Dying Art

Brognola ended his call, then said, “That was interesting.” He leaned back in his chair and twirled the cigar. “Hard to hear with all the conversing going on, but interesting.”

“You wanted to see us, so I assume the call is about a mission?”

“Yeah, but first off, the Man wants you both to know that he’s very pleased with how smoothly the mission to bring in Sergio de la Vega went.”

“Well,” Grimaldi said, “I guess that’s a compliment.”

Brognola held out his hand for the remote. The Stony Man pilot slid it across the table to him. After he pressed a few buttons, a breaking news story came on the big screen. The sound was still off, but the caption feature flashed a report of several murders at the newly opened plush San Martin Resort near Cancun, Mexico.

Two of the victims are purported to have been Americans. Authorities declined comment at this time, and this report could neither be confirmed nor denied.

The screen froze and Brognola turned to them. “It’s confirmed. Two dead Americans.”

“Tourists?” Bolan asked.

Brognola shook his head. “US Customs and Border Protection agents.”

“CBP?” Grimaldi frowned. “Were they working a case down there?”

“They were,” Brognola said. “Something about looking into the black-market dealings concerning some stolen artifacts from the Middle East. Most specifically, Iraq.”

“It’s common knowledge that a lot of precious pieces were looted from the National Museum in Baghdad after the US invasion,” Bolan said.

“And a lot of it’s starting to surface now that the situation’s cooled off a bit,” Brognola added.

“Hey, I love art as much as the next guy,” Grimaldi said. “But what’s that got to do with us?”

“A lot of that stolen stuff ended up in the hands of terrorists,” Bolan said. “Now, as they continue to lose territory, they need to find new ways to finance their operations.”

“Right.” Brognola shifted back in his chair. “And this one had two interesting wrinkles.” He placed the still unlit cigar between his lips and affected a wry grin as he held up his right index finger. “One, the third person killed along with the Customs and Border Protection agents was a Mexican journalist. Rolando Diaz. Does the name sound familiar?”

Grimaldi shook his head. “Should it?”

“Diaz,” Bolan said. “The woman who helped us grab Sergio de la Vega was named Diaz. And I believe Jésus told me that her father was a journalist.”

“One and the same,” the big Fed told him. “Two Mexican marines were killed as well, although that hasn’t been divulged to the media yet.”

“Jésus mentioned that their latest assignments included guarding some journalists,” Bolan said. “Which was why he felt confident that he could adequately safeguard the woman, Consuelo.”

Brognola leaned forward, placing his forearms on the conference table. “She’s also missing. Apparently she was with her father when all this went down. Something else that wasn’t released to the press. Our buddy Jésus sent word via back channels to the American Embassy in Mexico City that she took off with her father’s laptop. They’re looking for her now. And that’s not all. It seems there was one other little fact that they’d been sitting on down there. They found a handwritten note at the crime scene.”

“What did it say?” Bolan asked.

“Vengeance,” Brognola said. “And the funny thing is, it was written in Arabic.”

Harbor de San Martin

Off the coast of Quintana Roo, Mexico

Don Fernando de la Vega watched as Gordo escorted the blindfolded lawyer down the companionway into the yacht’s cabin. They were almost like two bulls descending the narrow steps, the fine wood creaking under the strain of their combined weight. No, not bulls. Don Fernando knew that Gordo’s bulk was all muscle, but the same was not true for the lawyer. This man was no bull. He was grossly overweight, his body round and soft, but he was said to possess one of the finest legal minds the Americans had to offer, and that was all that counted. The intricate machinations had to be set in place with precision in order to make the plan work.

Don Fernando’s eyes shot to Clayton Tragg, who stood in the corner of the luxurious cabin like a silent sentry. He was a large man, too, but not as big as Gordo. Still, this American mercenary had proven himself to be both efficient and deadly, if the need arose. Don Fernando had no doubt that Tragg, like Gordo, could easily kill a man without the use of a weapon. And Don Fernando knew he needed such a man, an American, to do his bidding in this instance.

The lawyer stumbled slightly as his feet hit the floor of the deck, but Gordo held the man’s arms, keeping him upright.

Don Fernando lit the cigar he had between his lips, set the fine, gold lighter onto the tabletop and nodded.

