“Is that all you got?” Grimaldi asked, a trickle of blood winding down from his lips.
“No,” Lupin said. “I have much, much more.” He repeated the slap and then danced away as the man struggled to hold Grimaldi. Lupin motioned for one of the other thugs to assist in the restraint. “Paco, take out your knife and get ready to cut that one’s ear off.” Lupin pointed to Grimaldi. “But not until I tell you.”
The tour guide, who had been playing with the SIG Sauer, spinning it like a toy pistol, grinned. He stuck the pistol into the front of his pants and took a long knife with a wicked-looking blade from its sheath on his belt.
“You see, Cooper,” Lupin said, “I am pressed for time. I am anxious to begin my early retirement, so I need your responses to be honest and forthcoming. I am certain that if I were to torture you, you would do your best to resist. But watching your friend and partner endure mutilation and pain will no doubt elicit the answers I seek in a more timely fashion.”
Paco, the tour guide, grabbed Grimaldi’s left ear, pulling it outward. The man’s teeth gleamed white in the moonlight as he wiped the edge of the blade against Grimaldi’s cheek.
“You’re a chicken-shit son of a bitch, Lupin,” Grimaldi said, gritting his teeth from the pain.
Bolan did a quick assessment: He probably wouldn’t get a better chance. Two of the potential assailants were busy holding Grimaldi, and Paco seemed to be either stupid, unfamiliar with firearms or both. That left Lupin and the third guy with the machine gun, who looked fairly capable. He’d kept his weapon combat-ready since the little drama had begun. Bolan decided it would be safest to kill him first. He pretended to lose his balance and dug his fingers into the sand.
“Okay, okay,” he said, starting to stand.
“I did not say you could move,” Lupin shouted. “Sit—”
“Don’t tell him shit!” Grimaldi yelled at the top of his voice. “I can take it!”
Lupin’s gaze wavered for a few seconds, as did the third guy with the machine gun. Bolan brought his left hand upward and flung sand into the man’s eyes. As Bolan had anticipated, the guy pulled the trigger, but the Executioner was already reaching out with his left hand to grab the barrel, directing the stream of bullets toward Lupin’s legs. At the same time his right hand pulled the knife from his pocket and flipped open the blade. He swung forward, stabbing the guy with the machine gun in the throat, rotating the blade as he tore it loose.
Bolan’s right shoulder barreled into Lupin’s chest, knocking him backward. The INTERPOL man dropped the Beretta as he grabbed his wounded legs. Bolan crouched down and threw the knife overhand at the man holding Grimaldi on the right. The blade sank into the assailant’s right eye socket and he reeled back, hands flailing.
Grimaldi used this opportunity to elbow his other captor as he brought a right cross around and smashed Paco’s face. The thin tour guide swung his knife at Grimaldi, striking his shoulder. Grimaldi gripped the handle of the SIG Sauer, which was still tucked into the front of Paco’s pants. An explosive noise burst forth and a dark stain welled up at the man’s crotch. Grimaldi pushed him back, SIG Sauer now in hand, and shot the assailant he’d elbowed, then the other one, who still had Bolan’s knife projecting from his face.
The Executioner picked up his Beretta and shot Paco in the chest and then the third man in the head. He trained his pistol on Lupin, who was writhing in the sand, the blood pumping from the leg wounds. Bolan held the Beretta to Lupin’s face and patted the INTERPOL man down. He found Lupin’s Walther and cell phone, the ignition key to the plane and his own satellite phone. Bolan pocketed everything. Grimaldi was busy kicking weapons away from each of their dead former assailants as he checked each one for signs of life.
“These four are all dead,” Grimaldi said.
Both of Lupin’s legs were showing signs of arterial bleeding. Bolan stripped off the INTERPOL man’s belt and tied off the right leg, and then told Grimaldi to take off Paco’s belt.
“You oughta let him bleed to death,” Grimaldi said as he jerked Paco’s belt free of his body.
“How bad is it?” Lupin asked, clenching his teeth after he spoke.
