Dying Art

The dingy little room had a sour smell to it and the four Turks were smoking those foul-smelling cigarettes with the extended filters that had been mashed one too many times. Tragg could hardly wait to get the hell out of there. His eyes went to his partner, Tyrone Dean, who stood by impassively with his hand in the pocket of his black shirt. His shaved head was gleaming with sweat, but Tragg knew it wasn’t from nerves. He’d been with Dean on too many missions. He was an iceman. No doubt he had his hand around the grip of his Walther PPK, ready in case the art dealer tried to pull something. Not that Tragg thought he would. He’d dealt with this Karga before, and the man always made a substantial profit on these black-market dealings. If word got out that he’d pulled a double cross during one of them, his reputation would take a severe hit.

Besides, Tragg felt confident that he and Dean could take them all out if it ever came to that.

The mousy professor squirmed in his chair, his tiny fingers rubbing the mother-of-pearl inlays with the care and tenderness of someone stroking a beautiful woman’s body, all the while murmuring under his breath, “Yes, yes, yes.” Tragg watched with amusement, figuring the little man’s reaction must be a good sign.

Karga brought his cigarette to his lips, drew on it deeply, and then said with a smoky breath, “See? Did I not tell you it was genuine?”

The professor gazed up, the loupe still in place over his right eye, his lips pulled back showing a row of small inward-slanted teeth. “I do believe it is.”

The art dealer cocked his head to the side. His features curved into a knowing expression as he winked at Tragg. “Then we have only to discuss the price at this time, correct?”

He snapped his fingers and then wiggled them back and forth, indicating that the professor should hand the item back to him. The little man complied with the utmost care.

“Now,” Karga said, placing the two pieces into a velvet-lined box and then placing that box into a metal briefcase that he secured with a special lock. He handed the briefcase to one of his big bodyguards, who stood close to him. “Are we ready to do business?”

“We need to phone our employer first,” Tragg said. “In private.”

Karga said something in Turkish to one of the bodyguards. “Very well. He will show you to a private room. But advise him that I am a very busy man.”

Tragg, Dean and the professor followed the big Turk down a narrow hallway. The professor was walking briskly at Tragg’s side trying to keep up.

“It’s authentic,” the little man said. “I’m sure of it. Of course, we’ll need some typing of the carbon thirteen to be absolutely certain, but I am ninety-nine percent convinced of its authenticity.”

“Good,” Tragg said. “You can tell that to the boss.” He took out his satellite phone and punched in the number. The big Turk stopped and pointed to a door. Dean disappeared inside for a few seconds, then stuck his head out.

“It’s clear,” he said as he stepped out into the hallway.

Tragg pulled the professor into the room and pressed the button to initiate the Skype call. He held the phone in front of him with his left hand and positioned the professor in front of him with his right. After completing the call and going through a series of underlings, Lucien Bruns’s round face came into view. His fat cheeks were somewhat distorted on the small flat screen, his eyes enlarged behind his thick spectacles.

“Professor Higgins has verified the item, sir,” Tragg said. “The L and L, A N.”

It was their code name for the artifact, which was no doubt on several Interpol and US Customs and Border Protection lists as having been stolen from the National Museum of Iraq.

Below Tragg’s chin, the little man’s head bobbed up and down like a yo-yo. “It’s definitely from the Islamic Period, and all the more rare due to the idolatrous aspects of its depiction of the human forms. I’d say it’s the genuine article, all right.”

Bruns’s eyes widened, and the tip of his pink tongue glided over his lips.

“That’s good news,” he said. “I assume the price is within the range as previously discussed.”

“Yes, sir.”

Like that would matter, Tragg thought. He knew how much Bruns coveted the damn thing. It had been all he’d talked about before sending Tragg and Dean on this special assignment to Turkey.

The Lion and the Lioness Attacking the Nubian... Two intricately carved little spheres of ivory that Bruns was willing to pay more money for than Tragg could ever hope to make in two decades. But if he and Dean played this one right, it would be a windfall for them that would set them up for the rest of their lives. And, there’d be enough left over to pay off the rest of the dark ops team, too. This wasn’t something the two of them could manage on their own. No, it would take a team effort, just like in Iraq, just like in Afghanistan. And it would require a whole lot of intricate planning, but what special ops mission didn’t? And this one would take them to the end of the rainbow.

