* * *
“IN HERE,” SHADEEB called from the stateroom of the Taurus. Bolan responded to the call, hurrying down the corridor. As he stood in the doorway, the faint smell of a charnel house mingled with the sharp remnants of the CS that clung to the air.
Shadeeb was standing at the far end of the room, between the corpses of two men not in uniform. Bolan made his way across the room.
“Any ID?” he asked.
Shadeeb shook his head. “Not anything on them. They look like bosses, though. Manicured, and expensive clothes, even with blood and bullet holes. Maybe if we had time to search the boat properly—”
“We need to make this quick. Even if the whole region is turning a blind eye because of graft, a Syrian gunboat exchanging fire in the harbor is going to make someone nervous, no matter how much they’ve put in their safe. Doesn’t matter who these guys were now, they’re out of the game. It’s who took the targets that matter.”
“Then maybe this will help. Tell us something, for sure.” Bolan grinned, bending down and picking up a shattered laptop from the floor. He ripped out the leads that had connected it to the screen that was broken and lying across one corpse. “Take it, Cooper. Screen is fucked, maybe the rest of its guts. But if the hard disk is okay—”
“Good thinking,” Bolan agreed as he took it. “We can look at it at leisure. First we need to get the hell out, and quick.”
Ushering Shadeeb from the stateroom, and with a last look around to see if there was anything else worth salvaging, Bolan moved through the lower level, calling to Hassim’s men, urging them to move quickly. As he ascended the steps to the first level, he came across the mercenary leader.
“Anything?” Hassim asked.
“Your man found this, but that’s it. No one left alive down there. Up here?”
“Nothing, and all dead. They were professional, whoever did this. We go now?”
“Sure as hell,” Bolan said. The two men gathered their forces and took them up to the deck, where they rapidly descended into the two powerboats that had been grappled to the side of the yacht. Bolan stood on deck and made a quick survey of the area.
The waters were surprisingly calm. Those vessels that were on the move—mostly fishing vessels or small boats carrying cargo—were almost visibly avoiding the waters around the yacht. There was no doubt that all of them had been witness in part to the firefight that had taken place in the harbor, but they had noted one of the vessels to be military—and would have had no cause to doubt its authenticity—and in the country’s current climate chose discretion.
As the powerboats turned and headed out toward the open sea, passing boats that steered clear from them, Bolan wondered how long it would be before the real military, and not an imposter, would take an interest.
“We’ll head back toward the village,” Hassim said briefly. “No point looking for them now. Besides, I don’t know how much the boats could take,” he added ruefully, as if noticing for the first time the damage that had been caused in the firefight.
Bolan was glad to hear it. He would not have to try and impose himself on the group. He didn’t want to do this, and he had the feeling that he would need their manpower.
And soon.
* * *
“THAT’S NOT GOOD, Striker. It’s not what I wanted to hear.” Despite the words, Brognola’s tone was more rueful than admonishing.
“Hal, it’s not what I would have wanted to hear, either,” Bolan returned. “It’s not how I would have wanted it. There was no intel to suggest that there was an interested party who would want to muscle in.”
“What have we got on them?”
Bolan laughed without humor. “I should be asking you that. They left nothing to clue us in and no one who could be questioned. They struck clean from their point, and they were efficient. Everyone on the opposing team was taken out. The only thing we could glean from the yacht was a shattered laptop. One of Hassim’s boys is extracting the hard drive, and if it’s in okay condition I’ll upload the contents to Bear and see what he can make of it. At least then we’ll know who was originally behind this, and maybe clean up the back end. But as for who took the targets...”
“Not military, that’s for sure. They’re trying to keep it quiet, but there’s a lot going down. Heads will roll in that Muhafazah. There should be some nervous officials there tonight.”
Bolan looked up to the cloudless, star-spangled sky. There would no doubt be fewer corrupt officials come sunrise, but that was of little concern or use to him at this time.
“It worked in our favor, too, so it’s hard to criticize. I’d be more interested in anyone whose name comes up in connection with missing naval vessels. Though, we didn’t board it, but we got close enough to at least say with certainty that it was genuine.”
“I’ll get Bear on to that.”
“It’s a good job the big man never sleeps. Your sources for the original emails—are they still an open channel?”
“Jumpy as a turkey the day before Thanksgiving, but they haven’t got any choice but to be available.”
“I won’t ask. Keep them on red, Hal. I suspect that it won’t be too long before they get mail from a new address, but with the same old offer. Until they do, we’ve got a cold trail.”
Bolan disconnected with a sense of frustration. Recovering the laptop had seemed like some consolation, however small, but it could only yield information about the now-deceased parties. Where he went from here was still a blank wall.
“Hey, Cooper, you want to come look at this?”
Bolan turned to see one of Hassim’s men walking toward him. He was a head shorter than the soldier, broader, and had a face that had spent too long under the desert sun. His name was Rafik, and he looked like he would cut you down if you looked at him in the wrong way. But despite his forbidding demeanor, there was a sparkle in his eye.
“Shadeeb got the hard disk extracted?”
