The bureaucrat’s disease, Clelland had called it the first time he had met with Bolan. From his position, he had seen it spread across all the agencies in the Hague, so that none fully collaborated with the others.
“I have to be honest, I was still in school and thought Nirvana was the most important thing to happen to me since Slayer, when the Balkans war was going down in the nineties,” Clelland continued. “I know about it now, but only through secondhand reports. A bit like the assholes who blew the PIH apart. Why the Dutch government thought it could keep their manifesto down is beyond me. I’ll tell you one thing, though. As far as I can tell, the Serbs only released it to the Dutch press, which is maybe why the government took the chance. Which means just one thing, right?”
“Someone else leaked it to the wider world. Perhaps someone who has a hand in financing what would have been a pretty expensive operation for a small group.”
“Exactly, Mr. Cooper. Now, Mr. Brognola tells me that there were always rumors of the Chinese being interested in the Balkans. If nothing else, it would be a nice distraction for the world away from Tiananmen, right? That would figure, especially as with Soviet communism dead in the water there was a lot up for grabs. Question is, what would they get out of it now?”
“China wants to be Westernized and create some kind of communist/capitalist hybrid. Why dig up the past that can embarrass that? I need hard evidence and facts, Gordon. I can’t act unless I have something solid to work with.”
“I understand that, Mr. Cooper. Really, I do. But we’re working with shadows and light here. If Grozny goes to trial, then he can try to save his skin by dumping a few old friends in it—he could do that, anyway, just for the hell of it. He sounds like the kind of guy who would. So maybe it’d be good for them to help get him away from the public arena.”
“But this Serb group wants an ethnic-cleansing regime that would create a new separatist state with
Grozny at the head. Not exactly a way to keep him quiet.”
“Maybe not, Mr. Cooper. But there’s a new junior attaché at the Chinese embassy. Kind of old for a junior, but rumor has it he fell out of favor after a promising early career. Which, and again it’s only rumor, has him in the Balkans around the turn of the nineties.”
“A different kind of Slayer,” Bolan mused.
Clelland laughed. “I like it. Thing is, I’ve been wondering what the Chinese get out of it, what the Serbs get out of it and what Grozny gets out of it, and I keep coming back to the same thing.”
“Which is?”
Clelland drained his latte before speaking. “You don’t have to be alive to be a figurehead. Everyone’s a winner in that instance. Except Grozny, of course.”
Bolan grimaced. “Which is exactly why someone has to keep the bastard alive...and get him to the courtroom.”
* * *
DEN HAAG HAS A life that centers around Hofvijver and Binnenhof, the central areas of the old city where the Parliament and the main NATO and International Justice buildings are located. These areas, in the main, consist of old buildings with spaces cleared for the new bureaucratic offices. Housing, such as it is, is cramped and expensive. And, most important, difficult to defend and police effectively. For this reason, Bolan was sure that none of the safe houses in this area would be used for holding Grozny.
However, to the northwest of the city was an area called Belgisch Park. This was an affluent area, and as such was full of wide roads, tree-lined streets and open spaces, and large houses in their own small grounds, most of which had been constructed between 1870 and 1940. It was also pretty sparsely populated, a natural corollary of this kind of building, with less than eight thousand residents within the area.
And, with a sense of irony that appealed to Bolan, to the east of the area was Scheveningen, location of the recently decimated PIH. To take the target of that attack and place him back almost within spitting distance of the place that had served as his home for so long had a humor to it that made the soldier smile. More seriously, it was a case of hide in plain sight, and if security held tight then it would not be the obvious place to search for him.
If security held tight. The last thing Clelland had said to him as he had handed over a piece of paper with the address scribbled on it was to comment that although he had worked hard at establishing contacts and keeping his ear to the ground, it was still obvious that if he had been able to locate the target within the space of a morning, it would not be hard for others to follow suit.
“Mr. Cooper, I don’t have to tell you to be cautious, I know that. But I also know that there are so many holes in this cheese that we should be in Switzerland. I’m not sure what I can do to help further, but you know who and where I am. And I can call in some favors. Be sure of that.”
“I’ll bear that in mind,” Bolan had said, grasping the folded scrap. “Who would have thought the old ways would still be the best? Read, memorize, burn or eat. So simple.”
“Especially if folded to avoid CCTV. Ironic, isn’t it, that the more complex we make communications, the easier it is for the determined to hack into it.”
These words still echoed in Bolan’s ears as he parked his silver-gray BMW, which looked right at home on these streets. On the backseat was a duffel bag with smoke and concussion grenades, a length of camera cable and a receiver, a night-vision headset, gas mask, a Micro-Uzi and an H&K MP-5, along with the ordnance to keep the SMGs fed. He was traveling light, and on the blacksuit that was concealed beneath the light raincoat he wore he also carried a Desert Eagle in a shoulder holster and a motion-sensor detector.
