Bolan searched his memory, recalling the dying man’s last gasping breaths.
“Okay, he said, ‘And so am I,’ meaning he obviously knew he was dying. Then he added, ‘Listen, Grodovich... Diamonds... Hot rocks... Rad—’”
“Rad?” Brognola said. “What the hell did he mean by that?”
“I’m not sure.”
“Yeah, me either. Anyway, the parts about Grodovich and the diamonds make sense.” Brognola paused to cough. “I told you before about him getting released from prison, right? A Presidential pardon, no less.” He coughed again. “Hot rocks...”
“His past association with the Russian mafiya fits with the ‘hot rocks’ statement,” Bolan said. “And as for the report of him going to Antwerp, he could be planning on unloading some of his stolen jewels. I’m sure he’s got a stockpile. Maybe that’s how Grodovich bought his freedom.”
“With the sanctions still in place and their economy in the toilet,” Brognola said, “the Russian government could probably use an influx of quick cash. And I’m sure that Presidential pardon didn’t come cheap. Question is, would it be enough? I mean, even if Grodovich and his boys have a substantial stockpile, it’s got to be relatively small potatoes compared to a GNP in trouble and a growing national debt.”
“A riddle wrapped in a mystery inside an enigma,” Bolan said.
Brognola laughed. “It sure the hell is, Mr. Churchill. Listen, while you and Jack were sneaking out of Russia, Aaron and I did a little digging. Before he left the mother country, Grodovich told a bunch of reporters he was heading to Antwerp to renew ties with some old business acquaintances and that he also planned to make some kind of big announcement shortly.”
“Any idea what that might be?”
“I’m not given to rash speculation, but in the meantime, I’d say he’s going to unload some of his stolen stockpile in Antwerp.”
Bolan considered this. “That’s what’s been bothering me. If he’s planning on dealing with stolen merchandise, why would he be announcing his movements? It’d make more sense to keep a low profile. It almost seems like he wants the attention.”
“Yeah, that bothers me, too,” Brognola said. “But keep in mind he’s been cooped up in a Russian prison for a while. Maybe he just wants to enjoy being back in the limelight.”
Bolan said nothing.
“One of his old associates is Yuri Kadyrov,” Brognola said. “He’s purported to be the head of a group of international jewel thieves called the Robie Cats.”
Bolan had heard of the group, as famous for their military precision as their daring and flamboyance.
“Kadyrov’s half Russian, half Chechen,” Brognola said. “The majority of the Robies are said to be Chechen or Russian mercs, all of whom have extensive combat experience.”
“From what I saw in a news program, they looked like they had the moves.”
“And how. So you and Jack watch yourselves if you tangle with them.” Brognola was silent for a few seconds. “We’ve arranged a new cover for you. You guys are Department of Justice agents, as usual, but this time you’re investigating stolen jewels from a couple of robberies that occurred in the Diamond District in Manhattan. I’ll be emailing you all the info.”
Bolan detected a hesitancy in Brognola’s tone and knew that the other shoe was about to drop. “What else?”
Brognola laughed. “I’m going to have to work on my poker voice. You’re right, there is something else. You’ll be tagging up with INTERPOL on this investigation.”
Bolan didn’t like the thought of being constrained by the international police agency. He was too used to working outside the rules. He thought about protesting but decided against it. Obviously, Brognola and the Bear had gone to substantial trouble to set up this new cover. The least they could do was try to make it work.
“Did you hear me all right?” Brognola finally asked. “I said, you’ll be working in conjunction with INTERPOL.”
“We heard,” Grimaldi said. “But that doesn’t mean we have to applaud.”
Brognola laughed again. “That’s more like it. Now the agent assigned to assist you is named François Lupin. He works out of Paris, but he’s en route to Belgium now. Supposed to be an expert on the Robies. I’ll email you his contact information. He’s expecting your call. Meet with him ASAP, and get busy figuring out what our favorite Russian and his Robie buddies are up to.”
