Uncut Terror

The lead guard stopped at a solid-looking door and lightly knocked three times.

Such deference indicated a person of no small importance was on the other side.

This piqued Grodovich’s curiosity.

A voice from inside the room told them to enter. The lead guard motioned for Grodovich to place his hands on the wall and assume the search position. Grodovich complied and felt the hands of the other two guards squeeze every part of his body with practiced efficiency. He was used to the indignities of life behind the walls and was glad he’d dropped his blade in the stairwell, for they surely would have found it.

The aborted attack by the Chechens still floated before him. He’d done nothing to provoke them. Why had they accosted him, and why had the guards, to whom he paid protection each month, led him into such a clumsy trap? The answer was obvious. Someone had paid them more. But who, and more important, why?

The Chechen had muttered something right before Mikhal had terminated him: “We have our orders. It is nothing of a personal—”

What had he meant? And why had he said it?

A strange prelude for this meeting.

The lead guard opened the door and pointed for Grodovich to go in. He squared his black cap on his head and tugged his now misaligned clothing into a semblance of order. As he went inside the room he saw a thin man with a completely bald head and a pair of gold-rimmed glasses. The man wore a dark blue suit and his black shoes had a shine on them. He stood there watching and assessing as Grodovich entered and stood at attention. For the better part of thirty seconds, the bald man did not speak, then he took in a copious breath and motioned for Grodovich to sit in a nearby chair.

“I am Vassili Stieglitz from the interior ministry of economics,” the man said. “And you are Alexander Grodovich.”

Grodovich resisted the urge to comment. With the virtually endless sentence before him he had little to lose, but he had been incarcerated long enough to know that there was no sense throwing rocks at the gatekeepers. Besides, this meeting had some significance to bring an interior minister all the way from the Kremlin. Whatever this man wanted was worth finding out. There would be plenty of time for reflection on missed opportunities for sarcasm later, when he was back in the cell block.

Stieglitz inhaled again. “How do you like the facilities here in Krasnoyarsk?”

This was too much. The absurdity of the question made him laugh. “I have stayed in better.”

Stieglitz raised his right eyebrow. “I’m certain that you have.” He held Grodovich’s stare for several seconds and then said, “And you still have a substantial sentence yet to serve.”

Grodovich said nothing.

The bald man maintained his stare. “And what would you say if I offered you a way out?”

A shiver shot up Grodovich’s spine. Was this some sort of trick? Was this man toying with him? What did he want? It had to be money. His Swiss accounts.

Grodovich had been expecting such a financial deal when he was first arrested, although the opportunity to negotiate never materialized. His lawyers told him that such a deal could be made, but the conditions were absurd: total capitulation. They offered him a penniless freedom, with no guarantees on their part. He would either end up in prison or living as a beggar on the streets.

Thus, he’d held out, refusing to give up the numbers of his Swiss accounts. It was his only bargaining chip, because these bastards could not be trusted. The monthly bribes to the prison guards were still arriving on time, despite his transfer to Detention Center 6, and, most important, Mikhal’s sainted mother received her monthly allotment in Novosibirsk.

The first few days of Grodovich’s arrival had been hell, but still, he had survived. This was no doubt round two. The transfer to the more brutal surroundings had been a prelude to soften him up. So this was a negotiation, and he must show strength. He could not let this bald government rodent know his desperation.

Grodovich took his time before answering. “I would indeed be interested, but it would depend.”

Stieglitz’s brow furrowed. “Depend upon what?”

Grodovich managed to smile. He’d regained a modicum of self-respect, if not some purchase on the slope of the negotiation.

“Upon the nature of your request,” Grodovich said. “You obviously wish something from me, the cost of which must be evaluated before any decision can be made.”

“Are you mad?” the bald man asked. “I’m offering you a way out of this hellhole and you have the audacity to attempt to set the conditions?”

Grodovich smiled again. He was indeed gaining purchase. “Everything,” he said, “even life in here, has conditions.”

Stieglitz snorted. “I do not have time for games.”

“All I have is time,” Grodovich answered. He kept his expression bland. It was like a game of chess, waiting for your opponent to make the move that allowed first blood.

