“So she’s looking for payback,” Bolan said. “Can I trust her?”
“She wants Twain,” Price said. “Wouldn’t you? But there’s no indication it has interfered with her work. There have been no disciplinary actions in her file since then, either, if it makes a difference to you.”
“I can understand.” The file was coming through on his phone. The digital photograph of Delaney showed an attractive red-haired woman with high cheekbones and green eyes. She had a small scar on her chin. According to the statistics appended to the file, she was five foot nine, with an athletic build. She’d twice won commendations for bravery in service to the Bureau. Bolan skipped the disciplinary flags; he wasn’t interested in the second-guessing of bureaucrats, who were only too happy to criticize after the fact the split-second, life-and-death decisions men and women of action were forced to make in the field.
“Delaney is en route and will meet you in—” Price paused to check something “—Kansas City. Jack tells me you’ll reach Eastern Iowa Airport momentarily, and that you plan to hit the facility in Kansas City after that?”
“That’s the plan,” Bolan said. “It’s the next logical location, geographically, on the priority list. Until something breaks free, I intend to keep the pressure on, keep blitzing Trofimov’s assets until he screams. I can’t verify the timing, though.”
“It shouldn’t matter,” Price said. “By the time you’re done in Iowa and moving to Kansas Delaney should get there not too much before you do.”
“We’ll make sure not to miss her. How much can I tell her?”
“While her interest is primarily Twain, the folks at the Bureau aren’t stupid,” Price said. “Hal chose to share some off-the-record intel with them. She’s going to be at least vaguely aware of the Trofimov connection. Officially, there’s no FBI interest in Trofimov, but unofficially you can bet they’re every bit as concerned about murderous, possibly even seditious actions taken by an American citizen to undermine the United States military. You know how much they have to dance around these days, pretending not to peer too closely into the lives of private citizens. There’s just been too much public outcry over things like the domestic wiretapping program, civil rights violations by Homeland Security, that sort of thing. The Bureau wants to know what Trofimov is up to as badly as we do, but they can’t admit it right now.”
“Meaning they’ll be happy to take the credit once I’ve found all the loose ends and burned them down,” Bolan said.
“Possibly,” Price admitted. “Hal will be only too happy to let them, too, given how the Sensitive Operations Group’s cover has to be kept out of the public eye. We can operate, at least partly, under the aegis of FBI ownership of this thing, if it plays out well.”
“It’s going to get ugly enough behind the scenes, once the body count grows. I assume Hal has worked the phones and okayed my involvement.”
“As usual,” Price said.
“All right, then,” Bolan said. “This Delaney can ride along. Make no mistake, though, Barb. I’m not going to let her get in my way. My priority is Trofimov and whatever programs he’s running to kill Americans and interfere with the military.”
“Understood,” Price said. “I doubt that will be a problem. You have goals in common. The implication here is, of course, that Twain and his people are working with Trofimov, and probably have been for some time.”
“Yes,” Bolan had agreed. “The activists, the amateurs with the guns, were obviously being run by someone else, and that someone in this case was apparently Kwok and whoever he works for. If Kwok is known to work for Gareth Twain, we likely have a winner. Twain is just the sort of gun for hire that someone like Trofimov would use. Given Twain’s history, and Trofimov’s deep pockets, it’s likely Trofimov is using Twain and his organization extensively.”
“Taking out Gareth Twain would do a lot of people a lot of good.”
“Don’t worry, Barb,” Bolan said. “I won’t leave anyone out. Anybody connected to Trofimov, everyone involved in the killings of U.S. service people and in Trofimov’s antimilitary operations, is going to answer for their crimes. What have you heard about this videotaped massacre TBT is shouting about?”
“Nothing beyond the reports so far,” Price replied. “We’re checking. So far our contacts within the armed forces are drawing blanks. The Pentagon is stonewalling, saying only that it will conduct a full investigation.”
“Which means they have no idea what’s going on.”
“Exactly,” Price said. “That’s the response they give when they’re caught flat-footed. So far, we have no confirmation of the incident itself, or even of the identities of the soldiers supposedly involved. The quality of the tape is poor. It’s going to be hard to get facial recognition, and the names on the soldiers’ uniforms are too blurry to be readable. Bear did uncover some data traffic indicating the Pentagon is trying to run some enhancement on the tapes, to get to the bottom of just who is doing what to whom. Nothing so far.”
“How bad is it?”
“Really bad, Striker,” Price said. “The foreign press is screaming bloody murder. Our own people are just as loud. The massacre is the talk of every cable news show, radio program and major network broadcast. It’s on every channel and it’s twenty-four hours a day.”
Bolan said nothing; his fists clenched in anger as he considered the implications. “All right. Let me know if anything changes.”
“Understood. Everything’s uploaded. You have all the data now,” Price said. Bolan checked his phone and confirmed that. “We’re still working on the phone number you gave us. It has several layers of redundant encryption protecting it. Bear has Akira running a back-end trace to try to find it through the network in which it’s hidden.”
“Understood,” Bolan repeated. Price was referring to Akira Tokaido, one of the Farm’s computer geniuses. “The fact that someone wanted the Patriotism Riders there, just to make sure they were killed with the others, is significant. It makes the whole thing that much bolder a statement, that much more horrible. It says a lot about the people we’re dealing with.”
