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“Would you keep your voice down? Jesus, could you sound more like a tourist?” With a frown, William Scott raised his glass of pilsner and sipped it, then waved his other hand in front of his face to try to move some of the haze of cigarette smoke that hung in a cloud over the entire room. “Probably going to get us all mugged and killed before the trip is over.”
“Jeez, Billy, would you relax?” Tyrell replied. “This isn’t Slovakia, and we’re not in Hostel. These are my people, remember? They’re gonna get my money one way or another, so I might as well enjoy myself while I’m here, right? Hell, we all might as well enjoy ourselves while we’re here, if you get my drift.” Waggling his thick eyebrows, he grinned conspiratorially at the other two men, earning an aggravated sigh from Scott and a nervous smile from the third member of their group.
Gary Alcaster sipped his own beer and watched the two friends bicker. He wasn’t sure what made him more uncomfortable: Tyrell’s outspoken swagger and brashness, Scott’s peevishness and worry over seemingly every minute of this weekend getaway, or the fact that he was ostensibly here to get his cherry popped.
I should get my brain scanned for agreeing to all this, he thought. Of course, it had all been Tyrell’s idea. The three had met while preparing to attend their second year at King’s College School of Medicine in London. Tyrell was a broad-shouldered former linebacker from Dublin, Texas, with a knee injury that had effectively ended his football career and left him with a slight limp when he walked. Blond-haired Alcaster was born and raised in the slightly larger city of Glace Bay, Nova Scotia, and this was his first time out of his hometown, not to mention Canada. Scott, rail-thin and bespectacled, hailed from the small town of Haltwhistle, in the northern part of England. Despite their differences, the three had quickly bonded over their status as outsiders in the sprawling, cosmopolitan city.
Over beers and a Texas Hold’em game with a couple other students one night, Alcaster had lost a side bet and, red-faced, admitted that he hadn’t yet slept with a girl. Ever since, Tyrell had talked about nothing else, not even their upcoming exams, but helping his friend lose his virginity.
That was how they had ended up here, during a bank holiday weekend when they probably should have been studying instead. After four days of persuasion, with Tyrell saying the three of them would have a story unlike anything else in their lives, he’d convinced Scott first and then the two of them had persuaded Alcaster to take the plunge, so to speak. The Canadian’s biggest concern had been to go somewhere where he wouldn’t be seen by anyone who might recognize him. Tyrell said he had the prefect place for them to go.
The three had taken the Chunnel to Paris, then a day on the train traveling to Bucharest. From there they had rented a car and driven north-northeast, with Tyrell saying his ancestors came from around the area. A few hours later they had checked into the hotel and had spent the afternoon seeing the small town’s sights, of which there were few.
Other than Scott’s increasingly worried demeanor, they’d only encountered one spot of potential trouble so far. While walking through the old, cobblestoned streets, they’d seen a large, modern house, surrounded by a high stone wall with unfriendly-looking iron bars, looming over the rest of the village. Oblivious to the two thickset men at the gate and his friends’ warnings, Tyrell had wanted to get a closer look and had crossed the street to look through the gate. He had been intercepted halfway across by one of the men, who’d had a quick, firm conversation with him, while opening his light jacket to reveal something inside.
While Scott and Alcaster watched with their hearts in their throats, trying to figure out whether they should grab Tyrell and run, or just take off themselves, the Texan pointed the other two students out, and the two men laughed about something. Then the gate guard pointed back the way they had come, said something with an emphatic nod, and sent the med student on his way with a smile that never came close to his pale blue eyes.
When he returned, Tyrell was ecstatic. “Dudes, that guy was in the mob! He showed me his pistol and everything!”
Scott had nearly lost it right there. “I swear to God, Josh, you’re going to get us killed!”
The taller American flipped black hair out of his eyes. “Would you relax? He knew exactly why we’re here. Tourists come from all over to sample the nightlife, so to speak. He said to stick around the bar in our hotel, especially after eight. That’s when the best girls start coming in for drinks.”