Rafik nodded. “Got it wired up to his on an external. You want to have a look at what he’s found before you upload it to your people?”
“Anything interesting?”
Rafik shrugged. “You tell us. Plenty on there, though.”
He turned back toward the village, and Bolan fell in step with him. It was night, the villagers and the mercenaries were under cover, blankets draped over windows and doorways to cut down the ambient light. With the jeeps and now the powerboats secreted in barns, it looked like what it was most of the time—a fishing village that kept itself to itself. More than that, a village that liked it to stay that way.
In one of the buildings, Hassim and his men were gathered. Three women moved among them, distributing food, while they talked in low voices. Of the dozen men in the room, seven clustered around a rough wooden table where Hassim and Shadeeb pored over a laptop with an external drive unit.
“That interesting?” Bolan asked as he joined them.
“Listen, Cooper, we don’t have satellite here, as the dish would attract too much attention, so any way that we can get our thrills. Have a look at this—I think you’ll like it.”
Shadeeb brought up the directory, and handed the laptop over to Bolan, watching what he was doing over his shoulder.
Bolan scanned the directory and then opened files as he methodically traced a path through the contents. This was not the time for him to look in any great depth, but he could see that there was much on here that would interest Kurtzman, and not just because of the current mission. It became obvious that the main business of the men behind this operation was arms. There were detailed records of inventory, its storage and movement. Sales and records of delivery and payment, too. There would be a few regimes and organizations looking over their shoulders after Stony Man Farm received this intel.
Moving on, he found details of the laboratory that the dec
eased men had built for the target scientists, including location and financing. He would assume that the lab may still be open, not as yet closed and all evidence eradicated. If Kurtzman worked quickly, then Brognola might be able to glean some useful evidence and intel from the site.
Most important of all, stored on the disk was all correspondence from those who had been emailed concerning the auction, along with their various responses. It was as full a record as anyone could have hoped for, and this alone would be invaluable.
But there was even more than he could have hoped. In among the folders for the email there was one that did not belong to either a government, paramilitary or terrorist organization. An inquiry had been received from an organization that purported to be a trade alliance between corporations in the emergent East: the address and letterhead were likely to be false—but some of the names mentioned as being members and as those who had arranged contact between the vendor and this organization? These may just be for real. If so, then it could start the touch-paper on a trail that would lead Bolan to the organization that had engineered the day’s coup.
“This is good...very good,” he said softly. “I owe you, Shadeeb.”
“I like your gratitude Mr. Cooper, but I’m a simple man. Cash would be preferable.”
Bolan grinned. “It’s worth a bonus.” He pulled out his phone and hit the speed dial.
“Striker, not a good day so far, but Hal tells me you may have something for me.”
“I just might,” Bolan explained what he had found as he connected his phone to the laptop and sent the contents of the hard disk.
“Interesting,” Kurtzman murmured as he perused the information on his screen. “It’ll take me time to process all this, but I’ll get us to work on the emails from the so-called trade alliance. I can’t see any paramilitaries or nation states dirtying their hands before they’ve had a chance to make an open play. Too messy. But if these guys were rebuffed...how long do you have?”
“I couldn’t say. Not long. Everyone who wanted to bid is in place in the region. My guess is that they have contact details, maybe by hacking the original vendor. They’ll be in touch almost immediately, and they’ll want to set it up somewhere in this region. It wouldn’t make sense any other way.”
“Right. But is Syria still a viable option?”
“You tell me for sure. I can’t see it—it’s going to be too hot. If they move down the coast, away from any concentration of NATO or UN forces, then first stop is Israel or Jordan. One would be a hell of a gamble, but the other? Bear, what’s it like in Jordan right now?”
“Probably about as stable as anywhere in the Middle East—hell, more than most, I’d say. Not any direct coastal area, so less chance of it being a water-based meet, but maybe that was just a peccadillo of the late Bosnich and Singh? It’s royal rather than republican, and has better stability and human rights than most of the region.”
“Any meet there might attract attention without local unrest to hide behind, but that lack of trouble might make it easier to set up quickly. We’re not going to move until I get word from Hal, but in the meantime send me as much detail about the region as you can—the usual, any geographic or topographic charts. Any friendly faces, too. If I can narrow down a few likely spots, then it might help when Hal gets word.”
“I’ll do that. Meantime, I’ll keep on this and get back to you with anything I uncover that might help in some way.”
“That’s good. Gives me a warm feeling.” He grinned.
“Hey, always happy to help.”
Bolan disconnected the phone, and was lost in thought for a few moments. He was flying blind right now, but at least he might have some preparation in place when word came. He found it hard to believe that anyone setting up such an auction would be fool enough to try and step into the war zone that was Israel and Palestine. They wouldn’t want to frighten away potential purchasers who had already had one unwanted and unexpected change of plan.
It was only when he became aware of the silence around him that he looked around to see that all eyes in the room were upon him, and he realized that—of course—they had been listening to his conversation.
Hassim raised an eyebrow.
“You want we should go to Jordan with you, Cooper?”
