The Mercenaries, page 4
Mad Dog’s old friend and mentor, Gunnery Sergeant Daniel M. Forrest, III, USMC, retired, had just passed away.
Kat put a hand to her mouth in shock.
She knew how much Michael loved and cared for old Dan, had witnessed their father-son relationship. Mad Dog had practically been raised by Dan since the age of thirteen, and when Dan became ill and could no longer take care of himself, Michael had assumed the responsibility, put him up at the house, treated him like a king.
Daniel Forrest was the United States Marine Corps to Michael.
But the old man’s time had finally come. He was seventy-six, had diabetes and complications, and, according to Pope, went to bed and slipped away. A beautiful death. A fitting death for a solider.
But Michael hadn’t been there to say good-bye, and his heart would be broken.
Could he handle the news, given their current situation? God, why’d it have to be now?
No, they wouldn’t tell him. At least not yet. She fired off a reply to Pope, told him not to say anything. But Pope wanted to know about arrangements, and she couldn’t give him an answer. Only Michael knew what to do.
God, she was torn. If they didn’t tell him and they went ahead and either buried old Dan or had him cremated without Michael’s consent, that would be worse. Michael would feel that he’d been robbed of the opportunity to pay final tribute, and he would blame them.
So they would have to tell him. Soon. Maybe they could keep old Dan at a funeral home or the coroner’s office until the situation with Bibby was somehow resolved. How long would that take? She’d need to call Pope the moment she landed and discuss it with him.
What else could happen? Some nut job could try to blow up her plane? Jesus…the negative thoughts were moving in and setting up house.
Kat glanced across the aisle at a little Indian girl seated next to her mother. That was beauty right there. The future. She slapped her computer shut, closed her eyes, and tried to get some rest.
Hornsea on Bridlington Bay
England
1808 Hours Local Time
“He’s in Russia. But that’s all you get for free,” said the colonel.
Mad Dog squeezed the old man’s neck and shook him. “Russia’s a big place. Can you—”
“Hertzog, you’re out of time,” said Albert. “If you don’t let him go, I’ll shoot you…maybe in the leg, the arm…I won’t do you the favor of killing you.”
Mad Dog locked gazes with the Brit. Oh, yes, he’d seen that look before. Albert would fire. It was just a question of which limb he’d target.
And really, his little talk with the colonel had already been successful. The old man had admitted that he knew where Bibby was. Details would emerge as the negotiations continued.
So Mad Dog relented, relaxed his grip, climbed off the colonel then rose to stand near the sink. Not one to miss a moment of irony, he abruptly leaned down and offered his hand to the man he’d just been choking.
And surprisingly, the colonel accepted. “I would have killed me, if I were you.”
“And if I were you, I would’ve offered me some fucking tea before inviting me in to attack you.”
The colonel grinned and looked to Albert. “This one, I like.”
“Are you mad?” asked Albert.
“No, that would be me,” answered Mad Dog.
The colonel raised his brows. “I hope you have money, because if you want to know how to find your friend, it’s going to cost you a lot.”
Mad Dog raised his chin to the Brit. “Albert, would you mind leaving us alone?”
“Bloody hell, I will. I’m going to stand right here, with this pistol.”
“I won’t talk with him here, and this room is secure,” said the colonel.
“Albert, I’ll give you fifty bucks if you go outside.”
“You fucking Yank! You think this is funny? This is a powerful and important man!”
“Yeah, and he still has to piss, shit, and fart like the rest of us, so why don’t you shut the fuck up and go outside?”
“I can take care of myself,” said the colonel.
The Brit shook his head.
“Albert, don’t waste my time. Don’t waste his time. You really think I’m going to kill him now, after he’s teased me with the bait? Come on, you’re smarter than that. He just wants money for the information I need. We’ll work it out. You go bye-bye.”
“Why did I know it would come to this?” Albert drew in a long breath, swore under his breath, then ventured toward the front door, saying, “I’ll be just outside.”
Once Albert was out of earshot, Mad Dog turned to the colonel and said, “Fucking Brits. They’re all so uptight. Still pissed about the Revolutionary War, I guess.”
The colonel cracked a grin as he lowered himself into a chair at the kitchen table and rubbed his sore neck. “I told him I like you. But I didn’t tell him why.”
“Why?”
“Because you are a fucking idiot.”
Mad Dog threw up his hands. “Okay, we’ve established that. Now, business time. You know Bibby’s in Russia. You know why he’s there. You know exactly where he is.”
“I do. But why do you believe me? Is it because, well, you are a fucking idiot?” The colonel smiled.
Mad Dog didn’t. “Yeah, I was a fucking idiot to believe your daughter, to take that fucking job, to let her set me up, to let half my fucking boys get killed. Yeah, I was a fucking idiot.”
With a growl, the colonel slammed his fast on the table. “You’re not here to talk about my daughter!”
“Or how she sent me and my friends off to die, without a fucking conscience.”
“You know nothing.”
“I know how she helped the motherland, all right, didn’t she? Fucking mole.”
The colonel closed his eyes. “This talk is over.”
“I’ll tell you when it’s over.”
