Uncut Terror

by Don Pendleton

  “They need to pass a clean air act around here,” Grimaldi said. He glared at the man smoking a long cigarette with the hand-crushed filters. “Are we going to wait here all night for this joker to show?”

  “It shouldn’t be much longer,” Bolan said.

  “And you know this how?”

  “Our friend’s been sitting at a table near the other end of the bar for the past thirty-two minutes.”

  Grimaldi jerked forward. “He has?”

  Bolan nodded. Prior to their flight he’d memorized the file photos of the Agency personnel working the transport. Then he’d destroyed them.

  “Third table from the far end of the room,” Bolan said.

  Grimaldi resumed his relaxed posture. “The redheaded dude, smoking the cigarette and making time with the nice-looking babe, right?”

  Bolan nodded. The man’s name was Donald Framer. Seven years with the Agency, the last four of which had been spent in Europe at various posts. Framer was fluent in five languages, including Russian.

  Bolan was getting tired of the waiting, too, but he didn’t want to tip Framer’s hand. The man was obviously being extra cautious, which, considering the environment, was understandable.

  Just then, Framer stood up and, while still addressing the female at his table, pointed toward the men’s room. Bolan leaned over to Grimaldi and said, “Keep your eyes open.”

  Grimaldi gave a slight nod and continued with his affectation of boredom. Bolan knew that in reality little was now escaping his partner’s notice.

  The washroom was located near the back. Bolan got there first and found it to be occupied by two men who stood there smoking and conversing in Russian. He stopped and stared at both of them, raising an eyebrow, and they quickly left the washroom. After verifying that the two stalls were empty, Bolan went to the long metal trough adjacent to the sinks. Nothing out of the ordinary appeared to have been placed there. He took out his satellite phone, selected the app designed to detect listening devices and did a fast scan. Again, nothing was noted.

  The door pushed open and Framer came in, his gaze fixed on Bolan.

  “Excuse me,” he said in Russian.

  “That’s okay,” Bolan replied in English. “I was just leaving.” He looked around. “This place is clean, by the way.”

  The pungent odor of the water closet made the statement absurd on its surface, but Framer nodded as he walked to the trough and started unzipping his fly. “They say the one in the coffee shop down the block is even better.”

  Bolan nodded and pushed through the door. He went back to the table and sat next to Grimaldi. “Let’s go,”

  “About damn time,” Grimaldi muttered as he stood. Bolan dropped a few coins on the table for the waitress and headed for the door. The woman who’d been talking to Framer gave them a quick, penetrating look as they passed. She licked her lips.

  Both Bolan and Grimaldi ignored her.

  Outside the cool late autumn air felt good after the smoky atmosphere inside the club. Grimaldi coughed once as he finished slipping on his jacket and said, “That’s a good hour of my life I’ll never get back. Where’s he meeting us?”

  “The coffee shop at the end of the block,” Bolan said.

  After buying two coffees they took up a position at a table near the entrance. A pair of young lovers was sitting head-to-head at a table toward the back. Aside from the matronly clerk behind the counter, who seemed consumed with trying to count the pastries, no one else was in the place. Bolan had a good view of both the front door and the street through the window. Grimaldi sat opposite him so he could scan the rear of the shop. He took a small sip from his cup and made a face.

  “Damn, this stuff’s almost as bad as Aaron’s brew.”

  Bolan smiled. “Maybe we can arrange a contest.” He kept watching the street as they sat and waited.

  Framer took another fifteen minutes to arrive. He strode in with the awkward gait of a semi-intoxicated man without giving them so much as a notice. After ordering himself a cup of coffee and a pastry, he started toward the rear area, did an exaggerated double take when he saw the two lovers and immediately turned around. He shuffled to the table next to Bolan and Grimaldi and plopped down, a simper stretched across his face.

  When it was apparent that neither the clerk nor the young couple was paying them any attention, Framer spoke in sotto voce: “You’re my two contractors?”

