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Extraordinary Rendition
Don Pendleton


On the streets of a democratic Russia, espionage, civil war and Mafiya control dominate a new kind of battlefield. Bolan's mission: locate, extract and deliver a ruthless Russian arms dealer to a transport team ready to take him back to the United States to stand trial.But the Russian made friends in high places–CIA, FBI, KGB–during his career as both a player and a pawn. With compromising leaks high up in counterintelligence circles, and a hard force of specialized handlers keeping him alive and doing deals with rogue nations, the arms merchant is a hard man to get to, much less take alive. Bolan doesn't get hung up on odds, risk or the roll of the dice. He's focused on a mission gone sour in hostile territory–and his personal commitment to finishing by any means necessary.









Brognola recognized Sokolov for what he was


The man was a player and a pawn. He armed the killers, but he also served them. And above him, shadowing his every move, were men and women who could take him off the board at any time. He lived because they found him useful for the advancement of their agendas.

The big Fed knew that removing Sokolov from circulation was a good thing. Putting him on public trial, revealing some of those he served might also benefit humanity. It wouldn’t stop the global arms trade or any of the slaughter that resulted from it, but it might slow the pace of killing. For a while.

If anyone could do the job, Mack Bolan was the man.





Extraordinary Rendition


Mack Bolan®




Don Pendleton







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


It is ironical that in an age when we have prided ourselves on the intelligent care and teaching of children we have at the same time put them at the mercy of new and most terrible weapons of destruction.

—Pearl S. Buck

1892–1973

What America Means to Me

Gods are born and die, but the atom endures.

—Alexander Chase

1926–

Perspectives

Forget the old line about meddling in God’s domain. This time terrorists are meddling in mine. And they’ll regret it.

—Mack Bolan


For Private First Class Ross A. McGinnis

1st Platoon, C Company, 1st Battalion, 26th Infantry

God keep




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

EPILOGUE




PROLOGUE


Kotlin Island, Gulf of Finland

Special Agent Robert Marx thought it was funny how things seemed to change but actually stayed the same. Staring across the dark, cold water of the gulf before him, he could see the bright lights of Saint Petersburg. Founded under its present name in 1703, the regal city had been renamed Petrograd in 1914, changed to Leningrad in 1924, then had become Saint Petersburg once more in 1991.

The more things changed, the more they stayed the same.

Take extraordinary rendition, for instance.

It was a fancy name for kidnapping, dreamed up by some Washington bureaucrat back in the eighties, a means of returning international fugitives to America for trial, even when they were sheltered by a hostile state. After 9/11 the phrase had morphed into a euphemism for shipping terrorist suspects off to friendly nations where “aggressive questioning” was commonplace.

Another euphemism. Why not call it torture?

Regardless, the pendulum had swung again, and the Justice Department was saving rendition for hard-case felons whose wealth and/or political connections placed them effectively beyond the law’s reach.

Scumbags like Gennady Sokolov.

For his sake, Special Agent Marx and seven other members of the FBI’s elite Hostage Rescue Team were standing in the icy early-morning darkness of Kotlin Island, twenty miles west of Saint Petersburg and a mile west of the Kronstadt seaport.

There were no hostages at risk this night. The mission was a basic find-and-snatch.

Extraordinary rendition.

Their target was a dacha built by Sokolov as a retreat from the daily grind of his murderous business. The team had helicoptered in from the mainland, and their chopper was waiting to take them back again, plus one. A charter jet was also standing by at Pulkovo II International Airport, eleven miles from downtown Saint Petersburg, with its flight plan to London on file.

From there, it was home to the States.

If they lived through the night.

Marx had handpicked his team, choosing only the best. He had two seasoned snipers, one packing a Remington M-40 A-1 .308 sniper rifle fitted with a Unertl target scope, and the other armed with a Barrett M-86 A-1 “light Fifty” in case they had to take out any armored cars. Chuck Osborne carried a Benelli M-4 Super 90 semiauto shotgun, for opening doors and flattening humans. Marx and the other four men on his team were armed with Heckler & Koch MP-5 SD-6 submachine guns, with retractable stocks, integrated suppressor and 3-round-burst trigger groups. As sidearms, all HRT members carried the “Bureau Model” Springfield Armory TRP-PRO in .45 caliber.

Good to go.

They’d waited two hours for Sokolov and his men to fall asleep. Now it was time to make the grab and get the hell off Kotlin, before they ran out of luck.

The snipers were deployed, already covering the grand three-story house, as Marx led his team through the dark toward their selected entry point. It might not be an easy snatch, considering the target, but they’d trained on a scale model of the house, built back at Quantico specially for their mission.

They were as ready as they’d ever be.

Marx led the way, as usual. He was his own point man, never asking any other member of the HRT to do a job he personally shunned. Another thirty yards or so, and they’d have cover from the dacha’s seven-car garage while they prepared for entry.