Although Alcaster had his misgivings about any truth in the information they had been given, that was how they all found themselves sitting in the hotel tavern, which could have been just about any older drinking establishment in Europe, with a long, dark wooden bar along one side of the room, surrounded by several round tables and a row of booths along the far wall.
They’d had a surprisingly good dinner, washed down with a variety of regional beers, ranging from pale golden pilsners to a weak, dark dunkel that all three had agreed was the worst of the lot. Now, with dinner behind them, Tyrell tapped his fingers restlessly on the tabletop, obviously anxious for the evening’s entertainment to begin. Scott looked uneasy, while Alcaster was engaged in his internal struggle—which he’d been waging with himself since the trip began—as to whether he was really going to go through with this. His mind churned with equal parts anticipation, nervousness and flat-out fear. He swallowed through a suddenly dry throat and his palms were sweating so much he nearly dropped his beer glass when he went for a drink. He could back out right now, say he wasn’t feeling well from dinner or something—
Having made up his mind to do just that, Alcaster was rehearsing what he was going to say before excusing himself and going back to their room when the cuckoo clock on the wall over the bar began chiming the hour. As if drawn on cue, the main doors of the small lobby next to the bar opened and a parade of young women in tight dresses, high-heeled shoes and a range of makeup entered the bar. Although most of them had game smiles on, it was relatively clear that none was here of her own free will. However, that really didn’t seem to matter to the men waiting in the bar.
All of the men there—many of whom had been furtively counting the minutes, much like Tyrell, Scott and Alcaster had—perked up, smiling and waving as they looked over the night’s offerings. The three students huddled together, eyeing the women as they made the rounds, with Tyrell urging the other two to make their selections quickly.
“We need to cull the ones we want out of the herd, or they’re gonna go elsewhere,” he insisted.
“For God’s sake, Josh, these are people, not cattle!” Scott hissed.
Tyrell rolled his eyes. “Yeah, yeah, would you pull that stick out of your ass for just one night? Look, we all know why we’re here, and so do they. If we don’t take advantage of the situation, someone else will. Now—” Tyrell craned his head up as three women, a blonde, a brunette and a dark-haired woman somewhere in their twenties, all dressed in different varieties of brightly colored, skintight dresses, approached their table. The trio of younger women had headed off a pair of more mature-looking prostitutes who had glared at the interlopers but still retreated. “Uh...can we help you ladies?” Tyrell asked.
“You are Americans, yes?” the brunette asked in decent English. “We love Americans.”
“Well, I am, and my friends are from Canada and England, but don’t worry, they’re all right.” Tyrell’s weak joke made all three ladies laugh, however, and he nodded at the other two to push a table over to make more room as he waved them in. “Won’t you join us?”
“Thank you.” The brunette introduced herself as Anoush, the blonde as Lusine and the raven-haired young woman as Siranush. Once Scott and Alcaster had gotten another table and chairs, the three women sat among the suddenly tongue-tied young men.
“You are all here on vacation?” Lusine asked.
“Er, yes,” Scott said. “We’re medical students on holiday, that’s right.”
The three women exchanged glances. “You are going to be doctors, yes?” Siranush said, placing her hand on Alcaster’s thigh. “We love doctors.”
“Well, we’re not—” he began.
“Great!” Tyrell interrupted a bit too quickly. “We were just about to order a bottle. Is there anything you would recommend?” he asked, ignoring the sudden warning glance from Scott.
Again, the three girls glanced at each other. “You all seem like nice boys,” Aroush said, her voice low. “You should know to be careful about asking that sort of thing here. A lot of bars in the cities have arrangements with the girls, who get a kickback for steering tourists to higher-priced drinks.”
“Oh, they do?” Tyrell asked. “Well, thanks for the tip. I think you all deserve a drink just for telling us that.”
Siranush swept her long, dark hair back over her shoulder, exposing generous cleavage as she nodded at the beer bottles on the table. “You are all drinking beer. Perhaps you would care for something a bit stronger?”
The three students exchanged hesitant glances. “Perhaps...?” Tyrell said.
The blonde flagged down a server and rattled off an order in Armenian, then leaned back in and snuggled up to Scott. “He will bring us a bottle of Ararat cognac. It is very good, and not nearly as costly as other bottles.”
