Cold Fusion

by Don Pendleton

  The cab driver pulled across the road, ignoring the blaring horns and curses that rained on him, and turned to Bolan. He grunted the fare amount, and took the money with little sign of interest in anything other than his passenger’s billfold.

  As he pulled away, leaving Bolan standing outside a shop where fruit and vegetables tumbled off makeshift tables into the late-afternoon sun, the soldier wondered what reception he would receive.

  He stepped into the shadows of the shop interior. It seemed deserted, but the hairs on his neck prickled nonetheless.

  “Mr. Belasko. Long time. No offence, but if you’d put down those bags very slowly and raise your arms above your head, I won’t have to shoot you.”

  Chapter 5

  “I wonder if they realize what this will mean to them,” Roman Bosnich murmured as he sipped his iced tea.

  “I suspect that if they did, they would not have been so willing to throw their lot in with us,” his companion replied, stirring the dissolving sugar cube around the small glass of Turkish—and therefore boiling—tea.

  “Hadji, you surprise me sometimes with your innocence. I wonder if it could become a liability.”

  “They are scientists. Worldly things mean little to them.”

  Bosnich chuckled, shaking his head. “Science demands money in order to perpetuate its experiments. The fact that they could not gain legitimate funding, and that they worked in an area considered fringe science, caused them the requisite distress looking for a sponsor. They were not fussy where that sponsor’s funds may come from. It’s all about money, and all about greed, Hadji. It’s just the things that motivate that greed that differ. Offer them the chance to live in their own bubble, continuing their own experiments to their hearts’ content, and they would sell their own grandmothers at auction.” His face hardened. “They are like everyone else. They have a price, and when offered that price they do not think of consequences.”

  “Then, if they do not think of the consequences, my point remains.” His companion shrugged. “If they had...”

  Bosnich shrugged also, unconcerned. “They would. They would consider it worth it. They would consider any price as worth it. They are as driven as anyone else.”

  “Maybe... Still, they shall not be our responsibility for much longer. I wonder if that has even crossed their minds?”

  “I doubt it. They are more likely to be wondering when they can begin to use the new facilities that we promised them.”

  “That rather depends on how far the winning bidder has to transport them, doesn’t it,” Harinder Singh, the man known to Bosnich as Hadji, mused. He looked down from the bridge of the yacht to where the two men in question reclined on sun loungers. They were pale—one middle-aged, the other just edging out of youth—and they seemed uneasy, almost unable to relax—unlike Singh or Bosnich. Both were traders in arms who had, in recent years, expanded their trade to encompass manpower as much as hardware. Brokers in commodities, they preferred to think of themselves. As such, when they had heard of two scientists claiming to have made significant progress in cold fusion they had—once they had checked what this actually entailed—realized that here was a commodity outside the norm but that may prove to be profitable.

  The man who had told them of the scientists was small-time. He had been approached through a third party. The kind of funding the men were looking for was outside his remit, but for an introductory fee—extracted from both sides, naturally—he had been able to arrange a meeting.

  Bosnich and Singh knew that they had many contacts, all of whom would see the advantages in buying these talents and this information. For the traders, there was the additional knowledge that money saved in one budget would, in many cases, find its way into an arms budget from which they could also profit further.

  A win/win situation. With introductions effected, it was simple for them to set the men up with a lab in their Swiss homeland where they could produce enough proof to justify both the investment of time and money, and also provide ample material for a prospectus. The scientists thought it would be for funding purposes to produce under contract—but the traders knew it would be a simple bill of sale. Everything—man, lab and findings—would be shipped to their new owners like a crate of knock-off AK-47s. Except, of course, at a much greater profit...

  The scientists had been moved from their Swiss base some two days before, and as far as they were concerned would attend a series of funding meetings where they would demonstrate their findings. They did not know that even as they lay at uneasy rest on the sun deck of the yacht, their lab had been dismantled and carefully packed, ready to be transported to their new home at a moment’s notice. Both men were single, which had greatly simplified matters—not that a family could not as easily be packed up, or disposed of.

  The yacht Taurus had been moored in the harbour at Latakia for a little over twenty-four hours. Money had changed hands in order for it to be officially invisible, but bribery had a statute of limitations. Despite his casual air, Bosnich would be glad when the next day had come, and they could complete the sale before leaving with a haste that others—but not he—would consider undue.

  Singh, on the other hand, despite his idle musing, had less conscience than curiosity, and was prepared to invest as much in payments to officials as would be necessary. Unlike his partner, he felt any threat would not be official, but rather from other traders wishing to take a piece of the action.

  Neither man had figured on a third option.

  Singh sipped at his sweet, scalding tea. In the heat of late afternoon it felt cool, a paradox he enjoyed, as he did the presence of their 165-foot pleasure vessel in a harbor otherwise alive with working boats. Despite the incongruity, he noted that they were not the subject of curiosity. The strangeness of their presence was warning enough. He said as much to Bosnich.

