a break. Make something up.”

  “Yes. I suppose I could do that.”

  “We can protect you. All I need to do is make a couple of calls. But I need that man out of the way. He’s only been in the country five minutes and he’s creating chaos. Just get it done.” Canfield paused, then said, “I’ll see what I can do with backup.”

  The call ended, leaving DeChambre holding a dead cell phone.

  He stared at the hotel. The rain had increased again, dropping heavily from the leaden sky. The gloom only added to DeChambre’s sullen mood. He lit another cigarette, drawing on it so hard the smoke stung the back of his throat. DeChambre decided he could have used a large tumbler of cognac to take away the taste.

  He couldn’t believe van Ryden was dead.

  That was a shock. It was obvious that Cooper took no prisoners. Well, he wasn’t going to find DeChambre so easy to dispose of.

  He reached under his coat and eased out his pistol. A Glock 21.45 ACP. DeChambre checked the weapon and returned the 13-round magazine. He returned it to his shoulder rig, making sure the weapon hung right, then opened the car door and stepped out. He locked the vehicle and made a quick run across the road, depositing his cigarette in the gutter. In the lobby he shook the rain off his coat and crossed to the reception desk. Before the clerk could speak DeChambre showed his Interpol badge, leaning forward to speak quietly.

  “It is important I check out a guest. May I see your register?”

  The computer screen was turned so DeChambre could view the guest list. He located the name he was looking for and the room number.

  “Thank you.”

  The clerk fingered his collar nervously. “Is there a problem?”

  DeChambre shook his head. “Purely a routine check on a possible visa irregularity. Everything is fine.”

  As he walked away from the desk DeChambre glanced at the clerk. The man watched him for a few moments, then turned away, distracted by another inquiry. The moment the clerk’s head was turned DeChambre turned and crossed the lobby, taking the stairs. Cooper was on the third floor. He took out his cell and this time deliberately turned it off. The last thing he needed was the phone ringing at the wrong moment.

  As he climbed the stairs, DeChambre prepared himself. The Glock was drawn, thrust into the deep right-hand pocket of his topcoat. He kept his fingers curled around the grip of the pistol. DeChambre reached the third floor and paced along the carpeted corridor, counting off the room numbers until he reached Cooper’s. The Frenchman paused. A slight sheen of sweat covered the palm of his hand holding the gun. It was not the first time DeChambre had needed to do something like this on his own. He breathed deeply, calming himself.

  Damn Canfield.

  The man could have made this easier by sending along some local backup. But Hugo Canfield was not in the business of making things easy for those in his employ. It was a part of the man’s makeup. A need to show his authority. His utter strength and power. And no matter what DeChambre thought personally he would do what Canfield instructed, because the man owned him.

  DeChambre raised his left hand and knocked on the door.

  MACK BOLAN TURNED at the sound. The last thing he expected was a visitor. Though it might be a hotel employee with fresh towels or something of that nature he would never assume anything.

  He picked up his pistol, pushing it into the waistband of his pants, against his spine. Crossing to the door he stood to one side.

  “Yes?”

  “Mr. Cooper, my name is DeChambre. Inspector Marcel DeChambre. Interpol. Liaison with the task force. I need to speak with you urgently.”

  Bolan’s mind worked swiftly. As far as he knew, his location in Rotterdam had not been broadcast to anyone outside of Brognola’s area of responsibility. No communication had been sent to any European agency, even though the task force had some interdepartmental links. His thoughts covered the facts even as he opened the door and faced DeChambre.

  The man was tall, lean, his head of thick dark hair still damp from the rain. He had a strong beak of a nose above a wide mouth. He raised his left hand after dipping it into his coat pocket, showing Bolan the ID wallet with his Interpol credentials. A shadow of a friendly smile edged his lips. Bolan ignored that. His gaze settled on DeChambre’s gray-blue eyes. There was no friendliness there. The eyes mirrored the cold enmity the Frenchman held.

  “May I come in?” the man asked.

  Polite. Exhibiting a professional courtesy that was intended to relax Bolan.

  “Sure,” the Executioner said.

  Bolan kept himself to one side as DeChambre stepped into the room. The man’s right hand remained inside his coat pocket. Bolan followed the contours of the cloth, the shape of DeChambre’s hand. It was a hand that was gripping something solid, fingers curled around the object. Bolan pushed the door shut, then watched as DeChambre made a slow turn to face him.