“We’re on it,” Price said.
“Let me know if you find anything. I’ll see you when I see you.”
“Striker?” Price had asked.
“Yeah, Barb?”
“Be careful.”
“I will.”
The soldier had busied himself with cleaning his weapons, making sure to disassemble the Beretta and give it a thorough once-over. The usually gregarious Grimaldi was quiet, for the most part, content to let Bolan work through the operation in his mind.
Bolan reviewed the mission data on the site in Cedar Rapids. It wasn’t especially significant in terms of his priority list of targets, but it was the closest Trofimov asset. The type of operation Bolan was about to run was based on the notion of shaking the tree. You targeted the enemy’s assets, made a lot of noise, caused a lot of damage and then stood back to see what shook loose. Along the way, some of Trofimov’s secrets were bound to be exposed; the facilities, by definition, were somehow dirty, or the Farm’s cybernetics staff wouldn’t have ferreted them out as suspicious.
Trofimov’s reaction to Bolan’s incursions would tell the soldier, and by extension the Farm, everything he would need to know. Countless times, Bolan had marched willingly into the jaws of death to see what would try to bite him. This was no different.
The facility outside Cedar Rapids was ostensibly an assembly plant for DVD players. The parts were manufactured abroad, mostly in China, then imported and put together for domestic sale in the United States. The legal details were irrelevant to Bolan, but he was at least vaguely aware that such an arrangement allowed Trofimov to claim the devices were “made in the U.S.A.” while achieving the cost savings of foreign import manufacture. There were probably certain import restrictions that were also being circumvented.
What was important about this particular plant, according to reports Price had sent and the data
Kurtzman and his people had compiled, was that it had never made any money. Quite the contrary; when the financial records were traced all the way to their virtual conclusions, past several holding and front companies and through more than a few creative bookkeeping tricks, the plant consumed more money than it would if it were operating at a total loss. That meant it was burning through cash a lot faster than ever it could, even if Trofimov was building DVD players free of charge. While it wasn’t unheard-of for a large company to produce a commodity at a loss, to gain market share or build brand loyalty, the degree of financial drain in this case was staggering. It was far too much for the plant to be anything but a front for something else. Bolan intended to find out just what was being done behind the scenes.
When he knew that, he’d be a step closer to learning just who and what this Yuri Trofimov was, and why the man had chosen to make the United States his enemy. Bolan had no illusions. This wasn’t an investigation, nor was it a mystery. He wasn’t a detective. He was a soldier, and he was performing a soldier’s task.
Search and destroy.
CHAPTER FOUR
Yuri Trofimov sat at his desk as the makeup girl swabbed the last of the television makeup from his face. He favored her with a smile full of perfectly capped teeth. From his elaborately styled hair to his tailored suit to his spray-on tan, there was nothing about Yuri Trofimov that was not meticulously groomed, controlled and managed to effect. The man left nothing to chance, and he was very proud of that fact.
Swiveling in his chair, he took in the view from the window overlooking downtown Orlando. Several buildings, not quite as tall as his own TBT headquarters, were still under construction. He had never quite lost the joy he had felt as a boy, watching construction work, and there were times when he watched the cranes below slowly swiveling over the steel skeletons that were taking shape in the shadow of Trofimov’s own building. Downtown Orlando had been undergoing something of a commercial revitalization for some months now, though in these turbulent economic times it was anybody’s guess how long that would last.
There were precious few memories from his childhood that were pleasant ones. Growing up, he had believed he was destined for the navy. He had never known his father; his mother, little more than a prostitute who existed on the kindness of the many men she bedded, had hinted more than once that Yuri’s father had been a naval officer. Her indifference to him had set the tone for his early life. He was neither abused nor loved, neither cared for nor hated. The empty ache left him eventually, when he learned to substitute for it other, preferable emotions. Chief among these were anger and ambition.
Young Yuri Trofimov had a gift, he soon learned, when among his peers and even his teachers in school. He had a talent for influencing others, for captivating them with his stories and with the expression of his opinions. People cared about what Yuri Trofimov had to say. They cared about his opinions. They wished to hear him when he spoke. He learned, therefore, that he had power. With a taste of power came the desire for more.
As the infrastructure he had always taken for granted began to crumble, as the ships of the former Soviet navy began to rust in their docks and to sink from neglect, Trofimov gave up the last hopes he’d held of serving in that force. Already, his mind was alive with possibilities, with ways to use his talents both to enrich himself and to extend the power he believed was destined to be his. Power over his fellow men: that was Yuri Trofimov’s greatest goal, his greatest hope and his fundamental desire. He began to make plans.
When the time had come to leave the smoking ruins of what had once been proud Mother Russia, he had done so without looking back. Russia could do nothing more for him. The post–Cold War years hadn’t been kind to the once-powerful nation and, while the crime-infested world of business in Russia held certain attractions, the market was saturated. Better to move to the West, where untapped, unexploited markets still remained. Trofimov hated the West; he hated it for what it had done to his nation, for the Cold War that had denied Russia its once-proud destiny. He hated the strutting, arrogant Americans who believed they owned the world and could tell everyone within it how to live and what to do. But he also knew that the West was his best hope for achieving his still only vaguely defined personal goals. He swallowed his pride temporarily, which was the hardest thing of all.