Just a little farther, and—

The night vanished around them in a blaze of metal halide lamps. A deep metallic voice demanded their immediate surrender, first in Russian, then in English.

Marx reacted while the faceless drone was midway through his spiel, raising his SMG and firing at the nearest bank of lights. His team responded instantly, blazing away to either side. Their submachine guns whispered, while the big Benelli shotgun thundered. From a distance, Marx’s snipers opened up, but they were short on living targets.

Half the halide lamps were dark and smoking when the muzzle-flashes started winking all around the FBI strike team. Marx staggered as a bullet struck his body armor, bruising his chest underneath the Kevlar vest. He shifted targets, firing at live enemies instead of floodlights now, seeing the mission go to hell and praying that he could still get his team out intact.

But two of them were down already, Jurecki and Zvirbulis—their two Russian-speakers—sprawled on the driveway’s pavement, deathly still. Marx didn’t want to see the pools of crimson spreading underneath their supine forms, steaming from contact with the frigid air.

Marx felt his magazine run dry and dropped it, reaching for a fresh one. He’d withdrawn the new mag halfway from its pouch on his tactical vest when a slug punched through his armpit, slipping past the armor, tumbling through his rib cage and right lung.

The shock of impact dropped Marx to the pavement. Numb fingers lost their grip on his SMG, and he heard it clatter out of reach. Around him, twitching, jerking, he could see the other members of his team dropping like shattered mannequins.

Maybe the snipers could escape in time and reach the waiting chopper. If they weren’t cut off on their retreat and—

Marx blinked as a shadow fell between him and the halide lamps that hadn’t been shot out. It took the last of his remaining strength to turn and face the weapon leveled at him.

“Goodbye, American,” the gunman said.




CHAPTER ONE


Moscow, Russia

Mack Bolan had the Beatles in his head, Paul and John singing “Back in the USSR” as his Aeroflot Airbus A330-200 circled in a holding pattern over Domodedovo International Airport.

But it wasn’t the USSR anymore. Now, it was the Russian Federation, totally divorced from all the cold-war crimes of communism, prosperous and overflowing with democracy for all.

Sure thing.

And if you bought that, there were time-share contracts on the Brooklyn Bridge that ought to make your eyes light up, big-time.

This wasn’t Bolan’s first visit to Russia, but familiarity didn’t relieve the tightening he felt inside, as if someone had found the winding stem to his internal clock and given it a sudden twist. Nerves wouldn’t show on Bolan’s face or in his mannerisms, but they registered their agitation in his gut and in his head.

Russia had always been the big, bad Bear when he was growing up, serving his country as a Green Beret, and moving on from there to wage a one-man war against the Mafia. Moscow, the Kremlin and the KGB—under its varied names—had lurked behind a number of the plots Bolan had privately unraveled, and had spawned a fair percentage of the threats he’d faced after his government created Stony Man Farm and its off-the-books response to terrorism.

Then, as if by magic, virtually overnight, that “evil empire” had been neutralized. Governments fell, the Berlin Wall came down and the Soviet Union shattered like crockery dropped on concrete.

Threat neutralized?

Hardly.

In some ways, from the global export of its vicious Mafiya to home-grown civil wars, continued spying and subversion, and free-floating swarms of ex-government agents peddling the tools of Armageddon, Mother Russia was more dangerous than ever.

And Bolan was going in to face the Bear unarmed.

Well, not the whole Bear, if his mission briefing had been accurate. More like a litter of rabid cubs, protecting a rogue wolverine.

Bolan broke that train. His enemies this time—like every other time—were men, not animals.

No other animal on Earth would kill thousands for profit. Or for pleasure.

The pilot’s disembodied voice informed him that their flight was cleared for landing. Finally.

Domodedovo was one of three airports serving Moscow, the others being Sheremetyevo International and Vnukovo International. Among them, the three handled forty-odd-million passengers per year. It should be relatively easy, in that crush, for one pseudo-Canadian to pass unnoticed on his way.

Should be.

Bolan had flown from Montreal to London with a Canadian passport in the name of Matthew Cooper. He was carrying sufficient ID to support that cover, including an Ontario driver’s license, Social Insurance card and functional platinum plastic. He also came prepared with Canadian currency.

So far, so good.

But Bolan wasn’t on the ground yet, hadn’t met his contact from the Federal Protective Service—FSB—Russia’s equivalent of the FBI.

So, what had changed?

Russian relations with America, perhaps. Depending on the day and hour when you turned on CNN to find out which world leaders were at odds with whom, and why. This week, it seemed, the Russians needed help and weren’t afraid to say so.

More or less.

But as for what Bolan would find waiting in Moscow, he would simply have to wait and see.

And not much longer now.

