Deadly Salvage
“His daughter?” Bolan flipped the file open again and looked at the girl’s picture.
“Yeah, she was down there a week ago. Apparently, she won some kind of free, all-inclusive vacation. Checked into her hotel and hasn’t been seen since.”
“So you’re thinking the girl might have been kidnapped?”
“Again, unknown, but if Monk has been traced to the same island, it could be a bit more than coincidence. There seem to be a lot of Americans going missing down that way. It’s the same general vicinity where the yacht disappeared.” He handed Bolan another file, which contained pictures of two couples, a young Hispanic man and a luxury yacht with A Slice of Heaven emblazoned on the front.
“So why not let the Feds handle it?” Bolan asked. “Why do we need to get involved?”
“You know how the President feels about checks and balances. He’s not totally comfortable letting the FBI be the only player in the game down there. They can tend to get kind of uptight and formal, especially when they’re investigating something in a foreign country. Sticklers about following the rules. So who better than us to be an impartial observer?”
“Yeah, right.”
“Oh, and I should mention,” Brognola said. “They’re making some kind of blockbuster movie down there, financed by none other than Willard Forsythe Everett III. He’s also hosting the Mr. Galaxy contest on the island this weekend.”
“Does this mean he’s not going to run for president again?”
Brognola chuckled. “He’s got enough money to, but apparently he’s got a new agenda. The island belongs to the French and Dutch, but Everett built an enormous hotel resort there called the Omni. That’s where you’d be staying. Word is, he’s planning on turning the entire island into an adult playground.”
“And do you think he has anything to do with the Monk situation?”
“Hard to say,” Brognola answered. “But I’d like you to keep an eye on things at the Omni, as well. We’ll be sending along someone to accompany you as part of your cover.”
“Who?”
“Jack.” Brognola grinned. “So, you interested?”
“I’m game,” Bolan replied.
* * *
GRIMES WATCHED WILLARD FORSYTHE EVERETT III finish going through the digital images on the camera. Everett was sitting on a sumptuous sofa in the massive penthouse suite atop the Omni hotel. Everett wasn’t a big man by normal standards, but he always carried himself as if he were six feet four. In reality, he was more like five-eight or -nine, depending on the size of the lifts in his shoes.
But there was no denying that he was in incredible shape. He wore a short-sleeved polo shirt and the muscles in his arms rippled with each movement. He regularly worked out with full-contact karate fighters and boxers. His latest kick was the Mixed Martial Arts stuff, but Grimes figured that was because he could keep hitting people after he had them down. Of course, those sparring with Everett knew better than to try too hard to win. The boss didn’t like to lose. He had a bit of what was traditionally referred to as a “Napoleon complex.”
Everett turned off the camera and stood, tossing it next to the pile of papers on his large desk. He walked over to the open patio doors overlooking the beach, and clasped his hands behind his back.
“Those broads were kind of good-looking,” he said. “Too bad you had to eliminate them.”
Grimes waited for Everett’s further comment on the tactical neutralization of the people on the yacht, but the billionaire didn’t seem that concerned. Collateral damage had been an accurate assessment on Grimes’s part, after all. Everett looked tired, though. Grimes knew the rich bastard had just returned from receiving his biannual regimen of steroid and hormone treatments that allowed him to maintain his youthful constitution as he crested middle age. Hair transplants, cosmetic tucks, hormone shots, cheek implants.... Maybe Everett was contemplating another run for the White House.
“What’s the status of the recovery?” he asked.
“I’ve had the men working twenty-four/seven,” Grimes said. “We’ve cut through the second hull, but we have to constantly monitor the radiation levels.”
“Understandable,” Everett allowed, “but the clock’s ticking. Remember I’m juggling the timing of the takeover of the Xerxes, too. It was just getting to Cuba when I left for my treatments.”
“It’s on its way back now,” Grimes said. “Near the Isla de Margarita. We’re tracking it by satellite, waiting till it gets past Tobago before we make our move.”
“Where’s Tanner?”
“Went to Jamaica yesterday to tag up with the Russians. They’re tracking the Xerxes and will intercept with the helicopter from there, once it gets into the Caribbean.”
Everett’s face twisted into a frown. “Is Zelenkov sure he can handle it?”
“He’s ex-Spetsnaz and was fully trained in ship assaults. The Iranians will never know what hit them.”
