by A. W. Mykel
He turned his head slightly as the warmth of her breasts came against his face. He could no longer resist. He had to have this magnificent child. He opened his mouth and covered one of the nipples.
She held his head close. Her skin was burning; Chakhovsky’s own was like fire.
He ran his hand over her hip and began to lower her panties. She opened her legs slightly to allow them to go down more easily. His hand covered her ass in a gentle, caressing motion and passed to the warmth between her legs. She was highly aroused. His own longings were shot more urgently upward as he felt her abundant wetness. His fingers went into the wetness, as she slid down onto the bed with him. He began kissing her breasts and neck. She was being caught in the passion. He kissed upward to her beautiful mouth. He kissed her—and was taken by surprise.
The kiss was not the kiss of a thirteen-year-old. It was practiced, seductive, and baiting. Her tongue performed deep, sensual probes into his mouth. He was being hopelessly sucked into blind, animalistic passion when he heard it—the metallic snap of an automatic.
He caught himself and jumped up from the bed, pushing Nicole away. But it was too late.
The old woman was standing there with an automatic in her hand, the bulbous silencer pointed at his heart. The door was partially open behind her. He had not even heard her come in.
She spoke to him in perfect Russian. “For crimes against the state and for your attempt to defect, you have been sentenced to death, Dmitri Chakhovsky.”
Chakhovsky was all terror. They had found him. An old woman and a child. They had used his weakness to trap him. Impossible. It wasn’t real.
Nicole backed away toward the open dresser drawer.
The old woman raised the gun. Her hand began a slow, controlled squeeze. Chakhovsky threw out his hands and closed his eyes.
There was a dull coughing thud. The old woman pitched stiffly forward onto her face, blood splashing out of the hole in her head from Justin’s bullet.
Swiftly Justin was inside the room, the door closed behind him. The silenced Mauser swung and trained on Nicole. She was standing against the open dresser drawer.
Justin looked at the cowering young girl.
She stared at him wide-eyed.
“Pleese…pleese do not hurt Nicole, monsieur,” she began, in heavily accented English. “I have do onlee wat I am hire to do. Thees ladee hire me for wan week to be weeth thees man. I get heem here so he make love weeth me. That is all, monsieur,” she pleaded.
“I work for Madame Blanche. Dees woman haav pay for wan week to her for me to work here,” she tried explaining. “Pleese, monsieur. Wat I say ees thee truth. Ask weeth Madame Blanche.”
Chakhovsky was stunned. He didn’t know what was happening, whether he was going to live or die. It wasn’t real.
It was possible that what the young girl said was true. Many of the better bordellos of Paris employed young girls like Nicole for their customers who desired children.
Justin dug into his pocket and pulled out a small metallic box about the size of a cigarette lighter. It was black, with a single button on one of its wide surfaces, and had a tiny hole in the center of one end. This little box could throw out an electrical charge a distance of about twenty feet. The charge was of sufficient strength to render a big man unconscious for a period of ten to fifteen minutes. Justin looked into the eyes of the girl, assessing her. He looked at the open drawer behind her.
What she said could be true, he thought.
Their eyes were locked—a mutual assessment now.
And, then again, it might not be true, Justin weighed. And how had she known to speak to him in English?
The Mauser coughed once again. The hair on the back of her head shot back and up, as though caught by a sudden narrow jet of air. She bounced off the dresser, pitching forward onto the floor. The hair on the back of her head became a spreading crimson. Blood trickled out of the hole in her forehead, as her wide, lifeless eyes stared into the floor and the puddle of blood that was starting to surround her head.
Justin liked head shots. They were fast, painless, and positive. He used them whenever he could. He didn’t like to see the people he killed suffer, except in a few instances.
Chakhovsky was in pure terror. Tears filled his eyes. He couldn’t comprehend what was happening. He didn’t know who was who or what was what. He looked at Justin helplessly.
