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Authors: Michael J. Stedman
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kick with her right foot. The kick caught the man under the breast bone and blew the wind out of him. He crashed into the cluster of dealers crowded behind him.
“San.”
She completed her maneuver and crouched, poised in the Fighting Dragon position.
A man sauntered over from a Humvee that had pulled up. “That’s enough. You’ve proven your worth, Miss Chu. He’s bosbefok , a madman,” the thick-bodied man said, broadcasting his authority. His lips were rubbery; a thick, wide, black mustache covered the upper one. Odd that he is white, she thought. His stride was accented by the shine on his shell cordovan hunting boots. Amber noted the pistol on his belt. She recognized it from her father’s manuals as a Russian PSS silent automatic, used by GRU and STASI agents in the old days of the Cold War. He stopped to look at her with an eerie calm.
“Nothing turns me on like an Amazon.”
“What the fuck do you want, pigface?” she snapped with the same apparent fearlessness she had just displayed. In fact, she had used every fiber of conviction to squelch an urge to throw up.
The man’s eyes threatened, fiery embers of coal. He stuck out his hand, smiled.
“Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Grigol Boyko, Grigol Rakhmonov Boyko.”
Amber looked straight at him. Recognition formed. A cloud of uncommon fear enveloped her.
“Russian?”
“Georgian. Tbilisi—but, I like to remember my Russian ancestry.”
“I know who you are. Strategic Solutions International.”
He smiled, an attack dog sizing up fresh meat.
“You’ve done your homework.”
“The U.N. is onto you.”
“Hah!” he laughed. “That is the joke. My partners? Whom do you think supplies the U.N. in West Africa? You forget, as trade attaché to Angola, the DRC, and Yemen, I have multiple passports, total diplomatic immunity. The International Criminal Court in Holland can indict all they want. They can send out their Interpol agents. I’m untouchable. They know it. Bad publicity? Window-dressing. Good for business.”
The ICC investigation had identified Boyko as an escaped rogue agent from Russia’s military spy agency who had been promoted up the line and transferred to STASI, East Germany’s Ministry for State Security years earlier. The indictment charged that he now ran a band of rebel fighters under the corporate veil provided by Strategic Solutions International. Amber had read the ICC report. According to that report: “Boyko’s Strategic Solutions is known to employ a terrorist net, the Ninja Crocodile Cult, to dominate illegal activity throughout the region.”
“They say nothing gets into or out of Africa, not a single smuggled diamond that you don’t own a piece of,” she said. “They say you also run the Ninjas.”
“Enough!” Boyko barked. “What happened to your hand?” He pointed to her left hand. Only a thumb and forefinger remained.
“My hand? Wrong place. Wrong time,” Amber answered. “They said they’d take off the rest if I wasn’t careful. Anyway, they chose the wrong hand. It’s my right hand I use to look at diamonds.”
“Smart. I myself am a pragmatist. That’s why I’m interested in you. Your many contacts. It appears that you’ve broken my friend’s arm.” He gestured to a group of men clustered around a vehicle. The truck was marked with a large red cross. It was duplicated on armbands the men wore. Boyko directed the medics to take the injured disciple to a hospital.
Amber watched as he spoke with the diamond dealer. The dealer nodded. Boyko shoveled the diamonds on the table into his hand, filled an envelope he took from the dealer and handed it to Amber.
“They’re yours,” he said.
“To what do I owe the pleasure?” Amber asked the Animal.
“The pleasure, as you say, is all mine. You are coming with me. Just as soon as we pick up your son, Tony. He will come along as well.”
His words struck her like a blast of sudden reality. They stirred a torrent of
“San.”
She completed her maneuver and crouched, poised in the Fighting Dragon position.
A man sauntered over from a Humvee that had pulled up. “That’s enough. You’ve proven your worth, Miss Chu. He’s bosbefok , a madman,” the thick-bodied man said, broadcasting his authority. His lips were rubbery; a thick, wide, black mustache covered the upper one. Odd that he is white, she thought. His stride was accented by the shine on his shell cordovan hunting boots. Amber noted the pistol on his belt. She recognized it from her father’s manuals as a Russian PSS silent automatic, used by GRU and STASI agents in the old days of the Cold War. He stopped to look at her with an eerie calm.
“Nothing turns me on like an Amazon.”
“What the fuck do you want, pigface?” she snapped with the same apparent fearlessness she had just displayed. In fact, she had used every fiber of conviction to squelch an urge to throw up.
The man’s eyes threatened, fiery embers of coal. He stuck out his hand, smiled.
“Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Grigol Boyko, Grigol Rakhmonov Boyko.”
Amber looked straight at him. Recognition formed. A cloud of uncommon fear enveloped her.
“Russian?”
“Georgian. Tbilisi—but, I like to remember my Russian ancestry.”
“I know who you are. Strategic Solutions International.”
He smiled, an attack dog sizing up fresh meat.
“You’ve done your homework.”
“The U.N. is onto you.”
“Hah!” he laughed. “That is the joke. My partners? Whom do you think supplies the U.N. in West Africa? You forget, as trade attaché to Angola, the DRC, and Yemen, I have multiple passports, total diplomatic immunity. The International Criminal Court in Holland can indict all they want. They can send out their Interpol agents. I’m untouchable. They know it. Bad publicity? Window-dressing. Good for business.”
The ICC investigation had identified Boyko as an escaped rogue agent from Russia’s military spy agency who had been promoted up the line and transferred to STASI, East Germany’s Ministry for State Security years earlier. The indictment charged that he now ran a band of rebel fighters under the corporate veil provided by Strategic Solutions International. Amber had read the ICC report. According to that report: “Boyko’s Strategic Solutions is known to employ a terrorist net, the Ninja Crocodile Cult, to dominate illegal activity throughout the region.”
“They say nothing gets into or out of Africa, not a single smuggled diamond that you don’t own a piece of,” she said. “They say you also run the Ninjas.”
“Enough!” Boyko barked. “What happened to your hand?” He pointed to her left hand. Only a thumb and forefinger remained.
“My hand? Wrong place. Wrong time,” Amber answered. “They said they’d take off the rest if I wasn’t careful. Anyway, they chose the wrong hand. It’s my right hand I use to look at diamonds.”
“Smart. I myself am a pragmatist. That’s why I’m interested in you. Your many contacts. It appears that you’ve broken my friend’s arm.” He gestured to a group of men clustered around a vehicle. The truck was marked with a large red cross. It was duplicated on armbands the men wore. Boyko directed the medics to take the injured disciple to a hospital.
Amber watched as he spoke with the diamond dealer. The dealer nodded. Boyko shoveled the diamonds on the table into his hand, filled an envelope he took from the dealer and handed it to Amber.
“They’re yours,” he said.
“To what do I owe the pleasure?” Amber asked the Animal.
“The pleasure, as you say, is all mine. You are coming with me. Just as soon as we pick up your son, Tony. He will come along as well.”
His words struck her like a blast of sudden reality. They stirred a torrent of
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