Binder had a feeling he was about to find out, and wouldn’t like the answer.
“Please sit down, Jakob,” Koretski said. After Binder took one of the comfortable matching seats in front of Koretski’s massive desk, the Russian leaned forward, face solemn. “I have a proposition for you, Jakob, and I want you to consider before you make any answer. We have a mutual problem. A simple one. You have accumulated an extremely large gambling debt, and you owe that debt to me. I have your markers, which you willingly signed and I must say that a degree of recklessness on your part has allowed that debt to spiral out of control. My accountant here, Oleg,” he said, indicating a slim, pale-faced young man holding a large ledger, “has estimated that your current salary would not make much of a dent in what you owe if you were able to remain in employment for the next fifty years. That is a conservative estimate, based on the fact you are already in your fortieth year. Did I not mention the interest you will also need to pay on the loan? So, Jakob, I am sure you see the problem. How do I recoup my investment? Which brings us to my proposition.”
Silence enveloped the room, broken only when Katrina moved and crossed to the generous wet bar close by. She took a bottle and poured a generous amount of bourbon into a thick tumbler and offered it to Binder, who took it a little too eagerly, gulping noisily as he swallowed half the amount.
“He drinks like a fish,” Katrina said, making no attempt to hide the contempt in her suddenly hard voice. “And he spills a lot when he has had too much. Maxim, I should be angry at you for making me play up to this loser over the last few months.”
Binder turned to stare at her. At the once-pretty face, hardened into a cold mask. Realization hit him like a punch to the stomach.
“But you said…”
She laughed. “I said I loved you,” she mocked, her voice taking on a harsh Russian tone. “He begged me to say it every time we were in bed. God, it makes me shudder when I think about it.”
“All in a day’s work,” Koretski said. “And you did it so well, my dear.” Koretski chuckled. “We have it all on disc so I appreciate how much effort you put into it.”
“You didn’t have him drooling and pawing over you,” Katrina said.
Koretski smiled across at the white-faced Binder. “So, Jakob, where do we go from here?”
Binder drained his glass. He barely noticed when Katrina took the empty tumbler, refilled it and returned it to him.
“I think he has lost the power of speech,” she said.
“Well, he’d better get it back damn fast,” Senator Kendal said, moving to stand beside Koretski’s desk. “Let’s cut the crap, Maxim. I understand this little shit has most of his brains in his pants, but there must be some left in his head so he can figure out what’s coming next.”
“Not exactly the way I would have phrased it,” Koretski said, “but I understand what you are getting at. Jakob, it is quite simple. I own you now. Unless you prefer the quick way out, which I doubt, there may be something we can do to ease your problem.”
Binder focused on the Russian. He took another drink. “What?”
“It has to do with your work with the oil commission.”
Binder frowned. “I don’t understand.”
“You work for the Department of the Interior. You have influence,” Koretski said. “You have access to confidential files. You can effect changes.”
Kendal reached out and handed Binder a computer printout. The man ran his gaze over the text, surprised at what he saw.
“How did you get hold of this? It’s supposed to be highly classified. There are no more than three people who know about it.”
“You’re one,” Kendal said. “Berkowski and Reynolds are the others. I’ll let you try and figure out the one who brought this to me. Suffice it to say it was offered in the hope the offender might reduce his liability to us,” Kendal said.
“We haven’t decided yet how to reward him for this information. His influence is far lower on the scale than yours. Which is why we turned to you,” Koretski said.
“How many people are there on your payroll?” Binder asked.
“That’s something you’ll never get to know.”
Binder looked at Koretski. The Russian shrugged. “He won’t even tell me. Just a word of caution, Jakob. You have family. Two sisters. Both married. They have children. Husbands. Your mother lives in Vermont. I mention this simply as a cautionary matter. If you think of revealing our conversation here today, or any of the people present, then believe it when I say I would be extremely disappointed and forced to make reprisals. Do I make myself understood?”
Binder nodded. “Yes. I understand.”
“And do not fool yourself into believing if you decided it was all too much and did away with yourself I would spare your family—don’t. Try to cheat me, and I will still make them pay.”
Binder’s expression was pitiful. A trapped man, caught in the spotlight. Helpless.
“I’m glad we have that cleared up. Now we can work out how you can help the senator and myself.”
“What is it you want?” Binder asked. He expected the worst, and that was exactly what he got.
The next few weeks were a nightmare as Binder manipulated reports and figures. He altered geological surveys and had physical samples sent to his department substituted with false ones. He worked harder discounting the claims and suggestions than he had ever worked before. It was difficult but not impossible. Federal cutbacks meant a smaller staff. Binder had always made himself indispensable, so his apparent attention to detail was not suspected as being anything but normal.
When the report came in that a light plane carrying a survey team had crashed with total loss of life in Alaska, he failed to realize the implications at first. It was only later that the truth clicked in and he realized it had been no accident. The three men and one woman on the flight had been involved in the original survey. It had been their findings that had generated first interest in the new field. They had been out in the field since submitting the reports, so none of them were aware of Binder’s manipulation.
His shock forced him to contact Koretski. The Russian had asked what he wanted.