Justin raised the little black device and aimed it at the Russian. He pushed the button. A short crackling bolt of energy hit Chakhovsky, knocking him back onto the bed. He was out cold.
Justin walked to the window and looked out. Four men were approaching the steps to the building. He recognized the tall hefty man from the dossiers that SENTINEL Control had provided. It was Bud Kodek, head of Morsand’s team. Justin checked his watch—11:00 a.m., two hours before the planned time. Striker had said that Morsand would do that, he even called the right time. It was obvious that Morsand had done this just in case the KGB had gotten wind of the plan or in case Chakhovsky got any last-minute ideas about changing his mind. Chakhovsky would also be less nervous this early and easier to handle.
Justin put the little stunning device back into his pocket. He picked up Chakhovsky in a fireman’s carry and started for the door. The Russian was lighter than he had expected him to be, just a little bit of a man, but heavy on brains. The little ones were always smart in this business.
He cast an eye at the dresser drawer that the girl had stayed so close to. He moved to it quickly, stepping over the nude, lifeless body. He opened the drawer. It held another silenced automatic, exactly like the old woman’s. Had he not killed her and allowed her even the slightest chance, he would have been the dead meat. Chances were something one never gave in this business. Give nothing away. It was a commandment in the religion of survival.
“This is Pilgrim. I’m on my way down,” he said.
The message was relayed through his implant to Striker, four hundred yards away in the bell tower, and to Fanning, who was waiting just outside of the perimeter in the car. SENTINEL also relayed the dialogue to Honeycut in Washington and to Sparrow, the agent piloting the helicopter that they were scheduled to rendezvous with outside of Paris.
Justin moved swiftly for the door. A small bottle dropped from Chakhovsky’s pocket to the floor. Justin picked it up and examined it.
Nitroglycerin pills.
Shit! Chakhovsky has a heart condition, he thought. The charge that he had zapped him with could have killed him. He felt the Russian’s wrist for a pulse. Fast and pounding—he was alive.
Justin opened the door and stepped out of the room. He could hear the footsteps of Kodek’s team on the stairs. He went to the back stairway just off the room and down the stairs, as fast as his movements would allow with the Russian on his shoulders.
In the bell tower. Striker began his final preparations. Four 6mm explosive-tipped cartridges stood upright on the stone ledge beside the modified Winchester. The rifle rested on the ledge, cushioned by his rolled jacket.
Justin reached the window landing, just above the door leading out to the courtyard. He looked out carefully.
Just as the plan had indicated, there were two agents covering the back way out. Justin’s eyes scanned the rooftops surrounding the open courtyard. He spotted the radio man almost immediately on the roof to his left. But the man he wanted to see was the sniper. He searched the rooftop of the building at the back of the courtyard. He wasn’t there. There was no sniper on that roof!
His eyes searched frantically as his brain recalled Striker’s words to Fanning. “If he is in a window, then you will have been right…that courtyard will be a death trap.”
He saw no sniper. This wasn’t the way, not on the last job. “He’s not there,” Justin whispered. “He ain’t on the roof.”
“He’s there,” came Striker’s voice.
“I can’t see him,” Justin whispered.
“I can. He’s out of position. The jerk is just sitting
there below the ledge. The rifle barrel is up. Can you see it?” Striker asked.
Justin squinted. Yes, there it was.
“All right, I can see it,” he said, relieved. “I’m going down the last flight of stairs. Then I’m bustin’ out of here. Don’t miss!”
He heard Striker’s laugh.
“I never miss,” the voice said.
You better not, Justin thought.
He moved quietly down the last few steps and stood inside the doorway, out of direct vision of the two agents.
Striker picked up one of the cartridges and loaded it into the rifle. He took a comfortable firing position and put his eye back to the scope. The crosshairs swung across the rooftop.
Bud Kodek and his men were just getting to Chakhovsky’s room. He gave the coded knock. There was no response. He knocked again. Still nothing.
He tried the doorknob. It was open. He flashed a worried look into the eyes of his men.
