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  Bolan saw movement about fifty yards away, then a pinpoint muzzle flash. Wherever the round went, it didn’t seem to be close to them. A shot from that distance with a handgun would be challenging. Rather than return useless fire, he waited.

  Seconds later Grimaldi called down to him: “Clear up here so far.”

  Holstering the Beretta, the Executioner turned back to Framer. “Listen,” Bolan said. “I’m going to climb up the ladder. You’ve got to hold on to me with all you’ve got. Ready?”

  Framer grunted a yes.

  Bolan waited for the man to secure his grip, then began climbing. The extra weight made every movement difficult, but the soldier continued the rigorous ascent.

  When they were halfway up, Bolan tried to count the number of rungs to the top. Perhaps fifteen more. Fifteen, fourteen, thirteen—

  The iron rung under his left hand popped loose from its concrete socket.

  Framer screamed.

  Bolan managed to tighten his grip on the other rung he was still holding, avoiding the deadly plunge.

  Lucky thirteen, he thought, readjusting his grip and reaching for the next rung.

  He hoped there were no more loose ones.

  Eleven.

  Ten.

  Nine.

  “I was gonna tell you about that loose rung,” Grimaldi yelled down at them. He fired off three more rounds with his SIG.

  When Bolan finally reached the top he could feel the sweat cascading from his face like a waterfall.

  He bellied over the sharp concrete edge then rolled slightly, pushing Framer onto a patch of grass.

  Perhaps forty feet beyond them, through a mixture of high grass and scrawny trees, he could see cars driving by.

  “Let’s see if we can commandeer a cab out of here,” he said.

  Grimaldi flashed a quick smile. “I’m all for that.”

  “Wait,” Framer said through clenched teeth. “The rest of my team should be just down the block in the van.” Struggling, he pulled out his cell phone and punched in a number. After a few more seconds he spoke. “We’re just north of the station on the street. Get here quick. I’m hit.” Framer listened, then replaced the phone in his pocket. “They’re on their way.”

  Grimaldi fired another shot over the lip of the abutment and said, “So are the bad guys.”

  “Come on,” Bolan said, picking up Framer and heading through the tall grass toward the street.

  * * *

  AS THE VEHICLE pulled up in front of Leningradsky Station, Stieglitz could hardly contain his anxiety. He leaned forward and grabbed Rovalev’s arm. It felt like iron. The Black Wolf shot back a quick, searing look and Stieglitz removed his hand, feeling a bit lightheaded. This was becoming a nightmare. If the plan was revealed prematurely, it would be a disaster, not only for him, but for the country, as well.

  I am not cut out for this, he thought. But the Kremlin knows. That is why they assigned the Black Wolf to assist me.

  Rovalev yelled at the driver to start proceeding with caution along the curb. He pointed toward the far end of the station.

  “Where are we going?” Stieglitz asked. “I thought your men had them trapped?”

  The Black Wolf didn’t answer. He kept skimming the crowds walking along the sidewalk. At the main entrance people seemed to be flooding out, running toward the sidewalk.

  “What is going on?” Stieglitz demanded.

  “I told you,” Rovalev said, his voice the epitome of serenity. “The Americans are heading for the street.”

  Did that mean they had escaped Rovalev’s men?

  “Where are they now?” Stieglitz asked. “Is the Russian traitor with them?”

  Rovalev held up his hand again, as if he were threatening to slap a recalcitrant child.

  Stieglitz was about to say something else when the Black Wolf pointed and said, “The white van. There it is. Follow it.”

  * * *

  “THAT’S IT,” FRAMER SAID. “There.”

  Bolan saw the white GAZelle heading toward them. He picked up Framer again, slinging the injured man over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes, then jogged toward the curb. Grimaldi was right behind them.

  The van had almost gone completely by, but Bolan managed to break through the dense shrubbery in time to wave at the driver. The GAZelle came to a screeching halt as it pulled over to the curb. Several cars were trapped behind it and began honking their horns.

  Great, Bolan thought. Nothing like a little noise to attract some attention.