  “We are,” Bolan said.

  He looked at Grimaldi. “You must be Cooper, right?”

  “Wrong.” Grimaldi pointed to Bolan. “That’s Cooper.”

  “I’m Don Framer.”

  “Glad you could make it,” Grimaldi said.

  The smile on Framer’s face disappeared as he took another quick glance around, then leaned closer to them.

  “Listen,” he said. “I don’t want any shit from you.”

  Grimaldi smirked.

  Framer stared back at him.

  “Let’s keep on track,” Bolan said. “We’re here to assist in any way we can.”

  Framer inhaled sharply and whispered, “Good, as long as you don’t forget I’m in charge and you guys have to do everything I say. Got it?”

  Grimaldi snorted. “Listen, sonny—”

  Bolan held up a hand. “What’s your plan?”

  Framer continued to glare at Grimaldi for a few seconds more, then said in a whisper, “Our assets are going to the movies tomorrow night at nineteen hundred. The Rossiya Cinemas.” He paused again and glanced around, centering on the two young lovers near the back. “Were they here when you got here?”

  Bolan nodded.

  Framer continued to study them. The man and woman leaned forward over the table, their foreheads together, their lips occasionally touching.

  “Looks like a case of true love to me,” Grimaldi said.

  “Yeah, well, take it from me,” Framer said, “things aren’t always what they seem.”

  Grimaldi frowned and seemed ready to respond, but Bolan shot him a hard look.

  “Let’s get back to the task at hand, all right?’ the Executioner said.

  Both Framer and Grimaldi nodded.

  “What’s the rest of it?” Bolan asked, keeping his voice low. He looked through the large window and saw a woman walking across the street. She was the same one from the bar.

  “The abbreviated version is one of my ops is going to bring a car by the rear doors,” Framer said, lowering his voice again. “We’re going to sneak out at fourteen-twenty-three hours. From there we’ll take the long way over to Moscow Station. That’s Leningradsky Station to the uninformed. I need you two there no later than sixteen-three-thirty hours. We meet in the shops by the departures section. Have tickets to St. Petersburg on the Red Arrow for everyone. You with me so far?”

  “Way ahead of you,” Grimaldi said. “You want us to escort them both across the border into Helsinki, right?”

  Framer pursed his lips and then nodded. “Think you can handle that? I’ll have a team waiting in Petersburg with the false passports. If you take the bullet train you should arrive there in about three and a half hours.”

  “Sounds like a plan,” Bolan said. “Who else knows about it?”

  “Huh? Nobody.” Framer frowned. “What do you think I am? A goddamn amateur or something?”

  Bolan ignored the question. “Who’ve you got assisting in this?”

  Framer shrugged and ran down the list of names, adding, “All agency personnel, by the way.”

  “You should be operating on the assumption that your plan might have been compromised,” Bolan said. “Do you have an alternate?”

  “An alternate? Shit. We don’t need one,” Framer said. He paused, frowned and looked around. When he spoke again his voice was almost inaudible. “I’ve been stati
oned here for the past year. I know what I’m doing.”

  Bolan exchanged a quick glance with Grimaldi.

  “What?” Framer asked. “You got a problem?”

  Grimaldi started to speak, but Bolan cut him off. “Why don’t you go over it again, in detail this time?”

  Framer looked at the Executioner, rolled his eyes and began speaking in slow, deliberate tones, giving them a detailed rundown of his plan. “Meet Burns and his friend inside the cinema. All three of the operatives will sit in different rows near the back. One of the team, who will already be inside, will get up halfway through the movie, ostensibly to go to the washroom. Instead he’ll text another agent, who’ll drive their van to the nearby alley. Burns and his friend will get up, followed by Framer. While the first operative makes a show of buying and then spilling his soft drink in the lobby, Framer and his two charges will sneak down the side aisle to the emergency exit doors that lead to the alley. The operative in the van will be waiting there and they’ll all drive away.”