Grimaldi tossed the belt to Bolan.
“If we don’t get you to a hospital soon, you’ll bleed to death,” Bolan said, looping the belt above the wounds and cinching it tight.
Lupin nodded. “It is what I deserve, as the Duke says.”
“Who are you working for?” Bolan asked. “Tell us and we’ll get you to the hospital.”
Lupin looked at him and managed a small laugh. “We both know it is too late, do we not, mon ami?”
Bolan turned to Grimaldi. “Give me a hand getting him to the boat.”
Grimaldi nodded and grabbed Lupin’s left arm. As they hoisted him, the tension on the belts slackened and the blood began to flow once again. By the time they got to the boat, Lupin was groaning in agony.
“Please, please, set me down,” he said. “Only for a moment.”
Bolan and Grimaldi lowered him into the boat, then Bolan retightened the tourniquets. Lupin’s breathing was becoming shallow, and his eyelids drooped. It was hard to tell in the paleness of the moonlight, but Bolan figured the man had only a few minutes more.
“Who was paying you to kill us?” Bolan asked.
Lupin shook his head. “It is strange now...the pain, it is almost gone. I feel tired, but there is no pain.”
“Lupin, who paid you to set us up?” Bolan said. “Who were you working for?”
“The Russians,” Lupin said. “They... I feel so tired now.”
Bolan tapped the man’s cheek lightly. “Come on, François, tell me. The Russians...what are they after? What have they got planned?”
A dreamy look formed on Lupin’s face. “I guess you will find out when you get to New York.”
The serene expression slackened and Lupin’s eyes glazed over.
Bolan checked the man’s neck for a carotid pulse.
“He dead?” Grimaldi asked.
Bolan nodded.
“Good.”
They lifted the INTERPOL man’s body out of the boat and carried him back to the other bodies. Grimaldi put on his night vision goggles and scanned the area.
“Looks like we’re alone,” he said. “For now.”
“Let’s keep it that way,” the Executioner replied. “We’ve got an appointment in New York.”
15
Russian Embassy
New York City
STIEGLITZ SAT ALONE by the telecommunications set-up, but he did not dare use the wide-screen computer-phone hookup. Instead, he took out his satellite phone and dialed the number. He wasn’t looking forward to yet another conversation with the voice on the other end, even if he was now an ocean away. The vise began squeezing his gut once again as he waited and listened to the ringing. Finally, it was answered.
“Everything is set?” the voice asked.
“Yes, sir. I am making the final preparations for my presentation.”
Stieglitz was going to address the World Diamond Council conference in three hours. His speech would precede the auction.
“Has everything arrived safely?” the voice asked.
“Yes, sir.” While Grodovich, Mikhal and Martinez were being treated to a breakfast fit for a king, Rovalev was in another part of the building being instructed on how to properly set the timer and use the low-frequency radio transmitter that would detonate the bombs. It had been fitted inside a slightly oversized briefcase. The two larger suitcases, one for each end of the long diamond assessment tables, had been delivered and packed with the cesium-137, the Semtex and the bottles of water, which would magnify the explosive force and spread the radioactivity farther.
Stieglitz swallowed with some difficulty. It was imperative that he be out of the bui
lding when the bombs detonated. He planned on leaving right after his speech. The auction was on the eighth floor and Rovalev would be on the seventh setting the timer. He could make his own way down and leave once the timer was set. The eighth floor auction area was particularly well suited to contain the blast because the walls were located in the center of the building and, hence, windowless. But the effects of the radiation would linger in the blast site for the next thirty years, at the very least.
Thirty years wasn’t forever, but it was close enough.
The television images showing smoke billowing from a building in the Manhattan skyline would be enough to send the city into total chaos. And the most beautiful part was that the act would be attributed to the Chechens. Another Muslim country bent on striking the United States.
“And the breadcrumbs?” the voice asked.
“They were left to attract the mice,” Stieglitz answered.