“I think you know,” Binder said. “The plane crash.”
Koretski had been silent for a moment. “Say no more. A car will come for you shortly. Speak to no one.”
Binder was picked up at a prearranged spot and driven to Koretski’s building. When he stepped from the elevator into Koretski’s office the first person he saw was Katrina. Her smile was cool, her manner disdainful.
“Do you miss me, Jakob?”
“Katrina, behave yourself,” Koretski said. “Jakob is upset about something. Come and sit down, Jakob.”
Binder took the same seat he had used all those weeks earlier. He was nervous. His emotions were all over the place. The revelation he had come to accept as true manifested itself in severe trembling in his hands. Even Koretski noticed. He poured a tumbler full of bourbon and brought it to Binder.
“Try not to spill it on the carpet, Jakob,” he said. “It cost a great deal of money.” He returned to sit at his desk. “Now what has got you all agitated?”
“Did you arrange for that plane to crash? To kill those people?”
Koretski stroked his chin, as if he was considering Binder’s question. “Yes, I did.”
“My God. You deliberately murdered them?”
Koretski held out his hands. “Didn’t I just say so? You heard me, Katrina?”
“Clearly.”
“But…”
“But nothing, Jakob. The survey team could have challenged your misrepresentation of the facts. Your switching of core samples. The altering of figures. All down to you. While they were still out in the field the risk was minimal, but they
were coming back, and the moment they walked into the department and saw what had happened to their reports… What the hell, Jakob? How would you talk your way out of that?”
“They were good people. They had done nothing to deserve what you did to them.”
“Part of the reason I decided not to mention them before. I needed you concentrating on the matter at hand, not pining over the fate of some out-of-town coworkers. Stay focused, Jakob, and think about what happened to your team. Accidents happen all the time.” Koretski smiled. “Family, Jakob. I would hate to have to start picking who should be first.”
Binder stared down at the tumbler in his hands. He managed to raise it to his lips, downing the liquid in a single swallow.
“Listen to me, Jakob. Senator Kendal has some details he requires your approval on. He’s negotiating the purchase of some deep-water equipment that needs a degree of official approval. His own consortium is working on, shall we say, something a little tricky, at the moment. Kendal has to stay clear of any negotiations concerning his company, since he isn’t supposed to be involved due to his senatorial role. So a newly created division, not even part of his enterprises, will deal with it. Somewhere along the line they will be seeking operating licenses, which is where you will come in. You do understand, Jakob? They will be granted anything they need.”
Binder understood. The new company—in essence Kendal and Koretski—would be in a position to establish the field. To take control of the exploration, development and eventual potential yield. He knew the facts and figures. The yield would be impressive. The amount of crude would translate into billions of dollars and it would be channeled into the hands of the partners. On a daily basis the whole enterprise would be managed and operated by front men, who would probably not even know who they were actually working for. The multiple layers of management, deceit and crooked operating procedures would be designed to keep Kendal and Koretski protected. The payoffs would keep everyone happy and would total out to an insignificant figure when stood against what Kendal and Koretski would be banking. Moved around the financial world, the money would be hidden from inquisitive eyes until it became invisible and the manipulations of the partners would be lost.
Binder understood he was just one of a number of individuals being used, and as long as Kendal and his Russian partner had his family under the hammer, there was nothing he could do. At the back of his mind lurked the fact that he was as vulnerable as his dead team. If—when—he outlived his usefulness, there would no longer be any reason why he should stay alive. Binder had no illusions about that. His life was in the hands of the men coercing him. The lives of his extended family were in his hands. It was a nightmare without end. One he couldn’t wake up from.
Chapter 20
Bolan parked the Chevy off road, hiding it in thick bushes. Instinct told him that Maxim Koretski would have watchers both inside and outside his base. The Russian was a survivor, a man who walked in a violent world, and that kind of existence brought its own paranoia. Koretski would see trouble waiting at every turn and he would make sure he was well-protected. Like most of his kind he gave out signals of confidence. A bravura to show that he was never intimidated. Never bested. Yet he would have his bodyguards around at all times.
Clad in a blacksuit and carrying his ordnance, Bolan went EVA about a half mile short of his destination. Using the night shadows he made his silent, unseen approach along the perimeter wall that flanked the road. The darkness befriended him, offering cover, merging his black garb with its own cloak. Bolan was able to come within sight of the gated entrance and the pair of armed heavies unlucky enough to have drawn the short straw. They both carried AK-74s, hooked over their shoulders by leather straps. Bolan guessed they would also have holstered handguns under their topcoats. One of them smoked continuously, lighting up a fresh cigarette each time he finished one. Both men were reaching that stage in their shift when the routine was starting to drag and they were wishing they could go back inside the house and have a hot drink. Bolan spent some time studying the patrol routine. Each man started from the gate. One walked east, the other west, until they reached the end of the front wall, then made a return to the gate. A simple routine that seemed to satisfy the guards. Bolan figured they might have a similar pair watching the back wall. He didn’t intend to waste time finding out. From gate to corner the slow walk took eight minutes, and then another eight back. Time enough. Bolan waited until the pair decided to walk the walk.
