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“That Aleksis Katzev?” Blancanales asked.
“The same,” Price said. She touched a key and the image of Russia’s strong-man president appeared on the plasma screen. “Aleksis Katzev. President of Russia. Former KGB operative, rumored to have Spetsnaz special forces training. Also linked to the deaths of several political rivals, often by poisoning, none successfully traced to Katzev or his operatives.”
“In other words,” Encizo said, “not a very nice man.”
“No,” Brognola put in. “Specifically, Katzev has been rattling sabers for months now, talking about recovering the glory days of the Soviet Union, and using the United States as the scapegoat that will pull the Russian people back together against a common foe. We believe Katzev is receiving funding from several known terrorist organizations, in fact, though the Triangle is by far his biggest investor.”
“What do you mean by ‘rattling sabers,’ Hal?” T. J. Hawkins asked.
“Russian naval assets and air power have been buzzing U.S. planes and ships in international waters off Russia for some time now,” Brognola said. “The hostilities are growing. Katzev gives a fiery speech just about every week on state television out of Moscow, too, usually working in references to the Great Satan that is the United States.”
“Sounds like an old script,” Calvin James said.
“But it works,” Brognola said. “Tensions between the U.S. and Russia are at an all-time high, and diplomatic relations are getting very close to breaking down. There’s some chance that this will subside after the elections, but there are no guarantees, and if Katzev secures another term, we have no way of knowing just how far he’ll take this.”
“The Triangle,” Delahunt said, “apparently hopes to expand its operations farther into Russia, which is what it gains by funding Katzev. Katzev has strong ties to the Russian mafiya, and the Triangle won’t make any inroads without their say-so. They’re violent, but the mafiya are no strangers to protecting their turf. We all know just how interwoven organized crime is with Russian society. We’re basically seeing the opening steps of a business merger in the making.”
“That’s a merger we need to prevent,” Price said. “There is, however, some hope that Katzev’s hold on Russia can be broken. He faces a hard fight in the country’s imminent national elections.” She tapped a key, and another man appeared on the plasma screen. He was younger, perhaps early forties, and dressed in a neatly tailored suit. “This is Yuri Andulov,” Price said. “He’s an experienced diplomat and a known friend to the West. He’s got a growing base of support in Russia. Polling data is unreliable and shows heavy favoritism to Katzev, the incumbent, but we believe Andulov may very well be slightly ahead.”
“The problem,” Brognola said, “will be keeping him alive until the elections occur. Katzev’s enemies have a way of dropping dead from mysterious food poisonings or other ailments. One got cancer rather suddenly. Another disappeared completely, along with his family. Katzev plays for keeps, and it seems very doubtful he intends to go head to head with Andulov at the ballot box—not if he can take him out before it comes to that.”
“More than one attempt has been made on his life, in fact,” Price said. “To now, his bodyguards have kept him out of harm’s way, but the assassins only have to succeed once.”
“I don’t have to tell you,” Brognola said, “that Katzev’s term of office has marked very difficult U.S.-Russia relations. Andulov could turn that around, normalize things between the two countries, and bring Russia back from the brink of open war with the West. Another Katzev term, by contrast, will very well take us to that precipice.”
“Are you saying we’ve taken an active interest in eliminating Katzev?” McCarter asked.
“No,” Brognola said, “only in exposing Katzev’s link to the Triangle. The rest will take shape on its own, provided Andulov isn’t murdered before he can take office.”
“It smacks of nation-building, Hal,” McCarter said.
“No.” Brognola shook his head. “That is not what we do. But Katzev is an active threat to United States’ interests, and he is linked to a violent criminal organization. If that link comes to light, if Katzev’s activities are exposed and if we can put a stop to whatever he might be doing in conjunction with those activities, it is in everyone’s best interests that we do so.”
“Fair enough,” McCarter said. He traded glances with Carl Lyons, his fellow team leader. Lyons frowned and nodded.
“I do not have to point out,” Brognola said, “the potential for an international incident that this raises. We cannot afford to enflame an already difficult situation where Russia is concerned. Plausible deniability must be the order of the day, even if they know we’re only making a show of it, and we know that they know. The situation in Thailand and Burma might get tricky, too—no government official likes to be accused of being in bed with international organized crime or terrorism. You can count on no local support abroad.”
“Bloody wonderful,” McCarter groused. “Can I assume we will be traveling sterile?”
