Cold Fury

by Don Pendleton

  But something else was a bit troubling.

  The sickness seemed to be affecting more of the cargo. Several of them were vomiting into the paper bags. He was certain that it was the plague, and while he had little concern about the disease causing harm to him or Sergei, the outward physical condition of the future organ donors could affect the deal. Bram Patel might be reticent if he sensed some major illness in this human fodder. It would be better to keep them out of sight until the money had been procured. The cash payment he would insist upon. But that would necessitate another call on the satellite phone.

  Would that add more risk at this point?

  Rokva traced his fingers over the growing stubble around his mouth as he considered the options.

  It was probably unlikely that the Americans and their SVR compatriots had survived the ambush, or that they had notified anyone in Canada of the unfolding situation. He had taken the additional precaution of discarding his old satellite phone for another one he’d previously stored at the fort. There was no way they could monitor this new number or its usage. Or could they? This was apparently how they had tracked him before. Perhaps their telemetry was more advanced than he knew. It was a possible variable he would have to consider.

  The moaning sound of someone weeping drifted through the cabin and interrupted his thoughts.

  “Be quiet,” he said in a stern voice. “We are on the last leg of our journey. Freedom and a new life await you shortly.” He smiled to himself. A quick death was the reality, but they didn’t need to know that. Let the poor wretches have their last fleeting dreams of hope.

  “Just remember,” he continued, “if you appear sick when we land and when you see your new employers, your chances of getting a job will be lessened. Significantly lessened. Remember that.”

  Murmurs of assent emanated from the group and Rokva was satisfied. They would no doubt be on their best behavior, trying to look eager and healthy, and holding back their puking and defecating in the hope that the riches of western employment and a new life would be within their grasp.

  Canada... America... Two countries where the streets were paved with gold. At least that was the bullshit these poor idiots had been fed. They believed what they were told and, in a way, it was true. There was wealth aplenty to be had. Just not by them.

  He took out his new satellite phone.

  Over the Gulf of Alaska

  Bolan once again found himself settled into the copilot’s seat next to Grimaldi, but this time the flight was a lot smoother and quieter. The Learjet had been standing ready and waiting, just as predicted, and there were also fresh supplies, ammunition and clothing aboard. He’d allowed Grimaldi to change into fresh clothes first and then offered some to Dimitri and Kournikova. They’d taken turns freshening up in the plane’s small lavatory, but it was no substitute for a shave and a shower.

  Bolan’s reflection in the mirror had showed a dark, heavy stubble, but no razor had been included in the supplies. The new underwear and socks felt great, and since they were heading south into the Pacific Northwest region of Canada, he was able to dispense with some of the underlying layers that had been necessary in Alaska.

  He had a few misgivings about leaving their handcuffed prisoner in the main cabin with Dimitri also there, but Kournikova had assured Bolan that it would be all right. She seemed to have Dimitri on a tight leash, although the death of their partner, Markov, had understandably affected them both.

  But Bolan and Grimaldi had history with the Russian agent, and knew she was eminently capable. That also contributed to an innate wariness on Bolan’s part. She was SVR all the way. Her ultimate loyalty was to Mother Russia, and Bolan began to wonder if push came to shove, would she have any compunction about dispatching anyone who might stand in the way of her completing the mission, including Grimaldi and him. Maybe she would hesitate, maybe not. He hoped he wouldn’t have to find out. For now they had a mutually beneficial alliance, at least until Rokva and his crew were caught.

  His new satellite phone buzzed and he saw Hal Brognola’s number.

  “I assume you guys took off okay?” Brognola asked. “How were the accommodations?”

  “Great. Thanks. Were you able to find out anything regarding our buddy, Nikoloz Rokva?”

  “Could be. There’s no record of a Learjet flying into that area of Alaska in the last twenty-four hours either from Canada or the US.” Brognola paused. “However, a Canadian company did file a flight plan for travel up to the Yukon to the Dawson City airfield using a Learjet. Want to take a guess as to their name?”

