Night's Reckoning

by Don Pendleton

Bolan laughed. “Diplomacy was never your strong point, Jack—”

  “Or yours, Sarge. Action when it’s called for. Plus, I’m tired of being an errand boy on the end of a phone.”

  “I know. But you’ve kept us alive with the safe houses. And I couldn’t call you in when we were moving out of the court. There was no way we could stay aboveground. Listen, I’m going on the offensive with these guys. I’m going to need you to back me up like you know best.”

  “Sounds good to me. I’ll prep and await your call.”

  “Good man. Wait for me, Jack. I’ve got to tackle Hal first, and he’s not going to like this.”

  Bolan wasn’t far wrong in his assumption. Brognola was not pleased to hear the details of Bolan’s report, but he knew that the soldier was doing the best he could under the current circumstances. And he also knew he was lucky to have Bolan on the ground handling the situation—the mission would have been lost long ago otherwise.

  “Hal, there’s only one way we can bring resolution here. Grozny wants to stand trial. We want him to. According to you, some elements in the Chinese regime don’t. Neither do the terrorist cell they’re funding. Most of those guys must be dead by now. If we’re going to get through this, I need to keep Grozny safe here, and take out the remaining terrorists. And then...”

  “I don’t know, Striker. That could cause an international incident—”

  “I know, Hal,” Bolan interrupted. “But politics isn’t my job. But I can do my job, and satisfy any questions you might get, if I have the right information. It’s not all the Chinese. They’ve got one man here who is behind this, if Clelland is right. Eliminate him, and they’ll want to keep it quiet, for whatever their reasons. Once Grozny has gone into the dock, it’s all over. All I have to do is knock him out without getting caught or causing too many fireworks.”

  Brognola sighed. “This has been nothing but fireworks so far.... But if it’s the only way...”

  “Hal...can you suggest any other course to bring this down quickly?”

  There was a moment’s silence.

  “Dammit, I can’t...”

  “Then let me play it my way. If it all goes belly-up, then you can deny responsibility.”

  “No. That’s not what this is about. Besides, your intel will be coming through me.”

  “It doesn’t have to. Leave it with me, log this call as you must and then leave me to go rogue. Just for a day or two.”

  “I don’t like it, Striker.”

  “Hal, I’m not giving you the choice,” Bolan said sharply, disconnecting the call. From here on out communication with the big Fed and with Stony Man Farm must cease until he had tidied up matters at this end.

  He turned to find that Grozny standing in the doorway.

  “Food is ready,” he said simply, turning away. Bolan followed him to the kitchen of the safe house. They were in an apartment that, bizarrely, was in a concierged block. Grimaldi had played a double bluff with this location—they were in a relatively prosperous section, near the northeast suburbs and on the edge of the old city. The concierge had been paid off from the war chest that Bolan had made available to Grimaldi, with the ace pilot murmuring something about gambling debts and a sister he had “gotten out of some trouble” when asked how the concierge’s loyalty could be guaranteed. And though the apartment did not appear to be secured from the outside, the interior had been fitted out by the flier with tech that would tell them if a fly so much as coughed within a hundred yards of any ingress. Added to which, surveillance fiber optics CCTV’d the immediate area and the stairwell, elevator and reception area of the building.

  They ate in silence. Grozny was a decent scratch field cook, and after the day they had endured Bolan was still a little surprised at how hungry he was when it came to it. As they ate, he noticed that the warlord was eyeing him. He said nothing. It was only when they had finished that Grozny broke the silence.

  “So you have a plan? I was listening, I admit. This is too small an apartment to pretend not to.”

  Bolan nodded. “I need to gather some more intel, but it’s pretty obvious what I have to do—and that I need to take myself off the map so that there can be no questions asked.”

  “How much time do you have?”

  “The sooner I get it done the better. I figure that you won’t be able to leave here for a few days as it’ll take at least that long to get the court in a good enough condition to resume. That or arrange another venue. Either way, you need to stay here.”

  “You trust me on my own?”

  Bolan grinned. “I don’t think I have a choice. Though I don’t think you have many options left open, and I take you to be a realist. But your reactions would be slow with the injury. You need a babysitter.”

  “Shit,” Grozny grumbled. “I hate the fact that I can only agree with you on this.”

  “Don’t sweat it. I think you’ll like your babysitter,” Bolan said, wondering how Grimaldi would take the assignment when he was told.

  But before this, he had to garner more information. There was only one man who could help him. His cell was taking one hell of a battering, and Bolan hoped that the line was still secured. He would have to trust Kurtzman’s skills.

  “Mr. Cooper. You had one hell of a day today, sir. Good to hear that you’re in one piece. And our friend, I trust?”

  “He is. And he’ll stay that way. I have someone who can help me with that. How long do we need to keep him secured?”

  “Two days. This has caused one hell of a stink. About damn time, if you ask me—security in this city needed a shake-up. Shame it took this. Good thing is that the agencies who’ve been trying to score points rather than cooperate have realized where that shit has got them, and are pulling together, at least for now. It’ll take forty-eight to clean up enough to recommence. The onus is on presenting a front to the world that terrorism cannot stop justice.”

