Combat Machines. Don Pendleton
that one—and only one—guest named Alexei, an Alexei Panshin, had been checked in for the past week. Video footage showed him moving about the hotel—including with the bomb victim. In fact, from what was revealed by the hallway cameras, they seemed to be having a very close relationship. And what was even more interesting, he had checked out of the hotel within twenty minutes of the WTO employee leaving. Unfortunately, video footage did not show his face.
There was, of course, one more thing to check. A quick search of public documents indicated a decisive cooling of the WTO toward doing business with Russia, with several interviews with the now-deceased CEO pointing toward a definite distancing of the organization from the country, citing its continuing record of corruption and human rights abuses. And countries around the world typically took the WTO’s opinion on something—whether it was a trade agreement or an emerging country’s potential market viability—pretty seriously.
But even so, did any of this actually mean anything? Alexei was a common enough name, particularly in Russia and Bulgaria. It was simply possible she was mouthing the name of her lover right before she died.
A quick cross-check on Alexei Panshin revealed that he was an employee of Artus International, an import-export firm based in Saint Petersburg, and that he had been on what looked like a business trip to Geneva. All fairly aboveboard, from what Tokaido could tell. Even so, the nagging suspicion about these seemingly unrelated events still wouldn’t subside. It was possible that this man wasn’t the real Alexei Panshin.
Though hacking was Tokaido’s area of expertise, he had been encouraged to delve into data analysis. While training him in the cryptic art, his boss, Aaron “the Bear” Kurtzman, had stressed that it was as much art as science. “Connecting what seems like disparate events into a cohesive picture can often rely on your gut instinct as much as the hard data you acquire. The trick is knowing when to go with your feeling about a particular situation, and when to rely on the evidence as your primary lead.”
With a sigh, Tokaido saved his data and rose from his chair to go find Kurtzman. Even if he was wrong about all of this, it would be a good theoretical exercise for them to discuss, and he could get some pointers to refine his analytical skills.
He was just heading for the main doors to the Computer Room when they slid open and Kurtzman wheeled himself into the room.
“Hey, Bear, I—” was all Tokaido said as he popped an earbud out to talk before he was forced to step out of the way of the other man as he zoomed his wheelchair over to his workstation.
“Akira, have you got anything unusual on the Russians this morning?” Kurtzman asked without even a perfunctory greeting as he began looking over his own monitors.
“I...well, I don’t know if it’s unusual, but I did notice what looked like some Federation-based activity over the past twenty-four hours. Why?”
“I want you to have whatever you’ve got ready to present in five minutes. A US senator was just shot and wounded in Paris an hour ago, and the assailant seemed to be of Russian origin. We want to know what’s going on over there, and if it ties into anything larger, and if so, how.”
“I’m on it.” Tokaido ran back to his station and began typing with lightning speed.
* * *
“AND THOSE ARE the correlations between the various events, as I see them,” Tokaido said, hoping he didn’t sound too nervous.
Normally he served as support staff, assisting Mack Bolan or Able Team or Phoenix Force with their missions in the field. There, he was rock-solid, the calm voice in the team members’ earpieces giving them up-to-the-minute security intel, or defeating a security system from the other side of the world.
He could count on one hand the number of times he’d actually been involved in presenting a briefing to the head of Stony Man Farm.
Currently, Hal Brognola was staring at him like a bulldog eyeing a particularly juicy steak. Tokaido didn’t take it personally—he knew the big Fed regarded anyone who had what he wanted in exactly the same way. The Justice Department honcho was director of the clandestine Sensitive Operations Group, based at Stony Man Farm, and was Stony Man’s conduit to the White House.
Tokaido shifted his gaze to Barbara Price, Stony Man’s mission controller, the person who handled oversight of the Farm’s missions. She nodded at him and smiled, indicating he’d done a good job on his summary presentation.
That was confirmed by Brognola. “Nice work, Akira. Good to see Bear’s program is bearing some fruit.
“Okay, people, what does this seeming blitzkrieg of terror attacks mean? Are they really related, or are these just random acts that are occurring close enough together to draw our attention?”
“Given the increasing severity of the incidents, and the fact that Interpol, MI-5, and the Bundesamt für Verfassungsschutz have all gone to high alert internally, I don’t see how we can’t view this as anything but some kind of coordinated, if erratic, assault on the European Union as a whole,” Kurtzman replied.
“And the US, don’t forget.” Brognola snatched the soggy cigar from his mouth and jabbed the unlit end at Kurtzman. “I never liked that pompous ass Richard DiStephano, but no one deserves to be shot.”
“Says here that the assailant sped by on a motorcycle as DiStephano was heading to a meeting with his counterpart in the French government,” Price said. “The attacker fired at least two dozen rounds from a small submachine gun as he sped by, hitting DiStephano and killing his aide.”
“That’s a damn shame,” Kurtzman said. “What’s DiStephano’s prognosis?”
“Stable, although it was touch and go for a while,” Price answered. “They say one of the gendarmes providing security wounded the shooter, making him crash his motorcycle, but he still got away.”
Kurtzman grunted as he reviewed the data on the French attack. “DiStephano’s one of those hawks beating the drum for military intervention in Sudan, isn’t he?”
Brognola nodded sourly. “Yeah, mostly to counter what he feels is the increased Russian presence in the country. He’s amassed a small group of right-wing chuckleheads—mostly first-termers—and they’ve been trying to fire up a larger coalition to put a bill forward to send troops over there. Of course, they’re ignoring the very real threat of ISIS in the region, as well.” He shook his head. “The damn fools spend as much time putting their collective feet in their mouths in the media as they do actual governance.”
“Given the other attacks we’ve confirmed, this seems to link them all into a strong covert Russian operation,” Kurtzman said.
“But to what end?” Price asked. “Several of these obvious links—that one or more of the supposed perpetrators behind these incidents may be of Russian origin—are still so weak that they might be a sophisticated ploy to fool us into thinking Moscow is behind all of this. What if we’re looking at an elaborate false-flag operation meant to make us chase it back all the way to the Kremlin? With US-Russian relations so strained at the moment, we need to make absolutely sure that we’re correct about our intelligence pointing to whoever’s behind all of this.”
“Barbara’s absolutely right,” the fifth member of the conference said from the large monitor on the wall. “And the best way to do that is by putting some boots on the ground—mine.”
Mack Bolan, aka the Executioner, was connected to the War Room via an encrypted satellite feed. He and Jack Grimaldi had been returning from a successful operation in northern Africa when this situation had arisen.
“Fortunately, we’re not too far from Paris,” Bolan said, “and I can begin my investigation there, since that has direct American involvement. Looks like we’re about four hours away from Charles de Gaulle, so I’ll have Jack drop me off, and I’ll see if I can pick up the assassin’s trail.”
The Executioner picked up a tablet computer and flicked through the data he’d been sent. “DiStephano had been on his