Ghost Series - Ghost Part 33

He'd been in the body and fender shop for over a month, long enough to be fully capable of getting around on his own, and then headed back to Islamorada. When he got there there was a cigarette boat tied up next to theWinter Born. It was black and silver with the legend "Too Late" already painted on the rear.

He'd taken it out a time or two, but mostly he'd stayed on the yacht. The explosion in the Andros was the talk of the town but n.o.body seemed to connect him to it, which was fine by him.

So he'd been doing his usual, hanging out, fishing, generally getting his head back together, working on his tan and new set of scars. But that meant he was back in the same lackanookie situation he'd been in before the girls showed up in his life. And he was pretty sure it was almost time to travel. It had been a while since he'd seen Europe and he'd never been to Eastern Europe. He was looking forward to traveling-among other things the hookers in Eastern Europe were supposed to be the finest on earth-but something had kept him around. A nagging sense of something left unfinished.

He'd just glanced at his pager, wondering when his table was going to be ready, when a soft voice spoke behind him.

"Excuse me," the familiar voice said, "is this seat taken?"

Mike looked over his shoulder at Pam and Courtney and shrugged, grinning slightly.

"I dunno," he said. "I was waiting for some friends to show up. But it looks like they just did."

BOOK THREE.

On The Dark Side.

Chapter One.

"Come 'ere, lovely," Mike said, pulling a blonde into his lap as she walked past. The girl-she was probably no more than sixteen but n.o.body cared in a place like this-was wearing a thong and a garter stuffed with bills. She had very nice t.i.ts, large with small pink nipples and fricking gorgeous blue eyes, true cornflower blue, with that s.e.xy Tartar lift that so many of the Russian girls sported. Great cheekbones. Gorgeous t.i.ts.

"You gonna show me a good time?" he asked, sliding a five euro note into the garter and playing with her nipple.

Mike had decided that he purely loved Eastern Europe. The living was cheap, not that that mattered much, and the women weregorgeous. It was more than the fact that they dressed to the nines to go to the grocery store and didn't tend to run to obesity. It must be pure breeding or something. Just gorgeous, one and all.

He'd started in Amsterdam, where he found out that most of the really good-looking hookers were Polish. Which had taken him to Poland, one d.a.m.ned beautiful country, where quite a few of the hookers were Lithuanian. This had led him to Lithuania, which he still felt had the best overall quality in Europe.

But a bunch of the best-looking wh.o.r.es were from Russia, so he wandered that way. It was like that Beach Boys' song, but with lots more s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g and some d.a.m.ned fine head. No training these girls; they were teaching him a thing or two.

"I show you very good time," the girl said, wriggling in his lap and leaning forward to breathe in his ear, her nipples rubbing on his chest. "I be very good to you and you give me much money."

Even in Russia he hadn't stayed in one place, generally moving further eastward. He'd been fascinated by Siberia since he was a kid and wanted to get a look at it. He'd made it as far as Perm, moving slow and taking his time with the girls. This place, though, was the back of beyond. But the girls were fantastic and the price was sure right. He figured this one would be less than fifty euros for the whole night. And he intended to have one h.e.l.l of a time.

"Just another rich American," Mike snorted, starting to lift the girl up as another hooker sat down at the table.

"She has the pox," the woman said. She wasn't nearly as young, or pretty, as the girl on his lap. The term "rode hard and put up wet" came to mind. But she fixed him with her eye and shook her head. "Besides, you need to talk to me, not her. My name is Tanya."

"About what?" Mike asked, tickling the girl's nipple again.

The girl on his lap spat something in Russian at the newcomer and stuck out her tongue. Mike was picking up some of the local languages, but this was too fast for him to catch. He did catch the word for "old," though.

"Go away," the newcomer said. "He'll be around for you later. We need to talk."

"I'm not particularly interested in talking to you," Mike said, standing up and taking the girl's hand.

"You will be," the woman said, standing up and coming over to whisper in his ear. "You want a nuclear weapon?" she asked quietly.

Mike froze and leaned back, looking her in the eye. She regarded him calmly, then raised an eyebrow.

"Take off, honey," Mike said, pulling out another note without looking at it and handing it to the girl. "Me and Tanya gotta talk."

The girl looked at the money, then rolled her hand over it and walked away quickly.

"You're joking, right?" Mike said, sitting down and leaning back in his chair. The nearest patron in the dive was ten feet away, so they could talk without being overheard. He hoped. This was not something that you talked about in public. Or private. h.e.l.l, outside of a secure facility. "And why me?"

"I have been watching you," "Tanya" said. "Not only here. I have seen you in other places. You don't move like most of the Americans who come to places like this. They are fearful, afraid of being attacked.

You move like . . . a panther. Everyone sees it. You are a player, as they say. And you are rich."

"And how would you know that?" Mike asked.

"You realized you just handed Lydia a hundred-euro note, right?" Tanya said, laughing.

"s.h.i.t," Mike snorted. "Is that what I did?"