Everett nodded, but blew out a long breath. “Everything has to coincide exactly, without...creating too many waves.” He paused and smiled at his own pun. “And imagine me playing on the same team as the Ruskies. Who would have thought?” He laughed.
Grimes forced a laugh, too. This seemed to please the boss. Good. The last thing he wanted to do was piss the guy off. His temper was legendary.
“What about those FBI agents?” Everett asked.
“Most of them are in Ponce helping check things out for the vice president’s visit.”
Everett smiled. “They won’t know what hit ’em. What about the agent they sent here?”
“Just a big, dumb Iowa farm boy. He’s being led around by one of Le Pierre’s goons on a snipe hunt.”
“We can’t assume that’ll last forever.” Everett glanced at his watch. “Okay, line up a couple sparring partners for me. I want to work out before we go out on the rig.” He strode back to the desk and picked up the camera.
“Want me to delete those pics?” Grimes asked.
Everett rotated his head, as if loosening up his neck muscles. “Not till I tell you. Keep me posted on the salvage progress, and keep your eyes open for any new arrivals. Especially Americans.”
Chapter 2
The airport was on the southern, Dutch side of the island and situated uncomfortably close to the populated beach. Grimaldi remarked that a high serve from one of the beach volleyball games could have bounced off the big 747’s window as they skidded onto the tarmac and began braking to a stop.
“It looks pretty tight, all right,” Bolan said. “Maybe that’s why they booked us commercial instead of having you try to fly us down.”
“Like hell.” Grimaldi frowned. “I could’ve landed this tub so smoothly it would have been like flopping down onto a featherbed.”
Bolan grinned. His old friend always prided himself on being able to fly anything with wings or rotors better than anyone else. And he was probably right.
As the two of them stood in the customs line for arriving passengers, the soldier looked around. Their line was full of tourist groups and was moving at a snail’s pace, compared to the one on their right, which moved faster but was considerably longer. Grimaldi seemed to notice this, too.
“The line you’re in always seems to move slowest, doesn’t it?” he said.
Bolan nodded as he studied the makeup of the other line. It was overwhelmingly composed of black and Hispanic people with makeshift luggage. They weren’t dressed like tourists, and seemed to be conversing in either Spanish or French.
Prospective workers, Bolan thought, probably from the Dominican Republic, Puerto Rico or Haiti.
He looked at the customs agent scrutinizing the passports and papers. The man waved one arrival through and accepted a passport from the next person. Bolan watched as the agent opened the passport, holding it up in front of him, then quickly rubbed his hand over it. A quick cough followed and he brought his right palm up to cover his mouth. Then he dipped his hand beneath the counter, appearing to wipe it on his pant leg. He asked a few more questions and then waved the person through the gate.
As their line progressed Bolan watched the man repeat the coughing gesture, or a variation of it, sometimes using a sneeze, with four other arriving passengers. Bolan was close enough to read the agent’s name tag now: J. Van der Hyden.
Grimaldi was next in line and stepped forward, handing over his passport with an exasperated, “Finally.”
The customs agent smiled pleasantly and gave a welcome greeting in accented English. “And what, may I ask, is the purpose of your visit?”
“You may ask,” Grimaldi said, gesturing toward Bolan and himself. “We’re reporters. My partner and I are here to cover the big movie that Willard Everett III is producing down here.”
“Ah, yes,” the agent said. “That is on the French side. May I see your passport, as well, sir?”
Bolan handed the man his passport, which was under the name Matt Cooper, his civilian alias. The agent’s eyes went from Grimaldi to Bolan, then back to their passports as he shone a light on both documents, making a thorough examination.
Two more people slipped through the gate from Van der Hyden’s line.
The customs agent looked up at them once more. “You may pick up your luggage at the end of the corridor. Have a pleasant stay on the island.”
Grimaldi grabbed the passports and handed Bolan his. “Took him long enough,” the pilot said as they headed to the luggage carousel. “Did you see how many people got through the other station before us?”
“There’s a reason for that,” Bolan replied. “Most of them had a c-note in their passports. They’re probably here illegally.”
Grimaldi smirked. “Hey, so are we, in a manner of speaking.”
