Uncut Terror

by Don Pendleton

  “That one is being kept in a safe place,” Grodovich said. “For the moment.” He replaced the envelope into his pocket and withdrew a second piece of paper. “Here is a copy of the packet that was prepared in Antwerp. It has all the specifics of the gem, including the carets listing. It is still rough, but as you can see, it not only rivals the Congolese Giant in size but surpasses it.”

  Martinez took out a pair of glasses and scanned the document, his mustache twitching as he read. “This is very interesting.”

  “Unfortunately,” Grodovich said, “we recovered the gem but not the certification papers. Thus, we need your assistance, the assistance of your established diamond trading company, in introducing the stone at the World Diamond Council auction on Monday.”

  Martinez smirked. “Of course. This will not be a problem...” He paused and lifted an eyebrow. “What percentage of the sale would I be afforded for my help, or rather the help of my company?”

  Grodovich smiled back. He knew it would come down to this final, essential banter. It was the part of the game he knew best: the ebb and flow of negotiations. But this time, Stieglitz had informed him he was not to barter. “Give the foreigner whatever he wants to assure our entry into the auction room,” Stieglitz had said. “Do you understand?”

  “What did you have in mind?” Grodovich asked.

  Martinez pursed his lips, as if he were really contemplating it. Grodovich knew the man would jump at anything above the standard fifteen percent. “I am hesitant to speculate...without the courtesy of examining the merchandise...”

  Stieglitz tapped his knuckles on the tabletop. His glare was the picture of impatience. No wonder the man had never sought entry into Russia’s burgeoning business opportunities. He’d been born to assume the role of the typical, unimaginative government bureaucrat.

  “We are prepared to offer you the standard fifteen percent,” Grodovich said.

  Martinez blew out a slow breath. Grodovich knew the Venezuelan had sensed the urgency in Stieglitz. He started to speak, but Grodovich cut him off.

  “Since I am certain of the immensity of the price, we shall offer you twenty percent.” He glanced at Stieglitz, who nodded fractionally. “But this is our final offer.”

  Martinez’s lips twitched again, the involuntary tic that had always allowed Grodovich to manipulate the Venezuelan. But Stieglitz was the ultimate authority in this deal, and if his bosses back at the Kremlin were upset at this offer, so be it.

  “That is very generous,” Martinez said. “I am stunned.”

  “No problema,” Grodovich said. “El gusto es mío.”

  Martinez laughed and picked up his wineglass. “Okay, it is a deal.” He clicked his glass against Grodovich’s. “Drink up, and I shall order more wine for all of us. And after our feast, we shall all go to my private resort on las islas de Las Roques.” He turned toward Stieglitz. “You have never seen such a beautiful place.” Turning back to Grodovich, Martinez said, “It has been a long time since you visited, but tell them, is it not beautiful and serene?”

  “With the most beautiful women in the world to care for your every whim,’ Grodovich answered.

  Martinez laughed loudly. “I will make sure we have plenty of women on hand.”

  Grodovich laughed, too, but caught the eye of Stieglitz. The man was biting his upper lip, as if contemplating something other than the prospects of pleasure.

  Caracas, Venezuela

  AFTER HE FINISHED checking his equipment, Bolan stepped onto the hotel balcony and called Stony Man Farm. Brognola answered with his usual alacrity.

  “Caracas, huh? Well, lots of pretty girls, and at least we’re in the same time zone now, more or less,” he said. “That’s a plus, right?”

  “That remains to be seen,” Bolan said. “It depends on how much red tape we’ll have to cut through.”

  Brognola sighed. “Yeah, I know it’s probably a bit cumbersome at times, having François going through official channels.”

  “That’s an understatement.”

  “Where’s he now?” Brognola asked.

  “He went to check in with the local authorities and his superiors at INTERPOL headquarters. Asked Jack and me to stay here. It seems Americans are still persona non grata down here.”

  “Can’t you say you’re Canadians?”

  “Jack’s a bit too brash to make that believable.”

