The Executioner nodded then made the introduction. “This is Lieutenant Dave Case, Alaska State Trooper.”
“I am Natalia Valencia Kournikova,” the woman said. “Moscow Police.”
“Nikita to her friends,” Grimaldi said, coming up behind the Russians.
“Moscow?” Case shook his head. “What are you doing in the United States?”
“Actually,” she said, “we are here searching for that man. He is a Russian national and I have an order of extradition for him that I wished to execute.”
“Extradition? For what?” Case asked.
“Crimes against the state,” she said. “I would be glad to show it to you, but unless you read Russian, I will have to get it translated first.”
“It doesn’t look like he’s going anywhere,” Bolan said. “How about answering another question, like how’d you know he was here, and how’d you get here?”
“That is two questions, is it not?” Nikita raised an eyebrow. “We only just arrived on a plane from Anchorage. I believe it was chartered by Greagor Lebed, but I do not think he would have minded, even if he were still alive.”
“That answers the second how,” Grimaldi said. “Now all we gotta worry about is the first.”
Nikita made a show of blowing him a kiss. “Jack, my dear, you sound more and more like that famous cowboy actor in all those old Western movies. What was his name? John Wayne?”
Grimaldi grinned and started to answer but Bolan cut him off.
“How did you trace him here?”
She smiled again. “We have our methods, the same as you. But regardless, he was a criminal, and I was sent to apprehend him before he could commit more crimes on the soil of your beautiful nation.”
Grimaldi smirked at her evasiveness.
“I take it you’re also after his compatriots?” Bolan said.
She turned and stared into his eyes for a long three seconds. “But of course. And I assume you know where they are?”
“That doesn’t concern you.”
Kournikova made a tsking sound. “No, no, no. We need to cooperate. There is more at stake than you realize. Much more.”
“I’ll bet. Care to enlighten us?”
The woman glanced at her two companions, who had remained both silent and stoic throughout the conversation thus far. The three of them moved several feet away and began speaking in their native language. The larger of the two males appeared to become more agitated as the conversation went on. His voice grew in intensity and he gestured at Bolan, Grimaldi and Case. Finally she said something that shut him up. His face twisted into a scowl as he glanced from her to Bolan and then stormed off toward an idling truck parked on the roadway.
“You know,” Grimaldi said, “I don’t think that dude likes us very much.”
Bolan said nothing.
Finally, Kournikova dispatched her other companion and walked down the incline.
“I think it is time for all of us to lay our cards on the table,” she said.
“I couldn’t agree more,” Bolan said.
“We have been pursuing a group of criminals from Russia. They are led by a man named Nikoloz Rokva. He is a Georgian. A very bad man.”
“Russian mafiya?” Bolan asked.
She nodded and turned to Case. “This is a very dangerous situation,” she said, gesturing at the pile of bodies. “It must be contained... How do you say it? Quarantined.”
“Quarantined?” Case said.
She waited a few seconds before replying, as if considering her words carefully. “I have reason to believe some of these people were prisoners. Taken without authorization from a gulag in Siberia.” Pausing, as if considering her next words carefully, she looked directly at Bolan. “They may have been infected with a dangerous disease.”
Case took a step back from the edge of the death pit. “Disease? What kind?”
Her blue eyes went from Bolan to him. “The bubonic plague.”
The Alaskan Interior
The old timber storage building that Emil Burdin and his men had renovated had held up well. Rokva almost felt bad about abandoning it. The structure was spacious enough not only to hold the rations, plows and fuel supplies stored there, but allowed for a modicum of privacy, as well. Although it did not have indoor plumbing or a hot shower, the oil-burning space heaters provided a most welcome warmth. It felt good to be out of the elements while Burdin’s men serviced and prepared the plane for the next leg of the journey. It also allowed the cargo to clean themselves as best they could and change clothes. He had some of his men take the pile of filthy clothes outside to be burned.
Still, things could be better.
Rokva held his hands over the electric space heater, but it did little to ease his growing discomfort. His head was beginning to throb and he was developing a cough. His glasses had begun to steam up, too. He removed them and cleaned the lenses with the handkerchief he always carried.
It was the sign of a gentleman, his father had told him, to always be prepared.
Appropriately, he still had the cloth in his hand when he sneezed.
Dammit, he thought. I hope I did not catch some sort of influenza from being in the plane with those bastards.
He replaced his glasses and turned to yell for Boris Kazak, who was sitting close to the next set of heaters.
The heavyset man rose ponderously, first leaning his fat body forward to assume a standing position and then ambling over to his boss, medical bag in hand.
“Do you have something for a headache?” Rokva asked.
“I am feeling like shit, too.”
“I asked if you had something for a headache, not for a report on yourself.”
Kazak exhaled in exaggerated fashion.
“I can give you something,” he said. “It will take me a minute to prepare.” He ambled off.
The rest of the men were spooning the bowls of hot oatmeal that Burdin and his crew had prepared. Rokva was not hungry. He had too much thinking to do, and this damn headache was impinging upon his ability to do that.
