Tear of the Gods Page 18

  Still, all that was nothing compared to what he intended to carry out next. This time it wouldn’t be just the British government that was paying attention. This time, he would capture the eye of the entire world.

  And when he had it, he would make his demands.

  The Red Hand Defenders would no longer be considered a second-class organization and the demands of the true loyalist amid the Irish people would finally be heard.

  It was going to be a glorious day indeed!

  His reverie was broken by the arrival of another vehicle. He watched as it stopped only a few feet into the parking lot, facing in his direction. The lights flashed twice, quickly, and then once more.

  Shaw exhaled and repeated the signal.

  Perchenko had arrived.

  He waited as the other vehicle, a Land Rover, approached, watching it come to a stop just a few feet away. When it had, he got out of the car.

  Across from him, the Russians did the same.

  Perchenko had a bodyguard with him, which wasn’t unexpected. He’d brought one along at the last meet, as well. Shaw remembered the Russian joking that the man’s name was Insurance; after all, that was his purpose.

  Shaw hadn’t found it all that amusing.

  This one seemed to have been cut from the same cloth. He stood several inches over six feet and had shoulders that would have made an American football player proud. His hair was cut short, military-style, and Shaw had no doubt that’s where Perchenko had recruited him from.

  He waited for the two men to join him.

  “Good to see you again,” Shaw began, a smile on his face.

  Perchenko’s expression was noncommittal. “You have the money?”

  “Of course,” he said smoothly, never letting the smile falter from his face despite the Russian’s rudeness. “You have my package?”

  Perchenko grunted and flicked a hand at his companion. As the other man led the way to the back of the vehicle, Perchenko and Shaw followed.

  The bodyguard opened up the rear of the vehicle, revealing what was stored there.

  It was a dark gray metallic case, about the size of a typical footlocker. The designation RA-115 was stamped on the top of the case in white letters. At a nod from Perchenko, the other man stepped forward, unlocked the two clasps that held the container closed and then lifted the lid before stepping back out of the way.

  Shaw moved forward, looking at but not touching the device. What looked to him to be a large artillery shell rested in the center of the case, with two square objects on either side that he assumed were the neutron generators. A fourth item, a rectangular device about the size of a hardcover book, sat in the upper right-hand corner of the case and had several wires running out of it and over to the rear of the artillery shell.

  “It is operational?” Shaw asked.

  “Da,” Perchenko replied.

  Shaw knew the other man had to be lying. Smuggling the shell of a Soviet-era tactical nuclear device out of the Ukraine was one thing. Doing so with an accompanying load of weapons-grade plutonium was something else entirely.

  As far as he was concerned, the shell was good enough. He would get the necessary plutonium from a different source.

  He gave no indication that he knew the truth about the device.

  Instead, he said, “Very good. You have the account number?”

  Perchenko handed him a slip of paper with an account number comprised of eighteen letters and numbers. Shaw knew without asking that it was the number of a Swiss bank account. With the other two men watching, Shaw took out his phone and used a mobile banking application to initiate a transfer of funds from an account he’d set up under a false name for just this purpose into the account Perchenko had given him.

  The transfer took five minutes.

  No one said anything while they waited.

  When it was finished, Perchenko gave his companion another signal and the big man moved the tactical nuclear device Shaw had just purchased from the back of the Land Rover to the trunk of Shaw’s Mercedes.

  Just like that the exchange was done.

  33

  Roux watched the entire exchange from his concealed position on the stairs leading up to ground level. The pair of miniature binoculars he held in his hands had been designed by a high-tech firm to his exact specifications and were the best that money could buy. Thanks to the way the Russian had parked, they allowed him to see directly into the back of the vehicle.

  One thing was for certain.

  That case had not been built to house the Tear of the Gods.

  While he couldn’t see directly into it, it was clear from its weight alone that it couldn’t be the torc. The big Russian’s arm muscles had bulged when he’d lifted it and Roux estimated it probably weighed a good fifty to seventy-five pounds. The back of the Mercedes had dropped an inch closer to the ground when the case had been placed inside.

  So if it wasn’t the torc, what was it?

  For a moment, he considered just walking away. His interest was in the torc and this clearly wasn’t it, so why get involved? But something made him hesitate. While he didn’t recognize the Russian, he’d seen his type before. The man was clearly a former soldier. You could see it in the way he held himself, in the way he would scan the surrounding area on a regular basis, searching for threats.

  Which begged the question, what was someone like that doing with a guy like Shaw?

  Something wasn’t right here. Roux could feel it in his bones. Something told him he needed to find out what was in that case.

  As he was mentally debating the situation, Shaw said some final comment to the Russian and then got into his car and drove off.

  With his options dwindling, Roux made his move.

  “Now!” he said into the microphone at his throat and then rushed up the stairs, heading directly for the two men standing near the Land Rover.

