Citadel Of Fear. Don Pendleton

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      “The man has a résumé.”

      “You have no idea. He also earned the Russian Federation’s Ministry of Justice’s maximum achievement certification in penal psychological warfare.” Kurtzman paused at that. “You be the judge of what that means…”

      “It means I’m glad I shot him and even gladder that he fell in love with Cal.”

      “Yeah, that was for the best…” Kurtzman agreed.

      “Right, going to go make our Captain Penal Power an offer he can’t refuse, then.”

      “David, this man has operated undercover in Russian supermax prisons. I want you to consider the fact that he may have deliberately decided to let himself be captured so that he could find out who you and Phoenix Force are, kill the entire team except you, torture you for everything you know and then extract back into the Russian Federation and report to whoever is running him.”

      “The thought had occurred, but thanks. I’ll be right back.”

      McCarter walked down the narrow, wood-paneled stairs. For giant Viking people, Swedes had strangely narrow homes. Nonetheless the house just about fell off the hillside and had a panoramic view of the black Baltic nighttime sea, which was pretty spectacular with the full moon reflecting off it.

      James and Propenko sat in the kitchenette playing speed chess. Propenko seemed to be halfway through a bottle of Swedish black market brännvin, wood-cellulose “burned wine.” McCarter raised an eyebrow at the Chicago native. “Is the prisoner drinking wood alcohol?”

      “Yeah, for the past hour, mixed with morphine I gave him.” James sighed heavily at the chessboard. “I only won my first game five minutes ago. I think the drugs are kicking in.”

      “Ha!” Propenko finished his move and slammed the timer. His injured leg was bound and stretched out on a chair; his right hand was handcuffed to the sink. The Russian’s words were definitely starting to slur. “American pussies…”

      James raised one hand to the side of his face and mouthed, “We may need another bottle.”

      McCarter nodded. “How you doing, Nick?”

      Propenko scowled at James. “Nubian has admirable qualities.”

      The black Phoenix Force medic nodded demurely, made a move and tapped his timer.

      The Russian lifted a grudging chin at McCarter. “I have always admired English.”

      “Good to know.”

      Propenko scowled down the stairs behind him. “Fish chained me to sink. I do not like Cubans.”

      McCarter smiled. “My apologies.”

      Propenko grunted. “Gummer is sniper. I have not met rifleman I have not liked.”

      Manning called down the skylight from his perch on the roof. “Thanks!”

      “And Hawk?” McCarter asked.

      “He is too good-looking to be soldier.” Propenko made an extremely bold move with his knight and nearly broke the chess timer as he slammed it down. “Maybe he is not hawk. Maybe he is fruit rabbit.”

      Hawkins’s head snapped up from the dining-room table. As the most tech savvy member of Phoenix Force he was doing a preliminary disassembly on the enemy drone. “Hey!”

      James raised a diplomatic finger. “Not that there’s anything wrong with that.”

      McCarter smiled at Propenko, but he wasn’t fooled. Not for a minute. “Listen, old son, I like you.”

      “I am liking you, too, English.”

      “So let me tell you how I see it… I think you have a liver the size of a fifty-year-old speed bag with the cracks and scars to match. I think you’re going to be dead in five years, but right now I think you’re still a nasty piece of work, and in your line of work you are at the prime of your powers.

      “You’re a right bloody charmer, and not a quarter as sodding drunk as you’re pretending to be. I think you might have it in mind to snap that handcuff after me and my friend there are slightly more relaxed and do something terrible. Then you do the rest of us up a treat and start rooting around for intel. And, I think you’ve done it before.”

      The palest, coldest, soberest Russian eyes McCarter had ever seen regarded him unblinkingly. “So?”

      “So convince me to keep you around.”

      “And if I do not?”

      McCarter drew his pistol. Phoenix Force had been forced to toss their weapons into the Baltic when they’d entered into Swedish airspace. Sweden was a neutral country with their own cottage arms industry and, unlike many European nations, was not awash in surplus or black market weapons. The CIA had managed to get them some very archaic armaments that had “disappeared” from a Swedish reserve armory. McCarter pointed something that looked strangely like a German Luger at Propenko’s right leg. “Then I shoot you in the other leg and I still keep you around.”

      Propenko sipped wood alcohol.

      McCarter pushed. “So?”

      The only thing colder and clearer than the Russian’s eyes was his smile. His voice was suddenly cold and clear, as well. “So convince me to let you keep me around with one wounded leg rather than two.”

      McCarter gave a grudging noise of admiration. “Who do you work for?”

      “That information is confidential.”

      “Do you still work for them?”

      Propenko gave a very Russian shrug. “I believe the contract terminated when you smashed mission.”

      “But you were paid?”

      “I was. Half in front. Mission did not succeed. Back half will not be—” he belched “—be forthcoming.”

      McCarter allowed himself a smile.

      Propenko eyed the bottle of brännvin ruefully. “Swedish fire-piss, I must be getting old.”

      “And you won’t help me in my mission against your previous employers?”

      “Do I work for you? Do I have contract?” Propenko swirled the wood alcohol in his teacup and pursed his lips judiciously. “Have I been paid?”

      Hawkins made a noise. “The balls on this guy…”

      Propenko slowly turned his head to regard Hawkins. “Would you like to see them, Fruit Rabbit?”

      “If he calls me Fruit Rabbit one more time…”

      “Dah. And?”

      McCarter brought the conversation back on line. “So your job was to kill us?”

      “Sustain your attempted ambush, destroy СКАЧАТЬ