Shadow Strike. Don Pendleton
“Does the gold need to be, ah, washed?”
“Yes.”
“Very well. Then after our usual fee for the service, your deposit will be…thirty-four million dollars. Correct?”
“Correct,” Thorodensen growled, trying not to bridle at the open thievery. The money was flowing away like water running downhill, and they were still a long way from their final goal. But every journey started with a single step.
At a gesture from Gonzales, the bank guards swarmed forward, advancing upon the two open Hercules as if the airplanes were an enemy position, their weapons constantly sweeping for danger. Gonzales strolled up the ramp of one and patiently waited while a pair of guards broke out laboratory equipment and inspected every gold brick for purity. When the amount was confirmed, the guards relayed the gold bars into the armored truck, and Gonzales ran off a receipt from a small printer attached to the laptop.
“Here you are, sir.” He smiled as he passed over the slip. “And here are the bonds you requested. If there is anything else?”
“Yes, please transfer one million dollars to this numbered account,” Thorodensen said, handing over a sealed envelope.
“With pleasure, sir,” Gonzales replied with a toothy grin, tucking it away inside his jacket. “Hope to see you again soon. Have a pleasant flight!”
Forcing a smile to his face, Thorodensen nodded in return, and didn’t allow himself to relax until the armored trucks and guards had disappeared once more into the distance.
“I have trouble believing that you just gave the Spaniards a million dollars as if it was pocket change,” Gunnar Eldjarm muttered, resting the Vepr on a shoulder.
“Have no fear, old friend. That amount is all the bastards will ever get from us,” Thorodensen stated, passing over the briefcase. “Now, take these bonds to France and purchase five more Hercules seaplanes. We will meet you at the established coordinates off the coast of Sardinia in sixteen hours. If we are not back from Greece on time, leave immediately for Peru. Wait there for two days, then leave. Spend the gold in good health.”
“No, I’ll come find you!”
Starting back into the airplane, Thorodensen smiled tolerantly. “Thank you, old friend. If we have not returned by then, it means we are dead.” He stopped to place a hand on the shoulder of the bony man. “Don’t take any chances, Gunnar. Trust nobody, and keep to the plan! Wait two days, then disappear. You know where to purchase false identity papers in New Zealand?”
Resting a foot on the access ramp, Eldjarm gave a curt nod. “Yes, the Two Billies Tavern, just outside of Christchurch. There are new names and passports waiting for all of us.” He stressed the last words.
“And with luck we will retire to the Gold Coast of Australia, and live in luxury and peace for the rest of our lives. But that can only be accomplished by adhering to the plan!”
“Thor, when you were the Icelandic ambassador to the United nations, where you this much of a pain in the ass?” Eldjarm asked with a friendly scowl.
“Of course!” he said with a laugh. “How else could I have ever gotten anything done, representing a country without an army?”
Muttering under his breath, Eldjarm swung away from the plane and strode off. Half the armed Icelanders followed, and the rest strode into the open Hercules after their leader.
As Thorodensen started for the flight deck he was joined by Professor Lilja Vilhjalms. She didn’t say anything, but from her tense expression, he could tell that she was deeply concerned about something important.
“What is wrong, Lily?” he asked, using his private name for her. The two of them had been very close once, sex partners, but not really lovers. These days they were much closer than that, partners in crime. The evaluation of their relationship amused him.
“Your plan is so complex,” the woman stated, moving closer to the big man. “Selling your home to rent the planes, making the mustard gas to steal the mines, and now… Are you sure it is not going to unravel?”
“No, my dear, everything is under control.” Thorodensen laughed, draping a friendly arm across her shoulders.
She thrilled at the contact and ached to touch him back, but restrained herself for the moment. They were in view of the others. Perhaps, once they were on White Sands… “So, we are not going to be caught?”
“By those fat fools in NATO? That would be impossible, Lily. Impossible!”
Vilhjalms frowned. “Yet you once told me that nothing is impossible to a strong will.”
That caught Thorodensen by surprise. He started to speak, then merely grunted in reply as they started up the steel stairs to the flight deck of the massive aircraft.
Durrës, Albania
FLYING TO A PRIVATE airfield outside of Durrës, Mack Bolan bribed officials to get a locked trunk through airport security, then rented a Range Rover with four-wheel drive and drove toward the capital city, Tirana.
Albania was the heroin hub of the world, supplying the narcotics to most of Europe. The Fifteen Families even had a sweetheart deal arranged with the drug lords of Colombia. They exchanged heroin for cocaine, and each group expanded its sphere of influence. A win-win situation, unless you were one of their customers, forced into thievery, prostitution or worse, just to maintain your supply of the deadly substances. Bolan considered them all narcoterrorists, and removed them from this world as quickly possible. But at least for today, he needed the willing assistance of the murdering sociopaths.
The rolling countryside was beautiful, with rich fields of soybeans, cotton, wheat and endless herds of grazing cattle. However, the roads were much less noteworthy. They were mostly paved, but not always, and were often so steep that the sidewalks had been replaced with concrete stairs. The tough Range Rover took the steep inclines without noticeable effort, aside from a few assorted rattles and a lost hubcap.
Traffic was light, mostly pedestrians, and a few small trucks hauling produce. But Bolan carefully marked the location of every military vehicle.
Albania had once been a kingdom, then Communist, and now was supposedly a democracy, but that was a lie. The entire nation was owned, body and soul, by the Fifteen Families, the largest and most powerful crime family in existence. They made the old Mafia look like a sewing circle. Albania was ruled by a secret dictatorship that used the military to control the police. The reason Bolan rarely tangled with them was because their main concerns were inside Albania. He felt sorry for the enslaved Albanian people, but never fooled himself into thinking that he could save the entire world. That was madness.
Traffic become thicker near the capital city, but the roads didn’t improve much. The majority were made with cobblestone, dating back to the Middle Ages. Very picturesque for the tourists, but not practical. Occasionally there was a smooth stretch of pavement, a remnant of the days when the Soviet Union ruled the tiny nation. But most of the streets were in very poor condition, dotted with deep potholes. More than one car was abandoned alongside the road, with a wheel bent sideways, the axle broken in an unexpected encounter with a particularly deep depression.
Standing on a small raised platform, a young policewoman in a crisp uniform and bright orange gloves was expertly directing vehicles around a traffic circle. She instantly noted that Bolan was a tourist and smiled as he passed. He grinned in return, but noticed that her smile quickly faded as she returned to work.
Just then, a limousine raced past the police officer, clearly going way over the posted speed limit, veering in and out of lanes without regard for the other cars, and generally ignoring every rule of safe driving. She bridled at the sight for a moment, then turned her back on the vehicle with a sigh.
Watching in his rearview mirror, Bolan guessed the limousine was owned by a member of the Fifteen Families, and noted that the vehicle rode low on military-grade, bulletproof tires. The limo was armored. He almost smiled at that. In the trunk of the