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The Judas Project
Don Pendleton


The Cold War just got hot again… The old Soviet Bloc espionage games have resumed on a covert and catastrophic new playing fi eld: the U.S. fi nancial markets. The enemy isn't the Russian government, but long-dormant sleeper cells in America's cities, planted by the KGB decades ago.Now a former Kremlin official has found the top-secret files and stolen the blueprint, ready to pocket and manipulate America's resources. He has hijacked operation Black Judas, enlisted the KGB's most lethal assassin to terminate operatives, and has begun reshaping a brilliant plot to steal billions of American dollars. But he didn't plan on a beautiful Russian cop on a vengeance hunt, or an American warrior named Mack Bolan in deadly pursuit, gunning for blood and justice.









The car had nothing to do with the shooter


That meant there had been a third party involved.

Bolan placed the rifle across the hood of the Ford, drew the Desert Eagle then walked around the far side of the vehicle. The ground was covered in footprints, and rivulets of dried blood ran down the door panel. As he followed the trail of drops, the deposits of blood became heavier.

The Executioner opened the trunk and peered inside. The body lay in a pool of blood, the gaping wound in the man’s throat still glistening.

Carson was dead. The unknown shooter was dead.

Somebody was playing for keeps.





The Judas Project


Mack Bolan







Don Pendleton







www.mirabooks.co.uk (http://www.mirabooks.co.uk)


Special thanks and acknowledgment to

Mike Linaker for his contribution to this work.


Life does not give itself to one who tries to keep all its advantages at once. I have often thought morality may perhaps consist solely in the courage of making a choice.

—Léon Blum

1872–1950

Where is the morality in making the wrong choice? Where is the morality in betraying your country? I’m not concerned about redemption. I’m concerned about justice.

—Mack Bolan




CONTENTS


PROLOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

EPILOGUE




PROLOGUE


Lubyanskaya Square, Moscow

From the terrace of the Loft Café overlooking Lubyanskaya Square, Mischa Krushen could see the former Lubyanka KGB headquarters, now the FSB, where he had worked alongside the other members of the Unit. Those had been busy, heady days, when the Soviet juggernaut had been in full flight. Then life had had a definite purpose. They were safeguarding the status quo, working against the enemies of the state and orchestrating policy against them. For the Unit that had meant working every conceivable angle to bring disorder and chaos against the United States of America. They had an open mandate. Nothing, nothing, was barred: blackmail, out-and-out coercion, the use of terror and even death. It was all fair game to the Unit. It was the ultimate level in state covert action against America.

With the breakup of the Soviet Union many things changed. They didn’t happen overnight, and behind-the-scenes power struggles and interdirectorate rivalries resulted in bloodless, and not-so-bloodless, coups. There were unexpected nighttime strikes, when dazed victims were hauled out of bed and driven to lonely spots. Many grievances were settled in that way. A single pistol shot to the back of the head cleared the way for new positions to be created. The culling lasted a short time, but when the smoke cleared there were new faces to be seen behind desks. Questions were posed, but seldom asked. Political maneuvering at the top seeped down through the ranks, affecting all aspects of government activity. The breaking away of Soviet satellite states simply added to the confusion. There was a hectic period when no one knew friend from enemy, and there was a great deal of closing ranks. The faithful remained together, watching one another’s backs, and there were survivors. When the tidal flow receded and a kind of sanity returned, the time was ripe for new alliances and a rekindling of old ones. On the surface the New Russia showed a fresh face, embracing its hard-won freedom from the Soviet yoke. In the background the old guard drew into the shadows, watching and waiting, shaking heads in mistrust of free enterprise and the “me” culture, seeing values shrink and greed rear its ugly head in the form of the Russian mafiya, drugs, prostitution and the loss of military power. The early years of freedom, eagerly lapped up by a population long-starved of the consumer life, overshadowed the machinations of the political and the guardians of Russia’s security.

The KGB became the Federal’naya Sluzhba Bezopasnosti, the FSB. The Federal Security Service had a fresh face that masked much of its KGB origins, and hidden within its many layers, the Unit still existed. It was employed in much the same way as it had been in previous years. There were still enemies to deal with. Conspiracies to uncover. Policies to carry out. Long-dormant projects to be dusted off and brought into the cold light of the new day.

Which brought Mischa Krushen to his vantage point, drinking a latte while he waited for his section chief to join him.

The day was chill, a searching breeze swirling across the square. It had the sharp bite that threatened snow. Krushen felt it against his face. He was well protected in a heavy overcoat and fur hat. He glanced up as he heard a chair being moved and saw General Yuri Berienko sitting down on the far side of the table.

Berienko had to have been in his late sixties now, his broad, Slavic features as severe as they had always been. Berienko seldom smiled. He viewed life and the world as serious matters, and especially the condition of his Russia since the disintegration of the union. Old guard he may have been, but his undying loyalty to the old Soviet Union was possibly even stronger than it had been when he had served it in the military. As a young commander in Afghanistan, his units held the records for the most favorable successes ever. His zeal and his ruthless attitude toward the enemy had never been bettered. He literally took no prisoners.

On his return to Moscow after the war he was to take up a command position within the KGB, where he helped to create and staff the Unit. He ran it as if it had been one of his military squads. He brought in men who had served with him in Afghanistan, men who were loyal to the state, but covertly more loyal to General Berienko. Under his control the Unit thrived. It held its mandate proudly, carried out its missions with unerring success and anyone who stood in the glare of its spotlight knew they were facing a formidable enemy.

Looking across the table at his commander, Krushen admitted to a degree of trepidation. As it should have been, he had always regarded Berienko with reverence and not a little fear. Krushen understood that was the way it had to be. He cleared his throat.

“General. Unusual to see you out of the office.”

Berienko barely nodded. Like Krushen he was wearing a thick overcoat, the collar turned up. On his head he wore a black, wide-brimmed fedora. The thought crossed Krushen’s mind that this was one of the few times he had seen the man out of uniform. It had been a well-kept joke within the Unit that Berienko most likely slept in his uniform and probably at attention.

“You know why I asked to meet you?” Berienko asked.

“Only that it had something to do with the Unit.”

“Specifically Black Judas.”

Berienko unbuttoned his coat, reaching inside to take out a thick cigar. The Cuban cigars were probably the only vice Berienko allowed himself. He lit the cigar with a battered old lighter he had carried around with him for years. When he was satisfied the cigar was well lit he turned his attention back to Krushen.

“Someone is trying to infiltrate Black Judas. I want you to find out who and put a stop to it. The last thing we need is some outside party attempting to access the project.”

“Do you know who is behind it?”

Berienko studied the end of his cigar. “I have my suspicions.”

“I would place Federov at the head of any list I had,” Krushen said. “There is more to him than just a watchdog. We know how ambitious he is. He makes no secret of his desire to become even more powerful than he already is.”

“Discretion is required here, Mischa. The Unit might still exist but I have people watching every move I make. You understand the situation as well as I do, Mischa. If Federov could gather enough evidence, he would have us removed. The man is just waiting for his chance.”

Krushen understood that. Karl Federov was in charge of an oversight directorate, charged to monitor sections of the FSB. He was fanatically ambitious, a man who viewed everyone around him as a potential threat to himself and what he wanted. Krushen had run-ins with the man on a regular basis. He found it difficult to hide his contempt for Federov.

“Doesn’t he realize the Unit is still an important asset? That the work we do is for the good of the country?” Krushen shook his head. “I begin to wonder whether Federov is as loyal as he makes out.”

“His loyalty is to himself. Mischa, you must look beyond your mistrust of Federov. The man works for Alekzander Mishkin. Both of us know that Mishkin also has ambitions that go far beyond his present position. He is a minister in the Security Directorate, but he wants more. He has his eye on becoming president one day. Mishkin placed Federov to oversee the FSB so he had eyes and ears there. And the ploy is paying off.

“Look how many have died. The department is culling itself by weeding out those who even hint at any disloyalty toward Mishkin and his cronies. Assassinations. Accidents. Mysterious poisonings. There are times, Mischa, when I wish I was back in Afghanistan fighting those tribesmen. At least that was good, clean combat. You knew who the enemy was then. Now it is like battling in the dark with my hands tied behind my back. I trust no one inside that building,” Berienko said, staring across the square at the monolithic yellow structure, “except you and the Unit. Mischa, we must do what we can to protect Black Judas. I want you to gather your people and look into this. Do whatever it takes. There is no place for being squeamish. Understand what is at stake here. Go where you need to, even America, which may be necessary to protect Black Judas. We need to secure our people there. I will try to find out who is betraying us here in Russia. And who, between Federov and Mishkin, is the greater threat to us.”

“You can rely on me, General.”

“Nothing on paper, Mischa. That is why I suggested this meeting. You can use any of the hidden accounts to fund your operation. Cash money is no problem. I’ll wager that fact hasn’t escaped Federov. That we have secret accounts available. It is well known Federov likes money. So beware. And make deals with only those you can really trust.”

“Contact?”

“Nothing official. My own cell number only. I will call only on your cell. Let us hope no one has discovered those. Keep calls to the minimum. If I discover anything that might assist, I will inform you.” Berienko toyed with his cigar, deep in thought. “The committee is meeting later today. We need to satisfy them we have everything under control. Be there, Mischa, but keep this meeting between ourselves.”

Krushen picked up his cup of coffee. It had started to cool. As he drank, he found himself staring out across the square to Lubyanka. A slight shiver ran through him. He was sure it was only the cold, but for a fleeting moment he felt as if the building was watching him.

He lingered over his coffee, trying to put off the time when he would have to return to his department office and take up his work. His concerns had not been eased by Berienko’s remarks, but there was little he could do about that.



KARL FEDEROV AND his companion were driving alongside the Moscow River, the Ivan the Great Bell Tower and the Kremlin beyond the red brick wall on their left. The river had that gray, choppy look to it that mirrored Federov’s mood. He had picked up Chenin at the last intersection. The man was hunched in the corner of the rear seat as if he were trying to make himself invisible.

“No one can see in through these tinted windows, Yan.”

“So you say.” Chenin stared at the back of the BMW’s driver. “Can he hear what we are saying?”

“I am unlikely to employ a driver who is deaf, dumb and blind, Yan. Of course, he can hear. Now let’s get this done.”

“Krushen met General Berienko this morning at the Loft Café. They spoke for about twenty minutes before Berienko left. They looked as if they were deep in conversation. And Berienko out of uniform is enough to create suspicion. I’m sure this all has to do with them working toward activating their Black Judas project.”

Federov managed a thin smile at that information. “I knew that pair was up to something. Good. Maintain a watch on Krushen. I can keep the general under observation once he is inside the building. Be careful. If Krushen even suspects you are watching him, I’ll be arranging a section funeral for you.”

Chenin’s eyes widened with alarm. “Not exactly the most comforting thing to be telling me.”

“Think of it as your sacrifice for the good of Russia.”

“What about Mishkin?”

“I know his game, Yan. Mishkin has his eye on the premiership. He believes I am obeying his orders to the letter, and so I am. But only part of the truth reaches him. I tell him enough to make it seem he has the upper hand. Do whatever you need to gather information from Krushen.”