  “I’m starting to regret hooking you guys up with INTERPOL,” Brognola said. “You’d have been better off handling things the old-fashioned way.”

  “My sentiments exactly,” Bolan said.

  Grimaldi pushed his head outside and said, “He’s baaack.”

  “Hal, Lupin’s back,” Bolan said. “I have to go.”

  “Okay. Watch yourselves.”

  Bolan ended the call and stepped back inside. Lupin stood by the desk with a wine bottle in an ice bucket. He held up the bottle and tilted his head in an inquisitive way.

  “My French blood craves wine every afternoon. Would you care to join me?”

  Bolan shook his head. Grimaldi glanced at Bolan and then also gave his head a shake.

  “What did you find out?” Bolan asked.

  “I have, as you Americans say, the good news and the bad news.” Lupin was inserting the corkscrew. After a few deft twists, he pulled the cork free with a pop. He picked up a glass from the dresser and poured some wine from the bottle. “Which one do you wish to hear first?”

  “Give us the good news,” Grimaldi said. “I need a boost.”

  Lupin took a sip as he jerked with laughter. “I have to remember that one.” He took another drink. “Okay, the local authorities have agreed to hold Monsieur Grodovich pending any extradition proceedings.”

  “Great,” Grimaldi said. “Let’s go pick him up and we can let the courts do their work.” He clapped his hands together. “Lots of gorgeous women down this way. Did you know that Venezuela has won more Miss World contests than any other country?”

  Lupin swallowed some more wine and nodded vigorously. “You are a man after my own heart. Are you part French?”

  “What’s the bad news?” Bolan asked.

  Lupin took a deep breath and sighed. “Unfortunately, due to the privacy laws here, they require written consent for the government to locate individuals residing or visiting here.”

  “Sounds like they’re going to be a lot of help,” Grimaldi said.

  Lupin laughed and drained his glass. “Are you sure you will not join me?”

  “No, thanks,” Bolan said. “And I think you’d better level it off so we can start beating the bushes for Grodovich.”

  Lupin held up his index finger and waggled it.

  “Mon ami,” he said, “this is not my first trip to Venezuela.” He shot them an exaggerated wink and sipped more wine. “I have used my contacts here to locate our quarry. He is with Pedro Alberto Martinez, a local crime boss who masquerades as a businessman. He and Grodovich have a long history together.”

  “Where are they exactly?” Bolan asked.

  “On an island off the coast. The Los Roques archipelago. The main island is a national park, but Martinez owns a resort on an adjacent island. He is entertaining Grodovich there.”

  “I’ve been to Los Roques,” Bolan said. “It’s about half an hour away by plane, and the flights are restricted.”

  “Ah, yes,” Lupin said. “But if we rent our own airplane, perhaps we can find a capable pilot.”

  Grimaldi flashed a big grin.

  “If it has wings or a rotor,” he said, “I can fly it.”

  La Casa del Suenos

  Las Islas de Los Roques

  STIEGLITZ WALKED INSIDE the large, brightly lit room and saw Grodovich with his arm draped over the bare shoulders of a woman and a glass dangling from his othe
r hand. They were both laughing as they watched the giant Mikhal holding up two nearly nude females, one in each hand.

  The sight amused him. Neither of these men had much longer to live.

  Rovalev was suddenly beside him. Stieglitz turned and scanned the man, checking to see if he had been imbibing. He had no glass.

  “You are not partaking in the festivities?” Stieglitz asked.

  Rovalev shook his head.

  “Good,” Stieglitz said. “We will be leaving shortly. They are preparing the boat and plane as we speak.”

  Rovalev nodded.

  “The Americans are in Caracas,” Stieglitz said. “They will be coming here soon.”

  “Do you wish me to prepare a reception party?” Rovalev asked.

  Stieglitz shook his head. “They will be attended to by others. It has been arranged. As I said, we will be leaving very soon.” He took one more look at the giant, who had lifted both women above his massive head. “We have a more pressing matter in New York.”

