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The mortician leaned in closer, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "I've worked my magic on this one. Changed the eye color, tweaked the nose, and even added a few wrinkles for good measure. Once I'm done, even her father, Lord Barton, won't be able to tell the difference. It's a risky game, but if you're looking to pull off a switcheroo, this body will do the trick."
"Good," Dragov answered briefly. "Michael, check the feet, make sure there are no obvious marks."
Michael went gingerly to the corpse's feet. There was an identity label tied to the big toe. "Oh Jesus," he said quietly, steeling himself.
Dragov was checking the torso, hands, and arms.
"It's O.K., my end," Michael said, stepping back hastily. "I don't see...."
"Stop right there," Dragov interjected sharply, his voice carrying a note of urgency. "There's one serious flaw here—the corpse's figure. It's not hourglass-shaped like Mischa Barton's. We need to correct that at once. She may have been incarcerated for some time, but she's a Hollywood figure. Even in death, her body would be expected to retain some of its allure. We can't afford for the authorities to take notice of any discrepancies. Make it happen."
As Dragov watched the mortician scurry to correct the flaw he had pointed out, a nagging doubt crept into his mind. Had he been too hasty in his admonition? After all, who would be in the best position to identify the real Mischa Barton but the orderly traveling with her? Dragov's mind raced with the implications. If necessary, would they go so far as to eliminate the orderly to ensure their plan remained foolproof?
"Ah, here we go," the mortician exclaimed, his voice tinged with a hint of excitement as he retrieved a crude apparatus from a dusty corner of the room. It was fashioned from an old vacuum cleaner, repurposed for their current needs. "This little contraption should do the trick." He held up the device proudly, a glint of ingenuity in his eyes. "With just a few adjustments, we can use this to instantly clear away the excess fat from the hips and thighs, creating a more seductive look, just like Mischa Barton's. And don't worry, Dragov, the procedure will be quick and efficient. She'll be ready for her close-up in no time."
"What do you think?" Dragov asked.
Michael was gazing. "Good, I guess," he offered hesitantly. "I suppose after the bugs are ironed out even I couldn't tell the difference."
"Tell me," Dragov's voice was low, laced with a hint of menace as he fixed his gaze on the mortician. "Is there any danger from whoever might not be willing to part with that young woman?"
"Ah, you see," the mortician began, his voice tinged with a mix of disdain and intrigue as he leaned in closer to Dragov. "This actress, she wasn't exactly the legitimate kind. Oh no, far from it. She made her living in the sleazy underbelly of the industry, starring in films that would make your skin crawl." He paused, a knowing glint in his eye. "According to my investigation, she's a runaway from a conservative Midwestern town. Her family had already considered her dead when she turned her back on their ways and disappeared into the dark alleys of Hollywood. To them, she's nothing more than a lost soul, a stain on their reputation that they'd rather forget."
Michael's voice quivered with fear as he spoke. "If this actress was involved in the sleazy side of the industry, there's a chance she was under the thumb of some powerful pornography ringleaders. They won't take kindly to someone trying to snatch away their property. They may demand money for her, or worse."
The mortician's voice cut through the tension in the room, his tone surprisingly calm given the circumstances. "Yes, they made demands," he admitted, his gaze steady as he addressed Michael. "But I've taken care of it. I've bought them off and settled their grievances. It's over."
"How long can you keep the body in perfect condition for Mr. Dragov?" Dorado inquired.
"If I keep it frozen, as much as eight days."
'You know that we'll want to exchange her with another body and when that happens she must pass for newly dead." said Dragov.
"I can arrange that. When you're ready to exchange bodies let me know. I'll require at least eight hours' notice to thaw this one and dry it off for you, then I'll hand her over to you at body temperature. You'll have to transfer him to his destination either very well-insulated or in a heated vehicle to maintain the body temperature, that is very important."
"How long do we have before rigor mortis sets in?"
"Three to four hours, if you maintain the body temperature. How will you want her dressed?" the mortician enquired.
Dragov made a mental note to ask Manuel how Ms. Barton would be dressed. "We'll send you the clothes when we get them," he said.
They left the shop and made their way back to the car.
"I take it that mortician is entirely reliable?" Dragov asked.
"He's very professional," the Mex replied earnestly. "I have dealt with him on several occasions myself and I trust him, otherwise I wouldn't have recommended his services."
