Deadly Salvage. Don Pendleton
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just on general principle. He put it on his list of things to do, and smiled. “As I said before, this little mishap will be something for the French and the Dutch to deal with. Why do you think I arranged for Boudrous to come back from Haiti? He’s the perfect fall guy for any disasters that might beset some American agents. A good chess player is always thinking at least two moves ahead.” Everett smacked his right fist into the palm of his left hand. “Regardless, this weak sister we have in the White House now won’t dare do anything until he rehashes all his options. Hell, it might even be beneficial to our big plan. Sow the seeds of public outrage and discontent over the tragic deaths of some more Americans. Get people fired up. Then, when the big bang goes off, the President won’t have any choice but to act.” He let his voice trail off as he looked wistfully at the horizon. “It’ll be a new dawn for the United States of America.”
“It sure will, boss.”
Everett frowned again. Grimes’s ass-kissing sickened him. The weasel was obviously trying to sound convincing, but he was still a little weasel. But they’d been on a one-way track ever since they’d found that Russian sub, and Everett knew he had to finish the game with the players he had. No substitutions, no turning back.
Zelenkov’s heavy, muscular frame sounded like a jackhammer as he ran up the metal stairs to the catwalk. At the top, he whipped a salute at Everett, who returned it. The guy wasn’t even breathing hard.
“You have someone back on the island who can lead an ambush assault on some Americans with a group of Boudrous’s men?” Everett asked. “In a hurry?”
Zelenkov thought for a moment and then nodded. His gray eyes didn’t show emotion. He tilted his head back and the blue-and-black tattoos on his neck seemed to roll upward as the thick muscles shifted. “I do have such a man,” he said, taking out his cell phone.
“Good,” Everett said. “They’ll be on the mountain plateau in about twenty minutes. Three Americans, with an island policeman. Make it look like the work of a band of thugs.”
Zelenkov nodded as he spoke in Russian into his cell. “I will need a few more details,” he added to Everett in English.
Everett turned to Grimes and motioned with his head. “Get with him on this. Make sure it’s hard and clean.”
“Will do, boss.” His smile looked forced. “We’ll take care of it.”
They’d better, Everett thought. I don’t have time for fuck-ups or fools.
Bolan and Grimaldi leaned against the three-foot-high cement wall that overlooked the lush vegetation of the valley below. Beyond the trees, they could see the coastline and ocean. The plateau was the perfect place to snap some pictures of the gorgeous island scenery. As the road wound along the next bend, the view would expand to include the ramshackle village that preceded the strip of luxury hotels. This lookout appeared to have been bulldozed flat as the road was cut through the mountains. At one time, perhaps, it had been a peak of some sort. Now it was forty yards of blacktop adjacent to the two-lane road, with several parking spaces and an array of picnic tables in the center. Bolan and Grimaldi’s rental sat in one of the spots nearby, while another Citroën was parked at the opposite end. A young couple, probably in their mid-twenties, took turns posing for photos in front of the scenic background.
Grimaldi drummed his fingers impatiently on the cement. “You think he forgot about us?”
Bolan glanced at his watch. The FBI man was fifteen minutes late. “Hal said it was all set up.”
Grimaldi puffed up his cheeks and exhaled. “What’s this dude’s name again?”
“Tim Tyler.”
“Wasn’t there an old comic strip with that name, or something?”
“Yeah. Tim Tyler’s Luck.”
Grimaldi snorted. “Well, I hope this Fed had some luck getting a line on that Monk guy. I’m starting to get an uneasy feeling about this one.”
“You and me both,” Bolan said. He heard the sound of a car approaching and looked toward the far curve. A white police jeep crested the hill and began veering toward them. The driver wore the crisp blue-and-white island police uniform. The man in the passenger seat was dressed in a blue suit, white shirt and necktie. He looked young, maybe twenty-five, and had short cropped red hair and a spray of freckles across his face.
“Will you look at that?” Grimaldi said. “A beautiful, seventy-nine degree Caribbean afternoon and this guy’s dressed like Opie Taylor in a three-piece suit.”
The jeep pulled in next to their Citroën and stopped. The vehicle had no doors and the canvas roof was pulled back. The young guy unbuckled his seat belt, hopped out and walked toward them, holding out his open palm.
“I’m Special Agent Tyler from the Bureau,” he said. “Sorry we’re so late. Are you Cooper?” Tyler’s face was almost boyish.
“I am,” he said, shaking Tyler’s hand. He introduced Grimaldi, who also shook hands with the agent.
“This is Corporal Gaston of the island police,” Tyler said, pointing to the jeep’s driver. “They assigned him to help me check out the hotels and other spots on both sides of the island. He speaks French, English and Dutch.”
“What? No Italian?” Grimaldi shook Gaston’s hand.
Bolan shook the corporal’s hand in turn, noticing that it was damp.
“How do you do?” Gaston asked. He smiled, but his dark face was shiny with sweat, too. “You no doubt have much to discuss in private. I will leave you to your privacy.”
He walked over to the picnic tables, taking out his cell phone as he went. Beyond him, the young couple still flirted playfully, posing for the camera.
“So you two are with the Justice Department?” Tyler asked.
“We are,” Bolan said.
“No offense, but this is a Bureau case.” Tyler’s face scrunched up. “Why did they send you two to investigate?”
“Maybe they figured you could use some backup,” Bolan said. “You down here by yourself?”
“Yeah.” Tyler clicked his tongue. “For the moment, anyway. The agents I was originally paired with got pulled to help check things out in Puerto Rico. The vice president’s going to be there the day after tomorrow to attend the International Caribbean Security Conference.”
“We heard about that,” Bolan said.
Tyler nodded. “Well, anyway, so far we haven’t been able to trace Monk since he was in San Juan. That’s the last recorded place he was at.”
“What about his daughter?”
“She got here about a week ago, but checked out of her hotel room and hasn’t been seen since. Allegedly said she was going to spend some time on a friend’s boat. So at the moment, we don’t know if either of them is on this island. There’s no official record of Monk going through customs here, either.”
“Did you get our tip about that shady customs agent?” Bolan asked.
“Van der Hyden?”
Bolan nodded.
“Yeah, in fact, we just got back from the airport. We checked the man’s station and locker and found a substantial amount of cash.”
“I’m not surprised,” Bolan said. “Did you ask him if Monk came through on a false passport?”
“Yep,” Tyler said.
“Well, what did he say?” Grimaldi asked.
Tyler scratched his head again. “Not much. After we took him off the floor and started