  “Universal Exports?”

  Brognola’s chuckle was short and deep. “You got it. Well, they never arrived in Dawson City. Instead, they stopped at Erik Nielsen Whitehorse International Airport for refueling, and service, and then took off.”

  “Is that pretty close to Alaska?”

  “Practically kissing cousins. And a hop, skip and jump from good old Fort Misery.”

  “That fits,” Bolan said. “According to our prisoner, it’s Rokva’s way of bypassing any customs inspection when they land at Vancouver International. There’s no official flight record of them having been out of the country.”

  “Speaking of Fort Misery...” Brognola said. “The Alaskan authorities were none too happy with the mess you guys left up there—a bunch of dead bodies and a couple of wrecked aircraft. I’m having to pull a lot of strings lately to play cover-up.”

  “It couldn’t be helped. Hot pursuit and all.”

  “Ha, ha. Appropriate choice of words to go with the charred bodies.”

  “Like I said, it couldn’t be helped.”

  “That’s the line I’m taking,” Brognola said. “But word has it that you’ve also got some unauthorized foreign visitors with you. What’s the story with that?”

  “Russian SVR,” Bolan said. “We’re working together.”

  “Can you trust them?”

  “I think so. We’ve worked with one of them before and she’s a straight shooter.”

  “Just make sure to check which way she’s aiming.”

  “I will,” Bolan said. “But that’s the way we have to play it for now. Remember what we’re dealing with.”

  Brognola sighed. “Yeah, yeah, I know. I got the CDC’s special hotline number on my speed dial. I’m just feeling like I’ve been jumping through so many hoops to pull all the necessary strings for you lately that it’s going to take some highfalutin’ explaining if things go bad.”

  “Then we’ll have to see that they don’t,” Bolan said.

  After a momentary silence, Brognola asked, “You gonna be able to catch them?”

  Bolan checked his watch. The new day was only a half hour old. “We shouldn’t be too far behind them now. And according to Jack, we’re making better time than they are because we’re flying over water with a tail wind, while they’re inland changing altitude to go over the mountains. We’re hoping to be there by 0500. We are going to need some help in Vancouver. Were you able to line anything up?”

  “Yeah, they have a special task force working human trafficking up there. I got a call in to them to intercept the plane at the airport.”

  Bolan weighed the wisdom of that, but decided that if Rokva and his people could be contained there, it might be the best plan. Besides the possibility of a pandemic, there were also the lives of the hostages, all women and children, to consider.

  “Just make sure they know what they’re dealing with,” he said. “These guys play rough, and there’s that plague factor.”

  “I let them know,” Brognola said. “Touch base with me when you land, and Godspeed.”

  Over British Columbia

  Nikoloz Rokva felt the vibration of his satellite phone as it jarred him awake. He’d been slumbering in one of the comfortable seats.

  “Boss, is this you?” It was Wladimir Igoshin, his man
on the ground in Vancouver.

  “Yes,” Rokva said, wondering what was wrong. The other man’s voice was laced with panic. “What is it?”

  “The airport here. It’s full of cops. They are everywhere. And they have been asking about your plane and when it will arrive.”

  Damn. Somehow his pursuers had set up a surprise move of their own. It had to mean that Galkin and Udom had failed. Failed miserably. But how had the Americans found out about the Learjet, and the plans to land at the Vancouver airport? Someone had evidentially been captured alive and had talked. That undoubtedly meant that the SVR was definitely involved. Did this also mean that the warehouse location in the city had also been revealed? But neither Galkin nor Udom could provide a valid address. Still, proper precautions would have to be taken. Perhaps the tenuous alliance his organization had recently formed with the Vancouver bikers would come in handy, after all. But he did not like the thought, or the expense, of cutting them in.