* * *
THE ROAD WOUND through the mountains, widening occasionally on fenced-off plateaus where numerous taxis had pulled over and parked so tourists could take pictures of the scenic view. After Bolan and Grimaldi rented a car at the airport, a Citroën, they’d loaded their luggage into the trunk and taken off toward their hotel, which was on the French side of the island. Bolan let the pilot drive, and as the cool wind whipped through the open window, checked in for a sitrep with Brognola on his satellite phone.
“How’s it going so far?” the big Fed asked.
“Not bad,” Bolan said. “We’re on our way to the Omni now.”
“Good to hear,” Brognola said. “We’re working on hooking you guys up with the FBI agent down there.”
The curving roadway straightened out and they started a descent. Ahead, Bolan could see the bay area, with numerous high-rise hotels blocking out the view of the ocean beyond. The tallest one, he knew from his research, was Everett’s resort. Between the ridge they were on and the wall of hotels was a sea of ramshackle buildings and houses where he assumed the locals lived.
Catching a glimpse of something in the side mirror, Bolan straightened. A white jeep was behind them, with POLICE stenciled in black block letters below the windshield. Its flashers lit up and a siren began to wail.
“Hal, I’ll call you back,” Bolan said. “We’ve got a slight problem.”
“What kind of problem?”
“Island police,” Bolan said. “Jack must have been speeding.”
Grimaldi swore as he pulled the rental car over to the side of the road and stopped. “I’m liking this place less and less,” he said as he and Bolan exited the vehicle.
Two officers approached. One was a tall, muscular black man with a neatly trimmed beard and a starched blue-and-white uniform with chevrons on the shoulders. The other man was white, about five foot eight, and sported a pencil-thin mustache. His uniform had a row of shiny gold buttons, a three-stripe captain’s insignia on both epaulets and a golden braid looped through the left one. His name tag read LE PIERRE.
Bolan studied the sidearms that both men wore. The sergeant’s was a Manurhin MR 73 .357 Magnum revolver. The captain’s weapon looked to be a 9 mm SIG Sauer SP2022. Both dependable guns with smooth action. Bolan smiled. “Good afternoon, Officers. What can we do for you?”
“Ah.” The captain lifted an eyebrow. “You are Americans, n’est-ce pas?”
“That’s right,” Grimaldi said. “How can we help you?”
“You will both give your passports to the sergeant,” the captain said.
Bolan and Grimaldi handed over their documents. The big man glared at them and handed the passports to Le Pierre, who took his time paging through them. “No luggage?”
“It’s in the trunk,” Bolan said.
“Open it immediately, Gipardieu.” He uttered the rest of his instructions to the sergeant in French, and Bolan gathered that Gipardieu had been directed to search their luggage.
“We already went through customs,” Grimaldi said. “What’s the problem here?”
“Here, as you say, is the problem.” The captain took another step forward so that his face was only a few inches from Grimaldi’s. “You are now in French territory.”
Bolan saw Grimaldi’s face start to redden. “Jack,” he barked. “Just open the trunk.”
His mouth set in a firm line, Grimaldi turned and opened the rear compartment of the Citroën.
The big man stepped forward. “Move aside,” he said. His voice sounded high and whiny for such a huge man.
Bolan and Grimaldi exchanged looks and stepped back.
Sergeant Gipardieu took out the three bags, moved around to the side of the car and set them on the roof. He unzipped the two suitcases and fingered through the clothes and toiletries. Then he opened the third case, which had a hard outer shell and silver clasps.
“Be careful with that,” Grimaldi said. “It’s fragile.”
Gipardieu hesitated.
“What is it?” Captain Le Pierre asked.
“It’s our camera and video equipment,” Bolan said. “We’re magazine reporters. We’re here to do a story on the new movie being filmed, and the Mr. Galaxy contest.”
Le Pierre muttered something else in French and made a quick motion with his hand, adding “Vite, vite.”
Bolan watched as Gipardieu took the cameras, camcorder and various attachments out of their foam encasements.
“And what is this?” The captain pointed to a pair of angular handles with grooved, flat metal tops.
“Those are handles for our camcorder,” Bolan said.
Le Pierre studied the items, then blinked a few times.
“Captain,” Bolan said, “can we do anything else for you? If not, it was a very long flight, and my partner and I would like to check into our hotel and relax a bit.”
