Lethal Stakes by Don Pendleton

Author:Don Pendleton
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Worldwide Library
Published: 2013-09-15T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter Seventeen

Once Bolan closed and locked the door, he walked back to one of his bags, lifted it and placed it on his bed and withdrew a laptop.

Lifting the lid, he booted up the laptop, set it on a small, circular table. He dropped into a chair and waited for the machine to finish turning on. He didn’t like being used as a pawn for the Libyan government, even if it was the new-and-improved version. But he also didn’t want to spend forever playing whack-a-mole with Kassem. So, yeah, he’d make a deal with one devil if it meant taking out another one. He inserted the flash drive into a USB port and opened it, searching through its contents, most of which were in English. A plan began to formulate as he looked through the files.

* * *

“ASK THE RUSSIANS for help?” Brognola said, his tone incredulous. “You’re kidding.”

“No,” Bolan said, “I’m not.”

He was speaking with his old friend via sat-phone. Bolan continued. “I just need some information.”

“More like high-level intelligence. From the Russians.”

“I killed one of their pests,” Bolan replied. “That should carry some weight with them, don’t you think?”

Bolan heard his old friend sigh.

“I know a couple of guys in the GRU,” Brognola said, “who don’t absolutely hate us.”

“A ringing endorsement.”

“You take what you can get in this game.”

“If it helps, you can tell them to take credit for what happened in Athens.”

“I’m sure they’d love nothing better than to claim credit for killing a group of Libyans and Chechens in a sovereign country. All while causing millions of dollars in property damage. The press over there is calling it an arms deal gone bad.”

“That’s sort of true.”

“Yeah, but I still don’t think the Russians want credit for it.”

“Not officially,” Bolan said, “but at least they could go through back channels and tell the Chechens it was a Russian operation.”

“They could do that now, without helping us,” Brognola replied.

“True. C’mon, Hal, work with me.”

“Look,” Brognola replied. “Here’s how I can frame it. You—or the United States—just eliminated one headache for them. Now the Chechens have anointed a successor and we’re offering to take him out, too. The Russians can take credit and it costs them nothing.”

“That’s pretty close to what I suggested.”

“Close,” Brognola replied, “but I added some panache.”

“You’re all about the panache.”

“Bet your ass. Let me make the call.”

Bolan hung up the phone and looked at Grimaldi, who stood at the window, curtains open, and stared at something.

“Looking at the Acropolis?” Bolan asked.

Grimaldi shot Bolan a sidelong glance then turned his gaze back on the window and nodded affirmatively.

“You haven’t said anything,” the pilot said.

“Said anything? About?”

“I was chatting up a woman when I was supposed to be doing surveillance,” Grimaldi said. “Now the lady’s dead and Leo’s in the hospital. I’d say I pretty much screwed the pooch on this one.”

“The guys who hit the safehouse, they’re dead, too,” Bolan said. “You did that. You and Leo.”

“The killer got away.”

“Because you stopped to help your friend.

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