Kazak shook his head. “You don’t know what it is like. I’m puking my guts out.”
“Perhaps a bit more vodka then,” Rokva said with a smile, replacing the spectacles on his face.
His own symptoms had been troubling him when they’d landed that morning, and it seemed to have spread among the men, as well. Even Sergei, who was like a piece of iron, had passed on any female companionship at this stop, mentioning that he felt queasy. Some of the human cargo was showing signs of this malaise, too, but for now it was limited to some nausea and diarrhea. Luckily these accommodations could handle a bit of an overflow of that nature. There was plenty of room.
Rokva had used the time delay of the refueling stopover as an opportunity to allow everyone to rest, especially his pilots. He himself had ended up sleeping a few more hours than he’d intended. It was now nearing late afternoon and the end of the sparse period of daylight, but the flu-like symptoms that had inflicted him and Sergei had vanished after the rest period. He took that as a positive sign and felt that his good fortune and luck had not deserted him, despite not hearing anything more from Emil Burdin. That meant that the drunken oaf had either forgotten to call or text, or that he’d been either captured or was dead. He felt strongly that it was most likely the latter. Burdin would have been eager to toot his own horn if he had killed the Americans.
No, he had most likely been defeated. Whether he was still alive, and able to give them any information, was the only pertinent question. Well, perhaps there was another. Exactly who were these redoubtable pursuers? They obviously had an extensive knowledge of Russian, too, judging from the earlier texting. No one who was not fluent with the language could have responded so quickly and so well.
A worthy set of opponents.
It also meant that the second gambit he had played using Burdin had failed.
I sent a pawn when I should have sent a knight, after all, he thought. But who else could I have risked?
Certainly not Sergei. Aleksi Galkin and Fedor Udom remained as his second-tier echelon. Both were capable, but both were also smart enough to know when they were being abandoned. He would have to plan this next move more carefully, not only to achieve victory but also to avoid internal discord within his own ranks. It was just like the military planning that he had done when in the army.
Then it hit him. The army. The inoculations Sergei and he and the others had received during their military time. That was why they were affected but had recovered so quickly. Inoculations for everything from hepatitis to tuberculosis to smallpox to plague...
Plague. Bubonic plague.
The classified file he’d read while in military intelligence had mentioned plans to continue a surreptitious program of bio-weaponization by using captured Chechen POWs. Rokva had left the military soon after the war ended. So the supply of those human guinea pigs would have most likely dried up once the shooting stopped. Grabbing some Ukrainians from that short-lived fracas would have been another possibility, although that ground action was mostly kept low-key. Other than Crimea, not much new territory or indigenous personnel would have been available for research.
That left only one segment where such experimentation could have continued without any notice or concern: the gulags. They provided an unending supply of human fodder that no one cared about. And that had been Rokva’s last stop on this little venture.
He recalled the symptoms he’d read about detailing the onset of the plague.
Headaches, vomiting, diarrhea, often containing blood...
It fit perfectly with the symptoms the men from the gulag had exhibited on the boat. That most likely meant that the organs harvested would have been infected with the plague bacteria. That would render them useless. And the women and children had been with them in the hold of the ship. Most likely they were now infected, as well.
He swore then reconsidered. This would only be a factor if the symptoms asserted themselves and were noticed by the organ buyers. If another harvest could be achieved now, he would have a full crop of organs to bring to the market, and then be gone if and when the diseased parts were discovered.
Kazak began retching again. From the smell of him, the fat bastard had also soiled his pants. There was no way he would be able to complete a second harvest now. They would need another doctor. That meant a bit of preparation would be required.
Rokva looked at his satellite phone. He’d kept it off and disassembled during the flight and while he’d been sleeping. When he’d awoken, he’d reactivated it and searched for the call or text message from Burdin. When he failed to find anything, he’d assumed the worst about his wayward pawn and turned off the phone for fear of possibly alerting the Americans to his new location. But now he had to make a decision. Remain incommunicado in the hope of finding a person suitable to perform the organ harvest when he arrived in Vancouver? Or call to set things in motion so the harvest could be started more quickly?
The ticking clock dictated that it must be the latter.
“Please, Nikoloz.” Kazak looked up from his kneeling position over the bucket. “Get me to a hospital now. I need treatment.”
Rokva made his decision. He turned the phone on and watched it power up.
“Nikoloz...are you going to help me” More of the bloody mucous dribbled from the doctor’s caked mustache. “Or not?”
“Of course I am.” He reached for the Tokarev holstered on his belt, withdrew it and pointed it at the kneeling man’s forehead.
The sharp report, even in the expansive latrine area, deafened him for a moment. He replaced the pistol in its holster.
Moments later Sergei came running in holding his own Tokarev. He looked around the room, focusing on his old friend and then on the twisted body of Boris Kazak.
“I see we are going to need a new doctor when we get to Vancouver,” Sergei said.
Rokva’s hearing had returned to normal, except for a slight buzzing in his ears.
“Yes.” He held up the phone. “I am going to see to that now. Has the Learjet arrived?”