They drove to the next intersection and Chenin got out. The moment the door closed, the black BMW glided away.

“Well, Kyril, what do you think our comrade will be doing after that conversation?”

Federov’s driver found it difficult to keep the humor out of his reply. “Hurrying home to change his undershorts I should imagine, Colonel.”

“I believe you may be right, Kyril.”

“Where to now?”

“A slow drive back to Lubyanka. Take your time, Kyril. I’m in no hurry to return to that damn mausoleum. In fact you can drive to Kirov’s apartment. I need to bring him up-to-date.”



LEOPOLD BULANIN REPLACED the receiver, smiling to himself at the conversation he had just had with Mischa Krushen. He reached out and ran a hand across the smooth surface of the digital recorder that monitored every call he received. Bulanin had always believed in insurance, in one form or another. And the digital kind was the most lucrative of all. Of course it might never need to be used, but just in case matters got out of hand, it paid to be prepared.

He had recently accepted a contract from Krushen that required him to provide extra men to keep a check on some people who might pose a threat to the status quo.

Captain Pieter Tchenko was an investigative Moscow cop who had been running an investigation that was getting too close to Krushen and the FSB. Krushen wanted the cop out of the picture in case he started making waves, and he was not overly concerned how the task was done. He also wanted to know if Tchenko had any data that might point fingers at Krushen and his department. Despite the FSB’s reputation when it came to stamping out such interference, Krushen wanted the matter resolved by an outside source. Mainly because he didn’t entirely trust all those who worked with and around him. It was not the first time he had used outside help.

Yan Chenin, who worked for Krushen, was showing signs of becoming a little nervous, and the man needed watching. Bulanin was constantly amused at the complexity of business that came out of Lubyanka. The building had always been host to rampant paranoia. Even now, since the demise of the KGB, the place reeked of subterfuge. Bulanin suspected that everyone who worked in Lubyanka had to have a permanently stiff neck from constantly looking over their shoulders.

Thankfully he was a plain and simple businessman. His police file, because he had read a copy provided by a friendly cop, had him down as a criminal. A racketeer. A member of the Russian mafiya. Bulanin didn’t care what they called him. He was successful, extremely wealthy and his association with people like Mischa Krushen meant solid, important connections.

He glanced again at his digital recorder.

And he always had his insurance to maintain those connections.

Bulanin reached for his cell phone, deciding that the first on his to-do list was the local cop, Tchenko. He would be the easiest to deal with, and anyway, Bulanin did not like cops. They were bad for business.




CHAPTER ONE


General Berienko spoke at some length, his commanding presence dominating the shadowed conference room and the men gathered around the large table. Seated next to the general, Mischa Krushen absorbed everything the man had to say, aware of a degree of unease coming from the group. They were all individuals with varying degrees of influence and power, each one committed to the older values of what had been the Soviet Union and distrustful of the way things were going in the New Russia. Each had a deep-rooted suspicion concerning America, watching the imperialistic moves the U.S. was making across the globe, and fearful that if it was allowed to continue, even Russia might be swept aside by the American monolith. Thoughts of armed confrontation with America was not to be considered within the near future. The downgrading of the once mighty Soviet war machine had removed its sting. It no longer had the mass of machines and men. The fracturing of the Soviet Empire had weakened its threat. It would take some considerable time to build up military superiority to its earlier strength.

When Berienko finished, he indicated that it was Krushen’s turn. A rumble of agitation rose from the group as it assessed what Berienko had said and Krushen allowed the moment to pass. He considered his options before he spoke, knowing that the men seated around the table were as committed as he was to Black Judas, but were still nervous as to the outcome if the project was brought into play.

“America has grown fat and greedy since the fall of the Soviet Union. It has reached out and used our demise to swell its wealth and influence. It has done it under the guise of helping Russia reconstruct. Admirable on the surface but by no means a selfless act. The Americans do nothing for nothing. Somewhere there is always the catch. There are those who do it by stealth. They employ others, often Russians themselves, to broker their deals for them. It allows them to infiltrate under a smoke screen. They manipulate or they buy or they bribe. They offer us their gifts like they did to the Indian tribes in their own country. Blankets and beads, trinkets to bedazzle while they stole land and slaughtered the buffalo. Now they do it with fast-food franchises. Burgers, and coffee in paper cups. And the people clamor for more, because they are blind to the larger picture. And all the while the deals go on behind closed doors. For Russian money and oil. Anything the Americans can add to their treasure chest. Nothing is done to halt this greed. Our so-called leaders do little except pretend concern, so we need to make things happen, and soon.”

“Mischa, as much as we love the sound of your voice, is there a point to all this?”

The speaker was a stoop-shouldered man with a shock of white hair framing his lined, old face. He was Georgi Bella, a Georgian with a fearsome reputation. He was old-guard KGB, and still a force to be reckoned with.

“With respect, Georgi, I am coming to the point. America wants to dominate. It is as simple as that. Look at the way they made war on Iraq. To get rid of Hussein? His demise was a bonus, something to add to the main prize. First they destroy the country and then return with their people and get money to rebuild. Again this was just a ploy to detract from the main prize. The oil. America would like nothing better than to get its hands on our oil, and they will try every trick in the book to achieve that. They want Middle Eastern oil, as well. To control it. To feed their greedy population and to maintain their war machine. In quiet rooms negotiations go on. Contracts are signed and deals are negotiated. All done behind the scenes by means of manipulation and coercion. The Americans are very good at this kind of thing. They have a sure ingredient that gets them what they want.”

“What is that? Fried chicken in a box and bottles of cola?” someone said.

A ripple of laughter followed. Krushen allowed it to flow, easing the mood for a moment.

“Money,” he said as the laughter settled down. “America lives and breathes on its fabulous wealth. It is what keeps the country alive. They have so much, yet they crave even more, and what it brings them. Power. Influence. If they can’t get what they want by flexing their military muscle, they use money. It makes them believe nothing is impossible for them. But I think it is also what makes them vulnerable. America exists on a knife edge of uncertainty. If Wall Street draws breath, the country panics. At even the hint of a financial problem, shares tumble. The interest rate fluctuates. Millions can be lost in an instant.”

“All very well, but how does it help us?” Bella asked.

“By understanding America’s vulnerability, we have something to attack. Not with missiles. But by going for the financial heart. By destroying the U.S.A.’s financial power base.”

“Black Judas?” Bella asked.

Krushen smiled and tapped the file resting on the table in front of him.

“Exactly. By using this,” he said. He picked up the file and let the assembly see it. “We activate Black Judas and put it into operation. It is the right time. America is vulnerable at this moment. The dollar is weak. Hit the U.S. financial base now and we can throw the economy into recession. Use the skills of the Black Judas team to bring America to her knees, then take advantage of that weakness to gain control of the financial markets.”

“You make it sound too easy,” Bella said.

“It won’t be easy, but the rewards could be incredible.”

Bella nodded. “That is the part I am interested in. If it works.”

“The team we put in place will make sure it works. The day the project goes into operation, the knowledge these men will have gained becomes vital.”

“You are talking about individuals who have been in place for almost seven years,” Bella said. “How do we know they have stayed loyal? Or were matters like this not included in your master plan?”

“All those things and more were considered, Georgi. An operation such as Black Judas required much planning. Fail-safes were built in. Six men. Three teams of two. We spread them across the American continent. Each team carried codes that would allow it to access Black Judas and bring it online. In reality all we needed were two men to survive. Each one carrying one half of the access code. Their codes will be combined and Black Judas brought online.”

Bella nodded. “And have you had these men watched? Are they all still alive?”

“Yes. We have a man in place, a handler responsible for an American turncoat. He also oversees the Black Judas people from a discreet distance. Since they became model U.S. citizens, they have kept up with technology advances and are highly proficient with all forms of computer skills. Probably to such a degree they could walk into any IT environment and make the staff look like kindergarten underachievers.”

“And once this project is activated,” Bella persisted, “what do we achieve?”

“Hopefully great things as far as we are concerned—crippling and widespread breakdowns within the U.S. financial world, meltdown of their administrative databases. For example, their welfare program would crash. Cash benefits that are paid to applicants would vanish. Bank accounts would disappear from computer systems. Even federal accounts would be affected. On Wall Street a virus would engage and spread throughout the entire system, wiping out transactions and losing monies and stock details.

“Our programmers have been upgrading and inserting current data into the Black Judas core for months. Even as we speak they are feeding in even more information, all collected via our own systems, which are extremely versatile. Our team is constantly checking American systems, preparing the way for the day we give the go-ahead. They are permanently monitoring the safeguards and backups that the American institutions maintain to protect their financial world. Taken to the next level, we could conceivably hack into their utility companies and put them out of action. We could turn off America’s lights and plunge it into darkness.”

“How soon will Black Judas become active?”

“Within the next few weeks,” Krushen said. “Final protocols are being written as we speak. Once these have been fed into the core, the project will become viable. Within days of the activation codes being sent out, Black Judas will go online.”

What Krushen did not relay to the committee was the information that had reached him from America that there was some kind of operation taking place aimed at dislodging the sleepers. He had the feeling it had something to do with Karl Federov, but until he could prove it he preferred to keep the details to himself. There were incidents that had taken place that concerned Krushen because they involved Black Judas. He had used his power and influence to keep them under wraps, not wanting to alarm anyone. Some members of the committee might panic if they were brought into the picture. Krushen found it easier to simply deal with the matters and say nothing to anyone who did not need to know.



KARL FEDEROV STOOD at the window, his hands thrust deep in the pockets of his thick overcoat. The concrete apron was awash with rain, a chill wind blowing it in rippling waves across the area. The airstrip had once been a Russian air-force base. It had been home to a squadron of SU-27 fighter planes, each armed with a GSh-30-1 cannon and carrying AA R27 missiles. This base had been one of many that encircled Moscow. Now, like many others, it had been closed because of rising costs and military cutbacks. All, Federov thought with some bitterness, in the name of democracy and freedom. He almost laughed out loud at the falsity of the words.

Freedom.

Democracy.

That foolishness was responsible for the breakup of the Soviet Empire and the emasculating of its powerful military might. The Russia he once knew had become another nation ruled by greed and hypocrisy and all the depravity that could grip a nation. Looking deeper, he could see that little had really changed within the isolated corridors of power. Those in control became stronger and increasingly wealthy. The never-ending struggles to stay in positions of power still existed. Those who had reached the higher levels were constantly having to fight off the ambitions of challengers. Mistrust, divided loyalties, plots and counterplots were the order of the day. It was the time of the wolf, a time when each individual had to ensure his own life and expectations were considered above everything else.

Karl Federov was one of those individuals and had already realized the potential riches Black Judas offered to someone willing to reach out and take an offered opportunity. The potential wealth to be gained by utilizing the Black Judas project would be staggering.

Alekzander Mishkin, Federov’s boss, was no exception. The Security Directorate minister had ambitious plans of his own. He was not content remaining in his current position. Mishkin wanted to rise, to attain greater stature. His ministerial appointment had empowered him with wide-reaching authority. It was that authority and the ability to access restricted information that had resulted in Federov discovering the Black Judas file.