“All right...” Scott leaned over to Alcaster. “What about ‘beer before liquor, never sicker’? I don’t want to be ill for...you know, what comes later.”
Alcaster considered the adage for a moment. “Well, we’ve already eaten, so it shouldn’t be a problem—”
Tyrell cleared his throat. “Guys? Would you mind keeping your heads in the game here, please?”
Their server had returned with a squat bottle and six small glasses. With a flourish and a small bow, he presented the cognac to the group, then set it and the glasses on the table.
“Now, if I remember correctly—” Tyrell said as he distributed glasses to each person and began filling them with the dark amber liquid “—there’s supposed to be a toast with each round, right?”
“Very good, Josh,” Anoush said as she raised her glass. “What would you like to drink to?”
With a broad grin, Tyrell stood and raised his glass. “To a night we’ll never forget!”
CHAPTER SIX
Ten hours earlier
“We’re ready for you, Doctor.”
Richter took the offered headset with its attached microphone and slipped it on, adjusting it on his oblong head. “Testing, testing, one, two. Mr. Firke, can you hear me?”
“Yes, and that had better be all I hear from you until we’re finished, understand?”
“Unless I feel the situation warrants it, I will leave the execution of this mission entirely in your hands. On the ground, you are in charge.”
Richter was pleased he’d gotten Stengrave to go along with wiring the infiltration team for video and sound. He’d pushed hard for it, saying he wanted a record of the entire experiment, and that the data they collected on the Armenian village before the test began would be vital for their results. He figured Firke wouldn’t be pleased about it, but as Richter had suspected, he had gone along when he realized there was no getting around his boss’s orders.
Now he watched as the squad of six armed men drove down the deserted mountain road, their vehicle’s headlights barely illuminating a few yards through the foggy night. Cresting a hill, they spotted the lights of the target village a mile away. Firke killed the lights and the engine, and the men got out and checked their gear one last time. Slipping a pair of night-vision goggles on his forehead, he made sure his team was ready to go and led them into the night.
Although the distance wasn’t that great as the crow flies, the steep mountainside varied from passable to almost vertical, and the men had their work cut out for them on some of the rougher sections. Halfway there, two of the men, each carrying a long, hard-shell case slung across his back, split off and began climbing an escarpment overlooking the village. Covering the rest of the mile while making sure they weren’t detected on the way took just over an hour, about as long as Richter had estimated.
He made sure the digital recorders, a primary and two backups, were all running perfectly, then turned his attention back to the over-the-shoulder view he had of the men as they cut their trail, as though he was walking right behind them. After a few minutes of quick, silent movement to get as close to the wall as they dared, Firke held up a fisted hand. All of the men stopped immediately.
Richter checked on the pair that had split off. They had reached the top of their hill and had a great view of the darkened valley, lit only by the lights of the walled village below. Both men unslung their cases and began removing equipment. One uncased a long sniper rifle, uncapped his scope and turned it on, then lay down. After adjusting his position one last time, the second man covered him with camouflage netting, then lay down behind a spotting scope and covered himself. When both men were ready, they radioed in to the rest of the team.
Meanwhile, Firke had reached what looked like a four-foot-high water outflow pipe buried between two hills. An ankle-deep rivulet of water splashed out and trickled down the hillside. The opening of the pipe was covered by a latticework of what looked like rebar. Checking to make sure he couldn’t be seen by anyone on the walls, Firke took a small cutting torch from a pocket, turned it on and began cutting through the bars. Within five minutes he had burned through enough of the latticework to bend back a large portion of it.
He signaled the rest of his men forward to the entrance. Turning on their night-vision goggles, they entered the sewer pipe, the tunnel lit only by the eerie, bright green of the NVGs. Occasionally, Richter saw the fleeting shape and heard a squeak of a rat in the pipe, but Firke and his men didn’t seem bothered in the least.