  “I was hoping I might get a chance to rest up,” Bolan remarked, keeping his voice conversational. “One of the problems of having a superior like Dillon. That man is so on the fast-track for promotion he keeps us on the go 24/7.”

  Bolan gave DeChambre points for a quick reaction. His moment of blankness was smoothed over by a Gallic shrug. “It is the same with my own superiors.”

  In that moment he was thinking about Hugo Canfield. But only as a superior in control, certainly not in intellect. C
anfield was nothing but a thug in expensive clothing. Wealthy and powerful, but basically a peasant.

  “You must have heard the man at briefings. Holds the floor and won’t shut up,” Bolan said.

  DeChambre hesitated, slightly thrown off stride. He had no knowledge of a man named Dillon. Had not heard him speak. Had never seen him. He had been hoping to deal with Cooper without any difficulty. The American faced him, hands at his sides, apparently comfortable with the way the conversation was going.

  “I am not—” he began.

  “Familiar with Dillon?”

  Now the American’s tone had altered, his words taking on a harder edge. And the way he was staring at him made DeChambre nervous.

  “I understand that,” Bolan said. “Seeing how Dillon doesn’t exist.”

  Bolan saw the material of DeChambre’s coat pocket move. Watched his arm draw back as the Frenchman began to take his hand out.

  Bolan saw the dark metal of the pistol as it started to emerge from the pocket. He stepped forward, hands reaching out to catch hold of DeChambre’s gun arm. DeChambre tensed, resisting, which was just how Bolan had expected him to react. The Executioner turned in, slamming into DeChambre as he executed a fast hip throw that launched the Frenchman across the room.

  DeChambre crashed down on the bed. The recoil from the thick mattress threw him onto the floor, breath gusting from his lungs as he hit. Bolan didn’t allow him any chance. He saw DeChambre’s right hand, fully clear of the pocket, still gripping the Glock. Bolan stamped down hard on DeChambre’s hand. He heard bones crunch a split second before DeChambre squealed in pain. Blood oozed from between the shattered fingers and Bolan kicked the pistol across the room. He bent and caught hold of DeChambre’s coat lapels, hauling the man to his feet. DeChambre’s face had turned ashen, thick hair falling over his eyes.

  “You’re the worst kind of man. A cop who betrays his own kind.”

  “They were American agents. I owed them nothing,” DeChambre said.

  The Frenchman threw up his left arm, jamming his hand beneath Bolan’s chin, forcing his head back. Ignoring his pain he used his right arm to hammer at Bolan’s face. DeChambre was no weakling. Bolan could feel the strength in his hard body as they briefly struggled for advantage. He felt the slam of DeChambre’s knee against his thigh, absorbed the impact and retaliated with a savage head butt that rocked the Frenchman back on his heels. The stunning blow distracted DeChambre long enough for Bolan to circle his neck with one arm and twist the man off balance. As DeChambre turned, Bolan punched him hard under his ribs, delivering a number of crippling blows that left the Frenchman choking for breath. Weakened, DeChambre offered no resistance when Bolan pushed him upright and slammed a fist into the French cop’s jaw. DeChambre backpedaled, coming up short against the wall, and hit the floor in a bloody heap.

  He was too stunned to offer any further resistance as Bolan bent over him and emptied his coat pockets while checking for additional weapons. He tossed the items onto the bed.

  “Nothing worse than a crooked cop. And especially one who turns on his own kind and allows them to be killed.”

  “Turner and Bentley knew what they were doing. You carry the badge, you stand the risk. What should I do? Cry for them?”

  For a cold, heart-shrinking moment DeChambre thought the big American was about to turn on him. His cocky attitude became a greasy lurch in the pit of his stomach. The expression on his opponent’s face was truly frightening. Then the moment passed.

  “Get on your feet. We’re leaving soon,” Bolan said.

  “Where are we going?” DeChambre demanded.

  “You’re going to be delivered to some of your friends in the task force. The American contingent. They’ll be really pleased to meet one of the men involved in the deaths of their buddies.”

  “You cannot do that.”

  “Give you odds I can,” Bolan said.

  He took out his cell and made contact with Brognola. He explained briefly that he had a gift for the U.S. agents on the task force. When he told Brognola who he had and what the man was involved with, the big Fed said he would make contact about a handover location.

  “If I was you, DeChambre, I would wave goodbye to my Interpol pension,” Bolan said.

  The Frenchman made no reply. He seemed more concerned with nursing his damaged hand.