Gordo removed the lawyer’s blindfold and the fat man blinked several times and shook his head.

“Was all this really necessary?” the lawyer asked.

“My apologies, Señor Sinclair, but certain steps regarding my security must be taken.”

Kenneth Sinclair pursed his lips and then gave a curt nod. “I understand, but I assure you, anything you may say is covered by attorney-client privilege.”

Don Fernando blew out a puff of smoke. It obviously bothered the lawyer.

“I have many more concerns than the ramifications of your legal system, señor.” He drew on the cigar again, this time allowing the smoke to creep slowly out of his mouth. “Tell me, how is my son?”

Sinclair coughed slightly. “He’s fine. Well as can be expected, that is. I’ve arranged for him to be held in protective custody... Isolation, away from the other inmates.”

Don Fernando’s face betrayed nothing.

“At the hearing the judge ruled unfavorably on my motion to dismiss, based on the illegality of the arrest,” Sinclair continued. “He’s going to let the trial proceed, despite the unusual circumstances. There was a similar case involving—”

Don Fernando slammed his fist on the table so hard the lighter bounced. Sinclair’s head jerked back, and the cartel leader could sense the other man’s fear.

He decided to press his advantage and kept a scowl on his face.

“And why is it that he is still incarcerated? Why is it that an attorney of your esteemed reputation has not been able to obtain bond?”

Sinclair swallowed hard before he spoke. “I’m afraid it’s a bit more complicated than you’ve been led to believe. The judge is a federal magistrate, and he has deemed your son, Sergio, a flight risk.” He paused to compress, then lick, his lips. “I’m preparing another motion based on the—”

Don Fernando held up his open palm in a silencing gesture. The lawyer’s head jerked back again, as if he thought he was going to get slapped. His face flashed a quick, but nervous smile when no blow came.

“I care nothing for your motions,” Don Fernando said, letting his disdain paint the last word. He leaned forward and drew again on the cigar. “Tell me more of this prison where they are holding my son.”

The lawyer coughed slightly and pushed back, away from the smoke. “It’s not a prison, per se. It’s called the MCC, the Metropolitan Correction Center. It’s located in downtown Chicago and has extremely tight security.”

Don Fernando already knew that, having been briefed by Tragg on the unfeasibility of initiating a direct assault on the building to free Sergio.

“A direct assault would be virtually impossible,” Tragg had told him. “Both in terms of a successful extraction and ensuring the safety of your son.”

Don Fernando did not doubt this. The extent of the efforts the Americans had gone through to abduct Sergio had made it clear that they would not place him in some flimsy box of a prison that could be easily broken into.

“What about bribery?” Don Fernando asked, directing his attention back to the lawyer and thinking of the artful escape a cartel competitor had effected in Mexico City.

“Again,” Sinclair said, “that would be virtually impossible to arrange. Plus, I couldn’t be party to something like that. If it ever came to light, if it were traced back to me, I’d lose my law license and be thrown in jail myself.”

Don Fernando held up his palm again. “Do not use that tone with me.”

“Sorry.” The fat man’s cheeks shook.

Again, this was not news to Don Fernando. Tragg had already told him the same thing, although the American mercenary had not shown any fear during his recital. Don Fernando would not have tolerated the man if he had. He needed someone who held no fear.

“I want you to arrange for Sergio’s wife to visit him in the American prison.”

Sinclair’s head bobbed up and down. “That shouldn’t be a problem. But she’ll be subjected to extreme scrutiny.”

“Just see to it,” Don Fernando said. He shot a quick look toward Tragg. “We have assembled all of her proper documentation, and obtained a passport and visa for her. She will accompany you back to the United States tonight.”

Sinclair bit his lip. “All right. There is one other thing.”

Don Fernando took another drag on the cigar and raised an eyebrow.

Sinclair’s smile appeared more forced than genuine. “I’m a little bit concerned about how I’m to be paid.” He paused and took two shallow breaths. “You see, the Attorney General has filed a motion charging that any funds I receive must not have any ties to...any illegalities.”

“So, handle his case pro bono,” Don Fernando said. “That is the term you use, is it not?”

“Pro bono, yes, but...” The corners of Sinclair’s mouth pulled back. “You don’t quite understand. I don’t work that way. I have a large staff, associates... I can’t expect them to work for free.”