Chapter 8
Gabriel had been silent and brooding for most of the short and uncomfortable trip. It had occurred to him that all had not been exactly as it seemed with Bosnich and Singh, and yet he had been driven by his desire to see the work that he and Hoeness had been undertaking at last receive recognition. He had put to the back of his mind the fact that no one gets something for nothing—there had to be a cost.
Then it hit him—he would not see his home or his family again. By entering into this Faustian pact he had separated himself from those he loved for all time. He wondered what had actually happened to the lab back in Switzerland. Had it been dismantled in order to be shipped to whoever bought their services? No, indeed, it was more like whoever had bought their lives. What would his family be told? Would they just be stranded, or would they, too, be packed up and shipped off to wherever the scientists were to end their days? At least that way he would see his beloved Elise again, it was worse for Hoeness, as the man had two children, one of whom no longer lived in the family home. What would that son be told?
Although the thought of their families being enslaved with them was appalling, the last option that came to mind was unthinkable. Yet there was no doubt that these were ruthless people. Gabriel looked across the cabin at Hoeness, who lay silent on his bunk. Was the same thing going through his mind, or did he blank it out rather than face the awful possibility?
They traveled in silence like this for some hours. Endless as they seemed in the pitch and yaw of the gunboat, it could not have been that long, as the effects of the CS gas were only just starting to clear from their bodies. Indeed, when the motion of the boat changed from a pitching roll to a simple up-and-down swell, Gabriel still found it hard to stand. His legs felt weak, likely to crumble beneath him.
Not that the men who came for them were in any way sympathetic. He could hear yelling from above and the pounding of feet outside in the corridor. The door was then flung open and two guards took up positions before the tall Russian—who, like the guards, was no longer wearing the Syrian uniform—entered.
“Gentlemen, can you walk?”
Gabriel came to his feet. “I can barely stand,” he spat. “Whatever you expect from us, you will be disappointed.”
Ignoring this, the Russian directed his next comment to Hoeness, who still lay on his bunk. “You—can you stand, or do you need assistance?”
“If it’s assistance to get me home, then yes. Otherwise, go fuck yourself.” His tone spoke of weary resignation to his fate rather than defiance, and Gabriel’s blood boiled to see the Russian laugh.
“I like spirit. I do not ask idly, gentlemen. We are to transfer to another vessel, and if you are unable to walk, then we will assist you.”
“You are too kind,” Hoeness murmured.
The Russian smiled, his lips thin, twisted and chilling to view. “It is not kindness, as I am sure you know. My orders are to ensure safe delivery of the merchandise, and this I intend to do.”
“In that case, as there is nothing we can do to stop you, you must render aid.” Sarcasm dripped from Hoeness’s words, and the Russian acknowledged this with another twist of his face, denoting amusement.
He signalled to men standing outside the cabin door. Four of them entered. Two assisted Hoeness down from his bunk and supported him out of the cabin and along the corridor. Gabriel did not need as much help, and was supported by one man while the other hovered around them.
Leading them up to the deck, the Russian had his men take them to the starboard bow. Despite the pitch and yaw felt below deck, the s
urface of the water seemed calm, and the Syrian gunboat sat easily in the water with another vessel—a yacht that made the Taurus seem like a life raft. It was sitting in the water a hundred yards from their vessel. A bosun’s chair was slung between the two vessels in readiness.
Gabriel looked around as he was led toward it. There was no sign of land, and no sign of any other vessel anywhere on the horizon. It was as though they were the only two vessels on the ocean. Of course, he should expect nothing less as this had been a well-planned operation, and from the look of their intended berth was financed by parties with more backing than Bosnich and Singh could have dreamed of. Nonetheless, a part of him felt a pang of disappointment—and perhaps resignation—that there was no way they could be even accidentally overlooked.
The bosun’s chair sat ready for him. He looked at the flimsy construction and then at the distance between the two vessels. The sea was calm, but even so...
“You’re not serious,” he said with a nervous cackle of fear. “I thought you were supposed to take care of the merchandise?”
“I’m glad you see it our way, even if it does take fear to bring you round,” the Russian said softly. “You need not have that fear. This kind of lift has been used for hundreds of years. It is not as it looks.”
He snapped his fingers, and before Gabriel had a chance to protest he was lifted and tied into the chair, which three men then proceeded to start across the watery divide, heaving on the pulley to propel the canvas chair and its valuable cargo across the space between the vessels.
Gabriel looked down and wished he hadn’t—the calm sea did not look quite so gentle when you were swinging above it. The wine-dark depths and hard, glittering diamonds of light reflecting from the blazing sun seemed to threaten both to cut him and to envelop him. He felt his stomach heave and threw up into the water, splattering the surface.
Despite who they were, he had never been so glad as when he felt the hands of the men on the yacht deck take hold of him and unravel the knots that kept him secure. He had never been so glad to feel something solid beneath his feet. He could not look at the surrounding water, and kept his eyes firmly on the wooden decking as he heard them transfer Hoeness. In truth, such was the depth of his fear that he dared not look up until they had both been led below, into the relative safety of the yacht’s interior.
Cold Fusion Page 8