Rogue Strike (A Troy Stark Thriller—Book #6), page 18
"Ask her one more time," Viktor said slowly. "Make it very clear to her how important her response is."
He paused.
“Then…”
He let that thought trail off.
“I understand,” the man said.
CHAPTER TWENTY ONE
9:05 am Central European Time
Headquarters of El Grupo Especial
Outskirts of Madrid
Spain
“You’re doing it again, Miquel,” Hans Jute said.
Miquel Castro-Ruiz stared into a computer screen in the conference room. He was taking this meeting in the conference room, instead of his office, so that Jan Bakker could participate if the need arose.
Miquel was dressed in a blue dress shirt and pale green tie. He was clean shaven, and his hair was slicked back. He was on his third mug of strong coffee. He felt it important that he look professional, and very, very alert.
He didn't feel that way. He felt sick, deep in the pit of his stomach. Maryem Dubois and Troy Stark had gone on an unauthorized operation last night, and now Dubois had been kidnapped by gangsters, or worse.
Dubois was Miquel's favorite agent. He would never tell anyone that, he would never even say it out loud, but it was true. She was one of the first agents who came to work for him when she was still quite young. She was his protégé. He was her mentor.
She was like a daughter to him. In fact, he loved her.
You’re in love with her.
Miquel felt like he might vomit.
On the screen in front of him were three heads in a row. To the left was Hans Jute, Interpol's First Deputy for Global Intelligence. It seemed that recently, Hans had been the Second Deputy. Either someone had just retired, or Hans's constant maneuvering had borne some fruit.
Hans was thin and serious, with a perfectly bald head and wire-rimmed glasses. He was small and fit and very well-dressed, as always. He wore a dark blue three-piece suit that seemed perfectly tailored to his body.
Hans was frowning deeply and staring directly into the screen. It seemed as if he was trying to meet Miquel's eyes. Miquel didn't think he'd ever seen the man smile.
In the middle square sat Maxim Davidoff, Director of Special Projects, who was technically Miquel's direct supervisor. Max had called this meeting because he didn't have the influence to do what Miquel was asking.
Max was a very broad man with another perfectly bald head, combined with a thick black beard, speckled in gray and white. He wore a rumpled dress shirt open at his fleshy throat. His hands were large and thick, like he had left a job in bricklaying to join Interpol. He was playing idly with a fat pencil on the desk in front of him. So far, he had barely said a word.
In the right square was Margaux Montgomery, Associate Director of Organizational Affairs at Interpol. People often referred to her as MM. She was maybe in her early- or mid-60s. She was dressed in a pink business suit. Her gray hair was styled in a modern fashion, like a younger woman might wear, but face looked tired and old at the moment.
She looked like Miquel felt. Maybe she wasn't sleeping well.
All the same, her pale blue eyes were sharp and intelligent. She was watchful, like a hawk. Everyone on this call knew that whatever decision was made, Margaux would be the one to make it. She was the highest ranking person in the organization that ever stooped so low as to meet with Miquel Castro-Ruiz.
“What am I doing, Hans?”
Jute’s eyes were calm and impassive behind his lenses.
“Withholding information, like you always do.”
Miquel shook his head. He wanted to laugh, but it would be inappropriate. Hans Jute had never been anything but an obstruction to him. Miquel had infamously held Hans at gunpoint once, so that Stark, Dubois and Jan Bakker could continue their work thwarting a slaughterbot attack on New York City.
“I asked for this call so I can share information.”
“After you’ve been sitting on it for how long?” Hans said.
"Miquel, please proceed," Margaux said. "I assume you have something important to tell us, or we wouldn't be on this call. Something related to the cholera attack?"
Now Miquel nodded. "Yes, and I have something important to request. It is time-sensitive, to put it mildly. It is deeply pressing."
“What do you have?”
Miquel flashed back to his argument with Stark.