Breadcrumbs...code for the theft of the medical cesium from the Brighton Beach hospital the night before. The real supply of cesium-137 had been delivered to the embassy in diplomatic pouches three days before.
“Very well,” the voice said. “I expect to hear from you when your speech has been completed.”
He glanced at his watch: 8:09 a.m. In little more than six hours it would be over. Or rather just beginning. When the sun rose over the Kremlin tomorrow, it would be shining on a new Russia, one out from under the yoke of American economic oppression.
The West will soon learn, he thought, that diamonds aren’t forever.
* * *
“AH, NEW YORK, NEW YORK,” Grimaldi said as he started a slow descent. “The city that never sleeps. You know, I’ve got some Macy’s coupons that are about to expire.”
Bolan felt a wave of satisfaction as the Manhattan skyline became visible. Knowing they were back on American soil and had almost caught up to their quarry renewed his energy. It had taken them the better part of thirty-six hours to manage a discreet exit from Venezuela and transportation back to the United States. This was their final leapfrog.
Bolan took out his sat phone and made a quick call back to Stony Man Farm.
Brognola answered even before the first ring had been completed.
“Where are you guys?”
“Just outside the Big Apple,” Bolan said. “We should be landing at LaGuardia in a few minutes. You find out anything more on Grodovich?”
“Yeah, a couple of interesting items. First, he’s scheduled to unveil some big diamond he’s been bragging about at the auction today. It’s set for fourteen-hundred hours.”
Bolan glanced at his watch: 1139. That gave them about two and a half hours to get into downtown Manhattan, find Grodovich and figure out what was happening.
“And that ain’t all,” Brognola continued. “It seems your buddy François never pushed through any pickup order at INTERPOL, which explains how Grodovich got out of Belgium so easily. We managed to go through appropriate channels to get that done.” He chuckled.
“Just so we can grab him and turn him over to the NYPD,” Bolan said. “But I still need to figure out what this whole thing is about. It’s gone from one mystery to another all the way down the line.”
“Well, don’t expect a lot of assistance from the boys in blue,” Brognola said. “They’ve got their hands full. The whole department’s on alert.”
“What’s up?”
Brognola sighed. “First, there was a shooting in Brighton Beach. A dead Chechen gangster. And if that wasn’t enough, a hospital discovered the theft of some cesium-137 from its radiological stockpile and a security guard had been killed. The antiterrorism squad went into high gear, anticipating the possibility that the cesium might be used in a radiological dispersion device.”
“A dirty bomb?” Bolan said. “Any idea who was behind the theft?”
“The NYPD’s keeping this one close to their vest, which is understandable. Aaron’s working on hacking into some sensitive databases to try and get more info.”
“As soon as we grab Grodovich, we’ll pitch in and give them a hand.”
“I was hoping you’d say that,” Brognola said. “I don’t need to tell you what havoc a dirty bomb going off in New York would cause.”
Bolan did a quick mental assessment. Brighton Beach was famous for its large ethnic population, especially Russians. “Any possibility these two cases are related? Russians seem to be popping up at every turn.”
Brognola grunted. “Don’t know. Relations are strained right now, but I don’t think the Russians would risk setting off World War Three by detonating a dirty bomb. They have to know we’d retaliate.”
“Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that,” Bolan said. “Hopefully, we’ll find out soon enough.”
The Mansfield Building
Avenue of the Americas
New York, New York
GRODOVICH WATCHED AS Stieglitz and Rovalev conferred on the other side of the hospitality suite. The two of them had been as thick as country felines curled up in a winter storm. Stieglitz was due to give his speech in less than forty minutes. At the embassy, Rovalev had been giving explicit instructions to four Russian lackeys from the embassy, who had carried up the two large, black plastic suitcases holding the diamonds. They had appeared much heavier than Grodovich would have imagined. Now the men and the suitcases were nowhere to be seen. He wondered if the large conflict diamond was in one. Rovalev carried a smaller case, the size of a briefcase only a bit thicker. Perhaps the conflict diamond was in that one. Grodovich sighed. It was almost time. He had been told how to describe the diamond and what price range he was to express to the auctioneer. In another hour or so, it would all be finished.