Federov had unearthed the secret of the project by sheer good luck. He had been going through old files, long forgotten in one of the basement storage sections in Lubyanka. He had almost passed over the sealed document file. Ready to put it aside, he had paused, something about the package rousing his interest, especially when he saw that it had been filed incorrectly and the stamp on the flap of the cover indicated it had been designated as ultrasensitive. Federov laid the file on the desk, aware that he had discovered something special. When he broke the seal and opened the file and saw the Black Judas legend on the first sheet, he knew he had found something special.

His first thoughts were concerned with how and why the file had been misplaced, but he dismissed the reasoning. Important files had been lost before, mistakenly shelved by some harassed, overworked documents clerk, moved around within the bulk of other files until it became forgotten. The staggering number of files held within Lubyanka’s vaults, the bulk still typewritten and photocopied in the old-fashioned way of the ponderous machine that was the state security system, left itself open to mistakes.

Federov spent the next hour going through the stack of documents and photographs. He quickly realized he had before him the entire Black Judas project, from the overseers to the actual operatives who would be living their manufactured lives in America. The six-man sleeper team, awaiting the day when the call would come to activate the operation. Federov was not a man given to excitable expressions. By the time he realized the potential of the documents in front of him, his head was swimming with almost childish delight and he had a smile on his face that was entirely out of context with his surroundings.

He considered his options.

The first involved his superior Alekzander Mishkin. The discovery of Black Judas would realize Mishkin’s dream of becoming even more important than he already was. He would seize the moment and use it to forward his own career. Taking control of the project and removing it from General Berienko’s control would allow Mishkin to die a happy man. Once Federov handed over the details of Black Judas, any control he had would be taken away from him. Mishkin would become hands-on, wanting to be in charge of every aspect of the project. Federov would be given the task of overseeing the Unit’s demise.

Federov found he didn’t like that idea in any way. He sat and stared at the Black Judas file, lighting yet another cigarette. The ashtray on the desk was already full of half-smoked stubs. Pushing through his ordered thoughts was an alternative, one that even Federov found exciting, scary, full of risks, but if he managed to pull it off it would ensure his future way beyond his wildest dreams.

Understanding the way Black Judas worked had planted a rebellious thought in Federov’s mind. It was based on the “what if” concept. What if he took control of the project and employed it to benefit himself rather than Mishkin? The potential yield from Black Judas was limitless. Instead of destroying the American economy, the project could be diverted to manipulating the financial world for Federov’s gain. The more he considered, the stronger his feelings became.

He could do this. He had control of men, and the finances to fund those men. He thought of his life and things others had that he was denied. Black Judas could change all that.

Federov sobered up, aware of the magnitude of what he was considering. One of the stumbling blocks was Alekzander Mishkin. It was through Mishkin that Federov commanded his power. He would need the protection of Mishkin’s position while he engineered Black Judas. To do that he would need to bring Mishkin into the loop. He would need to inform Mishkin about Black Judas, but not give him full details. Federov’s mind began to work feverishly. While he considered how to gain Mishkin’s approval, Federov was extracting sheets of data from the file, making swift notes on how he could work the information into a saleable item for Minister Mishkin. It took him another couple of hours to create his alternative file. By the time he made his way from the basement, back to his secure office, Federov had it all clear in his mind.

He was going to need time to make copies of the file and transfer data onto a CD through his own computer system. He would create two versions. One version would be of the complete file for himself. The other would be an abridged version, which he would present to Mishkin, with apologies that he needed more time to search for additional details. The minister would be pleased with what Federov had supposedly uncovered, unaware there was more. His gratitude would allow Federov to ask for whatever he needed in personnel and special dispensations. These considerations would let Federov pursue his own agenda, while keeping Mishkin dangling.

Federov spent the next few days transferring the Black Judas files onto his personal computer in his apartment. He scanned the documents and the photographs, building up a full dossier for himself, then edited the information into a presentable form for Mishkin. He made copies of both editions, deleted the data from his computer and shredded the original files. He took his time, not wanting to make any errors by rushing the process. Federov had a personal safe in the wall of his apartment. He placed one of his CDs there. The other copy he deposited in his safe-deposit box at his bank.

Later that same morning he presented himself at Minister Mishkin’s office where he spoke in private, detailing what he had found, then presented Mishkin with the two copies of the Black Judas file.

Federov could still recall the expression on Mishkin’s face as he had read through the data on his computer monitor. His enthusiasm spilled over to the point where he was almost drooling. Mishkin had finally turned away from the screen, staring across at Federov. He did not speak for a while. Federov could see the gleam in his eyes, almost hear the thoughts turning over and over inside his head.

“Who else has seen this, Karl?”

“No one. I did all the checking myself. Kept no written notes. The files I found were removed from the archives so no one else might stumble across them. I scanned everything I located into a computer and saved it to a CD. Once I’d done that I wiped everything from the computer and destroyed the originals. You have the only copies.”

Which actually was not strictly true.

Mishkin was not the only one with high ambition, and Karl Federov was well placed to be able to use information he had found to his own advantage. Mishkin might yet find out he was not as clever as he imagined—not with Karl Federov working against him and not for nationalistic reasons.

“Black Judas,” Mishkin had said. “That project has been guarded for so long, and deniability has been so strongly maintained, even I suspected it was nothing but KGB legend. But it does exist and now the FSB has picked up the baton and is sitting on the damned thing. Why haven’t they activated the sleepers? What are they waiting for?”

“Chenin believes the final countdown is under way. Once the last details are established, the activation codes will be issued to the teams in America.”

“Karl, we have to gain control of that project. If we do, we can write our own ticket.”

Federov nodded in agreement, but for a different reason. His personal reasons. “I agree. The Unit will resist, though. They are still powerful, and we have to make sure we obtain every piece of information about Black Judas before they are eliminated. That’s why I need to keep searching for additional data.”

Mishkin had slapped his hand on the desk. “Damn Krushen’s pack of rabid hounds. If I could get away with it, I would have them up against a wall tomorrow. A swift volley from a squad of our security men would solve that problem. Unfortunately those days are gone. We need to be cautious, however. There are too many unfriendly eyes and ears out there.”

“Leave it to me.”

“Anything you want, Karl, just ask.”

This was working out better than he had ever imagined. Here was Minister Mishkin offering to give him anything Federov wanted. How about your job, Mishkin? Federov cleared his throat. “I have no problem gathering my main team. But if we really want this to work, I need the best.”

Something registered in Mishkin’s eyes as he had glanced across the desk. He suddenly grasped what Federov was intending.

“My God, man, are you sure?”

“Can you think of anyone better to deal with Krushen and his people?”

“I see your reasoning—but…”

“We need him, Minister.”

Mishkin still hesitated. He understood Federov’s request. His urgent need to use the one man capable of dealing with Mischa Krushen on his own terms. The problem was that the man Federov intended to bring on board presented his own problems.

“Minister, you want this to succeed? Then give me what I want. Give me Viktor Kirov.”




CHAPTER TWO


The Russian air-force transport landed on time, despite the inclement weather. Karl Federov watched it taxi along the runway, then turn toward the hangar. He remained where he was as the mobile steps were pushed into place in front of the opened door. A tight group of five men emerged from the plane and descended the steps. Four were carrying submachine guns. The fifth, walking slightly ahead, his shoulders hunched against the bitter rain, barely glanced at the men who had provided the steps as he proceeded in the direction of the hangar.

Someone opened the access door and the group moved inside, away from the rain. They made their way to the office where Federov waited, only now turning from the window. The man they were escorting held his hands in front of him, lifting them when he recognized Federov. Steel manacles circled his wrists. The man held them out to Federov.

“Take them off,” Federov said.

“We were told—”

“To bring him to me and leave him in my charge. You have done that. Give me the key, then you can climb back into your aircraft and leave. You have carried out your orders. He is no longer your responsibility.”

The man in charge of the detail still protested. “Do you realize who he is?”

The manacled man glanced at Federov, a faint smile edging his lips. He was tall, with broad shoulders. His head was shaved, the smooth skull glistening from the rain. He had lost some weight since Federov had seen him last and his face was pale, a little gaunt. Federov saw the big hands flexing. He knew exactly what the man was thinking, what he would do if he was not covered by the SMGs. Whatever else, Federov thought, they have not subdued his personality.

“Yes,” Federov said. “I know exactly who this man is. His name is Viktor Kirov and he is my friend.” Federov’s nostrils flared slightly as he allowed his anger to rise. “Now get out of here,” he yelled, “before I show you what my authority allows me to do.”

The leader of the escort detail took a key from his pocket. He handed it to Federov without another word, turned and led his men from the office. Federov watched them leave the hangar and return to the plane. His own men had returned to the building and remained there as Federov closed the office door. He crossed to the waiting man and removed the manacles, tossing them onto the desk that stood against the far wall.

Viktor Kirov rubbed each wrist where the manacles had chafed at his flesh. He remained where he was, watching as Federov unscrewed the top of a large steel flask and poured hot coffee into a plastic mug. He held it out to Kirov.

“Not the celebration I would have wished for, Viktor, but welcome home, my friend.”

Kirov took the mug, savoring the smell of the coffee. After he had tasted it, he nodded slightly. “An improvement on that cabbage water they gave us to drink and called tea.”

If Federov felt any awkwardness, he hid it well. “Once we get to Moscow, I promise you something even better. I have arranged to have an apartment placed at your disposal. The wardrobe has new clothes in it and the refrigerator is well stocked.”

“Will I find a young woman in my bed, as well?”

“That can also be arranged. I suspect you might have a little tension that requires relieving.”

“A little? My God, Karl, have you forgotten how long I’ve been locked up? Three long, lonely years. Just make sure whoever you send has stamina. She will need it.”

They both laughed.

Kirov watched as Federov drank his own coffee, his hands wrapped around the mug. “Are you cold, Karl?”

“Yes.”

“Compared to my cell this is almost tropical. There even the rats wore overcoats.”

“Dammit, Viktor, I only wish this opportunity had come sooner. You should not have spent so long in that place.”

“I’m not going to argue that point,” Kirov said. “Karl, I know that if there had been any other way, you would have worked something out. I heard how you fought to have me transferred to a better prison. You have been more than a friend, Karl. More than anyone had a right to expect. For that I thank you.”

Federov nodded. “Drink your coffee, then we can get out of this place. We have a long drive back to the city.”

“Plenty of time to talk, eh?”

“Yes.”

“Good. Then you can tell me who I have to kill for you first.”

For the first time since he had entered the office Viktor Kirov’s eyes glistened with enthusiasm. Seeing the expression on his friend’s face, Karl Federov smiled.

He had his man, the one individual who would help his cause and who would do exactly what Federov wanted without argument, or regret.

Kirov was thirty-two years old. The last three had been spent in a bleak, isolated prison run by the FSB and overseen by guards who were little better than some of the inmates. These were political dissidents, men, and some women, who posed a threat to the regime, as well as recidivists and terrorists, or possible terrorists. The government played no favors. If someone was an embarrassment, dangerous, with agendas that might create an outcry, then the isolationist regime in the prison would either kill or cure. Once the subject was out of the public eye, it became easier to handle.