  14

  Airstrip

  Islas de Los Roques

  BY THE TIME their rented plane touched down on the dusty airstrip of Los Islas de los Roques it was almost dark. The airstrip itself was gravel and dirt with occasional patches of asphalt. The ground crew had set up orange pylons that directed them toward an array of one-story buildings and a big welcome sign. To the west, the sun was a yellow globe descending into the ocean.

  Bolan glanced at their pilot, who worked for the tour company—a development Grimaldi had not been happy with. He was standing by the plane smoking a cigarette.

  “Where’s the target?” Bolan asked, shifting the backpack that contained his weapons.

  “The next island over,” Lupin said, pointing east. “We will need to rent a boat to get there.”

  “And what assurance do we have that the plane will be waiting for us when we get back?” Bolan asked.

  “Mon ami, I am wounded,” Lupin said. He held up a key attached to a plastic tab. “He will not be able to start the plane without inserting this into the instrument panel.”

  “All right,” Bolan said, looking around. A few men were meandering about on the airstrip next to a series of hangers. A couple ramshackle buildings, restaurants set on pylons, hovered tenuously three feet above the water. A dim set of lights illuminated an almost empty dining area. “Let’s get our boat.”

  The negotiation took a matter of minutes. Their guide looked to be in his mid-thirties in his dark sunglasses and bandanna tied over his head and Bolan listened as Lupin conversed with the man in Spanish. Although the Executioner also spoke the language, he didn’t mention that to Lupin.

  The guide led them to a pier where several boats of varying length were moored. He stopped in front of a white speedboat with a big outboard motor angled just out of the water.

  Bolan did a quick assessment of the craft. It looked to be in pretty good shape, which meant they’d be able to traverse the distance rather quickly. The seating was limited, but it would hold the four of them easily. Adding Grodovich for the return trip would be a bit more cramped, but doable.

  They got on board and the guide untied the bowline, hopped on the tail and pulled the cord of the outboard. The engine roared to life and the guide tilted it into the water, steering them deftly away from the pier. Ahead the view of the sun was almost halfway obscured by the dark water. Bolan took out his cell phone and did a quick directional reading, just in case they had to find their way back on their own. He replaced the phone in its waterproof container.

  The Executioner couldn’t shake a growing uneasiness about this mission. Although Lupin seemed capable, Bolan wondered just how reliable the INTERPOL man’s information was and if he’d covered all the bases. So far, Grodovich had managed to stay a couple moves ahead at every turn. Would he really be so lax as to leave himself isolated and unprotected on a Caribbean island?

  “Any idea how many men he’s got with him?” Bolan asked.

  Lupin shrugged. “My source told me that Martinez has his usual contingent of bodyguards. Perhaps five or six. And Grodovich has a giant accompanying him everywhere. You might have seen him on the television news.”

  Bolan had seen the guy, and he’d also gotten an update from Brognola that the man-mountain was named Mikhal Markovich, a Russian inmate who had been incarcerated in Krasnoyarsk and released with Grodovich.

  “Regardless,” Lupin said, “I have it on good authority that Martinez imported a group of prostitutes for his guests. It is my assumption that at some point in the evening, Monsieur Grodovich will be alone with one of these beautiful young ladies.” He paused to flash a smile.

  “Está ahí,” the guide said.

  Bolan could see a black shape rising out of the water ahead of them, but he didn’t see any lights. He estimated that they’d traveled about a mile and a half from the other island. Certainly a challenging swim if they ended up without a boat.

  When they were a hundred feet from shore Lupin told the man to cut the engine. He did and the boat silently continued toward the beach, propelled by the waves. When they got close enough to shore the guide hopped out and began pushing the boat with his hands. The water was at mid-thigh level. Lupin also jumped out and began helping him push, followed by Bolan and Grimaldi. When they reached ankle-depth water, they each grabbed the framework of the boat and carried it to shore.

  The guide mumbled something and Lupin said, “He says we’ll have to put it a bit farther up. The tide’s coming in.”