It was late afternoon. After his meeting with Clelland, he had returned to his office base and checked in with Belinda Hagen. She was not his line manager, but in order to lay down some cover he had told her that his illness was recurring and he was returning home. He had also made a date with her for the following evening, assuring her that she could show him better restaurants than he had so far discovered. It was a low trick to lead her on in one sense, but her enthusiasm would inform any report she should make if his absence was noted and commented on. Anything to deflect attention was a plus.
Returning to the apartment that was his base, his intent had been to freshen up and gather equipment from his improvised hiding place under the closet floorboards. As ever, something for which he thanked Kurtzman’s foresight in renting an apartment in an old block that wasn’t cursed with concrete or stone floors.
Thinking of Kurtzman reminded him that to check in would be useful. The words of Clelland ringing in his ears, he hit speed dial.
“Secure line?” he asked as Kurtzman’s warm tones greeted him.
“As ever,” the man replied with some surprise.
“Can’t be too sure. Are you?”
“Take my word. Paranoia getting to you?”
“Something like that,” Bolan said wearily before filling in Kurtzman on events and requesting schematics for the surveillance area, and any safe houses within the range, which presently sat on his smart phone.
Feeling a little more as if he was back on secured ground after speaking to Kurtzman, he called Grimaldi and had a brief conversation, alerting the flier to his intent and to be on standby.
“Sarge, you know I’m just on the end of speed dial.” Grimaldi chuckled. “By the way, I delivered that little package for you safely. And returned the transport. One less thing for you to worry about.”
Bolan had been pleased to hear this, though he had never doubted Grimaldi’s ability to effect a complete cleanup. If only they had been able to deal with Grozny in the same way as Kowalski.
This was the last thought that ran through his mind as he sat in the BMW, breathing slowly and noting the complete lack of life around the villa three hundred yards from where he had parked.
He exited the vehicle, taking his duffel bag from the backseat
and hitting central locking. Might as well make it look the part—it wasn’t as if he’d be using the vehicle to leave the scene. He walked along the road, studying the seemingly empty building from the corner of his eye as he passed, and turned the corner.
It looked completely deserted—which was not smart, as even though it was a quiet residential area, all the other buildings at least showed signs of habitation, even if they appeared empty at the moment.
If he could take this in at a glance, he was sure as could be that any other hostile forces could glean the same intel as easily. Would this make his task easier or harder?
Depends how ahead of the game you are, Bolan figured. Hopefully, he was far enough ahead to make the difference.
The house stood in its own grounds, with a driveway and front lawn that had stripes of gravel path, grass and seed beds at the sides. The rear garden would be twice as deep as the front, if the length and depth of the end houses were to be believed.
He took the block at pace, counting until he was standing before the house that backed on to the safe house. There were no alleys or access roads to garages running between, so it would be a matter of going through one piece of land and over a fence into the target area.
The house before him looked empty. Lived in, for sure, but not currently occupied. The gravel driveway was recently cut up by tires, and there was a bicycle under a privet hedge by the left-hand side of the house, leading to a closed door of light wood.
He took the motion-sensor detector and conducted a discreet sweep. Nothing. Not surprising, since it was unlikely that whoever lived here had any notion of what the house at their rear was used for. Most likely, any kind of security would only begin at the perimeter of the two properties. Likely was not certainty, however: the soldier slipped into the front, skirting the driveway and keeping close to what little cover was provided. He shrugged off the raincoat and secreted it beneath a shrub before taking the fiber-optic camera cable from his bag and feeding it over the trellis that ran across the side door. Without snaking it too far and possibly giving away his presence, he had a limited view on the attached monitor, but it was possible to see that the back garden of this house contained a gazebo, and was mostly a well-manicured lawn before a thick bed of shrubs and plants gave way to a back fence lined with trees on the far side.
Not much cover between the side path and the fence, and plenty of places to hide surveillance cams for the safe house.
Enough, though, if he proceeded with caution. Stashing the camera in his duffel bag, he scaled the side entrance and kept close to the house until he reached the back lawn. A closer recce showed that the French windows at the rear of the house looked out over an immaculately manicured lawn, with the presence of an empty paddling pool showing that it was in regular family use. So, best to hope that they stayed out wherever they were for the next half hour or so, then. Even so, Bolan could curse them for being so functional, particularly as he ran the motion-sensor detector over the area before hugging the side fence and making for the far end of the garden.
There was no indication that his presence had been noticed as he huddled into the scant cover provided near the fence. There were motion sensors on the top of the fence, and although he could not see them, he was certain that where there were motion sensors there were also cameras.