“You will,” Brognola said. “Your personal weapons, if you have a preference, should prove no problem in the case of sidearms, but use your best judgment. You’ll be issued other operational gear that cannot be traced directly to any specific distributor.”
“Gadgets has consulted with our technical team,” Price said, nodding to Schwarz, “and we will be issuing both Able and Phoenix several pieces of microsurveillance and hacking equipment that should prove useful in your mission. There’s something else, however.” She looked to Tokaido once more.
“We will also be providing all of you with these,” Akira said, holding up a small breathing mask. “It contains microfilter technology. You may encounter very large quantities of drugs and fumes from drugs, especially if destroying caches of narcotics. These masks will protect you from the fumes and filter out the toxins, enabling you to breathe without difficulty.”
McCarter reached across the table for the mask. Tokaido gave it to him, and McCarter turned it over and over in his hands thoughtfully, examining it.
“I want you all to draw equipment from Cowboy and assemble within two hours,” Price directed, referring to John “Cowboy” Kissinger, the Farm’s expert armorer. “Phoenix, we have the first target for you in Thailand. Jack Grimaldi is ready to provide air support and will meet you on the ground there. He’s coordinating the transportation of certain assets.” Grimaldi was Stony Man’s veteran pilot, a capable operator of almost any flying machine, from fighter jets to helicopters.
“And us?” Carl Lyons asked.
“We’ve traced the Triangle’s financial records and uncovered a second facility owned by the holding company that held the lease to the Camden warehouse,” Price told him. “It’s a casino in Atlantic City. You’ll start there.”
“Sounds like fun,” Schwarz said.
“It won’t be,” Lyons said dourly.
“All right, people,” Brognola said. “This is an important operation. The stakes are high. The price paid already…well, it’s been too high. We’re on the job to stop this before it goes any further. A lot is riding on this. The Man has made this our highest priority. Do what you do.”
“Let’s move, everyone,” Price said.
CHAPTER THREE
Atlantic City, New Jersey
“Kind of out of the way, isn’t it?” Schwarz said from the passenger seat of the Chevy Suburban. Next to him, Carl Lyons was replacing the magazine in his Daewoo USAS-12 automatic shotgun. He chambered a heavy 12-gauge buckshot round with a heavy clack of the charging handle. The 20-round drum magazine in place on the massive weapon was supplemented by the 10-round box magazines Lyons carried in the pockets of his heavy canvas vest. The vest also covered the .357 Magnum Colt Python in a shoulder holster under Lyons’s left arm.
Lyons sipped from a disposable cup of fast-food-chain coffee and eyed the front of the casino. The street was busy enough; cars moved past in both directions, and plenty of pedestrians bustled by. The gambling house itself, the Drifts, was not too far from the old Sands building, but still not exactly located in prime real estate compared to its competitors. It was as out of the way as a casino in Atlantic City was likely to be, Lyons thought. He looked at Schwarz and grunted, taking another long sip from his coffee cup.
Like Lyons, Schwarz wore casual civilian clothes. His dark blue windbreaker concealed the Beretta 93-R, custom-tuned by Cowboy Kissinger, that he wore in a shoulder rig of his own. On his belt under the windbreaker he also carried several small grenades, most of them flash-bang and incendiary charges.
“You know, it occurs to me that we spend a lot of time waiting in the truck while Pol gets to go out and have fun,” Schwarz said, ignoring Lyons’s attempt to shut down the conversation before it could begin.
“He gets shot at more, too,” Lyons said.
“Like I said,” Schwarz confirmed. “All the fun.”
Lyons ignored that. Each member of the team wore a microelectronic earbud transceiver in his ear. The little devices transmitted to each other on a tight frequency and had an automatic cutoff for sounds above a certain decibel level. This allowed the team members to stay in constant touch with each other without relaying deafening gunfire over the channel. Through this link, they both heard Pol Blancanales say quietly, “Let’s not wish any undue excitement on me, gentlemen.” Schwarz smiled at that, but Lyons didn’t react.
The fact was, for all their banter, Blancanales was indeed in a precarious position. Before Able Team could roll through the Drifts with guns blazing, they had to determine exactly what was going on inside. If the Triangle owned an interest in the casino but was running no significant smuggling or trafficking operations within, Blancanales’s quiet reconnoiter might best be followed up with another soft probe in which they raided local documents, file cabinets and computers, looking for additional hints to the Triangle’s operation. It would prove dull and disappointing, given the mission parameters and their desires to bring the Triangle’s people to justice, but it would be the only way to handle such a scenario.