They progressed deeper into the pipe, until Richter estimated they had gone at least one hundred yards. At an intersection Firke pushed his goggles back onto his forehead and peeked around a corner to see a dim shaft of light and a trickle of water coming down into the sewer from above. He waved his men forward again. When they reached the light and water, Firke took a hand-held screen attached to a small cable and fed the cable up through the sewer grate. A picture flickered into life on the screen and he studied it for a few minutes before stepping past the grate and waving two of his men forward.
They pushed the grate up and turned it sideways to fit it down the hole with them. Carrying it back, the other three hunkered down a few meters away and watched as Firke carefully stuck his head above the hole and looked around.
His camera took in cobblestoned streets and a neighborhood that could have come right out of anywhere in nineteenth-century Europe. Sturdy, wattle-and-daub buildings that had probably been built sometime in the last century lined the street, their tiled roofs two stories above the street. At this hour, the entire place was deserted. The camera caught the glow of the wall lights above, but none was turned to look inside the perimeter.
“What are they doing, Doctor?” The scientist monitoring the recordings, a callow youth of twenty-five—a near genius when it came to breeding virus stock, but relatively untutored in much of the outside world, including this sort of operation—blinked in confusion.
“They’re taking stock of the situation, making sure there will be no surprises when they make their move on the water supply.”
“But there’s no one there now. They could be in and out in just a few minutes.”
“I am sure Mr. Firke knows exactly what he is doing. I suggest that you concentrate on your duties and leave him to concentrate on his.”
“Yes, sir.” The scientist bent over his monitors again, while Richter and the rest of the watching scientists also waited. Five minutes passed, then ten. The other lab-coated men and women fidgeted or grew distracted as the time stretched out. Only Richter did not move a muscle, waiting for the operation to truly commence.
Finally, Firke rose out of the pipe and signaled his men to take their positions. Two men fanned out, one going left, one going right to flank. Kepler and the fourth man waited until the first pair were both ready to cover, then they quietly replaced the drain grate. Pulling their silenced pistols, the two men moved into the village square, staying low.
Like most Armenian villages fortunate enough to have one, the water tank was mounted on top of a tall building that looked to be some kind of hotel. This would be the trickiest part of the op, getting to the tower without being detected. Richter had stressed the importance of planting the compound in the tank itself, not in any kind of well. He didn’t know what if any effects it might have on the groundwater table, and they weren’t ready for any sort of test on that scale—at least, not yet.
With the two flanking men covering the intersection, Firke and his partner headed down a narrow alley that would give them access to the roof where the water tower was located. At the end was an industrial garbage bin, with bags of garbage piled next to it. Taking a folding grappling hook from his harness, he set the rubber-coated tines, then twirled the rope and let it fly up onto the roof. It didn’t connect the first time and came tumbling back down, smacking the team member’s hand when he tried to catch it. The second time was the charm, and soon both men had climbed the rope and were on the roof.
They reached the water tower without incident. Kepler stood guard at the base while the other man climbed a strut hand-over-hand until he reached the top. This was the crucial point—the man would have to drill a small hole into the pipe to insert the compound. Kepler alternated his glances up with a slow scan around the perimeter walls, watching for any potential trouble.
It came in the form of a door creaking open down the street. Two people slipped out of a building at the far end of the village. A young man and woman, both giggling, snuck through the silent streets, holding hands as they flitted from shadow to shadow.
The four-man squad froze. Richter listened to the conversation between them.
“Leader, I have visual on both approaching targets. Permission to fire?”
“Negative, keep them covered, but let them approach. We’ll take them out only if necessary. Tank, hold your position.” Firke melted into the shadows on the roof, holding his pistol in front of him with both hands as he disappeared.
The couple came closer, and Richter saw that they were tourists, maybe two students hooking up on a trip across Europe. They both took shelter in a darkened doorway, the man tilting the woman’s head up for a long kiss, his hand stealing down to cup her breast. She moaned and pressed her body against him, her mouth opening to his. Ordinarily, Firke wouldn’t have cared about them, but they were now blocking the escape route, and their noises might eventually attract the wall guards, which could not happen.
“Three, take them.”
Lost in each other, they didn’t notice the urban-camouflaged man emerge from the shadows and slowly creep toward them. When he was a few steps away, he aimed his silenced pistol and fired two carefully placed shots, one into the head of each. The couple, still locked in each other’s arms, collapsed to the ground. The man strode over and put one more bullet into each unmoving form. “They’re down.”