  Grimaldi raced around them and pulled open the side door. He jumped into the rear of the van as Bolan stopped and set Framer down as easily as he could. They needed to get to the triage room at the American Embassy, where they had a physician and nurse on staff. Framer had lost a lot of blood and needed immediate treatment, but he could probably survive. Grimaldi echoed Bolan’s thoughts by yelling, “Your partner’s shot. Get us to the Embassy ASAP, and don’t spare the horses.”

  Framer hissed in pain as his injured leg hit the ground.

  “Sorry,” Bolan said, “but we’ve got to move fast.”

  “I know. Thanks,” Framer said. “You guys saved my life.”

  Bolan started to reply when Framer’s head jerked like he’d been poleaxed. The sound of the shot mixed with the spray of blood from the temple wound as his head twisted violently.

  Bolan pushed him inside the van as he withdrew his Beretta, flipping the selector switch to burst mode. He saw a wiry-looking man with dark hair and a beard pointing a pistol at them from about forty yards away. Bolan fired a quick burst and the man flattened.

  The Executioner jumped inside the van and yelled, “Take off. We have company.”

  The van lurched forward and Bolan went to the rear doors. The back windows gave him a clear view of the traffic behind them. He leaned against the wall of vehicle and did a quick weapon assessment, estimating his magazine was now at least half empty.

  “Jack, how many rounds you got?” he asked.

  Grimaldi was laying Framer’s head onto the floor of the van. From the nature of the wound and the limpness of the man’s body, Bolan figured the shot had been fatal. Grimaldi shook his head, then pulled out his SIG Sauer, dropping the magazine.

  “Two rounds left in this mag and eight more here.” He patted the other magazine in the pouch on his belt.

  Bolan nodded and checked the traffic to the rear again. It looked pretty standard except for a blue four-door Lada Niva that was coming up on them fast. The guy with the black hair and beard was in the front passenger seat starting to lean out of an open window. The big, semi-automatic pistol was in his right hand.

  Bolan detached the sound suppressor from the Berretta and held it against the rear window with his left hand. He made sure that his right index finger was outside the trigger guard and then struck the sound suppressor with the edge of his right hand. The glass splintered. Most of it was still in place except for a hole along the bottom where the sound suppressor had fractured the glass.

  The Executioner flipped the selector switch to single shot mode and took aim at the front of the Lada Niva. He put the first round through the driver’s side of the windshield and fired a second round next to the first. The vehicle immediately began to slow and Bolan fired three more rounds, placing two at radiator level in the grill and the final one into the left front tire as the Lada Niva curved to the right and smashed into another vehicle in the adjacent lane.

  Bolan caught a glimpse of the guy with the dark beard. The Executioner was expecting rage, but he saw none. In fact, the man seemed to be smiling.

  He scanned the rest of the traffic behind them but saw nothing to make him suspect that any of the other mercenaries or the police were following them. He doubted the crew of mercs would call the police, but that di
dn’t mean someone else hadn’t.

  “Slow it down a bit, but get us there soon,” Bolan said to the driver.

  The man glanced over his shoulder. “How’s Framer doing?”

  “He didn’t make it,” Grimaldi said, reaching over and closing the dead man’s eyes.

  8

  The Diamond Quarter

  Antwerp, Belgium

  GRODOVICH WATCHED THE video as it played out on the tablet. Black-and-white images of four men dressed in black rushing around a jewelry store smashing displays and grabbing the contents.

  Yuri Kadyrov stood next to him, the man’s pungent body odor reminding Grodovich of his time behind prison walls. Lots of smelly, rough, unpleasant men ready to lash out at the slightest provocation. Mikhal’s looming presence next to him, as well as the suave Rovalev, the Black Wolf, gave Grodovich a slight feeling of solace. But still twelve armed men, all loyal to Kadyrov, sat across from them at the big wooden table in the well-lit office, smoking and drinking. Several of their weapons sat on the tabletop. This close, the Robie Cats looked as lethal as Grodovich remembered them to be. Yet they seemed relaxed, almost nonthreatening, at least for the moment.

