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THE FLIGHT FROM Washington, D.C., to Monte Carlo, Monaco, took about nine hours. Bolan slept the first six hours while Grimaldi piloted the aircraft, a Gulfstream executive jet. On paper, the jet was owned by an import/export company with its headquarters in Alexandria, Virginia. In reality, the DEA had seized the aircraft from a Colombian drug kingpin, given it a new tail number and registration and put it back into service for undercover operations.
After he woke up, the soldier downed a cup of coffee and pulled a brown valise from the seat next to his. Setting the case in his lap, he popped it open and withdrew a sealed mission folder that Brognola and Price had prepared for him.
Tearing open the seal, he pulled out a handful of papers and began leafing through them. He found a biography on Jennifer Rodriguez first. The picture of the FBI agent that Bolan had seen in the War Room was pinned to the front of the packet. The woman was a stunner. Her black hair spilled well past her shoulders in loose waves. Her eyes were a deep brown, and bore a striking intensity. She obviously was a beautiful woman, but Bolan had no trouble imagining a man twice her size squirming under her gaze.
The soldier removed the paperclip holding the papers and the picture together. He set aside the picture and studied the file. Rodriguez was a first-generation American, the daughter of a Mexican couple who had moved to the United States a year before her birth. Her father, Vidal, had moved to the U.S. to take a high-level job as an industrial chemist while her mother worked as an accountant for the same company.
As Rodriguez grew up, she proved to be a natural athlete and highly intelligent. She ran track while also making dean’s list as a pre-law student. Once she was accepted to law school, she quit competitive sports and focused on her studies.
Her parents had hoped she’d focus on corporate law. Instead she’d joined the FBI. With her ability to speak English and Spanish, she’d been assigned to the Los Angeles office, where she was mentored by Fred Gruber, that office’s special agent in charge. Gruber, who was on the cusp of retirement, and his wife, Kate, had taken the young woman under their respective wings and provided her with a surrogate family. The report noted that Gruber, who’d retired a few years later and started a second career as a private detective, had been killed in Monaco three months ago in a mugging.
Bolan didn’t believe in coincidences, especially in his line of work. He guessed that Gruber’s death had, on some level, played a role in Rodriguez volunteering for her latest undercover assignment. The soldier didn’t necessarily believe she’d come here looking to avenge Gruber’s death. Judging by her record, the woman was a pro and focused like a laser on her mission. There was always the chance, though, she’d visited the location of Gruber’s murder or some other landmark associated with his last case so she could connect with him, some way, one last time. It was a very human thing to do. Had it been the thing that had tripped her up and betrayed her identity? It was possible. Maybe Bolan would have a chance to ask Dumond.
Right before she’d gone off the grid, Rodriguez had contacted her mission controller. The guy, a Fed named Peter Kellogg, said she’d used her secure phone to call him from her hotel a few hours after she’d arrived in Monte Carlo. It was twenty-four hours before she’d been set to meet with Dumond for the first time. She’d planned to get some sleep and then have a look around Monte Carlo, maybe hit the beaches, since she wasn’t a gambler.
When she missed her next check-in call, Kellogg had gotten worried and eventually realized she’d disappeared.
Bolan set down the papers and drank more coffee. It was possible, he supposed, that Dumond hadn’t been involved in her disappearance. Maybe she’d fallen victim to a random crime, a robbery or rape turned to murder, for instance. It was also possible, the soldier realized, that she’d turned on her government. Those theories were plausible. The way Bolan saw it, though, the smart money still was on her being nabbed by Dumond for some reason. That made finding the Frenchman Bolan’s first priority once they hit the ground.
The guy apparently had done well for himself. According to a CIA file, he had not one but three houses sprinkled throughout Monaco. Two agency psychologists had labeled him as moderately paranoid, which explained why he moved between the various houses on almost a daily basis, never sleeping under the same roof more than a single night. It also might mean the guy had become suspicious of Rodriguez with little reason other than a chronic short circuit in his brain that made everyone look like an enemy.
Shifting in his chair, Bolan again pushed aside his questions about why Dumond did anything. Getting into the arms merchant’s head and understanding his behavior only benefitted Bolan to the extent it helped him find the missing FBI agent. Anything beyond that was distraction, one that could lead him down a wrong path and cost Rodriguez her life.
Price had checked with some of her former colleagues at the NSA. Dumond and his lieutenants apparently had gone silent within the past twenty-four hours. No calls or emails via the guy’s known numbers or email addresses. The key word, Bolan knew, was “known.” If he had an encrypted line the various intelligence agencies didn’t know about, it was possible he’d circumvented their surveillance.
Bolan skimmed the rest of the intelligence report. Dumond’s organization apparently was fairly big. In Monaco alone, he kept a fairly large contingent of muscle, at least a couple dozen.
The arms dealer had maintained enough contacts in the French government to buy himself a pass with the authorities in Monaco.
The French connection didn’t surprise Bolan much. Nearly half the population of that country, located on the Mediterranean Sea on the southern coast of France, was French and French was the official language. Bolan guessed Dumond was greasing palms in the French and Monacan governments. That was a key to building a criminal empire—put the government in one pocket and the business community in the other, and pillage at will.