Dragov did not doubt that Pepinillo Dorado was taking a large percentage of the money that they were paying the mortician.
"I hope you're right," he said. "Because if there's any mistake your head will be on the block as well as his. What's the position on our papers?"
"They'll be ready within the next two days."
"Was your photographer able to make changes to the girl's photograph?"
"Yes, I've seen his work myself, it's perfect. Gentlemen, I'll leave you now," the Mex said when they reached the car. "I'm only a short walk away from my home."
"I've checked on the Os Onças baseball team supporters' package tour. Our people are organized and the tour leader's been bought off," Michael said as they drove back to the safe house. "Once the game's over and the fans are accounted for, the coaches are locked and leave directly from Harborview Ballpark for Rio. By the way," he added, "Os Oncas colors are green shirts and white shorts. Since 1947 they've won the league eleven times and in 1975 they completed the double, winning the league and the cup, so it's a hot side we'll be supporting."
"Make sure you brief the others on that," Dragov leaned back. "We're nearly ready to go," he told Michael.
As soon as they reached the house Dragov went to see Zoltan.
Colin moved his huge bulk out of the doorway. "No trouble," he said to Dragov.
Dragov nodded and went into the room. The curtains were closed, and the room was in semi-darkness. Zoltan was sitting up with his back propped against the wall.
"This house is no longer secure," Dragov said. "Tomorrow I'm moving everyone out of here---we'll camp in the training area for the last few days before the operation. As soon as you feel strong enough to move I want you to lose yourself, go on the outside again, but stay in touch, O.K.?"
"I'm glad you said that, Viktor," Zoltan answered. Again there was that crazy look in his tawny eyes, that flickering mad light. "Sitting here thinking about it, I've become so filled with anger that you're going to have to let me go to war soon."
"I'll let you know when I need you," Dragov said. "It won't be long."506Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡOGr0E8O89J
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Dragov met Reed-Henry in the eerie silence of the old cemetery in the ghost town of Silverton. The cemetery, with its weathered tombstones and overgrown pathways, was a fitting place for a clandestine meeting. He moved carefully through the thick fog that clung to the ground, the moonlight casting long, ghostly shadows. The air was heavy with the scent of earth and old stone. As he approached the designated meeting spot, a dilapidated mausoleum at the heart of the cemetery, he could see the faint outline of Reed-Henry waiting for him, shrouded in the darkness.
"Do you think you'll be able to bring the vehicle carrying Mischa Barton here?" Reed-Henry asked.
Dragov tested the ground underfoot. "If I use one of the Crown Victorias I don't see a problem."
"Good," said Reed-Henry. "There's no lighting here and we're out of sight of the highway."
Just like the last time Dragov had seen it, the old cemetery exuded an atmosphere of forgotten history and desolation. The entrance was marked by a grand but crumbling stone archway, adorned with intricate carvings that had been worn down by time and weather. Tall, wrought-iron gates, rusted and hanging askew, creaked eerily in the wind. It was laid out in a roughly rectangular shape, with graves arranged in neat rows, though many had been overtaken by wild vegetation. Simple headstones stood alongside more elaborate crosses and statues, their inscriptions barely legible. Approximately 50 yards from the entrance, two grand mausoleums flanked a central pathway, their imposing structures casting long shadows in the moonlight. The first mausoleum, to the left, was a Gothic masterpiece with pointed archways and stained glass windows, now shattered. The second, to the right, was more neoclassical, with Doric columns and an imposing stone door that seemed to defy time. Between these mausoleums, another 30 yards back, was a small clearing, a perfect hidden spot for their meeting. The graves themselves were a mix of the ancient, many sinking into the earth, creating an uneven terrain that made walking treacherous. Weeds and wildflowers intertwined with the iron fencing that surrounded family plots, adding to the atmosphere of neglect and decay.
As for a helicopter, the cemetery’s open layout provided a feasible but risky landing area. The central clearing, measuring about 20 yards in diameter, was just large enough for a helicopter to land, though it would require precision to avoid the surrounding trees and tombstones. The noise and wind from the helicopter would certainly disturb the eerie quiet of the cemetery, drawing attention from miles around.