  Yuri passed some gas and poured himself another drink. His swarthy face was wet with perspiration and his large, unkempt mustache had copious droplets of vodka hanging on the ends of the dark hairs.

  The man is essentially a modern barbarian, Grodovich thought. Like the hordes that had swept over the countryside raping and pillaging in centuries past. Was it really on his order that those Chechens attacked me in the stairwell?

  Kadyrov laughed and pointed to the screen. “Now listen to this part.”

  The sound of the news reporter’s voice overlaid the video of the dark silhouettes.

  “This group, known as the Robie Cats,” the reporter said, giving the last name a French inflection, “are one of the most notorious jewel thieves in Europe. Believed to be responsible for over a dozen high-profile robberies in Germany, England, Italy and Switzerland, they take their name from the character played by Cary Grant in the classic Alfred Hitchcock thriller To Catch a Thief.”

  Kadyrov paused the video, laughed again and continued, speaking in heavily accented English. “The guy is full of shit. We never called ourselves anything. The Robies was something the fucking reporters came up with. Who even remembers that old movie now?” He downed the remainder of his glass of vodka. “But who can complain, eh? We made it to 60 Minutes, the biggest American news show.” He stopped and poured more vodka into Grodovich’s glass and then his own. “Drink, my brother. We must celebrate your release. Tell me, how did you manage it?”

  “It was not easy,” Grodovich said. He smiled and brought the glass to his lips, although he only sipped the clear liquid. He could feel the tangy burn on his tongue, but as delicious as it was, tonight was not the time to drink. “You will be getting the payment request shortly.”

  Kadyrov laughed again. Grodovich could tell the man was getting seriously drunk. Was this a sign of nervousness or elation?

  Certainly, my return means Yuri will be taking less of the organization’s profits, Grodovich thought, but he had kept the monthly security payments going to the prison guards as well as Mikhal’s mother. It had been a constant drain, and perhaps Yuri had grown tired of it. Money would seem a logical motive to order the murder of one’s imprisoned partner. In the West, they called it a hostile takeover. In Russia, in the mafiya, it was called a necessary business decision.

  “You have done well during the time I was away,” Grodovich said, looking around the sumptuous office. Stieglitz had been explicit in his instructions: “Reestablish contact with Kadyrov, and tell him you wish to reacquaint yourself with the business but gradually. Be cordial, not demanding. But remember, he has already arranged once for your death.”

  The words kept echoing inside Grodovich’s head, like Raskolnikov in Crime and Punishment.

  “I’m glad you came here,” Kadyrov said, smiling. “But did you have to tell those reporters of your plans? I have a business deal I am working on.”

  “Ah,” Grodovich said. “What kind of deal is it and with whom?” He looked at Kadyrov, trying to monitor his reaction. “I am very eager to resume an active role on our organization. Gradually, of course.”

  Kadyrov returned the pensive stare, as if he were debating all the possible responses. Then his face twisted into a sly smile and he pointed to Mikhal and Rovalev.

  “And you have brought your new friends with you, too, eh?” He grinned. “A mountain and a mountain wolf.” He laughed so hard at his own joke that it turned into a coughing jag.

  He was back to being good old friendly Yuri—a loveable buffoon fond of strong vodka and beautiful women but as deadly as an Asian cobra once the snake charmer’s tune had ended.

  After he stopped coughing, Kadyrov took another drink, this one directly from the bottle, belched, got up and walked to a nearby filing cabinet. He set the bottle on top of it, glanced around the room and then removed a picture that was hanging on the wall next to the cabinet, revealing a wall safe. He set the picture on the floor and leaned forward, twisting the dial in different directions. After that he attempted to open the safe, but it remained locked. Kadyrov swore and spun the dial again, this time with a touch of anger, but the safe still would not open.

  “Perhaps you have had too much vodka, Yuri,” Grodovich said. “Do you want me to assist you?”