On the other hand, if Blancanales found himself surrounded by enemies who were trying to kill him, it would pretty much be open season.
“All right, guys,” Blancanales said quietly. “I’m in position.”
“Roger,” Schwarz said. He took the small video unit from the dashboard and adjusted the frequency. On the color screen set in the handheld unit, a picture appeared, showing the inside of the casino at chest level. The video stream was being transmitted by a tiny camera set within the belt buckle Blancanales wore. The video captured from it would give Able Team a visual record they could review later, while giving Lyons and Schwarz a real-time briefing of what they faced within should the situation get ugly.
Lyons leaned over to get a better view. Schwarz held the video unit up between them. Blancanales’s words, and some of the ambient noises around him, were transmitted to both men’s earbud transceivers, just slightly out of the sync with the picture.
Blancanales was moving through the main lobby of the casino, headed toward the slot machine pits. The crowd looked like the dregs of Atlantic City, the sort of regulars, drifters, grafters and barflies who would gravitate to one of the seedier establishments among the many gambling houses. Schwarz spotted several hookers working the crowd. Lyons ignored him until he started counting them off, then told him to shut up.
“Thank you,” Blancanales said softly. It wasn’t clear whether he was expressing his gratitude to Lyons or to the cocktail waitress who had just offered him a bottle of sparkling water.
Blancanales worked his way around the room, blending in as one of the customers. The nondescript outfit the Politician had chosen for this little run included a tan button-down shirt open, dark slacks and a leather blazer that had seen better days. In short, Blancanales looked just like one of the nightcrawlers gambling at the Drifts, which was exactly what he’d wanted. The Politician could blend in anywhere, anytime. It was one of the things that made Blancanales so effective an operative in these scenarios.
He was moving through the slot machine pit now, dodging lifers of all ages transfixed by the one-armed bandits. Lyons was amused to see the magnetic cards being swiped through the machines. He supposed a lot had changed since the last time he’d been in a modern casino, but it didn’t seem the same to him: waiting to hit the jackpot so you could increase the balance on your gambling card, rather than filling a plastic cup with metal tokens. It was all fool’s gold, he supposed, but that didn’t make it any less amusing. He and Schwarz watched as Blancanales passed row after row of desperate players swiping those cards and pressing push-button gaming screens instead of yanking on metal handles.
As the two other Able Team members watched, Blancanales made a slow, careful circuit of the entire main level of the casino. While not the largest or the nicest gambling house in Atlantic City by any means, the Drifts was still a fairly elaborate establishment. It took some time, and Blancanales knew his work well enough not to push too hard. Hurrying would look suspicious. He had to search the casino without looking like he was searching the casino, being careful not to raise any suspicions.
“There,” Lyons said finally. “There’s another one.”
“Another one?” Schwarz asked, looking at him.
“Pol,” Lyons instructed, “without looking like you’re doing it, back up three paces and slowly pan right.”
Blancanales took his time. He managed to make the move look natural, from what the two in the truck could see. The scan from his camera eventually took in what Lyons had noticed. He pointed to the screen.
“That guy?” Schwarz queried.
“That guy,” Lyons said. “That’s the second big mother in a black turtleneck and black jeans I’ve seen tonight, just standing around. They’re not dressed like casino security.” They had seen the official security guards working the casino; those guards wore matching maroon blazers.
“Sure looks like a guard,” Schwarz agreed. “What’s he guarding?”
“Pol, can you tell what he’s pretending not to cover?” Lyons asked.
Blancanales moved around slowly, taking in the guard from two different angles, then moving farther down the corridor just off this corner of the casino. Finally he found a remote corner where, Lyons figured, there was no one to overhear.
“There’s a fire door at the end of the hallway, opposite the guard,” he reported, whispering. “There’s also a camera focused on that door.”
“Take another look around,” Lyons said. “Let’s be sure.”
Blancanales did so. He worked his way across the casino again, paying special attention to the darkest corridors and corners. When he was satisfied that the door he’d seen was the only one guarded in that manner, he reported as much. Lyons nodded to Schwarz. During Blancanales’s sweep, they had counted a total of three of the black-clad incognito guards. Two of them were surreptitiously guarding the front and rear entrances, in both cases doubling up on the more overt casino security personnel. The lone guard in front of the camera-equipped door was therefore unique.
“How do you—” Blancanales said, then stopped. Schwarz and Lyons watched as a pair of women in micro-mini black dresses flounced past him.
“Not bad,” Schwarz remarked.