Stieglitz clasped his hands behind his back and strode to a dirt-streaked window covered with an iron grate. He stared through the filthy glass for several seconds. “All right,” he said finally, turning back to face him. “I can appreciate that you have been toughened by your incarceration. But let me assure you I did not come all the way from Moscow to play games. I am, quite simply, offering you your freedom. A presidential pardon for your crimes. Immediate, total and absolute freedom.”

Grodovich could hardly believe it. But he waited for the other shoe to drop, and he was betting it had a steel sole. He tried his best to conceal his excitement, wondering what the cost would be. Still, he knew it really did not matter. At this point he would sell his mother’s soul if it got him out of here a day quicker. But to show weakness in a negotiation was tantamount to capitulation. He composed himself and said, “What exactly must I do in exchange for this pardon?”

The corner of Stieglitz’s mouth tweaked, like a flicker from a hungry, feral cat, and he smiled. “We would like you to renew your old contacts on the international front as you go back into the diamond business.” He paused. “And with the Robie Cats.”

Stony Man Farm

Virginia

AS BOLAN AND GRIMALDI entered the War Room, Bolan noticed two steaming cups of coffee on the front edge of the table. Hal Brognola leaned back in his chair as he sipped from his own mug with a sour expression stretched across his face.

“I told you we should’ve stopped by Starbucks,” Grimaldi said, grinning. “I take it Aaron whipped up his customary brew?”

Brognola swallowed and gave his head a quick shake. Then he looked toward the door, checking to see whether Aaron “The Bear” Kurtzman, Stony Man’s computer expert, was close by. “Worse. You could use this batch to clean rust off a spark plug.” He indicated the two empty chairs in front of the desk.

Bolan sat down, leaving the cup where it was. He knew better than to sample it.

Grimaldi took a tentative sip from his and howled. “Damn, you could pour this into an old deuce-and-a-half if you ran out of gas.”

“What’s up?” Bolan asked. “We left a very interesting judo seminar to be here.”

“Judo seminar?” Brognola said. “Don’t you guys get enough practice beating people up?”

“You know the motto of our superhero here,” Grimaldi said, motioning toward Bolan. “It’s never too late to inflict some pain.”

“Especially if you provoke the instructor,” Bolan added.

Brognola laughed. “I can’t wait to hear about that one.” He set the mug down and cleared his throat. “But in the meantime, I have a favor to ask.”

Bolan nodded. He was accustomed to such sudden requests. Usually they came to Brognola indirectly from the White House. Special details that were too hot to go through normal channels. From the look on Brognola’s face, Bolan knew this one had the ring of immediacy and urgency. He waited for Grimaldi’s customary wisecrack.

“A favor?” Grimaldi said. “Who’d a thunk it?”

Brognola leaned forward, placing his forearms on the tabletop. “As I’m sure you’re aware, things have been tense between us and Russia lately.”

“Don’t tell me our side finally realized the old reset button isn’t working?” Grimaldi said.

“The current round of sanctions is causing a bit of havoc on their economy,” Brognola said. “Just how much remains to be seen.”

“You want us to fly to Moscow and check things out?” Grimaldi asked. “If so, I’d prefer to go now, before the winter sets in. That place is damn miserable then.”

“A trip to Moscow is in the cards,” Brognola said. He paused, picked up a remote and pressed a few buttons. A large screen began lowering from a metal roll on the opposite wall as the lights in the room became subdued. An overhead projector hummed to life and a bright, square patch was illuminated on the screen. Brognola pressed another button and a man’s face appeared. He was dark haired, had with heavy acne scarring and was wearing dark sunglasses. “Look familiar?”

“Larry Burns,” Bolan said. “The Kremlin’s second favorite American defector.”

“Don’t tell me you want us to drag that little creep back here by the scruff of his neck,” Grimaldi said. “It’d be my pleasure, but the Russians wouldn’t let us get within spitting distance of him.”

“Let’s just say that Mr. Burns is ready to come home,” Brognola said. “He’s been secretly meeting with our Agency personnel for the past two weeks.”

“Why don’t they just take him to the Embassy?” Bolan asked. “I’m sure the Russians have already gotten everything they need out of him.”

“Ordinarily, that would be the plan.” Brognola clicked the remote again and another male appeared on the screen. This one was a rather portly man with glasses and blond hair. “Except for this guy. Arkadi Kropotkan.”

“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 him 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.