He had made the Americans clean the suite not just to hammer home the lesson. If he was going to use the suite, he did not want it to resemble a charnel house.
* * *
“BIG MAN LOOKS uneasy,” Freeman murmured softly to Leonard, indicating Adamenko, who stood in the doorway to the auditorium, reeling off orders to three guards and looking nervously around. “Why would a hard-faced bastard like that get jittery here?”
Leonard did not look around, contenting himself with tidying the bedding they had been given. “It doesn’t matter why, it just matters that he does. You’d better hope that he’s just briefing the detail and won’t be one of them. They all look a hell of a lot more in control.”
“That’s not saying much,” Freeman said.
“I know, but we’ve got to take everything we can right now. I don’t know why that blond asshole has got us billeted here—”
“So he can take our suites at the hotel,” Freeman said bitterly.
“That isn’t the reason,” Leonard snapped back. “He could have put us anywhere. Why here?” There was something nagging at his memory, just out of reach.
“Well, I’ll tell you one thing. I’m sure glad they didn’t have fixed seating in this flea pit,” Freeman said, eyeing the stacked chairs against the walls. The once polished floor was now scuffed and worn, while the walls were drab gray, maybe once white, with peeling movie posters and handwritten notices in indecipherable script scattered around. At one end of the hall was a small theater pit, now boarded over, with a raised stage that had a movie screen hanging ceiling to floor, ripped in three places. There were two exits to each side of the stage, and the main entrance into the lobby at the rear. The two smaller exits by the stage were unguarded, but had large padlocks across the bar locking system.
“I wonder what’s behind the screen?” Freeman muttered.
Leonard eyed him sharply. “Don’t even think about it, son. If there is a way past there and out to the back, you’d be shot down before you were even through the screen. If they only wounded you and you had the balls to keep going, without any idea of layout, they could track you down inside or just wait till you found the back and then shoot the shit out of you.”
“What else can we do? Or think about?” Freeman asked, biting down on his words to prevent his voice rising with his anger.
“Surviving, son. That’s what we think about. You do something stupid—I do something stupid—and it’s not just you or me who gets killed. You think that freak won’t delight in taking out some more of us?”
“No, he needs us,” Freeman said, shaking his head. “We know shit he doesn’t really understand. Our specialty is what can keep us safe.”
“You really believe that? It didn’t keep Callaghan alive, son. Sure, he needs some of us. Some. Maybe only one or two. That leaves lotto many of us who can bite the bullet. My job is to keep you as safe as possible, and right now, that just means alive.”
“Well, you didn’t do that great a job for Callaghan, did you?” Freeman whispered. “So maybe it’s just every man for himself.”
Leonard looked around. The rest of the team was still in shock from what had happened at the hotel, and no one was taking much notice of the two men arguing. Leonard did not blame them. It was likely that none of them had ever seen anything quite as brutal and swift as Callaghan’s execution.
Acquero had complied immediately with Orlov’s request, and had been at great pains to try to appease him. She now looked ashen and on the verge of vomiting, but Leonard had to admire the way in which she had tried to think on her feet and keep her people alive. He hadn’t thought she had that in her. Give her the night to get past the initial shock and she might be useful. Freeman, too, maybe. The kid had balls the size of a basketball, but he needed to rein himself in, especially as the bored and disinterested-looking guards could have their attention dragged to the argumentative Freeman at any time. The last thing Leonard wanted right now was their attention.
“Listen to me. Keep your voice down or else those goons will take you on one side and give you shit now. You won’t even have a chance to try to escape. You want to do that? Fine, then you stick with me. I was trained in this shit, remember? Right now, there is no chance of getting out. Just as there was no chance when we were at the hotel. You want to die? Then fine, go ahead. You want to stay alive? You want to have the chance to escape? Then listen to me now. We need to look to see what these guys do—all of it. They all have routines, and they stick to them. That’s how people work. You know those, then you can find holes in them.”
Freeman was breathing heavily, trying to control his temper. He looked away from Leonard, but also made sure to avoid looking at the guards. His mouth was tight as he nodded and said through clenched teeth, “Okay, I’ll buy that. But how long before they go schizoid on us again?”
“That’s the one thing we can’t predict,” Leonard admitted. “We just have to try to ride whatever luck we have. But I’ll tell you this—the blond guy wants a face-off with the Russians, and from the way he was questioning us, we’re his trump card.”
“The Russians won’t care about a few American hostages, will they?”
Leonard laughed. “No way. But think about it. This little survey was kept very quiet. You think our bosses told the Russians exactly why they wanted us here? Uh, no... If they had, then we wouldn’t have been able to move for Russian scientists and the military crawling all over us. So what the blond guy has to tell the Russians will be news to them, and it’ll be very embarrassing for the U.S. government when our bosses have to come clean to them. To avoid some kind of major incident, they’ll have to step in.”
“Yeah, but how?” Freeman asked.