Viktor Kirov was a special case. He had been trained by the very people who finally locked him away. Kirov was a natural-born killer, a man who had no conscience when he was given his orders. It didn’t matter who the victim was. Man. Woman. Child. Kirov handled them all with the same cold detachment. His training had come from the best, and Kirov surpassed every one of his instructors. His supreme test came when he was given the order to kill one of the other applicants on the training course. The man had failed to reach anything like the required standard. His dissatisfaction turned him sour, and he began blaming everyone at the training academy for his poor achievements. His grievances were looked on with disapproval. He managed to alienate everyone around him. His vehement lack of control drew the attention of the academy director, a man who despised those who showed weakness. The director solved his problem easily. He chose the best pupil from the course to carry out his order.

He chose Viktor Kirov.

He was confident he had picked the right man. Kirov’s performance during the course had been exceptional. The director, who prided himself on his ability to know his trainees, had reached the conclusion that Viktor Kirov was head and shoulders above the rest. Kirov was an individual. Something of a loner. A borderline sociopath. And his instructors had reported that Kirov had that rare quality capable of making him an excellent assassin. There was a cold streak within him, a propensity for violence that he kept close to the surface, contained and controlled until it was needed.

Three days after the failed trainee had quit the academy, the director asked Kirov into his office. He told Kirov what he wanted in no uncertain terms, explaining that he would not allow the man to spread malicious rumors about the academy. An example had to be made. Kirov understood what was being asked of him and accepted the mission without hesitation. The director offered assistance, but Kirov declined.

Two days later there was a small report in the press that a young man had been found dead in a back ally. His neck had been broken during an attempted robbery. No one had seen or heard a thing. The case was never solved and became just another statistic.

The director found the man’s wallet on his desk a day later.

Kirov was immediately recruited into a special section of the FSB and over the next few years his particular talents were well used. He became his section’s chief assassin, traveling extensively to carry out wet work for his employers. Europe, Africa, even the U.S.A. played host to Viktor Kirov. He was never caught. He was that good. Perhaps too good. He began to enjoy his work too much. His masters tried to rein him in, but all that achieved was to make him strike out at them. He began to kill off the books. He turned rogue, killing anyone sent to bring him in.

In the end he was caught. His secret trial was swift, and the verdict all too obvious. He was sentenced to thirty years in one of the department prisons located in the bleak extremes of eastern Russia, a dark, harsh place where the worst of the worst were confined. Not executed, but placed in solitary exile in case the long-term needs of the state might one day require their dubious talents.

Kirov was one of those instances. He had been created and trained by the state as a killer. There was always the need for such skills. So Kirov was hidden away so he might reflect on his aberrations and consider his future.

Karl Federov had been Kirov’s only true friend. Over a number of years an unspoken bond had developed between the two men. Neither could explain it, nor ever tried. During Kirov’s good years in the section, he and Federov spent social times together. Drinking. The occasional female. It was an odd matching, but it worked for them both. Each accepted the other without question.

When Kirov was detained after his rogue episode, Karl Federov was the only one who spoke in his defense. He used his influence in attempts to have Kirov freed. Nothing came of it. In the end even Kirov advised his friend to give up, realizing he was going to be locked up. The day he was taken away Kirov’s last request was to be allowed to speak to Federov, thanking him for his loyalty. For his part Federov said he would get Kirov out of his cell one day.

And now he had.

Kirov would be the ace up his sleeve, Federov’s own secret weapon to be aimed and guided and allowed to use his unique talents against those who stood in Federov’s path as he homed in on Black Judas.

A few nights after Kirov had come on board, Federov drove them around the city while he explained his intentions. Kirov listened in silence until Federov completed his announcement about Black Judas. He had smiled, then actually laughed out loud.

“Karl, you have become even more devious than before I went to prison.”

“Does that mean you are in?” Federov asked.

“Of course. Did you think I would pass up the opportunity to screw the bastards who locked me away? I owe my loyalty to you, Karl, and no one else. In the whole of Russia there was only one man on my side. Karl Federov. My friend.” Kirov peered through the sleet-covered windshield of the car, pointing to neon-lit signs that indicated a bar. “We can use this Black Judas to take back what those bastards owe us. Karl, let’s go and celebrate. Then in the morning we can start to fuck the Kremlin.”

Federov parked the car outside a nightclub. As he led the way inside he laid a hand on Kirov’s shoulder.

“By the way, Viktor, I have a passport and visa for you.”

“Am I going somewhere again?”

“Yes. This time your trip will be much more comfortable and pleasant. The U.S.A. You will go as a member of the Russian diplomatic service. Using the information we have from the Black Judas files, I want you to start tracking down the sleeper teams and eliminating them.”

“Didn’t you explain that these men carry the codes needed to operate the system?”

“Three teams of two men. Only one pair is actually required to activate the project. Now that we know where they are located, we can dispense with four out of the six. It reduces the chances of Krushen gaining control. If we take charge of the surviving team, we have the upper hand.”

“It sounds good when you say it, Karl. Let’s hope it works that way.”

“Have I ever let you down, Viktor? Given you reason to doubt me?”

“I have to admit that has never happened. In fact you are the only person I know who can be trusted.”

Federov nodded. “Let’s drink to that, my friend. To you and me and Black Judas.”




CHAPTER THREE


Stony Man Farm, Virginia

Aaron Kurtzman waited until his team was assembled before he laid out the information he had been gathering.

They were all there: Carmen Delahunt, a red-haired, ex-FBI agent; Huntington Wethers, a tall, pipe-smoking academic, a thoughtful black man who was a former professor of cybernetics; and Akira Tokaido, a sharp, young computer hacker who listened to hot music piped through the earbuds of his MP3 player.

Kurtzman’s cyberteam, some of the best IT specialists in the world, were the SOG’s eyes and ears. They manned the databanks and, aided by Kurtzman’s programs, had the ability to get into the databases of existing agencies, extracting what they needed to push forward their backup capabilities for Stony Man’s combat teams. Kurtzman’s cybergenius was the driving force that enabled the team to create its unique qualities and advance them day by day. He was versed in computer science to a degree that reached near perfection. If he couldn’t solve a problem with existing programs, he would write a new one to address the problem and get around it. He pushed himself and his team to the limits, constantly aware that when the SOG teams needed help, they needed it ASAP, not in a few days. His unshakable loyalty was legend, and his ability to come up with the goods on time was not open to debate.

“As we have no ongoing missions at the moment, and the teams are on R and R, I need you to look at something I’m going to transfer to each of you. Analyze the data, make up your own minds. I want to see if you get the same feeling I do. No bullshit. Honest opinions. I got the nod on this from a guy I know. He picked this up on one of his database searches and felt it worth further checking. I’ve done some, but I want to hear your views.”

Kurtzman worked his keyboard and transferred the file to each workstation. As their monitors flashed into life, the members of the team swung their chairs around and got to work. Kurtzman wheeled himself across the room to his infamous coffeepot and helped himself to a fresh brew, then returned to his own workstation and began to widen his search parameters.

When mission controller Barbara Price walked into the Computer Room several hours later, she was surprised to see the team so focused on their tasks, as the threat board was just about clear.

“What’s up, Aaron?”

Kurtzman eased his chair around. “Team collaboration,” he said. “I need confirmation on something that could be important.”

“As in Stony Man important?”

Carmen Delahunt looked around. “The way this is panning out, it could be.”

“Hal know about this?”

“Uh-uh,” Kurtzman said. “No point calling him until we’re sure.”

“Well, you’ve got me interested. Am I allowed to join the inner circle yet?”

Kurtzman’s bearded face broke into a wide smile. “If the team’s ready to give its verdict, you might as well come on board. Extra input on this is going to be welcome.”

“Carmen,” Wethers said, “tell her what we have.”

Delahunt held up the printout she was holding. “Okay, basics first. We have three dead people. All male. All in their thirties. One in Grand Rapids. The other two came from Spokane. They all died within a couple of days of each other. Coroners’ verdicts all stated the same cause of death. They were all murdered. Given a lethal injection of a poison that was difficult to pin down until requests for very thorough toxicology reports were requested. The tox reports identified the poison as an extremely potent strain that hasn’t been seen for some years.”

“It’s been used before?” Price asked.

Delahunt nodded. “It was a favored means of execution from the days of the KGB. Back in the day no one could get much information about it, but some years ago a sample was obtained and it was checked out thoroughly. So much so that we now have a complete breakdown of the substance and it can be recognized. The last known instance of it being used was three years ago in Brussels when a former KGB agent was found dead in his apartment. It was suspected he was killed because he was in the process of negotiating a book deal where he was about to expose the old KGB and name names.”

“So three men are dead and you’re saying some cold-war KGB poison was used?” Price held up her hands. “Am I missing something here?”

“Yes,” Wethers said. “Look at my notes.” He handed Price a clipboard. On a sheet of paper he had written each man’s particulars.

Price read the details. “Three ordinary American citizens killed by lethal injection? Why would anyone…wait a second. Why is the name Leon Grishnov written in brackets after Harry Jenks’s?”

“Nothing gets by Barbara Price,” Kurtzman said. “Go ahead, Hunt, you found it.”

“There was a recurring shred of evidence that came up on all three autopsy reports. Each dead man had characteristicly Slavic facial bone structure. Not second generation that might suggest the men had been born here from Russian parentage. So we dug a little deeper, went into ex-Soviet medical databases. Military as well as civilian. The next problem arose when I realized they were not as extensive as I expected. I kept coming up empty until I ran across some dental records and we got a match.”

“One lucky strike,” Tokaido said. “The X-rays taken by one of our coroners matched the Russian ones.”

“Harry Jenks is Leon Grishnov. Once we had that,” Wethers said, “I concentrated on the guy and hit lucky again. He was in the military, trained as an infiltration specialist and designated as Spetznaz. The last entry in his record has him reassigned to special duty. After that there are no more records of him. It was as if he vanished from the face of the earth.”

“We’re widening our searches,” Kurtzman said. “Might be we’ll pick something up on the other two vics. Akira spotted something and is looking into it.”

Tokaido tapped his keyboard and brought up an enlarged image. “I got this from the autopsy photographic records. From both cities where the deaths occurred. Had to do some cleaning up and sharpening.”

“Is that a tattoo?” Price asked.

“Yeah. Each guy had one on the left shoulder. It’s no larger than a quarter but very detailed. I had to focus in real close to make any sense out of it. Even when it was made clear, none of us could understand what it meant. So I sent them to one of our Russian contacts. I figured if the guys were Russian the tattoos might also have some Russian symbols.”

“That’s smart thinking.”

“Has the contact come up with anything yet?” Price asked.

Kurtzman shook his head. “Lena did report it looked vaguely familiar but she needs a little more time.” He turned his full attention on Price. “What do you think?”

“I worry when I hear KGB and Spetznaz. And especially what you found out about a Russian taking on the identity of a U.S. citizen.”

“Okay, we know the old KGB was disbanded and the FSB took its place,” Wethers said. “We also know that there are still ex-KGB around, some of them hard-liners in place in Lubyanka and who still have some influence. Right now we don’t have a line on what we might have stumbled on. My vote is we keep digging.”

