A sudden gurgling interrupted everything. Grodovich glanced up in time to see a huge hand encircling the throat of the Chechen who’d been coming down from the third floor. He attempted to stab the big hand, but another large hand closed over that one. The man struggled like a puppet as his feet dangled and swung in open air, then all movement stopped. Mikhal’s enormous form became visible behind him. The giant picked up the strangled marionette and held him at chest level while he strode down the stairs. When Mikhal reached the second-floor landing he flung the dead man toward the other three.
One of them was knocked off his feet, another staggered back. The third one, the closest, made a lunging stab with his blade.
Mikhal stepped back with the agility of an acrobat and seized the Chechen’s wrist. Seconds later the man howled in pain. Mikhal forced the Chechen’s knife back into his throat and let him drop to the floor, lumbering toward the two others. They both scrambled down the stairway with Mikhal in pursuit. Grodovich glanced around, then called to him.
“Wait,” he said. “Don’t chase them. It could be a trap.”
The giant halted, his face flushed with exertion, his breathing hard.
“I felt I should follow you,” Mikhal said. He seldom spoke, and when he did his voice sounded almost child-like. “I looked down the hall and saw that Chechen bastard sneaking around.”
“I’m glad you did, my friend. Once again, you have saved my life.” Grodovich heard the thudding of boots coming from the second-floor hallway. He motioned upward and told Mikhal to run. “If the guards see you here, they will use it as an excuse to place you in the solitary ward. Go.”
The giant hesitated for a split second, then strode up the stairs, taking them three at a time. Grodovich tossed his own blade and pressed himself into the corner of the landing. The door burst open and three different guards emerged.
“What is going on here?” the ranking guard yelled, his eyes widening as he surveyed the scene.
“A disagreement between two inmates,” Grodovich said. “They fought and killed each other. It was terrible to behold.”
The guard’s mouth worked, but no words came out. He licked his lips, pulled out his radio and spoke into it with clear precise tones, ordering more men to come to his position. He scrutinized Grodovich, who held up his hands to show there were no traces of blood.
“Some of your compatriots were taking me to see an official visitor when they had to leave,” he said with a smile. “I hope their emergency has run its course without incident.”
Judo Training Center
Arlington, Virginia
MACK BOLAN, the Executioner, sat on the edge of the mat and watched as the judo master demonstrated the last few techniques, throwing his much younger partner around with ease. The gi felt heavy on Bolan’s shoulders. He preferred to train in his regular clothes, wearing his standard gear, but the owner of the dojo had insisted that all attendees had to wear the traditional judo garb. It was a small price to pay for being able to see a master such as Kioshi Watinabi at work.
Jack Grimaldi, who was seated next to Bolan, leaned over and whispered, “Ah, it looks like the one guy’s faking it.”
Bolan shook his head and brought his index finger to his lips.
“Whatever,” Grimaldi said sotto voce. He leaned back and sighed.
Bolan watched as the master executed the final move, Hiza Guruma, the wheeling knee throw. As the opponent stepped forward, the master stepped back and smacked the sole of his left foot against the other man’s knee. Twisting the opponent’s upper body in a circular motion, the master sent the other man over with a quick flip.
Grimaldi snorted. “Like I said, all fake.”
Bolan shot him another quieting look, but it was obvious the judo master, an Asian man in his fifties, had already cast a glance their way. His eyebrows lifted slightly as he stared at Grimaldi. Then the master and his opponent bowed to each other, turned and bowed again to the audience.
Grimaldi stretched and yawned. “Ready to blow this pop stand?”
Before Bolan could answer the master held up his hands and waggled his fingers for the rest of the class to move forward, saying something in Japanese.
“The master wishes you to pair up for individual instruction,” the young assistant said.
The group of spectators got up and shuffled to the center mat. Bolan and Grimaldi paired off and gripped the thick lapels of each other’s gis. The master called out commands for each technique. The first was O Goshi, the major hip throw. The second was Harai Goshi, sweeping hip throw.