  He ended with a sarcastic, “Okay?”

  “I don’t know,” Grimaldi said. “Sounds like it’s got a couple of weak spots. How do you know they won’t stop you in the van before you get to the train station?”

  Framer rolled his eyes. “Look, we thought of that, too. We’re going to exit the van on the next block and take a taxi to Leningradsky Station.”

  Grimaldi shook his head. “I still don’t like it much.”

  Before he could say anything else, Framer broke in. “You don’t have to. All you two-bit players have to do is get us our tickets. Get it?”

  Grimaldi glared at him.

  “Why the train?” Bolan asked. “It wouldn’t hurt to have a backup plan.”

  “Yeah,” Grimaldi said. “Trains run along the tracks, which are on the ground, meaning they can be stopped along the way. I’m a pilot. I can fly you out.”

  “Thanks for the physics lesson,” Framer said. “And because trains don’t fly, we can slip off along the way if we have to and fade into the countryside. I’m fluent in Russian.”

  “Who was that woman you were talking with back at the nightclub?” Bolan asked.

  Framer shrugged. “Just a piece of ass.” He glanced at his watch. “I told her I’d be back. Maybe I’ll take her up to my place tonight.” He winked and grinned a knowing grin. “It helps if you can speak the language.”

  “Have you known her long?” Bolan asked.

  “A couple of weeks. She thinks I’m here on business. She’s hot, ain’t she?”

  “Very,” Bolan said. “And she walked by on the other side of the street a few minutes ago. She’s probably FSB assigned to watch you.”

  Framer’s grin disappeared and he shook his head, the red in his cheeks almost matching the shade of his hair. “Huh? No way.”

  Bolan said nothing.

  “Listen, pal,” Framer continued. “You don’t know what you’re talking about. I can spot an FSB agent with my eyes closed.”

  “No, you listen, pal,” Grimaldi said. “We’ve been doing this since you were in high school, so when we say something, it would behoove you to shut up and listen.”

  Framer started to respond, but Bolan cut in. “Okay, we’ll go with your plan for now.”

  Framer pursed his lips and reached into his pocket, withdrawing a small cell phone and setting it on the table. “This is a burner phone. My number’s programmed into it.”

  Bolan tucked the phone into his pocket. “One other thing. I’d strongly suggest that you avoid any contacts with indigenous personnel tonight.”

  “That means keep it in your pants,” Grimaldi said.

  Framer got to his feet. “Like I said, I’m no amateur, and you guys are just the backups. Contract employees. I’m running the show, get it?”

  Grimaldi started to speak, but another harsh glance from Bolan stopped him. Finally, Framer nodded and headed for the door.

  Bolan and Grimaldi watched him open it, step outside and then close it so forcefully the glass in the frame shook.

  The woman behind the counter shot them a mean glance.

  “Looks like we’re overstayed our welcome,” Bolan said. “Let’s just hope Framer takes our advice about the woman. Otherwise, we’re going to be using our special equipment from the embassy sooner rather than later.”

  “Don’t we always?” Grimaldi asked with a grin.

  The Grand International Hotel

  STIEGLITZ GLANCED AT the clock: three minutes before midnight. He wiped his forehead and continued to wait for the phone call he knew would come. When his mobile phone rang exactly two minutes later, he had it in his hand and immediately answered the call with his customary salutation.

  “Is everything set, as far as the plan?” the voice asked.

  “Yes, sir,” Stieglitz said, maintaining the proper amount of deference in his tone. “I have planted the seeds of distrust in Grodovich, but he sounded very cordial on the phone with Kadyrov.”

  A few seconds of silence, then: “Good. And what of the other matter? The Americans?”

  “I’m having them watched,” Stieglitz said. “At a distance, of course. The known operative met with two men believed to be American operatives this evening, first at a nightclub and then at a coffeehouse.”

  “This is in relation to their planned extraction of their traitor, Burns?”