"Yes," "Tanya" said dryly. "And a man who can hand a cheap wh.o.r.e a hundred euros without noticing it, might have the money to buy . . . what we have to sell. And . . . Americans, even 'player' Americans, are more trustworthy than Russians."

"And a man who had that much money might smell a rat," Mike said. "For that matter, the American government would buy it. Why don't you go to the emba.s.sy? Even a consulate?"

"Then there would be questions and problems . . ." the woman said, drawing the words out and shrugging. "That was talked about. As was simply pointing out their . . . misstep to the Russian government or selling it to an oligarch. I convinced them that I could find . . . a better buyer. One who would ask fewer questions."

"I'm going to ask a d.a.m.ned sight of questions," Mike said. "Because I smell what we call in America a con job."

"No con job," the woman said. "I can take you to a man who can explain where it came from. I can show you the . . . thing. You can test it as you wish."

"And if I agree to buy this item?" Mike said. "What in the h.e.l.l do I do with it, then?"

"You are a player," the woman said, shrugging. "I can see that in your face, in your moves, in your eyes.

You will already have an idea of what to do with it."

If it wasn't a con job, it might be a roll. That was looking more and more likely as "Tanya" got out of the cab and waved him towards an alleyway.

Mike stepped out, though, walking carefully and following the old wh.o.r.e. He had his senses dialed up to code orange, expecting at any moment to hear a stealthy movement as someone tried to mug him, or a group of thugs to appear and tell him to give them all his money. He could give them everything he had on him-even the money in his jump bag-and it wouldn't make a dent in his bank account. But he was planning on shooting first and asking questionsmuchlater. Because Russian thugs tended to believe in the axiom that "dead men tell no tales."

But there were no thugs, no stealthy movements. The woman led him to a set of steps to a bas.e.m.e.nt club, a dive to make his previous haunts look serene. The door was guarded by a bouncer, a big guy who looked as if he used to be on the Russian wrestling team. And he had a telltale bulge on his hip that said he was packed. h.e.l.l, from the looks of the room, most of the patrons were as packed as they were drunk.

The room stank of spilled vodka, body odor and cheap tobacco smoke with a faint underlay of puke and p.i.s.s. The wh.o.r.es were nowhere near as pretty as at the club he had come from and the patrons were not much better: low-cla.s.s factory workers, b.u.ms and pensioners. He saw a few uniforms in the place and the Red Army pay was notoriously low. If the hookers in this place cost more thanteneuros a night, it was because they were farming out their daughters as well. Five-ruble stand-ups were probably the order of the day.

The woman led him to a table at the back where a Russian lieutenant was slumped, staring at a shot of vodka like it was the Holy Grail. He picked it up and downed it as they reached the table and shook his head.

"I have found someone who is interested in the item," Tanya said, sitting down with her back to the room, thus giving Mike the choice of a chair against the wall.

"It is too late," the Russian said, shrugging. "Those idiots . . ."

"What do you mean 'too late'?" the woman said, then broke into Russian.

The babble went back and forth and started to rise in volume as Mike surveyed the room.

"Uh, folks," Mike said, waving a hand between them. "I don't know what you are saying, but keep it the f.u.c.k down, okay?"

"He said that his men that were guarding the item have already sold it," Tanya snapped. "He thinks it was to Chechens."

"Okay, now this is bad," Mike said angrily. "And this is no place to be discussing it. First things first," he continued, digging in his pocket. "Tanya, go get a bottle of the most decent vodka they have in this place.

When you do, we are getting the f.u.c.k out and taking this conversation to a hotel room, p.r.o.nto."

"Okay," Mike said when they were in his hotel room. It was the best hotel in town, but it still would be a low-end Best Western in the U.S. It dated from the Soviet era and the construction showed: cheap carpets, horrible beds, lousy plumbing and walls of cast concrete that were flaking onto the cheap carpet.

"Start at the beginning, go through the middle and get to now." He placed the vodka on the table and waved at it. "You can have as much of that as you need, as long as you can keep talking."

The lieutenant looked at the bottle for a moment and then shrugged.

"We are guards on an old nuclear facility," he said, picking up the bottle, tearing off the thin metal cap and putting a splash of vodka in a gla.s.s. "Was accident in it, long ago. Is contaminated. But still stores some nuclear material, what they call isotopes."

"I know what an isotope is," Mike said, pouring himself some vodka and downing it. It was very, very bad. "Go on," he gasped.

"Americans cannot handle their liquor," "Tanya" said, pouring her own shot.

"There's liquor and then there's ant p.i.s.s," Mike said, waving at the bottle. "You can have all that ant p.i.s.s you want. Keep going."

"Is very boring," the lieutenant said. "We are not to go in facility, but we get bored. We have radiation detectors. Is not so bad in most places. One of my men, Yuri, is very bored. He goes in facility. Is much of it underground. Is flooded, yes?"

"Yeah," Mike said, thinking about groundwater contamination. But the whole of Eastern Europe was still such a cesspool from "enlightened Communism" and its approach to environmentalism that a nuclear facility leaking radioactive isotopes into the groundwater was barely a blip on the screen.