“Could these men have been sleepers?” Price asked. “Put in place as part of some operation that might have been forgotten about?”

“That’s a possibility,” Kurtzman said. “Don’t dismiss the thought about a forgotten operation. Though, we know some sleepers have stayed in place for a lot of years before they got the signal to go ahead with their planned mission.”

“So why have they been killed? If the mission has been wiped, why terminate the operatives? That part doesn’t make sense to me,” Price stated.

“I have to admit I can’t figure that one myself,” Kurtzman admitted. “Unless someone has decided to clean house and remove all traces of a redundant operation.”

Price ran her gaze over Wethers’s notes again, then reached a decision. “Okay, let’s run with it, Aaron. Stay with day-to-day protocols, but see what you can figure out on these three dead people. I’ll update Hal when he gets back, and I think Mack should sit in on any meetings. We could be needing his special input.”



MACK BOLAN COMPLETED his reading of the file presented by Hal Brognola. He glanced around the War Room conference table.

“It points to something that needs checking out,” he said. “There are too many facts to be labeled coincidence.”

“It’s the way we all saw it,” Price said. “I was on board as soon as Aaron showed me the initial data he’d pulled together and got the team’s backup.”

Bolan tapped the file. “Priority is to assess what a possible operation might consist of. We have to work on the assumption that whatever was planned could still be online, just waiting for someone to issue the green light.”

“We’re digging deep trying to get a handle on it,” Kurtzman said. “One problem is, we have no idea how covert this might be. We don’t even have the luxury of a name for the damn thing.”

Akira Tokaido opened a folder. “I may have something for you on that,” he said, sliding photos of the tattoos found on the dead men.

“They tell you something?” Price asked.

Tokaido nodded. “The writing in the tattoo design turned out to be an obscure Cyrillic alphabet.” He picked up one of the remotes that controlled the wall-mounted monitors and clicked on a screen. “On the left are the original three tattoos. Worked into the entwined snakes-and-scorpions design are number and letter sequences. Two of the tattoos have the same number-letter sequence. The third is different. Two different sequences come from the dead men from Spokane. The remaining one is Grand Rapids. If you look on the right, here, I’ve laid out all three sequences, this time in English.”

They all studied the sequences. Even in English the lines didn’t make much sense.

“Computer codes?” Bolan asked.

“I don’t think so,” Kurtzman said. “Not the sort of configuration that makes any sense. We’ll run them but I can’t see them giving us much.”

“Maybe a number-letter code,” Delahunt said. “I can check them against the FBI code-breaker data, but they don’t seem to have anything I can get a hook on.”

“Lena Orlov did find something that might offer us a starting point,” Tokaido said. He highlighted a curving banner that sat over the main design. It was identical on each tattoo. “In English it means Black Judas.”

“Great work,” Brognola said. “We all understand Judas. The disciple who betrayed Jesus. Give anyone a thought?”

“Not immediately,” Delahunt admitted.

No one else had any flashes of inspiration, so they spent some time going over what they had, pushing theories back and forth.

“Did Akira’s suggestion about the three dead men being into computing go any further?” Bolan asked.

“Yes. He did find out they were all familiar with the latest technology. Systems. Security advances. They took every IT course they could log onto. These guys were heavily into it. You have an idea?”

“Pretty loose at the moment,” Bolan stated. “We have three dead men. It’s becoming more than likely they were foreign agents sent to the U.S. to assimilate into society and stay low. Each has a tattoo that appears to contain some number-letter sequence, meaning unknown at the moment. Our guys were all into finance-based employment and also heavily into computer knowledge, which in today’s climate isn’t suspect in itself, but could be.”

“Don’t forget Judas,” Tokaido prompted.

“My next piece of the puzzle. Judas walked with all the other disciples. Passed himself off as one of them, while all the time he was working against them. Just what a sleeper does. Then Judas broke his trust and betrayed those who saw him as a good guy.”

“Okay,” Price said. “The Judas analogy works fine. But where is the betrayal here? Were our sleepers here to betray someone? Set him up as an assassination target?”

“Think about that.”

“Why so many men?” Price asked. “An assassination wouldn’t need that many, would it?”

“Good point,” Bolan said. “And a hit against a current figure doesn’t gel with a sleeper put in place for a long period. People and situations change over the years. Your assassin is more likely to be inserted in the short term.”

“So no individual hit?”

Bolan shook his head. “Not someone. I’m thinking something. This looks like a complicated operation. A killing is a relatively simple matter. A target. A weapon. An operator. I believe these guys were going after something bigger, and not a bomb or a bioweapon.”

“Striker, even my head is starting to spin,” Brognola said. “Is there a payoff here?”

“Speculation at the moment. Theorizing. But I’m looking at the special interest in computers and the financial backgrounds all these guys had. And then Black Judas. I remember one of Katz’s favorite words when he was building scenarios—extrapolation, making an educated guess at a possible conclusion once facts were brought together. In this case I’m linking Black Judas to Black Monday. I think we all remember that day in ’87 when the stock market went haywire.”

“Okay,” Brognola said, pushing to his feet. He took a moment to consider what he was about to authorize. “I believe we have enough to initiate an initial probe.”

“More than enough,” Kurtzman said.

“Okay, people. I need to bring the Man up to speed. He’s going to grumble about the possible effects on U.S.-Russian relations. I’ll have to put the emphasis on possible illegal Russian presence within our borders. I guess that should convince him we have enough to look into this. Press the Go button, Barb. We need to be on the starting blocks. You ready to move out, Striker?”

Bolan picked up his copy of the file. “Give me an hour to run through this again and I’ll suit up.”

“Any thoughts where you might be heading?” Price inquired.

“Spokane first, then Grand Rapids. See if I can pick anything up from the crime scenes. Liaise with the local P.D.”

“I’ll set up flights,” Price said, “and arrange for rentals at each airport.”

“If you get to talk to the cops, check out whether they got hold of the victims’ computers,” Kurtzman said. “If they have them, I could do with downloading whatever’s stored. Might add to our information.”

“You’ll be going in under Justice Department cover,” Brognola added. “I’ll call ahead and tell them we would appreciate their help. Aaron, what do you need?”

“Internet link is all. I can go in and pull out what I need from that.”

“If they know we’re downloading data, the cops might start asking questions,” Bolan said. “Cooperation is one thing. Downloading from a victim’s computer might hit their suspicion button.”

“Tell them all you need is ten minutes to have a look at their e-mails,” Kurtzman said. “My program can worm inside and download without even showing on screen once you get me Internet access. Nothing will be deleted and they won’t know.” He grinned broadly. “Sneaky, am I not?”

“You have no competition,” Bolan said. “Okay, Hal, set it up.”




CHAPTER FOUR


Natasha Tchenko had flown from Moscow to Heathrow Airport, in the UK, where she had been met by a cousin she hadn’t seen for many years. She spent almost a week in London, and carried out the first part of her plan by tracking down one of the men she had been looking for. She had gotten his name from the hired thug who had attacked her in the basement garage under her apartment. Before she had rendered him unconscious she had extracted the name of the man who had given him instructions on how to find her. She kept that part to herself, planning to deal with Ilya Malenkov her own way. All she had told people was that she needed a long vacation to get over the sudden deaths of her family. Her main goal remained her secret. If she had even hinted at what she hoped to achieve, she would not have been able to proceed.

It was in London that the first moves in the tracking of her family’s killers started. Using the information she had gained, she located Malenkov.



ILYA MALENKOV had paused at the entrance to the house, his feelings of uncertainty rising again. He half turned to look back over his shoulder, expecting to see someone watching. Apart from a couple of pedestrians at the far end, the street was deserted. The only movements close by were leaves from the trees blowing along the sidewalk. Even though he felt a little foolish, Malenkov took his time checking out the area until he was satisfied his feelings had proved false. Only then did he push open the door and step inside. Closing the door behind him he felt the silence of the house wrap itself around him. It still amazed him that despite being in one of the busiest cities in the world, here inside this house it was so quiet, removed from the frantic pace of London.

Malenkov shrugged out of his topcoat and hung it on one of the hooks in the narrow hallway. He felt the chill in the house and realized he had forgotten again to put on the heating before he went out. He moved along the hall to the door that led into the kitchen. As he pushed it open, his world went dark and silent around him as something slammed across the back of his skull….



HIS FIRST IMPRESSION WAS of bitter cold. Not just the chill he had felt earlier, but a persuasive cold that pervaded his whole body. The air he breathed in held a dampness that went with the smell of mildew. Malenkov tried to move, then realized he was unable. His wrists and ankles were bound and when he forced open his eyes he saw he was tied to the arms and legs of a wooden chair.

He realized he was completely naked, as well, his body pale and so chilled he was shivering. Now he could feel a sickly ache across the back of his skull. The clammy feel of drying blood that had run down the back of his neck. Someone had struck him as he had entered the kitchen, then dragged him down to the cellar beneath the house. He saw bare brick walls and felt the boarded floor beneath his naked feet. A single bulb hung from an electric cord, throwing pale light on the stacked boxes and other household items that had been stored in the cellar and pushed against the damp walls.

He squinted his eyes and tried to ignore the pain in his skull as he attempted to understand what was happening. Who had done this to him?

And why?

Malenkov believed it could be down to Karl Federov. He would do anything to discredit Krushen’s authority.

Once the search for Black Judas had been activated, all interested parties would be alerted. Any information gained would be fair game for the others. But Malenkov was surprised at how easily his location had been discovered. The London safehouse had always been just that. Safe. It was a jumping-off point where agents could travel from London to distant points, away from Moscow. Despite the stepped-up security in the UK capital, it was still a freer place than back in Russia. A cosmopolitan city, where almost every nationality from around the globe moved back and forth, London was still one of the easier cities to maintain a safehouse. And they had always been so careful. The address and location had never been committed to any database. It had been rented through a number of anonymous aides, making sure none knew any of the others personally, nor had any more contact than via dead-drop mailings. Malenkov reconsidered that, admitting that nothing in reality was ever completely risk-free. Somewhere along the line, someone might have let something slip that had been picked up by a third party. Also, there was no discounting the possibility of betrayal by one of their own. Again that was something not unheard of.

In the final analysis it came down to the fact that the safehouse had been compromised. At this juncture of Malenkov’s life the who and the why didn’t really matter.

Especially in regard to himself.

What did matter was whether he was going to emerge alive from this situation.

He heard movement off to his right. As he turned his head, a dark shape loomed from the shadows. A figure stood over him, silhouetted against the light from the suspended bulb. There was a sudden blur of movement and he took a hard blow to the side of his face. The force twisted his head, blood welling from a gash in his cheek. The blow dazed him for long seconds, and Malenkov let his head fall forward. Blood dripped onto his naked chest. He picked up more movement and braced himself for more blows. Nothing happened.

“What the hell do you want from me?”

“It speaks,” a voice said from behind in Russian.

The sudden sound startled Malenkov, and what added more surprise was that it was a woman’s voice. Young, too, from the tone. He was reminded of his naked condition.