He had been angry with Stark, horrified in fact, because Dubois was missing. In these meetings with his superiors, Miquel always took responsibility for the actions of his agents in the field. He always claimed that he was in communication with his team members, wherever they were in the world, and whatever they were doing.
It simply wasn’t true.
There were times when the team was out beyond the reach of communication. There were actions that were taken because of split-second decisions. Had Miquel put them in the position where these decisions needed to be made? Yes.
Had Miquel authorized the decisions beforehand?
No.
Stark and Dubois, in Belgrade, in the middle of the night, made a decision without authorization, and without communicating their intentions beforehand. He could see why they had done that. Prior operations had indicated to them that they had wide latitude to do that sort of thing.
I was asleep.
That thought burned itself into Miquel's heart. He had been sleeping, however fitfully, when Dubois had made the decision to risk her life and infiltrate the docks.
“Miquel?” Margaux said.
He nodded. "Yes, just gathering my thoughts."
"Take your time," Hans said. "We have nothing better to do."
I should have shot him.
"Two of my agents are undercover in Belgrade, Serbia."
“Thanks for telling us,” Hans said.
The man really did resent him. If Hans ever climbed to a place of real authority at Intepol, Miquel's career would be over in a heartbeat.
"They stayed last night in an Interpol safe house flat in the city. We made an official request for the use of this flat, and it was approved. Nothing has been done in secret here, Hans."
Jute said nothing in response to that.
"There was a small outbreak of extremely deadly cholera in Belgrade last year. Two people died. At the time, it was thought to be related to a sewage backup in the river because of torrential rains and an unprecedented heat wave. One of the individuals who died was a radical environmentalist with ties to an organization called Green Future. He was also an informer for Serbian intelligence."
“Okay,” Margaux said.
"The other person who died was a police officer who found the body. In other words, he caught the disease from an infected corpse. Green Future is largely a shell organization. It shares a second-floor hallway at an office building in Belgrade with a biotech company called Living Sciences. Living Sciences also appears to be a shell company with an opaque corporate structure spanning several countries. Both of them are headquartered in a building owned by the Serbian gangster Dragen Bogovic."
“And Bogovic may have killed Stambolic,” Max Davidoff said.
Miquel nodded. "That's right. Court testimony implicated Bogovic in Stambolic's assassination, but Bogovic was never even arrested. He's a former Serbian intelligence agent who had a close relationship with Slobodan Milosevic."
Miquel stared into the screen. He looked directly at Hans Jute, who was no longer saying anything. He wasn't being snide, he wasn't being sarcastic, he was just silent.
"There is a secret tunnel running under Bogovic's office building, which ends at the docks on the Sava River. Last night and early this morning, Bogovic's mean were loading a small freighter called Beli Labud, or White Swan. They were using the tunnel to move cargo from a warehouse that's part of the office building underground to the dock. In other words, they were hiding their activities."
"Sounds like contraband," Hans said now. "Not cholera."
"Our agents photographed the men at the dock," Miquel said, ignoring him. "Facial recognition software got hits on several of the men there, mostly known Serbian gangsters, some with ties to mafias in other countries. But one of the men was Viktor Laskov, thought to be an agent of both Serbian intelligence and the Russian FSB. Laskov goes by at least a dozen aliases, and has been the subject of numerous Interpol alerts over many years."
“What are you asking?” Margaux said.
"The White Swan is heading downriver toward Romania," Miquel said. "We believe it may be carrying the same weaponized cholera that has caused devastation and widespread loss of life in Romania and Moldova. We want the vessel boarded, thoroughly searched, and impounded, before it reaches the border. But we don't want Serbian police or military involved, or even apprised of the operation. We believe they may be compromised by relationships with Serbian crime networks and intelligence agencies. We request this raid happen as soon as possible."
“Who would do it, if not the Serbians?” Margaux said.
“There are thousands of NATO troops stationed in Romania, including special operations troops,” Miquel said.
