Ken Goddard - Chimera

“No, not at all; just as long as you’re willing to leave that back-up gun here on the table.”

“Oh yeah; forgot about that one.”

Bulatt smiled.

Smith stood up, unclipped a cell phone from his belt with his right hand, and then — in a slow and deliberate manner — reached down with his left to carefully removed the hide-out pistol from his boot and place it on the lab table. Then, at Bulatt’s nod, he walked over to the far side of the room and began working the cell phone.

As he did so, Bulatt busied himself by removing the magazine from the grip — and the round from the chamber — of the hide-out pistol, emptying the magazine, and dropping all of the loose rounds into his jacket pocket.

Thirty seconds later, Smith walked over and sat back down in the chair. “You should be getting a call from your SAC any moment now,” he said.

Another twenty seconds later, Bulatt’s Blackberry began to vibrate.

Bulatt glanced at the screen, then brought the rectangular device up to his ear and said: “Bulatt.”

He listened for approximately two minutes, nodded, said “I understand,” disconnected the call, re-holstered the Blackberry and his pistol on his belt, slide the hide-out pistol and empty magazine back across the table toward Smith, and then sat down in a nearby chair.

“Mind if I call you John?” he asked the grey-haired man who was busy returning his empty back-up weapon to its boot holster. “It seems to go well with Smith.”

Smith looked up and shrugged agreeably. “Sure, why not.”

“Okay, John, I’m Ged.” Bulatt said. “And now that we’ve got all the niceties out of the way, what exactly can you tell me about three former snake-eaters and some Russian smugglers they may or may not be working with?”

“I can’t tell you much about your three primaries,” Smith said after sending Rightmore out for some fresh coffee and telling him to take his time, “other than the fact that all three of them were in the Australian Special Air Service Regiment for a few formative years — where they performed their assigned tasks with what we might describe as a great deal of competence, intensity and enthusiasm — before they decided to free-lance their skills.”

“With you folks?” Bulatt asked.

Smith shrugged as if to say he wasn’t taking the question seriously. “They worked a few assignments in Afghanistan — long range recon and as a four-man hunter-killer team — came close to nailing bin-Laden with a long-shot at least once, possibly twice, before they lost one of their team to a lucky Taliban ricochet; and then, in some manner that we still don’t fully understand, they tripped across Gregor the drug smuggler.”

“Are you talking about Gregor the infamous Chinese Medicinal smuggler?” Bulatt asked, his eyebrows rising in surprise.

“Among his many side operations,” Smith acknowledged. “Gregor was a highly-regarded specialist in the movement of merchandise across unfriendly borders with minimal losses, and at a reasonable cost.”

“Was?”

“His operation suffered a collective fatal accident,” Smith explained. “Every one of his associates died in a sudden and extremely violent aircraft explosion. And Gregor himself; well, let’s just say he died more slowly and painfully.”

“How do you know this, if you don’t mind my asking?”

“We had an asset on the plane,” Smith said matter-of-factly.

“Ah.” Bulatt was thoughtful for a moment. “You knew about Gregor, and probably used him to move things from ‘A’ to ‘B’ on occasion; so you couldn’t have been all that concerned about his other extracurricular activities.”

“Individuals or agencies who hired Gregor for a job would quite naturally assume he always had other irons in the fire,” Smith said obliquely.

Bulatt suddenly blinked in understanding.

“So your asset was actually looking for them — the three Australians, not Gregor and his men?”

Smith nodded silently.

“Stupid question, I’m sure, but I’ll ask it anyway. Why?”

“I assume you’re familiar with the means by which an internal affairs division keeps an eye on full-time permanent government employees?”

Bulatt nodded slowly. “I understand the basic process.”

“Then I’m sure you can also understand why — and how — a similar but substantively different division might be set up to deal with the hired help; which is to say, the extremely dangerous hired help?”

“Sounds like a tough way to make a living,” Bulatt commented.

“It can be… but there are two things you need to understand about these men, Agent Bulatt… excuse me, Ged,” Smith said. “The first being that we consider them to be terribly dangerous, because they are quite good at killing whoever or whatever gets in their way; which they will do without the slightest hesitation or emotional concern. Secondly, that in any civilized context, their leader would be categorized as a brilliant, ruthless and amazingly stable sociopath who also happens to care much more about his men than he does himself. That makes him — if possible and from our perspective — even more dangerous.”

Bulatt thought about the patrolling Rangers — led by Colonel Kulawnit’s son — who’d had the misfortune to run across these three professional killers, and shook his head sadly.

“And finally,” Smith finished, meeting Bulatt’s gaze squarely with his dark eyes, “you need to understand that you and your Interpol associates are in our way; and that’s not going to be acceptable.”

Bulatt thought about that for a few moments.

“I don’t doubt what you said is true: that these men are perfectly capable of hurting or killing a goodly number my Interpol friends and associates if we try to confront them; and that it makes perfect sense to have them hunted down by some of their peers,” he finally said. “I’m assuming, of course, that you have capable people available for such an assignment.”

Smith shrugged noncommittally.

“And I’ll admit I am tempted to just step aside and let your internal affairs team, or whatever you call it, move in and take over our job of bring them to justice. I’d do it in a heartbeat if I had any way of knowing for sure that justice — in terms of a very dear friend of mine — had been served. But the reality is, if I did step aside, I’d never know if you dealt with these malicious assholes in some appropriate manner; or simply brought them back into the fold, so to speak… would I?”

Smith’s silence provided Bulatt with his expected answer.

“More to the point,” Bulatt went on, “I’m not even convinced you’ve brought your ‘A’ team to the game; because your two clowns out in the parking lot lost their cool and blew your surveillance on this place — not to mention my cover — like a couple of rank amateurs.”

“Actually, those guys were walk-ons, auditioning for a full-time role, which they certainly aren’t going to get,” Smith acknowledged. “But what makes you think they blew anything at all, other than the way they dealt with you?”

“I’m guessing you weren’t using a new green truck rigged with an over-the-cab camper unit, parked across the street at an odd angle, and looking just a little out-of-place among the rest of the cars and trucks in the warehouse parking lot; mostly because your people seem to like the ‘new van’ look, and a camper-rig’s pretty much old school in terms of surveillance,” Bulatt said. “On the other hand, that upper bunk would make a real nice staging point for a team of extremely dangerous sociopaths who don’t mind taking medium-range shots at people who get in their way; such as nosey internal affairs teams.

“But I could be wrong,” Bulatt added as he watched Smith lunge up out of his chair, pull the cell phone out of his jacket pocket, and walk a few feet away before making a hurried call. “It could still be over there — green, parked at an odd angle — but I doubt it.”