“Yes,” Sergei said. “Looking as pretty as an American movie star’s naked ass.”
The mafiya captain nodded and began to dial the phone.
It was time for a new gambit.
Inuit Village
The Alaskan Interior
Bolan was surprised at how good he felt as he got dressed. After giving him his satellite phone, Nikita Kournikova had slipped out the door, if you could call it that. It was more of a wood-framed rectangular opening covered with several dangling animal skins. Nevertheless, it did a pretty good job of keeping the cold out and the heat generated by the smoldering fire in. He pulled on the various layers of garments, now dry and radiating warmth, and then his parka and stocking cap. His MP-5, utility belt and Beretta 93-R were lying next to the bed. After checking the weapons, Bolan slipped on the belt and slung the submachine gun over his shoulder.
As he moved to the opening, he turned on the sat phone and watched it come to life. The battery charge was dangerously low. He estimated that he had perhaps fifteen minutes of power left, but there were no handy outlets to recharge it here. Bolan recalled glimpsing some generators in the logging camp as they’d conducted their brief flyover.
He pushed through the hanging obstructions and emerged into the frigid air. It was still daylight out, but just barely. Only a portion of the sun remained over the western horizon. Bolan wasted little time in dialing Kurtzman’s number.
It rang several times with no answer.
Great, he thought. What a time to be without communication.
Then his phone rang. He brought it to his ear. “Aaron?”
“Not quite,” said Hal Brognola, director of the Sensitive Operations Group based at the Farm. “The Bear’s hibernating, under my orders. He’s been going nonstop since you guys took off for Seattle, which was some forty or so hours ago.�
�
Bolan blew out a heavy breath. The cold air felt invigorating.
“Yeah, I figured as much,” he said. “He okay?”
“Yeah. You know Aaron,” Brognola said. “Tough as they come. He doesn’t rest much when you guys are in the field. Speaking of which, where the hell are you?”
Bolan looked around. “Right now we’re in an Inuit village somewhere in central Alaska.”
“I take it you’re still chasing the bad guys?”
“We are, and I was hoping that Aaron could give us some help figuring out where to head next. He was monitoring the transmissions from their sat phone and using that to give us the locations.”
“Okay, I’ll go wake him.” Brognola snorted “He’s probably lying awake with his eyes closed, pretending to be asleep anyway. Call you back in fifteen.”
“Hal, I’m almost out of juice. There’s no way I can recharge this thing right now.”
“Marvelous,” Brognola said. “Turn it off and I’ll make the call-back in exactly fifteen.”
“Make it twenty. I’ve got to grab Jack to see if we can get this plane we borrowed operational. Striker out.”
Bolan shut off the phone. Glancing at his watch, he saw it was nearing 1700. That meant Nikoloz Rokva had probably gained an insurmountable lead on them. If his group had kept going during the logging camp firefight, the chances of catching up to him were probably slim.
He heard a masculine-sounding shriek, followed by a woman’s laughter. That of two women, in fact, and it was coming from the hut about ten yards away. As Bolan moved toward the hut’s doorway, he heard a masculine voice yelling.
Grimaldi had apparently awakened.
Bolan pulled back the covering and pushed through the opening. The interior was very similar to the hut he’d been in, except this fire provided a bit more ambient lighting in addition to the oil-burning lamps.
Grimaldi stood next to a bed made of padding and animal skins. He was totally naked and held his hands over his groin. A heavyset, very wrinkled, very naked Inuit woman in the bed was rolling the skins back from her torso, a wide smile crinkling her face.
Nikita Kournikova stood on the other side of the fire, laughing.
Bolan couldn’t help but chuckle, as well. “Am I interrupting something?” he asked.
Grimaldi’s head whipped around and his eyes widened when he saw Bolan.
“Damn. I thought I was trapped in a nightmare,” he said. “But if you’re here, this has to be real.”
“If you’re done with your recreation,” Bolan said, “I’d like to see what kind of condition that plane is in.”
“Yes, Jack,” the Russian agent said. “If you are finished, that is.”
The Inuit woman grabbed Grimaldi’s leg to help hoist herself to her feet. He jerked back and more laughter erupted from her. She stood and began gathering her garments, which were laid out next to the bed. Grimaldi was standing on part of the pile and she slapped his bare buttocks.
Grimaldi jumped. “Hey, watch it.”
“You might want to put your clothes on, too, Jack,” Nikita said. “It is cold outside.”
Grimaldi started to say something but changed his mind. “Please leave.”
The Inuit woman was fully dressed now and began moving toward the doorway. Kournikova followed, saying, “I had Dimitri and Markov go the logging camp to look for fuel. They should be back soon.” Her eyes swept over Grimaldi’s nude, shivering form and she winked before stepping through the opening.
The pilot stooped down and began grabbing his clothes.
“What the hell happened?” he asked as he started to dress.
“We had reactions to the inoculations Nikita gave us,” Bolan said. “After keeping us from crashing, you were down for the count. We moved you into the trees and had a little encounter with the Russians.”