  “Hadji, your sense of irony will get you into trouble one day. I just hope it doesn’t drag me with it. We have some work still to do. Besides, I think the merchandise is getting nervous with the way it is being watched.”

  He gave the two men on the sun deck a brief wave and smile before leading his grinning companion down below to finalize the auction arrangements.

  * * *

  “I WOULD LIKE this more if we had not had to leave our work,” Tomas Gabriel grumbled as he sat huddled on a sun lounger. His posture would have been more appropriate if they had been in a colder region, but nonetheless reflected his sense of unease.

  “Tom, you worry too much.” Uli Hoeness reclined and looked up to the bridge, acknowledging Bosnich before he and the other man disappeared. “You know why we need to be here. We secure the funding, we go home, we work again. Meantime, you should relax. You’re still young and have your career before you. Mine is past its peak.”

  “You make it sound as if I am carrying you. That’s not convincing. Neither are you in any other way. Look at the way you are sitting. You act like you are relaxed, but I have seen teak and oak with more flexibility than you.”

  “Perhaps I am nervous.” Hoeness cast his eye over the men who discreetly ringed the deck. They were armed, but their armaments were unobtrusive and hidden—Bosnich and Singh thought that he did not notice this. They did not know everything about him and his previous work. True, Syria had been experiencing unrest: but were they there to protect the two scientists or to contain them?

  “Perhaps I am nervous,” he stated again in a stronger voice, not wishing to alarm his already rattled companion. “But if I am, it is only because I fear that those who have the finances will not fully understand us.”

  “Ah, yes,” Gabriel muttered darkly. “But if they do not, what will our current benefactors do about that? They are not philanthropists, I think.”

  “No. No, I don’t suppose they are,” Hoeness said softly.

  * * *

  “YOUR CAUTIO
N DOES you credit, Jared. But you obviously remember me. Unless you have a hotline to Hadez.”

  “So that’s where you got this junk?” Hassim answered as he rooted through the duffel bags that he had made Bolan kick across the floor.

  “Not for the money I paid. Not with his reputation, either.” Bolan eyed the scrawny kid who was covering him with an HK MP5. He was no more than fifteen, but his eyes were glittering and cold. Too far to reach before he could trigger a burst, and he wouldn’t hesitate—of that, Bolan was sure.

  “Why would he think you were coming to me? You say anything? Ask any questions?”

  “Why would I do that? At the outside, knowing your background—and I assume he would—and knowing mine, he might just add it up. But I doubt that. You used a name—same as him—that I haven’t used for a long time now. And I remember you.”

  Hassim looked up from the duffel bags. For a moment there was a faraway look in his eye. “You do, do you? That’s interesting. Man like you must work alongside a lot of guys. Most of them probably dead by now, too.”

  “You’re not. That makes you memorable.”

  “Because I remember how to stay alive?”

  “It’s a skill worth acquiring, and one that’s good to have on your side.”

  Hassim moved the bags behind him, further out of reach. The interior of the store was musty and dark, smelling of vegetables and fruit that had been stored too long. Tables and benches covered in produce lined the side walls. At the back was a doorway covered by a rug pinned above the lintel. The boy squatted on a chair to one side of the door. Hassim stood to the other. If the boy hadn’t been there, his squat, grizzled appearance would have led you to believe he could be nothing more than a grocer.

  “Why would I want to be on your side, Mr. Cooper?”

  “Be nice and you can call me Matt.”

  “Matt, then. Why would I want to be on anyone’s side? I retired from that game a long time ago. Your intel must have told you that.”

  “Sure looks like you retired,” Bolan said wryly, indicating the boy and his MP5.

  “These are dangerous times, Matt. Everyone needs a little security.”

  “Well, you’ve looked in those bags, and you can see the kind of security you could buy. That’s just the down payment. I need men who know the area and know how to fight. I need them quick. I know I can trust you.”

  Hassim looked at him quizzically. Bolan sighed.

  “You’re a professional. Your record says that you take that seriously. I pay you and you’ll take that as a responsibility. Besides which, if you really do like living here, you might not want the balance of power to shift. It could make things difficult for a man who just wants to sell a few vegetables.”

  “Now you have me interested,” Hassim said. He gestured to the boy, barked a few words in an Arabic dialect Bolan could not follow. The boy jumped off the chair, hooking the leg with his foot so that it spun toward the soldier across the floor. All the while he kept the MP5 leveled at Bolan.

  “Take a seat, Matt. Tell me more....”

  * * *

  THREE HOURS LATER, darkness enveloped Damascus as Hassim marshalled his men into the small back room. It was lit by an oil lamp that smoked and stank almost as badly as the smell of their sweat as they congregated in the confined space. Apprehension—it was like fear, but not as rank. Twelve men jammed in alongside Hassim and Bolan in the crowded space.

  Hassim spoke to them in their own language. Bolan could follow parts of it, and was amused to find himself described as an American but not an imperialist, and as a pirate with plenty of cash to throw around.

  “You understand,” he continued smoothly in English as he turned to the soldier, “that in a country where any kind of travel can be subject to a warrant, the idea of a few extra shekels to oil the wheels of that travel can only be seen as a good thing.”

