Brass Monkey: A James Acton Thriller Book #2 Read Online Free PDF Page A

nodded at Cole and snapped the lid shut, taking the brief case and walking it over to him. Cole took the case, then Atkins and Brannick resealed the crates and removed them from the truck.
    “Pleasure doing business with you,” said Atkins with a sneer.
    Remind me not to take him along on one of these missions again.
    Cole snapped his head, indicating the others should get in the vehicle, then stepped toward the man who was clearly in charge.
    “We can get anything you may need. You have my number.”
    “You can expect to hear from us soon,” said the man in perfect English, a hint of a Limey accent suggesting he may have been educated, or hell, born, in England.
    Cole decided to take the plunge. “How’s your financing?”
    This seemed to catch the man off guard, this a question you never asked, at least not on the first date.
    There was a pause before he replied. “Why?”
    This is it!
    “I can get you something very special, for the right price.”
    The man’s eyebrows furled toward his nose. “How special?”
    “Russian. That makes things glow in the dark.”
    “Sounds expensive.”
    “It is.” Now for the money shot. “Fifty million, firm, half upfront, half on delivery, includes weapon and arming codes.”
    The fact the man’s facial expression didn’t change at all confirmed Cole’s suspicion. Definitely al Qaeda, well-funded, probably from Saudis rich off our appetite for cheap oil. Hey morons, if you turn us into an Islamic state trapped in the twelfth century, who’s going to buy your oil then?
    “We will need proof.”
    Cole reached into his pocket. The man’s partner stepped in front of his boss when the butt of Cole’s gun was revealed, but relaxed when his hand withdrew, holding an envelope. Cole held it out to the boss, who motioned to his subordinate to take the envelope. His shaky hand snatched the envelope from Cole then opened it, pulling out half a dozen photographs. He handed them to his boss, who flipped through them.
    “This is American.”
    “You know your ordinance,” smiled Cole. “Yes, lost during the Cold War in Soviet airspace, and recovered by a Russian soldier with not only a capitalist leaning, but an abundance of patience.”
    The man tucked the pictures into his jacket pocket.
    “We will be in touch.”
     

 
     
     
    Inebolu Sokak Street, Istanbul, Turkey
     
    “It is essential that we possess this weapon before anyone else.”
    There were nods of agreement from the men sitting at the round table.
    “Can we trust this report?”
    Abdullah bin Saqr turned to the man at his left, Tarif, someone he trusted with his life, as he did with every man in the room. “Absolutely. It comes from one of our agents implanted deep within the CIA.”
    “But he’s a convert!” exclaimed one man.
    “My brothers, not all of us are blessed to have come to Islam at birth. Islam is a religion of peace, and we must trust our brothers, whether they were born of the prophet, peace be upon him, or discovered his teachings late in life.”
    Grunts of agreement rounded the room, but Abdullah knew they weren’t all convinced—nobody would look him in the eye.
    “You may not all trust in the source, but you must all agree that we cannot risk ignoring it.”
    More grunts of agreement, this time the heads rising, making eye contact.
    “If indeed there is a nuclear weapon on the black market, then we must be successful in purchasing it, before any of the enemies of Islam can use it to further their goals of corrupting the teachings of the Prophet, peace be upon him. Should we fail in the task before us, I fear the consequences of the calamity we may all face, Muslim and Christian.”
     

 
     
     
    Bulgakov Hotel, Moscow
     
    Trubitsin waited alone in the hotel room. Someone had held vigil every moment of every day since Anya was exchanged by the Americans in the most public spy swap in history. It was his turn to man the room. In reality, it was him most of the time. He was