a shine on them. He stood there watching and assessing as Grodovich entered and stood at attention. For the better part of thirty seconds, the bald man did not speak, then he took in a copious breath and motioned for Grodovich to sit in a nearby chair.
“I am Vassili Stieglitz from the interior ministry of economics,” the man said. “And you are Alexander Grodovich.”
Grodovich resisted the urge to comment. With the virtually endless sentence before him he had little to lose, but he had been incarcerated long enough to know that there was no sense throwing rocks at the gatekeepers. Besides, this meeting had some significance to bring an interior minister all the way from the Kremlin. Whatever this man wanted was worth finding out. There would be plenty of time for reflection on missed opportunities for sarcasm later, when he was back in the cell block.
Stieglitz inhaled again. “How do you like the facilities here in Krasnoyarsk?”
This was too much. The absurdity of the question made him laugh. “I have stayed in better.”
Stieglitz raised his right eyebrow. “I’m certain that you have.” He held Grodovich’s stare for several seconds and then said, “And you still have a substantial sentence yet to serve.”
Grodovich said nothing.
The bald man maintained his stare. “And what would you say if I offered you a way out?”
A shiver shot up Grodovich’s spine. Was this some sort of trick? Was this man toying with him? What did he want? It had to be money. His Swiss accounts.
Grodovich had been expecting such a financial deal when he was first arrested, although the opportunity to negotiate never materialized. His lawyers told him that such a deal could be made, but the conditions were absurd: total capitulation. They offered him a penniless freedom, with no guarantees on their part. He would either end up in prison or living as a beggar on the streets.
Thus, he’d held out, refusing to give up the numbers of his Swiss accounts. It was his only bargaining chip, because these bastards could not be trusted. The monthly bribes to the prison guards were still arriving on time, despite his transfer to Detention Center 6, and, most important, Mikhal’s sainted mother received her monthly allotment in Novosibirsk.
The first few days of Grodovich’s arrival had been hell, but still, he had survived. This was no doubt round two. The transfer to the more brutal surroundings had been a prelude to soften him up. So this was a negotiation, and he must show strength. He could not let this bald government rodent know his desperation.
Grodovich took his time before answering. “I would indeed be interested, but it would depend.”
Stieglitz’s brow furrowed. “Depend upon what?”
Grodovich managed to smile. He’d regained a modicum of self-respect, if not some purchase on the slope of the negotiation.
“Upon the nature of your request,” Grodovich said. “You obviously wish something from me, the cost of which must be evaluated before any decision can be made.”
“Are you mad?” the bald man asked. “I’m offering you a way out of this hellhole and you have the audacity to attempt to set the conditions?”
Grodovich smiled again. He was indeed gaining purchase. “Everything,” he said, “even life in here, has conditions.”
Stieglitz snorted. “I do not have time for games.”
“All I have is time,” Grodovich answered. He kept his expression bland. It was like a game of chess, waiting for your opponent to make the move that allowed first blood.
Stieglitz clasped his hands behind his back and strode to a dirt-streaked window covered with an iron grate. He stared through the filthy glass for several seconds. “All right,” he said finally, turning back to face him. “I can appreciate that you have been toughened by your incarceration. But let me assure you I did not come all the way from Moscow to play games. I am, quite simply, offering you your freedom. A presidential pardon for your crimes. Immediate, total and absolute freedom.”
Grodovich could hardly believe it. But he waited for the other shoe to drop, and he was betting it had a steel sole. He tried his best to conceal his excitement, wondering what the cost would be. Still, he knew it really did not matter. At this point he would sell his mother’s soul if it got him out of here a day quicker. But to show weakness in a negotiation was tantamount to capitulation. He composed himself and said, “What exactly must I do in exchange for this pardon?”
The corner of Stieglitz’s mouth tweaked, like a flicker from a hungry, feral cat, and he smiled. “We would like you to renew your old contacts on the international front as you go back into the diamond business.” He paused. “And with the Robie Cats.”
Stony Man Farm
Virginia
AS BOLAN AND GRIMALDI entered the War Room, Bolan noticed two steaming cups of coffee on the front edge of the table. Hal Brognola leaned back in his chair as he sipped from his own mug with a sour expression stretched across his face.
“I told you we should’ve stopped by Starbucks,” Grimaldi said, grinning. “I take it Aaron whipped up his customary brew?”
Brognola swallowed and gave his head a quick shake. Then he looked toward the door, checking to see whether Aaron “The Bear” Kurtzman, Stony Man’s computer expert, was close by. “Worse. You could use this batch to clean rust off a spark plug.” He indicated the two empty chairs in front of the desk.
Bolan sat down, leaving the cup where it was. He knew better than to sample it.
Grimaldi took a tentative sip from his and howled. “Damn, you could pour this into an old deuce-and-a-half if you ran out of gas.”
“What’s up?” Bolan asked. “We left a very interesting judo seminar to be here.”
“Judo seminar?” Brognola said. “Don’t you guys get enough practice beating people up?”
“You know the motto of our superhero here,” Grimaldi said, motioning toward Bolan. “It’s never too late to inflict some pain.”
“Especially if you provoke the instructor,” Bolan added.
Brognola laughed. “I can’t wait to hear about that one.” He set the mug down and cleared his throat. “But in the meantime, I have a favor to ask.”
Bolan nodded. He was accustomed to such sudden requests. Usually they came to Brognola indirectly from the White House. Special details that were too hot to go through normal channels. From the look on Brognola’s face, Bolan knew this one had the ring of immediacy and urgency. He waited for Grimaldi’s customary wisecrack.
“A favor?” Grimaldi said. “Who’d a thunk it?”
Brognola leaned forward, placing his forearms on the tabletop. “As I’m sure you’re aware, things have been tense between us and Russia lately.”
“Don’t tell me our side finally realized the old reset button isn’t working?” Grimaldi said.
“The current round of sanctions is causing a bit of havoc on their economy,” Brognola said. “Just how much remains to be seen.”