  After they’d stashed it just below some shrubbery, Bolan reached in and grabbed his backpack. He checked the night vision goggles and fastened them on his head and strapped on his pistol belt with the Beretta 93R in a tactical holster on the right side and an ammunition pouch with two extra magazines on the left. He brushed his right side pants pocket to verify that his Espada knife was still clipped in place and removed a tube of camo paint from his backpack.

  “We’d better paint up if we’re going to surprise him,” he said.

  “Do you mean camouflage?” Lupin asked, his brow wrinkling. “I would rather not.”

  Bolan finished smearing the black paint on his face and held it toward Lupin. “Want me to do it for you?”

  The INTERPOL man sighed, took the tube and gingerly smeared a few lines on his forehead, cheeks and chin.

  Bolan could tell this guy had little military experience. He took the tube and added a few more streaks that would help him blend in with the dark night. Grimaldi took the tube next.

  “You’d better stay back with the boat,” Bolan said.

  Grimaldi frowned and nodded. “I was just thinking the same thing, just in case our buddy here gets cold feet and takes off without us.”

  Lupin clicked his tongue. “I should have thought of that.”

  “You made sure the pilot wouldn’t leave without us,” Bolan said. “How far is the resort?”

  “Not even one kilometer.”

  “Let’s get going then.” Bolan walked toward the sand bar with Lupin behind him.

  As they began scaling the ridge, Bolan heard Grimaldi yell and then grunt. As he turned, he heard a Taser clicking and felt the jolt of needles piercing the back of his left thigh. A millisecond later his muscles stiffened and he hit the ground. The pain and paralysis continued as Lupin stooped over him and pulled the Beretta from its holster.

  He stepped back and pointed Bolan’s own weapon right at him.

  “Regrettably, mon ami,” the INTERPOL man said, “we are a bit too late to catch our quarry. And I have a few questions to ask of you and your partner.”

  Bolan said nothing, trying to work the residual pain out of his muscles.

  No wonder Grodovich was always one step ahead of us, he thought. He had an inside man.

  * * *

  BOLA
N AND GRIMALDI sat surrounded by five men, all of whom were armed. Lupin and the tour guide had been joined by three others, who moved out of the shadows of the beach. All three carried submachine guns. Lupin still had Bolan’s Beretta and the tour guide had Grimaldi’s SIG Sauer. Lupin spoke to them in Spanish, saying he had to get some information before killing them.

  At least I know what his plan is, Bolan thought. He also had the Espada knife in his pocket. He hadn’t made a show of checking it after they’d gotten out of the boat, so there was a chance Lupin hadn’t seen it in the moonlight.

  “How much are they paying you?” Bolan asked.

  Lupin turned and smiled. “A lot, mon ami. Enough to allow an underpaid civil servant to indulge his epicurean tastes.” The smile faded. “And now, I must ask you a few questions. Answer truthfully and I will leave you and your friend on this island. Once I am safely away, I will send someone to take you back to the mainland.”

  “You won’t kill us, huh?” Grimaldi said.

  Lupin shook his head. “Not if you give me the information I desire. You have my word.” He rolled his shoulders slightly. “After all the time we spent together, I have acquired a certain fondness for you both.” His right eyed closed in a wink.

  “What do you want to know?” Bolan asked.

  Lupin trained his gaze on him. “My employers wish to know what the American defector, Burns, and his Russian paramour told you in Moscow,” he said. “They also wish to know exactly what you have reported to your superiors in the United States.”

  “Who’s paying you?” Bolan asked.

  Lupin shook his head, his expression still amicable. “I ask the questions. You answer them. Understood?”

  “If it’s the Russians,” Bolan said, “we can double it.”

  Lupin laughed. “Now you sound like Sean Connery in that James Bond movie.” He shook his head and the smile faded from his face once more. Lupin yelled in Spanish for the man standing behind Grimaldi to grab him.

  The man shifted his machine gun around so the strap kept it suspended on his back and then grabbed Grimaldi’s arms. Stepping forward, Lupin backhanded Grimaldi across the face.