PRIMAL Fury (The PRIMAL Series) (12 page)

CHAPTER 21

CASTLE LORAN

“I don’t think Nigel Martin is who he claims to be.” Masateru was sitting in one of the leather chairs in András’s office, dressed in one of his trademark Italian suits. In his hand he held an apple, which he was slicing into thin pieces with a razor-sharp tanto blade. He had spent most of the day watching “Nigel Martin,” studying him during the shooting, then at lunch and again at dinner. Twice the Englishman had attempted to engage him in conversation.

“He seems normal enough to me.” The Hungarian syndicate boss was watching the bank of monitors behind his desk as he sipped a glass of scotch.

“A little too normal.” Masateru finished the apple, dropped the core onto a side table, and began spinning the black knife on his palm.

“You’re paranoid.”

“Am I?” He pointed at the screen showing the camera feed from Bishop’s room. On it was a grainy night vision shot that showed the rough outline of a woman straddling a man. “That woman of his, she acts submissive in public, but alone she is…different.”

András laughed. “Just because he lets a beautiful woman lead him around by the nose does not make him a threat.”

“In this industry it could make him a liability.”

“His client base in the Middle East and Africa is all I care about. His organization sells weapons to half of the world’s dictators. Men who want guns generally want girls and they have the money to pay for them.”

“The men who wiped out your talent recruiters had guns, lots of them, no doubt.”

András placed his glass down. “Getting guns is one thing. The men who attacked Gusztáv’s gang were highly trained professionals, not gun runners.”

The desk phone rang angrily, interrupting the conversation. András snatched it up, glancing at the caller ID.

“András here,” was all he said. After thirty seconds he dropped the phone back into its cradle. “They’ve found the missing girl; she’s in a police station in Budapest.”

“Excellent.” Masateru opened and closed his knife.

“I’ll have my men bring her here.” András was already making the call.

“Good.” The Japanese gangster was staring intently at the blade spinning on his hand. “I would very much like to speak with her.”

CHAPTER 22

PRIMAL HQ, LASCAR ISLAND

“Boss, we just got a sitrep from Aleks and Kurtz,” announced the intercom on Vance’s desk.

PRIMAL’s director looked away from his monitor and reached out to hit the voice button. “Thanks, Frank.”

“No dramas. We still on for this afternoon?”

“You looking for another ass-whipping?”

“Yeah, right, old man. See you then.”

“Roger.”

Vance took off his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose. The spectacles were a recent addition; PRIMAL’s resident doctor had insisted on them following his last full medical. Apparently he was now shortsighted, another ailment to add to the long list. Twenty-plus year
s as a CIA field operative had not been kind. Fortunately he only needed the glasses when reading and shooting. He hated to admit it but his scores had significantly improved since donning the black-framed lenses. Something Frank, one of the watchkeepers, had found out firsthand. The former British para officer was a crack pistol shot, but he had gone down in three straight rounds. Vance was looking forward to the rematch.

He looked back to his monitor and pulled up the operations log. At the top of the list of inbound traffic was the report from Kurtz and Aleks. He opened it.

Have established an OP in vicinity of target (800m to NW). Confirmed Bishop and Saneh are in location, seem to be in good health. Multiple armed pers in location, ten or more. Dogs spotted. Scanner established link with the low-power transmitter. At least 2+ Japanese identified. No sign of girls. Nothing further to report.

He looked at the read receipt. Chua had read it only minutes ago. The door flew open as if on cue and the Chinese American powered into the office with a can of energy drink in one hand and a tablet computer in the other.

“You read the latest from the boys?”

“Just finished it.”

“Looks like we might be on the right trail in Japan.” Chua dropped into the comfortable leather couch that sat in the corner. “If Aleks and Kurtz are right about them being Japanese, then it’s almost certain there’s a Yakuza link.” Chua cracked the energy drink and chugged down a mouthful.

“How are things tracking in the land of Toyotas, panty-vending machines, and raw fish?”

“For a well-traveled man you’re particularly uncouth, Vance.” Chua smiled. “Things are coming along nicely. We’ve identified a suitable contact in the Tokyo metro police. He’s well positioned in the organized-crime team and a bit of an altruist. With your approval I’ll get Ivan to pitch to him in the next twenty-four hours. We’ll lead with an FBI back story and see where it takes us.”

“Consider it approved. Talk to me about the armed guards at the castle. Anything to be worried about?”

“Nothing we can’t handle. I assess we’re looking at up to twenty shooters in total. Nothing I can find suggests they would be more than hired guns and thugs. Might be a sprinkling of ex-military types. Why? You expecting this to go kinetic?”

“I hope not, but if it does I want to make damn sure Bishop and Saneh aren’t left hanging. I think we’ve got it covered. Aleks and Kurtz can provide surgical fire support while the CAT flies in from the Ukraine.”

“What’s their response time?”

“Forty-five minutes from blades turning to landing on target.” Vance paused. “That’s the bit I’m not real happy with. I’d like Mirza and his assaulters a little closer.”

“I’ll see if I can find them a staging base; going to be bare bones, though, no fuel.”

“That’s fine, I just want another option up my sleeve. If it looks like it’s all going to hell I want them in the mix ASAP
.
”

“I’ll get on it.” Chua made for the door. “Oh, and Vance.”

“Yeah?”

“Love the glasses.”

“Get the hell out of my office, you intel puke!”

CHAPTER 23

CASTLE LORAN

Bishop’s watch buzzed gently, waking him at 0330 hours. He rolled out of bed and grabbed the dark tracksuit he had placed on a chair the night before.