Now Hans laughed out loud.
"Miquel, do you even know the history here? In 1999, NATO bombed Serbia for more than two and half months without interruption, killing thousands of people, destroying the infrastructure of Belgrade, and leading to the partition of Kosovo. The resentment of the Serbian people against NATO, against the countries of the European Union, and against the United States run very deep as a result."
“Duly noted,” Miquel said.
"You're asking us to request NATO deploy troops inside Serbia and raid a Serbian freighter."
Miquel nodded. "Yes."
“Are you trying to cause an international incident?”
An image of the platform at the Atocha train station flashed through Miquel's mind. He would never escape it. An office lady's torso and upper body was severed completely from her legs. Her face was nearly unrecognizable as human.
"No," Miquel said. He shook his head to clear the image. "I'm trying to stop another cholera attack on the scale of the one we have already witnessed. I believe that ship may be smuggling weaponized cholera downriver into Romania. I am willing to risk some resentment, or even a lot of resentment, to accomplish this goal."
“Are you willing to risk another war?” Jute said.
Miquel shrugged. "In the end, the work of my people is my responsibility. The information we uncover, and the conclusions we come to, all stop with me. The actions that flow from there, and the consequences, are my fault."
Whatever was to become of Agent Dubois, Miquel was confessing his guilt now. He felt Jan Bakker's presence, hovering somewhere nearby, listening to him.
“You are one hundred percent comfortable asking for this raid?” Margaux said.
“Yes, I am.”
She nodded. "Okay, I'm convinced. We'll do it."
CHAPTER TWENTY TWO
10:15 am Central European Time
A helipad
Outskirts of Belgrade
Serbia
"106.1 FM," Alex said. "All your favorite hits."
He pulled the tiny old Yugoslavian sedan along a high fence. The interior of the car smelled faintly of burning motor oil. The heater was on high, but it barely worked.
Alex rolled down his window about six inches. He lit a cigarette, inhaled deeply, and then held it near the opening. Then he exhaled out the opening as well. The blue smoke was caught on the breeze and swirled out into the gray, heavy sky.
A light snow was falling.
Troy was carefully trying not to think about anything. He was trying not to think about what happened this morning, and about the helpless feeling of watching Dubois get tackled by a swarm of men, and then dragged into a building. Most of all, he was trying not to think about what could be happening to Dubois at this very moment.
Listening to Alex’s patter helped with that, but only a little.
Troy's gut churned with the grim possibilities of what Dubois might be enduring. The lock was ticking here, and they needed to MOVE.
They were stopped in a plowed dirt parking lot. Small mounds of snow were humped up along the edges. At the top, the fence was ringed with barbed wire. There was a gate in the fence, and a chain was looped in the gate with a heavy lock.
They were outside the city. The urban area had surrendered quickly to open fields, fenced in wasteland, crumbling and forgotten concrete outbuildings, and roads to nowhere. An eerie silence blanketed the area
Troy looked out his window. The fence seemed to be a perfect square. He guessed it was about 20 meters on a side. Inside the square, on an asphalt pad cleared of snow, was a small two-seat helicopter. The chopper was orange and blue, with the phrase 106.1: Super Top Pop painted across the side in white.
“Robinson R22?” Troy said.
"You wish," Alex said. "It's a Yoyo 222. The Robinson is dangerous enough. This is a crazy lightweight Italian knockoff of that. People who have seen the manufacturing specs claim it should crumple in high winds. Personally, I've never had a problem with it. Also, it's faster, and it has a longer range than the R22. Speed and range, we're going to need both things. I love this chopper."
“How do you even know it’s here?”
Alex shrugged. "Oh, I used to work for the radio station. It's an awful station. Have you ever listened to Serbian pop music? It's like rap, with folk instruments mixed in, and they talk about killing people a lot. But they mean it. They also play pop from Western Europe, a lot of this horrible techno-dance music. Plus stuff from America, like Carter Swift."
