Night's Reckoning

by Don Pendleton

  “Back to where it started. Who would think of looking for us here?”

  “That’s the idea,” Bolan said shortly. “Follow me.”

  He led Grozny through the courtyard of one block, reaching the back entry. They ascended two flights of emergency stairs before coming out to a balcony walkway that was littered with trash bags and children’s bikes and toys. At the far end of the walkway was a steel-shuttered door on an apartment that showed every sign of being deserted. Checking if they were being overlooked, Bolan took the key to the shutter padlock and removed it, allowing them access.

  “This is very impressive,” Grozny said as Bolan secured the door behind them and flicked the light switch, revealing that the apartment was far from derelict. It was sparsely furnished, with a sofa and two armchairs facing a TV and coffee table in one room; a bed and cabinet in each of the two bedrooms; a bathroom equipped with toiletries; and a kitchen that held a well-stocked refrigerator and pantry.

  “It is,” Bolan replied in an impassive tone. Grimaldi had been busy—one of his tasks had been to prepare this apartment for after the snatch, and he had made sure that they had no need to leave until the day Grozny’s trial began. While the warlord admired the interior of the apartment and foraged for food, Bolan busied himself checking the security measures that Grimaldi had taken. The windows were covered by metal shutters much like the door, to create the impression of dereliction. However, each of the shutters on the apartment had small spy holes set in them with fish-eye lenses. On the inside, the glass had been removed from the windows to prevent any damage or injury from shattering, should they come under attack.

  In one bedroom, Grimaldi had left some ordnance to boost that which Bolan had carried with him. Alongside the bags containing this was an unregistered cell phone that had been loaded with scrambling software and a program to jam scanners and so prevent a pinpointing of position. Bolan knew this to be the case, as it had been one of his instructions, and he knew that Kurtzman had downloaded the software for Grimaldi to install.

  Glad that he could finally deal with some business, Bolan hit the speed dial for Grimaldi that the flier had inserted in the cell.

  “Sarge, where the hell are you?” Grimaldi said immediately on answering. “I was waiting for your call, then picked up a Koninklijke transmission. Jeez, those guys must love you.”

  “I’m on their Christmas-card list, Jack.” Bolan grinned before outlining what had happened to deflect from their original plan and lead him to this point. He finished up. “Nice job you’ve done, Jack. We should be okay here until the trial. Check in every six, and we’ll liaise about getting him to court in one piece.”

  “Sure thing, Sarge. Say, you going to call Hal?”

  “I’m going to have to. Any reason?”

  Grimaldi chuckled. “I’d love to be able to listen in on that one, that’s all.”

  “Sure you don’t want to make it for me? I wouldn’t mind,” Bolan retorted with a humor he didn’t really feel.

  And sure enough, when he spoke to the big Fed, Brognola was far from pleased.

  “I thought you understood the meaning of subtle, Striker! Hellfire, how much of the Hague do you want to lay waste?”

  “Hal, it wasn’t down to me. I was in there without anyone noticing until the Serbs turned up. They’re the ones who don’t do subtle.”

  “I’ll take your word for it. Believe me, I’m taking your heat.”

  “Yeah, well, someone is getting big money to make sure that Grozny is found. And not for his health, either. They want a martyr, they want to make it look like it’s crossfire and they don’t want him to get to trial before it all happens. Most important, they don’t care if they make a big noise over it.”

  Brognola cursed softly. “Who can we trust?”

  “No one. Not even Clelland. I like him, but we can’t guarantee he’s being tracked without knowing. Leave it to me. I’ll get our boy his day in court.”

  “Okay. Take it easy out there, Striker. I’ll keep the heat off from my end. I never did mind getting my ass burned, anyway.”

  “That’s just as well,” Bolan said. It was only when he disconnected that he realized that Grozny was in the doorway, listening to him while demolishing a sandwich.

  “Hungry. Fighting makes you that way,” the warlord said. “You should eat, too. It’s been a long time for me since I had the gnawing hunger that follows battle.”