The voice’s owner moved to stand in front of him, easing aside so that the light from the bulb fell across her. She was young, he saw. Midtwenties and very attractive, though the expression on her face hardened her features. Black hair framed a strong, well-defined face. Her eyes were cold, devoid of any emotion. She wore dark, slim-fitting pants and a black turtleneck sweater. A long, dark topcoat completed her outfit. Malenkov saw the dark shape of a handgun tucked in her waist belt and recognized it as his own. She had to have found it in the drawer where he kept it upstairs. Now she took her time deliberately looking him over, her gaze lingering, a wry smile edging her lips. Malenkov felt an embarrassed flush color his face.

“Who are you? Dammit, woman, do you realize who you’re messing with?”

“No one very big,” she said. “Just a small scrap of lowlife.”

“A dangerous mistake,” Malenkov said. “I have no idea what this is all about, but you are playing games with the wrong kind of people.”

“Believe me, Malenkov, I am not playing games.”

Malenkov struggled against his bonds. His face darkened even more as he failed to loosen the ropes. Added to his frustration was the fact that the woman apparently had no immediate fear of anything he might say.

“Get me out of here, you bitch!” he yelled. “This will bring you more trouble than you can imagine. One word from me and I could have your family wiped out.”

He saw her stiffen, recognized the fierce look in her eyes as she fought back some deep emotion.

“But you already did that, Malenkov. You and your sick comrades. My family all died at your hands, you pig. It’s why you’re tied to that chair. So I can let you feel what my mother and father and my young brother felt before you vermin finally killed them all. It wasn’t all that long ago, so you must still recall the name. Tchenko. My father was Captain Pieter Tchenko. You do remember? Yes, I thought you would. So you see, your threats don’t worry me. There’s nothing left you can take away from me.” She reached inside her coat and took out a gleaming steel-bladed knife, holding it so light rippled along the smooth metal. “Today is your turn. I ask questions, you answer. Each time you lie, I use the knife.”

Malenkov realized from the start that she was not just trying to scare him. She made him aware of this by making a token cut across the soft flesh of his stomach. Deep enough to make him bleed and feel the pain. Not enough to incapacitate him. As the warm rivulets of his blood settled in his groin, Malenkov realized he needed to make a swift decision.

Refuse to answer the woman’s questions and suffer further living pain, or tell her what she wanted and accept the bullet through the back of his skull that would end his life far quicker. He was under no illusion. One way or another, he was going to die today. The only question was whether he gave up the names of his partners and sent this woman after them, or tried to protect them and suffered by the knife in her hand. It was not much of a trade-off either way.

In the end Malenkov found out he was not so much of a man as he had anticipated. He gave up names and locations. He told her everything he knew. But not before Natasha Tchenko made him suffer because of his early resistance. Her use of the knife was crude, and Malenkov spilled a great deal of blood on the cellar floor. Whatever his resolve, it faded quickly, his pleas for mercy falling on deaf ears. So he gave her what he could, asking for her forgiveness. He did that with no sense of shame. Only because the pain he was enduring had to stop.

It did stop.

Suddenly and without warning. He experienced a sudden powerful impact to the back of his head, and before he even had time to realize what it was, the bullet from the gun in Natasha Tchenko’s hand ripped into his skull and reduced his brain to mush.

Tchenko returned to the main part of the house and made her way into the living room where she had finished her search earlier while waiting for Malenkov. She had found the laptop he had stored in a cupboard. Now she connected it to the power and ran the modem cable to the telephone socket. Once on the Net, she opened the link and tapped in her own password to access the OCD’s central computer database and ran a check on Malenkov. She had to utilize different strings before she pinned down his file. Her first attempts at getting deeper into the files were blocked. She had to employ her not inconsiderable computer skills to get around the blocks.

Interestingly she found herself in the FSB database and managed to extract data files before she was closed down. Despite her repeated efforts, Tchenko was unable to get back into the FSB computer. She had been locked out once her intrusion had been discovered and knew that a trace would already be in operation to find out where she had been working from. It would confuse Moscow when they learned she had been hacking in from an FSB link. She picked up a flash drive from the table beside the laptop and placed it in the USB port, quickly downloading the data she had saved. With the flash drive in her shoulder bag, Tchenko composed a short e-mail and mailed it to her OCD boss, Commander Valentine Seminov. She cleared the computer, making certain it was disconnected from the Internet, then pulled the modem and power plug.

Minutes later Tchenko let herself out of the house’s rear door. She walked along the cracked stone path, through the untended garden and out through the gate. The alley at the rear took her almost to the end of the street, where she rejoined the sidewalk, checking the area. No one saw her leave the house, as no one had noticed her original entry to the building. It was that time of day when the majority of people were at work. Tchenko picked up a taxi shortly after reaching the main road. She rode it into the city and made her way to the river. Here she bought a ticket and boarded one of the Thames’s excursion boats. Partway through the trip, alone, she leaned on the stern rail, waiting for her moment, then calmly eased the pistol from her coat. It was wrapped in a duster she had picked up in the kitchen and had used to wipe the weapon clean. Now she let the gun slip from her grasp and watched it hit the dark water and vanish. She repeated the move with the knife, then remained at the stern until the boat turned and started its return journey. Only then did she move away from the stern to wander along the deck, her thoughts racing ahead as she planned her next move, which would see her arranging a flight to the U.S. where she would carry on her search for the other men responsible for the deaths of her family.



THREE DAYS LATER, in the air over the Atlantic, Natasha Tchenko huddled in her seat, grateful at least that no one was sitting beside her, and refused to even admit that what she was doing bordered on the impossible. In her mind it was clear and direct.

She was going to America to find the people responsible for the deaths of her family.

And when she did find them she was going to kill them all…or as many as she could.

Ilya Malenkov had furnished her with a mix of information and, combined with what she had gleaned from the computer, it was enough to give Tchenko a starting point.

Malenkov, an FSB agent, had been part of the team responsible for the slaughter of her family. The initial hunt had been orchestrated by Leopold Bulanin. Bulanin was a Moscow racketeer, an opportunist who would involve himself in any venture that offered a profit. He was a careful man, who covered his tracks well and managed to stay ahead of the law through high contacts and bribery. From Malenkov’s confession Tchenko learned of Bulanin’s involvement with the search for information her father had gathered on the FSB’s involvement with something he called Black Judas. Pieter Tchenko’s investigation had brought the covert team of FSB and gangsters on his trail. Though she didn’t know whether her father had given up the information he had collected, her family had still been murdered. Coming to terms with that was proving difficult for Natasha Tchenko, and she was not even sure that if she actually completed her mission her pain would be ended. All she could do now was go through the motions, pushing the memories to the back of her mind while she conducted her search.

She had names and locations.

The e-mail to Seminov pinpointed the names she had extracted from Malenkov. Her hope was that it might kick-start another investigation into the connection between the FSB, Krushen and Leopold Bulanin.

Her starting point was the city of Grand Rapids, Michigan, where Malenkov had told her the Russian team led by Mischa Krushen had just moved. Once she had her flight arranged, she had asked the London travel agent to book her into a hotel there. It would give her a base, somewhere she could work out of. She knew she was going in cold, with little advance information about her enemies. When she was on undercover operations for OCD, there was always a pre-ops period to study the opposition to learn about their habits and their propensity for violence, whether the undercover operative might be known to the target. It was standard procedure, necessary so that the undercover agent had less chance of facing the unexpected. It didn’t guarantee total safety. There was no such thing in undercover work.

This time Natasha Tchenko was walking in blind. All she had were sketchy pictures of the men she was stalking. She had read up on what OCD had on the suspects. It gave her some physical images, but little else. But she knew they were dangerous individuals, used to working in the shadows. If it hadn’t been for Commander Seminov’s generosity, she might never have been able to look at their thin files.

It was late afternoon when she finally checked into the hotel. She went directly to her room, undressed and relaxed under a hot shower. After she had dried herself she fell into bed and slept through until the following morning from sheer exhaustion.



TCHENKO AWOKE from a deep and troubled sleep with a shocked gasp bursting from her lips and sweat coursing down her face. Panting for breath that seemed to have difficulty forcing itself from her lungs, she stared across the hotel room, barely aware that sunlight was ghosting through the curtains. The bedsheets were tangled around her lower body, almost imprisoning her legs, and she kicked them free with frantic actions until they slid to the floor. In a protective response she pulled her arms around her body, lowering her head, and fought back the tears threatening to flood her eyes. She remained in this position until her emotions calmed and she was back in control. Only then did she uncoil and slowly swing her legs off the bed, pushing to her feet where she remained motionless. She fought to eliminate the dark horrors flooding her mind, concentrating on reminding herself who she was and why she was here….

Her name was Natasha Tchenko. She was twenty-six years old, and was a Russian cop with four years served in the OCD in Moscow. At this present time she was on extended leave in the United States of America.

She had come to America to find the men responsible for the slaughter of her family, and when she found them she intended to pass sentence and execute them.

As the departing fragments of the dream drifted from her conscious thoughts—the same dream that came to her unbidden and unwanted most nights—Tchenko crossed the room and parted one of the curtains enough for her to stare out at the morning.

The dream was the same as always, seen from her perspective and reliving that dreadful moment when she had walked into the Moscow apartment to find her cruelly murdered family: her father and mother, throats crudely slit, blood pooling thickly into the carpet; her fourteen-year-old brother, Karel, his adolescent body naked and disemboweled, the glistening viscera trailing in soft coils across the floor.

The visions returned to her in the long, dark nights when her very soul cried for release, when she fought her silent battle to be released from those images, yet felt herself paralyzed and helpless as only the victim of a sleeping nightmare can feel. There was no escape until the nightmare scenario had played itself out and she would burst from that soundless torment, as if floating up from the deep, escaping into reality, her naked body bathed in sweat, gasping for breath.

The woman turned from the window and crossed to the bathroom where she stepped into the shower and turned on the cold water. As it struck her flesh she gasped against the chill, but stood until she became used to the hissing stream. She reached for the soap, lathering herself until she had washed away the sweat and with it the remaining shadows of her nightmare. When she stepped from the shower, she crossed to the sink. Her image stared back at her from the mirror. Thick dark hair framed a strong, not unattractive face. True, she needed a little sun to remove the pale skin and the emergence of shadows under her bright, deep brown eyes. She stroked fingers across the firm, high cheekbones, flexed her full, generous mouth.

“Tasha Tchenko,” she said to her image, “you are a mess. Do something about it.”

She called room service and ordered breakfast. While she waited for it to arrive she turned on the TV and flicked through endless channels until she found a news program that felt a little less frenetic than most. She sat in one of the comfortable leather chairs and immersed herself in the news summary. When her breakfast arrived she handed the smiling bellman a tip, then settled down to scrambled eggs, crispy bacon and toast. She helped herself to a cup of coffee. Immersed in her food she almost missed the item on the TV. She leaned forward so as not to miss a word of the report, turning up the sound.

It concerned a death. A murder, in fact. Nothing unusual in that. Most TV news reports back home in Moscow carried such items every day. East or West, people still indulged in killing each other on a regular basis.

