* * *
GRIMES WATCHED EVERETT brush a bit of lint off his black tuxedo, which was still on the hanger, having just been delivered to his penthouse suite. Against the far wall, the huge flat-screen television lit up with an incoming Skype call. Everett set the lint brush down and snapped his fingers for Grimes to accept the call. The boss watched intently as the image of Vince Tanner came into focus. The background was in shadows, but the man’s face loomed large in front of the camera lens.
“What’s the situation?” Everett asked. “Is everything secure?”
“Yes, sir. Just wanted to give you an update,” Tanner said. “Everything’s on schedule, as instructed.”
“What about the surplus?”
“Taken care of and locked up below deck. Waiting on your orders.”
Everett nodded. Grimes knew this meant that the Xerxes’s crew, aside from those running the ship, were secure and could be easily disposed of when the time came. A good precautionary step. Tying up loose ends early on assured a smooth operation later. The crew’s fate had already been sealed when Zelenkov and his team had climbed on board.
You can’t make an omelet without breaking a few eggs, Grimes thought.
“Proceed to the designated coordinates,” Everett said. “Resume contact when you arrive. Go no farther until instructed. Understood?”
“Affirmative, sir,” Tanner replied.
“Contact me when you get there,” Everett said. He waited for Tanner’s acknowledgment and then terminated the Skype call. He turned to Grimes. “How much does that damn missile weigh?”
Grimes shrugged. “Between four and five thousand pounds, plus the warhead.”
“Find out exactly,” Everett said. “And have the pilot factor that into the fuel consumption rate for the Osprey.”
“Will do, boss,” Grimes said. “But don’t forget we’re bringing those auxiliary fuel tanks to the Xerxes later tonight.”
“I never forget anything. Other people do, and I have to make sure I’ve still got everything covered.” Everett massaged his temples. His voice lowered appreciably as he added, “Understand?”
Grimes knew he’d committed a faux pas, and the boss had a low tolerance for those. Grimes swallowed and muttered an apology.
Everett waved his hand dismissively. “We can’t take the chance of the Xerxes not making it and ending up stranded in the Atlantic on the way to deliver the bomb.” He licked his lips. “And have Rinzihov calculate the exact extent of the blast radius. Even if that V-22 is gassed up, supped up, and ready to go like a bat out of hell, I don’t want to get caught in some electro-magnetic pulse on the way back to the island.”
Grimes knew from his time in Iraq and Afghanistan that the Osprey was twice as fast as a helicopter. They’d be almost back to the island by the time the bomb went off. The boss didn’t need to worry, but all Grimes said was, “I’ll get him right on it, sir.”
“How’s Monk doing on the decoding?”
Grimes pursed his lips. “He says he’s having some trouble.”
“Bullshit!” Everett slammed his fist on the desk. “The son of a bitch is stalling. He knows what’s at stake.” The boss glanced at his watch with a scowl.
“Want me to lean on him a little?” Grimes asked. “I can be very persuasive.”
Everett blew out a slow breath as he considered this. “No, I’ve got a better idea. Have someone take his daughter into one of the video rooms and slap her around a little on camera. Make him watch it.”
“I can’t wait to see that,” Grimes said. “Want them to bang her on camera, too?”
“You’re a sick fuck, you know that?” Everett shook his head. “No, nothing too severe. I don’t want her messed up at this point. We may have to do this in increments. Don’t want to use up our commodity too quickly. But add a little salt. Have them do a strip search. Imply that worse is coming if Daddy doesn’t deliver in a hurry. We have to give ourselves room to tighten the screws if we need to.”
“Understood, boss. I’ll get on it right away.”
Everett traced his fingers over his upper lip. “Actually, get the chopper ready to fly me inland to the compound. I’ll take care of Monk’s daughter myself. You can get the exact weight of that warhead while we’re there.”
Grimes nodded and picked up the phone.
Everett looked at his watch again. “You have those invitations delivered like I told you?”
“First thing this morning, sir,” Grimes answered.