The Mauser was out and ready. “Going…now!” Justin said.
He came through the door so quickly that the two agents were caught completely off guard. The Mauser coughed twice, then twice again. Both men were dead before they realized what had happened.
Back up in the hotel, Kodek pushed the unlocked door open. The room was empty. “Shit!” he let out and raced out into the hallway.
At the same instant, his radio crackled to life.
“Agents down in the back,” the radio man’s urgent voice shouted. “Got a man carrying a body.”
Kodek sprinted down the hallway, his men close behind.
Justin had broken out into the courtyard and had begun a sprint for the opening between the buildings that led to the street. His eyes were fixed upward, at the tip of the rifle on the roof.
It was beginning to move into position.
Christ! What the fuck was he waiting for?
The rifle barrel started coming down. The eye and the scope came together to begin drawing the bead on the moving target. The sniper’s crosshairs found the mark. The finger went to the trigger.
Justin watched the barrel swing down at him. It moved downward and downward, and continued downward, the stock pitching up and over as the rifle tumbled from the roof.
Kodek was about halfway down the three flights of stairs when the radio crackled to life again.
“I can see him clearly. He’s got Chak—” The transmission was suddenly cut off.
Kodek moved quickly for a big man. He got through the door just as the tall figure disappeared between the two buildings, heading for the street.
Kodek shouted into his radio, “Mobiles one and two, get to the back of the perimeter. They’ve got him. Move! Move! Move!”
He raced across the courtyard.
Justin reached the street just as the powerful new Mercedes 450 SEL braked to a stop at the curb.
The back door opened, and Justin threw Chakhovsky in and dove in on top of him.
The Mercedes smoked away from the curb, just as mobile one, a black Citroën, turned the corner on screeching tires.
Kodek made it between the two buildings just as mobile one sped by. Close behind it was a second Mercedes.
Kodek recognized a face. It was KGB.
A second later, mobile two came skidding around the corner and scorched past Kodek. The chase was on.
Kodek’s face reddened as he stood helplessly and watched the cars disappear around a turn. Morsand was going to be all over his ass for this one.
He just shook his head. “I don’t fuckin’ believe it!” he yelled. “They got him. Right from under our noses. They got him. Son-of-a-bitch!” he yelled in a final protest.
Fanning sped skillfully through the streets, all the time with one eye watching the rearview mirror. The more powerful Citroën was closing on him slowly but steadily.
“This is Badger,” Fanning said to SENTINEL Control’s monitor. “I’ve got some hawks on my tail. I’ll need help.”
“This is SENTINEL Control,” the soft voice responded. “We have your position. You will be coming up to Place St. Michele in two blocks. Go left to pick up your interference.”
Justin stuck his head up to get a look at how close the Citroën was. It was close.
Justin changed the clip in the Mauser and removed the silencer.
The Citroën was beginning to bear down on the Mercedes as they approached the intersection at Place St. Michele.
“Move…now!” went the instructions from SENTINEL Control.
A small, red Fiat accelerated at the intersection just as Fanning began his controlled skid through the turn, the Citroën right on him.
The Fiat missed Fanning by mere feet and swerved right into the Citroën, smashing heavily into the left front of the chase car.
It was a violent crash. The Fiat bounced and rolled away, looking like a crumpled beer can. The Citroën spun through the intersection, coming to a rest on the other side, its front left side and wheel smashed hopelessly in the crash.
An agent got out of mobile one just as the blue Mercedes carrying KGB skidded through the turn and followed hotly behind Fanning. The agent ran into the intersection cursing and threw down his crumpled hat in frustration.
Mobile two skidded into the turn and swerved. But it was no good. There was a heavy, dull thud. The agent was tossed through the air like a rag dummy. Mobile two went out of control and skidded into some parked cars and stalled.
The driver kicked the engine over twice before it caught. The car then limped off, smoke belching effusively from its badly damaged right front end, where the fender and tire were in contact. It could not generate sufficient speed to keep up with the other two cars, but it charged on gamely, anyway.