Leonard shook his head. “I wish I knew for sure. But things will move, and when they do, that’s when we’ll have the opportunity to act. Events make the space for action, believe me. We need to be ready. Stick with me on this.”
Freeman breathed deeply. “It’s hard, man. I just feel like I’m going to explode if I don’t do something to try to get out. It’s oppressive, like some kind of claustrophobia.”
“It’s okay to feel like that,” Leonard said softly. “There wasn’t a time on an operation that I didn’t feel like that. You just need to make it work for you.”
“I’ll try...but what if nothing happens?”
“It will, son, it will. It has to.”
* * *
BY THE TIME Bolan had reached Washington, the story had spread beyond Russia Today and had become a lead story on CNN, Fox and Sky throughout Europe. From a local conflagration between a Big Brother state and its nominally independent satellite, it had become a matter of major international diplomatic importance.
The leader of the Chechen National Socialists had been smart in ways perhaps even he didn’t fully understand. His plan to tempt the Russians into confrontation and then hit them with the potential of the mineral lode would have been enough to make the Russian government pause for thought. The man had seen the American party as a part of this potential, but had likely been so focused on his corner of the world that he had failed to realize how important their presence would be on the world stage.
The U.S. had to get involved. There was no way that the government could leave the survey team unprotected and in peril. Not just because it was not the American way, but also because it sent out a message to the rest of the world that needed reiterating more than ever since the war on terror had commenced.
Bolan mulled over the current state of Russian political affairs on his way back to D.C. He kept an eye on the rolling news channels and allowed his mind to wander back over the years. He remembered the last decade of the Cold War, and the way in which it made men of a certain generation view the East and West, even now. He had to admit that there was something of that attitude in himself, fostered by the experiences he’d
had with persons who had lived though those times and brought those attitudes to the fight in which he had been a participant.
One thing he knew for sure as he landed in D.C.: this would never be a one-man job. He would have to head up a team, and it wouldn’t be possible to make it a team of U.S. forces like those he had just led in Peru. Down there, in a private war, it was possible to cover tracks and deny culpability if things went wrong. That would not be possible if he had to take a team across mainland Europe and land in the North Caucasus. With enemies on all sides, the chance of discovery was too great. He would need a team of locals, mercenaries who were as trustworthy as their allegiance to their salaries would allow, and who would not be swayed by the nationalist fervor on either side.
By the time he arrived at the Mall and headed for the Lincoln monument where he’d meet with Hal Brognola, he was already running through a mental catalog of names; men he could call on to take up the fight.
“Striker, you look like a man with a load on your mind,” the big Fed said as he arrived, wasting no time on preamble.
“There’s a lot to consider,” Bolan replied, going on to outline what he would require for the mission. There were names in his head; he needed to know the necessary war chest would be available to pay for them.
“That can be arranged,” Brognola agreed. “There is one thing you should know...” He went on to detail the findings of the survey team and the circumstances that had led to them being in Argun-Martan.
When he finished, Bolan sighed heavily. “If the Russians get wind of this, then they could really go to town, and there would be a lot of people around the world who wouldn’t blame them.”
“That’s why this has to be as discreet as possible.”
“What, with every news camera on the globe as close as they can get? That’s a big request, Hal.”
“Don’t think that those responsible aren’t going to be answering some awkward questions from government,” Brognola said.
Bolan grinned mirthlessly. “That’ll be a great consolation when someone has me in the crosshairs, Hal.”
The big Fed was silent for a moment. When he did speak, he said simply, “I wish you could have had some downtime first. I’m sorry about that.”
Bolan grunted. “Rest would be good, but only to recharge the batteries. I’m good to go.”
Chapter Eight
“I know the president likes to ride, but you would think that perhaps he would give his attention to the matter at hand and not leave us standing here like we were serfs for the czar. Oh no, I forget, he thinks he is the new czar,” the Russian general grumbled as he rubbed his gloved hands and blew into them, breath misting on the air.
“General Azhkov, it would be better if you moderated your tone,” the minister said softly. He cast a glance at the impassive faces of the president’s guard, and the equally unmoving visages of the men accompanying the general. Why, he thought, does everyone except me have a personal guard?
He tried not to let the feeling creep from resentment to paranoia as he continued. “You may—or indeed may not—be able to rely on the discretion of your men. I leave their loyalty up to you. One thing I do know is that you should always be circumspect in the presence of the president’s personal forces. One cannot be sure who is a friendly face and who will turn a deaf ear.”
“Idiots,” the general grunted. “He’s being a pain in the ass dragging me out here when he could just call me. Pretentious bastard. If there is work to be done, then it is better that I get on with it.”
The minister sighed. At least his words had, he hoped, distanced himself from the attitude of the man who stood beside him. While the minister was a young man, still in his thirties, who had mostly grown up in the post-Soviet era, the general was only a year or two younger than the president, and had come up through the ranks during the hardest of times. The two men had crossed swords and been allies over the years, and now one was to entrust a delicate matter to the other.