  “Yes, sir.” Stieglitz said.

  More silence. “Very well. Keep them under surveillance. Let their plan proceed to the designated point. We must find out who else is involved.”

  “Yes, sir. It will be done. Exactly as you specified.”

  Stieglitz could hear the other man’s sigh.

  “Burns has outlived his usefulness. Have the Black Wolf terminate him once we discover the identity of his Russian confederate.”

  “And the American agents? Should we kill them all, as well?”

  “Let me think that over. It would send a good message to the American president not to interfere in our domestic affairs, but we do need to sprinkle enough breadcrumbs that will lead them to Antwerp.” His punctuating chuckle sounded low and ominous. “It is an interesting consideration, leaving an opponent’s knights on the board for a time in order to set up the ultimate checkmate of his king.”

  The voice said nothing for several seconds more. Stieglitz could hear the man’s breathing. Finally, he spoke again: “This is what you shall do...”

  4

  American Embassy

  Moscow, Russia

  BOLAN AND GRIMALDI were in a small private room checking over the weapons that had been delivered via diplomatic pouch. It contained Bolan’s Beretta 93R, Grimaldi’s .40-caliber SIG Sauer P226, several loaded magazines, two level 3 ballistic vests, two holsters and Bolan’s folding Espada knife. They’d be traveling light, but getting caught with anything they couldn’t drop and leave would be asking for a free trip to a Siberian prison. As they were finishing their equipment checks, the phone rang.

  Bolan and Grimaldi exchanged glances and Bolan picked it up.

  “Mr. Cooper?” The female receptionist’s voice sounded timid and confused.

  Bolan answered in the affirmative.

  “Umm,” the woman said, “I have a rather unsettling situation here. A messenger just dropped off a note for you.”

  Bolan had the sudden urge to look out a window and check the street, but the room they were in had no windows.

  “It’s addressed to me?” he asked.

  “Yes, sir. Matt Cooper. That’s you, isn’t it?”

  Matt Cooper was the name on Bolan’s passport and the one he usually used when on assignment. The record of him entering the country would be easily traceable, but sending him a message about thirty minutes after he and Grimaldi had entered the Embassy said two thing
s: someone had gone to a lot of trouble to track him down, and they had him under surveillance.

  “I’ll be right down,” he said and hung up.

  Grimaldi looked at him. “Trouble?”

  Bolan shook his head slowly. “Not sure.” He’d assumed they were being watched as soon as they’d touched down in Moscow, and they continually took precautions when moving around. The FSB had far-reaching tentacles and was not hampered by the same restrictions US agencies were. But the audacity of this overt contact was meant to send a message. Big Brother was not only watching—he also wanted to talk.

  After retrieving the message, he returned to the security of the windowless room. Grimaldi was in his T-shirt slipping the panels of his vest into the black carrier.

  “Fan mail from some flounder?” he asked.

  Bolan grabbed latex gloves from a dispenser box on the wall next to the door, slipped them on and examined the envelope carefully, first shaking it gently and then scanning it with his cell phone app that detected chemical agents. Nothing registered. It wasn’t standard business size, but rather a much smaller, card-sized lavender envelope. Plus, it reeked of perfume.

  Grimaldi stepped closer, waving one hand in front of his nose. “Man, I can smell that from across the damn room.” He spread some newspaper pages on top of the table.

  Bolan used the thumb-stud to open the blade of his knife, fitted the tip under the lip of the envelope and sliced the top open. The smell of the perfume was stronger as he carefully probed the envelope with the blade of his knife before dumping the contents out. It was a small, colorful card featuring an array of bright flowers on the front with letters in the Cyrillic alphabet. He used the blade to push open the card. The inside had more Cyrillic lettering, under which was a phone number and a handwritten sentence in English:

  Valenko, in case you have forgotten my number... Nikita

  The cursive was both elegant and audacious.

  “Is that from who I think it’s from?” Grimaldi asked.