Meltdown te-97 Read online

  "What about our little snitch?"

  "What about her? She didn't know where the stuff was."

  "Are you sure?"

  "Certain."

  Achison hoped that Parsons was getting the distinct impression that he was being grilled. He knew the antinuke leader didn't like it. He wasn't used to being in the hot seat. Achison rather enjoyed watching the erosion of the man's confidence. He kept the pressure on, partly to make certain that Parsons was telling the truth, but mostly because he enjoyed watching Parsons squirm.

  Neither man noticed the door open.

  "How pathetic you are!" Achison turned, his mouth hanging in midsentence.

  "Who the hell are you?" Parsons demanded.

  The new arrival walked to the table and sat down.

  "Why don't you introduce us, Mr. Achison?"

  Achison shuffled his feet. "Malcolm Parsons, Andrey Glinkov."

  Parsons looked at Glinkov. "Who the hell are you? I don't know you. What are you doing here?"

  "You idiot," Glinkov spat. "Who do you think pays for all of this?" He swept his hand around the kitchen, a gesture meant to encompass far more than their immediate surroundings. "You work for me, Mr. Parsons. So does Mr. Achison."

  Parsons turned to Achison. "What the hell is he talking about? Who is he? What's going on here?"

  "Like the man says, Malcolm. We work for him."

  "The hell I do. I'm my own boss. Always have been. You better leave while you still have the opportunity." Parsons stood up angrily. He walked to the end of the table and called into the room beyond. "Bert, get in here! Now!"

  Silence. Either Bert hadn't heard or he was part of this outrage.

  "Sit down," Glinkov said. His voice was soft, almost gentle. But there was no mistaking its steely edge. "I am more than a little annoyed at what has happened."

  "What are you talking about? Annoyed at what? What business do you have being annoyed at anything?"

  "I pay the bills, Mr. Parsons. And right now I don't believe I'm getting my money's worth. Where is the plutonium?"

  "How did you... would you please tell me what's going on here?"

  "That's precisely what I want you to tell me, Mr. Parsons. What happened to the plutonium?"

  "I, uh... I don't know. I didn't even know it was missing, until a few minutes ago. Isn't that right, Peter?" He turned to Achison for support, but the latter merely shook his head.

  "I don't know, Andrey. I was just trying to find that out myself when you walked in."

  Glinkov leaned back in the chair. He sighed with equal parts of exasperation and disappointment. "Oh, Malcolm, what are we to do with you?"

  "What do you mean?"

  "Obviously you have bungled your assignment, at least insofar as Ms Peres is concerned. You were supposed to make good use of her, Mr. Parsons. But it seems she has made more use of you."

  "She didn't even know about the plutonium."

  "Can you prove that?"

  "I swear she didn't know. I let her leak some information, like Peter wanted, but she didn't know where the stuff was hidden. There's no way she could have told anyone. She didn't know."

  "Then what happened, Mr. Parsons? Who did know? Who told Mack Bolan?"

  "Who's Bolan? I don't know anybody by that name." Parsons looked helplessly from Achison to Glinkov and back.

  "Peter will brief you on him later. Right now I'm more interested in seeing to it that he doesn't interfere in any more of our activities."

  "But..."

  "Shut up, Mr. Parsons. Shut up and listen. This is what I want you to do."

  Quickly Glinkov sketched his plan. Rachel Peres was to be taken to a "people's prison." There was to be no announcement. In due course, Glinkov knew, the underground would buzz with the story. Sooner or later, it would reach Bolan. But no effort was to be made to ensure that it did, lest Bolan realize he was being set up.

  Glinkov knew that, being uninvited, Bolan was certain to show. Their silence was designed to attract his interest. It would, of course, be a trap.

  Achison was to be in charge.

  "I hope I have made myself perfectly clear. Any questions, Peter? Mr. Parsons?"

  Each man shook his head. Whether they understood was less certain than that they wanted Andrey Glinkov to disappear for the rest of the evening. Parsons felt a surge of gratitude that Achison had been present. Something in Glinkov gave him the chills. There was such certitude in the man's voice. Obviously he wasn't used to having subordinates fail him. Parsons chose not to think about what might happen should this latest effort end abortively.