  Brognola called back within ten minutes, offering Bolan a location where he could meet up with members of the U.S. task-force contingent.

  “No questions asked,” Brognola said. “Lead man is Neil Youngman. Just deliver DeChambre and get on your way. Okay?”

  “Thanks.”

  Bolan ended the call. He pulled on his jacket and gestured for DeChambre to move. He showed him the SIG-Sauer before he slid it just inside the jacket. DeChambre slid his damaged hand into his coat pocket.

  “Out the door. Turn right. Left at the junction. We can go down the emergency stairs. No games, DeChambre. The jury is out on you at the moment, so don’t play clever.”

  They negotiated the concrete steps to the ground floor, emerging through the fire door into the alley next to the hotel. Bolan stayed just behind DeChambre. The alley brought them to the main street. The sidewalk was close to being deserted. The rain was keeping people inside.

  “My car is just beyond the main entrance. Straight to it and get in.”

  Bolan indicated the SUV and they moved in the direction of the vehicle. They had almost reached it when three men stepped out from the hotel entrance. One ranged in close behind and Bolan felt the hard press of a pistol muzzle against his spine. A second stood on Bolan’s right, his own weapon visible under his coat. The third man confronted DeChambre, a thin smile on his lips.

  “Good of you to bring him out to us,” he said in English.

  “Bertran, he has a gun under his jacket,” DeChambre said, turning to face Bolan. DeChambre wagged a finger at the SUV. “We won’t be riding in your vehicle, after all,” he said. “We can go across the street and get into my friends’ car. Is that going to be a problem, Mr. Cooper?”

  “Not for me,” Bolan said calmly.

  The man facing Bolan took the SIG-Sauer from his hand. Bolan’s pockets were searched and his cell phone was removed and it vanished inside the man’s coat.

  Bertran took out his own phone and dialed a number. He moved aside from the group as they began to cross the street, so his conversation couldn’t be heard by the American.

  “Valk, we have him. Where are you? On your way? Okay. Listen, we’re taking Cooper to the site as arranged. Why don’t you and Lucien wait outside the hotel. We’ll handle this end. When we are done we’ll join you and DeChambre can get us into Cooper’s room. We need to check it for anything he might have about the organization. You may want to keep an eye on his vehicle too. Dark blue Toyota SUV. Parked at the curb outside the hotel.” He quoted the license plate number. “Okay? We will see you later.”

  Bertran finished the call and nodded to DeChambre as he rejoined them.

  “Time to go, then,” DeChambre said.

  8

  “You’re not as clever as you believed you were,” DeChambre said. He nodded curtly at the men covering Bolan. “Your task-force friends are going to have a disappointing wait.” He gestured impatiently. “Get him in the car. Let’s get away from here before anyone becomes curious.”

  Bolan was pushed into the back of the elderly Citroën waiting by the opposite curb and flanked by a man on either side. DeChambre climbed in beside the driver. The car moved off with a brief squeal of rubber against the road surface, taking the first corner fast. The man beside Bolan rolled with the sway of the car and the Executioner felt the hard outline of the pistol holstered against the man’s right hip. He filed away the knowledge.

  “You have upset too many people, Cooper. Cost us a great deal of money and caused much damage. Naturally you are not very popular with my employer,” DeChambre said.

  “That would be Hugo Canfield,” Bolan replied. �
�Knowing that makes my day worthwhile.”

  DeChambre turned to face Bolan. The Frenchman’s face was flushed with anger. Self-consciously he reached up to finger the bruises that spread across his face. He exposed his battered hand, staring at the livid, bloody flesh. He reached inside his coat and drew out a handkerchief. DeChambre wrapped it around his injured hand, wincing against the pain.

  “Make all the clever jokes you want. Just be aware that you have very little time left. In fact, only for as long as this ride lasts. When we reach our destination you are going to die. Simple as that. Dead simple. You see, even I can make clever remarks.”

  “They say the French have no sense of humor. I think you just proved it.”

  DeChambre’s expression hardened. His good hand gripped the top of the seat, knuckles growing pale.

  “Can’t this thing go any faster?” he snapped at the driver.

  The man shrugged, but responded by jamming his foot down hard on the pedal and the Citroën increased speed.

  Bolan could see they were passing through an industrial area. Warehouses and buildings flashed by, the majority of them empty. Over to one side Bolan saw the tall cranes and machinery of construction sites. A redevelopment area. He understood why DeChambre had chosen this place for his intended disposal of his problem.