Critical Intelligence. Don Pendleton

your contacts from your time in a KGB station house in eastern Africa. That you could, if properly motivated, reach out and reactivate stringers, cells and networks across the region.”

      “You must have these kinds of contacts among your own community,” Milosevic countered. “Why come to Ukraine to get what you could get in London or New York?”

      On the couches the entourage exploded into laughter and applause as Svetlana and the girl in the red dress began making out.

      “Because,” Klegg said slowly, “I need contractors and operatives who don’t mind pulling down on Westerners. I want businessmen, not ideology. For that, it was come here or go to Palermo.”

      “Rio, Caracas,” the Russian offered. “Even Uruguay.”

      “I go to the cartels, I might as well go to the fucking monkey house at the zoo.” Klegg paused. “Though for what I have in mind, an outer circle of cannon fodder might be appropriate, given an inner cadre capable of dealing with them afterward.”

      “A fixer who exercises total unit closure on his field talent tends to have an abbreviated career,” Milosevic countered.

      “You’ll land on your feet, I’m sure.”

      Milosevic released cigar smoke in a huge plume and settled back comfortably in his chair. His eyes cut over to where Svetlana was making out with the girl from his entourage. The Russian oligarch looked back at Klegg.

      “You start tying up loose ends, it can sometimes be hard to know when to stop.”

      Now it was Klegg’s turn to shrug. “Tie up the knots that can’t tie you back. Call it acceptable.”

      Like a scene out of Faust, Milosevic leaned forward and extended his hand.

      IT WAS COLD in the alley outside the Kiev nightclub.

      Klegg’s and Svetlana’s breath plumed up between them as they kissed furiously. The American plunged his hands inside the woman’s ankle-length fur coat. Her eyes were glassy marbles as they kissed. He ran his hands over her body underneath her coat, stroking her up to a fever pitch of excitement.

      She moaned as his fingers worked at her.

      The back door to the nightclub was just a few yards away and the muted sound of the dance beat music rattled the blacked-out windows in their frames. The alley smelled strongly of the urine of drunk and stoned patrons. Garbage overflowed out of battered old cans and three giant green bins.

      Rats, braving the frigid chill to get the remnants of greasy food, swarmed across the refuse and watched the humans with glittering eyes.

      Though thousands of citizens of Kiev went about their lives within little distance of couple, it was as if they were alone in a vast, urban wasteland of empty windows, rubbish and deep shadows. It called to Klegg’s mind the poem The Waste Land by T. S. Eliot.

      “I’ll show you fear in a handful of dust,” the lawyer thought idly. It made no sense but his mind was starting to click with adrenaline.

      “Now,” Svetlana whispered in his ears. “I want it now.”

      “Now?” Klegg asked, his heart starting to beat even faster.

      “Yes, yes,” she breathed.

      “Okay.” He laughed. “But remember, you asked for it.”

      The American psychopath stepped back from the Russian woman, leaving her gasping. Her glassy, red-veined eyes opened in confusion.

      Klegg grinned like a maniacal clown.

      His hands went to the small of his back underneath his coat. He emerged with a pair of nunchaku.

      The martial-arts weapon was designed from the width of a single, slightly thicker than average handle cut smoothly down the middle, allowing for more compact and thus easier surreptitious carrying. The handles on the thicker edges were octagonal, presenting a variety of sharp edges for contact when swung.

      “My favorite movie when I was growing up was Enter the Dragon,” Klegg explained, speaking fast as his breath continued coming harder and faster. “Nylon cord and teak wood. I walked right through airport security with this.”

      He assumed the rear defense stance. Dramatic, almost cinematic in nature, with most of his weight resting on his outstretched forward leg while his torso was held back, arms up, nunchaku held along the outside of his right arm.

      “W-what?” Confusion. The beginnings of fear.

      “I’m not going to lie,” Klegg snorted. “I like this weapon ’cause it’s so fancy. Does a lot for my self-esteem.”

      He exploded into motion, whipping the segmented clubs around through an intricate pattern of moves: reverse shoulder swing into a figure-eight swing, down into an underarm grip.

      He was grinning so wildly now his smile threatened to split his face. He forcefully exhaled and performed a cross-back swing too fast for the eye to follow, and Svetlana, at last understanding what was about to happen, opened her mouth to scream.

      The end of the nunchaku whipped around and slapped the woman across the jaw. Her head snapped to the side and her scream was cut short by the impact. Blood painted the dirty snow in stripes of scarlet. She stumbled back, long heels sliding on the icy ground, only the alley wall keeping her up.

      Klegg, eyes burning, moved in, the nunchaku cycloning through its figure-eight pattern. He struck her again, then caught the stick under his arm on the rebound. Her head snapped back and this time teeth flew like tumbling dice.

      She sagged to her knees and her ruined face poured blood out in a hot, sticky puddle beneath her.

      Klegg lashed out again and again. His skill was not simply that of a choreographed dancer; he could swing the arcane weapon with deadly force. The teakwood handle made sickening crunching sounds like cracking ice as it slapped into Svetlana’s skull and jaws over and over.

      Blood splatter painted the walls, painted the ground, soaked the woman until her face was a mask of it. She couldn’t find the strength to scream, couldn’t drag in enough air to cry out before she was struck again.

      She could only whimper.

      Klegg’s smile was a horrible rictus on his gleaming face. His breath came in short, hard pants like a man having sex. The concussive shock of each blow traveled back up his arm with each strike.

      Finally one of the octagonal edges of the striking club caught the ravaged woman a glancing blow along her temple and she was knocked unconscious. She sagged face-first to the ground, still as a slaughtered carcass. Klegg struck the back of her head two hard snaps and more blood matted her once silky hair.

      Gasping for breath, he moved around behind her and took each side of the nunchaku in an underhand grip. He bent and looped the nylon cord under her chin then twisted. He twisted until he felt her larynx crumple like an empty soda can under his heel and he rose, dropping the weapon to lie beside Svetlana’s rapidly cooling corpse.

      He took off his gloves and ran a hand through his hair. He straightened and smoothed his overcoat. He reached down and adjusted his still prominent erection in his slacks.

      Without hurry he lit a cigarette and blew smoke out in twin streams from his nostrils. Slowly his heart slowed and his breathing calmed. His erection began to fade.

      He smoked half the cigarette down, then dropped it to the ground. It landed in a sludgy pool of snow and blood, instantly extinguished.

      He turned and walked calmly from the alley to hail a taxicab. He had no fear of the police. Kiev was a wide-open, dirty city and he was under the protection of Milosevic, the biggest villain of them all.

      Things were working out just right, he decided.

      Stony Man Farm

      BARBARA PRICE sat at her desk in the Annex.

      She had three computer screens open in front of her, each