“Yeah, well, that still doesn’t explain how I ended up in bed with—” He paused and stared at Bolan. “Hey, you aren’t gonna tell anybody about this, are you?”
“Your secret’s safe with me,” Bolan said. “Let’s just hope she’s not the kind who kisses and tells.”
Grimaldi’s face tightened.
“Relax, Jack,” Bolan said. “We both were delirious and battling hypothermia. It was the only way to keep us warm so we could recover.”
Grimaldi frowned. “Us?” he said. “Don’t tell me you got the same treatment.”
Bolan didn’t answer.
“Man, I need a shower and a shave,” he said. “You check in with Bear?”
“He’s going to call back soon. My sat phone’s about out of juice.”
“Mine’s probably deader than a doornail.” Grimaldi grabbed his parka and started patting the pockets. After feeling the phone, he removed it and checked, then shook his head. “I don’t suppose they have any charging stations anywhere around here, do they?”
Bolan shook his head.
“Figures.” Grimaldi slipped the parka on and put the phone in his pocket.
“Your SIG’s by the door,” Bolan said as he moved toward the opening.
Grimaldi patted his side and then rolled his eyes as he took off the heavy coat and moved to retrieve his utility belt and weapon.
As Bolan thrust the skins aside and once again stepped out into the icy coldness, he took stock of the village. It consisted of a smattering of huts, maybe seventeen to twenty, some larger than others, clustered together. A low wall had been constructed along one side of the encampment; the gray stones jutting from the blanket of packed snow covering the ground. Numerous frameworks holding everything from spears and tools to drying animal skins to dangling hunks of meat were interspersed between the wood, mud and skin structures. A group of dogs was tethered in front of another smaller shelter and several gnawed on some animal bones.
People sat around burning fires, and several tall totem poles had been erected along the camp’s outer border. Bolan saw Kournikova conversing with two men and a young woman. He walked over to them. They stopped talking as he approached and the larger of the two men smiled broadly.
“Ah, the man-wolf has awakened” he said. His swarthy face looked like dried leather and traces of a sporadic gray mustache lined his upper lip. Sparse whiskers populated his chin and cheeks. Under the hood of the parka, Bolan could see the man’s bushy hair was white. “Welcome.”
“This is the chief,” Kournikova said. “You may call him Samson.”
Bolan nodded to the man. “Thank you for saving us and for bringing us here.”
The chief shook his head. “It was at the direction of the Great Spirit. I had a vision that you would come.” He pointed to a large pole with carved faces and figures in an ascending design. It had been colored and dyed in various brightly colored hues. The uppermost carving, depicting a bird with its wings open in flight, was black.
“As the snow approached, I looked at the sky and suddenly a raven flew from the top of that totem. It was a sign that a great warrior was coming to do battle for us, and then I knew. The bad men that you killed had terrorized us for many months.” The chief paused and raised his arms. “We avoided them because they had powerful rifles. We had no way to fight back. My people asked me what we must do. It was then that I had my vision and told them not to worry. That you would come.”
“How long have they been here?” Bolan asked.
“Many months. They came first in airplanes with supplies and tools, to the old logger mill. The airplanes came and went many times.” Samson’s face puckered in disgust. “We had won a great battle to have that place closed down. A battle that was not fought with spears and guns. My daughter—” he pointed to indicate the woman standing next to them “—has great knowledge of your ways, and she won a great victory in your courts and made the loggers leave. And then, last year, the others came. The Russians.”
“Actually,�
�� the woman said, “I’m a lawyer. I live in Fairbanks. It’s been a while since I’ve been back here.”
“Too long,” Samson said.
“Were you aware that the Russians had moved in there?” Bolan asked.
She shook her head. “Like I said, I hadn’t been here in a while. When we finally did come back last week, my father told me about them. I was horrified.”
“How did you get here?”
“There’s no easy way. A bush pilot dropped us off about ten miles from here. There’s a small airport. We rented snowmobiles to drive here.”
“Did you have any conversation with the Russians?” Bolan asked.
She shook her head. “We were afraid to approach them.”
“That is my shame,” Samson said. “We stood and watched, waiting for the right time, faithful that our warrior would come. And you did.”
“They won’t bother you anymore,” Bolan said.
“Thanks to the man-wolf.” Samson reached out and patted Bolan’s shoulder. “Our warrior.”
“You said you were watching them. Did you see some of them leave in an airplane before we got here?”
The older man nodded.
“Do you remember how many left on that plane?”
Samson called out to one of the young men standing a dozen or so feet away. The man came over and the chief asked a question in their native language. After a bit more conversation, he turned back to Bolan.
“There were eight men with guns, and twenty-one others. All women and small ones.”
Twenty-one hostages, Bolan thought. For lack of a better term. All bound for the slaughterhouse.
The younger Inuit said something. Bolan looked to the chief.
“He says that there could have been more men in the plane,” Samson said. “He is not certain.”
Bolan nodded his thanks to the young man.
Grimaldi strolled up to them. Before he could speak, the buzzing sounds of small engines became audible. Two snowmobiles appeared at the edge of the camp. They were towing three more vehicles.
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