Le Pierre raised his eyes from the case and studied Bolan’s face for several seconds. He glanced down at the passports and then up again. “Monsieur Cooper...”
Bolan waited. Had their cover been blown? Did this guy know them from somewhere?
Le Pierre gestured to Gipardieu, who slammed the camera case closed. The sergeant turned and walked back to Le Pierre, leaving the three bags on the roof. Le Pierre handed the passports back to Grimaldi and Bolan.
“It is my hope that you enjoy your stay here, messieurs,” he said. The two officers began to walk back to their jeep. “Au revoir.”
“What an asshole,” Grimaldi said as they reloaded their bags and climbed back into the Citroën.
“Oh, I don’t know,” Bolan said. “You and he have might have more in common than you think.”
“Yeah? Like what?”
“Well, I know you have a thing for pretty French girls.” Bolan settled himself into the seat. “And it looks like you both share a preference for SIG Sauers.”
Grimaldi slammed the Citroën into gear and peeled out.
Chapter 3
Bolan dialed Brognola back on the sat phone as they pulled into the Omni hotel’s parking lot. “What’s the latest on that hookup with the Feds?” Bolan asked after he’d filled Brognola in on their encounter with the local police.
“Should be all set,” Brognola said. “I’ll email you the agent’s info and sat phone number. We’re trying to finalize a meeting time now. I’ll send the location as soon as I get it. I’ve also arranged all of your hardware—it will be delivered directly to the hotel. And I’ll see if Aaron can run a check on Le Pierre and that Dutch customs agent. What was his name again?”
“J. Van der Hyden.” Bolan spelled it.
“Got it. I’ll get back to you.”
“Roger that,” Bolan said.
He ended the call. Inside the main lobby, the clerk behind the polished teakwood counter was all smiles and efficiency. He offered them complimentary drink passes to the beach bar, and snapped his fingers at a bellman, telling him to carry the luggage up to their room.
They stepped into an elevator with a glass wall that gave them a postcard perfect view of the beach and ocean. As they rose to the fourth floor, Bolan could see numerous piers with boats of various sizes tethered to the moorings.
“They have boats over there to go fishing and diving?” he asked.
The bellman nodded and flashed a wide smile. “Yes, sir. Fishing, diving, waterskiing, paragliding, anything you want. The concierge can arrange it for you. If you wish, I can have him call up to your room.”
Bolan and Grimaldi exchanged looks. Special attention was not what they wanted right now.
“Maybe later,” Grimaldi said. The elevator stopped and they moved down the hallway toward their room. It faced the ocean, and was much closer to the stairway than the elevator. Good for slipping in and out without drawing too much attention.
“These bags are a bit heavier than they look, sir,” the bellman said.
“Give the kid a nice tip, Matt,” Grimaldi said as he stuck the key card into the slot. “He’s earned it.”
Bolan tipped the bellman, who continued to offer assistance in procuring anything, anything at all, that they might desire, including an introduction to some beautiful island girls who liked Americans.
Bolan declined and closed the door.
“Not so fast,” Grimaldi said. “That last part about the island girls sounded kind of interesting.”
“We’re here to work,” Bolan said drily.
The room was fairly expansive, with two beds, a wet bar built into one wall, and a lounge area. The drapes on the window were open, offering a perfect view of the ocean side.
Bolan secured the dead bolt lock as he and Grimaldi continued their innocuous conversation about the nice flight and the pleasant drive from the airport. As they talked, Bolan pulled out his bug detection scanner and searched the room for any type of listening or recording devices. The scanner detected bugs in the bedroom, bathroom and lounge area.
Grimaldi picked up the phone, dialing the main desk. “I’m sorry, this room won’t do,” he said as soon as the clerk answered.
“Is there a problem, sir?”
“Yeah,” he said. “There’s a strange smell in here, and my partner is very sensitive.”
The clerk hemmed and hawed a bit, but when Grimaldi threatened to vacate the room and send an email to the bureau of travel and tourism, the man agreed to send up the bellman to show them to another suite.
“Tell him to hurry up,” he said. “My partner’s getting nauseous and has a tendency to throw up when he gets a whiff of something rotten.”
After five minutes of waiting, Grimaldi repeated his call to the front desk, this time inserting a bit more anger and outrage into his tone. The bellman’s knock came approximately a minute later. It was the same one as before, and he was carrying a large, locked suitcase.