“Roger that,” Bolan said. But his thoughts were still back in Russia, thinking about the guy with the black beard who’d shot Framer. Bolan wished he’d stayed behind to settle the score.
* * *
STIEGLITZ SAT ALONE in the Russian Embassy waiting for his mobile to ring. He’d called as soon as they’d all reached Antwerp and was told to proceed to the embassy and await further instructions. Although the tumult in his bowels had somewhat subsided, the knot of tension was still present. The enormous hand had only partially loosened its constant grip.
He looked again at the mobile, which was lying on the center of the table. Then, his eyes drifted to the tightly wrapped package that sat a few centimeters from the phone. It had been delivered earlier by diplomatic pouch and was about the size of a man’s fist. Stieglitz was certain that Grodovich’s lackey, the giant, could palm the item without notice, but in a regular man’s hand it would be conspicuous. Like trying to hide a ripe apple or orange in one’s pants pocket.
Suddenly, the mobile lit up with an incoming call. He grabbed for it, but his hands were so wet from perspiration that it slipped from his grasp and clattered to the floor.
Oh, please, Stieglitz prayed, do not let it break.
He was in luck. It continued to function normally as he flipped it open and pressed the button to answer the call. The LCD screen listed the caller as BLOCKED, but Stieglitz knew who it was. Only one other person had the number of this special mobile.
“Yes, sir,” Stieglitz said, as respectfully as he could.
Silence, then, “Why did it take you so long to answer? What are you doing?”
Stieglitz felt the absence of saliva in his mouth. His throat was dry as well, and he hoped it wouldn’t lend a hoarse quality to his voice. He wanted a drink of water but hadn’t wanted to risk leaving the privacy of this room for a trip to the facilities.
“I am sorry, sir,” he said. “My apologies. I accidentally dropped the mobile.”
A few more seconds of silence during which Stieglitz felt the big hand begin to tighten its grip once more. Then the voice on the other end spoke again. “Very well. Is everything proceeding according to the schedule?”
“Yes, sir. Everything is on time.”
“On time... I must tell you, I have never cared for that expression. It sounds so frivolous.”
“I am sorry, sir,” Stieglitz said. “I will no longer utilize it.”
“Are you now in the secured room, as I instructed?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And no one else is present?”
“No one, sir.”
“And did you take possession of the stone?”
“It is here, sir. Right next to me.”
Silence, then, “Who else knows it was synthetically produced?”
This question stunned Stieglitz. No one knew outside the small circle of planners in the Kremlin. Why had he even asked? Then the answer became apparent: Arkadi. News of his intended defection had gotten back to the uppermost echelons of government.
“No one, other than the original inventors of the plan, those who assisted you, has been informed,” Stieglitz said. “We had a traitor in our midst, as I’m sure your excellency knows, but he was dealt with accordingly. All is safe. All aspects of the plan are proceeding with the utmost precision.” He emitted a nervous half laugh. “A brilliant plan, sir, if I may say so.”
Silence. Stiegl
itz felt the sweat forming under his arms and dripping down his sides. Had he said the wrong thing? Had his obsequiousness been too obvious? He wished to elaborate, to assure that he meant no disrespect, but he dared not speak, lest he say the wrong words. If he had not done so already.
Finally, the voice said, “The incident at Moscow Station was a debacle. I expected the situation to be handled with more circumspection.”
“Those were Rovalev’s men, sir,” Stieglitz said quickly. “I have already reprimanded him for his lack of supervision and scrutiny as well as the recklessness of his subordinates. He has assured me it will not happen again.”
Stieglitz felt more sweat forming. The hand inside his gut began to squeeze tighter.
Finally, the voice spoke: “Do you know how to tell the difference between a winner and a loser?”
What is he talking about now? Stieglitz racked his brain for a proper response. Winners and losers? “Do you mean aside from the obvious declaration?”
“If there is no declaration. If it is not readily apparent.”