This crime caught Tchenko’s attention because the photograph displayed on the screen, taken from the dead man’s passport, identified him as one Jarek Ovid. That was not his real name. She knew him as Oleg Risovich. He was a member of the FSB, working under Mischa Krushen. She listened to the report with growing interest. It appeared that Risovich had been attacked and stabbed to death in a downtown area known for its drug dealing. If Risovich had been trying to do some business, he most likely would have been going against Krushen’s agenda. Krushen would not be pleased about that. He would want to remain in the background, not draw any unwanted attention to himself or his people.

Tchenko picked up the local telephone directory and searched for the Grand Rapids Police Department’s address.




CHAPTER FIVE


Mack Bolan picked up his rental car from the agency and headed for the city. His task here was relatively simple—liaise with the Grand Rapids P.D. and take a look at the computers the police had seized as evidence. It was normal procedure for the police to check personal and business computers following unexplained homicides. Vital information could be stored on hard drives, something that could point to the reason why the victim had been murdered.

The call from Hal Brognola, explaining to the G.R.P.D. that the Justice Department needed some cooperation, had fixed the visit for Justice Department Special Agent Matt Cooper. All Bolan needed was to have access to the victims’ computers and a modem so that he could set things up for Aaron Kurtzman to download the contents of the hard drives. The operation would be completed without any outward sign and the original data would still be left intact.

Bolan had already completed the first part of his assignment by visiting the police in Spokane, where he had performed the same routine on the laptop owned by Harry Jenks—Leon Grishnov. He had also carried out the same routine on the one from the bank where Jenks had been employed. Stony Man was already analyzing that data.

Clad in a smart gray suit, white shirt and a dark blue tie, Bolan approached the desk sergeant. He showed his Justice Department credentials and asked for the cop whose name he had been given by Brognola. He was shown to the squad room and introduced to the homicide detective in charge of the double investigation.

Homicide Detective Rick Hollander was in his midthirties, fit, but looked as if he had just emerged from a war zone. The guy looked weary, a little pissed off, struggling with the myriad complications that together make up the working life of a police officer.

“What I hate the most is the paperwork. It just never stops coming. Fresh forms to fill in. New rules to follow. And I keep asking myself, why did I want to be a cop? You know what else? I can’t remember.”

Bolan grinned, sympathizing with the cop. “Paperwork? Tell me about it. It’s all I get to do most days. A field trip like this is heaven.”

Hollander led Bolan across the squad room to his office. He showed Bolan the table that held the computers that had belonged to the two victims.

“Both plugged in and connected to phone lines. Anything else you need, Agent Cooper?”

“That’s fine,” Bolan said gratefully. “Hollander, thanks for your cooperation. I know you’re busy and probably figure I’m a pain in the ass, so I appreciate your help.”

Hollander grinned. “Hey, we’re supposed to be helping each other these days. Right?” He jerked a thumb in the direction of the computers. “Knock yourself out, pal. I’ll go get you copies of the case files I was told you need.”

He left Bolan alone, closing the door behind him. There were two units on the table, a desktop computer and a laptop. Bolan set up the connection that allowed Kurtzman to access the first computer. While the download took place Bolan sat in front of the monitor, going through the motions of checking it out, jotting notations into a notepad. When the signal came through that the download was complete, Bolan made the second connection. Once the two machines had sent their data to Stony Man, Bolan used his cell to contact Kurtzman.

“We done?”

“My man, you have performed sterling work here today. Have the rest of it off.”

“As generous as always.”

Bolan switched off the computers and slipped the notepad into the pocket of his gray suit.



RICK HOLLANDER THREADED his way back across the busy squad room, a buff folder in his hand. One of his fellow officers waylaid him, discussing an ongoing case. As he listened, Hollander noticed Agent Cooper, back in the noisy squad room, watching Detective Steve Cross who was in a conversation with a striking young woman. Cooper seemed to be taking particular notice of the woman. Not that he could be blamed for that. She was, Hollander saw, a looker. Very attractive, with dark hair and a supple figure that couldn’t be hidden beneath her slacks and jacket.

What Hollander was not aware of was the reason Bolan had taken an interest in the dark-haired beauty. She and the police detective were close enough for Bolan to have picked up on their conversation.

Bolan heard the words Commander Seminov.

And OCD.

He had turned his attention on the woman, just as Hollander appeared in front of him, holding up the file.

“Hot off the copier,” he said.

“Good,” Bolan said, neatly sidestepping the cop.

“I thought you said this was urgent.”

“Thanks. It is. Keep hold of it for me.”

In that moment the squad room erupted in a burst of shouting and general mayhem as a group of suspects decided they had taken enough time and decided to cause trouble. Fists flew and bodies were shoved back and forth. Desks were pushed across the floor, chairs thrown. Bolan was caught in the human swell, and the last glimpse of the dark-haired woman was of her being hustled out the door and into the corridor. By the time he shoved his way through the melee she was gone and so was the cop who had been talking to her. Bolan stood, glancing up and down the corridor, wondering who she was and why she had been at the precinct.

It was at least a good ten minutes later before the squad room was restored to what was considered normal. Bolan spotted Hollander, still clutching the file and nursing a bruised cheek, leaning against a desk. He made his way over to the detective.

“You okay, Hollander?”

“All in a day’s work.” He held up the file again and Bolan took it. “I thought you’d run out on me.”

Bolan grinned. “Sorry. That woman talking to one of your detectives. You know who she is?”

“No, but we can find out. What’s the interest? You figure on dating her?”

“Nothing as easy as that. I think she might be connected to an ongoing investigation.”

“How so?”

“Something I overheard her say. It meant something.”

“Oh? You sure it wasn’t ‘Hey, I’m available and I have an inheritance’?”

“For a cop you have one hell of an imagination.”

“Yeah? Cooper, I’m not sure whether to take that as a compliment or a put-down.”

“Believe me, it was a compliment.”

“I made copies of everything we have on our two vics. Right now you’re as up-to-date as we are.”

“I’ll leave my cell-phone number,” Bolan said. “If anything else crops up, I’d appreciate a call.”

Hollander turned and beckoned to the cop who had been talking to the young woman. When he came over Hollander introduced him to Bolan as Steve Cross, explaining that Bolan was a Justice Department agent. Bolan shook the young man’s hand.

“Some kind of Fed, huh?”

“Something like that.”

“Steve, Agent Cooper would like to get a line on that young woman you were talking to.”

Cross rubbed a hand across the back of his neck, a grin forming. “Who wouldn’t? You know her, Cooper?”

“Not personally, but I recognized a couple of things she said—OCD and Commander Seminov.”

“Still think she’s part of your investigation?” Hollander asked.

“I’m going to check that angle,” Bolan said.

“Turns out she’s a Moscow cop,” Cross explained. “Showed me her ID and said if I needed confirmation all I needed to do was to call this guy in Moscow. He’s her boss. By the way, her name is Natasha Tchenko.”

“What was her reason for calling here?”

“She saw a TV report about a drug-related homicide we’re dealing with. Said she might know the guy from Russia. Said she’d be grateful for any information we could give her. Said it was in-line with an investigation she was working on and she would give us feedback.”

Bolan found the information interesting, wondering what an attractive female Russian cop was doing in the U.S. with a connection to a murdered man.

“How did you leave it?”

“I told her we’d need to check out her credentials before we could pass along anything. Said I’d get back to her.”

“Did she leave you a contact?”

“Cell phone and the hotel she was staying at.”

“Can you let me have that information?”

“Sure.” Cross wrote the details on a sheet and handed it to Bolan. “Hey, Agent Cooper, if you see her, tell her I said hello.”

Bolan patted the young cop on the shoulder. “I’ll do that, Cross. In the meantime try to stay cool. And thanks for the assist. Both of you.”

“No problem,” Hollander said. He handed Bolan a business card. “That’s my cell number. Anything you need, you call.”



BOLAN SAT IN HIS CAR outside the Grand Rapids P.D., ready to talk to Commander Valentine Seminov of the Moscow Organized Crime Department. He had contacted Kurtzman on his cell and a solid connection had been made via Stony Man, then routed to Bolan’s cell.

“So how are you, my friend?” Valentine Seminov asked.

“Surviving. Have you brought down the crime figures in Moscow yet?”

“Ha. I see your sense of humor is as weird as ever. So, Matt Cooper, how can OCD help you this time?”

“A cynical attitude, Valentine. Maybe I’m just calling out of the goodness of my heart.”

Seminov’s throaty laughter rattled the telephone in Bolan’s hand. “How remiss of me not to realize that.”

“Natasha Tchenko.”

The line appeared to go dead for a long few seconds before Seminov spoke again. When he did, all traces of humor had vanished.

“Is she safe?”

“As far as I know right now.”

“You have spoken to her?”

“No. Only seen her once from a distance. She disappeared before I could get to her. She was in a police station asking questions. Identified herself as a cop working out of OCD in Moscow. Gave your name as a reference.”

“Damn. I told her not to…”

“Valentine, I need to know why she’s here and what it is she’s after.”

“Is it involved in something you’re investigating?”

“Right at this minute all I can say is it could be.”

“Are you sitting down?”

“Why?”

“Because this may take a little time.”

“Go ahead.”

“Tchenko is one of my officers. A very qualified member of the OCD. Determined. Single-minded. Resourceful. And stubborn. Like someone else I know.”

Seminov detailed Tchenko’s background. She came from a family with a long history of law enforcement. It seemed to be in the family genes. Her father had been a captain in the civil police, stationed in Moscow. “Had been” were the operative words. Tchenko’s family—father, mother and her teenage brother—had all been murdered a couple of months back. Her father, Captain Pieter Tchenko, had been handling a case that had delved deep into matters that had moved far beyond his normal investigations. He had, it seemed, stumbled onto a deeply covert operation involving the FSB and former associates of the old KGB. When his inquiries started exposing names, Tchenko was asked to back off. When he continued his investigation, he was officially ordered by his superiors to let the matter drop. The case had been referred to internal FSB jurisdiction. Word came through that Tchenko was putting his life at risk if he did not back off. It had been the wrong thing to say to Pieter Tchenko. While he considered his options, something happened that forced his hand. His wife received a telephone call promising extreme violence if he did not walk away. The same evening Tchenko himself was tailed as he drove home and someone fired on his car with an automatic weapon. A second phone call, just after he got home, told him that next time the bullets would not miss. The physical and verbal threats simply increased Tchenko’s determination. He upped his pressure on his contacts and concentrated his searches into the background of his investigation.

Less than a week later his Moscow home was broken into by hooded men. Tchenko, his wife and his son were tied to chairs and subjected to savage beatings. Worse was to come. Tchenko’s son underwent a terrible attack by one of the invaders who tortured him with a knife and finally eviscerated him. The house was ransacked as the invaders searched the place for any files of evidence Tchenko might have put together. When they found nothing, Tchenko was shot twice in the head. The same happened to his wife.

“Natasha was on an OCD investigation at the time, out of the city,” Seminov concluded. “She came back to Moscow to find her family slaughtered. Then she had to identify the bodies officially.”

“Had she been aware of what was happening?”

“Yes. She and her father were very close. They discussed work all the time. She knew about the threats. She also knew that Pieter Tchenko would never give in.”