  “I’ll fix something later,” Bolan replied. “I have things to do first.”

  Grozny snorted. “So there is no one I can trust, eh? Except maybe you. Except maybe that I don’t even know you. But yes, I think I can. I think you are like me, a man of principle.”

  Bolan eyed him coldly. “That kind of depends on the principles,” was all he said.

  Chapter 6

  The two men passed each other outside the International Criminal Tribunal for the former Yugoslavia. A studious Chinese tourist with his guidebook and a heavyset Serb with a limp and the look of someone who had been in a bar fight. They passed the building on the sidewalk that lay across the busy road from the building’s entrance.

  As they crossed paths, the Chinese man dropped his guidebook, and the Serb bent down to pick it up—a random act of kindness as he handed it back.

  “Thank you,” Xiao Li said simply. “You have had an accident?”

  “Funny. You’re a funny man, anyone ever say that to you? I’d be really surprised if they had.”

  “Such bitter sentiments are uncalled for. Would you care for coffee? Personally, I don’t drink it, but you Westerners are all the same. ‘Mad for it,’ I believe is the term.”

  The Serb scowled. “I don’t like you when you’re in a good mood. I don’t know why you should be, given that we fucked up again. I’d be furious. I am furious, if it comes to it. And I get jumpy when we meet in the open, in a place like this.”

  “‘Hide in plain sight’ is another of your phrases from the media of which I am fond,” Xiao commented. “I want you to take a good look at this place, as the next time you see it, you will be leading an assault on it.”

  The Serb stared—it was all he could do not to laugh with disdain. “You’re a fucking madman,” he stated simply.

  Xiao’s face did not betray the amusement he felt inside. “Perhaps, but perhaps not. If you allow me to outline a possible course of action for you, which I have already taken the liberty of assuming you will agree with, then you may change your mind.”

  The Serb’s brow furrowed. “After the beating we’ve got from that bastard in black and with the Koninklijke up our ass, I’d say we don’t have much choice.”

  * * *

  BOLAN FELT LIKE climbing the walls. Thirty-six hours in a cell—for that was what this safe house was, after all—with the aging warlord, and he was nearly at the point where he could happily turn him over to anyone who wanted him.

  The thing that grated was the assumption on Grozny’s

  part that he and the soldier were cut from the same cloth. Maybe that was true in a certain sense. Both men had been soldiers for their country, and had believed in that nation and its values, and both men had fought willingly for those beliefs. But that was where the similarity ended.

  Bolan did not believe in the sanctity of human life—how could he? The number of men he had dispatched over the years made that clear. Yet each of them had been engaged in practices that had been designed to ruin and destroy lives. Whether those practices had been fueled by political ideology or by the desire for power and cash, the result had been the same. Innocent people had been killed, maimed or tortured. By taking out the source of that destruction, he had sought to save more innocent lives. The concept of “the greater good” underpinned his actions.

  Grozny, feeling secure in his own monstrous ego and the misplaced belief in their similari
ties, had been—almost compelled, it seemed—to discuss the things he had done during the war of 1992-1995, and how his idealism had driven him on.

  The only respite the soldier had from the warlord was when he undertook his nightly recce of the immediate area. Leaving the apartment under cover of night, he secured the front so that Grozny was contained, then climbed to the roof of the apartment building. Grimaldi had chosen it with one eye on the surround, as the roof gave an excellent vantage point to all points of the compass. There were no buildings on a higher level within half a mile, and much of the surround was low-level storefronts and empty lots. Even in the early hours, there were still gangs of youths milling about, but the small-time hoods and petty drug dealers plying their trade, along with those who kept them in ready cash, presented no threat. The temptation to take out his anger and frustration by cleaning up the neighborhood was strong, but the knowledge of the attention this would bring to bear stayed his hand.

