Uncut Terror. Don Pendleton
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Jack Grimaldi, who was seated next to Bolan, leaned over and whispered, “Ah, it looks like the one guy’s faking it.”
Bolan shook his head and brought his index finger to his lips.
“Whatever,” Grimaldi said sotto voce. He leaned back and sighed.
Bolan watched as the master executed the final move, Hiza Guruma, the wheeling knee throw. As the opponent stepped forward, the master stepped back and smacked the sole of his left foot against the other man’s knee. Twisting the opponent’s upper body in a circular motion, the master sent the other man over with a quick flip.
Grimaldi snorted. “Like I said, all fake.”
Bolan shot him another quieting look, but it was obvious the judo master, an Asian man in his fifties, had already cast a glance their way. His eyebrows lifted slightly as he stared at Grimaldi. Then the master and his opponent bowed to each other, turned and bowed again to the audience.
Grimaldi stretched and yawned. “Ready to blow this pop stand?”
Before Bolan could answer the master held up his hands and waggled his fingers for the rest of the class to move forward, saying something in Japanese.
“The master wishes you to pair up for individual instruction,” the young assistant said.
The group of spectators got up and shuffled to the center mat. Bolan and Grimaldi paired off and gripped the thick lapels of each other’s gis. The master called out commands for each technique. The first was O Goshi, the major hip throw. The second was Harai Goshi, sweeping hip throw.
“You want to go first?” Bolan asked.
Grimaldi shook his head. “Nah. I want to prove to you that this stuff doesn’t work. It’s just like professional wrestling.”
“Okay,” Bolan said and pivoted, pulling Grimaldi off balance and stepping inside his guard. Bolan slipped his right hip against Grimaldi’s abdomen as he stepped back with his left foot and twisted, throwing Grimaldi over with a quick flip.
Grimaldi slammed onto the mat, managing to break his fall with a slapping motion of his left arm.
“You all right?” Bolan asked.
Grimaldi grunted. “I know how to fall.”
Master Watinabi strode over to them, speaking in Japanese and motioning for Grimaldi to get to his feet. As he did the master continued to give instructions to Bolan along with numerous gestures. The young assistant began translating.
“Master Watinabi says your technique is very good,” he said to Bolan. “But he suggests bending lower if the opponent resists.” He turned to Grimaldi and said, “Stiffen your arms.”
Grimaldi grinned and locked his arms, which were much longer than Watinabi’s. The two men stepped back and forth and suddenly Watinabi thrust his right foot into Grimaldi’s stomach and fell backward. Grimaldi flipped over and landed on his back with a thud. As he got up, Watinabi grabbed him once more, slipped into a modified hip throw and swept Grimaldi’s legs out from under him, flipping him over on his back again. Grimaldi got up a bit slower this time and Watinabi grabbed him once more and thrust his hip into Grimaldi’s stomach.
The master paused and the assistant said, “Grab his belt and attempt to lift him backward.”
Grimaldi smiled and reared back, lifting the smaller man completely off the mat, but Watinabi lifted both of his legs to his chest then thrust them downward, at the same time grasping Grimaldi around the neck. As soon as Watinabi’s feet struck the mat Grimaldi was launched over the master’s right hip, his body flying pell-mell before slamming once again onto the mat.
He lay there trying to get his breath.
“That is a useful technique against a taller opponent,” the assistant said.
Watinabi grinned at Grimaldi as Bolan reached to help him up.
“Good thing you know how to fall,” Bolan said.
Before Grimaldi could respond with one of his standard wisecracks, a cell phone rang.
The Executioner glanced to the edge of the mat where his and Grimaldi’s clothes and shoes had been stacked.
“Oh,” Grimaldi said. “Saved by the bell. Is it yours or mine?”
“It must be yours. I turned mine off.”
Grimaldi grinned as he lay back. “In that case I’m really saved by the bell.”
“Don’t be too sure,” Bolan said. “It’s probably Hal.”
Detention Center 6
Krasnoyarsk, Siberia
THE GUARDS MARCHED on either side of Grodovich. They were near the front offices of the prison, this much Grodovich knew from his orientation seven months ago. This was only the second time he’d been so close to the entrance. What was going on?
Another transfer?
Perhaps they were sending him back to the less severe prison at Ariyskhe. After all, his crimes did not involve violence, only paper: conspiracy to avoid paying appropriate governmental fees and taxes and unethical business dealings. At least the crimes they knew about. There was no way he should have been transferred to Krasnoyarsk. He had never received an explanation as to why they’d placed him into this hellhole. But at Detention Center 6, one did not ask.
The lead guard stopped at a solid-looking door and lightly knocked three times.
Such deference indicated a person of no small importance was on the other side.
This piqued Grodovich’s curiosity.
A voice from inside the room told them to enter. The lead guard motioned for Grodovich to place his hands on the wall and assume the search position. Grodovich complied and felt the hands of the other two guards squeeze every part of his body with practiced efficiency. He was used to the indignities of life behind the walls and was glad he’d dropped his blade in the stairwell, for they surely would have found it.
The aborted attack by the Chechens still floated before him. He’d done nothing to provoke them. Why had they accosted him, and why had the guards, to whom he paid protection each month, led him into such a clumsy trap? The answer was obvious. Someone had paid them more. But who, and more important, why?
The Chechen had muttered something right before Mikhal had terminated him: “We have our orders. It is nothing of a personal—”
What had he meant? And why had he said it?
A strange prelude for this meeting.
The lead guard opened the door and pointed for Grodovich to go in. He squared his black cap on his head and tugged his now misaligned clothing into a semblance of order. As he went inside the room he saw a thin man with a completely bald head and a pair of gold-rimmed glasses. The man wore a dark blue suit and his black shoes had a shine on them. He stood there watching and assessing as Grodovich