Don Pendleton - Cold Fury

The Georgian turned to see several of the cargo males stopping to bend over and vomit. They were about ten feet away now. Another was retching, as well, and then the first dropped his pants and began depositing a blast of diarrhea over the edge of the pier.

“What the hell’s wrong with them?”

“They never got their sea legs,” Rokva said.

Nome frowned, wrinkling his nose. “Christ, they stink.”

“Which is why we will need a shower or bathtub facility.”

“Wait a minute. No way. If you think I’m gonna clean up after all those assholes, you got another think coming.”

Before Rokva could speak, Nome’s cell phone rang and he quickly answered it. More of the cargo males began to vomit. Another pulled down his pants as the more healthy ones, the women and the children, hurried past.

“Pull up your damn pants, you pigs,” Rokva yelled in Russian. “You disgust me.”

Galkin heard his boss’s statement and kicked the bent-over man in the rump. He went flying.

“Greagor, go make yourself useful in herding those cows into the trucks.” He then shouted instructions to separate the men from the women and children and put them in different vehicles. One of the men who’d been vomiting teetered on unsteady legs then collapsed.

“Pick him up and carry him,” Rokva shouted. “Now.”

“Why are you separating us?” one of the other men shouted in Russian.

“Shut up and do as you’re told, asshole,” Denisov yelled. He punctuated his command with a swift strike of the stock of his rifle. The man fell on all fours, his head bobbling back and forth like a child’s yo-yo.

“What are you waiting for?” Rokva said, looking at Lebed.

He mashed his lips together then shuffled off toward the group.

The mafiya captain turned back to Nome, who was still talking on his phone. After a few more muttered utterances, he terminated the call and stared at the Georgian with a worried expression.

“We’ve got trouble,” Nome said. “An Alaska state trooper just got here and is asking a bunch of questions.”

“What kinds of questions?”

Nome shrugged. “I don’t know. About any new arrivals most likely.” His tongue darted over his chapped lips like a nervous lizard. “Wait till he gets a whiff of your brigade. Shit, I can’t afford this kind of trouble.”

“How many are there?”

Nome shrugged again. “Looks like just one, as far as I know.”

“Where is he at?”

“By the airstrip, I guess.”

Rokva usually preferred to avoid contact or conflict with the authorities, but in this case their timetable had been affected by the unavailability of the second large plane. He was also concerned that his text to Yuri in Seattle had never been answered.

That could mean the police had intercepted him and the first shipment of women, and had in turn notified the authorities here in Alaska. Had Yuri talked? He didn’t think that was a probability, but how else could they have traced them here? Then it dawned on him: his phone. Perhaps the authorities had been able to trace the call.

He immediately took out his phone, turned it off and removed the battery. He considered tossing it into the water, but hesitated. He needed it to contact the rest of the group along the route. Besides, if the police had been using the phone’s frequency to trace him, perhaps he could use it to turn things to his favor... Use it to lure them into a trap.

For now he would keep the phone, but it would remain turned off.

“How the hell did they find you guys?” Nome asked. “Now I got the cops on my tail.”

“No matter. It will be taken care of,” Rokva said. He turned to Sergei, who had obviously been following the conversation. Since Sergei’s English was not very good, he said in Russian, “The police are in the village. By the airstrip. Go take care of it.”

“Do you know how many?” Sergei asked, tossing his cigarette to the ground and crushing it.

Rokva shook his head. Through his business dealings, he knew the Alaska troopers were grossly understaffed. Most of the time they worked by themselves or with one other person. Either way, it would be child’s play for Sergei, and it would also give him a chance to shake off any rust he might have accumulated during the sea voyage. He watched as his friend trotted quickly toward the row of trucks. Despite the constant smoking, the former Spetsnaz commando could run like a racehorse, never getting tired.

Sergei got into the first truck. After a brief moment, the vehicle started down the road, past the row of nearby unlighted buildings, and headed toward the village.

“Hey, what’s he gonna do?” Nome asked. “I don’t need no dead cops around here. That’ll just bring more heat.”

“I should think that a little heat would be welcome in this inhospitable climate,” Rokva said, allowing a slight smile to creep over his lips. He took a final drag on his cigarette, flicked it away, and called out to Aleksi Galkin, who was the next most competent man in the squad after Sergei.

He hurried over, holding his Kalashnikov at port arms. “Yes, boss,” he said.

They spoke in Russian, the Georgian not wanting Nome to be privy to the conversation.

“Separate all the men from the group. Take them to the building he will show you—” Rokva gestured toward the American “—and bring the equipment.” He called out to Boris Kazak. The heavyset, squat man lumbered forward, holding his medical bag to his chest like an old woman carrying food from a market. He paused on the pier, stared down at one of the dark puddles littering the surface, shook his head and then walked over to his boss.

“I do not like the look of this,” Kazak said. “There are traces of blood in that excrement.”

Rokva shrugged. “It seems to be just the men. The ones we got from the gulag. Aleksi is separating them from the rest for you.”

“I still do not like it.”

“You do not have to like it. Just do what you’re supposed to do.”

“I need to get someplace warm,” Kazak said, tucking his medical bag under one arm to find his cigarettes. “This cold is numbing my hands.”

“They will take you to warm house. Then you can get to work.”

Kazak placed a cigarette between his lips, pulled off his glove and fished in his pocket for a lighter. “How much time do I have?”

“We will take off in two hours.”

He recoiled. “Two hours? I am a doctor, not some idiot working in a butcher shop.”

“Work faster,” Rokva said. “Aleksi will have some of the men assist you.”

Kazak lit the cigarette and blew out smoke. “Very well. Let us get started, then.”

Rokva looked to the transport trucks and saw that the last of the male cargo was being loaded.

“Take the women and the children to the airstrip,” he ordered his men. “They can wait in the hangars. And have someone make sure the plane is fueled and ready to go. We will leave in two hours.”

“Da,” Galkin said. The big Russian then headed toward the trucks, his boots crunching on the crusty snow.

“Hey,” Nome said, “what were you guys talking about?”

The mafiya captain turned to the American. “You will show Boris to the building we are going to use for the cleanup. Those over there will suffice.”

“The fisheries?” Nome began to shake his head. “No way. I already told you—”

“We will also need to make use of some of your heavy equipment,” Rokva added. “A backhoe and a bulldozer.”

“I’m not doing anything until we get something settled first.” Nome poked his index finger against the other man’s chest. “This is gonna cost you double the usual.”

Rokva grabbed the extended finger and bent it backward, forcing Nome to his knees.