Moscovich appeared to study his fingernails and look unconcerned. “How you handle security is your business, yes. But if that handling compromises my people or mission, then I have a direct interest in its outcome. Da?”
The Russian mercenary’s expression turned flinty, and he did nothing to hide that challenging countenance when returning Haglemann’s own iron gaze.
The union boss tried to pretend as if it didn’t bother him, but it did, and Moscovich knew it did, and that only pissed off Haglemann more. Part of him wished he’d never made a deal with the Russian, but he needed the guy if he planned to keep the resources isolated on Adak.
Haglemann decided to take a different tack. “Do you realize, comrade, that it had never been the desire of the natives to have a union?”
Moscovich visibly bristled at the slur behind Haglemann’s use of that arcane word. “Now who’s being insulting?”
Haglemann continued without missing a beat. “It took everything I had to get the corporation to even negotiate with my people. Fortunately, the workers prevailed, and now I’ve got more money than I know what to do with.”
“What’s your point?” Moscovich asked.
“My point is that I was running things here long before you brought along your little network, and I’ll be running things here long after you’re dead and buried. And the fact is it was your little activities here and that gadget you’ve developed to crash instrumentation on military planes and vessels that’s created the panic to start with. Soon this place will be crawling with military investigators, not just one or two government agents from who-knows-what agency.”
“Your cooperation isn’t really necessary,” Moscovich replied. “And I find it more than interesting that one man has managed to escape your people not once but twice. Even the police you have on the payroll in Unalaska cannot seem to keep tabs on him. The sheer ingenuity and elusiveness of this man reminds me what happened a number of years ago in New York City.”
“And what was that, pray tell?” Haglemann asked, making a show of yawning and looking at his watch.
“A similar matter and not without serious consequences to my associates, to be sure.” Moscovich shrugged. “Although they were not so careful, and they led this particular man right into the very heart of St. Petersburg.”
“And what happened to this man?”
Moscovich shrugged. “Nobody seems to know. He disappeared and was never heard from again. We think perhaps he may have been eliminated by a rival or an ally. We have many allies, as you know.”
Haglemann nodded. “How could I forget, as often as you remind me?”
“He may also have gone into hiding, being the coward he was.” Moscovich rose. “In any case, it’s as you’ve said. This is your problem and not ours. I would appreciate if you took care of it quickly and quietly, and don’t make it become ours. I have little time for these distractions.”
“Just make sure you keep to your end of this agreement, and that the payments come on time from your—” Haglemann mimed quote signs “—many allies. I’ll take care of this issue, I assure you. Because, despite what you may think, I’m still top dog around here.”
Moscovich waved casually as he left Haglemann’s office. “Fine. Let us hope you don’t get neutered while pissing on the neighbor’s tree.”
When the door closed behind him, Haglemann muttered, “What a prick.”
They were near a dockside tavern similar to the one Bolan had visited on Unalaska when the roar of a crowd reached them.
Bolan thought Corsack would lead him into the tavern, but instead she made a beeline off the main path and headed for a short, squat metal building that looked to be some sort of small warehouse. The main door to the building was cracked, and the noise had come from there. “Is this the part I’m not going to like?” Bolan asked as they approached.
“Yes,” she said with a wicked grin. “But don’t worry—I’ll protect you.”
“Who’s worried?” Bolan asked.
They passed through the small crack where the massive doors parted, and Bolan realized it wasn’t a warehouse but a small plane hangar. Just on the inside of the door two burly men stopped them, nearly identical with their towering heights and rippling biceps adorned with tattoos, scars and other marks of dubious origin. They relaxed when they recognized Corsack, who just tossed her head at Bolan. The men parted like mechanical pillars to admit the pair.
Beyond them the crowd had formed in a circle, and Corsack had to push and shove a path to the edge. A massive rope, thick like the kind used to moor freighter ships, lined the inner circle. Three men occupied the center, two circling each other attired in nothing but shirts, pants and plenty of blood. The third, the referee, kept watch on them.
The two fighters had been searching each other for an opening when Bolan first laid eyes on them, but now one had obviously seen an advantage and attempted to seize it. He went low for a single-leg takedown, but his opponent countered by driving an elbow into his spine. The blow missed direct contact, glancing off the right shoulder blade at the last moment. That was good for the attacker, Bolan knew, because the counter might otherwise have paralyzed him.
Men and women all around them shouted, one very close to Bolan’s right ear. He could almost feel the crowd’s bloodlust. The fight continued for several minutes, neither of the fighters really gaining much of an advantage, until one of them finally scored a lucky punch to the jaw that dazed his opponent. Seeing how the blow rocked the guy’s head, he immediately followed with another and another. Finally, a well-placed haymaker floored the dazed fighter, and the crowd erupted into a mixture of cheers and groans. The referee knelt, made a quick inspection and declared the fighter left standing a winner by knockout.
The cheering resumed for another minute, but then it passed, and the noise died to excited chatter as the crowd dispersed. Some moved away with swaggers, and others with dejected expressions. From this alone, Bolan could tell the winning betters from the losers. Corsack didn’t move, and he waited patiently beside her for a sign. She continued to scan the area around the roped section, searching for someone specific. Finally, she nodded and gestured for Bolan to follow.
The two made their way down to the rope barrier, shouldering through the spectators who were now rushing to get out what appeared to be the only main door. Eventually, they arrived at a point that seemed to serve as the entry and exit for the participant fighters. Bolan sized up most of the men and the couple of females present, but none of them seemed extraordinary. Two of the fighters parted at the last moment, accompanied by their managers, who were obviously pocketing the winnings, to reveal a metal-gray card table.
An old man, with a grizzled countenance and gray-white hair that seemed to erupt from his head in shocking tufts, sat at the table. Three formidable types, all built similarly to the pair at the door, stood behind him like stone-faced statues. Bolan’s eyes noted the metal lockbox on the table next to the old man. The guy sat calmly counting a massive wad of cash. Bolan wondered why Corsack hesitated, but then realized she was waiting until he’d finished counting.
He finally completed his task, loaded the cash into the lockbox and secured it. He then passed the box to one of the men behind him with a grunt before rising from the table. Once he was on his feet, he looked at Corsack.
“Well, hello, Maddie. Haven’t seen you down here in a while.”
“Hello, Otto.”
The old man nodded toward Bolan. “Who’s your friend? I don’t