Burdin came sauntering over as the Georgian took out his sat phone.
“What’s up, boss? Do you want me to get you some oatmeal? It’s the kind that has raisins in it.”
Raisins... He resisted the temptation to hurl back an insult. There was no sense in alienating your subordinates when you needed to rely on them completing a task in your absence. And there were plenty of tasks yet to complete.
He shook his head. “I will get some later. Boris is getting me something for my headache.”
Burdin grinned and took a small bottle of vodka from his pocket.
“Here, this is the best medicine for that.” He extended his hand holding the bottle to his boss, who shook his head.
“I will drink only when the mission is over.”
Burdin shrugged, unscrewed the cap and took a few swallows.
That bothered Rokva because he did not want to leave an inebriated man to carry out the duties he was about to assign.
“I do not like to depend on drunkards,” he said.
His subordinate looked at him askance then resealed the bottle. “Listen, you try staying out here in this place. It’s worse than a Siberian gulag.”
The Georgian looked around at the big room. “This is better than a gulag. Much better.”
Burdin laughed, started to unscrew the top again but stopped after the mafiya captain glared at him. He shrugged and set the bottle on the table beside him.
Rokva decided to power up his sat phone again.
It still showed no return call from Denisov so he decided to send him another text.
Is everything all right?
“Who are you texting?” Burdin asked. “Vasilli?”
The Georgian knew he and Denisov were close friends.
“Yes. I left
him behind to tidy things up. I must do the same with you. When we leave here, I want this place destroyed. Every trace.”
Burdin’s brow furrowed. “Shit, but it took us so long to get it built up.”
“It is a necessity.”
Burdin shrugged and finally unscrewed the cap on the bottle again. “And I was looking forward to importing a couple of whores and settling in for the winter.” He took another drink.
Rokva watched the man’s throat work as he swallowed.
Perhaps being out here in this wilderness had affected Burdin’s reliability.
Another reason to hasten their departure and eliminate all loose ends.
His sat phone chimed with an incoming text.
All is well. Almost finished.
The text was in Russian, so Denisov hadn’t been compromised. That pleased him. Still, a masterful chess player had to remain vigilant.
Call me.
He waited and then the response came.
Too much noise. Still digging. Will call soon.
Rokva debated this new message. Denisov had shut the equipment down before when instructed to do so to receive verbal instructions. Why had he not done so again?
Something bothered him. Could Denisov have been compromised, after all?
He sent another text.
Did the new plane arrive?
Yes. It is ready to go.
Do you have the coordinates I gave you before?
No. I forgot to write them down. Give them to me again.
The speed with which the text appeared was another red flag. Denisov was not a dummy, but neither was he proficient at typing out text messages so quickly. His responses were appearing with too much adeptness. Something was definitely wrong.
Very well. Fly out when you are ready. I will have Emil set...
Rokva stopped. A verification test was needed and he suddenly had an idea of how to administer one. He backtracked the cursor, eliminating some of the words and retyped.
I will have Alyosha ready the pots for the landing strip.
He pressed the send button. If it was really Denisov on the other end of this communication, he would think it strange because Alyosha was with him.
The reply was as clear as a bell’s toll on a foggy night in Moscow.
Good. We will be en route shortly
So the American pursuer was fluent in Russian, eh? This made the game a bit more challenging, but it would also set the trap that would end this charade.
Rokva typed in the coordinates and the number for Burdin’s phone and then added:
Text Alyosha at this number when you are within range. He will ignite the pots on the landing strip.
Affirmative.
The Russian gangster shut down his phone and turned to Burdin, keeping his expression solemn.
“Was that Vasilli?” Burdin asked, bringing the bottle to his lips once more.
Waiting until the other man finished swallowing, Rokva shook his head. “I’m afraid the Americans have killed him.”
“What?”
He allowed Burdin time for the news to sink in and then slowly nodded.
“They are coming here in his plane,” Rokva said. “Listen carefully. This is what I want you to do.”
Eskimo Village,
Wales, Alaska
“I’m sure answering those texts like that was a bad idea,” Bolan said.
Kournikova shrugged and flashed a high-wattage smile.
“Oh, you worry too much.” She held up the sat phone. “There is no way Rokva will suspect. No American could text Russian as easily as a native speaker. And this way we will have a nice landing strip illuminated for us when we get there. If Jack can fly the plane, that is. The original pilot was...incapacitated.”
“Hey,” Grimaldi said, “if it’s got wings, I can fly it.”
“You know how to cold weather fly?” one of her associates asked.
“I didn’t think you guys could speak English,” Grimaldi said with a grin.
The Russian didn’t reply.
Bolan had misgivings. There were too many variables. If the Georgian hadn’t been taken in by Kournikova’s impersonation of one of his men, they’d be flying into a trap. But still, what other choice did they have?
He picked up his duffel bag and headed for Kournikova’s truck. “Let’s get to the airstrip.”