Don Fernando purposely kept his face blank as he stubbed out the cigar in a gold ashtray. He then jerked his head toward a briefcase that sat on the credenza next to them. Gordo stepped over and grabbed the briefcase, set it on the table between his boss and the lawyer and moved his sausage-like thumbs to push open the securing snaps. When he lifted the lid, the densely packed, rubber-banded bundles of hundred-dollar US bills were plainly visible.

“This should suffice for a down payment, no?” Don Fernando said. He took another cigar from a humidor and moistened the end with his mouth.

Sinclair’s eyes bulged in his corpulent face. He couldn’t take his eyes off the money as he spoke.

“Well, I do believe...that is very gener—sufficient.” He stopped and compressed his lips again. “However, I may have some trouble bringing that much money back with me when I reenter the United States.”

Don Fernando held the flame of the lighter to the tip of the cigar, rolling it as he spoke, glancing at Tragg.

“You need not worry of such things, señor. We have thought of everything.”

“We’ll move the briefcase across the border by our own special means,” Tragg said. “Once it’s safely and unofficially in the US, I’ll hand deliver it to your office in Chicago.”

Don Fernando could see it: Sinclair’s eyes betraying his avarice. This fat pig would do their bidding, no questions asked. It was time to end this meeting.

“Gordo,” Don Fernando said.

The giant stepped over and pulled the blindfold out of his pocket.

Sinclair winced. “Not that thing again.”

Don Fernando laughed and blew some smoke in the other man’s face. “I’m afraid it is once again necessary. But do not worry. I trust Gordo with my life, so I have no problem trusting him with yours, as well.”

Before Sinclair could reply, the giant was slapping the blindfold in place. After securing it, he lifted the lawyer out of the chair and walked him to the companionway. Instead of guiding the man up the steps, Gordo merely hoisted Sinclair off his feet and ascended the stairs himself, carrying the other man as if he were hauling a bag of groceries.

Don Fernando listened to their footsteps on the deck above, and then watched as they descended the gangplank to the pier and walked toward the waiting limousine.

A frown curled down the ends of Don Fernando’s mouth. He waved Tragg over to the table.

“After Sergio is free,” Don Fernando said, “kill that fat bastard.”

“What about the money?”

“I do not care about the money,” Don Fernando said. “I do not like loose ends.”

“Not a problem,” Tragg said.

“Where do we stand on this other matter? The woman? The daughter of the reporter.”

“We’ve got a lead on where she might be,” Tragg said. “I’ve got some of my men working on tracking her down now, but Cancun’s a big place.”

Don Fernando drew quickly on the cigar and then exhaled the smoke. “This is clumsiness. I do not like clumsiness.”

“She and her father were being protected by the marines. As you know, they’re not pushovers.”

“I pay you well to handle such problems,” Don Fernando says. “Do I not?”

“Yes, but—”

The cartel leader cut him off with a dismissive gesture, keeping the fire in his eyes. “I care nothing for excuses. Only for results. You are supposed to be professionals, no?”

“Yes, sir. I’ll see to it personally.”

Don Fernando considered that, then shook his head. “No, use no more than two of your men. I will send some of my men with them. They will mix in better with the locals. I want you to accompany Maria and that fat lawyer back to Chicago. Be certain your squad is totally prepared and ready. There must be no mistakes. And remember, Sergio is your main concern.” He pointed to a locked metal briefcase on the floor a few feet away. “And take that with you. You’ll need it to deal with the other American.”

Tragg glanced at the case. “I’ll take good care of it.”

“I care nothing for it. It is only a means to an end. But use it wisely. When dealing with the American, remember the parable about the grapes being so much sweeter when they were just out of reach.”

As Tragg stood and turned to leave, the drug boss stopped him. “Have your men find out what the woman knows first. And find that laptop. We must be certain that our plan is still in place.”

Chapter Three

Fort Hood, Texas

As the C-130 transport touched down with a hard bounce on the military landing strip, Grimaldi shook his head.

“You get a load of that landing?” Grimaldi asked Bolan. “If I was flying this bird, I could’ve set it down so easy you’d a thought we were landing on a sofa cushion.”

Bolan said nothing as they coasted to a stop. He took out his cell phone and called Brognola.

