Uncut Terror

by Don Pendleton

  Bolan didn’t answer. He was recalling Burns’s dying words: “Grodovich... Hot rocks... Rad—” Had he been trying to say radiation? At the time Bolan had assumed “hot rocks” meant “stolen.” Now, he wasn’t so sure.

  Arkadi Kropotkan, Burns’s significant other, had worked in the Bureau of Economic Affairs in the Kremlin, and Burns had said they had something significant to trade in exchange for a free pass back to the States. The theft of the cesium, the Chechen-Russian gang shootouts, the conflict diamond, the Russians pulling out all the stops to get Grodovich to the World Diamond Council conference auction... Suddenly it all made sense. Perfect but horrible sense.

  “They’re going to detonate a dirty bomb at the conference,” he said.

  “Huh? How do you figure?”

  Bolan explained as quickly as possible.

  “I think you nailed it,” Grimaldi said, a grim expression on his face. “Damn, and we’re still at least a mile or two away.”

  And they were still stopped in the traffic gridlock. Bolan heard a buzzing sound and glanced over his shoulder. Two motorcyclists were creeping forward between the rows of cars. He quickly opened the door of the cab, blocking their progress and stepped out.

  “Department of Justice,” Bolan said, flashing his identification and badge. “We need to commandeer your motorcycles.”

  The first biker, a yuppie type with Oakley sunglasses, peeled his lips back in defiance. “Huh? No way, man.”

  Bolan slipped his Beretta out of his holster and held it down by his leg. “Get off now.”

  Grimaldi was already moving around the rear of the taxi and pointing his SIG Sauer at the second biker. “You too, pal. It’s time for you guys to do your civil duty.”

  “This is outrageous,” the second biker said. “I want your names and badge numbers.”

  “Misters Beretta and SIG Sauer,” Grimaldi said. “Now move.”

  Both of the bikers flipped down their kickstands and got off, raising their hands.

  “This ain’t right, man,” the first biker said.

  Bolan watched as Grimaldi holstered his weapon and got on the motorcycle.

  “What is going on?” the taxi driver asked through the windows. “Are you robbers?”

  “Federal agents,” Grimaldi said.

  “But what about my fare?” the taxi driver asked. “From the airport.”

  Bolan told both bikers to get into the cab. When they complied, he reached in his pocket and pulled out some cash. “This should get you two to the Mansfield Building. You can pick up your bikes there.” He gave the money to the driver.

  Grimaldi pressed the gear shift into first and popped the clutch, shooting forward. He steered between the rows of stagnant vehicles.

  Bolan followed, thinking that he had fifteen minutes and counting. The clock’s ticking.

  The Mansfield Building

  Eighth Floor

  GRODOVICH STOOD WITH MIKHAL, Martinez and Rovalev outside the doors of the main conference room. The hallway was fairly wide, but except for them and a few security guards in dark blue blazers, it was empty. The conference room itself, the space in which the auction was to take place in approximately ten more minutes, was in the center of the eighth floor, with hallways on either side.

  The elevator doors opened and the four men from the Embassy emerged, pushing the cart with the black and red suitcases containing the diamonds. Grodovich thought about Stieglitz and his insistence on maintaining possession of the conflict diamond until Grodovich was to enter the auction room. The man’s arrogance was almost as oppressive as his body odor.

  Grodovich smiled at the thought of the other man’s pungency. It was no mystery why they did not want him to present the large stone. The bidding would be prematurely halted due to the offensive smell.

  “We will go in soon?” Mikhal asked.

  The giant had been fairly quiet since their arrival, seeming to be awestruck by the immensity of the city. Although Moscow and Antwerp had their share of tall buildings, New York was like being in a mountain range of skyscrapers.

  Grodovich nodded. “Yes, soon.”

  Rovalev smiled. “The big bear is uneasy in these urban surroundings, eh?”

  Mikhal stiffened and glared down at Rovalev. Although he and Grodovich had forged a tenuous friendship over the chess matches, he knew Mikhal did not like him very much. Perhaps the giant’s sensory impressions were more prescient than Grodovich had thought.