“All the new players are set up on the board,” he said. “It’s time for me to meet this guy Cooper face-to-face.”
* * *
THE INVITATION TO ATTEND the Mr. Galaxy cocktail party was addressed to Mr. Matt Cooper and Guest. A handwritten scribble across the bottom read, “Always good to see another American south of the equator. Come see me at the party and I’ll buy you a drink—WFE III.”
Bolan looked at the desk clerk, whose obsequious smile looked about as genuine as a used car salesman’s.
“Who left this for me?” Bolan asked.
“I do not know, sir,” the staffer said. “It was left before I came on duty.”
“And this one?” Bolan said, holding up the second note.
The clerk smiled. “That one was left by the beautiful lady in room 1204, monsieur. Mademoiselle Kournikova.”
“The Russian babe sent us a message?” Grimaldi asked as they walked away from the hotel desk. “What’s it say?”
“She wants to meet us down by the Zandi Beach Bar in twenty minutes. And watch how you speak about her. Remember, she’s probably a Russian agent,” Bolan said.
They walked over to the main part of the lobby, where two men in sports shirts and sunglasses were seated by the main window. One of them had a large suitcase in front of him.
“Looks like those are our boys,” Bolan said.
He walked over and introduced himself. Both men stood up, introducing themselves as Miller and Wellstrom. Miller leaned close. “We have your items,” he whispered.
“Fine,” Bolan said. “Jack will take you up to our room, but first, I need to make a call and I need clear sky above me.”
Grimaldi nodded and told the two guys to follow him. Bolan went back outside and took out his satellite phone, dialing Brognola.
“I was just getting ready to call you,” the big Fed said when he picked up. “Guess what we found out?”
“It’s been a long morning,” Bolan said. “I’m all out of guesses.”
Brognola chuckled. “Okay, here’s the scoop. That picture Jack sent of the dead guy turned up a hit on Interpol. Fedor Matyelshenko, member of the Russian Mafya. Long prison record, mostly for violent crimes—robbery, kidnapping, extortion. Associates of late are unknown, but he was rumored to be working as a hired gun for various organized crime outfits in the motherland.”
“What about the woman?” Bolan asked.
“Ah, yes, Natalia Valencia Kournikova. At least that’s one of her names. She also goes by Nikita Emilienko. Definitely SVR. No intel as to why she’s in the Caribbean at this time.”
“It’s every Russian girl’s dream,” Bolan said. “She wants to meet me and Jack at the bar on the beach.”
“Of course.” Brognola laughed.
“What can you tell me about Willard Everett III?” Bolan asked.
“Just that he’s so rich he could pay off the national debt with his pocket change. He’s got some kind of floating platform rig a couple miles from the shore to do the special effects for the blockbuster he’s financing.”
“How did he make his money?”
“The easy way. He inherited it,” Brognola said. “Family’s big in the oil business. Willard’s old man lost a ton of money back in the ’79 Iranian revolution, when the Ayatollah took over. The ne
w leader nationalized all Willard II’s oil refineries in the country. He made most of it back with other ventures, but maybe that contributed to Willard III’s hard line stance on the Middle East, and Iran in particular, during his ill-fated run for the presidency. Apparently he was disappointed his presidential bid didn’t gain more support among conservatives, but his stances were a little right of Attila the Hun. Now he’s branching out into almost everything. Why? Is he a person of interest?”
“Yeah, something’s not right with him. There are way too many people getting paid down here to keep tabs on us or look the other way without Everett being involved.”
“You want us to dig a little deeper?”
“Definitely. He’s up to something more than just making a movie down here. Oh, and he sent me and Jack an invitation to the Mr. Galaxy cocktail party.”
“That sounds interesting.” Brognola laughed again. “But you better keep Jack on a short leash in case any of those Hollywood starlets show up. Where’s it at?”
