“So that guy was a snake even back then,” Joe said.
Kurt nodded.
“What’d you do?”
“On my first dive to the sunken jet, I’d rigged up fifty pounds of charges. My orders were to blow the plane up if we couldn’t lift it or if we pulled it off the bottom and got caught by the Chinese. The explosives were still on the plane, and they were armed and just waiting for a signal. I uplinked to the satellite and triggered them. Somewhere over Kamchatka a Russian jet exploded. Poor souls flying it probably had no idea what their cargo was.”
Joe shook his head softly. “Rough business.”
“Yeah,” Kurt said, feeling a tinge of remorse for the poor flight crew even after all this time. “So is this. And this time when someone suffers, I’m going make sure it’s Andras.”
Joe looked around. “I’m with you. You think we’re going to find him here?”
“Not him,” Kurt said. “But someone who knows how to find him.”
Kurt picked up the coffee and took another sip.
The way he saw it, Andras had beat him twice. No doubt the man had been paid when he handed the E-6B Prowler over to the Russians. The explosion was their problem. And if history was any guide, he was probably already counting the cash for delivering the kidnapped scientists to whoever they were given to. Then again…
Kurt looked up at the oil painting of the White Rajah. He remembered Andras insisting he’d be a kingwhen this was all over. He wondered what the man was up to.
Kurt finished the coffee and motioned for another. As the bartender refilled his mug, Kurt turned around to check the room.
He assumed whoever had called him would be able to find him and then some kind of deal for the exchange of information would be crafted. But, so far, no one had approached, no note had been passed, no waiter or bartender had suggested another party was waiting to see them.
All around, the patrons dined, glasses clinked, and the occasional flash of blue lightning lit up the skylight above, but nothing out of the ordinary happened.
It was odd. At times in his past, Kurt had felt a sixth sense telling him he was under surveillance. He didn’t even feel thathere. It was more like they’d been shunted off to a siding and left there to rot, like a railcar rusting to pieces in waist-high weeds.
He began to wonder if he’d been fed bad information.
And then the double doors across from him opened and a trio of men came in. Two hulking bodyguards. With dark-tanned faces and square jaws, they looked more Samoan than Malaysian.
In front of them was a smaller man, mostly American-looking with some Malaysian features. He had soft eyes, relatively smooth skin. Short dark hair spiked with gel stood atop his large round head, one that seemed way too big for his narrow-framed body. The slightest touch of gray could be seen at his temples.
From his clothes and casual manner he might have been able to pull off mid-to late thirties, but Kurt knew him to be older, pushing late forties by now.
“Ion,” Kurt said, standing.
The man turned upon hearing his voice. He focused on Kurt from a spot between his two bodyguards. Recognition took a few seconds, and then a smile washed over Ion’s face.
The smile was false and forced, and it vanished almost as quickly as it had come. A sign that could mean only one thing: trouble.
43
IN THE SWANK CONFINES of the White Rajah, the man who called himself Ion took a step backward. His new position placed him between and behind his guards, who stiffened, and focused their attention on Kurt like a laser.
As Kurt studied them, all he could see was a World Wrestling tag team ready to start body-slamming him and Joe if either of them made any false moves.
Now feeling safe, Ion spoke. “Standards must be dropping to allow someone like you in here, Austin. I must complain to the management.”
“No need for that,” Kurt said. “Give me a little bit of information and I’m gone like the wind.”
“Information costs,” Ion said. “With inflation the way it is, the price gets higher every day. But tell me, what are you after? And how much are you willing to pay?”
“You owe me,” Kurt said. “What I need will square us.”
“I owe you nothing,” Ion insisted.
Kurt had expected as much. “In that case, I offer you the right to keep your reputation. You’ll have to decide what that’s worth.”
“My reputation?” Ion said. “What are you babbling about, Austin? And make it quick, I have reservations.”
Kurt’s chest swelled, but he made no other outward move. “I explain the consequences that will face you once I wipe the floor with your bodyguards and pound the information out of your overly large, egg-shaped skull.”
He waved his hand around the room. “I can only imagine how that will damage your standing among these good people.”
Ion’s face showed the exact reaction Kurt had hoped for: anger, but coupled with a hint of fear and calculation. Maybe he would listen. And then again…
Ion took a hurried breath, puffed himself up for a few seconds, and spoke to his bodyguards.
“This man is a threat,” he said. “Deal with him.”
A wall of Samoan muscle flexed and began moving toward Kurt. One man pounded a fist into an open palm, and the other twisted his neck to the side, cracking it loudly and smiling. Apparently, they were ready for battle.
Kurt realized the one advantage he still had: both men were staring at him and only him. Ion had said, “ This manis a threat,” not, “ These men…” He hadn’t realized that Joe, in his sharp-looking clothes, had anything to do with Kurt.
Kurt’s hand found the coffee mug behind him. As the big brutes reached a distance of five feet, Kurt swung it toward them.
The piping hot liquid splashed across both men’s faces. The coffee was not hot enough to scald or scar, but the surprise and sting of it snapped the heads of both men to the side, eyes shut tight.
In that instant Kurt charged, lowering his shoulder and hammering it into the first guard’s torso just below the sternum. It felt like crashing headlong into a tree, except the man stumbled backward as Kurt drove through him, legs pumping hard. It was a perfect tackle that would have made any linebacker in the NFL proud, and it sent both men crashing into a table and onto the floor.
Even as Kurt attacked, Joe was springing into action. He hopped to his feet, grabbed a barstool, and slammed it across the shoulders of the other guard. The man crumpled and groggily began to crawl away. Joe let him go and turned to see if Kurt needed any assistance.
Kurt had landed on top of the bodyguard he’d tackled, but the man was far from out. Eyes half opened, he shoved a hand into Kurt’s face, catching him under the chin. It was a jarring blow, but Kurt shook it off and dropped an elbow hard between the man’s neck and shoulder, hitting the pressure point.
The man’s head tilted back in pain, offering a perfect shot at his jaw. Kurt fired a right cross with every ounce of strength and adrenaline in his body. It slammed the man in the chin, snapped his head sideways, and put him out like a light.
It all happened so fast, the patrons of the restaurant had only enough time to register shock; gawking; drawing back, and looking horrified. A couple had made it out of their chairs but still held their drinks. This wasn’t the kind of club that needed bouncers, so no one appeared ready to throw Kurt and Joe out, though the bartender now held a Louisville Slugger in his hands.
Kurt stood slowly, and the crowd began to relax. Some looked upset at having missed all the fun.