  Rovalev still carried the oversized black briefcase and had balked when Grodovich asked what was in it.

  “Just some papers and certificates,” Rovalev had said.

  The quickness of his reply and the uneven timbre of his voice made Grodovich think the man was lying, but why? What was really in that briefcase?

  * * *

  AFTER SEVERAL CLOSE calls, Bolan and Grimaldi finally made their way to the Mansfield Building, going the last two blocks on the sidewalk, dodging pedestrians and attracting the attention of NYPD officers walking the downtown beat. As Bolan screeched to a halt in front of the building, two uniformed officers ran toward him, their hands on their guns.

  Bolan quickly took out his Department of Justice ID and held it up, his other hand also high and away from his side. Grimaldi pulled up and did the same.

  When the officers were in earshot, Bolan said, “Matt Cooper, DOJ.”

  The first officer slowed a bit and reached for the ID, keeping his right hand on his weapon.

  “What the hell’s going on?” he asked, looking at the identification.

  “Get hold of your supervisor,” Bolan said. “And the Anti-Terrorism Task Force. We’ve got reason to believe there’s a dirty bomb set to go off at the diamond conference in this building.”

  The young officer’s eyes widened. His partner, a female officer, was right beside him now.

  “A dirty bomb?” the first officer said.

  “Look, we don’t have time to play twenty questions,” Bolan said. Pedestrians were gathering now and the last thing Bolan wanted was panic. He lowered his voice. “Did you get briefed on the theft of some radioactive material being stolen yesterday?”

  The officer blinked. “Yeah, at roll call.”

  “Well, it’s here,” Grimaldi said, jerking his thumb toward the building. “And we got to find it. Fast.”

  The officer cocked his head and grabbed his radio. “I’ll call the special detail assigned to the conference.”

  “Tell them to get a hazmat team over here with containment equipment,” Bolan said. “We’ll be up on whatever floor the World Diamond Council conference is on.”

  With that, he and Grimaldi turned and pushed through the revolving doors.

  * * *

  GRODOVICH WAITED OFF to the side as people continued to filter into the large conference room. Martinez had already gone inside to get a good seat. The auction was set to begin in a scant few minutes and Stieglitz had not yet given him the large stone. From the smattering of applause after the Kremlin man’s speech, Grodovich had the distinct impression that the audience was less than enthusiastic. He glanced inside to see where Stieglitz and Rovalev were. Stieglitz was talking to the Black Wolf and pointing in an animated fashion. The four men from the embassy were loading one of the suitcases onto the long row of tables where the diamond merchants sat. But there should be two cases. Where was the other one? It made little sense to keep the cases separated. In such a large room, with so many people, how could you keep track of them?

  Stieglitz shot a glance toward the doors and locked eyes on Grodovich. He said something and Rovalev turned and looked, as well.

  What were those two planning?

  Grodovich didn’t like it. Something told him he should grab Mikhal and leave immediately, but he knew that was not a viable option. Everything he had,
his money and his freedom, was still tied up in Russia, and going through with this diamond negotiation was the only path he could take.

  Stieglitz and Rovalev walked out of the room. Two ushers held the doors and then closed them as they exited.

  “I should be going inside,” Grodovich said. “Are you going to give it to me now?”

  Stieglitz pursed his lips as he reached into his pocket and withdrew the wrapped packet.

  “You are clear on your instructions?” His voice was full of wariness.

  “Of course,” Grodovich said. He held out his hand and Stieglitz stared down at it, then firmly pressed the packet into Grodovich’s palm. It was sodden with sweat.

  Grodovich wrinkled his forehead. “What is this? You have perspired so much the specifications are illegible. The ink is all smeared.”

  “Never mind that,” Stieglitz said. “Get in there. Do as I have instructed you. Now!” He gripped his stomach suddenly, then said, “I must go to the toilet.”

  He broke away and trotted down the hallway toward the restrooms. Rovalev, who was still holding the briefcase in his left hand, gripped the doorknob with his right and motioned with his head for Grodovich to enter the conference room.

