Doomsday Conquest. Don Pendleton

whereby I explain how to shrink mass, while heating a hydrogen core for controlled bursts of a thermonuclear explosion that would allow for travel at and beyond light speed.”

      “You are trying my patience to its limits.”

      “So I see.” Jacobs puffed, sipped his drink. He took the remote box, snapped on a James Bond movie behind the Russian thug, wondering if he could replicate or refine one of Q’s high-tech toys, but saw the scene and already knew that he had. If he hadn’t, he knew the Russians wouldn’t be here now, waiting on him, hand and foot, frothing at the mouth, impatient to get on with business, surely entertaining violent fantasies of what they’d like to do to him if he weren’t regarded as the Holy Grail to their superiors.

      “What you see, Comrade Rustov,” he said, speaking now in fluent Russian, “as a typical Stealth fighter jet is, in fact, the war bird of the future, created by my own hand, and for which your country came to me and agreed to my demands in order to—one—not only engineer a version of Lightning Bat, but—two—deliver to you my considerable expertise in likewise building weapons and weapons systems that far surpass your incomprehension of me and my creation. What you failed to understand and thus give me a chance to become immortalized beyond the likes of Albert Einstein is that Lightning Bat was one, perhaps two, steps away from being able to send man into deep space at the speed of light through my sweat and labor. Which requires nuclear propulsion, of which I installed in Lightning Bat and was in the process of designing for a prototype spacecraft.”

      “You are talking much but telling me nothing of what I wish to know.”

      “Ah, I see. You think I throw you a crumb with those computer printouts on the table. You want to know where the good stuff is kept.” Jacobs tapped the side of his head. “Nearly all of the treasures of the mysteries of the universe, comrade, are locked safely away in here. Regarding my continued health and happiness, I will lead you to all pertinent documents and data in due course. After, of course, I have enjoyed what was agreed upon as one week of R and R in Las Vegas. That leaves me at present with three days to suffer your scowling and barbs and demands.”

      Rustov leaned forward, an edge to his voice. “You may feel genius should be granted all the perks and privileges it demands, while we, the common peasants should bow and scrape before you, but I would be very careful how you speak to me, Comrade Jacobs. Your continued happiness is really of no great concern to me.”

      Jacobs blew smoke across the table. “It damn well better be, Comrade Rustov. Your life depends on just how happy I am.” Jacobs watched the gunsel, thinking he could almost read his mind as his thug’s brain churned over at the rate of drying concrete, searching for some response that would save face.

      “Three more days, then it is I who will dictate the agenda.”

      “Until then…if you would be so kind as to order up some breakfast for myself and Cleopatra. Eggs over easy, I like my bacon juicy with fat, not irradiated to shoe leather as it was yesterday. Make sure they understand that. If I discover you are cutting budget costs by stiffing room service on the tip, I will be most unhappy.”

      Rustov chuckled as he stood. “Perhaps you are unaware, believing myself and my men only your ignorant lackeys. While you sleep with your whores, we cracked the mainframe on your laptop.”

      Jacobs felt his heart flutter. “That was most unwise, since you should treat my privacy like you would my happiness.”

      “We know about the Web sites, your e-mails to your former colleagues in my country. Should you not deliver as promised, we believe they have sufficient expertise to assist us.”

      “Sufficient, in this case, will not cut it, Comrade Rustov. Further, you seem to forget I worked at Compound Zero-159-A, and that these former colleagues of mine could not complete work I left unfinished when the money dried up. Now. Are you going to respect my privacy and see to my continued happiness, likewise see to it that my pockets are deep when I leave for the casinos or do I contact your superiors and tell them the deal is off? And inform them it is because you are uncooperative cheapskate with a considerable chip on his shoulder?”

      Rustov smiled, bobbed his head. “We will continue the arrangement, Comrade Jacobs, as you wish. Only bear this in mind as a gambler. When your marker is called in, you had best pony up.”

      “The threat implying it’s a big desert out there?”

      Jacobs watched Rustov, the baboon wearing his stupid grin, as he turned and walked for the foyer, barking at his four gunslingers to fall in. Grateful when he was alone, he draped an arm over Cleopatra, pulled her closer, and said, “I certainly hope that little bit of unpleasantness didn’t ruin your mood, my dear.”

      “YOU THINK YOU CAN TAKE IT easy on the liquor, Slim, while we’re sailing along at a hundred miles an hour and five hundred feet off the ground?”

      “The name’s Rupert, son. And I don’t care what that tin badge you flashed me sayin’ you’re with the Justice Department, this is my plane, and I been flying since you were but a mere itch in your daddy’s sac. And unless you wanna arrest me for FWI and land this bird yourself, you might want to lose that nasty attitude of yours—Mr. G-Man—sir.”

      Carl “Ironman” Lyons was in a foul mood as it was. It was never a happy day when he was snatched off R and R, duty calling or not. No, it wasn’t so much he was being bosom-nuzzled by a beautiful dancer way more than half his age when he got the call from the Farm to put his pants on, as it was the hangover now pulsing wardrums through a swollen brain that was sorely tempting his sand-papered tongue to mollify the old prairie buzzard for a shot of whiskey if only to help pull shot nerves together. At the moment, fear of flying took on a whole new meaning for the leader of Able Team.