“Good,” Bruns said. “Tell him it’ll be the same arrangement as the last time. As soon as the formalities are complete, we’ll make the transfer.”

“The formalities” meant the forged paper trail that Karga would create to “document” that the item was sold through proper and established channels. It was total bullshit, but Bruns had been burned before when he’d been ordered by US Customs and Border Protection to return a series of cuneiform stone tablets that he’d purchased without proper documentation. Now that things had settled down somewhat in the war zones in Iraq and Afghanistan, both the US and foreign governments were looking a lot closer at these transactions out of Geneva and Istanbul. The “transfer” referred to the actual exchange where the money would be wired to Karga’s special Swiss bank account, and the artifact would be turned over to Tragg for transport to Bruns. The mistake the rich son of a bitch had made the last time was transporting them directly to the United States. This time he’d arranged for them to come in the back door, via Mexico, which had in turn opened up the second, and secret, part of Tragg’s plan.

“There’s one more thing, sir,” he said as he placed a hand on the professor’s shoulder and pushed him toward the door. After the little man was shoved into the hall, Tragg closed the door behind him.

He studied the image of the fat man on the small screen. The twin creases between Bruns’s eyebrows were deep. “What’s going on?”

“It seems we may have a problem,” Tragg said.

“What?”

“There’s another bidder who’s interested.” Tragg waited a few seconds to heighten the tension. “And Hakeem seems to favor his offer.”

Chapter Two (#ua4cb3e09-9a1f-5be1-90ef-9712213671ee)

Stony Man Farm Virginia

Bolan crouched behind a large metal mailbox and waited for Grimaldi to move to the next cover point, the shell of an old Lincoln Continental. This was the third time they’d worked the Hogan’s Alley portion of the shooting range in tandem, and each time the targets had varied.

Bolan caught a sudden flash of movement in the second-story window of the faux building about thirty yards away just as Grimaldi began his run. The Executioner brought up his Beretta 93-R, acquiring target acquisition in a split second, and fired a quick burst.

Three holes dotted the center of the cardboard target of a scowling man in a black mask holding an AK-47.

Grimaldi completed his roll, taking cover by the rear fender, and held his SIG Sauer P-220 with arms outstretched.

It was Bolan’s turn to move.

As he did so, he caught another target moving in a doorway.

Grimaldi’s weapon cracked three times.

Bolan saw that this target was another bad guy. He dropped to his knees beside Grimaldi, who grinned.

“See? Another terrorist bites the dust, courtesy of yours truly and SIG.”

They were wearing GunSport–PRO electronic earplugs that allowed them to converse in normal tones, yet blocked out any sudden noise over 500 decibels.

“Better do a combat reload before we move,” Bolan said. “By my count, you’re down to your last two rounds.”

Grimaldi dropped the magazine from his gun and verified that Bolan’s assessment had been correct. A solitary round sat atop the magazine. “How the hell do you do that? I can’t keep track of my own rounds, much less my partner’s.”

Bolan said nothing, but they both knew the answer was training and practice. He slapped Grimaldi’s shoulder, signaling him to move across the street. “Go.”

Grimaldi grunted and tore around the rear of the Lincoln, staying low as he ran, his weapon held close to his chest with both hands, ready to shoot as he moved.

Another target popped into the doorway. Bolan couldn’t take the shot because Grimaldi veered left into the field of fire. The Stony Man pilot’s SIG Sauer barked numerous times and a plethora of holes pierced the target’s chest, but this time it was a woman holding a grocery bag. Grimaldi groaned and shook his head at the rare mistake, and his pace slowed as he completed the last few steps to take cover on the right side of the doorway.

Bolan was already moving to his next position, keeping the Beretta trained on the various openings on the building’s front.

No new targets popped up, and the Executioner got to the opposite side of the doorway.

Before they could enter the building, the buzzer sounded, indicating the session was over, followed by a loud Bronx cheer over the speaker system from the range master.