“Hey, wait a minute,” Case said. “I need you two to stay here and wait for the major case squad. This is a big-time murder investigation.”
Bolan turned to him and put a hand on his shoulder.
“Listen, Lieutenant. I’m sorry about your trooper, but we’ve been tracking these guys since Seattle. If we lose this chance to run them to ground, they’ll fade into the woodwork and never be caught.”
Case looked contemplative.
“There most likely are other lives at stake, as well,” Bolan said.
“We’ll get retribution for your fallen man,” Grimaldi added.
Case compressed his lips then nodded. “Good luck.”
Bolan turned to leave but Kournikova held up her hand.
“We shall go shortly,” she said. “But first, there is something that we must do.” She turned and said something in Russian to one of her male counterparts. He frowned and then went to the truck and removed a small black nylon carry bag from the interior.
She took the bag from him and pointed to the illuminating beams of the headlights.
“All three of you. Go over there and take off your jackets,” she said. “Then bare your shoulders for me.”
She went to the front of the truck, set the bag on the jutting front bumper and unzipped it.
“What’s this all about?” Bolan asked.
The Russian agent took off her mittens and slipped on some latex gloves. Next, she removed three smaller packages and opened the first one, which contained a hypodermic syringe and a glass vial. She pressed the end of the needle into the rubber topping and drew some of the liquid into the syringe. After withdrawing the needle, she tapped the base of the syringe with her finger several times to eliminate any air bubbles.
“I don’t like the looks of this,” Case said.
“Neither do I,” Bolan said. “Nikita—”
She whirled toward them, her eyes flashing.
“Be quiet and do as I say,” she said. “You have all been exposed to a virulent strain of bubonic plague. If you are not inoculated immediately, you run the risk of dying a horrible death. Do you understand?”
Bolan and Case exchanged glances before the Executioner nodded and unzipped his parka. He pulled his left arm out of the heavy jacket, slipped it from the sleeve of his black BDU blouse and walked over to her.
She smiled slightly and plunged the syringe into the meaty part of his shoulder.
Bolan could feel the needle passing the liquid through his dermal layer. It felt like an injection of ice water.
After she finished depressing the plunger, she replaced the syringe and the vial in the bag and opened the second package.
Case moved forward and began to disrobe.
“Hey,” Grimaldi said, “no way you’re doing that to me. I got a thing about big needles.”
“Oh, Jack,” Kournikova said, pushing the needle into Case’s deltoid. “Stop being such a pussy cat and come over here.”
Grimaldi frowned then started to take off his parka. “FYI, that isn’t quite the right word, babe.”
“Oh?” she said. “I’ll let you explain the American slang to me later. Now hurry up before I make you drop your drawers and inject your buttocks instead.”
He grinned. “Since you’re gonna do it, that might be preferable.”
“In that case I would have Dimitri or Markov do the honors.”
Chapter Five
Th
e Alaskan Interior
It was still dark, but the horizon was changing to slate gray. Nikoloz Rokva suspected it would be the late sunrise in a few more hours. He stood on the edge of the airstrip and watched as Sergei, Udom and the others herded the cargo back into the plane.
His damn headache had not gone away. If anything, it had increased in intensity. They had stayed a bit longer than intended, but he had deemed it a necessary delay. In addition to the headache medication not helping at all, Rokva was feeling somewhat fatigued.
He glanced at his watch, which he had reset as soon as the harvested organs had been placed in the transportation containers. The best estimate was that they would remain viable for up to forty-eight hours. Little more than eight had already expired. That should leave plenty of time to deliver the shipment.
Most assuredly, Wladimir Igoshin had already given the tissue samples to Bram Patel so he could conduct the compatibility tests. They would be a bit rushed, but that was not his concern. The stuff could be moved into the marketplace quickly. It always was.
The black market stock pool of rich Canadians and Americans eager to replace their own failing organs by bypassing waiting lists was as dependable as the seasonal snow in Alaska. The clock was still ticking, but the Georgian was not troubled. If anything, he welcomed the time factor. It mandated the continuation of their forced march. And he wanted to stay one step ahead of the American pursuers, as well, although that problem would be eliminated shortly.
He motioned for Emil Burdin to join him.
The big Russian nodded, turning slightly and dropping the flask back into his pocket.
Rokva felt a flash of anger. Did the idiot think he would not see?
However, he decided to let it go. The pending task should be easily accomplished.
Intercept the American pursuers after they landed and kill them.
The only thing Burdin had to be cautious about was not damaging the damn plane. And if he did, he would be stranded here with no way to get out.
Rokva debated whether it would be simpler to just have Sergei kill Burdin and his men before they left and let the Americans search in vain for the plowed airstrip. But it was bad form to sacrifice so many pawns without initiating a countermeasure. He had no doubt already lost Denisov and his group back in Wales. Plus, there was no guarantee that the American’s plane would crash. Perhaps they would be able to land and refuel.
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