  He contented himself by taking notes—filming the dealers and hoods along with their clientele on the equipment that he used to scour the area, and building a record to hand over to the local lower-level law enforcement agencies via Gordon Clelland once this situation had been resolved. It would have to be through a third party. Even if his identity was still unknown, his actions would hardly make him persona grata with the locals.

  This activity, along with the recce, served also to take his mind off what he heard from the mouth of the warlord. He recalled the defense of Karadzic at his trial—that he was a leader of his people and every action was a defense against the injustices that had been perpetrated against them: a marking of parameters to make sure that it never happened again. Bolan had little doubt from what had come out of Grozny’s mouth that he would spew the same line.

  It seemed odd that this man, who had spent so many years on the run as a mercenary and then making another identity for himself in order to escape capture and trial should find it so easy to yield to the notion of court and possible incarceration. Part of it, perhaps, was bowing to the inevitable: if he could not regain his freedom and the anonymity that had served him for so long, then at least he would have the opportunity to explain himself to the world and proclaim the beliefs that he had been forced to keep inside for so long. Another part—and of this Bolan was certain—was down to the pragmatic qualities of the man. The same instinct that had told him when to walk away and hide nearly two decades before had again kicked in regarding his current situation.

  The choice was simple. Go to trial, and if nothing else, he would still have life. Yield to the separatist group who had made the bid to free him, and the chances are he would end up a dead national hero. If their aims succeeded—otherwise, just dead. How would that profit him? Once he was dead, it didn’t matter.

  Did any of it? While part of Bolan’s mind was focused on the recce of the immediate area, there were things that had been said that still gnawed at the back of his head.

  Such as the villages that had been taken over by Grozny’s men and set up as rape camps, where the women were forced to reproduce a pure strain of Serb. The women were impregnated by the invading forces in what was presented as a scientific process but was little more than a way of keeping the fighting men sweet by giving them their jollies. The way in which all such so-called noble aims were discarded when the enemy was at the door of the camps were wiped out, purged by fire as though that would destroy the knowledge and memory of what had been done.

  The so-called ethnic cleansing that had seen whole communities decimated of anyone whose origins were less than a hundred percent verifiable in an effort to make sure that the homeland being established was one that had a mythical purity to it—genocide for the sake of a genetic myth.

  The casual everyday cruelty toward the civilians caught in the crossfire of the war. Of course, civilians suffered when forces invaded, but this was far more than that: torture and killing for pleasure and to establish your own sense of superiority.

  That was war, but it was not Bolan’s idea of war. War was what happened when you had no option. To Grozny, war was what happened when you didn’t get your own way. Like a spoiled child—but a strong, dangerous and ultimately stupid child.

  Reining in his own personal distaste, allowing the solitude of the recce to wash over him, Bolan knew that his mission would see the best of a series of unsatisfactory outcomes. Grozny would live, but he would live in captivity, locked away from the world he had contaminated. A world that would hopefully see his views for the twisted garbage they were, and that would despise or pity rather than sympathize with him. As an example to anyone who had the idiocy to think the same way, perhaps?

  Bolan left his post and climbed down to the balcony walkway, letting himself back into the apartment before securing it once more.

  “Any sign of action?” Grozny asked when he saw him.

  “Just the local scum rising to the surface. Nothing else to cause a ripple,” Bolan replied.

  “A poetic soldier,” Grozny commented. “A noble tradition. I, myself, had no time for such things. I am not a man of words. I am a man of action. I would not have marked you down as a poetic man, Cooper. Your actions seem to speak louder, if you will allow. Better to plan a campaign that will bring the enemy to their knees than to write a poem that will impress their women. It makes me think of—”

  Bolan took a deep breath. There was nothing he could say or do that would halt the ceaseless flow of words from the warlord. It was as though the man had held his silence for so long in his need to stay underground that he could not resist the audience that was presently confined with him.

  Bolan would be glad when this was over. He’d even almost welcome the distraction of an attack at this moment.