  Grodovich didn’t like it. There was something they weren’t telling him. He stood his ground and shook his head.

  “Perhaps you have some alternate copies of the stone’s specifications in your briefcase,” he said, nodding at Rovalev. “Why don’t you check and see?”

  Rovalev was sweating, too, although not as copiously as Stieglitz. Something was definitely going on.

  “Believe me, there is nothing of the sort in my case,” Rovalev said, his tone gruff. He nodded at the door again. “Now, go inside and do as you were told.”

  Grodovich shook his head. “Not until you show me what is inside that briefcase. Open it.”

  Rovalev laughed, but it sounded forced. “Now is not the time for silly games.” He reached out and grabbed Grodovich by the arm, pulling him toward the room.

  “Release him,” Mikhal said.

  Rovalev frowned but removed his hand.

  “Tell me what you and Stieglitz were whispering about,” Grodovich said. “Is there some problem or concern with this?” He held up the packet containing the diamond.

  Rovalev blew out a quick breath in obvious frustration. “Just go inside and do your fucking presentation.”

  “Not until you open your briefcase,” Grodovich said.

  “You are being stupid,” Rovalev said. “Childish.”

  “Perhaps,” Grodovich replied. “Mikhal, get me his briefcase.”

  The giant lumbered forward and Rovalev moved away from the doors. Mikhal pivoted with surprising quickness and reached out, grabbing Rovalev’s left arm, the one holding the briefcase.

  Rovalev’s lips peeled back, exposing a row of glistening white teeth. Grodovich knew that Mikhal’s grip was extremely powerful.

  Rovalev reached inside his jacket and when his right hand emerged it was holding a pistol. He pointed it directly at Mikhal’s massive chest and the pistol spat twice, the flame leaping from the barrel, the shell casings spitting outward, the acrid smell of gunpowder filling the hallway.

  Grodovich looked on in horror.

  Mikhal stumbled slightly, gripping his chest. Rovalev jerked his arm free, stepped out of the giant’s reach, pointed the pistol at Grodovich and fired.

  The round was like a red-hot iron driving into his gut. The pain came seconds later, along with a fuzziness that seemed to draw all of his focus to his own body, his hands. Red blood was soaking through the front of his shirt and his stomach looked distended. More blood spread through the fabric, and he suddenly realized he was on his knees. Rovalev was nowhere to be seen. Mikhal was struggling to his feet, the front of his blue shirt red with blood, as well. He glanced down at Grodovich with a look of concern.

  Grodovich waved dismissively. “I am all right,” he managed to say. “Get him. Kill him.”

  As the giant lumbered off down the hallway, Grodovich put his hand on the floor to steady himself. The world seemed to be tilting. He felt a strange weakness washing over him like an ocean wave, and he rolled down onto the carpet. He lay on his back, staring up at the fluorescent lights.

  Funny, he thought as the pain began to emanate in a widening pattern from his center. I didn’t notice those lights before...

  He felt groggy and knew he was most probably going into shock.

  Am I dying? he wondered.

  Assuming he most likely was, he couldn’t help but feel, at the same time, a small sense of satisfaction at having interfered with their master plan, whatever it was. He also felt hopeful. If Mikhal could catch that bastard, Rovalev, perhaps his assassin would be killed, as well.

  * * *

  FOUR SECURITY GUARDS and one of the uniformed NYPD officers escorted Bolan and Grimaldi up to the eighth floor to the World Diamond Council conference. The police officer’s radio crackled with traffic. The elevator doors slid open and Bolan saw a bald man rushing toward the opening. The guy was covered with sweat and had a look of desperation spread across his face.

  “Let me on this elevator,” he said in heavily accented English. The man’s body odor was overpowering.

  “Gah-vah-reet-yet pah-roos-skee?” Bolan asked. Do you speak Russian?

  “Da,” the man replied, then said, “What, who... Get out of my way.”

