Uncut Terror. Don Pendleton

fall with a slapping motion of his left arm.

      “You all right?” Bolan asked.

      Grimaldi grunted. “I know how to fall.”

      Master Watinabi strode over to them, speaking in Japanese and motioning for Grimaldi to get to his feet. As he did the master continued to give instructions to Bolan along with numerous gestures. The young assistant began translating.

      “Master Watinabi says your technique is very good,” he said to Bolan. “But he suggests bending lower if the opponent resists.” He turned to Grimaldi and said, “Stiffen your arms.”

      Grimaldi grinned and locked his arms, which were much longer than Watinabi’s. The two men stepped back and forth and suddenly Watinabi thrust his right foot into Grimaldi’s stomach and fell backward. Grimaldi flipped over and landed on his back with a thud. As he got up, Watinabi grabbed him once more, slipped into a modified hip throw and swept Grimaldi’s legs out from under him, flipping him over on his back again. Grimaldi got up a bit slower this time and Watinabi grabbed him once more and thrust his hip into Grimaldi’s stomach.

      The master paused and the assistant said, “Grab his belt and attempt to lift him backward.”

      Grimaldi smiled and reared back, lifting the smaller man completely off the mat, but Watinabi lifted both of his legs to his chest then thrust them downward, at the same time grasping Grimaldi around the neck. As soon as Watinabi’s feet struck the mat Grimaldi was launched over the master’s right hip, his body flying pell-mell before slamming once again onto the mat.

      He lay there trying to get his breath.

      “That is a useful technique against a taller opponent,” the assistant said.

      Watinabi grinned at Grimaldi as Bolan reached to help him up.

      “Good thing you know how to fall,” Bolan said.

      Before Grimaldi could respond with one of his standard wisecracks, a cell phone rang.

      The Executioner glanced to the edge of the mat where his and Grimaldi’s clothes and shoes had been stacked.

      “Oh,” Grimaldi said. “Saved by the bell. Is it yours or mine?”

      “It must be yours. I turned mine off.”

      Grimaldi grinned as he lay back. “In that case I’m really saved by the bell.”

      “Don’t be too sure,” Bolan said. “It’s probably Hal.”

      Detention Center 6

      Krasnoyarsk, Siberia

      THE GUARDS MARCHED on either side of Grodovich. They were near the front offices of the prison, this much Grodovich knew from his orientation seven months ago. This was only the second time he’d been so close to the entrance. What was going on?

      Another transfer?

      Perhaps they were sending him back to the less severe prison at Ariyskhe. After all, his crimes did not involve violence, only paper: conspiracy to avoid paying appropriate governmental fees and taxes and unethical business dealings. At least the crimes they knew about. There was no way he should have been transferred to Krasnoyarsk. He had never received an explanation as to why they’d placed him into this hellhole. But at Detention Center 6, one did not ask.

      The lead guard stopped at a solid-looking door and lightly knocked three times.

      Such deference indicated a person of no small importance was on the other side.

      This piqued Grodovich’s curiosity.

      A voice from inside the room told them to enter. The lead guard motioned for Grodovich to place his hands on the wall and assume the search position. Grodovich complied and felt the hands of the other two guards squeeze every part of his body with practiced efficiency. He was used to the indignities of life behind the walls and was glad he’d dropped his blade in the stairwell, for they surely would have found it.

      The aborted attack by the Chechens still floated before him. He’d done nothing to provoke them. Why had they accosted him, and why had the guards, to whom he paid protection each month, led him into such a clumsy trap? The answer was obvious. Someone had paid them more. But who, and more important, why?

      The Chechen had muttered something right before Mikhal had terminated him: “We have our orders. It is nothing of a personal—”

      What had he meant? And why had he said it?

      A strange prelude for this meeting.

      The lead guard opened the door and pointed for Grodovich to go in. He squared his black cap on his head and tugged his now misaligned clothing into a semblance of order. As he went inside the room he saw a thin man with a completely bald head and a pair of gold-rimmed glasses. The man wore a dark blue suit and his black shoes had a shine on them. He stood there watching and assessing as Grodovich entered and stood at attention. For the better part of thirty seconds, the bald man did not speak, then he took in a copious breath and motioned for Grodovich to sit in a nearby chair.

      “I am Vassili Stieglitz from the interior ministry of economics,” the man said. “And you are Alexander Grodovich.”

      Grodovich resisted the urge to comment. With the virtually endless sentence before him he had little to lose, but he had been incarcerated long enough to know that there was no sense throwing rocks at the gatekeepers. Besides, this meeting had some significance to bring an interior minister all the way from the Kremlin. Whatever this man wanted was worth finding out. There would be plenty of time for reflection on missed opportunities for sarcasm later, when he was back in the cell block.

      Stieglitz inhaled again. “How do you like the facilities here in Krasnoyarsk?”

      This was too much. The absurdity of the question made him laugh. “I have stayed in better.”

      Stieglitz raised his right eyebrow. “I’m certain that you have.” He held Grodovich’s stare for several seconds and then said, “And you still have a substantial sentence yet to serve.”

      Grodovich said nothing.

      The bald man maintained his stare. “And what would you say if I offered you a way out?”

      A shiver shot up Grodovich’s spine. Was this some sort of trick? Was this man toying with him? What did he want? It had to be money. His Swiss accounts.

      Grodovich had been expecting such a financial deal when he was first arrested, although the opportunity to negotiate never materialized. His lawyers told him that such a deal could be made, but the conditions were absurd: total capitulation. They offered him a penniless freedom, with no guarantees on their part. He would either end up in prison or living as a beggar on the streets.

      Thus, he’d held out, refusing to give up the numbers of his Swiss accounts. It was his only bargaining chip, because these bastards could not be trusted. The monthly bribes to the prison guards were still arriving on time, despite his transfer to Detention Center 6, and, most important, Mikhal’s sainted mother received her monthly allotment in Novosibirsk.

      The first few days of Grodovich’s arrival had been hell, but still, he had survived. This was no doubt round two. The transfer to the more brutal surroundings had been a prelude to soften him up. So this was a negotiation, and he must show strength. He could not let this bald government rodent know his desperation.

      Grodovich took his time before answering. “I would indeed be interested, but it would depend.”

      Stieglitz’s brow furrowed. “Depend upon what?”

      Grodovich managed to smile. He’d regained a modicum of self-respect, if not some purchase on the slope of the negotiation.

      “Upon the nature of your request,” Grodovich said. “You obviously wish something from me, the cost of which must be evaluated before any decision can be made.”

      “Are you mad?” the bald man asked. “I’m offering you a way out of this hellhole and you have the audacity