Citadel Of Fear. Don Pendleton
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cover of night, but if he stepped out in daylight it would be like a unicorn sighting. The Kaliningrad oblast was one very white wood.
Wethers knew exactly what the Stony Man cybernetics chief was thinking. He was thinking it, too. He was also trying to think positively.
“Plus, the bad guys absolutely got shut down in Sweden. Propenko is claiming to have killed some people and escaped. He is the only solid lead they have to work with at the moment. Whoever hired him will be very interested in debriefing him.”
“Which may include torturing the living hell out of him and his new friends.”
“There is that, but Propenko has a very heavy reputation. I think there is a decent chance they might even rehire him, and his new friends.”
* * *
Kaliningrad, Luffy-Land
CALVIN JAMES REPORTED from the roof. “We’ve got company. A limousine and she’s riding low. I’m saying she’s armored. Two SUVs riding escort on the limo’s twelve and six.”
“Copy that,” McCarter replied. “It’s showtime.”
While Phoenix had waited, they had checked on the apartment Propenko had been renting. Nothing was missing, but the Russian reported that someone with a fair degree of skill had searched the place. Propenko had filled a bag with clothes and guns and gear.
Kaliningrad wasn’t exactly the fashion capital of Paris or Milan, but he’d bought the most expensive off-the-rack suits available for Phoenix Force. McCarter, Manning and Propenko looked decently dapper and decidedly dangerous. McCarter had decided to stay with the three-man team he had presented to the Grazinskiys and to keep James and Encizo as unseen aces in the hole.
The limo pulled to a halt outside. Two men each jumped out of the backs of the SUVs and one man raced to open the limo’s door. A man about six feet tall and nearly five feet wide emerged.
Propenko grunted as he peered through one of the boarded-up windows.
“Someone of note?” McCarter asked as he peered through his opening.
“Gospodin Gaz,” the Russian affirmed. “Minor mafiya royalty.”
McCarter had operated with and against Russians many times and this was far from his first time operating on Russian Federation soil. He knew a fairly extensive range of Russian words and phrases. Gospodin Gaz roughly translated into “Mr. Gas.”
McCarter considered the brutal, Mack-truck-built man emerging from the limo. “Glorified bagman,” he mused.
“Correct. Gaza has moved far up food chain from simple collections.”
McCarter was fairly certain he didn’t want to know but asked, anyway. “Why do they call him Mr. Gas?”
“Back in day, when collection proved difficult? They send Gaz. He comes with a can of gasoline. Perhaps for place of business. Perhaps for house. Perhaps for you.”
“Nice,” Manning commented.
“He did five-year stint in Siberian maximum hard-labor colony. He ran it for four and a half.”
McCarter eyed Propenko. “You two have run into each other before?”
“We are acquainted.” The Russian blew cigarette smoke and shrugged. “Gaz also known for loyalty and dealing square. Sometimes he is called in as third party during difficult negotiations.”
McCarter watched the Russian mobster, flanked by his five men, lumber up the steps. None of the guards wore tracksuits or gold chains. They dressed well and smelled more ex-military than musclemen or hammerheads. Save one, who was smaller, wiry like a terrier and seemed as agitated as one.
“So this could be a positive development.”
Propenko lit himself a CCCP. “Perhaps.”
The doorbell rang.
McCarter glanced at the brothers Gazinskiy. They sat forlornly on a couch. The ladies of the establishment had been sent home and the hammerheads had been carted off to a non-licensed infirmary that dealt with these kinds of situations. Ilya wore a neck collar and the shattered remnants of Artyom’s septum were held together by medical tape. McCarter nodded at Artyom.
The nasally impaired gangster got up and went to the door. McCarter and Propenko went to the bar. Manning stayed off to one side and smiled at Artyom.
“Not one word,” Manning warned.
Artyom flinched and answered the door. Gaz’s men flowed into Luffy-Land, forming a skirmish line. Gaz ignored the Gazinskiys and walked up to the bar. Propenko slid the pack of cigarettes down the zinc bar. “Let us speak English.”
Up close, Gaz was a very ugly man. Someone had flattened his nose the way Manning had flattened Artyom’s, but he had never had it fixed. His thick-fingered hands were red and scarred. The mobster’s ugly face was blotched from years of heavy drinking. His thick, gray hair was Soviet-era cosmonaut. He smiled to reveal yellowed, crooked teeth and shrugged as if the matter was of no importance. “Sure, Nika. If it pleases you.” He lit a cigarette. “You look good.”
“You look as I remember you.”
“I will take this as compliment. Piles are killing me.”
“Too much easy living?” McCarter asked.
The Russian eyed McCarter.
McCarter noted that the Russian seemed utterly unperturbed and didn’t ask Propenko about his new friend.
Gaz grinned but his eyes were cold. “I had plenty hard labor in Siberia. Enough for lifetime.” Gaz deigned to glance at the Gazinskiy brothers sitting obediently on the couch. The mobster waved his cigarette to encompass Luffy-Land. “Speaking of soft life, you boys going into business? I tell you, Gazinskiys not made-men. Never will be, but they are paid up. Not sure Luffy-Land is worth headache for you.”
McCarter glanced around Luffy-Land’s dubious charms. The wiry guy was mad-dogging him but McCarter ignored him. “No, but it got us a meeting with you, Gospodin.”
Gaz made a noise. McCarter had just called him “sir.”
“Call me Gaz. my friends do.”
“Offer you a beer, Gaz?”
“Always!” Gaz raised a scarred eyebrow. “Unless there is something stronger?”
McCarter went behind the bar and poured three shots of Absolut. His was barely a splash. The three men downed them amiably.
Gaz smacked his lips. “So, Nika, word is you are unhappy.”
“None of us are happy,” McCarter remarked.
The young, skinny, agitated Russian took a step out of the skirmish line. “Who is this guy? Who cares if he is unhappy? He owes us money! He owes us blood!”
McCarter gave Gaz a patient look. Gaz sighed and spoke too low for the skinny man to hear. “That is the Pan Dory.”
McCarter nodded sympathetically. Pan was an ancient Slavic honorific for “royalty.” Dory was the diminutive for the Russian given name Dorofei. Russian honorifics and given name diminutives were never mixed, except with great affection or even greater condescension. Gaz had just sneered and called the man “The Little Lord.”
McCarter began to see the situation very clearly. “He is supposed to be learning from you?”
“Supposed to be. Father ranks rather high in certain circles in Kaliningrad.”
“And Luffy-Land is part of the little kingdom his father has given him,” McCarter concluded.
“Yes. I am afraid Gazinskiy brothers earn for Dory. You have taken Luffy-Land. As I say, we have slight problem.”
“Slight problem?” Dory stalked forward.