“You want to go first?” Bolan asked.
Grimaldi shook his head. “Nah. I want to prove to you that this stuff doesn’t work. It’s just like professional wrestling.”
“Okay,” Bolan said and pivoted, pulling Grimaldi off balance and stepping inside his guard. Bolan slipped his right hip against Grimaldi’s abdomen as he stepped back with his left foot and twisted, throwing Grimaldi over with a quick flip.
Grimaldi slammed onto the mat, managing to break his fall with a slapping motion of his left arm.
“You all right?” Bolan asked.
Grimaldi grunted. “I know how to fall.”
Master Watinabi strode over to them, speaking in Japanese and motioning for Grimaldi to get to his feet. As he did the master continued to give instructions to Bolan along with numerous gestures. The young assistant began translating.
“Master Watinabi says your technique is very good,” he said to Bolan. “But he suggests bending lower if the opponent resists.” He turned to Grimaldi and said, “Stiffen your arms.”
Grimaldi grinned and locked his arms, which were much longer than Watinabi’s. The two men stepped back and forth and suddenly Watinabi thrust his right foot into Grimaldi’s stomach and fell backward. Grimaldi flipped over and landed on his back with a thud. As he got up, Watinabi grabbed him once more, slipped into a modified hip throw and swept Grimaldi’s legs out from under him, flipping him over on his back again. Grimaldi got up a bit slower this time and Watinabi grabbed him once more and thrust his hip into Grimaldi’s stomach.
The master paused and the assistant said, “Grab his belt and attempt to lift him backward.”
Grimaldi smiled and reared back, lifting the smaller man completely off the mat, but Watinabi lifted both of his legs to his chest then thrust them downward, at the same time grasping Grimaldi around the neck. As soon as Watinabi’s feet struck the mat Grimaldi was launched over the master’s right hip, his body flying pell-mell before slamming once again onto the mat.
He lay there trying to get his breath.
“That is a useful technique against a taller opponent,” the assistant said.
Watinabi grinned at Grimaldi as Bolan reached to help him up.
“Good thing you know how to fall,” Bolan said.
Before Grimaldi could respond with one of his standard wisecracks, a cell phone rang.
The Executioner glanced to the edge of the mat where his and Grimaldi’s clothes and shoes had been stacked.
“Oh,” Grimaldi said. “Saved by the bell. Is it yours or mine?”
“It must be yours. I turned mine off.”
Grimaldi grinned as he lay back. “In that case I’m really saved by the bell.”
“Don’t be too sure,” Bolan said. “It’s probably Hal.”
Detention Center 6
Krasnoyarsk, Siberia
THE GUARDS MARCHED on either side of Grodovich. They were near the front offices of the prison, this much Grodovich knew from his orientation seven months ago. This was only the second time he’d been so close to the entrance. What was going on?
Another transfer?
Perhaps they were sending him back to the less severe prison at Ariyskhe. After all, his crimes did not involve violence, only paper: conspiracy to avoid paying app
ropriate governmental fees and taxes and unethical business dealings. At least the crimes they knew about. There was no way he should have been transferred to Krasnoyarsk. He had never received an explanation as to why they’d placed him into this hellhole. But at Detention Center 6, one did not ask.
The lead guard stopped at a solid-looking door and lightly knocked three times.
Such deference indicated a person of no small importance was on the other side.
This piqued Grodovich’s curiosity.
A voice from inside the room told them to enter. The lead guard motioned for Grodovich to place his hands on the wall and assume the search position. Grodovich complied and felt the hands of the other two guards squeeze every part of his body with practiced efficiency. He was used to the indignities of life behind the walls and was glad he’d dropped his blade in the stairwell, for they surely would have found it.
The aborted attack by the Chechens still floated before him. He’d done nothing to provoke them. Why had they accosted him, and why had the guards, to whom he paid protection each month, led him into such a clumsy trap? The answer was obvious. Someone had paid them more. But who, and more important, why?
