“That’s fine,” Mike said, sitting up and slapping the still sleeping Daria on the rump and eliciting a yelp. “We’re going to have to move like lightning to make the convention.”
“The stakeout just called,” Ctibor said. “They’re packing up.”
“Shit,” Yarok muttered over the phone. “Any idea where to?”
“No,” Ctibor admitted. “We couldn’t get a mike into the rooms. The stakeout has a shotgun mike, but the men who are loading the vans don’t seem to know. The stakeout said that one of them said something about a convention.”
“That tells us a lot,” Yarok snapped. “Find out where they are going.”
“Perhaps we can hit them enroute?” Ctibor suggested.
“Maybe. Tell the stakeout to follow them. We’ll need more than one car to follow.”
“I’m on it.”
“Vanner,” Mike said, slipping the intel specialist a note. “Call this number. It’s a chartering company I’ve dealt with before. Tell them I need a large plane as fast as possible. My usual pilot if he can fly it.”
“Yes, sir,” Vanner replied, grinning. “How are we going to get the girls into the States, sir?”
“I’m on it.”
“This is highly irregular, Kildar.”
“I know, Minister,” Mike said, rolling his eyes. “And I am sorry to place this burden upon you, knowing that your time is extremely valuable. But it is most urgent and very important. I know that aspects have the attention of the President of the United States. While the situation does not directly affect Georgia, it has very wide-ranging implications. And it is imperative that I take the full team to the United States as soon as possible. Tonight if we can.”
“I will call the embassy in Croatia immediately,” the Georgian minister for external affairs said with a sigh. “But I will want to know that this is for an important purpose.”
“I will convey that to the President, Minister,” Mike said, rolling his eyes and wondering how many favors he was going to owe by the time the night was over.
“Mike,” Adams growled over the radio.
“Go,” Mike said.
“I think we have a problem. I’ve spotted the same white Lada four times since we got out of town. Either the guy’s going to Zagreb just like us or we’re being followed.”
“Crap,” Mike said, shaking his head. “We knew it had to happen sooner or later. Okay, evasion plan Alpha. Sawn, you monitoring?”
“Yes, Kildar.”
“Follow the agreed routes and meet at the agreed rally point. Adams, you have pick-up. Everyone go to scrambled cell at this time.” Mike pulled out his map and studied the roads. “Yevgenii, take the next left…” So much for making good time.
“Yarok,” the security specialist growled. He’d had a hard time getting all the vehicles for the assault team, most of whom were half or all the way drunk. While the American had taken less than fifteen minutes to get on the road, it had taken him over an hour.
“Ctibor. They’re splitting up. I think the trail car was made.”
“I told you to use more than one car!” Yarok fumed.
“I had a hard time getting more,” Ctibor complained. “And we never caught up. The stakeout car is still following one group that is on the main highway to Zagreb, but the other vans all have pulled off.”
“Follow the group on the main highway,” Yarok said. “They have to rendezvous somewhere.”
“Okay, Garold, they’re still on us,” Adams said over the radio. “Break it down. I’ll stay on the highway.”
He watched as the other vans pulled off the main road to Zagreb and then shook his head.
“That’s right, little lamb,” he crooned. “Stay right on my tail.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
“Hello, Mr. Jenkins,” Hardesty said as Mike reached the top of the rolling ramp. “Larger crowd than normal?”
John Hardesty was a tall, slender and distinguished looking former RAF fighter pilot who had gotten out with the fixed intention of becoming a pilot for British Airways. The problem with that being that, like the RAF, BA had been having cutbacks for years. Unable to get the job of his dreams, he’d settled for flying rich bastards around in private jets.
One day he’d gotten a charter that looked to be the usual, flying a rich American bastard around Europe. However, it had turned out somewhat differently than he’d imagined. The first odd note was that the rich American had turned up with just one suitcase and a small backpack instead of the loads of business suits the pilot had expected. And the destinations had been… odd. Small towns in Russia, rather notoriously dangerous towns in Serbia. And instead of the usual “I’ve got a business meeting tomorrow morning, we’ll be taking off at noon,” the passenger had required that he and his copilot to be on-call twenty-four hours a day. And had usually turned up in the middle of the night, reaking of cordite, his clothes spotted with bloodstains. At one point he turned up with what was clearly a low-class Russian hooker and carted her around for the rest of the trip. Hardesty tastefully ignored the fact that she had recent bruises from a beating.
The passenger also turned out to be travelling under at least three false names, and clearances for entry to countries had been remarkably smooth. He might be a hitman, but if so he was a hitman for a government, which made him almost respectable.
The various flights had culminated in Paris where the passenger had advised him to get to an airport well away from the City of Light and choose a hotel room that didn’t look in that direction. The news the next day that a nuclear weapon had been found in Paris, and been disarmed, came as no real surprise.
Since then he had carted “Mike Jenkins,” AKA Mike Duncan, AKA John Stewart, AKA whoknowswhat around to various spots in Europe, the United States and Southeast Asia. Since that first wild charter there hadn’t been a hint of gunpowder. Until tonight. Tonight he had the feeling things were going to get wild and wooly. Again.
“A bit,” Mike said. “And documentation is following. We’ve also got a bit of luggage.”
“Plenty of room in the compartments,” Hardesty said, leaning down to glance under the fuselage as the Keldara began unloading. Some of the bags looked suspiciously long. “I take it none of it’s going to explode?”
“We’re leaving the Semtek, if that’s what you mean,” Mike replied, standing by the females as the girls walked by.
“Nice joke,” Hardesty said, smiling. Then he looked at Mike’s face. “You were joking, right?”
“Customs is going to be handled on the far end,” Mike replied. “But we’ll be leaving a good bit of the material on the bird. So figure on a five-day layover in Vegas.”
“You weren’t joking,” the pilot said, shaking his head as one of the Keldara men went by with his arm in a sling.
“We’ve gotten drivers to take all the vans to the embassy,” Mike replied. “But while I’m willing to leave my Semtek, I’m not willing to leave all the gear. Or the ammo,” he added as the Keldara men started filing up the stairs with various rather heavy bags that might or might not contain such things as guns and ammunition.
“There are times that I really wish you’d picked another charter company as your flyers of choice.” Hardesty sighed. “On the other hand, the young ladies are quite charming, are they not?”
“About half of them are intel specialists,” Mike said. “The others are hookers that have been freed from Albanian gangs. One of which is, apparently, hot on our tail. As soon as the last of our party turns up, you might want to be ready to take off. Fast.”