  He took in a deep breath. The most pressing and immediate problem was what to do about the airport. They were the epitome of vulnerability in this flying tin can in the sky. They would eventually have to land, and had only a limited amount of fuel left. However, like a true master chess player, he had something held in abeyance for just such an occurrence. It would add some time to their journey, but not enough to matter.

  “Did you locate a doctor to do the extractions?” Rokva asked.

  “‘A doctor...’” Igoshin repeated. “Well, not exactly.”

  “And what does that mean? I told you to have the motorcycle idiots find us someone, did I not?”

  “Yes, boss.”

  “Well?”

  “They have someone. But he is...”

  “He is what?” The Georgian felt his fury building.

  “Uh...he is a...” Igoshin snorted a nervous laugh. “He works in a butcher shop. But he was once a medic in the army. He—”

  “Shut your damn mouth.” Rokva considered this development. What was the difference between a doctor and a butcher when you were talking about harvesting organs? Perhaps he would be able to do the job with more alacrity. And then the disappearance of a lowly butcher would be more easily forgotten than that of a doctor. “He will do. They are bringing him to the warehouse?”

  “Yes.”

  “Tell them to make sure he is cleaned up and looks the part.”

  “Yes, boss.”

  “Now, listen very carefully. Take the men and the trucks and leave immediately. But do it in an inconspicuous manner. I am going to make arrangements to land at the Wright private airfield outside the city.”

  “‘Outside the city,’” Igoshin repeated.

  The repetition angered the Georgian, but now was not the time to berate the simpleton.

  “Yes, that is correct,” Rokva said, speaking with slow deliberation. “We have a standing agreement with them to use their field, so this will not be a problem. Take the men and the trucks there to meet us in about forty minutes.”

  “‘Take the men and th—’”

  “Do not repeat what I have told you,” he said, his voice rising. “Just do it. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, boss. We will be there.”

  “Have someone from the motorcycle gang begin a surveillance of the warehouse.”

  “I can have some of our men do that.”

  “No. Let the bikers do it. They will draw less attention if the authorities are looking for Russians.”

  “Oh, yes. I understand.”

  Rokva looked over the cargo once more. “Do we have extra transport containers for the organs at the warehouse?”

  “Yes, boss.”

  “We will need twenty-two of them.”

  The mafiya captain waited for the idiot to repeat the last instructions again. When he didn’t, it eased the sense of frustration that he felt. “And one more thing. Do not make a show of leaving the airport. Be as inconspicuous as you can, so as not to attract any undue attention.”

  “Got it.”

  Rokva figured that his orders had been clear enough. Wasting more time reaffirming them would serve no purpose. He terminated the call and looked at his watch as he hurried to the cockpit. It was nearly four o’clock. Unlike Alaska, it would be getting light here soon, perhaps in another three hours.

  Sergei was suddenly behind him.

  “What is going on?”

  “The police are at the airport.”

  Sergei’s forehead furrowed. “They know about us?”

  “We must operate on that assumption. I am going to instruct Oleg to change course. We will land at the private Wright airfield. Wladimir will meet us there with the trucks.”

  “That is my Nikoloz. Always anticipating, always ready with another plan, if one goes bad. Just like the master chess player.”

  Yes, Rokva thought. He is correct. I am the master.

  Chapter Eleven

  Vancouver International Airport

  As Bolan made his way down the stairs from the Learjet, he saw a contingent of uniformed men in winter jackets and fur caps standing by the large, open, overhead door of the hangar. Several of them held patrol carbines and all had holstered sidearms. Two men in plainclothes stood off to the side, but in front of the group.

  Grimaldi appeared at the opening.

  “Looks like the RCMP is here,” he said. “I wonder if any of them know Dudley Do-Right?”

  “Do me a favor and don’t ask them,” Bolan said. He motioned for Grimaldi to send out the others.