Stieglitz felt the sweat pouring down his face, as if a washer woman had wrung a dirty handkerchief over his bald head. But he had to respond. “No, sir.”
“A winner takes responsibility for the actions of all his subordinates, whether good or bad. A loser seeks to pass the blame onto others.”
Stieglitz realized to whom he was referring. “Yes, sir. I understand, sir.”
“Do you?” The voice was redolent with anger, then went back to its calm but ominous tone. “I am not interested in hearing excuses. Explain this to Rovalev. There will be no more failures. None. This plan must be carried out with the utmost precision. It is as delicate as maneuvering pieces on a chessboard. Now, tell me again that you understand and that there will be no more slipups.” His tone was clipped, authoritative, foreboding.
Stieglitz repeated the reassurance.
“Again,” the voice said.
Stieglitz obeyed the command.
“Say it again.”
He did.
When he’d finished, he waited for more instructions but heard nothing. Tentatively, he spoke into the phone but received no reply and realized the connection had been terminated on the other end.
It had been a lesson in obedience, like training and retraining a dog.
A dog, Stieglitz thought. Is that what I have become?
He carefully closed the mobile, replaced it in his pocket and looked at the wrapped package. Dare he touch it? So many lives hung in the balance, including his own. He had to force himself to reach out, lift the package and place it in his pocket.
It was lighter than he expected, but then again, its substance was more symbolic than material. It had been designed to weigh in at just under three hundred and thirty carets, which was slightly greater than the fabled Congolese Giant.
9
Vlaeykensgang District
Antwerp, Belgium
TWO YOUNG WOMEN, both dressed in fashionably short skirts and tight blouses, strolled into the café, flashing Bolan and Grimaldi a pair of coquettish smiles.
“I’ll take the blonde,” Grimaldi said, waving to them.
“Take it easy,” Bolan said. “We’ve already got a rendezvous set up, remember?”
“How could I forget? You keep reminding me.” Grimaldi frowned slightly. “But I’ll bet this François guy isn’t going to be half as good-looking as those two.”
The young women ordered something from the lady behind the counter. The redhead glanced over her shoulder, blinked and then giggled into her girlfriend’s ear. The blonde gave them a furtive glance, as well.
“Let’s hope he’s dressed more conservatively than they are,” Bolan said.
He had been mildly surprised at the warm reception Lupin had given him on the phone. Despite the lateness of the hour, the INTERPOL agent had suggested meeting at a small coffee shop in the Vlaeykensgang District, a cloistered collection of old houses and cobbled courtyards harkening back to the Middle Ages.
“Anyway,” Bolan continued, “a little while ago you were complaining that you were tired.”
“Hell, I am. I mean, I did most of the driving today.” Grimaldi glanced at the two young women again. “But I’m never too tired for romance.”
Bolan couldn’t help but smile at that. As they sat in the dimly lighted shop drinking mugs of hot chocolate, Bolan reflected on lost opportunities and the image of the bearded assailant’s smile when they locked eyes.
Another time, Bolan thought. Another place.
“You’re thinking about the shootout, aren’t you?” Grimaldi asked.
Bolan said nothing, but his partner seemed to read his mind.
“Yeah, me, too. Sure would’ve been nice to save that guy Framer.” Grimaldi clucked sympathetically. “I didn’t much care for him at first, but he had balls. Kind of short in the brains and listening departments, but balls.”
The two women turned and moved toward the door, the blonde carrying a paper bag. The redhead jiggled her fingers in a small wave as they passed Bolan and Grimaldi and said something in Flemish that Bolan guessed was flirtatious.
He made no effort to respond.
As they got to the door it suddenly opened and a tall, dark complexioned man stood there. He bowed and made a sweeping gesture for the women to exit before him. After a quick duet of thank-yous from the women, the man smiled broadly and watched their backsides as they passed him. He was broad shouldered and his thick nose looked like it had been broken more than once. After glancing around the shop and seeing no one else, he nodded to Bolan and Grimaldi.