“Hookers,” Lyons said.
“As I was saying,” Blancanales said once they were out of range, “how do you want to play it?”
“I’d like to know what’s beyond that door,” Lyons said, “but I’d rather not tip our hand just yet.”
“All right,” Blancanales said. “But we’ll only get one shot at this. It might get hairy on the way out.”
“If it does, so much the better,” Lyons said. “We’ll back you up.”
“Easy for you to say, Ironman.” Schwarz poked him in the ribs.
“Zip it,” Lyons growled.
The two watched as Blancanales moved along the corridor, essentially flanking the lone guard while staying out of what was likely to be the mounted camera’s field of view. He affected a drunken stagger, if the sudden swaying of the video feed was any indication. Then he was stumbling into the guard.
“Hey,” the guard said, sounding disgusted. “Get the hell off me, asshole.”
“Whereza baffroom?” Blancanales slurred.
“Not here, stupid.” The guard reached out to give Blancanales a shove. To Lyons and Schwarz it looked as if he was reaching right for the camera.
Blancanales lashed out with a sudden, vicious edge-of-hand blow to the side of the man’s neck, staggering him. Blancanales followed up with a knee to the man’s groin and then a relatively light blow to the back of the head. The guard dropped like a stone.
“Remind me not to piss off Pol,” Schwarz cracked.
“I said shut up,” Lyons said absently. It was an old act between the two of them, and one neither man had to think about consciously.
Blancanales dragged the guard into the corridor he was guarding, careful to stop short to stay out of the mounted camera’s field of view. Lyons and Schwarz watched as their teammate quickly searched the man, after first checking his pulse.
“He’s not dead, is he?” Lyons asked.
“No,” Blancanales said quietly.
“Proceed,” Lyons instructed.
Blancanales found a 1911-pattern .45-caliber pistol in the man’s waistband, under his turtleneck. He also found a key card. He tucked the .45 into his own waistband, where Lyons knew it would keep Blancanales Beretta 92-F company. Then he moved quickly to the door, swiped the magnetic key card and popped the door open.
“Go fast, Pol,” Lyons said. “Whoever’s watching knows you’re not supposed to be there.” He checked the loads in his Colt Python before replacing it in its shoulder holster. “Get ready, Gadgets.”
“Roger,” Schwarz said. He set the video unit on the console between them and drew his 93-R. Then he checked the machine pistol’s 20-round magazine.
On the small color screen, Blancanales was making his way down a stairway. It was dimly lighted by small red light bulbs set within metal grates along the cinder-block wall. All pretense of the supposedly lavish gambling establishment had been dropped here. Whatever this was, wherever it led, no attempt had been made to disguise it.
Blancanales stopped at the bottom of the stairs. He was facing a pair of metal double doors. Pushing past these, he found himself in an empty anteroom. There was another set of doors. These were locked, but the electronic lock pad on the wall matched the one that had been installed at the top of the stairs. Blancanales used the key card again, sliding it through, and was rewarded with the metallic click that signaled the door unlatching.
He pushed the door quietly open.
At least a dozen men looked up at him.
On the screen, the scene was clear enough, in the split second Lyons and Schwarz had to observe it. The basement, which was lighted by overhead fluorescent lights, was filled with long, low tables. Men sat at these tables, weighing and dividing individual portions of white powder into smaller plastic bags. Several other men holding shotguns and rifles, a mixture of Mini-14s, AR-15s and even Ruger 10/22s, stood around the room at intervals watching over the process.
“Who’s he?” one of workers asked.
“Hey, that’s not—” another said.
Blancanales ran for it.
The first bullets struck the doors behind him as he cleared the next set of double doors.
“Go, go, go!” Lyons ordered. He grabbed the Daewoo shotgun as he piled out of the truck. Schwarz was close behind with his 93-R. The two men ran through the traffic outside the Drifts, dodging honking vehicles as they made for the entrance to the casino.
“I’m coming up the stairs,” Blancanales reported through their earbud transceivers. “The sewing circle I just interrupted is hot on my trail.” There was some static, suddenly, over the connection.
Gunfire.
Schwarz and Lyons burst through the front doors of the casino, Lyons leading the way with his Daewoo at port arms. Customers scattered. A woman screamed at the sight of the big Able Team leader with the massive automatic shotgun in his arms.
“Stop!” a uniformed security guard yelled. He walked up to Lyons. “You there, you can’t come in here with that!”
“Buddy,” Lyons growled, “you’d best back up.”