  This was the dangerous part. There was no doubt that the two men in front of him were armed and they were likely to shoot first and ask questions later when they saw him charging across the parking lot toward them. If Henshaw was even a half second too late…

  Roux had covered half the distance to the Land Rover when the leader of the duo caught sight of him. The man shouted something to his companion in what Roux presumed was Russian and then shoved a hand inside his jacket, no doubt going for his pistol.

  That was as far as he got.

  Something struck him in the side of the neck, knocking him backward against the vehicle, and the gun he was reaching for clattered to the ground beside him.

  The leader’s shout caught the other man by surprise, so he was slower off the mark than his boss had been. He was still reaching for the gun at his back when the second dart from Henshaw’s rifle struck him in the shoulder. Roux was close enough by that time to see the red fletching on the end of the dart and he drew himself up short at the sight, expecting the other man to go down, just as his companion had.

  Unfortunately, he didn’t.

  As the other man shook his head, trying to clear it, Roux realized what must have gone wrong. The darts were calibrated with enough tranquilizers to knock down your average human being, but this man’s size must have diluted the dose.

  Roux had hundreds of years of fighting experience at his disposal, and if there was one thing he had learned, it was never give your opponents the opportunity to do you harm. While he was confident that he would eventually prevail in a hand-to-hand fight against the bigger Russian, there was no sense in finding out if he was right. A protracted battle would call attention to them and that was the last thing they needed. Speed and silence were the key.

  So as the big man shook himself and seemed to bring his attention back into focus, Roux stepped up and without pausing delivered a smashing kick to the man’s groin.

  The big Russian’s eyes rolled back in his head and he toppled over like a sack of bricks.

  Roux didn’t waste any time. Working calmly and efficiently, he grabbed the now-un
conscious bodyguard and hefted him into the back of the Land Rover, then did the same with the other man. When they were both inside the vehicle Roux closed the rear doors and then took a moment to look around. As far as he could tell, no one had seen what had just happened.

  He keyed the mike again.

  “I’m headed for the rendezvous point. See you there.”

  “Roger that,” came Henshaw’s reply a moment later.

  The keys to the Land Rover were still in the ignition. Roux started the car and drove smoothly out of the parking lot.

  From start to finish the entire assault had taken less than three minutes.

  I’ve still got it, Roux thought to himself with a smile as he turned out of the park and headed into the Parisian traffic.

  HALF AN HOUR later Roux was sitting in a chair in the living room of an isolated farmhouse in rural France, waiting for the man in the chair across from him to wake up.

  The man’s driver’s license identified him as Ivan Perchenko. Roux didn’t have any idea whether that was the man’s real name or an alias, but, in truth, it really didn’t matter. All Roux wanted from the man was some information and for that a name wasn’t necessary.

  The man’s partner, name unknown since he hadn’t carried any identification, was in the garage outside, tied securely with a thick piece of rope and being watched over by Henshaw. If they couldn’t get what they wanted out of Perchenko, they’d turn their attention to the bodyguard. For now, though, they’d start at the top.

  After sitting there for several minutes, Roux watched the man stir and then come to full consciousness. It was like watching a lizard wake up; one minute they were completely asleep, the next they were watching you with those cold, reptilian eyes, gauging just how much of a threat you might be.

  Roux intended to pass the test. On the table next to him, in full view of his captive, was an assortment of devices designed to make Perchenko think twice about what lay ahead for him—a small sledgehammer, an electric drill, a hand drill, several different types of saws, a pair of metal snips, even a handheld blowtorch. Roux didn’t have any immediate intention of using them; they were just there to provide Perchenko with the proper motivation to answer his questions.

  If Perchenko refused to do so, Roux knew he’d have to reconsider their use, but for now, they would remain where they were.

  Perchenko’s gaze flicked across the table, taking in the objects arranged there, and then moved around the room, assessing his options.

  Roux waited. He wasn’t in any hurry.

  When the man’s attention returned to him, Roux said calmly, “I have a few questions—”

  Perchenko cut him off with a stream of angry-sounding Russian that went on for several minutes.

  When the Russian had apparently run out of steam, Roux tried again.

  “I know you speak English, so you might as well stop the act. As I started to say, I have a few questions for you. It would be easier for you if you simply answered them.”

  Perchenko laughed. “You do not frighten me, old man.”

  Roux smiled. The Russian was talking. The hard part was already behind him. It didn’t matter what he was talking about. The fact that he was doing so at all instantly put the advantage in Roux’s hands.

  “I wouldn’t expect them to frighten you, Mr. Perchenko. I know your background: I know that you are capable of resisting for quite some time.”

  The truth was that Roux knew next to nothing about Perchenko’s real background, but he could recognize a soldier when he saw one. Most modern soldiers were trained in anti-interrogation techniques and Roux had little doubt that at some point or another in his training Perchenko had undergone just such a course. Eventually he would talk, everyone did, but he was likely to resist Roux’s efforts for several hours and that wasn’t something Roux wanted to wait around for.