The guy moving east was coming his way and Bolan met him halfway into his patrol. He was crouching in the thick grass growing at the base of the wall—the guard had no warning. Bolan simply rose to his full height as the man passed. He swung his arms around the guard’s neck, pulling him into a crippling headlock. Bolan’s muscles strained hard as he applied pressure. The guard had no chance to call out. His air was cut off and so was the blood flow through his arteries. As the guy went facedown Bolan jammed a knee into his spine, grasped his head and hauled back until he heard the snap of vertebrae. The guard became limp.
Bolan stripped off the dead man’s thick coat and shrugged into it. He pulled on the knit cap the man had been wearing, and picked up the AK-74. Before he resumed the guard’s walk, Bolan rolled the body into the cover of the thick grass at the base of the wall.
Upon completion Bolan about-turned and began to retrace the man’s steps, fixing the other guard in his line of sight. He hoped the guy wasn’t the talkative type. No words were spoken, even when the two were no more than a few yards apart. Bolan strolled up toward the gates, head low, the collar of his coat pulled up around his ears.
And it was then that the other guard said, “Sergei? You look taller than… You are not Sergei—”
The man snatched at his dangling auto rifle, but Bolan powered forward and slammed bodily into him. They crashed to the ground, Bolan on top, his left hand pushing the other man’s weapon aside, pinning it to his body, while his right fist, bunched tight, slammed into the Russian’s face. Bolan hit hard, over and over, drawing blood and breaking teeth and jaw. The Russian put up a struggle. He was strong, his wiry frame bucking and twisting beneath Bolan’s solid weight. Bolan could feel the man trying to break the hold on his AK-74, desperate to reach the trigger so he could fire a warning shot. His right hand was pounding at Bolan’s chest in an attempt to push Bolan off him. Feeling the Russian’s closeness to the AK’s trigger Bolan moved his left hand, grabbed the guy’s fingers and bent them back until he heard bones crack as they snapped. The Russian let out a pained cry, blood spraying from his mouth. Before he could yell again Bolan hammered his fist down against the guy’s nose, feeling it cave in. He drove his fist in again and again, cartilage breaking amid a spew of bright blood that cascaded across the Russian’s face. He was choking, blood flooding his throat. His struggles became weaker. With the Russian contained, Bolan reached and slid the Tanto knife from its sheath and pushed the razor blade in deep, under the ribs and into the heart. He worked it brutally, causing fatal damage to the organ. The guard shuddered violently before slipping silently into death. Easing the knife free, Bolan wiped the blade on the grass, then returned it to its sheath.
He pushed to his feet, stepping back from the guard, and checked the closed gates. They were electronically locked. He turned his attention to the stone-block wall. It was eight feet high. Bolan slung his SMG across his back, took a few steps back and launched himself up. His fingers grasped the edge of the top stone. He hung for a moment before hauling himself bodily up the wall, using the tips of his boots to gain precious holds on the uneven surface. He rolled prone on the top of the wall, checking out the lay of the grounds. Satisfied the immediate area was clear, Bolan then lowered himself down the wall. Bolan felt his feet touch the ground. He crouched in the dark shadow at the foot of the wall, eyes searching the interlocking shadows created by the lights from the house spilling across the ground. He checked for movemen
t but saw none. Even so, he stayed where he was for some time, never one to take things at face value. A hasty move could easily turn against him. No amount of reading the enemy could allow for an unexpected appearance, a random step taken by an enemy on the spur of the moment. Bolan let time slip by.
Watching.
Waiting.
His vigilance was rewarded as a dark shape stepped out from a small side door, the man outlined in the pale glow of light from inside the house. Bolan saw enough. A bulky physique, the configuration of an SMG held loosely in the man’s hands, and then the darkness returned as the door closed behind the guy. Bolan’s eyes had attuned to the gloom and he was able to track the man’s movements as he walked away from the house, head moving left and right as he did. The SMG was relegated to one hand, muzzle lowered, as the guard reached inside his bulky coat and drew out a pack of cigarettes. He flipped the pack to loosen one cigarette and pulled it free with his teeth. The pack was returned to his pocket and replaced with a lighter. Flame showed as the cigarette was lit. The glowing tip became a tiny beacon for Bolan to follow as the guy paced the area.
Drawing back, Bolan positioned himself so he was able to cover the sentry’s path. It dawned on him that the guy was making for the gated entrance—a security check? It offered Bolan the opportunity to take the guy out while he was a distance from the house. He stayed well to the side as he followed the man to the gates, only closing in as he shouldered his weapon, using both hands to inspect the high gates, rattling them briefly to ensure they were secured. Satisfied, the guard turned about to retrace his steps.
But before he could get any farther, Bolan materialized directly in front of the man and took a hard fist to his throat. The force of the blow was followed by the collapse of his larynx and everything around it. His ability to breathe apparently ceased and the man began to choke. The cigarette dropped from his lips. He grabbed his throat, as if hope told him it might ease the problem. It didn’t. He fell back against the gates, briefly held there by the solid metal. Then he dropped to his knees, already losing consciousness.
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