The Chechen had muttered something right before Mikhal had terminated him: “We have our orders. It is nothing of a personal—”
What had he meant? And why had he said it?
A strange prelude for this meeting.
The lead guard opened the door and pointed for Grodovich to go in. He squared his black cap on his head and tugged his now misaligned clothing into a semblance of order. As he went inside the room he saw a thin man with a completely bald head and a pair of gold-rimmed glasses. The man wore a dark blue suit and his black shoes had a shine on them. He stood there watching and assessing as Grodovich entered and stood at attention. For the better part of thirty seconds, the bald man did not speak, then he took in a copious breath and motioned for Grodovich to sit in a nearby chair.
“I am Vassili Stieglitz from the interior ministry of economics,” the man said. “And you are Alexander Grodovich.”
Grodovich resisted the urge to comment. With the virtually endless sentence before him he had little to lose, but he had been incarcerated long enough to know that there was no sense throwing rocks at the gatekeepers. Besides, this meeting had some significance to bring an interior minister all the way from the Kremlin. Whatever this man wanted was worth finding out. There would be plenty of time for reflection on missed opportunities for sarcasm later, when he was back in the cell block.
Stieglitz inhaled again. “How do you like the facilities here in Krasnoyarsk?”
This was too much. The absurdity of the question made him laugh. “I have stayed in better.”
Stieglitz raised his right eyebrow. “I’m certain that you have.” He held Grodovich’s stare for several seconds and then said, “And you still have a substantial sentence yet to serve.”
Grodovich said nothing.
The bald man maintained his stare. “And what would you say if I offered you a way out?”
A shiver shot up Grodovich’s spine. Was this some sort of trick? Was this man toying with him? What did he want? It had to be money. His Swiss accounts.
Grodovich had been expecting such a financial deal when he was first arrested, although the opportunity to negotiate never materialized. His lawyers told him that such a deal could be made, but the conditions were absurd: total capitulation. They offered him a penniless freedom, with no guarantees on their part. He would either end up in prison or living as a beggar on the streets.
Thus, he’d held out, refusing to give up the numbers of his Swiss accounts. It was his only bargaining chip, because these bastards could not be trusted. The monthly bribes to the prison guards were still arriving on time, despite his transfer to Detention Center 6, and, most important, Mikhal’s sainted mother received her monthly allotment in Novosibirsk.
The first few days of Grodovich’s arrival had been hell, but still, he had survived. This was no doubt round two. The transfer to the more brutal surroundings had been a prelude to soften him up. So this was a negotiation, and he must show strength. He could not let this bald government rodent know his desperation.
Grodovich took his time before answering. “I would indeed be interested, but it would depend.”
Stieglitz’s brow furrowed. “Depend upon what?”
Grodovich managed to smile. He’d regained a modicum of self-respect, if not some purchase on the slope of the negotiation.
“Upon the nature of your request,” Grodovich said. “You obviously wish something from me, the cost of which must be evaluated before any decision can be made.”
“Are you mad?” the bald man asked. “I’m offering you a way out of this hellhole and you have the audacity to attempt to set the conditions?”
Grodovich smiled again. He was indeed gaining purchase. “Everything,” he said, “even life in here, has conditions.”
Stieglitz snorted. “I do not have time for games.”
“All I have is time,” Grodovich answered. He kept his expression bland. It was like a game of chess, waiting for your opponent to make the move that allowed first blood.
Stieglitz clasped his hands behind his back and strode to a dirt-streaked window covered with an iron grate. He stared through the filthy glass for several seconds. “All right,” he said finally, turning back to face him. “I can appreciate that you have been toughened by your incarceration. But let me assure you I did not come all the way from Moscow to play games. I am, quite simply, offering you your freedom. A presidential pardon for your crimes. Immediate, total and absolute freedom.”