“It’s in the grand ballroom of the Omni tonight. Everett keeps a penthouse on top.” The syncopated sound of a helicopter’s blades suddenly became audible as a large craft floated overhead and landed atop the hotel. Bolan stared up at the fourteen stories, plus one, which loomed in front of him like a white concrete mountain. Four elevators, encased in vertical shafts of clear Plexiglas, ascended and descended in the center of the massive building. Bolan could almost see the ornate flourishes that decorated the penthouse on the top floor, like a gabled mansion perched on a block of white marble. “I hope to get a closer look at the suite tonight.”
“Well, be careful,” Brognola said. “Everett’s chief of security is a guy named Edwin Grimes. He’s also got another security employee named Vincent Tanner. Both are supposed to be pretty tough. They saw combat in Iraq and Afghanistan, but were discharged on generals after an incident involving the questionable killings of a bunch of noncombatants. Went to work back in Iraq as private contractors for a while with a security company called Dark Stream. Guess who owns that one.”
“Our buddy Willard?”
“You got it.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” Bolan said. He wondered if he’d be meeting Misters Grimes and Tanner tonight, as well.
Chapter 8
Bolan watched the parking lot through the glass elevator window as he ascended to his floor. He knew an identical set of elevators on the other side of the structure afforded a view of the beach and ocean. The ceiling of the elevator car had the fine line of a trapdoor on the upper left side. It was obviously needed for maintenance purposes, but designed for minimal obtrusiveness. An equally unobtrusive tinted bulb was set in the right rear corner. Bolan was certain it housed a PTZ camera. Everett obviously liked to keep tabs on his guests. Or perhaps the rich man had a voyeuristic streak.
The elevator stopped and the doors popped open. After routinely checking both directions in the hallway, Bolan went to his room and inserted the key.
Grimaldi was standing by the windows with Miller and Wellstrom. “I’m worried those bedbugs are back,” he said, as soon as Bolan entered.
The soldier nodded. He went to the bathroom and closed the door. Once inside, he pulled out his scanning device and swept the room. It came back clear. “Hey, Jack, you got to see this,” he said, opening the door.
Grimaldi nodded, and motioned for Wellstrom to stay put as he ushered Miller into the bathroom.
Bolan pointed to the suitcase the man carried. “I’m sure whoever was watching figured out what was in there, but no sense telegraphing exactly what we have.”
“Right,” Grimaldi added. “Let them think it’s an RPG or something.”
Miller nodded in understanding and unlocked the bag, pulling open the heavy zipper. “This was the best I could do on such short notice.”
He took out a .45 caliber Colt 1911 Government Model and a large, folded knife. Bolan grabbed the Espada and flipped his wrist, sending the long blade flicking outward to a locked position. Grimaldi took the Colt and examined it.
“Man, this thing’s an antique.” He inserted a magazine, pulled back on the slide and chambered a round. He flipped up the safety and grinned. “Just call me locked and cocked.”
Bolan asked Miller what else he had.
“Some magazines filled with ammo,” he said, handing over the bag.
Grimaldi rummaged through the suitcase and withdrew four magazines for his Colt and three for Bolan’s Beretta. “Good thing you were able to hold on to your baby.” He handed Bolan the 9 mm magazines. “I can’t wait to get my SIG back.”
“That’ll have to wait,” the soldier said, tossing him a bath towel. “Put your gun in that. Right now, we have to meet someone on the beach.”
* * *
GRIMES STOOD BEHIND Herman Monk’s chair. He’d already looped plastic flexicuffs around Monk’s wrists, securing his arms to the chair legs. A table with a television monitor was directly in front of them. Everett stood next to the table, his hands clasped behind his back. Grimes grabbed Monk’s head and adjusted his grip so he could hold the man’s eyes open, forcing him to look at the screen. “Watch it,” he said.
The crisp color image showed Monk’s daughter, from above, slowly taking off her blouse. The girl’s hair looked matted and dirty, and her bright yellow blouse was stained. She slipped it completely off and stood there in her bra. Two male guards flanked her.
“Take off your pants,” one of them said. “Now.”