Bolan noticed what he was thinking and a smile ghosted his lips. At times, he had to remind himself that most people were decent and honest, good people trying to get by. He spent so much time hunting the savages of the world—mobsters, rogue spies, corrupt dictators—it was easy to forget who he was fighting for.
He didn’t consider himself an idealist. But he was a soldier, a defender. As such, he needed to know he was fighting for a just cause. Otherwise he became a hired gun, a violent man, running from fight to fight, without reason. He would become a murderer instead of a soldier and Bolan couldn’t stomach that.
The soldier believed in what he did. He made no apologies for his methods. In his experience, brute force needed to be met with brute force. He needed to find the arms trafficker and free Rodriguez. The numbers were falling fast; hours had slipped away.
So he’d hit Monaco with a vengeance and accomplish his mission. Or go home in a body bag. In his life, in his War Everlasting, those were the only two options for Bolan.
* * *
WHEN BOLAN ARRIVED at the safehouse, he found Agent Peter Kellogg waiting for him.
Bolan had met a lot of FBI agents and none looked like the man who answered the door. By the soldier’s reckoning, the guy stood a few inches under six feet tall and looked wiry. However, he answered the door clad in torn jeans, a black T-shirt and cowboy boots. His long silver hair was pulled back from his face in a ponytail, and his salt-and-pepper beard was long and unkempt. The handle of a Glock 19 peeked above the waistband of his jeans.
Before Bolan could ask, Kellogg showed him his FBI credentials. The soldier flipped open a leather wallet containing a forged Justice Department ID featuring his Matt Cooper alias. Grimaldi, who was traveling as Jack Williamson, also showed the guy an alias ID.
Kellogg nodded, stepped back from the door and gestured for the men to enter the house.
“Well,” Kellogg said, “now that we’re done sniffing each others’ ass, you guys want some coffee?”
Both men said they did. Kellogg gestured with his chin at a door. “There’s the living room. Your buddy is here already if you want to hang out with him. Coffee’s in there. Let me get two more cups.”
The living room was huge, with polished hardwood floors, a fireplace and luxurious furniture. They found Leo Turrin standing at a shelf full of books, apparently reading the titles. He turned to them as they entered and made a face.
“Some tightass must buy all the Bureau’s books,” he said. “There’s nothing but international law texts and some history books about France and Monaco.”
Grimaldi snorted.
“Wow, did you read the titles all by yourself?”
“Screw you, fly boy,” Leo Turrin said.
“Got a headache from all that reading? Need to lie down?”
“Be careful,” Turrin said, “I have friends in low places. One phone call and I can have you rubbed out.”
Kellogg entered the room, a coffee mug in each hand. He looked at Bolan who’d been silent. “They carry on like this all the time?”
“Yeah,” Bolan said.
“Jesus, I ask Washington for help and they send me this.”
“Look, Easy Rider,” Turrin said. “No need to be a jerk.”
Kellogg smiled coldly. “Son, when I’m being a jerk, you’ll know it. I just want to make sure I have some people who can do the job. As for the clothes, they’re part of my cover.”
“As what? A clerk in a gay porn shop?” Turrin asked.
“Son of a...”
Kellogg took a step forward.
Bolan put a hand on his shoulder and said, “At ease.” He turned to Turrin. “He’s been working deep cover in an American motorcycle gang. It’s been branching out overseas, looking to set up shop in Paris and Berlin. Agent Kellogg is here to help the gang get a foothold in Europe. He’s also been funneling the information back to the FBI. Am I right, Agent Kellogg?”
“Well, at least one of you isn’t a damn buffoon,” Kellogg replied. “Yeah, that’s the short version of my cover. The guy who should’ve been running Rodriguez’s operation retired three months ago. I was filling in for him. Needless to say, I wish they’d had someone else do it.” He slurped some coffee. “Okay, is that enough about yours truly?”
“It is,” Bolan said. “We need to focus.”
Kellogg had set the mugs on an end table next to a carafe of coffee. Bolan poured himself some coffee, put the stopper back in the carafe and sipped the brew. Kellogg backed into an armchair and looked at Bolan.
“Let me say right up front, I feel shitty how this whole thing went down,” Kellogg said. “My team and I were planning to back her up every step of the way. She was going to wear a wire. That prick Dumond has a penthouse in Monte Carlo, and the meeting was scheduled for there. We had, um, appropriated some maintenance uniforms so our agents could put themselves within striking distance just in case things went south. I ran operations like this for years before I went deep cover. My people are pros. I—we—were going to have her back every step of the way.”
The guy’s eyes were bloodshot and rimmed by dark half circles.
“No doubt,” Bolan said. “Obviously someone figured out her identity beforehand, though, and nabbed her.”
“Yeah.”
“Which raises the question—was there a leak?”
Bolan had expected the guy to get defensive. Instead he shook his head wearily.
“I’ve asked myself the same question a few dozen times. I’ve gone over everyone’s file. If there’s a leak here, I can’t spot it.”
“Maybe you’re too close,” Bolan said.