"So he finds part where flooding is not so bad," the lieutenant continued. "And goes back up. There he finds . . . item."

"Let's get specific," Mike said. "Are we talking a gravity bomb or a warhead or what?"

"Is very old warhead," the lieutenant said, shrugging. "We cannot get manuals but Yuri is interested in these things. Thinks it was warhead from old missile. Is shaped like warhead," he said, making a cone shape in the air, "and is very radioactive."

"So Yuri ran and told you?" Mike asked.

"No," the lieutenant admitted. "Tells others. Is . . . big fight. Yuri is wanting to tell government. Others, Oleg especially, want to sell to anyone. I am told by platoon sergeant. We all agree that I will find agood buyer. I sign myself on pa.s.s, yes? Know Tanya from . . . before. She knows people, so I tell her. We think, is much money, enough we can share. But . . . while I wait, Oleg is found buyer. They come and bring money. Platoon sells while I am gone. I find out tonight." He stopped and poured another, large, shot and downed it. "Is gone. So is Oleg, went with buyer. Others have deserted, are afraid of what will happen when government finds out."

"How much money did they get?" Tanya asked, angrily.

"Ten thousand euros," the lieutenant said, shrugging. "Is not much, split up among platoon. Oleg takes nothing, goes with buyers."

"Ten grand?" Mike snapped. "That'sit?"

"The buyers, they say that it is training weapon," the lieutenant said, shrugging. "Is not real weapon. And they offer moneynow. Have it in hand. Is gone," he repeated, shrugging again.

"Like h.e.l.l," Mike said, shaking his head. "Look, wehaveto find this nuke. I don't think for a second it was a 'training round.' Why in the h.e.l.l would theybuya training round? And why was it radioactive?"

"They say is for training," the lieutenant said. "I don't believe either. But they have money."

"Well, we're in a right pickle," Mike said, thinking hard. "We're going to have to come clean, tell the American government and then tell theRussiangovernment. TheAmericangovernment will cover you as best they canifyou get us all the information you have on the buyers. Because we're going to have to track this mother down before it gets refurbished and used."

"What is it with you, Mike?" Colonel Pierson yelled over the wash from the helicopter. "Can't stay away?" The colonel was wearing an Extreme Cold Weather Gortex suit over BDUs, a necessity for the day.

It was early fall but the weather was more like winter, a cold wind blowing from the north and a light dusting of snow already on the ground. The hard-looking clouds overhead presaged more bad weather to come.

The helicopter had landed in a brush-grown field right outside the gates to the facility. The facility was mostly crumbling Soviet-era buildings with one fixed up to house the "guard" platoon. All of it was overrun with weeds with the exception of a small area around the barracks and the gravel road leading in and out. Beyond the fence, with the exception of the clearing where the helicopter had landed, fir and pine trees stretched for miles into the almost limitless Siberian taiga.

"Bad luck," Mike answered, shaking his hand and looking at the Russian colonel who was following him.

"This is Colonel Erkin Chechnik," Pierson said, waving at the Red Army colonel. "Russian Intelligence.

Sort of my opposite number; he works in an office that briefs Putin."

"Pleased to meet you, Colonel," Mike said, taking the Russian's hand.

"Am wishing I could say the same," the colonel said. "Is very embarra.s.sing for my country."

"s.h.i.t happens," Mike replied. "Look, we're not going to get diddly, short of harsh interrogation methods, from these guys if . . ."

"Is covered as you Americans say," the colonel said, shaking his head. "As long as are giving answers, is not a problem. And the American government is going to be . . . how you say? Supplementing their salary," he added, glancing at Pierson.

"As soon as we have all the answers we can get," Pierson said, "the platoon, and the hooker, have a one-way trip to the Land of the Free and an entree into the Witness Protection Program. If they come clean."

"Okay," Mike said, blowing out. "Most of the platoon had already deserted when we got here. Sergeant Oleg Zazulya was the ringleader of the sale. He left with the buyers. The rest ran off on their own, taking the platoon truck. The only remaining witnesses are Sergeant Ivar Fadzaev, the platoon sergeant, and Private Yuri Khabelov. They're in the barracks, hoping like h.e.l.l that I can work a miracle on their behalf."

"What about the hooker?" Pierson asked. "We want to cover this up entirely."

"She's here, too," Mike said. "And by cover up, I a.s.sume we're not talking graves. These guys seem to be . . . sort of patriots. As close as you get among the narod in Russia."

"No graves," Colonel Chechnik said, shaking his head. "Just questions, yes?"

"Yes," Mike said. "Well, let's get to it."

"h.e.l.lo, Private Khabelov," Colonel Chechnik said. The interrogation was taking place in the lieutenant's old office with the Russian colonel behind the desk and Mike and Pierson on a ratty couch. The room was spa.r.s.ely decorated with a single picture of Putin on the wall and a small representation of the Russian flag behind the desk. The private was standing at attention, sweating in the cold room, clearly wishing he'd cut and run.