An attractive young woman exited from the smashed Fiat. Badly ruffled, blood on her face, limping, she charged at the driver of the Citroën. She began cursing a murderous stream at him in French. The driver tried to calm her, but it was no use. She ranted on and on, as the third occupant of mobile one raced to his badly injured comrade lying in the street.
Fanning tore through the narrow streets, taking many twisting, skidding turns. His skill was breathtaking. But so was the Soviet driver’s; he didn’t lose an inch.
Fanning shook his head in exasperation. He knew that it was KGB behind him. He had to lose this car cleanly to make the plan work perfectly.
He rounded another corner on skidding wheels and ran smack into a traffic jam. Before he could try to move out of it, three cars had filed in behind him. The Soviet driver pulled into the line, as well, four cars back.
Fanning looked into his rearview mirror and saw one of the Soviet agents leave the car and begin moving between the rows of cars toward them. He had drawn a weapon.
Like fish in a barrel, Fanning thought. “We’ve got big trouble, partner,” he said to Justin.
Justin’s head popped up quickly and got a look at the approaching Soviet agent.
Justin lowered his head and readied the Mauser.
Fanning was in the extreme inside lane, right beside the sidewalk.
“We’re gettin’ the fuck outta here,” he announced.
He floored the accelerator, smashing into the rear of the car in front of him. The tires squealed and belched smoke, as he rammed the other car into the one ahead of it. Then he shifted it into reverse and floored it again, pulling a repeat number on the car behind him.
The Russian raised his gun and fired at the lurching car. The bullet smashed through and shattered the back window, deflecting upward through the roof of the car, narrowly missing Fanning’s head.
The Mauser cracked back through the disintegrated rear window, hitting the Russian in the chest. He was knocked across the hood of a smaller car, blood splashing across the windshield of the terrified, screaming woman driver.
Fanning cut the wheel sharply and gunned it, leaping onto the sidewalk, and sped toward the intersection—half on, half off the sidewalk. A car door was torn off of one car, whose driver had opened it to see what was happ
ening behind him. Fortunately, he had not yet set foot out of his car.
Terrified pedestrians leaped for safety. The car took down small sign poles, tore through waste disposal containers, and was bearing down on an occupied phone booth. The wide-eyed occupant wasn’t as lucky as the man whose door had been torn off. He had no chance to get out of the booth before Fanning smashed through it.
Meanwhile, the Soviet driver had duplicated the feat performed by Fanning and was hauling ass down the sidewalk, scattering the frightened pedestrians yet again.
Fanning sped into the wide intersection and raced across it. Cars screeched and skidded trying to avoid him. Almost miraculously, he made it across untouched.
The Soviet driver began his run through, too, but some of the cars had again begun to move through, closing Fanning’s route. About halfway across, he was struck on the rear quarter. The Russian car spun into another car and stalled. After repeated attempts to get it started again, the engine caught. The car limped through the intersection, but Fanning’s car was nowhere to be seen. It had vanished.
Dmitri Chakhovsky had been taken.
FIFTEEN
With imminent defeat lying before us, we began frantic redirection of the huge fortunes amassed from the early victories. They were considerable. We had looted entire countries.
The largest portion of these spoils went into a secret treasury, as directed by the special branch of Niederlage. This would be essential to the long difficult comeback being planned.
The treasury was divided into many smaller caches, which we placed throughout the entire world in countries friendly to our cause, in neutral countries, and even in the countries of our enemies. We put the financial means to our return right under their noses. To this day, many have not been discovered.
Entry No. 26 from the partially
recovered Wolf Journal
It was almost 0800 hours in Washington as the Lear started its high-altitude cruise homeward.
The President waited nervously by his direct line to the SENTINEL complex. Any second now, Honeycut would be calling him with the news. The large Oval Office was silent. The President was edgy. This was not an instance of no news being good news. Every tape measure second that passed made him fear that it had not gone well.