“It could already have been dropped. Who’s to say that they didn’t split the ordnance along the way?” Bear asked.
“No one, but think about it. Even if they were met en route, if you were an Estonian, would you trust a couple of kids to deliver a payload like that? Another thing—the reason they used the band in the first place was because they didn’t want to risk putting too many men in. They only used the minimum number to track Manus. They haven’t got men on the ground...
“The nuke’s either there or en route. And it’s my job to stop it.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
As he drove north, Bolan considered the position of Freedom Right. Politically and ideologically, he didn’t care; their geographical position was much more urgent.
Estonia was an aggressively developing country, but it had little in the way of mineral wealth, which made it vulnerable. Especially as it was bordered by Latvia and Russia, countries that had an abundance of minerals, and could impose their will if it became relevant.
Finland and Sweden bordered Estonia on the west and north. At one point, Estonia had spent centuries as a part of Sweden before spending most of the twentieth century annexed to the Soviet empire. It had been a slave state for much of its existence and had only recently been able to once again assert itself. That might explain a lot about groups such as Freedom Right.
Easy access to Scandinavia meant that Bolan’s theory was the most likely method of attack.
Yet easy access from Russia was what concerned him. The Russian president would be livid that his men had not recovered the ordnance from the bunker. If Bolan and Stony Man knew who was responsible—to the extent of being able to narrow down their location to a quarter-mile radius—then it was a certain bet that the Russian military and intelligence services weren’t far behind. And they had the ability to put men on the ground quickly and with greater numbers and speed than the soldier could hope to achieve.
He was up against more than one clock: not just the countdown to Sundby’s trial but also the ticking time bomb that was the Russian president’s chagrin.
* * *
VELIO KROSS WAS FURIOUS. Andrus would not be pleased when the message was relayed. Velio paused outside the room where the Freedom Right leader was sitting with the two Norwegians, running them through their battle plan. Velio’s hesitation was partly to compose himself and partly to listen.
Through the plain wood door he could hear Andrus patiently explaining to the young men the route they would take, and where they would rendezvous with the contact. Arvo would accompany them, riding shotgun and ensuring that their lack of experience did not lead them into trouble along the way.
Velio grinned. Trouble was exactly what Arvo would lead them into. And then...
He knocked and entered. The two Norwegians looked expectantly at him, while his leader let a frown of annoyance flicker across his hawklike brow before masking it as the two young men turned back to him. He excused himself at Velio’s raised eyebrow and left them to contemplate their mission.
“Well?” he snapped when he had closed the door. “You know I didn’t want to be interrupted. God knows it’s hard enough to get anything into their heads, but—”
“You’ll want to know this, though you won’t thank me for it,” Velio interrupted before detailing what had happened to the men dispatched to find and secure Manus. The terrorist group’s inside man had gained full access to the report, even to the extent of knowing Manus was now in secure custody.
Andrus gritted his teeth in anger. “How much does this idiot know?”
Velio shook his head. “Very little. About as much as those two cretins in there, probably a lot less. Milan and Seb would keep things on need-to-know, and they were just using Manus for accommodations. I doubt he even knew much about the bunker until they took him there. He is not the problem.”
Andrus nodded. “True. Who are these men who are ruining our plans at every turn? If they are Americans, then are they CIA or black ops of some kind? And just how many of them are there?”
“Our man can tell us nothing. There is no official conformation of nationality and no record of any personnel liaising with Norwegian forces. It’s like they are shadows, and only we can see them.”
“They are more than shadows, and they are a king-size pain in the ass. If we are going to carry out our mission with real effectiveness, then we at least need those two idiots to look like they are going to achieve their objective.”
For the first time since the news had reached him, Velio allowed himself a small smile. “They really have no notion of what is going on?”
Andrus shook his head. “They are like children. Particularly stupid children, at that...just like that scumbag Russian president...”
“It’s the last thing he will expect.”
“Exactly. That is why we must press ahead and disregard the threat the Americans may pose. They have been an irritant, but they have not yet completely deflected us from our plan. As long as we can keep them focused on Oslo, then they may yet be obstructive enough to the Norwegians to actually aid us.”
“Very good. I shall tell our man in Oslo not to worry.”
“Indeed...but send a three-man team to stand at his shoulder. I should hate it if we could not get that fool released—or eliminated—before he opens his stupid mouth too far. I wonder if the Americans are still hunting fruitlessly around Oslo, like the Norwegians?”
“Of course they will be—they have no reason to suspect anything.”
* * *
BOLAN ARRIVED IN TALLINN exhausted after his drive. He had a directory of hotels in the capital on his smartphone and picked the closest one to the P.O. Box billing address. The closer he was to ground zero, the sooner he could begin his search. But first he needed to grab a few hours’ sleep. Otherwise his judgment might become impaired, and he could overlook something vital or make a fatal error.
* * *
IT WAS NIGHTTIME when he awoke. The interior of the room was lit by the streetlights outside, yet swathed in shadow. As Bolan rose and looked on the nightlife in this section of the capital, he wondered where he should begin. There was no time to stake out the P.O. Box pickup and follow whoever showed up. He would have to be a little more proactive than that.