  “Of course. And distancing myself from the U.S. military can do no harm.”

  “In the current climate the only thing worse than an American soldier is a Syrian soldier, my friend.”

  Bolan assented. “Understandable, I guess... Now, to matters at hand.” He scanned the group clustered in the room. “How many of you speak good English?” There was an uneasy silence. “I ask because I want you to understand clearly, and my Arabic is rusty. It’s vital that you understand every detail.”

  “Don’t worry,” Hassim interjected. “Any difficulty, I’ll explain.”

  “Okay.” Bolan reached into his holdall and removed an iPad. Left to his own devices, he much preferred a smartphone, as it was easier to carry and conceal, but he had known that at some point he would have to demonstrate to a larger group. Here was where the larger screen came in handy. Powering up, he brought up the intel that Kurtzman had sent him. A map appeared on the screen.

  “You know, when Jared called me a pirate, he maybe wasn’t too far from the truth.” As he spoke, Bolan recalled the ironically sinking feeling when he had first read the emails forwarded by Brognola.

  “Gentlemen,” he said slowly. “Our objective is not actually in Latakia itself. It’s moored half a klick out in the harbor...”

  * * *

  BOSNICH LOOKED OVER the yacht’s stateroom once more. The main oval table was set with nameplates; the screen on the wall was linked to the laptop that lay idle to one side, on a smaller table from which the scientists would present and the auction would be conducted.

  There would be twenty representatives in the room, bidding. Their entourages would remain on the boats that had brought them out into the bay. The rules had been set and agreed to, and the security that kept the merchandise contained would also form a ring of steel to ensure that this condition was not breached. Further to this, Singh had spent the morning in Latakia, speaking to the governor of the Latakia Muhafazah. Money had changed hands, and rather than hand over a sum and then hope that it filtered down as required, Singh had met with the members of the elected provincial council responsible for the manatiq and nahiya directly around the port and harbor area. From governor to region to district—every man who held a responsibility for that area had been primed to allow the meet to go ahead without interference.

  Yet despite this, Bosnich felt a fluttering in his gut that was almost alien to him. A long time ago, he used to feel this before the commencement of a deal, but no longer. Yet why should this be different?

  He knew why. Handling the merchandise was easy when it was cold and inanimate. But this piece of merchandise was flesh and blood—it was prone to all the erratic nature of humanity.

  This was the biggest deal that he and Singh had ever set up. It could not go wrong.

  Assuring himself that the room was set, he left and strode down the corridors of the yacht until he reached the stateroom where the two scientists were relaxing—if it could be called that. They looked as tense as they had earlier in the day. The presence of a guard in the corner was an undoubted spur to this. Ignoring his presence, Bosnich approached them.

  “Gentlemen, are we set for tomorrow?”

  Hoeness nodded shortly, but Gabriel was less assuring. “No. I fail to see why we could not have remained in our laboratory. There is still work to be done. If it comes to that, I do not see why we have to conduct this matter with such subterfuge. We are acting like criminals.”

  Bosnich held his temper as it boiled—the stupidity and arrogance of the man amazed him. How else did he think they could gain financing for such a project through unorthodox channels? Had he never wondered why two “entrepreneurs” with no relevant background would put up a sum that was hardly small change?

  He forced a smile. “Europe is a territory in which many of those who wish to examine and bid for your knowledge would feel less than safe. A territory as neutral as possible, and that would attract as little attention as possible, is the only way to e
nsure that we get the funding we need. And that, after all, is what you wish, is it not?”

  Gabriel grudgingly assented. “I suppose that is the case. I will be glad when this is completed and we can return to our work.”

  Bosnich detected the note of uncertainty and fear in the young scientist’s tone.

  “Do not worry,” he assured him. “Nothing will disrupt the proceedings tomorrow.”

  * * *

  “LET’S ROLL,” HASSIM murmured, waving his hand to emphasize the words he would not risk at greater volume.

  Bolan had to hand it to him—three jeeps acquired quickly, filled with necessary provision for travel and hardware, and twelve men rounded up, briefed, armed and ready to move in less than four hours. Hassim was earning the cash he would get at the end of this.

  As the vehicles moved out into the night, along streets that were almost deserted, Bolan paused to consider what they were about to do. They would travel up to the border of Homs Muhafazah and from there they would take to the water. Bolan’s initial thought had been to either take the road all the way around or find some way of crossing the water to Latakia, surveying the target along the way. Hassim had been unimpressed.

  “The more we travel by road, the more we risk being stopped. You are lucky to catch a lull in the unrest. But it won’t last long. Meanwhile, the lure of the shekel will ease our way only so far. It is unfortunate, but there are some soldiers who, amazingly, do not wish to supplement their incomes but in truth feel some kind of loyalty to their generals. The less chance we take of engaging with them the better. If we go by road as far as the border with Homs, we should be fine. I know the soldiers of this governance, and how susceptible they are. Under another rule I would not like to be so certain.”