Jet Read Free Page B

hands simply disappeared, usually showing up in trouble spots around the world – in the hands of Central American gangs, Middle Eastern terrorist organizations, Mexican cartels, Colombian rebels, and African despots. After considerable fruitless probing, Yulia had finally been introduced to a pair of brothers who owned a network of nightclubs in Moscow as well as a host of other business interests, including what they’d cautiously described as an import/export company that could obtain virtually any commodity a buyer was willing to pay for.
    More meetings had ensued, and a shopping list, as well as a price, had been agreed upon. Yulia’s network had come up with the first half of the payment required to guarantee delivery of a truckload of Igla-S shoulder-fired missiles that had gone missing from various army bases around the country.
    Yulia squirmed in the uncomfortable seat, trying not to think about the money in her bag – more cash than she’d ever seen, a half million euros, counted and recounted the prior sleepless night once she and Taras had arrived in Dmitrov and checked into an anonymous hotel. Four other members of their group had driven to town that afternoon, and their car was trailing by a block. All were armed with pistols, although they hoped they wouldn’t need to use them. The chances of being robbed were slim, given who they were dealing with – anyone foolhardy enough to make a grab for the mafia’s money wouldn’t live out the evening.
    The Lada inched around a stopped pest-control van, an image of an anthropomorphic pesticide tank wearing goggles and wielding a spray wand with its unlikely gloved hands emblazoned on the side, with its hood up and the driver staring at the engine with a baffled expression. Yulia and Taras sat in silence as traffic cleared past the van, and after two more long blocks he turned onto a smaller street that paralleled the river. Huge waterfront cranes stood motionless along the waterfront like alien arms reaching into the burnt orange sunset.
    Taras inclined his head at a long, low concrete bunker ahead. “That’s it.”
    Yulia’s eyes narrowed as she took in the structure. The high perimeter walls were dark, only a few lights on beneath the ungainly building’s roofline. “Looks deserted.”
    Taras nodded to her. “They’ll be there.”
    He turned off the road and pulled to a stop at a guard shack, where a grizzled pensioner in a threadbare coat regarded them indifferently through a haze of hand-rolled cigarette smoke.
    “Closed,” the guard announced, squinting at Taras with bloodshot eyes.
    “We’re here to see Nico.” Taras paused and jerked a thumb at the headlights rolling to a stop at his rear bumper. “The car behind us, too.”
    “Yeah? Who are you?”
    “Christof,” Taras said, using his operational alias.
    The guard grunted and slid the glass door closed. They watched as he picked up a black telephone handset and spoke into it, waited, and then nodded and set it back in its cradle. When he returned, his demeanor was only slightly less gruff. “Loading docks are on the far end. You’re expected,” he growled, pointing into the gloom.
    Taras nodded and waited as the old man rolled the gate open, and then he eased through, trailed by the other car. The tires crunched on gravel as they drove toward the building, and Yulia absently fingered the butt of the Makarov pistol in her jacket pocket as the oversized loading dock doors came into view. For all her tough exterior and recent combat experience, her role as a clandestine operative was still new, and her life as a political activist at university felt like inadequate preparation for the part she now played. She silently reminded herself of the many who were depending on her, and she squared her shoulders as the Lada ground to rest in front of a loading dock.
    Taras killed the engine and waited for the second car to arrive. The men got out and the group moved to the steel loading dock door,