  Achison, on the other hand, was glad to see Parsons ground under Glinkov's thumb. The bastard had it coming. As many times as he'd tried, he had been unable to ruffle Parsons's feathers.

  Glinkov, master of the art, had had no trouble at all. And sharing the burden of Glinkov's icy stare made the room seem warmer by half. His contempt for Parsons hadn't been diminished, but he had discovered a reluctant kinship. It must have been like that for enemies chained to the same bench in a Roman galley. The lash bit everyone with equal indifference. A shared hatred made allies of the oddest kind.

  Glinkov sat silently. He despised both of them. Neither was more than a tool for the KGB man. And tools were made to be used, then thrown away, replaced by newer, better tools. He stood abruptly. "Peter, you'll be hearing from me. Goodbye, Mr. Parsons."

  The Russian left as suddenly as he had come.

  Parsons turned angrily to Achison. "What the hell did he mean when he said I work for him? I don't work for anybody."

  "Tell him that, why don't you? The next time you have the chance. And the nerve." Achison laughed. "I think we should tend to Ms Peres. Where is she?"

  "Upstairs, sleeping."

  "Get her down here. Now. Bert?" Bert came into the kitchen.

  "Where the hell were you ten minutes ago?" Parsons demanded.

  "In the living room, why?"

  "Didn't you hear me calling you?"

  "Yeah, I heard you." Bert smiled.

  "I see. So that's how it is?"

  Bert nodded.

  "Mr. Glinkov has deep pockets, doesn't he?" Parsons asked of no one in particular.

  No one answered. No one had to.

  "What did you want, Malcolm?" Bert asked. There was a certain impatience in his voice.

  "I want you to take Ms Peres for a ride. Take her clothes. She'll be staying awhile."

  "She's not here, Malcolm."

  "What do you mean she's not here?"

  "She left a few minutes ago. With Mr. Glinkov, Malcolm."

  Achison laughed, and Parsons turned to him.

  He stepped toward the larger man, his fists clenched.

  "I wouldn't if I were you, Malcolm," Achison said.

  Bert laughed out loud.

  "This just ain't your night, Malcolm," he said.

  He laughed again and walked back out of the kitchen. The others could hear him chuckling as he mounted the stairs.

  Parsons was about to say something when the door opened with a bang. A small athletic-looking man stumbled through the open door and collapsed at the foot of the table. His face was badly bruised, his clothes torn and dirty.

  "My God, what happened to you?" Parsons shouted, kneeling by the fallen man.

  "Ambush," the fallen man mumbled. "Somebody jumped us. They got the stuff."

  "Who? Who was it?" Parsons demanded.

  "You already know that," Achison whispered. "Bolan."

  "Who the devil is this Bolan? Everybody talks about him as if he were the Angel of Death or something. You all sound like a bunch of superstitious savages."

  "Take my word for it, Parsons, you don't want to know. And if you ever do meet him, I dare say you'll write a few prayers of your own. If you have the time."

  "Forget that now. Help me get him upstairs." Parsons turned the now unconscious man over and took him by the shoulders. Achison grabbed his feet, and together they strained to lift him. He was slight, but t
he deadweight was a challenge. They passed through the door and navigated the broad hall.

  At the foot of the stairs, Parsons laid him down.

  "Wait here," he said. "I'll go get Bert. We'll never make it by ourselves."

  Parsons mounted the stairs two at a time, returning with Bert a moment later. The big man effortlessly hoisted the prostrate form and reclimbed the stairs.

  "Poor guy looks like he's had a rough time. Who is he?" Achison asked.

  "A new addition to our little family. He was one of the West Virginia team. His name's Eli Cohen."

  11

  Pacing back and forth, Hal Brognola waited anxiously for Mack Bolan. He was not looking forward to telling Bolan the latest news.

  Rachel Peres had disappeared. She had missed her last two check-ins. She had not been back to her apartment. No one had seen her.

  Brognola knew Bolan had become fond of the young woman despite the short time he had known her.