The teenage Trofimov had managed to immigrate successfully to the United States, illegally at first, then legally, after a fashion, many years later. He found himself, almost to his surprise, in Florida, and there he realized that his ambition alone wouldn’t be enough. He needed contacts. He needed resources. It was all fine and good to know he could influence, control, even manipulate his fellow human beings. There were few enough opportunities to do so when one was penniless and homeless on the streets of an American city.
Trofimov, growing increasingly desperate, had prowled the streets of Miami, increasingly worried that he would find himself among the city’s population of street people before much longer. Then came the break he had sought, the opportunity he needed: he saw two men bullying a third, demanding money owed them.
He had crept up the alleyway until he was close enough to hear the conversation. The two men worked for a local loan shark. The third man owed a great deal of money. He grew increasingly combative as the two enforcers threatened him. It quickly became evident to Trofimov that these men were overmatched. The third man was bigger and appeared stronger. As Trofimov watched, the big man suddenly, with no warning whatsoever, punched one of the two enforcers square in the jaw. He kneed the second, dropping him. Breaking into a run, the third man hurried past the very spot where Trofimov stood.
He tripped him.
The big man hit the pavement of the alleyway. He struck his head as he fell. He was either dead or unconscious as Trofimov stood over him, checked his pockets and took his wallet.
“Hey, kid,” one of the enforcers said. It was the one who had taken a knee to the groin. “Gimme that wallet.”
Trofimov tossed the wallet to the man without hesitation, as if this had been his intent from the start. He regarded the enforcer coolly; the enforcer stared back. Finally the other man said, “What? What the hell you want?”
“I want a job,” Trofimov said.
The enforcer seemed to think about that for a moment. He looked down at the debtor and then back to his partner, who was slowly struggling to his feet. “What do you do?” he asked.
“Name it,” Trofimov had said.
The enforcer laughed. Eventually he nodded. “Come on, then.”
That had been the humble beginning from which Yuri Trofimov built his empire. He had at first worked his way up in the hierarchy of organized crime in Miami, learning the violent ropes. His talent for persuading people, his guile, his natural, snake-oil charm served him well. He moved up within the ranks. When he had enough support, when he had co-opted enough of the organization, he took it over from within, then fought a war with those who disagreed with his palace coup. Finally he ruled uncontested. He leveraged his money and his power into several legitimate enterprises; the boom in consumer electronics and the new Internet age helped him along the way.
When he had the time, he attended college. In business school he learned the formal terms behind what he had found through hard-won and bitter experience. Then, in journalism school, he found the true means of channeling his natural abilities. Always, he branched out, expanded, reinvested. His legitimate empire, on the backs of his criminal enterprises, became truly, remarkably, breathtakingly powerful.
He expanded from electronics into heavy industry, buying shares in the few Russian businesses that showed financial promise, greasing the wheels back home and in the United States with plenty of bribes. When he couldn’t use his power or his money to get what he wanted, he knew who to hire. He learned just how much was possible if one sought the services of armed, amoral men, the types of men who fought wars for hire, the types of men who could be counted on to take their money and quietly go about t
heir business. As his ties to such mercenaries deepened, his reach grew. Those who wouldn’t bend to the will of Yuri Trofimov often found themselves dead, victims of random street violence, presumed gang shootings or even open massacres whose perpetrators were never caught.
Always, Trofimov was careful to keep his own record, his own reputation, clean. He knew as well as anyone that the government of the United States had its suspicions, but was hamstrung by its own rules. For all its tough talk about homeland security, its posturing and its saber rattling, it didn’t have the killer instinct it needed to deal with the likes of Yuri Trofimov. Thus he would continue his work, under their very noses. They would be able to prove nothing. They would never be able to assign to Trofimov the blame for the storm that was to come.
Eventually he bought his United States citizenship. It was easy enough—a bribe here, a favor there, the gentle application of political power over there. He followed the models established by other businessmen before him, never reinvented the wheel if he didn’t have to do so. When TBT and its news network finally burst on the scene, Trofimov was more than prepared to take market share by giving his viewers what they wanted. He traded in the sensational, the outrageous, the bloody, the messy. Always, his hatred of the West came through, and it tapped the streak of self-destructive, self-loathing guilt some of his now-fellow Americans seemed to feel about themselves and their nation.
For many men, this would have been enough. Riches. Influence. Swaying the cultural pendulum and affecting the collective consciousness of the most powerful nation in the world.
Yuri Trofimov wasn’t most men.
He wouldn’t be truly satisfied until the United States, the embodiment of the hated West, suffered as his homeland had suffered. Only when the arrogant United States knew the pain of losing its military might abroad, only when the miserable United States was humiliated on the international stage as the Soviet Union and later Russia had been, only when the United States military—the truncheon with which the Americans beat all around them—was utterly disgraced would Yuri Trofimov be truly satisfied.
Don Pendleton Page 4