Weak groans and the sound of a fist striking flesh filtered through the door at the far end of the dim hallway. It was to this door that the GRU officer led them. As the three men entered the room, they were assailed by the smell of stale sweat, fear, vomit and blood. The distinctive tinge of explosive propellant still hung in a faint pale blue fog around the lights. Sean looked at the floor and saw a blackened flash circle on the carpet. They must have used a stun grenade.
The source of the groans sat tied naked to a chair in the center of the room. The man’s right foot was horribly swollen. From the look of the bruises on his face and chest, he had been beaten repeatedly. Two large Sergeants in battledress, with GRU shoulder boards, stood in the far corners of the room. Both were armed with the AK-74U sub machine guns.
Sturmovic loomed in front of the man tied to the chair. It had to be him. A large uniform jacket of the Soviet Rocket Forces hung across the back of a nearby chair, between him and the two British soldiers. From the look in his eyes, and the blood spattered in drops across the front of his uniform, this was his interrogation.
Harris spoke in Russian before Sean had a chance. “Having some fun with the locals?”
Seconds ticked by. All movement in the room stopped.
Sturmovic looked the two men over. “And just who the hell are you?”
Sean cut Harris off before he had a chance to reply. “We’re janitors, here to clean up your mess. Let’s start with the sorry bastard you’ve got tied to that chair.”
Sturmovic’s face darkened. “I will handle this in my own way. Besides,” he sneered as he stared at the two men in their civilian clothes. “I would not have asked for two useless diplomats. Now leave me. I have more questions to ask my guest.”
Both men moved their feet slightly apart. Sean spat on the floor. “You shouldn’t let appearances fool you. Leave your guest be for the moment. Who is he? Is he related to this cock up of yours?”
Sturmovic spun around on Sean, fists ready to pound into him. It was the wrong move. Sean drew the Tokarev pistol from his jacket and had the barrel against Sturmovic’s forehead with one fluid movement. “Move any further and I’ll spatter your brains all over the back wall.”
Harris had his pistol out and was covering the two Sergeants. “Keep your hands where I can see them.” The two men kept their hands in plain sight.
Sean stripped Sturmovic of his service automatic. Smirnoff, bound in his chair, watched the whole altercation through swollen eyes.
Sean’s voice was low and dangerous. “Now, one more time.” He nodded towards Sergei. “This man, is he involved?”
“Yes.”
“How?”
“He is a drug dealer. He is the one who used drugs to get three of my men to steal the warheads. We found hypodermics upstairs. My base doctor told me my men were not the type of addicts their physical examinations would first lead you to believe. Their bodies did not have the telltales of long time abusers of heroin.”
Sean looked at Sergei’s bound form. “He’s still worth more alive. Your men, where are they now?”
“The base morgue. We found their remains in the bay this morning, by a little-used part of the docks. There was one other body who we suspect is East German. They were killed by someone like you. Somebody who knew what they were doing.”
“You have made your point. The guns and theater are no longer necessary.”
Sean lowered his pistol. Harris did the same.
Sturmovic took a step back and looked appraisingly at the two men. “Which unit do you represent for your country?”
“Special Air Service.” Sean looked at Sergei. “This party’s over. Get him cleaned up and seen to. The NEST team is going to want to question him.” He looked at Sturmovic and smiled. “Cheer up, Colonel. I just saved you from a firing squad.”
Sean untied Smirnoff and got most of the blood off the man’s face before a medic arrived. He’d been unimpressed with the Soviet medic’s attempts to clean up Smirnoff and treat his wounds. The man had been sent downstairs to join his Commander and the GRU troops. Sean didn’t imagine the Russians were enjoying themselves. Batumi was in Georgia and the Russians had become the loud guest who has outstayed his welcome a long time ago.
Sergei’s broken foot was splinted as best Sean could with the materials he had. Harris stood to the side, pistol ready, just in case. Sean looked over his handiwork. “Well, you’re not going to win any beauty contests.” He turned to Harris and spoke in English. “Fucking amateurs. He’s pretty lucky. They gave him a real doing; beat him past the pain threshold.”
“Think he’ll talk?”
“He’s got a pot full of morphine in him right now. Beating the shit out of him won’t get us anywhere. I doubt he’d feel it. It couldn’t hurt to ask him a few questions.” Sean looked back a Smirnoff, “Though I don’t know what good the answers are going to be.” He switched back to Russian. “What’s it going to be, Comrade? You going to talk to us or do we give you back to your Russian playmates?”
Sergei glared back out of his right eye. The left one was swollen shut. His voice was thick and raspy. Sturmovic had probably broken a few teeth. “Why should I help you English?”
Sean shrugged, “The choice is up to you. Just remember, we stopped them from beating you into paste. If you don’t want to help us, I’ll be forced to give you back.”
“We make a deal and maybe I’ll talk.”
“You’re not in any position to cut a deal.”
Sergei spat towards the door. “Then give me back to the Russians.”
“He’s a hard one,” Harris said in English behind Sean’s back. “See what he wants.”
“Okay, what kind of deal are we talking?”
“I tell you everything I know. You let me go.”
“You must be joking.”
The Georgian leaned over and broke into a wet, broken cough that moved through his body in spasms. When he looked up, his lips were red with blood. “Like you said, I am not in a position to lie.”
JUST NORTH OF CAPE TOWN, SOUTH AFRICA
“Bzzzt!” Benjamin hit the shut off for the “Waypoint achieved” buzzer on the GPS. The small VDT screen gave him the next indicated heading. A brief listen to the Flight Services radio frequency out of D.F. Malan International gave him the necessary altimeter setting, wind speed and direction. He switched his radio to scan. It would not do to fly into an incoming 777 at this stage in the game. To get out of the traffic pattern, six hundred feet in altitude had to be lost. Benjamin hoped the trees had not grown much since the last time he did this run. The American nosed the modified DC-3 over in a hard dive for the deck. The maneuver should shake off any stray search radars from the Army station on Tabletop Mountain that may have painted the old warbird’s skin. His transponder was already off. It was doubtful airport radar had picked him up. Thirty seconds later, Benjamin pulled back hard on the flight yoke and leveled off. Now came the dangerous part. He turned on the cabin intercom Sykes was plugged into. “Last leg, I’m going in, couple of minutes till landing.”
Sykes’s voice came back, disembodied by static, “Roger.”
Andrew Verkatt stood beside a heavy truck and scanned the skies for any sign of his cargo. The truck was kept in a warehouse on the outskirts of Cape Town. From time to time, the South African required its services to move certain more unsavory cargoes his government should not know about. He turned his head towards the faint drone of twin turbofan engines. It had to be the American. Unconsciously, he licked his lips in anticipation.