The colonel opened his eyes, looked back toward the stove. “Would you like that cup of tea before you leave?”
“Would you like me to choke you again?”
Lowering his head, his gazed locked on Mad Dog, the colonel replied, “You wouldn’t survive it.”
“Listen to me, asshole. That fucking Brit has thirty million dollars of my money. And you’re going to help me get it back. Or you’re going to die.”
“Why should I help you? And how do you know I have the information you need? I could be lying.”
“What do you want?”
“I want a million dollars.”
“Fuck you. I just told you I’m broke.”
“When you get your money back, you will give me the balance. I only require a quarter million up front. Now, let me give you the information you will need to transfer those funds into one of my accounts.”
“Accounts? Didn’t your government freeze your assets when you defected?”
“Of course. But since then I’ve acquired some…let’s call them operational funds.”
“So you defected, you come here, and what? They’re letting you rip them off? Letting you rip me off?”
“It’s business, Mr. Hertzog. That’s all. I have information that they want and information you want. Everyone pays. If you believe otherwise, then you are a fool.”
“Why did Bibby come to you?”
“For the same reason you have. For the same reason everyone does. Information.”
“How much did you charge him?”
“I’ll be right back.” The colonel rose, left the room, returned with a painfully familiar dark blue box. He lifted the lid to expose the necklace; translucent, emerald green beads gleaming across a bed of silk.
“That belongs to me.”
The colonel slapped shut the case. “No. It was my daughter’s. After she died, you hired a man to steal it from her, and Bibby returned it to me.”
“So he bought information from you with a necklace he stole from me.”
“A necklace you stole from my daughter.”
“I don’t believe this.”
The colonel shrugged. “I didn’t care where he got it. And it was payment enough for me.”
“You know what that’s worth?”
“I know exactly what it’s worth.”
Mad Dog rubbed his unshaven jaw in thought. “I’m surprised he didn’t cover his tracks. This isn’t like him.”
“Well, the situation is unique, and I don’t suspect he would’ve had the time to do that. He has a lot on his mind, what you call stressed out, huh?”
“What kind of trouble is he in?”
The colonel took in a long breath. “No more talk. I’m going to write down everything you’ll need. You will come back after the transfer”—he smiled darkly—“and I will point you in the right direction.”
“I need to coordinate this with my people back in the Philippines. That’s going to take a little time.”
“Don’t take too long. You’ll need to be back on a plane very soon.”
Downtown Ramallah
West Bank
0115 Hours Local Time
Kat set her watch two hours ahead, then wove her way down the sidewalk, a knapsack slung over her shoulder. She reminded herself not to leave without getting some of Rukab’s ice cream, which was based on the resin of chewing gum and had an incredibly delicious and distinctive taste. Ramallah was known for it, and Rukab Street was named after the ice cream parlor located on one end. Hopefully she would still be in the city when they opened in the morning.
Despite the late hour, there were still a lot of people on the street. Just a week before a curfew had been lifted, and the once war-torn outskirts of the city had grown quiet, allowing the young people to roam once again.
She hadn’t been to Ramallah in a couple of years, and the place seemed more crowded than she remembered it. So many billboards, signs, and placards of every color, shape, and design hung aloft that you could barely see the windows of the tall office and apartment buildings lining both sides of the street. Groups of men sat in plastic lawn chairs outside shops, playing cards and other games in the warm night air, while the younger folks, particularly the males, flocked to the cafés like the one Waffa and his wife owned. They had simply called it “Café,” and then after a year or two renamed it “Waffa’s Cyber Café,” so as Kat approached the storefront, she was taken aback by the shattered sign overhead and the large piece of plywood covering the front door. She pressed her face to the tinted glass, peered inside.
Computer monitors were smashed and lying across the floor. Wires coiled like snakes atop piles of glass and overturned chairs. Even the long sofas, where people once smoked and drank coffee, had been slashed apart and kicked over. More startlingly were the long scorch marks that climbed the rear walls. The long counter area was covered in soot, the ceiling above it collapsed, blackened pieces dangling like frayed skin.
She lost her breath as she stepped back from the glass and unconsciously looked around for an answer. Life continued along the streets of Ramallah, and no one seemed to care about one small café that had been vandalized and set fire. She grabbed her phone, dialed Waffa again, got his voice mail. Then she leaned back on the glass and cursed.
Where the hell was her friend? She feared for his life. And now her own curiosity could get her into trouble. She composed herself. Time to go. Time to call Michael and tell him what she had found.
Two young men, both with short beards, approached her, and the taller of the two called in English, “So sorry, ma’am, but they are closed.”
“Thank you,” she snapped, and pushed past them.
“Wait, please,” called the shorter one, his accent thicker than the taller one’s.
“Sorry.” She took three more steps, felt a hand lock onto her arm.
The taller one’s expression darkened. “Don’t go.”
She reached into her pants pocket, then turned back, a credit card in her hand, one whose edge she had sharpened until it cut flesh like a razor. She slashed the man, who screamed—
Then she broke into a run down the street, drawing stares from those seated along the sidewalk.
“Kat! Stop!” hollered the man. “We can take you to see him!”