  “Good. So we keep our man in lockdown for forty-eight, and then get him to court. Meantime, I need to clean up—Eastern Europe and the East, if you know what I’m saying?”

  There was a moment’s silence, then: “I understand. Mr. Brognola has sanctioned this?”

  “No. I need your help, but if you feel—”

  “No, sir, I just need to know if this is on or off the record. One of the guards who turned against his own men was taken alive. Debriefing was a little—uh—brutal might be the right word. But he gave up some intel about the Serbians who paid off the guards. Time, place, cost. More than that, the level of trust between these assholes is so low that it’s heartening in its results. They followed the Serbs, just as insurance. Paid off, I guess, as it’ll knock some time off his sentence. So we have a location for where the remaining cell members live.”

  “How much time before a raid is mounted?”

  “It’ll be twenty-four. The agencies are working together, but in some ways that slows them up. It gives you time as a mobile unit to get in first.”

  “Exactly my thoughts,” Bolan affirmed. “And after them, the East.”

  There was a pause. When Clelland spoke again, his tone was hesitant. “I have details on the man who liaised with the Serbs. Research suggests that he was familiar with your boy two decades back. Maybe ask him about that. As for where he is now, I can furnish as much as I can gather, but it’s the Chinese embassy, man. No one who isn’t Chinese knows much about what goes on behind those walls.”

  “Give me everything you have, about both locations. I’ll do the rest. The least you know...”

  “I understand,” Clelland agreed. “I’ll send you all my intel. Just give me a half hour to make a few calls, Mr. Cooper.”

  “I appreciate that. From this moment, you know nothing and you’ve never heard of me. If necessary...but I hope that won’t be the case,” Bolan added.

  While
he was waiting for the intel, he figured, it was time to ask Grozny a few questions about his past. Something Bolan had been avoiding up until this point.

  The warlord had settled himself in to flick through the news channels. His favorite hobby had an added piquancy as he was the main story on many of them. He looked up as Bolan entered the room.

  “They don’t know what to make of this.” He laughed. “I’m either dead, in captivity or have been kidnapped. Official sources—and we all know what a pile of shit that is—have been quiet. Think they’re trying to figure out what to say?”

  Bolan did not reply. He took the remote from Grozny

  and killed the TV.

  “I have to ask you something. About the old days.”

  Grozny’s face hardened. “Now you want to talk about it? I didn’t notice that before, when I wanted to.”

  “Things change. Besides, it’s not the so-called glory of war that I want to discuss. It’s the men who paid for it.”

  “Man. There was just the one who was my link. He’s the one you want to know about?” The warlord’s tone was resigned. Bolan assented, and Grozny continued. “They were very careful to keep a low profile. I know I wasn’t the only one they were paying. And I know that they had the same method with each approach. One man would handle everything. That way it was easier for him to keep out of sight. I mean, when was the last time you saw a Serb, Slav, Bosniak or even a Russian who looked like a Chinese man? Too many of them, and they were going to stand out. He’s the man your boy who you were just talking to saw with the fuckwit who tried to ‘rescue’ me?”

  “I think so. It would make sense if they sent him in to get you out or eliminate you. Who is he?”

  “If he’s the same one—and I mean if, because you’d have to be one hell of a smart bastard to ride the last twenty years in China—then his name is Xiao Li.”

  Grozny studied Bolan’s face, and saw the flicker of recognition at the name—just as Bolan wanted. “It makes sense to send him back for me, one way or the other. We didn’t spend that long together, I guess. Three years at most. But intense years, Cooper. Years with shit in them that you wouldn’t believe...maybe you would. But it’s the kind of thing that makes you feel like you’ve known someone a lifetime. He knows exactly what I’d do and how I’d feel, and I figure that I would have the same knowledge about him.”

  “He’s at the embassy. I need to go after him. Should I kill him or should I send him back with a message? My directive is to avoid an international incident, or at least more of an incident than we have right now. Do I tell him that we are aware of Chinese culpability and that you will say nothing about it in court in return for cessation of activity? It will remain something that will not be made public but will remain between you, those in the Chinese regime who have something to hide and the U.S. government.”

  Grozny pondered this for a moment. He looked to be deep in thought, his mind dragged back over those years to when he stood side by side with Xiao Li. Finally, and with finality, he spoke.

  “You kill him. He goes back with such a message, he will not be allowed to live, anyway, but I think you know that. And he would not deliver such a message, anyway. He would carry on with his mission until he was either captured by the Dutch authorities or killed in the process. And he knows that diplomatic immunity is a death sentence. He has...had...a streak of disdain about him. Arrogance, maybe. He thought he was better than any of us, even though he was just as culpable. He would think himself better than any situation you put him in. Age may have ground him down in some ways, as it does for us all. But not in that way.... There is arrogance like iron in him, Cooper. You really have no option.”

  Bolan nodded slowly. “It was always headed that way. I just needed to find out if it was worth a shot.”