“We just touched down. Any updates?”

“Same as when you left. Consuelo Diaz is still missing, but I got word that the Bureau’s sending two agents to the scene.”

“That was quick,” Bolan said.

“Yeah, they are moving kind of fast on this one, but that’s understandable since federal agents were murdered. Barbara arranged for your plane to be all set up at the airfield. Should be gassed up and ready to go.” The big Fed referred to Barbara Price, mission controller at Stony Man Farm.

“Jack’ll be glad to hear that.” Bolan shot his old friend a look and gave him a thumbs-up. “He’s a little envious of the pilot on this one.”

Grimaldi snorted.

“You’ll fly into Cancun Airport, and two people from the consular agency will meet you right outside customs,” Brognola said. “Bearing gifts.”

“Also good news,” Bolan said.

“Good luck, but watch yourselves down there,” Brognola said. “And I don’t need to remind you...once you leave the resort you’ll be in hostile territory.”

“We’ll be on our best behavior. As far as I’m concerned, this is more of a fact-finding mission at this point.”

“Yeah,” Brognola said. “Let’s hope it stays that way.”

After grabbing their duffel bags and getting off the military transport plane, Bolan saw an olive-drab staff car approaching. It stopped about forty feet from the C-130. Two uniformed soldiers—one male, and one female—got out and walked toward them. Bolan checked the ranks of each. The female was a Spec4, the male a second lieutenant.

Bolan nodded to them and held out his hand.

“Mr. Cooper, I presume?” the lieutenant asked, referring to Bolan’s alias for the mission, Matt Cooper. The black stitching above his left pocket spelled out MASTERS. The woman’s name was DURELL.

“That’s right,” Bolan said, shaking hands.

The female soldier regarded them curiously.

Bolan was offering his hand to her when Grimaldi beat him to it.

“Hey, Specialist,” he said. “Unfortunately, we’re in a bit of a rush to grab our plane.” He pumped her hand and then mimicked what was intended to look like a self-deprecating shrug. “I’m the pilot, and as I said, we’re in a bit of a hurry, so why don’t you give me your number and I’ll give you a buzz on the flip side?”

The lieutenant cleared his throat loudly.

“Is our plane ready, Lieutenant?” Bolan asked.

The man stared at Grimaldi a second longer. “Hop in the vehicle, gentlemen, and we’ll take you to it.”

The female soldier glanced at Grimaldi before turning and going to the driver’s door.

The lieutenant got in the front passenger seat. The trunk lid popped open, and Bolan and Grimaldi stowed their bags inside, leaving it open as they took their time arranging things to allow for some private conversation.

“When are we going to pick up our hardware?” Grimaldi asked.

“Once we land in Cancun, someone from the consular agency will meet us. Hal and Barb arranged for a diplomatic pouch to be sent there.”

Bolan slammed the trunk and strode to the right side of the car. Grimaldi went to the left. As they took off for the private airstrip, where Price had arranged for a fueled Learjet to be standing by, Bolan considered placing a call to Jésus Martinez. Without knowing what the Mexican marine might be engaged in at the moment, however, he decided to wait.

The drive took less than twenty minutes. At the airstrip, Bolan and Grimaldi retrieved their bags from the trunk, and Masters got out to shake hands with them. Durell remained in the vehicle.

As they walked through the office toward the gate where their plane was located, Grimaldi sighed and said, “I think I could’ve gotten something lined up with Specialist Durell if that damn butter bean lieutenant hadn’t given me the stink eye.”

“Yeah, leave it to an officer to impede your libido,” Bolan said dryly. He pointed to the Learjet. “That’s our ride.”

After running through the safety checklist, Grimaldi said he was ready to go. The flight time was estimated at two and a half hours, but the Stony Man pilot said he’d make it in way less.

“Let’s just concentrate on getting there safely,” Bolan said. “Remember, our contacts will be expecting us there at a predesignated time.”

“Hell, if we get there too early, I’ll just fly around in circles for a while.”

Cancun International Airport

Quintano Roo, Mexico

“Man,” Grimaldi said as they taxied into a special prerented hangar. “Remember when this place used to be a little run-down rinky-dink, one-horse airport?”

