The Skorpion Directive Part 24

Kill him.

He heard a voice behind him, weak but steady.

"Don't shoot him yet, boss. Please."

Dalton, without turning his head away, keeping the pistol fixed on the back of Vukov's skull, said, "Dobri?"

"Yes. Is me. Good to see you, boss."

"You sound like s.h.i.+t. They hurt you?"

"Not . . . not so much."

Heavy boots on the staircase, and Davit slammed through a door at the far end of the hallway, his pistol out, his face a slab of pale rock. He took in the picture. A large, apelike man spread-eagled on the ground. Dalton, blood running down the front of his jeans, standing over the p.r.o.ne man with a pistol zeroed on the back of the man's skull. Dobri Levka, a few feet behind Dalton, in striped pajamas and paper slippers, shackled, his ankle cuffs attached to some kind of long silver chain, his face a black-and-blue horror, one eye battered shut, his lips caked in dried blood. And a dead girl in a b.l.o.o.d.y heap in front of the clinic doors.

"Hey, Bogdan," said Dobri, smiling through dry lips. "Got vodka?"

"Dobri," said Dalton in a flat, hard voice, the pain from the wound in his hip starting to make itself known, his chest filling up with cold fire, "Tell me why I can't kill this . . . thing."

"My boat," said Levka, coming to stand at Dalton's shoulder. "The Blue Nile Blue Nile. They put it on big cargo s.h.i.+p ten days ago. I think they going to do something terrible with it."

"What?"

"I don't know," he said, blinking down at Vukov through one puffed-and-purple eye. "But maybe this thing does."

DALTON held the gun on Vukov as Levka-rail-thin and haggard, unshaven, his thick hair matted and filthy-used his own shackles to cuff Vukov up and bind his ankles while Davit radioed for a Zodiac and a sh.o.r.e party. When Levka was done, Dalton reached down, grasped Vukov by the back of his jeans, and jerked him to his feet. As Vukov stood upright, he looked down at what was left of the girl in the doorway and then grinned at Dalton. held the gun on Vukov as Levka-rail-thin and haggard, unshaven, his thick hair matted and filthy-used his own shackles to cuff Vukov up and bind his ankles while Davit radioed for a Zodiac and a sh.o.r.e party. When Levka was done, Dalton reached down, grasped Vukov by the back of his jeans, and jerked him to his feet. As Vukov stood upright, he looked down at what was left of the girl in the doorway and then grinned at Dalton.

"You put nice big hole in Maya, Slick. Maybe you should f.u.c.k it while is still warm."

Bogdan Davit stepped in across Dalton and slammed Vukov on the side of the skull with his pistol, knocking him back down to his knees. He put a boot on Vukov's chest and shoved him backward onto the floor. Two of his sailors appeared at the top of the stairs. He said something short and direct to them in Ukrainian, held up a hand, making them wait for a moment longer, stepped in again and kicked Vukov hard in the crotch, hard enough to move him back a full yard. Vukov made no sound, but he turned slowly onto his right side and folded into himself as much as he could, his breathing going short and sharp.

Davit sighed, nodded to his men, who stepped in and gathered Vukov up like a sack and hauled him down the stairwell. Davit turned with a satisfied air to Dalton and Levka.

"Okay. Daring midnight raid. Prisoner rescued. Shots fired. Dead girl on the floor. One CIA agent with bullet in his hip. Lights coming on in the town. The Gulag opens up before us. I hereby declare this invasion of Holy Mother Russia officially over. Yes?"

BACK on the on the Velosia Velosia, steaming for home, Dalton, his hip bone aching and a hole in his flesh where the s.h.i.+p's doctor had plucked out a .22 slug, hobbled down to the supply room to have a talk with Vukov. He found him sitting on a metal chair, the chair chained to a ringbolt in the bulkhead, Vukov chained to the chair by a waist belt and ankle shackles.

Vukov looked up as Dalton opened the door, tilted his head back, and stared up at the overhead light inside his wire cage, laughed softly to himself, and then lowered his eyes and fixed them on Dalton as he pulled up a box and set it down in front of Vukov.

Dalton pulled out a pack of Sobranies, lit up a pink one, inhaling the smoke, staring back at Vukov.

"Cigarette?" he asked, lifting up the pack.

"Yeah. I like cigarette. Even f.a.ggot cigarette."

Dalton stuck one into Vukov's mouth, lit it, sat back, and watched as Vukov sucked the smoke in and expelled it through his nostril slits. The effect was demonic. Smoke rose up between them.