The ghost of a smile flitted across his face as he figured out a shortcut.
* * *
THE BAR WAS OFF the main drag, down two side streets and an alley that took it beyond the kind of areas frequented by tourists. It was a local bar, for local people, and the low murmur of conversation rumbled beneath the sound of a soccer commentator trying desperately to whip up enthusiasm for a lower-league English game in which players no one had ever heard of—or were likely to hear of—showed why the name, the Beautiful Game, was a misnomer.
As the bartender polished a glass and noted that only a few of the customers were paying attention to the game, he turned his back on the bar in order to kill the TV.
“Don’t do that. It’s nice to hear something I can easily understand.”
The bartender froze then slowly turned to the tall, dark, muscular man facing him and grinning broadly.
“Cooper. I never ever expected to see you here. Get the hell out of my bar.”
“Now, is that any way to greet an old comrade?” Bolan asked, ignoring him and leaning on the bar. “I’ll have a cold lager, when you’re ready,” he added.
“Excuse me, I know you are American, but even so you still claim to speak English. So what part of the last sentence did you not understand?”
“Come on, Dostoyevsky. I thought you’d be pleased to see me.”
The saturnine man leaned across the bar so that his poker-straight face was almost touching the soldier’s.
“Pleased? The last time I saw you, Cooper, I had the pleasure of ending up in
a hospital bed for longer than I would have cared. Do you know that my knee aches in cold weather now?”
“It wasn’t your knee you injured,” Bolan said mildly.
The bartender’s face split into a sly grin. “I know. What the hell brings you to this quiet little backwater?”
“Maybe not so quiet...after all, you’re here.”
“Because of me it’s quiet. Look at it, Cooper,” Dostoyevsky—bar owner and ex-mercenary—said with a sweep of his arm. “The quiet life, a chance to kick back and relax, to think about life as the world passes me by instead of trying to kick me in the ass.”
“You’re bored out of your skull,” Bolan commented.
“Hell, yes...I was looking forward to retirement, and I invested my fee for the Chechen operation in this. But you know something? I don’t think retirement is ready for me.”
“Then I may have a question that will kill your boredom.”
“As long as it doesn’t kill me, as well.” The bartender looked at the sedate room of regular customers, nodded and called out to a back room. A young woman with long raven hair, stunning cheekbones and icy blue eyes appeared in the doorway.
“Lana, mind the bar for me,” he said in Russian. “I have to catch up with my old friend.”
Lana eyed Bolan up and down. With no change in her expression, and without taking her eyes from the soldier, she said, “I thought you promised me those days were over. I don’t want to be a widow and hit on by customers who think they could end up owners.”
“Ah, it’s not like that, woman,” Dostoyevsky muttered with a dismissive wave before opening the bar flap and ushering Bolan through.
“It never is,” Lana returned coldly, her eyes following Bolan as he went through to the back.
A kitchen for food preparation and glass cleaning was set up to one side, with the balance of the room fitted out as a comfortable rest area.
“Is it me, or has the temperature dropped several degrees?” Bolan commented as Dostoyevsky bade him to be seated.
“Lana, she worries. That’s good. Then she moans. That’s not so good. I can live with it,” Dostoyevsky answered with a dismissive head shake. “Right now, she will be wondering just what I am. What brings Matt Cooper to Estonia?”
Bolan had thought carefully about how to approach the Russian, and began, “Tell me, are you still a great admirer of your president?”
“I love the bald, power-mad bastard. That’s why I live in another country.”
“I was kind of hoping you still felt that way,” Bolan said, remembering the endless tirades he had endured from the ex-mercenary. “I’ve got a story that may interest you.”
Dostoyevsky sat and listened while Bolan outlined the events that had taken him to Norway in the first instance, and then to Finland and now to Estonia. He was careful to highlight the possible involvement of the Russians, and also the prominence of Freedom Right and their possible location. When he had finished, he sat back and held his hands wide, inviting the Russian to comment.
Dostoyevsky ruminated on the information before answering, seeming to mull over matters in some depth. Finally he nodded and leaned forward. What he said was not exactly what Bolan had expected.
“What kind of armament have you brought with you?” he asked, listening carefully before adding, with a sly grin, “How would you like some explosives and an RPD to add to that? I know where I can lay my hands on some nice heavy-duty ordnance.”
The explosives might be useful, but Bolan wondered if the 40 mm machine gun, which had 100-round drums and needed a bipod—or even a tripod—to mount it before use would be practical in what he saw as a get-in-get-out rapid-hit mission. Seeing his hesitation, the Russian shrugged.
“It’s up to you, of course, but you can’t go wrong with some serious Russian firepower to back you up. Come on,” he added, standing, “let’s get you some backup.”
“You’re not wasting time,” Bolan said wryly as he stood.
Dostoyevsky shrugged. “You’re the one who is in the hurry,” he answered in a laconic manner. “I’ll tell Lana on the way out.”
“She won’t like that.”
