Uncut Terror

“I told you we should’ve stopped by Starbucks,” Grimaldi said, grinning. “I take it Aaron whipped up his customary brew?”

Brognola swallowed and gave his head a quick shake. Then he looked toward the door, checking to see whether Aaron “The Bear” Kurtzman, Stony Man’s computer expert, was close by. “Worse. You could use this batch to clean rust off a spark plug.” He indicated the two empty chairs in front of the desk.

Bolan sat down, leaving the cup where it was. He knew better than to sample it.

Grimaldi took a tentative sip from his and howled. “Damn, you could pour this into an old deuce-and-a-half if you ran out of gas.”

“What’s up?” Bolan asked. “We left a very interesting judo seminar to be here.”

“Judo seminar?” Brognola said. “Don’t you guys get enough practice beating people up?”

“You know the motto of our superhero here,” Grimaldi said, motioning toward Bolan. “It’s never too late to inflict some pain.”

“Especially if you provoke the instructor,” Bolan added.

Brognola laughed. “I can’t wait to hear about that one.” He set the mug down and cleared his throat. “But in the meantime, I have a favor to ask.”

Bolan nodded. He was accustomed to such sudden requests. Usually they came to Brognola indirectly from the White House. Special details that were too hot to go through normal channels. From the look on Brognola’s face, Bolan knew this one had the ring of immediacy and urgency. He waited for Grimaldi’s customary wisecrack.

“A favor?” Grimaldi said. “Who’d a thunk it?”

Brognola leaned forward, placing his forearms on the tabletop. “As I’m sure you’re aware, things have been tense between us and Russia lately.”

“Don’t tell me our side finally realized the old reset button isn’t working?” Grimaldi said.

“The current round of sanctions is causing a bit of havoc on their economy,” Brognola said. “Just how much remains to be seen.”

“You want us to fly to Moscow and check things out?” Grimaldi asked. “If so, I’d prefer to go now, before the winter sets in. That place is damn miserable then.”

“A trip to Moscow is in the cards,” Brognola said. He paused, picked up a remote and pressed a few buttons. A large screen began lowering from a metal roll on the opposite wall as the lights in the room became subdued. An overhead projector hummed to life and a bright, square patch was illuminated on the screen. Brognola pressed another button and a man’s face appeared. He was dark haired, had with heavy acne scarring and was wearing dark sunglasses. “Look familiar?”

“Larry Burns,” Bolan said. “The Kremlin’s second favorite American defector.”

“Don’t tell me you want us to drag that little creep back here by the scruff of his neck,” Grimaldi said. “It’d be my pleasure, but the Russians wouldn’t let us get within spitting distance of him.”

“Let’s just say that Mr. Burns is ready to come home,” Brognola said. “He’s been secretly meeting with our Agency personnel for the past two weeks.”

“Why don’t they just take him to the Embassy?” Bolan asked. “I’m sure the Russians have already gotten everything they need out of him.”

“Ordinarily, that would be the plan.” Brognola clicked the remote again and another male appeared on the screen. This one was a rather portly man with glasses and blond hair. “Except for this guy. Arkadi Kropotkan.”

“Doesn’t look like your typical FSB thug guard,” Grimaldi said.

“He’s not,” Brognola replied. “He works for the Kremlin in the Bureau of Economic Affairs. Typical mild-mannered bureaucrat, except for one little thing.” Brognola paused. “He happens to be quite close to our star defector.”

Bolan studied the image on the screen, committing it to memory.

“How close is close?” Grimaldi asked.

Brognola sipped his coffee again before answering. “Let’s just say they know each other in the Biblical sense of the word.”

Grimaldi snorted. “I’ll bet that’s going over like a lead balloon, considering how the Kremlin feels about homosexuals.”

“Apparently, the Kremlin doesn’t know about it yet.” Brognola set his mug down as he leaned forward. “And that’s exactly why Mr. Burns wants to come home.”

“And he wants to bring Kropotkin with him,” Bolan said.

Brognola nodded. “Exactly. That’s one of his conditions.”

“Conditions?” Grimaldi said. “Since when does some turncoat defector get to set conditions with us?”