  * * *

  XIAO AND THE SERB guerrilla had made their way a few blocks to a Starbucks. The same one that Clelland used every day, and where he had met with Bolan. For the young American it was a piece of home. For the Oriental diplomat it was a chance to exercise his sense of humor without necessarily revealing it to his superiors, where it would not gain approval.

  It was therefore fortunate for the young American, and not so for the Oriental, that Clelland was indulging his daily habit when he saw the two men enter. He was fairly certain that they did not know who he was: conversely, he recognized the Serb from the description Bolan—via Brognola—had given him, and the Oriental from the photograph contained in his files.

  The Serb he had identified as Miro Millevich. A known nationalist activist condemned by the right as being hot-headed and inclined to violence. Ostracized by those with whom he held sympathy. He had been on surveillance lists, but had dropped off the map some time before. But finally he’d reappeared, looking the worse for wear and obviously back in the game. That explained a lot—as did the presence of the diplomat who had previous ties with Grozny.

  This seemed to add two and two and come up with a nice even four. Clelland could make an educated guess at what the two men were discussing, but caught without any surveillance tech, he could do nothing to get closer and glean details. It was frustrating for him. All, however, was not lost.

  From the corner of his eye, the young American could watch them from his position. He tried to lip-read, to pick up anything he could by way of a clue. But the Serb had a heavy accent that affected his pronunciation, and the Oriental barely moved his lips as he spoke. The effect was little more than frustrating.

  The one thing that did catch Clelland’s attention, though, was the way in which the Oriental tapped on his cell and then indicated that the Serb look to his own. Certainly, something passed between them, and if that was so and they had numbers for either phone in their intel, then a hack could be effected.

  Not much, admittedly, but perhaps the kind of break he needed. Just to stumble on this was fortune enough.

  Clelland finished his coffee and got up to leave. He
was careful not to look in the direction of the Serb and the Oriental as he exited, steering himself as far away from them as was possible without undue ostentation.

  It was only when he was outside, and half a block away, sure that he could not be observed—even by accident—that he took his own cell from his jacket and hit speed dial for the scrambled line that Brognola had given him.

  “Mr. Brognola? It’s Gordon Clelland. I have something that I think you and Mr. Cooper should know about....”

  * * *

  GROZNY WAS A news junkie. The safe-house apartment had a TV and cable feed. Bolan was wary of it being in use, as the signal could cause them to be traced. It was unlikely, given the amount of cable feeds in this district alone, and the fact that the group attempting a trace were hardly the most resourced or efficient, but nonetheless the atmosphere of Den Haag since his arrival had engendered a paranoia in him that was higher than usual.

  Besides, faced with the prospect of having to listen to another of the warlord’s interminable and sickening tales, the slim-chance risk of being traced was one Bolan was prepared to take. There was a part of him that felt as though any more comparisons between the warlord and himself, and he might be tempted to do the Serb’s job for them. It was only a passing thought, but the soldier wanted to remain focused, and if that entailed allowing Grozny to feed his habit, then so be it.

  The warlord had a routine that was quickly established. Rise early, exercise—he had a regime worked out for confinement, originating as it had in prison—and then settle down before the TV to start flicking between the news channels that were available. A couple of hours of this, then more exercise before eating and returning to the TV, climaxing in a final burst of physical activity before turning in as Bolan commenced his nightly recce.

  It had been only a couple of days, but it had seemed to stretch out for an eternity. An eternity of Fox and Sky News; Canal Plus and the BBC; Al Jazeera in Arabic and English; Russia Today—the list was endless. Grozny preferred them to the Dutch, German and Spanish channels that were also available. His polyglot tendencies were similar to Bolan’s—a smattering of many languages picked up through experience, but only a few that could be considered fluent enough to provide cover. For all the channels, the warlord would flick restlessly, muttering a running commentary on how the same stories occurring on each channel were angled to the ideologies—usually those he disdained. For those stories that were covered only by some channels he would comment bitterly on how information was kept from the peoples of that land.