  Nikita Kournikova came down first, carrying their heavily laden backpacks, followed by Dimitri, holding the handcuffed Mikhal Valunski by the arm. Grimaldi had both packs containing his and Bolan’s weapons.

  As they started toward the hangar, the Executioner removed his faux Matt Cooper DOJ credentials and motioned for Grimaldi to get his ready.

  The two plainclothes officers came out of the shelter of the hangar and approached. One of them, a tall, rugged-looking guy with a trace of steel gray in his short-cropped dark hair, extended his hand.

  “I’m Sergeant Bill Sharp, Royal Canadian Mounted Police,” he said. “This is my partner on the task force, Sergeant John Eldridge.”

  Bolan shook the man’s hand and held up his ID. “Agent Matt Cooper, United States Department of Justice.”

  “And who are they?” Eldridge asked. He was slightly shorter than Sharp, and a bit younger. His hair was dark and well coiffed, with a well-kept mustache gracing his upper lip. They both looked like they could handle themselves in a fight.

  Before Bolan could reply, Grimaldi said, “Hey, you a Mountie, too?”

  “Vancouver Police.” Eldridge started to speak again, but Grimaldi cut him off once more.

  “I don’t suppose Sergeant Preston is working, is he?”

  “Who?” Eldridge said.

  “He’s busy up in the Yukon,” Sharp said with a wry smile. “And might I ask you about Sergeant Joe Friday?”

  “Dum-de-dum-dum,” Grimaldi said, grinning. “Just the facts.”

  “If you’re through clowning around,” Eldridge said, “we’d like a little cooperation. We’ve been standing by here for the past two hours on orders to intercept some Learjet containing Russian mafiya and hostages, but none has arrived.”

  “We appreciate your help,” Bolan said. “We’ve been chasing these guys for the past thirty-six hours or so, and the stakes are pretty high.”

  “So I’ve been told,” Eldridge said. “But first, I asked about the rest of your party, especially the fellow who’s wearing the bracelets.”

  “We are special envoys of the Russian government,” Kournikova said, opening a passport that had “Diplomatic Status” printed across the top edge above her picture.

  Eldridge and Sharp exchanged a glance then Sharp pointed toward Valunski. “Do all yo
ur diplomats wear handcuffs, or has he been naughty?”

  “This man is our prisoner,” she said. “We are taking him back to Russia with us, but first he has agreed to lead us to the criminals we have been pursuing.”

  The two Canadians said nothing, apparently taking all of this in.

  “Look,” Bolan said, “we’re wasting time. You say the Learjet you were sent here to intercept never arrived?”

  Eldridge gestured toward the armed contingent of officers. “We had our Emergency Response Team ready for them, but so far, nothing. The air traffic controllers had them on a radar approach about two hours ago, but then they dropped off. They changed course and turned around, then we lost them. We’ve been trying to figure out exactly where they went.”

  Bolan turned to Mikhal Valunski. “What about it? Any ideas?”

  The Russian blew out a heavy breath. “I need to go to the bathroom. And take these damn handcuffs off so that I can think.”

  Bolan asked where the closest washroom was and Eldridge pointed to the hangar, motioning one of the uniforms over.

  “I will take him,” Dimitri said, stepping forward. He gripped Valunski’s upper right arm until the man grimaced and stood on his tiptoes.

  “Somehow I don’t think that’s such a good idea,” Eldridge said.

  “He is our prisoner,” Dimitri said. “A Russian national. You will not touch him.”

  Eldridge raised an eyebrow. “This may come as a bit of a surprise to you, my friend, but you’re not in Moscow now. This is our turf.”

  Dimitri stared at the Canadian police officer without saying anything.

  “Have one of your men go with them,” Bolan suggested. “We need his cooperation to find that plane.”

  Eldridge compressed his lips, then called over one of his men and told him to escort the two Russians to the hangar lavatory.

  “But first,” he said, “I’ll take charge of that big pistol you’ve got under your blouse on the right side.”