  Bolan talked about her in a way he hadn't talked about a woman in a long time. It was couched in terms of professional appreciation, of course. But there was something else. Something in his voice, something approaching affection.

  And now she was in trouble. Brognola knew that she was too good not to get word to him, somehow, if she was going to miss a meet. That could only mean she hadn't been able to. Either she was a prisoner or... The big Fed didn't want to think about the other possibility. Rachel Peres's disappearance also meant that a year's work was in danger of going down the tubes. And if Rachel's instincts were right, they were getting close to something, something a lot bigger than they had expected. Parsons was going to make a move. That much was certain. It was going to be big, and it was going to endanger a lot of people. There were too many possibilities, too many places to cover. Brognola knew he needed Rachel's help. Where the hell was she?

  Where the hell was Bolan?

  The big guy entered the office on cue. Mack Bolan took a seat and watched Brognola expectantly.

  "What the hell are you staring at, Mack?"

  "At someone who obviously doesn't want to say what's on his mind, but knows he has to."

  Brognola tried to smile. "You don't make it any easier. You know that?"

  "The day it's easy, is the day you don't need me anymore."

  "I guess you're right."

  "So tell me."

  "We've lost Rachel."

  Bolan held his breath before asking, "What do you mean, lost her?"

  "I don't know. She missed her last two check-ins. Nobody's seen her. Not for three days."

  Bolan stood, sat down, then stood again. He crossed the room to pull open the heavy drapery.

  His back to Brognola, he watched the empty street for several minutes. The white-knuckled hand on the drapery told Brognola all he needed to know.

  "Tell me what you do know, then." The voice was husky. Brognola hadn't heard him sound like that in a long time. The voice wasn't Mack Bolan's. It belonged to the Executioner.

  The big Fed sighed. There was so little to say that it made him feel inadequate, stupid. There was no excuse, and he offered none. He sketched the details in a dull monotone, his eyes riveted to Bolan's broad back. When he finished, he sat on the sofa and waited.

  "It must have been West Virginia. They must have figured it out. How else could they have gotten onto her?"

  "I don't know. But what could we have done? We couldn't let that stuff out of the country."

  Bolan turned to face him. "I know." Turning back to stare down at the empty street, he continued, "Why didn't you tell me about Eli Cohen?"

  "Who?"

  "Eli Cohen. Who is he?"

  "You tell me. I've never heard of him."

  "Hal, you don't play with me. I know the games you guys play. I've been there, remember?"

  "I swear I don't know what you're talking about. Help me out. Tell me something I can use."

  "He was there, at the cave. Said he was part of the team on the inside. When it got a little rough, he threw in with me. Led me into the cave through a back route. When it was over, he was gone, but he left his Kalashnikov. Why didn't you tell me you had a man on the inside?"

  "Because we don't have a man on the inside. It's that simple. I have no idea who he is. Or who he works for."

  "Then how did he know who I was?"

  Brognola shrugged helplessly. "I don't know, Mack. You have to believe me."

  "Yeah, I do. Look, I'm wasting time. Where is Parsons? He's the guy to start with."

  "That's just what they want you to do. You understand that, don't you?"

  Bolan ignored the question. "Has there been any word at all, from anybody? Anything that suggests they're trying to set me up? Just tell me what I want to know. And don't tell me I'll blow her cover. It's already blown. And I'm sure as hell no secret, either."

  "All right."

  While Brognola talked, Bolan listened with half an ear. His mind was already sorting through options, discarding the complicated and the improbable.

  Direct action was the best. Take it to them. Hard.

  Hit them where they breathed.

  Before Brognola finished, the Executioner already knew what he was going to do. Tonight.

  Bolan left Brognola's office, and by the time he reached the George Washington Bridge, he knew what he had to do. He owed it to her. And he was going to pay up. In spades.

  12

  The Palisades Parkway was beautiful at night. The moon was almost full, the trees bare, ghostly in the silver light. As he drove farther away from the city, the Hudson's shimmery glow replaced the fading lights of the town.