“You and Four remove the bodies. Put them in the large garbage bin at the back of the alley. Longshot, keep your eyes open for others, and sing out the moment you see anyone. Tank, resume your mission.”
Richter watched as the woman’s body was picked up and slung over the man’s shoulder as he began walking down the alleyway. Over Firke’s microphone, the faint whine of a small cordless drill could be heard in the background. At the garbage bin, he dumped the limp form inside and waited for his partner to dump the other body. The two men covered both of them with bags of garbage before returning to their original positions.
Waiting for the cry of alarm that could come at any moment, Richter scarcely remembered to breathe while Tank finished his job, dumping the viscous, black liquid into the water tank, then sealing the hole with a bit of fast-drying putty. He affixed a small, wireless camera to the top of the tank, aiming it down so that the entire street could be seen, then descended just in time to rejoin Firke. The two men tied off their rope and climbed down, then retrieved the rope at the bottom by untying the slipknot and coiling it up. They picked up their flankers and were on the way back to the sewer grate at the spot where they had first come out of the jungle.
“Mr. Firke.” Richter’s words froze the Englishman in his steps. “I want you and your other men to place at least two more cameras in other areas, so that we can get different views of the experiment. There is no need to acknowledge my orders, just do it.”
Firke didn’t say a word, but Richter sensed the fury coiled in the man, ready to be unleashed on any available target. Without a sound, he gave the commands to his other two men by hand, sending them off to place the cameras in the best vantage points they could find. Each man completed his task in less than three minutes, giving Richter three lines of sight on the main roads of the small village. It was better than he could have hoped for.
The two men retraced their steps back to their leader, who led them all to the grate and down into the pipe. They left the area without incident, re-bent the grate into place and snuck away from the village. At a rendezvous point, they waited for the sniper team to rejoin them. The six-man team jogged back to their vehicle and drove down the road a few kilometers until they came to a telephone pole that led to the village. One of the men put on climbing spikes and a tree strap, ascended the pole and cut the wires. Once that was done, the vehicle disappeared into the night.
“Mission accomplished, Doctor.” Firke had to have switched off the camera on his shoulder, for that monitor went dark right afterward.
“Don’t forget to launch the drone over the property, Mr. Firke.” Richter straightened, easing his kinked back muscles while around him the men and women drifted away, having either lost interest in what was happening or moving on to other tasks.
The doctor pulled up a chair and checked his watch: 1140. In several hours the townspeople would be up and about. He pulled his notebook closer to him and rechecked that the camera on the water tower was transmitting properly.
Now it was simply a matter of waiting for the experiment to begin.
CHAPTER SEVEN
At 0545, Mack Bolan was almost finished preparing for his insertion into Alexsandr Sevan’s walled fortress city.
The breeze was blowing even harder in the early morning hours, making him smile as he unfolded what looked like an oblong, matte-black parachute that was rounded off at both ends. Four lines led from his loose harness to the odd-shaped canopy, splitting up three times along the way to attach at equidistant points along its edge to give the pilot maximum control. The stiff wind gusted even harder, making one side of the sail flap in the night.
Of all the things they’d planned about this operation at Stony Man, the insertion had been the most discussed, argued about and refined. They had simulated just about every possible method of entry, from a HALO—high altitude low opening—drop, insertion by the sewer system, posing as a tourist and entering through the front gate, and scaling the wall. In the end, they had gone with Bolan’s suggestion, initially thrown out as an off-the-cuff remark, but which gained more converts as the planning progressed. It wasn’t the surest insertion method, but because he would already be on the ground, and given the pros and cons of the other methods, it was the best way for him to reach Sevan’s house with the least chance of detection. The final deciding factor was that the majority of the security measures at the village were directed at the ground around the perimeter, with no radar or any obvious air-detection capability. Of course, it has also necessitated him taking a crash course in paragliding forty-eight hours before he left the U.S., but after ten practice runs, Bolan thought he’d gotten the hang of it, so to speak.