Brognola shrugged. “I agree with you, but he’s also let on that Kropotkin is a wealth of information and has something significant to trade.”

“So the Agency needs us to help get them both out?” Bolan asked.

Brognola nodded. “We’ve arranged for both of you to be sent there as sports reporters to cover the International Martial Arts Tournament being hosted this week. As you know, the Russian president is a big judo fan, and he’ll be making some appearances at the tournament.”

“So I’ve heard,” Bolan said.

“Aaron’s setting everything up,” Brognola continued. “If you guys can assist the Agency in the operation, the President and I will be very appreciative.”

“When do we leave?” Bolan asked.

Krasnoyarsk Province, Siberia

GRODOVICH WATCHED WITH amusement as Mikhal’s huge hands fumbled with the seat belt. The center armrest in the airplane had been retracted to accommodate his immense frame, but now he struggled trying to figure out how to insert the metal flange into the buckle. Grodovich realized that Mikhal had most likely never been on an airplane before. He had never driven a car, either, and the only vehicles he’d ridden in were the bus that had taken him to prison and the van that had transported them from Detention Center 6 to this airport, where Stieglitz’s jet had been waiting.

A private jet, Grodovich thought. Interesting and elucidating. Some heavy hitters were involved in this scheme.

The pretty flight attendant smiled as she gently took the two parts from Mikhal and connected them, then showed him how to pull on the excess to tighten it. The giant recoiled at her touch, and this further amused Grodovich. He wondered if his huge friend had ever experienced the pleasure of a woman’s body. From the big man’s uneasiness, he doubted it. After all, Mikhal had been imprisoned since his mid-teens, and he was now around thirty. The landscape of tattoos covering his massive body told of his journey through the penal system.

Grodovich recalled how long it had been for him, as well. How long he’d been incarcerated, and how long it had been since he’d had a woman. Soon that would be rectified...for both of them.

Stieglitz had initially balked at the idea of releasing Mikhal, but Grodovich countered that the condition was non-negotiable. It had been a risk, that was certain, but one worth taking. Grodovich had sensed that it was one of the rare instances when he might have the upper hand. Stieglitz had not journeyed all the way from Moscow to not bring back the prize his superiors wanted. Grodovich also knew his ability to dictate terms would fade quickly once he was out and under a new form of control. Thus, having someone at his side, someone he could trust, would be Grodovich’s only real assurance. He knew that if the time came when his new masters decided they no longer needed him, the payoff would probably be a bullet to the head. With Mikhal, he stood a fair chance of survival beyond the completion of this scheme. In the meantime, he had only to enjoy his newly found freedom.

Relax, he thought as he watched big Mikhal squirming in the seat as the flight attendant’s hand rested on his shoulder.

She wore jeweled earrings that glistened under the cabin’s lights, and this brought Grodovich back to the original question he had posed: What exactly must he do in exchange for this pardon?

“We would like you to renew your old contacts on the international front as you go back into the diamond business...and with the Robie Cats,” Stieglitz had said.

What exactly did that mean? The Robies had sprung up the last two years, mostly while he’d been imprisoned. They were essentially an instrument of his former partner, who’d formed the group and sponsored them. They had become as adept at stealing jewels as their fictional inspiration, John Robie, from that old movie.

Grodovich turned and peered through the oval window at Stieglitz, who had yet to board the plane. He was still standing on the tarmac by the stairway talking on his mobile phone, and from the man’s body language he was obviously speaking to whoever was in charge of this farce. Initially, Grodovich had wondered if the Chechen stooges had been sent by Stieglitz to add an incentive to accept the offer. The transfer from Ariyskhe could have been designed to produce the same effect. Those in control had obviously arranged the chess pieces on the board in a particular manner and planned their moves well in advance. He wondered which one he was. The intricate manipulations indicated he was far more than a pawn... A knight, perhaps? Or maybe even a bishop?

The flight attendant tugged Mikhal’s seat belt snuggly across his hips and the giant responded with a foul-smelling burst of flatulence.

The woman’s head jerked back and she smiled before scurrying off.