Shadow Strike

“Damn straight. Okay, where can they go? Switzerland?”

“No, the Swiss banks are riddled with spies working for Interpol these days,” Bolan stated, leaning back in the chair. “And in spite of all the electronic banking done, the need for hard commodities like gold and silver is very much alive and well. The biggest underground banks are in Ecuador, Pakistan and China.”

“Ecuador?”

“It’s the Switzerland of South America.”

Brognola almost smiled. The man knew the damnedest things. “Okay, but that’s only for trading small amounts of gold, right? Where could Loki go to unload so much gold in one shot?”

“Without getting a half-ounce of hot British lead in the back of their heads?” Bolan said. He didn’t speak for a moment, his mind filled with a swirling hurricane of half-truths, rumors and outright lies, about the hidden world of criminal finance. Stealing the gold was only half the job. Now Loki would have to convert it into something usable, and more importantly, untraceable.

Propping his fingertips together, Brognola patiently waited.

“Barcelona,” Bolan said at last, rising from the chair and starting to pack away the campsite. “But I’m heading for Albania.”

“Why?” Brognola demanded in confusion.

“To talk to the people who actually own the secret banks of Spain,” he told his old friend.

CHAPTER THREE

Barcelona, Spain

The blazing sun shone mercilessly on the bustling metropolis of Barcelona. The streets and sidewalks seeming to reflect the waves of searing heat like parabolic mirrors until the entire city appeared to be shining.

Traffic had slowed to a crawl, and most of the pushcart venders had closed shop. There was no sign of tourists, and even the locals had abandoned the daylight to seek the cooler realms of basements and air-conditioned cafés.

At a small private airport located far outside the city limits, three Hercules seaplanes sat baking on an isolated strip of cracked asphalt. One of the big planes was closed, its ramps rigidly locked in position. The other two had their access ramps fully descended, the shadowy interior of the aircraft dimly visible through the wavering heat from the ground.

Dripping sweat, twenty men and women surrounded the hulking aircraft, AK-47 assault rifles carefully balanced in their gloved hands. The Icelanders had stripped down as far as decorum allowed. Everybody was wearing tinted sunglasses, their pale, exposed skin oily with suntan lotion.

The gold had been divided into three parcels, and now each plane contained roughly a hundred million dollars’ worth. The sheer numbers made Hrafen Thorodensen feel slightly drunk. But it was nothing, a drop in the ocean, to what Britain would end up paying for their inhuman greed.

“Well, any sign of them yet?” Gunnar Eldjarm demanded, tying a handkerchief around his head to stop the sweat from pouring down his face and washing away the sunscreen.

“Speak of the devil,” Thorodensen replied, lowering a pair of binoculars.

A small dust cloud was coming their way from the west, and as it drew closer, he could dimly see an armored truck accompanied by a dozen motorcycles. The riders were masked in combat gear, body armor and mirrored helmets, and Thorodensen tried not to imagine how hot it had to be for the guards, in that heavy equipment. Still, he did appreciate their professionalism.

The truck and escorts braked a hundred feet away from the idling planes, and a second later the wake of dust arrived, to flow over the area like desiccated fog. The Icelanders started coughing, but held their positions, alert for any treachery by the infamous Spanish bankers.

Before the armored vehicle had fully stopped moving, the rear doors burst open and out rushed a dozen men carrying an assortment of weaponry—American assault rifles, German autoshotguns and Russian grenade launchers.

Watching timidly from the shadows inside one of the big planes, Professor Lilja Vilhjalms marveled at the open display of ordnance, and double-checked the EM scanner in her hands for any sign of a tracer signal or microburst. She had personally neutralized the GPS dot from each bar of gold, and destroyed them inside a standard microwave oven. The clever British had thought of everything but that. As her old science teacher had liked to jokingly say, advanced technology was just so damn primitive.

Climbing out of the cab of the truck, a slim man stepped onto the shimmering tarmac. Dressed in a three-piece business suit, he carried a small laptop slung at his side, and had a leather briefcase in one hand. If the heat had any effect on the dapper man, it wasn’t noticeable.

“Good morning, Mr. Loki!” he called out, casually walking forward. “I am Hector Gonzales. Lovely day, is it not?”