Reed-Henry, standing beside a particularly ornate tombstone, gave Dragov a calculating look. He spoke with a calm demeanor, but his eyes betrayed a hint of deceit. While he claimed that the plan was still to fly Mischa Barton to freedom using a helicopter, his real intentions remained shrouded in ambiguity. He was a man with an agenda, and whether he intended to go through with the plan or simply use it as a cover for other, more sinister purposes was anyone’s guess.
"Bring the Crown Victoria here," Reed-Henry said, marking a spot before the cemetery entrance. "We'll be waiting for you."
As they spoke, Dragov's eyes scanned the cemetery, searching for any signs of potential threats or ambush points. His gaze lingered on a cluster of large mausoleums towards the back of the cemetery, their shadowy alcoves offering perfect hiding spots for potential attackers. The uneven terrain and overgrown vegetation would provide ample cover for anyone lying in wait. He maintained a facade of calm, nodding in agreement with Reed-Henry's words.
"You're determined to go ahead for the evening of Saturday and February?"
"Yes," Dragov declared, his tone resolute. "The CHiPs will have Mischa Barton ready for transport. They'll have her primed and prepared for transport to Cedar Sinai Hospital. My men are ready----this seems to be the best time."
"I can't guarantee that the Agency will give its full support to your little escapade," Reed-Henry remarked with a wry smirk, his tone dripping with skepticism. "I mean, let's face it, this whole 'Operation Mischa' of yours is a bit of a hair-brained scheme, isn't it? But there's a good chance they'll greenlight it, especially when it comes to the OPEC angle."
"Any extra support would be helpful."
Reed-Henry gave Dragov a thoughtful glance. "Now, about Kazakov.....?"
"I can handle him."
Reed-Henry nodded. "So I've heard. I'm glad that you're professional enough not to involve yourself too deeply with that girl. I must say your infatuation with her caused me concern for a while. I was getting nervous about whose side you were on."
Dragov knew that Tom Dade would have reassured him, and he was grateful to Michael.
"What's going to become of the girl?" he asked.
Reed-Henry shrugged. "Kazakov's a ruthless son-of-a bitch. Unfortunately, she became implicated, but the stakes are now too high for us to concern ourselves with individuals. That goes for you too, Mr. Dragov. I may tell you now that unless this operation proceeds smoothly, you and your men will have no chance whatsoever of getting out of California."
"Those are the risks I'm being paid to take," Dragov said. "I understand."
They turned and began to walk toward their waiting cars.
"Watch out for Kazakov," Reed-Henry warned. "He's planted one of his men on you, and he may still have a sting left in his tail."
"I'll be watching for that," Dragov confirmed. "But I've never been able to understand why you should be so vitally concerned in this. What do you want with Ms. Barton?"
"The truth of the matter is," Reed-Henry began, his voice betraying a hint of reluctance, "we've decided to hand Mischa Barton over to Kazakov." He paused, letting the weight of his words sink in before continuing. "We've marked a trail for him to follow, one that will lead straight to Ms. Barton's whereabouts. We've left behind evidence for others to find, evidence that will point directly to Kazakov's involvement. That bastard is going to use Ms. Barton as a bargaining chip, a pawn in his twisted game of international politics. With her in his possession, he'll have the leverage he needs to manipulate Lord Barton and his connections to OPEC, furthering his agenda at the expense of others."
Reed-Henry's gaze sharpened as he delved into the complexities of Lord Paul Marsden Barton's power and influence. "Lord Barton is a formidable figure, make no mistake about it. He controls vast assets, from oil fields in the Middle East to shipping lanes in the Pacific. His ambitions know no bounds, and he's willing to do whatever it takes to further his agenda. Mischa, Zoe, and Hania are nothing more than pawns in his grand game of chess. He'll use them to strengthen his alliances, to solidify his position as a key player on the global stage.
"As for his power plays, well, let's just say he's a master manipulator. He's capable of playing both sides against each other, pitting East against West, Israel against the Arabs, and even cozying up to the Shah of Iran when it suits his purposes. We want to counter him because he's a one-man threat to world peace. He's a loose cannon, a wildcard who could tip the balance of power in ways we can't predict. And if he can help America locate and destroy Communist terrorist cells in the process, well, that's just a bonus."
That was all Reed-Henry was prepared to tell him, but Dragov knew he was still only being given part of the answer.