Breathless and chilled, she slowed, whirled around, started back toward them, the tall man clutching his bleeding arm, the other shaking his head at her and saying, “He told us you would be difficult.”
She lowered her voice. “Waffa sent you? Bullshit. Why didn’t he tell me?”
“He can’t.”
“Bullshit.”
“They’ve tapped all of his lines.”
“What are you talking about?”
The tall one grew impatient. “Come on, we’ll take you to see him.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“He said you wouldn’t. So he told us to show you this.”
The shorter man reached into his breast pocket and produced a photo of Kat and Waffa, one she had taken and given to him, one that Waffa said he kept in his wallet, one on which Kat had written the words: For My Teacher. Thank You.
Unless they had killed Waffa and removed the photo from his wallet, they were working for him.
She returned the photo, then glanced around. “Take me to see him. But are we being watched?”
“Of course. We’ll lose them.”
“Who are they?”
“Enemies.”
“Oh, that’s helpful. Are they the same ones who burned down the café?”
“Yes,” said the shorter one.
“Waffa must’ve pissed off the wrong people, all right.”
The shorter one nodded.
“You cut me very bad,” said the tall one, removing his palm from his forearm to reveal all the blood.
“If you would’ve just told me.”
“We did.”
“Yeah, a little late. Well, I don’t have anything to bandage that in my pack. We’ll have to get you something, though. For now, we’ll use part of your shirt.”
Three taxicabs later, with the switches made in the narrow alleys between apartment buildings, Kat found herself being led into the basement of yet another apartment building, the narrow stone staircase dust-covered and slippery.
They reached a large metal door, the kind you’d find on a meat locker, illuminated by a single bulb dangling from the ceiling.
They had bandaged the taller man’s arm in one of the cabs. He identified himself as Rashad and the shorter man as Nazir. Now, Rashad told her they had to go, but if she rapped on the door and called for Waffa, he would come. Abruptly, they both left.
Oh, God. Kat raised her fist, thought better of it, then reached for her cell phone. She figured she’d finally call Michael, having been too nervous while in the cabs. She dialed the number—
When the metal door swung outward.
She yanked her credit card free.
And Waffa, pistol in hand, frowned at her. “Hello, Katharina. Did you want to go shopping?”
She sighed and rushed to the short man, his curly hair wired with gray, his hooked nose glossy with sweat, his smile warm and inviting. They hugged for a long moment, then she pulled back and said, “Oh my God, Waffa, what happened?”
Chapter 3
Hornsea on Bridlington Bay
England
2345 Hours Local Time
Mad Dog was about to rap on the door when the colonel opened it. “You kept me waiting for too long. Maybe now I’ve changed my mind. Maybe now I will go to bed.”
“You like money, old man?”
“Of course.”
“Then shut the fuck up and let’s make a deal.”
“No manners, you Americans. No manners at all.” The colonel accepted the documents Mad Dog offered, then led him into the bungalow and to the kitchen, while Albert once again waited outside.
“FYI, Colonel, I had to print out bank transfers, make my own, and we grabbed some fish and chips on the way back. Sorry it’s past your bed time.”
“You smell like fish. Well, that delay might have cost you more than you know.”
“Oh, yeah? Talk.”
After a snort and roll of his eyes, the colonel examined the papers and nodded.
Mad Dog tensed. “Do we have deal?”
“Your associate is headed to Krasnoyarsk, a big city on the Yenisei River. There he will board the Rossiya Train Number 2, which is headed to Vladivostok. It’s a very long ride. He’s a couple of days ahead of you, but you can still catch him if you don’t stop for fish and chips again. You will need to board the train at Khabarovsk, which is the next to last stop before Vladivostok.”
Mad Dog saw a pen lying on the counter. He took it, then tore a piece of paper from one of the bank statements. “Give me the names of those cities again. I don’t know what part of Russia they’re in, and I certainly can’t spell ’em.”
The colonel complied, and once Mad Dog finished, he asked, “So what’s Bibby doing on a train?”
“Riding, of course.”
“Don’t fuck with me, Colonel. If he’s traveling a long way, why didn’t he just fly?”
“He needs to be on the ground. I will give you more information as needed.” The Russian dropped his voice. “You will give me your satellite phone. And we will stay in touch.”
“I paid for all the information up front.”
“No, you gave me a deposit. And I’m giving some information, not all.”
“So, if I had the entire million, you’d tell me everything?”
He smiled amusedly. “Probably not. Keeping a few secrets sometimes keeps oneself alive.”
“Motherfucker.”
“We say yebanat. Your phone, please?”
“If I want to talk to you, I’ll do it through Albert. You’re not getting my phone. I’m sure they’re not letting you make outside calls, either.”
“Well, then, you’ll get nothing more from me until you pay the entire sum.”
“I have enough for now.”
“Maybe. But if your associate reaches Vladivostok and you fail to intercept him, then only I know where he’s headed from there.”
Mad Dog hesitated. “You already know we won’t catch him, don’t you?”
“No, you might.”
“No, we won’t. That’s how you guarantee your back end. So stop fucking with me. Where’s he headed after that?”