"So. Slick. Time we have nice chat, eh?"

"Your man, Branislav Petrasevic. The man I killed-"

"Kill three, Slick, but who is counting?"

"The other two were boys. Half trained."

His troll's leer appeared again and his yellow teeth. He spoke around the cigarette, holding it in his teeth.

"I like to work with troubled youth. Like Boy Scout leader. Hey. You bring that big gun? f.u.c.king f.u.c.king good gun. You d.a.m.ned good shot. One hundred meters. Right in f.u.c.king leg. Surprise s.h.i.+t out of me. Maybe one day, I buy one too. What kind is?" good gun. You d.a.m.ned good shot. One hundred meters. Right in f.u.c.king leg. Surprise s.h.i.+t out of me. Maybe one day, I buy one too. What kind is?"

"Colt Anaconda. Forty-four caliber. Two thousand euros, retail . . . Petrasevic said I was the one who burned you."

Vukov nodded, his heavy skull rocking forward, his lipless mouth stretching wide.

"Yes. Is you."

"Where?"

"In Podujevo. You know Podujevo, Slick? Is where you barbecue all those people. In Podujevo."

"You were there?"

Vukov rolled his head around on his thick neck, lifted his shoulders in a shrug, his muscles sliding under his T-s.h.i.+rt. His hands were folded together against the chain waist belt, his fingers curled slightly. He was breathing slowly and steadily, a machine.

"I was in mosque."

"In the mosque. Bad decision. Not bright."

He laughed.

"No. Not bright. In come rocket. I am in tunnel. Pow! Flames come and eat me all up. Now I am monster. You do this, Slick. Girls. I bet all girls like you, Slick. Pretty boy like you. I was pretty boy too. Girls, they all love me. Now not so much. Now I want girl, I pay or I just take. So. What happen to the Miklas wh.o.r.e? I not see her. Got new b.i.t.c.h now? Very fine. I would do her with big grin. Maybe some day, she get real d.i.c.k, yeah? The Miklas girl, she not like you so much after she find out about Podujevo?"

"No. Not so much. How did you know I was in Podujevo?"

Vukov showed his teeth.

"Is for me to know."

Dalton suddenly made the connection.

Colin Dale, the retired U.S. Army officer, the KGB mole that he and Mandy had hounded into the light last winter.

"Kirikoff's mole. Colin Dale. He would have known. He told Kirikoff. Before he died. Kirikoff used it to recruit you."

Vukov shrugged it off.

"Maybe. So what? Dale is dead. You execute him. Right on beach. All this means s.h.i.+t to me. Is politics. I am fighter."

Dalton looked at Vukov for a while in silence.

"You were a Skorpion."

His eyes grew wide and his skin changed.

"I am am Skorpion." Skorpion."

Dalton shook his head, a sideways, mocking smile.

"Not to us. We called you the Whack-a-Moles. It was like hunting gophers. You pop up, we take off your head. It was fun."

Vukov sucked on the cigarette, shaking his head slowly.

"You believe in G.o.d, Slick?"

"I try. Doesn't always work."

"Believe in Jesus Christ, who die for our sins? Who gives us eternal life in Heaven? You believe in Him?"

"I'm a Christian."

Vukov leaned forward into the haze of his own smoke, his great round head seeming to float inside the cloud, bodiless.

"Then you should kill Muslims Muslims. Not Christians. This This is the big war, Slick. This is true crusade. There is no peace with Islam. is the big war, Slick. This is true crusade. There is no peace with Islam. They They know this. Soon, or late, one day they know we will all go back under the boot. Is in their Koran. You know what know this. Soon, or late, one day they know we will all go back under the boot. Is in their Koran. You know what Dhimmi Dhimmi is?" is?"

"Yes."

"No. You do not not know know Dhimmi Dhimmi. You never live under Dhimmi Dhimmi law. My people, law. My people, my my people, people, we we live under that law. The Turks. The Moors. Six hundred years, we live under the boot. Since first battle of Kosovo. In Ottoman Empire, if you are infidel, there is no talking back to anyone Islam who insult you. No fight in court against anyone Islam. Wear live under that law. The Turks. The Moors. Six hundred years, we live under the boot. Since first battle of Kosovo. In Ottoman Empire, if you are infidel, there is no talking back to anyone Islam who insult you. No fight in court against anyone Islam. Wear markings markings to show you are to show you are dhimmi dhimmi. Look away in street. No riding horses. Donkeys only. Islam man want your woman, he take her. You say nothing. Islam man want your house, he take it. You got business, Islam man want it, you say yes and look down at ground. Islam man strike you, you kneel and beg him stop. Islam man kill you, you die, say thank you. What is dhimmi dhimmi ? Fear is ? Fear is dhimmi. dhimmi. Fear is on the face of every man and child of my people. What nation are you? Who are your people?" Fear is on the face of every man and child of my people. What nation are you? Who are your people?"