“Delivery for you, sir,” he said to Bolan.
Bolan thanked him and grabbed the heavy case, giving it a quick once-over for signs of tampering. This had to be the weapons and gear Brognola had arranged a CIA contact to secure and drop off for them. The bellman picked up the remaining three bags and showed the men to another room on the same floor, at the opposite side of the building. It was close to a second stairwell. Grimaldi went in, checked it out and came back into the hall with a smile.
“This one looks more suitable,” he said, grabbing the camera case. “Tip the kid, will you, Matt?”
Bolan gave him some more money. “Here’s hoping we don’t see you again today.”
The bellman looked down at the bills and flashed a big grin. “Oh, I don’t mind, sir. Not at all.” He placed the bags inside the room and left.
Bolan locked the door and repeated his scan of the room. This time the device detected nothing, but he and Grimaldi did a thorough hands-on search just in case.
“Looks clean,” Bolan said.
“It does,” Grimaldi agreed. “Seems like somebody was expecting us,” he said as he unzipped his suitcase. “Le Pierre, you think?”
Bolan shook his head. “Hard to say at this point, but I’m not sure our little buddy Le Pierre would have the means to set up that kind of sophisticated bugging equipment.”
They unpacked quickly, knowing that Brognola had arranged a meeting somewhere on the island with the FBI agent.
Inside Bolan’s case case were the slide, barrel, pin and recoil spring of Bolan’s field-striped Beretta 93R, along with four fully loaded magazines. Next, he removed a supply of additional ammunition and a folded Espada knife, which he clipped to his belt so it was concealed inside his pants. Finally, he pulled out the upper and barrel portions of a SIG Sauer forty caliber P226 and handed it to Grimaldi.
Jack grinned wryly as he assembled the weapon. “Maybe I should’ve shown Capitaine Le Pierre that mine’s bigger than his.”
“Why crush the guy’s already fragile ego?” Bolan said, putting together the Beretta. In a matter of seconds both men had their pistols fully assembled. Bolan checked the safety, inserted a magazine and racked back the slide to chamber a round. He then released the magazine and pressed another round in place, assuring a full load. As usual, two of the clips held standard ammunition, with jacketed ball and hollowpoints alternated, and the other two held special ammunition. One was marked with green to indicate frangible ammunition that was designed to avoid overpenetration, and the other contained armor-piercing rounds. Grimaldi sorted out a similar array of ammo and loaded his SIG, using the decocking lever to place it on safe.
Bolan then dug out two sets of sport-utility shoes that looked as if they had been made for mountain hiking. He passed a pair to Grimaldi, then twisted the metal cleats on one shoe and pulled the thick sole away. He took out a folded shoulder holster, looked at it and tossed it to the pilot.
“That one’s yours,” he said, and repeated the process with the second shoe. This one contained the shoulder rig for his Beretta. Grimaldi was taking apart the other pair, which contained small but powerful radios and ear mics.
“Hal did not disappoint,” Grimaldi said, emitting a low whistle.
With weapons and gear assembled and ready for use, both men changed shirts and slipped their guns into their holsters, checking to make sure their new outfits fully concealed the pistols.
Bolan’s handheld chimed with an incoming email. He picked it up and read it, then turned to Grimaldi. “It’s from Hal. The meet with the FBI man is set. Fifteen minutes. Remember that mountain plateau we passed on the way from the airport?”
Grimaldi nodded.
Bolan gave himself one final check in the mirror to make sure the hang of his shirt properly covered up the Beretta. “You ready?”
“As they say—” Grimaldi smoothed out his sleeveless BDU shirt and grabbed his SIG Sauer “—I was born ready.”
* * *
WILLARD FORSYTHE EVERETT III stood on the catwalk adjacent to the control room on the platform rig and watched as the helicopter made its landing on the helipad below. Edwin Grimes stood next to him, waiting like a bird dog eager for any sign of approval. Everett shot a quick glance at Grimes and began a mental assessment as to when it would be convenient to dump the man. He had proved useful, but lately his missteps, especially that fiasco with the yacht, had started to get under Everett’s skin.
On the helipad, a squad of fifteen men made their way out of the bird as the rotors slowed to a stop. All of them were dressed in dark, camouflaged uniforms and wore matching helmets with night vision goggles attached.