  Kadyrov snarled a negative reply and leaned closer to the metallic surface, this time twisting the dial with a slow precision. The door popped open and he withdrew a leather case about the size of a large hardcover book. He motioned for Grodovich to join him. Grodovich set his own glass down and stood. As he walked over Mikhal trailed close behind him.

  Kadyrov glanced up at the giant as they approached and laughed. “Ah, the mountain comes to Muhammad. Does your big friend follow you everywhere?”

  Grodovich nodded and slapped Mikhal’s massive shoulder. “I owe him my life. Just the other day, when I was in prison, some men tried to kill me. Mikhal stopped them.”

  “A dangerous place, prison, eh?” Kadyrov raised his eyebrows and smiled. “And a good companion is like a trusted weapon.” He patted his side, where he had a large Tokarev pistol holstered. “But you are done with all that now.” He glanced around again as he unzipped the case and parted the folds. A thick sheaf of brown envelopes lined the interior.

  Grodovich shot him a questioning look. Kadyrov smiled and removed one of the envelopes. He pulled open the top flap and dumped the contents into his big palm.

  A brilliantly fashioned white gold necklace with a serpentine chain lay there, coiled like a sleeping asp. The multifaceted stones glimmered like stars, even in the dim light.

  “From our latest acquisition,” Kadyrov said softly. “And tomorrow we will be getting more.”

  So I’ve heard, Grodovich thought. “Magnificent,” he said. “Tell me, are you still using the old Jew to make the adjustments?”

  Kadyrov nodded. “Bloom is the best.” He carefully returned the necklace to the envelope, sealed it and then replaced it in the case. “It seems a pity to remove them from their comfortable places of residence, eh?” He laughed, picked up the bottle and took another drink. “But nothing is forever.”

  “Except diamonds,” Grodovich said.

  Kadyrov laughed again as he took out a long cigarette, pinched the extended filter twice and then struck an affected pose.

  “Tell me,” Kadyrov said, “do I not look like one of those fucking American movie stars?”

  Grodovich looked at him, wondering how much longer he could afford to allow his former partner to live. “Absolutely. Just like Cary Grant.”

  “Shit,” Kadyrov snorted as he stuck the cigarette into his mouth and lit it. “He is dead.”

  And so are you,
Grodovich thought. Only you do not know it yet.

  * * *

  BOLAN WATCHED AS Grimaldi pulled the Citroën into the makeshift parking space on the edge of the ring road. The spot afforded them a glimpse of the tall buildings of the city across the river. Grimaldi shoved the gear shift into reverse and shut off the engine. He released the clutch and then pulled the emergency brake. When he saw Bolan’s watchful gaze, he grinned.

  “Just making sure,” Grimaldi said. “I never quite trust any of these French models, be they plane, train or automobile.”

  “Are you saying you’re prejudiced against French models?” Bolan asked with a smile as he took out his satellite phone.

  “Unless they look like Brigitte Bardot.” Grimaldi stretched and looked through the windshield at the city below them. “What’s this town’s major claim to fame again?”

  “It’s the site of the largest estuary in Western Europe,” Bolan said.

  “Smells like swamp water and oil refineries to me,” Grimaldi said.

  “It’s got several of those, too,” Bolan said as he punched in the number for Stony Man Farm.

  “And diamonds,” Grimaldi said. “Don’t forget about the primary reason we’re here.”

  Brognola answered on the third ring. His voice sounded rusty with sleep.

  “Don’t tell me I woke you up,” Bolan said, placing the phone on speaker so Grimaldi could listen.

  “Don’t worry about it,” Brognola answered, sounding more alert now. “You guys in Antwerp?”

  “On the outskirts,” Bolan said. “You got any updates for us?”

  Brognola sighed. “Yeah, the President was less than pleased about the way things turned out in Moscow. And that’s putting it mildly.”

  “Then he should have let us run the whole show from the get-go,” Grimaldi chimed in.

  Bolan shot him a quick glance that silenced him.

  “My feelings exactly,” Brognola said. “But at least we don’t have to worry about Burns leaking any more secrets to the Russians.” Bolan heard the other man’s heavy sigh. “Run his last words by me again, will you?”