Brian Drake - The Glinkov Extraction

“This will work fine,” he said.

“You’ll have the place to yourself once we leave,” the woman said. “But I wouldn’t wander downstairs. We have motion-detectors that will set off an alarm. Small bathroom is down the hall. You won’t need much else.”

Stiletto let out a breath. He wasn’t in any mood to argue about leaving for somewhere nicer. Nobody could find him here.

WHEN HE awoke up the next morning, the only thing that gave any indication of a new day was the date on his watch. The room had no windows. Cool air blew through a floor vent. He heard voices through the vent, mostly muffled. He didn’t try to make out the words and instead rose, found the small bathroom down the hall and cleaned up with a washcloth and hot water. The cot had been okay. He’d find a real hotel to hole up while waiting for Hammond’s plane. Another night was out of the question.

When he returned to the room, Kim was sitting up in the cot with her legs crossed. “Hello,” she said.

Stiletto grinned. She brought up a gun from behind her back.

“Get in the corner.”

Somebody shoved Scott from behind. He started to fall but arrested the descent and dropped to his hands and knees. He turned around. Jason Hammond stood in the doorway with two men. The two men were quite fit in their darks suits.

“I’ll use English,” Hammond said. “Your measly nineteen grand couldn’t compete with the one million offered by your agency. Mister Stiletto.”

Stiletto rose to his feet.

Hammond said, “These two men are from your embassy and they’ll be happy to take you back over the border.”

“Don’t make any trouble, Stiletto,” one of the suited men said.

Scott said, “May I at least put on my shoes? Gonna me a long drive.”

The agency men said okay and watched, with Kim’s Beretta .25 automatic never wavering, as Stiletto tied his shoes. One of the embassy men grabbed the tote bag, checked the contents, and zipped it. Stiletto went quietly. The embassy officers took him outside to a waiting Lincoln sedan, nice and shiny and black in the sun, the windows tinted. For all he knew, General Ike sat in the back seat.

The canal lay just across the road.

The two embassy men walked beside him, neither going for a weapon. Neither spoke. They crossed the parking lot to the Lincoln and Stiletto made up his mind. These two suited cyphers weren’t going to stop him from getting to Russia any more than the surveillance team outside the bank.

Stiletto snapped up his left elbow, twisting his body, putting some spin into the blow. The elbow struck the embassy man in the right shoulder, spinning him like a top as he let out a yell, Scott launching a low kick into the other man’s upper leg. Both went down, though the first scrambled to his feet, yelling at Scott as Scott snatched up the tote bag and ran for his car. More sounds behind him and then gunfire, several rapid shots from a pistol. Scott looked back as he charged forward, Hammond and Chrome Dome aiming automatics at him, the shots kicking up the dirt. He started zigzagging. He was no good to them dead, and as he neared the car and felt in the tote bag for the car keys, he realized he had nowhere to go without those. Somebody must have removed them. Stiletto shifted away from the car, the next salvo punching into the bodywork. He aimed for the canal.

His shoes hammered the pavement and he leaped down the short slope from the road to the water, splashing across to the other side. No more shots came his way. Stiletto climbed up the other side and continued across the pavement, shoving through a tear in a chain-link fence to run across the blacktop of a warehouse with big rigs backed up against a loading dock, and a line of cars in a parking lot. Stiletto spotted a man getting into his car. Scott might not have had keys, but he had his .45, and he grabbed it out of the tote and ran up to the man.

“Get away!”

The man yelled and shuffled back, falling over. He landed hard on his bottom. Stiletto opened the driver’s door, pulling the keys from the lock, and tossed his tote bag on the passenger seat. He had the Ford in motion seconds later, tires screaming, leaving a black patch of rubber and trail of smoke as he steered for the exit.

Stiletto was sweating. He felt the trickles down his back and neck, under his arms. He was breathing fast, his pulse rate seemingly as out of control as the situation he now found himself. What did he do now?

Stiletto followed the road to a four-way intersection where he was forced to stop, a big rig crossing in front of him. The big rig cleared the intersection and Stiletto started across. That’s when the other car collided with the back-quarter panel of the Ford, slamming the unbelted Stiletto across the to the passenger side door, and sent the vehicle spinning off the road.

SENSES BEGAN returning ever so slowly, like the tingling sensation when an asleep limb comes back to life. He was flat on his back on something soft. He could move his arms and legs. No restraints. His eyes opened, his vision foggy at first, the light in the room causing a throbbing near his temples.

He wiped his eyes. He was in a hotel room, the window and drapes shut, the room very quiet. Something moved near the door. Stiletto looked at a black man looking at him. The man wore a dark suit. He pressed a button on a cell phone and spoke into it.

“He’s awake, sir.” A pause. “Yes, sir.”

The guard put the phone away.

“Everything will be fine, Mr. Stiletto,” the guard said. “Just relax and my bosses will be here in a few moments.”

Stiletto took the time to explore his body. He was sore all over from the impact of the car, but nothing appeared broken. He wondered if he had a slight concussion.

“Who hit me?” Stiletto said.

“I don’t know,” the guard said.

The door opened and three old men entered. They wore suits as well, heads either bald or white, eyes sharp but showing their age.

“You’re in one piece, Mr. Stiletto,” said the leader of the trio. He spoke slowly, his voice low, far beyond the age where one needs to hurry his words.

“Where am I?”

“At a much nicer location than that dreadful bar.”

The man dismissed the guard, who left quietly and shut the door behind him. The man stood near the foot of Scott’s bed while the other two found seats at the table. They sat with the relief of those who can’t be on their feet for long periods, but that did not seem to affect the spokesman.

“You’re at a Hilton,” the older man said. “One of the regular rooms, I’m afraid. We didn’t want to arouse any more attention than we already had by carrying you in like a drunk.”

“Whoever was in the other car hit me too hard.”

“We’ve dealt with them. I told the driver you were no good to us hurt. Would you like some tea and a moment to clean up?”

“I’d rather know who you are.” Stiletto sat up against the headboard. He still felt dizzy so he kept his head still.

The old man smiled. “Of course. You may refer to me as Number One. My colleagues are Numbers Two and Three. Our identities must remain a secret and you’ll know why soon enough.”

Stiletto nodded.

“And I dare say,” Number One continued, “if you knew our names you’d know far too much about what we’re doing.”

“Uh-huh.”

“But you aren’t impressed. Somebody of your rank knows too much of what goes on. You wouldn’t notice our tiny efforts at all.

“We are known as The Cabal,” the man continued. “More than the three of us, certainly, but we’re the founding nucleus. We’re a group of retired intelligence professionals who unfortunately know the failings of the organized intelligence community and formed to act in such a way as the bureaucracies cannot. We have no official agents, but we recruit people as needed. We have them all over the world, in every country. You cannot go anywhere and not have a friend, if you know what I mean.”