  Bolan stepped out of the elevator and grabbed him. “I don’t think so. We need to talk.”

  “Looks like a man down over there,” Grimaldi said.

  Bolan glanced down the hallway and saw the supine figure. He pushed the sweaty man toward the security guards and said, “Hold him.”

  The guards complied and the police officer immediately began patting him down.

  “No, no,” the man said. “I cannot stay here. It is very dangerous.”

  Bolan and Grimaldi exchanged glances with the cop, who immediately took out his handcuffs.

  “In that case, buddy,” the officer said, snapping on the bracelets, “you’re gonna show us exactly where the danger is.”

  The man continued to yell in a mixture of Russian and English. Bolan ran over to the figure in the hallway and checked him. It was Grodovich. His breaths were coming in shallow, small gasps. The tear of a bullet hole was in the center of a growing red stain on the front of his shirt.

  Bolan leaned close.

  “Grodovich, where’s the bomb?”

  Grodovich’s eyes widened and he shook his head. He reached up and pressed a wet bundle of papers into Bolan’s hand. The Executioner looked at it. Something hard, about the size of a small apple, was inside. He handed it to Grimaldi.

  “Jack, check this.” Turning back to Grodovich he said again, “The bomb—where is it?”

  Grodovich’s eyes had a glazed look now. He pointed down the hallway. Bolan saw numerous shell casings on the carpet and a definite blood trail leading toward the exit sign.

  “See if you can get a location on the device,” Bolan told Grimaldi.

  The Executioner pulled out his Beretta and ran toward the stairs, following the trail of crimson.

  He pushed open the door and chanced a quick peek.

  No one on the landing. Blood droplets littered the descending staircase. Bolan flattened against the far wall, pistol extended, and began to work his way down. He moved with cautious but rapid motion, knowing that the clock was ticking.

  A huge bloody footprint was smudged at the door leading to the seventh floor. Suddenly he heard the popping of several shots. He pulled open the door and glanced down the hallway.

  A huge man took three lumbering steps, bounced off the wall to his right and then flopped onto the floor. Beyond him a man with jet-black hair and a short beard held a To
karev pistol, a 9 mm from the looks of it, in his right hand and a briefcase in his left. Wisps of smoke hung in the air.

  Bolan took aim and fired just as the dark, bearded man fired back. The bullet ripped the wall by the Executioner’s head. He couldn’t tell if his round had struck the assailant, but a flicker of recognition flashed in Bolan’s mind. The bearded man’s face...on the Moscow street...the guy who’d shot Framer.

  The gunman pulled open a door and ducked into a room on his left. Bolan advanced down the hallway, his Beretta held at combat ready. As he passed the prone giant he saw the huge back rising and falling in laborious fashion. It must have been his blood trail, but was he friend or foe? Or maybe both? Bolan figured the giant was Grodovich’s associate from Krasnoyarsk prison. The bearded man had probably shot Grodovich and this guy.

  The bomb intruded into his thoughts. It was most likely on the floor above from the way the bald Russian was trying to vacate the area. And the briefcase the bearded man carried...the detonator?

  Pausing at the room, Bolan tried the doorknob.

  Locked.

  The door itself was solid wood and he noted it opened outward. That meant trying to kick it in would be futile. His only chance was to destroy the locking mechanism. He adjusted the selection lever to full auto and sprayed the area next to the doorknob, figuring that the solid wood would stop any rounds from the Tokarev coming from inside the room. The same couldn’t be said for the walls. The wood between the knob and the jamb disintegrated, and the Beretta’s slide locked back. As Bolan dropped the magazine to reload, the door burst open, knocking the Executioner back.

  The bearded man pressed his Tokarev against Bolan’s chest. It fired three times, each bullet feeling like a kick from a mule as they jammed against Bolan’s Kevlar vest. He smashed the still empty Beretta against the side of the bearded man’s face several times. Blood ran down from his temple.

  They rolled over and Bolan released his grip on his Beretta and grabbed for the Tokarev. As his hand gripped it he realized its slide was locked back, as well.

  Two empty guns.