That was fine—once over the fence and into the opposition territory he could lay down cover and move quickly. His pressing concern was actually getting over the fence. This should be the most straightforward part of the operation, but the fence was not as simple as it looked. He refrained from touching, as the wire binding the posts and sections of the fencing looked suspiciously as though they were either wired for motion, or to shock. Hunkering down and gently probing the soft earth at the base, he could also see that the posts were rooted deep, founded in concrete. Finally, although it did not go higher than two or two and a half yards tops, the trees were another few feet higher, and their branches did not hang in a manner that would make scaling them a quick, easy matter.
Figuring that there was a chance he would trigger motion sensors and maybe be caught on camera, he opted to use the fiber-optic camera once more, in an attempt to gain some sense of the lay of the land on the other side of the fence.
He made it a rapid recce, as once the camera had been picked up he would need to move swiftly. The foliage on the other side of the fence was dense, but not enough to obscure the view afforded him. The lawn was as well manicured as the one to his rear. It was clear, and he had little doubt that it was pitted with motion-sensor detectors. The back of the house presented a blank and uninviting aspect. There were French windows with heavy drapes across them, and Bolan was almost certain that bars or tripwires would lay behind those drapes. The upper windows appeared equally as impassive, with blinds presenting a blank facade.
The house looked as though it had been built at the same time as the one behind him—the entire block seemed to have come from the same development. In which case, he could assume that there was a side-entrance door into a kitchen or anteroom, much like the one he had passed to get here.
That would be the weak link. Not because it would not be well guarded or armored in some way, but rather because it would be in the most use. Of necessity, therefore, it would have to be less impervious.
He reeled in the camera, stowed it in his duffel bag and, after testing the fence for current and finding it was not wired, ascended rapidly.
The overhanging branches presented a few problems in that they slowed him down. They were dense, and the foliage was tangled. Despite this, he was able to find his footing and slide down the trunk of one until he hit the soft earth. It yielded beneath his feet as he moved out and onto the lawn. No point in scanning for detectors, they would be able to see him. A smoke grenade may have laid down some cover, but it was more important that he did not draw attention to the house. For much the same reason, he doubted that any security would want to come outside and tackle him. From their own surveillance, they would know that he was alone.
So the house would be the battlefield.
He reached the side door, exactly where it was on the corresponding house, and flattened himself against the wall. He had the Micro-Uzi from the duffel bag—short bursts to lay down cover, and only take out any opposition if they were a direct threat. They were not the enemy, even though they would think that of him.
He listened—there was no sound of movement within. The door would either be wired or they would be lying back, waiting.
He cursed the fact that he hadn’t packed any explosives, for to blow the door with a grenade would be wasteful and dangerous in this enclosed passage. There was only one way forward. He moved so that he was at an angle to tap a short burst into the door and kick at it while remaining at an angle that would keep him out of any angle of fire.
The door did not yield immediately, so Bolan sent a second burst into it and kicked again. This time it did swing open. He flattened himself back to the wall, but there was little sign of any habitation.
So that was how they would play it. He entered the house, moving quickly but with caution. He was in a small anteroom that led to the kitchen on one side and a hallway on the other. He could see two doors and a staircase that was open beneath. Recessed was one door, presumably to a basement.
The three doors between the entrance and head of the stairs were taken easily. The basement door crashed back under his boot, with a concussion grenade following. Its detonation blanked any noise made if anyone was in the basement, but by then he had already taken the other two doors, with smoke grenades following. The hallway was filled with billowing clouds of smoke.
Bolan had his gas mask in place, but those guarding the house had not had the foresight, or been quite quick enough. Two men, choking, stumbled through the smoke cover, torn between covering their faces and covering themselves with their weapons. This m
ade them easy to disable.
How many men were in the house? He did not want to assume, but it was possible that he had taken some out in the basement. If you reckoned on a detachment of a half dozen, then it was likely that more than half of them were already out of the game.
He took the stairs looking up, straining for any sound that may give him indications of movement. There was nothing—but this did not mean that he was not under threat.
At the top of the stairs, the passages leading off the landing led to four rooms with closed doors. The bathroom and facilities were visible through two doors that had been left open, with a window—blind down—marking the source of daylight into the passage.
There was no sign of any life whatsoever. Casting a glance down over the handrail of the staircase, he saw that all was quiet below.
Bolan proceeded cautiously, opening each door in turn. There were signs of habitation, but no guards... And no Grozny. The upper floor seemed to be deserted as he opened three of the four doors. Had they somehow got wind of an attack—his or someone else’s—and moved the target? Or was this an elaborate blind that Clelland had been suckered into—in which case any cover the young man may have had been effectively blown?
Reaching the last door, Bolan listened. There was the sound of breathing from the far side. More than one man, though one of them was breathing more heavily. He stepped to the side before opening the door.
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