Grodovich could hardly believe it. But he waited for the other shoe to drop, and he was betting it had a steel sole. He tried his best to conceal his excitement, wondering what the cost would be. Still, he knew it really did not matter. At this point he would sell his mother’s soul if it got him out of here a day quicker. But to show weakness in a negotiation was tantamount to capitulation. He composed himself and said, “What exactly must I do in exchange for this pardon?”
The corner of Stieglitz’s mouth tweaked, like a flicker from a hungry, feral cat, and he smiled. “We would like you to renew your old contacts on the international front as you go back into the diamond business.” He paused. “And with the Robie Cats.”
Stony Man Farm
Virginia
AS BOLAN AND GRIMALDI entered the War Room, Bolan noticed two steaming cups of coffee on the front edge of the table. Hal Brognola leaned back in his chair as he sipped from his own mug with a sour expression stretched across his face.
“I told you we should’ve stopped by Starbucks,” Grimaldi said, grinning. “I take it Aaron whipped up his customary brew?”
Brognola swallowed and gave his head a quick shake. Then he looked toward the door, checking to see whether Aaron “The Bear” Kurtzman, Stony Man’s computer expert, was close by. “Worse. You could use this batch to clean rust off a spark plug.” He indicated the two empty chairs in front of the desk.
Bolan sat down, leaving the cup where it was. He knew better than to sample it.
Grimaldi took a tentative sip from his and howled. “Damn, you could pour this into an old deuce-and-a-half if you ran out of gas.”
“What’s up?” Bolan asked. “We left a very interesting judo seminar to be here.”
“Judo seminar?” Brognola said. “Don’t you guys get enough practice beating people up?”
“You know the motto of our superhero here,” Grimaldi said, motioning toward Bolan. “It’s never too late to inflict some pain.”
“Especially if you provoke the instructor,” Bolan added.
Brognola laughed. “I can’t wait to hear about that one.” He set the mug down and cleared his throat. “But in the meantime, I have a favor to ask.”
&
nbsp; Bolan nodded. He was accustomed to such sudden requests. Usually they came to Brognola indirectly from the White House. Special details that were too hot to go through normal channels. From the look on Brognola’s face, Bolan knew this one had the ring of immediacy and urgency. He waited for Grimaldi’s customary wisecrack.
“A favor?” Grimaldi said. “Who’d a thunk it?”
Brognola leaned forward, placing his forearms on the tabletop. “As I’m sure you’re aware, things have been tense between us and Russia lately.”
“Don’t tell me our side finally realized the old reset button isn’t working?” Grimaldi said.
“The current round of sanctions is causing a bit of havoc on their economy,” Brognola said. “Just how much remains to be seen.”
“You want us to fly to Moscow and check things out?” Grimaldi asked. “If so, I’d prefer to go now, before the winter sets in. That place is damn miserable then.”
“A trip to Moscow is in the cards,” Brognola said. He paused, picked up a remote and pressed a few buttons. A large screen began lowering from a metal roll on the opposite wall as the lights in the room became subdued. An overhead projector hummed to life and a bright, square patch was illuminated on the screen. Brognola pressed another button and a man’s face appeared. He was dark haired, had with heavy acne scarring and was wearing dark sunglasses. “Look familiar?”
“Larry Burns,” Bolan said. “The Kremlin’s second favorite American defector.”
“Don’t tell me you want us to drag that little creep back here by the scruff of his neck,” Grimaldi said. “It’d be my pleasure, but the Russians wouldn’t let us get within spitting distance of him.”
“Let’s just say that Mr. Burns is ready to come home,” Brognola said. “He’s been secretly meeting with our Agency personnel for the past two weeks.”
“Why don’t they just take him to the Embassy?” Bolan asked. “I’m sure the Russians have already gotten everything they need out of him.”
“Ordinarily, that would be the plan.” Brognola clicked the remote again and another male appeared on the screen. This one was a rather portly man with glasses and blond hair. “Except for this guy. Arkadi Kropotkan.”
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