“Ah,” the man said in English, his words tinctured with a French accent. “A lovely evening for some coffee, n’est-ce pas?”
“But we’re drinking hot chocolate,” Bolan said, repeating the prearranged meeting signal.
“Tres bien,” the man said. He smiled, showing a flash of white teeth. “I shall get some myself.”
He moved to the counter and made his purchase, chatting with the server in Flemish. After receiving his drink, the man strode back to their table and stopped, taking a careful sip.
“Ahh,” he said. “An excellent suggestion, messieurs May I join you?”
“As long as your name is François Lupin,” Bolan said.
The man’s face suddenly acquired a puzzled look. He reached into his inside jacket pocket and withdrew a black wallet. He flipped it open and looked at it intently for a few seconds, then his mouth stretched into a broad grin.
“Oui, that is what my identification card says.” He held the open wallet toward them, displaying a gold-colored badge and an INTERPOL identification card. Then he laughed.
Bolan studied the open badge case, verifying the name and picture.
Lupin flipped the wallet closed and replaced it in his pocket.
“Let me guess,” he said. “You are Monsieur Cooper?”
Bolan nodded.
“How’d you know that?” Grimaldi asked.
Lupin turned to him. “I could tell you I am a clairvoyant, but that would be a bit of a lie. I must confess, I recognized your voice from our brief conversation on the telephone.”
“Speaking of conversations,” Bolan said, “your English is flawless. How many languages do you speak?”
Lupin shrugged. “You are too kind. My father was French, my mother Russian, and I grew up here in Flanders. I picked up those languages growing up, and I learned English because I worked at the ski resorts as an instructor during the latter part of my youth, and I know Spanish because I have an affection for dark haired señoritas.” He shrugged again, in a self-effacing sort of way. “Eventually, I found my calling in government work as a humble, but vastly underpaid, civil servant. I was assigned to INTERPOL due to my fluency in so many languages.”
“Impressive,” Bolan said.
Lupin smiled, showing white, evenly spaced teeth. “I have been told that you are here tracing mes amis, the Robie Cats. Is that correct?”
“Possibly,” Bolan said. “We’re also tracking a Russian national named Alexander Grodovich. He just arrived here from Moscow.”
Lupin nodded and took a sip from his mug. “I am very familiar with Monsieur Grodovich. Until recently, he was confined in a Russian prison. Two separate prisons, to be exact. His crimes were supposed to be of a financial nature, which does not surprise me. He and his associate, another Russian named Yuri Kadyrov, were partners in an international jewel smuggling ring. For some inexplicable reason, Grodovich was given a pardon and has now returned to Antwerp.”
“Any idea what he’s planning?” Bolan asked.
Lupin shook his head, drank more hot chocolate and lifted his right eyebrow. “I’m sure it has something to do with diamonds. After all, we are in the diamond capital of the world.”
“Before Grodovich left Russia, he held a press conference about entering the international diamond scene again,” Bolan said.
“Oui, c’est vrai.” He smiled again. “Forgive me, I sometimes slip back into the language of my birth. Grodovich has also met with Kadyrov, who is apparently expecting an important visitor.” He paused and studied their faces. “Have you ever heard of Jonathan Lumumba?”
The name struck a chord with Bolan. “He’s the leader of one of the rebel factions in the Congo.”
Lupin lifted his eyebrow once again and nodded. “Very good, monsie—” He paused. “This is getting a bit cumbersome. How is it you wish me to call you?”
“Cooper’s fine.”
Lupin looked to Grimaldi, who shrugged.
“Your associate is a man of few words, eh?” Lupin said.
“Not really,” Bolan replied.
“Yeah,” Grimaldi said. “Usually, it’s the other way around. I have trouble keeping my mouth shut.”
Lupin laughed. “Then it is settled. You may refer to me as François, and I shall call you Cooper, like the American cowboy movie star, and you will be Jacques, like Jacques Cousteau. It is good, n’est-ce pas?”
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