  “Don’t waste your breath. He wouldn’t, believe me.”

  Bolan left the warlord to his wandering through the news channels. But he knew that Grozny’s mind was not on the images and sounds in front of him. There was a faraway look about him that spoke of his mind traversing the years, reliving things that perhaps even he would prefer to forget.

  The soldier returned to his room to prepare. Grimaldi had supplied ordnance, and from it Bolan needed to collate an armory that would be enough to take out the remaining Serbs, and also allow him to move straight on to the embassy. Grimaldi would arrive by daybreak to babysit the warlord—this much he knew from the messaging between them after his last call—and Bolan would move immediately on Serb headquarters. That attack would soon reach the ears of Xiao Li, and once that happened, time would be at a premium.

  If he allowed enough time to travel, to recce and then to attack, it would leave him little time to come back into the city and take out Xiao. He could use the cover of night, for what little help it would give. He had to use it—by the following day, Xiao would be actioning any contingency plans.

  Bolan checked the time. It was still early, but he ached from the day, and he would need to be rested for the exertions to come. He showered, by which time Clelland had been as good as his word and the intel he needed was on his smart phone.

  Bolan lay down to rest, the sound of the TV distant. He must rest, but he doubted that Grozny would be able to.

  The soldier was glad that he did not have to live in the warlord’s head.

  Chapter 11

  Milan had to pass the industrial park again. That was the problem with living so close to the site that had been used as a base. The idea that you hide in plain sight by adopting an everyday existence close to the base had served them well in the first instance. These days it seemed only to mock them as they passed it while going about their everyday business. Their cover, as they had liked to think of it, was all they had left.

  Milan was an electrician. Mila worked as a waitress. Slobo was a laborer, and had been working legitimately at the international court a month before the trial had been due to commence. That was how they had gotten the plans to the building. And now they were the only three left.

  Scheveningen was a strange area in many ways. The beach area attracted the tourist trade, but there was also a poor part, with properties that were cheap to rent and even cheaper to buy if you had the capital. The industrial parks that had been built for the port that lay near were half empty and derelict—this was what had made it so perfect. The Serbs had bought one of the rooming houses that had been built with one eye on the tourist trade, but had been too near the poverty of the permanent residents to attract trade. This made them good places for those transients who needed inexpensive accommodation. In among these people, and the ever-changing tourist tide, it had been easy to buy the house, move everyone in and set up cover jobs that made them look just like another group of migrant workers.

  Just three of them left. The others dead. None had survived the onslaught of the man in black. Who the hell was he? A Special Forces operative of some kind, maybe, but of which nation? Not the Dutch, that was for sure. They had seen in battle that the Koninklijke had little love for him.

  It no longer mattered now. He had done what he had to—they were out of the game. With only three of them left, there was no way they could mount another attack to try to get Grozny. Why the hell they wanted the burned-out old has-been had always puzzled Milan. The man had meant something once, but as a figurehead for the new state they had hoped to bring into being...? Maybe his name and notoriety would give them something to show the people as a statement of their intent, but otherwise...

  Milan sighed as he entered the house. It was the middle of the afternoon, and usually he wasn’t back before six. His mind hadn’t been on the job, but it had been simple enough. The ring circuits in an old house needed renewal, and a new trip fuse fitted to prevent any overloading causing a blowout. Overloading because it was an old building being refurbished to become a rooming house, just as their own house was supposed t
o be. Maybe that was what they should do now that they were reduced to just three. Mila had been kept out of the front line not just because she was a woman—she had been kept out of combat because, if he was honest, Milan knew that she was the real brains of the group.

  She would know what to do.

  When he let himself into the house, it was the oppressive silence that hit him most of all. The distempered walls were decorated with cheap prints, and the furnishings in each room were equally simple yet comfortable. There was a communal room on the ground floor, and a good kitchen. In his head, Milan could see them leaving behind dreams of greater glory and keeping this place as a rooming house. It would pay its way, and they could still keep their work until it made enough. He would ask Mila about this—she would be able to work out if it was viable for them to do this.

  But that was a fantasy. He knew it was—but what was the alternative? To accept that all they had worked for was gone? That they were to be hunted both by the Koninklijke, by Interpol, by any damn agency that they had gone up against? More than that—their paymasters. The Chinese would not be pleased that this had not achieved their ends. The money they had paid would have to be recouped and justified if the mission could not be claimed as a success.

  That was the dream of the rooming house shattered. That was any peaceful night’s sleep for the rest of his life, no matter how short that might be, equally shattered. They could not stay here. But it would be just as impossible to go on the run. Where could they go that the hand of their paymasters, who were not bound by law and able to operate with impunity, could not find and crush them?

  Milan felt like a broken man. He looked around the house, still empty until Mila and Slobo returned from work, with a growing sense of despair before sitting in the communal room, staring out of the window as twilight began to fall.

  As he waited, desperation moved beyond despair and into anger. If they could not go quietly, then they would go with blood. It was the only way to justify what had so far been spilt.