“How did she take it?”

“That was the odd thing. She was calm. Even when we went to identify the bodies. I knew she was grieving but she refused to let it out. Not one tear showed, Cooper.”

“Valentine, are you sure the killings were connected to the investigation? Couldn’t they have been caused by a crime that went wrong?”

“We considered that but I don’t believe so. From the way the family had been beaten and tortured it was obvious the raiders were looking for something. It was all very methodical. These people knew their business. They were more than street criminals. Oh, one more thing. Two days later Tchenko’s office was found to have been searched, too. And the small dacha they owned outside the city. These people were searching for something.”

“And Natasha?”

“She told me that on the day of the funeral she was followed to her apartment. Being Natasha she turned the tables and waylaid him in the basement parking garage. He went for her so she defended herself and broke an arm and gave him a good thrashing. We brought him in and questioned him for some time. He refused to talk until I threatened him. He broke down soon after and admitted he had been hired to follow Natasha and get her alone in her apartment. It seemed he was looking for data her father might have left with her.”

“Who was he?”

“An ex-soldier. Hired by a voice on the telephone. That is how he described it to us. Even threats from Natasha couldn’t get any more from him. We arrested him but by the next morning I had instructions from above to release him. I suspected OCD had been put under pressure from Lubyanskaya Square. My superiors told me not to make any protests and to let it go. Two days later that ex-soldier was pulled out of the Moscow River. His throat had been cut. Explain that if you will. I have a theory that when he attacked Natasha at her apartment she got something out of him. She never gave me any indication she had, but I think this is what she must be following up.”

“Silencing that suspect could have been his employers covering their tracks. Making sure he couldn’t be picked up again.”

Seminov grunted.

“There is something going on here that is driving me crazy, Cooper. It has me by the throat and won’t go away until I find out what is happening. This has the oily hand of the FSB involved. A shady deal.”

“You watch your back, Valentine.”

“I wish you were here to do that for me, Cooper.”

“Was any data retrieved from Tchenko’s investigation?”

“Nothing yet,” Seminov said.

“Let’s talk about Natasha Tchenko some more,” Bolan said.

“I saw how restless she was so I insisted she take an extended leave. It was as much for her own state of mind as to get her out of the way for a while. Maybe I should have become suspicious when she accepted my suggestion so readily. I reminded her that she was not authorized to look into the case of her father’s death. I should have known better. A day after she left I telephoned to see how she was and there was no reply, just a message saying she was taking a break, going to stay with family in London and she’d be in touch when she got back. Now you have told me where she has gone, Cooper, I can’t prove why she went to the United States. But my guess is it has something to do with what happened to her family. As I said, I believe she learned something from that thug who attacked her.”

“When I meet her I’ll ask.”

“You can tell her I’m mad at her, too.” Seminov paused, clearing his throat. “But don’t tell her I was worried. I like that young woman. She is a good cop. Intelligent. Capable of becoming a high-ranking officer. I would hate for anything bad to happen to her. Cooper, one more thing. I think you should hear about it. I did receive an e-mail from Natasha some days after she left Moscow. There were names she had learned about that only increased my curiosity. Enough to keep me looking. But I have to stay low key. You understand? In the e-mail she mentions a name. Mischa Krushen. He is FSB, and from what Natasha e-mailed he has some covert connection to a man in Moscow called Leopold Bulanin. Bulanin is a racketeer. His greasy hands are in everything illegal. The e-mail got me thinking. And I am still mad at being told to drop my investigation into Pieter Tchenko’s death. I do not enjoy being made to back off.”

“The more people make a fuss over something usually means they have a reason not to have it dragged into the open.”

“We think alike, my friend.”

“Valentine, I’ll be in touch once I have some answers.”

“Good. If I turn anything up here I will pass it along. You be careful, too. If there is a connection to the FSB, and maybe former KGB thugs—we need to be cautious. There is nothing nice about them. These are bad people.”

“Hell, Valentine, if there weren’t any bad people, you and I would be out of a job.”

“That is very true. If I find anything I will let you know.”

“I owe you, Valentine.”

“Again? One day, Cooper, I will collect.” Seminov’s booming laugh echoed down the line. “Take care, Cooper. I have a feeling these people have something to hide and will do anything to keep their secrets.”

“Remember that when you start poking around again.”

“Of course. I am always careful.”

“I remember that, Valentine. Goodbye, my friend.”

Bolan ended the call, started the car and headed across the city in the direction of the hotel where Natasha Tchenko was staying. His conversation with Seminov had alerted him to the fact the young woman could be pitting herself against extremely dangerous opponents. It crossed his mind that they might be watching her and could decide to take some kind of offensive action.




CHAPTER SIX


He parked outside the hotel and went inside. At the desk he asked for Natasha Tchenko’s room. The clerk was unhelpful until Bolan flashed his Justice Department badge. After that the clerk was only too eager to help. Bolan took the elevator to the third floor and made his way to the Russian agent’s room.

He stood at the door, about to knock, when he noticed scuff marks in the pile of the carpet. Bolan crouched. The pile had been disturbed by twin trails of deep indentations. The pile had not had time to return to its normal position, so the marks were fresh. They could easily have been made by the shoe heels of someone being dragged away from the room. Bolan was about to move when he picked up sound from inside the room. He rose to his feet, opening his jacket and taking out the Beretta 93-R. He checked the selector switch and set it to single shot.

He tapped on the door.

“Room service, miss. Your coffee and sandwiches.”

Bolan heard movement as someone approached the door. He heard the interior lock being released and the door was pulled ajar. A lean male face peered at him, scanning Bolan’s clothing.

“You are not room service.”

The accent was Russian. Bolan drove his full weight at the door, pushing the guy backward. He stepped inside, heeling the door shut behind him, then followed through as the surprised guy went for the handgun tucked behind his belt.

Bolan back-fisted the guy across the side of the jaw, following with a solid kick that slammed into his opponent’s exposed stomach. The man grunted, still trying to pull his handgun free. The Executioner caught a handful of his shirtfront and hauled the guy close, then slammed the Beretta across the side of his skull. The Russian stumbled to his knees, his handgun slipping from his grasp. Bolan kicked it out of sight under the bed, then planted a foot against the guy’s rear, shoving hard. The Russian skidded across the carpet, burning the side of his face on the pile. Bolan knelt astride him, one knee hard in the guy’s spine. He caught a handful of the thick black hair and hauled the man’s head up and back. The cold muzzle of the 9 mm pistol ground into the Russian’s flesh, just behind his right eye.

The Russian cursed in his own tongue.

“You’re in America, talk English.”

“Who the fuck are you?”

“I see you have a good grasp of the language,” Bolan said. “See how good you are answering questions?”

The man stiffened as Bolan pushed down harder with his knee.

“What?”

“The woman. Where did they take her?”

“I do not know.” The guy twisted his head around to speak. Bolan saw blood running down his face where the Beretta had landed.

“Start to remember. I’m not going to spend too much time on this.”

The Russian bucked violently, dislodging Bolan, and they rolled across the carpet, each trying for the advantage. The Russian seemed oblivious to the gun in Bolan’s hand as he twisted and squirmed in his attempt to break clear. He managed to get clear, but instead of making a break he threw himself back at Bolan, arching above him, reaching out with both hands. His move was badly mistimed, giving Bolan the opportunity to draw up both legs, then slam his feet against the guy’s lower body. The big American put his full strength into shoving the man away. The force of the move lifted the Russian off his feet and launched him backward across the room. The outer wall brought him to a bone-crunching stop. The Russian’s breath exploded from his lips as the back of his skull impacted against the wall.

Bolan gained his feet and bent over the Russian. The man was barely conscious, breath gusting roughly from his lungs.

He searched the Russian’s pockets and found nothing of great interest until he came across a folded piece of paper that looked as if it had been torn from a pad. On it was a telephone number and some writing in Russian.

Bolan took out his cell phone and speed-dialed Aaron Kurtzman’s direct line. After a series of relay cutouts, Kurtzman picked up.

“Bear, I want a telephone number trace fast. I think it’s a Grand Rapids local number.” He read off the number. “I’ll stay on the line.”

While he waited Bolan crossed to the bed and retrieved the gun the Russian had dropped. It was a Glock. He checked the mag and found it full. He tucked the pistol in his belt.

“Got your location,” Kurtzman announced.

“Go ahead.”

“It’s an old office building in downtown Grand Rapids.” Kurtzman gave him the address. “Hey, do you have a navigation system in your rental?”

“Yes.”

“Write down these coordinates. Feed them into the unit and it should guide you direct to the address.”

Bolan wrote the numbers on a pad he found on the bedside cabinet.

“Thanks, Bear. Tell Hal I’ll update him when I get the time.”

Bolan cut the connection, then punched in the number for Rick Hollander. When the detective came on the line, Bolan didn’t give him time to ask questions.

“Natasha Tchenko’s hotel. Her room. You’ll find a guy there. I suggest you call an ambulance. Make sure he stays under guard.”

He cut off instantly, left the room and made his way down to the hotel lobby. Outside he climbed into the rental, tapped in the reference numbers Kurtzman had supplied and watched as the navigation system adjusted its display. The map showed where he was and the route he needed to take to locate the address.

“God bless technology,” Bolan muttered as he pulled into the flow of traffic.



RUNDOWN AND DESOLATE. Broken windows. The frontage littered and graffiti covered. The building exuded despair. Even the For Rent sign had quit trying, sagging loosely from the wall.

Bolan parked a couple of hundred yards down the street from the entrance to the basement parking garage. He eased out of the vehicle and made his way across to the down ramp. There was no time for an extended recon of the place. If the men who had taken Natasha Tchenko were anything like the one back at the hotel, finesse would not be a job requirement. From what he had already learned about these people they had little regard for human life.

The Executioner walked slowly down the ramp, spotting a couple of cars parked close to the access doors. The garage was shadowed, the air musty and damp. Water dripped somewhere, and the concrete under his feet was dusty. Sound echoed. He pushed through the doors and into the building proper. He made for the stairs next to the bank of elevators, noticing the scuff marks in the accumulated dust. As he catfooted to the next landing, Bolan eased the Beretta from its shoulder holster and moved the fire selector to 3-round-burst mode. He pushed open the door and stepped into the corridor beyond.

A number of doors lined the corridor, and his attention was drawn to scuff marks in the dust leading to one. Bolan pressed against the wall to one side and reached for the doorknob. He turned it slowly, keeping the bulk of his body away from the flimsy wood panels. The second he felt the door free itself from the latch he paused, lowering into a crouch. He slowly began to push the door open from floor level.

The crackle of autofire confirmed he had chosen the right room. The upper panel of the door was torn to shreds by the volley of 9 mm slugs passing through it. The angle of the shots told Bolan the shooter inside the room was standing directly in-line with the door. When the firing stopped, he hit the door with his left shoulder, driving it back against the inner wall. The shooter stood in front of him. Bolan’s arm was stretched forward and he hit his adversary with a 9 mm trio, chest high, the slugs coring in to puncture the heart. The guy stepped back, his expression revealing shock before he toppled to the floor.




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