  “But whether they frighten you or not is completely irrelevant to the pain they will cause,” Roux continued, “and pain is never a pleasant experience.”

  He reached out, picked up the blowtorch and saw Perchenko flinch slightly from the corner of his eye.

  Gotcha, Roux thought.

  “So let’s make this easy for both of us,” he said, putting the tool back down on the tabletop. “I desire some information. I have no doubt that you have the information I’m looking for. So let’s make this a business arrangement. I will ask my questions and I will pay you for your answers.”

  The Russian stared at him blankly for a moment, and then said, “Pay me?”

  Roux smiled. Maybe this would be easier than he thought.

  “For every question you answer to my satisfaction, I’ll give you ten thousand dollars.”

  “Bah! Ten thousand dollars is nothing.”

  “Well that would depend on how many questions I ask, wouldn’t it?”

  With the Russian considering the offer, Roux sweetened the pot.

  “I’m not interested in any of your other clients, nor am I looking for you to betray any confidences about them. All I want to know about is your meeting with Shaw.”

  Perchenko said something in Russian and spat on the ground. Roux guessed that he didn’t much like Shaw, either.

  “Do we have a deal?” he pressed.

  “How do I know you will keep your word?”

  Roux shrugged. “You don’t. You can either take a chance and earn some money for your troubles or go back to the first alternative. Either way, I’ll find out what I need to know.”

  Perchenko really didn’t have much choice and he knew it, too. After another moment of thought, more to save face than anything else, he gave a sharp little nod.

  Roux got right to it.

  “What was in the case that you handed over to Shaw at the park?”

  “A Soviet-era RA-115.”

  Roux wasn’t familiar with that designation. It sounded like a weapon, but then again it really could have been anything. Rather than guess, he simply asked what it was.

  Perchenko eyed him cautiously. “A man-portable tactical nuclear device. What you in the West used to call a suitcase nuke.”

  “You can’t be serious.”

  “I don’t joke when it comes to business. If the fool had come up with another six million dollars, I would have been happy to sell him two.”

  Six million dollars. The same price that was paid for the torc. That couldn’t be a coincidence. Just what on earth was Shaw up to?

  Roux had long suspected that Shaw and his Vanguard Group were involved in some less-than-savory activities above and beyond the man’s penchant for dealing in the black-market artifact trade. He didn’t have any direct evidence, just hints that there was something else beneath the surface, like the way a shadow on the ocean floor might conceal the bulk of a sunken ship buried beneath the silt. Since laying eyes on the case in the back of the Russian’s car, Roux had envisioned a lot of different items that might be inside but a tactical nuclear device certainly wasn’t one of them. He was almost afraid to ask his next question.

  “What does he intend to do with it?”

  Perchenko laughed. “Blow something up, I’d guess. What else do you do with a bomb? I wish I could see his face when he realizes his plans don’t really matter, though.”

  “Why is that?”

  “Because the damn thing’s inert. The Soviets took the plutonium out of it years ago. Six million dollars—for a piece of worthless junk!”

  While the Russian arms dealer continued to laugh at the stupidity of his latest customer, Roux considered the implications of what he’d just learned. Clearly his hunch about Shaw was correct; the man was involved in something much more dangerous than artifact smuggling. Just what remained to be seen.

  Several more questions without real answers let Roux know that he’d mined this particular well dry. He’d also racked up a bill close to one hundred thousand dollars with his questions.

  It was a bill he had no intention of paying, of course. He was pretty sure Perchenko knew it, as well
. The Russian had either answered his questions out of the simple desire to screw Shaw over or he figured that he was more likely to live through the experience if he appeared to be cooperating. For all he knew, Roux was going to shoot him in the head when all was said and done.

  It was a simple solution to a thorny problem, and Roux had considered it, but in the end he’d decided that the Russian’s cooperation was worth something. He held no ill will toward the man and gunning him down for no real reason just didn’t seem sporting to Roux.

  There was still the possibility that the man was lying to him, but Roux didn’t believe that was the case. The Russian had been genuinely amused at the thought of his client paying such an inordinate amount of money for a nonoperational device and that wasn’t the type of emotion that was easily faked. It was just as Roux had said to his captive earlier—he was going to have to trust that the Russian was telling the truth, for he had no real way of confirming otherwise at the moment.

  But what was he was going to do with his two captives?

  The house had been sanitized of anything that could help the Russian identify them. Everything had been bought secondhand by hired help who had themselves been hired through other cutouts. The deed was held by a private trust that went back generations and the ownership was so tangled that it would literally take years for anyone trying to track him that way to even come close. Aside from the private poker tournaments that he occasionally indulged in, Roux was not a very social man and so there was little chance that Perchenko would run into him in another setting. They certainly didn’t operate in the same circles.

  Given all that, Roux didn’t feel that he would be in danger by letting Perchenko go free.

  So why am I hesitating, he asked himself.

  He didn’t have to think too long to realize it was the RA-115 that was bothering him.