Delicate was hardly a word that the minister would ascribe to the general, but maybe this was part of some elaborate payback campaign on the part of the president? Who knew? He was, at best, unfathomable at times.
The minister and Azhkov stood side by side, looking out across the Steppes on a cold and misty morning. The flat expanse of land was gray and pale green in color, with the odd splash of heather and bracken to break up the wide expanse. Firs stood in isolated copses across the vista, and from the distance they could see a party of four approaching on horseback, riding fast. In front was a bare-chested man, while those riding on his flanks were dressed in military uniform. As they came nearer, it was plain to see that the bare-chested man was the president, and as they came within touching distance before wheeling to a halt, it was possible to smell the sweat on the horses and their sour breath as they panted with their exertions. The minister flinched and stepped away, but the general stood firm, his face like stone.
The president swung himself down from the saddle, a broad grin on his face that exploded in a mirthless laugh as he clapped the general on the shoulder and then embraced him. It was not an embrace that Azhkov returned. When the president let him go, he stepped back and looked Azhkov up and down.
“Mr. President,” the general finally said, “ I assume you have called me here because the matter for which you wish to brief me is so delicate that it cannot be done in either a civilized location, nor at a civilized time.”
The president barked a laugh that this time contained more mirth. “Sergei, as always you have the manners of a bear with a fir tree up its ass. Of course I could brief you elsewhere, but I wish to remind you who is in command these days.”
“I do not think I need reminding—”
“Perhaps not. But you know why you are here, and you know why it must be you.”
The general nodded. He was of Chechen descent, and had served many years in the region when a young soldier. “You think my past will be useful to you. Not tactically, as you have already made up your mind how to play things. Besides, it has been so long since I have been back... But my parentage will look good when they speak to you on Russia Today, yes?”
“That is partly it. There is more...” He went on to detail everything that had happened to date, including verbatim exchanges that he referred to the minister to supply. When he had reached the end of his briefing, he concluded, “The Americans make it difficult. It is on an international stage now. But the thing that interests me is why they were there, and what they have found. The Chechen rebels—” he gestured dismissively “—they are paltry and can soon be crushed. Why do they invite this? Because they have another bargaining tool. This can only be one thing.”
“A mother lode?” the general queried.
“Of course, Sergei, it can be little else. We are one of the biggest producers of natural gas, oil, coal and electricity in the world. What we have beneath our soil is what will make us wealthy and restore the power we had in better times. Better for some more than others, but that is the way of nature. In much the same way, we have this natural benefit—we must take advantage of it. No matter what that takes. Do you understand me?”
The general grinned. “Perfectly. As long as prying eyes can be kept far enough away.”
“That can be arranged, can it not, Minister?”
The minister stuttered his agreement. He had been watching with a kind of detached bemusement, wondering if the iron curtain had fallen only in the eyes of the world, but not in actuality.
“Good,” the president said with a decisive nod. “Then why are you both still here?” With which he mounted his horse, whipping its sides and yelling as he turned it, galloping back the way he had come, decisively ending the meeting. His outriders followed.
“He does not change,” the general murmured as he watched the horses recede into the distance.
; The minister could not bring himself to ask if this was a good or bad thing. Instead he turned and walked back to the car in which he had driven himself here, leaving the president’s guard to stand firm while the general and his men returned to the limousine that had conveyed them to this spot. It was a long drive to the general’s home base, and from there he would need to take his favored commanders down south by plane. It would be nearly thirty-six hours until he had his tank corps in place.
Thirty-six hours for the minister to prepare the world’s press and leaders—possibly even in that order—for the events that were to come. Given the intransigence of the president and General Azhkov, and the tone of the communiqué from Argun-Martan, the minister had a sinking feeling. When he was a younger man, he had watched the disaster of October 2002, when Chechen rebels had taken the Moscow theater, resulting in military action that had been heavy-handed and had seen deaths that even then he had considered unnecessary.
There was something about the current action that baffled him. He remembered the first Chechen war from things he had read when first joining the ministry, although he had been an adolescent. Such things had not been reported when they had occurred. That had been due to an Islamic incursion into Dagestan, in support of the Shura’s attempts to gain independence from Russia. It had been slapped down, but had only bubbled under until erupting into the second war, which he remembered much more clearly, and which had only really settled in the past half decade.
Both wars had really been about actions against the Russians that had taken place outside the Chechen Republic. Dagestan had taken the brunt of the first conflagration, and the second had really been spurred on by terrorist actions that Chechen separatist groups had taken, which had mostly been focused on major Russian cities, particularly Moscow. Car bombs had killed innocent civilians, and targeted actions against the populace such as the theater siege had been designed to hurt the people and make them bring pressure on the government.
Ruin their election chances rather than hit military and political targets. And it had in many ways worked, although there was a nominal independence and the “protection” of Russia, despite the overtones of such an agreement, left the Chechen Republic pretty much alone.
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