“There is very little she likes but much she will put up with. It’s how she is,” the ex-mercenary replied with a shrug. “We have much to do....”
* * *
LESS THAN A HALF HOUR LATER, in a suburb of Tallinn that was populated by houses built in a timbered Finnish style, Dostoyevsky pulled up before a structure fenced and gated in wrought iron.
“Looks nice, yes? Try to climb that and see how it fries your balls.”
“How do we get in then?” Bolan queried.
“We ask nicely,” Dostoyevsky replied as he got out of the car and walked across the quiet street.
Bolan followed him, scanning the gates and surrounding fence for any sign of an entry phone. He cast the Russian a querying glance and was answered with another sly smile as Dostoyevsky took out his cell phone and called up a number on his directory.
“It’s me.... I know, but circumstances change. I have some business for you.” He hung up, and grinned broadly as the gates swung wide before them. “Money is a wonderful thing,” he murmured as he ushered Bolan up the drive.
The double doors to the house opened, and they were greeted by a slab of meat in a suit masquerading as security. He directed them through an ornately furnished hall and into an office that was lined with leather-bound books—which looked artificial—on mahogany shelves that matched the desk. Behind the desk sat a desiccated man with a peppered goatee and wraparound shades.
“I like the look, Dimitri,” the ex-mercenary said in a conversational tone. “I’ll bet you can’t see a thing in this light.”
“True, but you can’t see if I’m looking at you or not,” the small man replied in a voice that was as dried as his frame.
They were speaking in Russian, and Bolan’s mind raced as he tried to place the man before them. There was something familiar about him, but age had not been kind. It was a few moments before he placed the man as Dimitri Bulganin, an ex-KGB general who had gone missing after the fall of the Soviet empire and had been heard of only sporadically since, both as an “adviser” to third-world dictators and as an arms dealer. It looked like he had settled into a prosperous semiretirement in the relative obscurity of Estonia. Any photographs of him were decades old now and did not reflect the passing of the years. He was safe here.
While the two Russians exchanged pleasantries and discussed possible purchases of ordnance, Bolan realized why Dostoyevsky had brought him here. Bulganin, because of his trade, would know of anyone in the country interested in large amounts of ordnance. More important in terms of his anonymity and happy retirement, he would not want any undue attention focused on his city of residence.
Bolan waited patiently while the two men discussed the possible purchase of the RPD machine gun and the grenades. When a nominal price had been agreed upon, Dostoyevsky added, almost offhandedly, “By the way, you may be wondering what has prompted a return to action. My friend has something you may wish to hear.”
The shriveled old general smiled. His dry, thin lips pulled over his teeth like a grinning skull. “Mr....Belasko? No, Cooper these days, I believe.”
Bolan returned the smile with the same sharklike coldness. “You’re very well informed, General Bulganin.”
“As are you, Mr. Cooper. Forgive my showing off. I rarely get the chance in this backwater to showboat, as I believe you call it.”
“It helps us to know where we stand, General—”
“Please, call me Dimitri. The title is a sad reminder of a glorious past, no more.”
Bolan nodded. “Dimitri then. I’m here because of a matter that relates to your old country as well as your new. Allow me to explain.”
For the second time tha
t night, Bolan outlined events that had led him to Tallinn. He could see from the hardening of the old man’s expression that he—like Dostoyevsky—had little love for the current Russian regime.
More than that, Bolan could see that the idea of his backwater becoming a focus of counterintelligence activity—as it undoubtedly would if Freedom Right were allowed to carry out their plans—was not a prospect that pleased Bulganin.
When Bolan concluded, the old man nodded decisively and rose to his feet. He walked over to the fake bookshelves and hit a hidden switch. The shelving slid back to reveal a stairwell. There was something old-fashioned about it, and Bulganin shrugged as he caught the soldier’s expression.
“You must forgive an old man his indulgences. I like to keep some stock on site, and I like to feel there is a sense of tradition in what I do. If you gentlemen will follow me, we can examine the explosives and machine gun, if you truly wish to buy. If not, we can discuss payment for a less tangible commodity.”
“Such as?” Bolan queried.
“Freedom Right, Mr. Cooper. They are customers of mine. I like to keep extensive files on my customers. Friends closer than enemies, I am sure you understand.... I do not appreciate their finding other sources, nor the opprobrium and attention it could bring me. Most unwelcome. For this, I will strike a good bargain with you.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
“Have you seen much of the country since you arrived here?” Dostoyevsky asked as he swung his sedan around and headed back into the center of the city.
“The airport, your bar, the hardware store,” Bolan replied in a dry tone.
Dostoyevsky’s blank visage lightened briefly, then he said, “I may not have given you the impression, but I quite like this place. It has a number of beautiful castles scattered about the countryside, which is why the Nazis were so keen to take it from Scandinavia in the Second World War. The fascists love a castle, and they love some feudal history. The Estonians, on the other hand, show too many signs of being under Stalin’s heel for so long. They want nothing more than nice and functional. And small. People crammed into the tiniest possible spaces.”
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