He paused.
"The great masses of people have no taste, Stark. They're like a giant herd of lemmings racing toward certain doom. It's a little disappointing. Sometimes I wonder what I'm doing in this world."
“But you worked here?”
"Part-time," Alex said. "They cover the Belgrade rush hour traffic in the early mornings and afternoons. In fact, they probably just got back a little while ago. I flew the chopper in those days. The reporter would sit next to me with this little portable broadcasting thing on his lap. There really isn't that much traffic. It's not like New York, say, or Miami. It was a pretty good job, and I had to be here anyway for other reasons, so..."
Alex got out of the car, and went around back to the trunk. Troy got out and followed him. The brutal overnight cold had faded into a wet daytime chill.
Inside the trunk was a large pair of steel bolt cutters. Alex picked them up.
Still in the trunk were two bags, one a big gym bag like a hockey player might carry, the other a dun-colored canvas bag with the top folded over.
"The bags are for you," Alex said. "There are some toys in there. Bring them along. I don't know if they'll do you much good, but at least it's something."
Alex crossed to the gate with the bolt cutters. He put the teeth on the chain and cut it. He pulled the chain and it fell away to the snowy ground. Then he pulled the gate open a small amount, just enough for the two of them to fit through.
Troy reached in and pulled out the gym bag. It was heavy. He unzipped it and looked inside. The first thing he saw was a gun box.He pulled it out and opened it. There was a MAC-10 submachine gun inside. There was a long sound suppressor to go with it. There were three box magazines, each fitting snug into its own compartment. Troy picked one out and inspected it. It was loaded with .45 ACP rounds. Thirty per magazine, as he recalled.
The stopping power of this thing was hard to beat.
Troy nodded. "This is a very nice gun."
There was also a Glock 19 in here, with another three magazines, all loaded.
There was a big serrated hunting knife, with pretty good heft to it, in a leather sheath. There was a roll of clear plastic tape he could use to mount it on his calf. There were two green hand grenades, probably old, probably a Soviet or Chinese make.
"This is great stuff," Troy said. "You think these grenades still work?"
"You never know until you try," Alex said from the gate. "Check the other bag."
Troy balanced the heavy equipment bag on the lip of the trunk, reached in, and opened the canvas bag. There was a black ballistic vest in there.
"It'll stop light rounds," Alex said. "Hopefully, no one is walking around inside a building with a rocket launcher."
Troy felt the adrenaline begin to surge through him at the thought of what was coming. He rooted around in the equipment bag again and found what he suspected would be there, a can of Rock Star Zero. He cracked it open and took a long slug.
"God. That's good."
Troy slung the heavy bag over his shoulder, picked up the canvas bag with his free hand, and slammed the trunk.
Alex was already in the helicopter, and the rotors were beginning to spin.
Troy walked to the chopper, ducking his head low. The door on his side was open. He slipped into the seat and pulled the door shut behind him. He shoved the bags into the back. The cockpit of the chopper was basically a glass bubble.
Alex was wearing a white helmet, and handed one to Troy. Troy pulled it onto his head. It was a little tight, but it would do.
Troy was barely settled in before Alex was off the ground.
The chopper rose quickly into the air. Thirty feet up, fifty, one hundred.
One hundred fifty feet, two hundred.
Alex banked it hard left, and they took off toward the city. The sprawl of it was to their left, not too far. Already, Troy could see the new high-rises flanking the wide band of the river.
Dubois was being held in the came complex of buildings that the mobster Bogovic owned - the office, the warehouses, and the docks. They hadn't risked trying to move her.
Alex had scoped out a good spot on a wide roof to bring the chopper down.
They’d be there in minutes.
The chopper flew high and fast. The landscape buzzed by far below them. Alex's plan was to follow the line of the river, cross it, come in well above the building, then drop down like a meteor. Troy would roll out, and then Alex would be gone again.