“What are you doing?” Saneh’s voice was drowsy with sleep.

“Don’t get up, I’m going to the gym.”

“Can’t sleep?”

“Yeah, jet lag.”

“Do you think it’s a good idea to go out?” She sounded annoyed.

“It’ll be fine.”

“I don’t think it’s good for your health.”

“You go back to sleep. I’ll be back in an hour.”

She rolled over and pulled the duvet over her head, pretending to go back to sleep. Hidden from the camera she switched on her iPod. The screen came to life and she thumbed through the menus, looking for a particular song. She fast-forwarded AC/DC’s “Thunder
struck” to 1:47 and keyed the pause button three times. The little screen blinked for a few seconds and an entirely different menu appeared. She confirmed the miniature device was active and then slid it under her pillow. She now had a link with any other PRIMAL operatives outside. If anything happened to Bishop she could contact them immediately.

“I’ll see you when I get back.” Bishop shut the door gently behind him.

The dialogue with Saneh had little to do with the gym. Instead, it had let her know that he was heading out to conduct a previously planned mission. She had argued against the risk but Bishop had insisted. It was a simple plan: He would locate the computer terminal he had identified earlier, use the USB key hidden under the sole of his running shoe, and plug it in. The Trojan horse it contained would do the rest.

The corridors of the castle were cold and empty. Soft lighting had been installed intermittently along the walls and it cast long, eerie shadows. Bishop almost expected to turn a corner and run into the ghost from
Hamlet
.

“Something is rotten in the state of Hungary,” he whispered under his breath.

He moved through the upper stories of the keep, using a route he had previously observed to avoid the CCTV cameras. Finally he found the door he was looking for. A sign marked it as
OFFICE
. He stopped and listened, his ear pressed to the wood. There was no sound coming from inside so he tried the handle. It was unlocked. He cracked it open and peered in.

The room was unoccupied. He slipped inside and shut the door.

In the corner was a computer terminal. He inspected the desktop, removed the USB device from its hidden compartment in his shoe, and plugged it in.

As the PRIMAL virus worked its magic Bishop explored the rest of the room. It was large, about the same size as a double garage. Unlike the rest of the luxurious hotel, it was run-down and dirty. Along one wall were a couple of battered-looking couches, in the middle was a decrepit-looking coffee table festooned with girlie magazines, and in the corner stood a refrigerator that Bishop thought had to be full of beer. He opened it to check; yes, it was. The far wall housed another door.

He checked on the USB key; it was finished. Chua’s team in the bunker would now be able to hack into the computer via its Internet connection. He pulled out the device and was putting it back in his shoe when he heard voices at the door.

Slipping on his shoe, he sprinted for the only other exit from the room, the narrow wooden door opposite the computer and desk. He pushed it open, stepped inside, and cautiously closed the door behind him.

It took his eyes a few seconds to adjust to the darkness and he noticed a distinct smell in the room. It reminded Bishop of football socks. Then it hit him—it was the smell of a number of men living in close proximity. As his eyes adjusted, the reality of his predicament became clear.

He was in a barracks-style dormitory with six beds, three of which were occupied.

“Holy shit!” he mouthed.

Behind him in the office at least two voices were talking softly. He had accidentally stumbled on the guards’ quarters, and now he was trapped.

There was only one way to go, deeper into the room, between the sleeping guards. He tiptoed as softly as he could, reached the other end, and went through another door. It creaked, and he bit his lip. He slipped through the gap as the office door into the dorm opened.

From the smell Bishop could tell he was in the bathroom. He raced to the window, searching for a way out, aware that any guards coming off shift might want a shower. The single window had once been a narrow arrow slit that archers used to fire at castle assailants. Fortunately for Bishop, the builders who had renovated the keep had enlarged the opening and installed a small sliding-glass window. He slid it back and pushed his head out through the hole.

The window overlooked the battlements—he was in luck. The wide stone walkway that capped the castle wall lay about twelve feet below. He slid out through the gap feet first, his toes scrabbling for a hold as he lowered himself from the window frame.

As he hung by his fingers, the door to the bathroom creaked and the light came on. Bishop let go of the window frame and pushed off into the darkness.

He hit the ground hard, the voice of his physical-training instructors at the Royal Military College blaring in his head:
Two-foot landing, Staff Cadet Bishop!

He fell backward into a heels, ass, and head landing. Stunned, he rolled sideways into a dark shadow cast by the castle’s security lighting.

A head appeared in the window, silhouetted by the inside light. The guard stood there for a second, then closed the window.

Bishop still felt dazed when he got to his feet and he ran his hand over the back of his head. There was already a lump forming. The cool early-morning air helped to clear his senses, and he moved across the battlements, sticking to the shadows.

The growl of a powerful engine caught his attention and he leaned over the edge of the stone wall, looking down into the courtyard.

A black four-wheel drive pulled up in front of the keep. The doors swung open and leather jacket–wearing thugs emerged from it. Two of them moved to the trunk and struggled with a large object.

Bishop moved back along the wall, toward the keep, trying to get a glimpse of what it was. As the men moved up the stairs into the light of the entrance he realized the bundle was a young woman. She was bound and gagged, her long blonde hair disheveled.

Bishop squatted below the edge of the wall. He had no idea who the girl was but had a feeling her arrival related directly to the security scare that had delayed the auction. His biggest concern at the moment, however, was how he was going to get back into the keep. If found, he would have a tough time explaining how he managed to get out of the fortress without passing through one of the guarded exits.