“Yes, wonderful day. Spain must be the home of God,” Thorodensen said diplomatically, trying not to breath too deeply. Then he added, “Gibraltar.”

“Malta,” Gonzales replied with a smile. “Well, now that’s done, shall we proceed to business? How much of a deposit are you making this time, sir?”

“One hundred million dollars in gold,” Thorodensen said, glancing at the closest Hercules. “And I need another hundred million converted into German bearer bonds.”

“Please accept my hearty congratulations on your success in such a slow economy,” Gonzales said, swinging up the laptop and typing away. This wasn’t their largest account, but it was most definitely in the top ten. “Does the gold need to be, ah, washed?”

“Yes.”

“Very well. Then after our usual fee for the service, your deposit will be…thirty-four million dollars. Correct?”

“Correct,” Thorodensen growled, trying not to bridle at the open thievery. The money was flowing away like water running downhill, and they were still a long way from their final goal. But every journey started with a single step.

At a gesture from Gonzales, the bank guards swarmed forward, advancing upon the two open Hercules as if the airplanes were an enemy position, their weapons constantly sweeping for danger. Gonzales strolled up the ramp of one and patiently waited while a pair of guards broke out laboratory equipment and inspected every gold brick for purity. When the amount was confirmed, the guards relayed the gold bars into the armored truck, and Gonzales ran off a receipt from a small printer attached to the laptop.

“Here you are, sir.” He smiled as he passed over the slip. “And here are the bonds you requested. If there is anything else?”

“Yes, please transfer one million dollars to this numbered account,” Thorodensen said, handing over a sealed envelope.

“With pleasure, sir,” Gonzales replied with a toothy grin, tucking it away inside his jacket. “Hope to see you again soon. Have a pleasant flight!”

Forcing a smile to his face, Thorodensen nodded in return, and didn’t allow himself to relax until the armored trucks and guards had disappeared once more into the distance.

“I have trouble believing that you just gave the Spaniards a million dollars as if it was pocket change,” Gunnar Eldjarm muttered, resting the Vepr on a shoulder.

“Have no fear, old friend. That amount is all the bastards will ever get from us,” Thorodensen stated, passing over the briefcase. “Now, take these bonds to France and purchase five more Hercules seaplanes. We will meet you at the established coordinates off the coast of Sardinia in sixteen hours. If we are not back from Greece on time, leave immediately for Peru. Wait there for two days, then leave. Spend the gold in good health.”

“No, I’ll come find you!”

Starting back into the airplane, Thorodensen smiled tolerantly. “Thank you, old friend. If we have not returned by then, it means we are dead.” He stopped to place a hand on the shoulder of the bony man. “Don’t take any chances, Gunnar. Trust nobody, and keep to the plan! Wait two days, then disappear. You know where to purchase false identity papers in New Zealand?”

Resting a foot on the access ramp, Eldjarm gave a curt nod. “Yes, the Two Billies Tavern, just outside of Christchurch. There are new names and passports waiting for all of us.” He stressed the last words.

“And with luck we will retire to the Gold Coast of Australia, and live in luxury and peace for the rest of our lives. But that can only be accomplished by adhering to the plan!”

“Thor, when you were the Icelandic ambassador to the United nations, where you this much of a pain in the ass?” Eldjarm asked with a friendly scowl.

“Of course!” he said with a laugh. “How else could I have ever gotten anything done, representing a country without an army?”

Muttering under his breath, Eldjarm swung away from the plane and strode off. Half the armed Icelanders followed, and the rest strode into the open Hercules after their leader.

As Thorodensen started for the flight deck he was joined by Professor Lilja Vilhjalms. She didn’t say anything, but from her tense expression, he could tell that she was deeply concerned about something important.

“What is wrong, Lily?” he asked, using his private name for her. The two of them had been very close once, sex partners, but not really lovers. These days they were much closer than that, partners in crime. The evaluation of their relationship amused him.

“Your plan is so complex,” the woman stated, moving closer to the big man. “Selling your home to rent the planes, making the mustard gas to steal the mines, and now… Are you sure it is not going to unravel?”

“No, my dear, everything is under control.” Thorodensen laughed, draping a friendly arm across her shoulders.