“Maybe. I’d like to think you’re wrong. But, yeah, maybe. That’s why I asked Washington to shadow me on this. Headquarters has people going through the files of every agent and tech involved in this. If they say my team’s clean, they’re clean.”
Bolan sipped more coffee and set the mug on a table. His gut was telling him Kellogg was right; there wasn’t a mole in the guy’s organization. If that was true, it only made finding Rodriguez harder.
“A former FBI agent was killed here three months ago,” Bolan said.
“Yeah, Fred Gruber. Did you know him?”
“No, but Rodriguez did.”
“So what’s your point?”
“Not sure I have a point,” the soldier replied. “But it’s something to think about.”
“He died from a random mugging,” Kellogg said. “I read the reports myself.”
Bolan responded with a noncommittal shrug. Chances were Kellogg was right and there were no links between Gruber’s death and Rodriguez’s disappearance, though it still nagged at him.
“You don’t look convinced,” Turrin said.
“I’m not.”
“Shit,” Kellogg muttered. Pulling a notebook and a pen from his jeans, he scribbled something in the notebook.
“I’ll have someone look into it.”
“Thanks,” Bolan said.
“I’m not sure what we’ll find, though,” Kellogg added. “Last I heard, he had his laptop with him when the mugging happened. The SOBs who killed him made off with his computer, his wallet and his phone.”
“You’ll probably find nothing,” Bolan conceded. “But it doesn’t hurt to check.”
“Fair enough. Without the hardware, it may take a while to find anything, unless he backed stuff up somewhere else.”
“Understood.”
“Okay,” Kellogg said. “Now that you’ve added to my to-do list, what’s next? Do you need weapons?”
Bolan shook his head. “We brought some.”
“Good,” Kellogg said.
The phone clipped to the agent’s belt began trilling so he answered it.
“What?” he said. He went silent for several seconds, occasionally nodding. The caller spoke loudly enough that Bolan could hear the voice, but couldn’t understand what he was saying.
“How sure are you about the information?” Kellogg asked. “Reasonably sure? What the hell does that mean? Fifty-fifty? Seventy-thirty?” The caller responded and Kellogg went back to listening and nodding for another minute or so. “Okay,” he said. “Put some people on the house. Keep track of every vehicle coming in and out of the estate. Try to be discreet, though. Good job.”
He ended the call, set the phone on top of his right thigh and looked at Bolan.
“Okay,” he said, “I think we caught a break. Dumond has three residences in Monaco. One of our sources knows which one.”
“Knows or believes he knows?”
“My agent is ‘reasonably certain,’” Kellogg said. He gestured air quotes when he spoke the last two words.
“Wow,” Turrin said.
“Man, you’re getting on my nerves.”
“Just trying to make you think,” Turrin stated. “The last thing we want is to bust into the wrong house and let Dumond know we’re here. Once that happens, he’ll disappear and take Rodriguez with him.”
“News flash,” Kellogg replied. “He already has disappeared.”
“I’m talking ‘leave the country’ disappear. You ready to deal with that?”
Kellogg glared at Turrin for a few seconds. Finally he heaved a sigh and nodded slowly.
“Fair enough,” he said.
“So, do you have an address?” Bolan asked.
“Yeah.”
“Get us some floor plans,” the soldier said. “We need to figure out our next move.”
CHAPTER TWO
Jennifer Rodriguez knew she needed a miracle.
She paced her makeshift cell and wondered about her next move. Her captors had taken away her watch and, obviously, her smartphone, and her cell contained no clocks. Combine that with the fact she was apparently in a basement of some kind, with no windows, and she really had no idea how long she’d been down here. She guessed it’d been twenty-four hours, but she couldn’t be sure.
She did know she was losing precious time. She’d come to Monaco to find answers. In the past several months, there’d been murmurs in the underworld about Dumond’s gunrunning operation expanding. A lot of the talk had been troubling because the Frenchman supposedly had begun acquiring large quantities of weapons from rogue military generals, particularly in the Middle East, where the U.S. supplied weapons to friendly nations. Dumond had a record for selling weapons to anyone willing to pay the price.
Initially, some had worried he’d sell arms to China so it could study the technology. Working undercover, Rodriguez had learned the weapons weren’t advanced enough to pique China’s interest. She’d also learned the tools of the death trade that were being trafficked also were coming from countries at odds with the U.S., such as Libya.
Once they crossed espionage threats off the list, at least as far as major powers were concerned, the problem became identifying the buyer. Was Dumond going to sell weapons to al Qaeda, Hezbollah or another major terrorist organization? They’d tried for months to get an answer, but kept coming up empty. While Dumond wasn’t discerning about his clientele, he did fret over security.
U.S. intelligence had found it damn near impossible to hack his computer. He switched phones regularly, handing the old ones to his lieutenants to carry and use. This confounded the intelligence agencies trying to track him and often kept him a step or two ahead of authorities.
That was why Washington had decided to send Rodriguez after him. She’d spent months infiltrating another arms-smuggling ring, had made lots of contacts, many of them mutual “friends” of Dumond and her. She’d put out the word she wanted to meet with him. The wheels had started turning, albeit slowly, and it had taken weeks before she got an audience with him.