"My family came from Norway."

Vukov smiled as if confirmed in a theory.

"Vikings. Good. Vikings never live under Islam boot. Macedonians, Serbs did. We were once rulers of earth. Alexander was Macedonian. Listen, Slick, you think there is peace with Islam? Only difference between al-Qaeda and ordinary Islam man? Al-Qaeda impatient. Ordinary Islam man, he can wait. They will never never have peace with infidels. With Christians. Everywhere on earth where Islam man live near infidel is blood. It is in their book. Their Koran. Just like Hitler put his word in have peace with infidels. With Christians. Everywhere on earth where Islam man live near infidel is blood. It is in their book. Their Koran. Just like Hitler put his word in Mein Kampf Mein Kampf. Is there for all to read. No peace until we kneel or die."

Vukov sat back, breathing a little hard. He spat the cigarette out onto the floor, shaking his head at the madness of it.

"Then in Kosovo," he continued, "where it all start, after six hundred years finally we Christians put fear on the faces of their their wives, wives, their their children, children, their their old men, old men, their their fathers and sons. fathers and sons. That That is what a Skorpion is. is what a Skorpion is. That That is what I am. You. What are you, Slick?" is what I am. You. What are you, Slick?"

"What am I?" repeated Dalton. "I face men in combat. I don't rape and torture crippled old Jews. I don't run from a firefight and leave young boys to die. Branislav Petrasevic didn't run. He faced me in the middle of the road. Neither did the Medic kid or his friend. Only one man ran from that fight, Vukov. You did. And that is what you are."

Vukov looked down and became still.

"I did not run. It was . . ."

"Necessary?"

Vukov looked up, his skin rippling as the muscles under his cheek worked, his eyes bright and black.

"Yes. For the mission."

"So you say . . ." said Dalton, leaning back, lighting up another Sobranie and blowing the smoke toward Vukov. "Of course I couldn't stay. The I couldn't stay. The mission mission was too important. I had to run away to save the mission was too important. I had to run away to save the mission. It's all about the mission. Horses.h.i.+t, Vukov, just plain horses.h.i.+t. There is no mission. You're a petty thief, a criminal, a junkyard dog. Captain Davit will put you in his jail, and stronger men will use you like you used Galan. Because, you know, when it comes down to it, Vukov, you run. But when you run in a prison, you don't get far. Sooner or later, they'll corner you in a cellar or in the laundry, and you'll do whatever it takes to stay alive. That will be It's all about the mission. Horses.h.i.+t, Vukov, just plain horses.h.i.+t. There is no mission. You're a petty thief, a criminal, a junkyard dog. Captain Davit will put you in his jail, and stronger men will use you like you used Galan. Because, you know, when it comes down to it, Vukov, you run. But when you run in a prison, you don't get far. Sooner or later, they'll corner you in a cellar or in the laundry, and you'll do whatever it takes to stay alive. That will be your your story. Vukov. The man who ran." story. Vukov. The man who ran."

Vukov had gone somewhere else. His body was motionless, and he was not breathing. The scored wound on his temple, where Dalton's bullet had glanced across the bone, had opened up and blood was running down the side of his face, a gleaming red snake under the overhead light. It was the only thing moving on the man.

Dalton stood up, brus.h.i.+ng the ashes off his jeans, staring down at Vukov, his expression one of disgust, dismissal.

"The mission?" he said, smiling. "There is no mission."

He turned to go, but Vukov stirred, pulling at his chains, his boots sc.r.a.ping on the steel floor. He looked up at Dalton.

"I need toilet."

"So p.i.s.s yourself."

"No. Is not to p.i.s.s, okay. Look. I give you something. You let me go to toilet. Is okay to bring guards. But I must to go."

"Give me something and you can go to the toilet."

Vukov was struggling with it.

Dalton waited, still, patient.

"You know Kirikoff ?"

"What about him?" said Dalton, his hand on the latch.

"We are to do something . . . something big."

"The mission?"

"Yes. The mission."

"What is this mission, Vukov?"

"I don't know. Kirikoff keep it close. But I know where is Kirikoff."

"Good. Where is Kirikoff ?"

"I can go to toilet, I tell you?"

"Yes."