Martinez sauntered over with two glasses of red wine and handed one to Grodovich.
“Amigo, to your health,” he said, his thick mustache curling above his white teeth in a devious smile. “And to our good fortune.”
Grodovich nodded and sipped from the glass. Something didn’t seem quite right. They were all here, at the diamond auction, and with the Venezuelan partnership in effect, the absence of any Kimberley Process documentation would not be a problem. The diamond, even in its uncut state, would no doubt draw an incredible price. And everyone would be happy.
Both Stieglitz and Rovalev seemed nervous, however. As if something more were at stake. Was there a wolf lurking in the field?
“Qué pasa?” Martinez asked. “Are you not happy? We are here, and the auction is due to begin in an hour and a half or so.” He laughed and drained his glass. “I want another. Y tu?”
Grodovich held up his almost-full glass and shook his head. As soon as Martinez had gone, Grodovich turned to Mikhal, who was standing behind him like a silent bear.
The massive head looked downward.
Grodovich made a fractional gesture toward Stieglitz and Rovalev, who were still leaning next to each other and talking, their heads as close as a pair of lovers.
“We need to be especially watchful of those two,” Grodovich said. “I am not sure what they’re planning for us.”
The giant nodded and looked toward them. Just then Stieglitz glanced over and locked eyes with Grodovich. Stieglitz held up his hand and motioned him over. He and Mikhal started to walk, but Stieglitz held up his palm, pointed to the giant and shook his head.
“He does not want me there?” Mikhal asked, his voice a low rumble, like approaching thunder.
“It is all right,” Grodovich said. “I will only be a moment.”
When Grodovich got there he saw that Stieglitz was sweating profusely. The underarms of his suit jacket displayed sodden half-moon spots.
“Are you all right?” Grodovich asked.
Stieglitz gave a quick nod. “Yes, yes, of course. The giant attracts too much attention.” He looked around and then reached into the inside
breast pocket of his suit, withdrawing the packet that had been prepared for the conflict diamond. He moved close to Grodovich and whispered, “I will give this to you after I complete my speech. Do not display it until the appropriate time, as instructed. Do you understand?”
“Yes.” The man’s body odor was pungent, overpowering, with a hint of perhaps something more.
“I must go to the toilet,” Stieglitz said, shuffling off, holding his stomach with one hand.
Grodovich stepped back and watched him go.
“Performance anxiety,” Rovalev said, a smile stretching across his face. “We are fortunate that it does not affect us in this manner, are we not?”
Grodovich smiled, too, but silently wondered if something else was upsetting Stieglitz. Even if that were the case, he had little choice but to let the last act of this drama play out.
* * *
BOLAN SAT IN the backseat of the taxi as the driver wound his way through the Manhattan gridlock. He glanced at his watch: 1343. The auction, and Grodovich’s big unveiling of the conflict diamond, was scheduled to begin in about fifteen minutes. He doubted they’d make it before the event began, which might make grabbing the man problematic.
The vehicle in front of them moved perhaps six feet and then stopped again.
“Hey, buddy,” Grimaldi said. “Will we get there before Christmas, or what?”
The taxi driver glanced over his shoulder. “What can I do, sir? The traffic is very heavy.”
“If I was driving this hunk-a-junk I’d get us there in half the time,” Grimaldi muttered to Bolan. He shook his head. “And speaking of time, cesium-137,” the Stony Man pilot said quietly, “what’s the half life of that stuff? A couple hundred years?”
“It depends,” Bolan said. “I think it’s more like thirty.”
“Thirty years’ worth of rads,” Grimaldi said.
Something clicked in Bolan’s mind. “Rad... Radiation?”
“Yeah,” Grimaldi said. “Rads, you know, short for roentgens. Units of radiation. Kind of an old-fashioned term now, but...” He shrugged. “So what?”
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