Monk tried to look away, but Grimes exerted more pressure, forcing him to face the monitor once more.
“Please,” Monk said. “Please, don’t hurt her.”
“We hope we won’t have to,” Everett said. “But that’s up to you.”
“Please.” The man’s voice was a plaintive whisper. “Please. Let her go.”
The strip search continued. Grace Monk took off her slacks, now clad only in bra and panties.
One of the big guards grabbed the pants away from her and muttered, “Do the rest. Everything off.”
Monk strained against Grimes’s hold as the monitor showed his daughter taking off her brassiere. The girl handed the guard her bra and crossed her arms in front of her breasts.
“The rest.” The guard’s voice was harsh and unrelenting. “Do it.”
The other guard rubbed his fingers over her bare shoulder and grinned.
“No, please,” Monk said. “I’ll do whatever you want. Just make them stop. Please.”
Everett held the small radio to his mouth and said, “Okay, that’s enough.”
The guard brought his own radio up. “Roger that, sir.” He turned to the girl and tossed her her clothes. “Put them back on now.” The two continued to stand there watching as she got dressed. The men exchanged lascivious glances.
Everett keyed his mic again and said, “Give her some privacy.”
The guards acknowledged the command and left the room. Everett slowly walked over to Monk and motioned for Grimes to release him. When Everett spoke his voice was strong, yet quiet.
“Herman, Herman, Herman,” he said. “The last thing I want to do is to make you uncomfortable. I don’t like to hurt people, least of all pretty young things like your daughter. But you’ve been shining me on.”
“No.” Monk shook his head. “No, I haven’t, sir.”
Everett sighed, then gave Monk’s face a quick slap. “Don’t fucking lie to me.” He paused. The blow had been for effect more than to cause injury. A dismissive slap. A disciplinary measure. Grimes fingered the blackjack in his pocket and wondered if Everett would let him use it.
Fat chance, he thought. Not on the old man, but on the girl, maybe... The thought excited him. He stroked the braided leather covering the lead shot. Maybe the girl...
Everett was leaning over, his face
inches from Monk’s now. “Herman, don’t ever lie to me again,” he said in a whisper. “Do you understand?”
Monk nodded, a tear winding its way down his cheek.
“Good,” Everett said, his voice still low. “I need you to break those codes on the fuses for me. Get past those safeguards. I know you can, you know you can.” He patted the man’s shoulder gently. “And the sooner you do this, the sooner you and Grace will be able to go home. Isn’t that what you want?”
“Yes.” Monk’s voice sounded more like a squeak than an affirmation. More tears ran from his eyes.
Everett patted his shoulder again, then straightened up. “Okay, get to work. I’ll have one of my people bring your daughter some fresh clothes.” He sniffed the air. “And some for you, as well. I’ll even let you both take showers if you want. But I need those safeguards dismantled today.”
“I’ll do it, sir,” Monk said, his face showing signs of relief. “I’ll do it today.”
“You’d better, Herman.” Everett smiled. “Because if you don’t—”
“I will, I will,” Monk interrupted.
Another gentle pat, then a squeeze. Everett continued, his voice calm and reassuring, “I know you will, because if you don’t, we both know what’ll happen, don’t we?”
* * *
BOLAN AND GRIMALDI walked from the rear of the hotel toward the pristine sand of the beach. They were both in sunglasses, swimming suits and polo shirts, with towels around their necks. Bolan carried a large beach bag that held their weapons, which were wrapped in towels folded in such a way as to allow quick trigger access.
They crossed the large patio area adjacent to the hotel and finally reached the fine white sand. A hundred yards away, the ocean waves gently lapped against the shore. The flagstone sidewalk led to a one-story, plywood building with a thatched roof. The sign advertised Zandi Beach Bar in pink-and-green letters that were outlined with neon, dormant for the moment in the bright sunshine. Grimaldi lifted his sunglasses and craned his neck.
“Relax,” Bolan said. “I don’t think she’s there yet.”
Deadly Salvage Page 7