  By Exit Fourteen, it was solid country, nothing but trees and open fields. A startled deer froze at the sound of the rented Camaro's engine and then hightailed it to the safety of the forest. The trees were covered with a thin, icy glaze, and they sparkled when the headlights hit them. Huge boulders, left behind by glaciers, glittered under the ice, their cold fires reflections of the hellfire that blazed in Bolan's eyes. It was cold and clear, the kind of night when death went walking. And it would, if the Executioner found the scum responsible.

  Parsons's hideaway was in the country near Middletown. Country living must appeal to him, Bolan thought, and the people of the area had seen it all: Moonies from Harvard, hippies from San Francisco, even groups that practiced witchcraft. Parsons and his friends wouldn't even rate a raised eyebrow. Comings and goings were regular events. The farmland was rich. Apple orchards and horse and dairy farms were numerous. And late-nineteenth-century estates were cheap. Too far from the city for an easy commute, they were now maintained as country homes by the wealthy or turned to more profitable use by small businesses. Or converted to retreats by dozens of cults, movements and activist groups. As he neared Goshen, Bolan could almost smell the nitrate he knew would soon fill his nostrils. It was a smell that would violate the clear, cold air, which was free of car exhaust and factory smoke. The country road was rough. Wary of patches of ice formed by snowmelt runoff, Bolan slowed the car. At the turnoff to Parsons's place, he left the Camaro in a small clearing that had been plowed flat and rutted by heavy use. The road, little more than twin ruts among the snowy weeds, wound through the trees.

  He would use it until he got closer to the estate. It would save time. The moon had begun to slide in and out of cloud cover, which darkened the woods a bit. Not enough to cover his approach completely, but enough to make it easier. Up ahead, twin columns of smoke rose above the trees and dispersed in the stiff wind. Bolan had one hundred yards to go. Time to leave the path and use the woods for cover. The brittle crust of snow crunched under his feet. Twigs and branches, hidden under the snow, snapped with every step. In the silence of the forest, the snapping sounded like a pistol shot. Two small outbuildings offered some cover. Bolan angled behind them, then made a painstakingly slow circuit of the house. He wanted some idea of what would greet him once he got inside. And the Executioner knew that he would get inside come hell or high water.


  The place was large, mostly fieldstone, and brightly lit. A broad porch occupied much of the front of the two-story building. A deck had recently been added to the back and there were three doors.

  Occasionally a shadow would pass by the curtains that shrouded all but one of the windows. There had only been two cars down at the main road, but it was impossible to tell how many people were inside. Bolan knew it was possible that the cars were communal property. There could be a dozen hardmen inside, or nothing but women and children. Only time would tell. And time was running out.

  Mack Bolan had to make his move. Easing around the side of a small fieldstone stable, he inched forward, using shadow and the momentary dimming of the moon to cover his approach. Small evergreens dotted the side lawn and offered some protection as he neared the house. The hard snow crunched as he moved. The last thirty feet would be the toughest; there was no cover. Heading toward a curtained window, Bolan sprinted to the wall directly beneath it. At the base of the wall was a bed of tangled shrubs — and vines covered with snow, making a mound two feet deep and three feet high. Bolan was forced to stay back from the wall and to keep low. Working through the heavy drifts, he moved toward the back of the house. The stairway to the deck would get him close, but he'd have to take his chances on which room to enter. The stairs were covered with ice that crunched with every step. Slowly, slowly. One at a time, Bolan climbed to the broad deck. Even in the cold, the smell of the new lumber stung his nostrils. Once on the deck, he drew Big Thunder from its sling. He inched to the nearest window and paused to listen. Inside, there was silence. This was going to be easier than he had hoped. The storm window was up, and the screen was plastic. A quick slice of his knife, and it fluttered to the deck. The inside sash was locked, but the blade slid up and over. The lock clicked open, and he was home free.

  Slipping the knife back into its sheath, he pushed on the sash with his left hand. It resisted for a moment, then the ice that held it gave under the pressure.

  With a dull thud of its sash weights, the window slid open. Pulling aside the curtain, he listened. Bolan could hear voices from deep within the house but the room was vacant. He pushed the curtain all the way back and slipped inside.