“Times change,” Bolan said, unbuckling his seat belt and getting out of the copilot’s chair. He grabbed his duffel bag and headed for the door.

The plane rolled to a stop inside the hangar, and Bolan opened the door. Some airport maintenance personnel approached, and Bolan paid them to service and house the plane until the return trip.

Grimaldi joined him as they walked toward the terminal. Since they’d traveled light, with only their duffel bags, they were able to bypass baggage pickup after getting their passports stamped and their IDs checked. They each received a paper that the agent said had to remain with their passports at all times.

“I don’t remember doing all this on our last trip down here,” Grimaldi said with a wry grin. Then his gaze narrowed. “Don’t tell me we’ve got to stand in another line. Didn’t Hal or Barb put the motion to fix in?”

“Jack, relax. We don’t want to call attention to ourselves. Besides, we’ll probably get the green light to go right through customs.”

“Something tells me there’s a red light in my future.” Grimaldi frowned and patted his pocket. “If I had known the line was going to be this long, I would’ve put some video games on my phone. Or maybe a movie.”

Bolan ignored his grousing and assumed the next position in line. He used the wait time to review the situation: two dead US Customs and Border Protection agents, who were working on a stolen art case: a possible artifact of Middle Eastern origin. One dead Mexican journalist. Two dead marines. One missing woman who was supposed to be under the protection of the marines. A note with vengeance written in Arabic at the scene.

And last, but not least, two FBI agents sent down to investigate.

He hoped they wouldn’t be the ultracurious kind regarding Bolan and Grimaldi’s faux Department of Justice credentials. While their cover was solid enough, the Executioner didn’t want to waste time jumping through hoops to satisfy some Bureau agent’s officiousness.

The line inched forward, the people near the front separating into two distinct groups, designated by those who got a green light signal to proceed through customs without being checked, and those who received the red light, which meant that their possessions had to be inspected. The three couples ahead of Bolan and Grimaldi, who looked like members of some kind of fraternal organization, all received a green light. They bustled toward the main terminal area, a bluster of laughing and back-slapping merriment.

The light flashed green for Bolan and Grimaldi.

“Finally,” the Stony Man pilot said, and they headed for the exit. “I was getting pretty tired of standing behind those yo-yos.”

The area outside the terminal was crowded, and lines of uniformed limo and bus drivers stood waving signs with various names printed on them. Off to the side Bolan spied two people, a heavyset man and a slender, rather attractive brown-haired woman, in proper business attire holding a sign that read COOPER—his consular agency contacts, no doubt.

Lucien Technologies

Temptation, Arizona

Clayton Tragg watched Lucien Bruns study the photo on Tragg’s phone like a pubescent teenager getting his first glance at a naked woman. That professor, Higgins, had the same reaction. Maybe for these guys, the artifacts took the place of the fairer sex, but were probably just as much trouble in the long run. Tragg was amused by the thought.

They were in Bruns’s private office. The walls were black slate with outcroppings of glass shelves upon which rested various crude artifacts that resembled the work of unskilled sixth graders instead of the priceless artifacts Bruns claimed they were. Still, if this rich idiot was willing to pay a king’s ransom for a bunch of hand-carved hunks of stone that were a couple thousand years old, that was his business... As long as he kept the cash flowing with those wire transfers to the Caymans. Tragg mentally thanked Wilson Goddard, the now deceased founder of good old Granite Security, for paving the way and showing Tragg the ropes back when they’d first started the private military organization during the early days of the Iraq invasion.

“There’s a lot of money to be made,” Goddard had said. “And we’re going to make sure we get us a big piece of it that nobody, especially Uncle Sam, can touch.”

About two years later Goddard was blown apart by an IED just outside the Green Zone, and Tragg went immediately to the man’s hooch and took his laptop and any other financial record keeping he could find. Seven months later he was running the show, and if those other PMO pussies hadn’t blown the whistle on how Granite Security extorted money from wealthy Iraqi citizens, he’d probably still be in Baghdad.

Well, maybe not, since things went to hell in a handbasket after they pulled out most of the troops. Being in the midst of a shooting civil war without the big muscle backup of troops and Black Hawk gunships was something that didn’t appeal to Tragg. No, working for these new bosses was a lot easier, not to mention more lucrative. And all he had to do was keep things straight, keep playing one against the other.