With an ungainly thump and snarl, the Airbus A330-200 touched down.

The Executioner was on the ground in Moscow, one more time.



YURI BAZHOV DISLIKED airports. He didn’t care for travel, generally, and he hated flying, but the main reason for his dislike of airports was their fetish for security. They teemed with uniforms and guns that he could see, while other police were undoubtedly lurking in plainclothes or hiding in back rooms and watching the concourse with closed-circuit cameras.

Bazhov stopped short of spitting on the floor, which would have drawn attention to himself. The last thing he needed, standing with a GSh-18 automatic pistol tucked under his belt at the small of his back, was for some cop or militiaman to stop and frisk him on vague suspicion.

The job had to be important, he supposed, although it didn’t sound like much. Taras Morozov didn’t send a six-man team out to the airport every day, with orders to collect a stranger flying in from Canada.

Not greet him, mind you. Just collect him.

Bazhov had to smile at that, though cautiously. Smiling for no good reason could draw notice, just the same as spitting on the floor. Most anything out of the ordinary could spell trouble, if you thought about it long enough.

Collect the stranger, he’d been told. Taras had given him a name and flight number, then placed him in charge of the collection team. Which was an honor in itself.

Collect could mean a hundred different things, but Taras had added one crucial proviso. Bazhov had to deliver the stranger alive. Not necessarily undamaged, but breathing and able to speak.

More specifically, to answer questions.

Bazhov wondered if he would be privileged to witness that interrogation. Certainly, he wouldn’t be in charge of it. The family had specialists for such occasions, legendary in their way. Kokorinov was probably the best—or worst—a cold man with no concept of remorse or mercy. Bashkirtseva favored power tools, but could be flexible. Nikulin was a savage, plain and simple.

Any one of them could teach Bazhov a thing or two, perhaps speed his advancement up through the ranks. Though, come to think of it, his choice to head up the collection team was quite a vote of confidence.

He needed to be certain that he didn’t fuck it up.

Bazhov squinted at the monitor, watching its list of flight arrivals and departures scroll across the screen. He suspected that he would need glasses soon, a damned embarrassment and scandal at his tender age of thirty-five, but he would put off the indignity as long as possible. The first person who made fun of him was dead.

According to the monitor, the flight from Montreal had landed more or less on time, a minor miracle for Domodedovo International. Bazhov couldn’t approach the gate where passengers deplaned—another security precaution—and he didn’t know whether his target had checked luggage in the belly of the plane. To cover every possibility, he had two men on standby at the baggage carousels, two more positioned where he could observe them from his present station, and his driver, on call, driving incessant loops around the terminal.

If anything went wrong with the collection, it wouldn’t be Yuri Bazhov’s fault.

But he would pay the price, regardless.

Such was life.

Bazhov saw passengers emerging from the corridor that served the various arrival gates, plodding along with the enthusiasm of dumb cattle entering an abattoir. A few cracked smiles on recognizing relatives or lovers who had come to greet them. Most kept their faces deadpan, as if it would cost them extra to reveal a trace of human feeling.

Bazhov felt his pulse kick up a notch when he picked out his target. He hadn’t been shown a photograph, but the description fit, albeit vaguely. More than anything, it was the target’s bearing that betrayed him.

Yuri Bazhov recognized a killer when he saw one.

After all, he owned a mirror, didn’t he?



SPOTTING A TAIL on foreign turf, particularly in a crowded public place that welcomed strangers by the thousand every hour, could be difficult, to say the least. In airports, where small hordes of people gathered, scanning faces of the new arrivals to pick out their loved ones, partners, rivals, even people they have never met but have been paid to greet, curious staring was routine. The rule, not the exception.

Bolan was on alert before he cleared the jetway fastened to the bulkhead of the Aeroflot Airbus. He had a likeness of his contact memorized, but there was always a chance of some last-minute substitution. People got sick or got dead. They got sidetracked and shuffled around on some bureaucrat’s whim. Whole operations got scuttled without any warning to agents at risk on the ground.

Bolan followed the flow of humanity past more arrival gates, following the multilingual signs directing passengers to immigration and passport control, to customs, baggage claim and ground transportation. His only baggage was a carry-on, and he was expecting a ride at the end of his hike through the concourse, but there was no mistaking the rest.

Bolan showed his passport to an immigration officer whose cropped hair, military uniform and plain face conspired to disguise her sex. She held the passport up beside his face, her eyes flicking back and forth between the photo and its living counterpart, then asked him the obligatory questions. Bolan answered truthfully that he didn’t intend to spend more than a week on Russian soil, and that he had no fixed address in mind.

“So, traveling?” she asked.

“That’s right.”

Frowning, the agent stamped his passport with a vehemence the task scarcely deserved, and passed him on to customs. There, a portly officer with triple chins pawed through the contents of his carry-on, presumably in search of contraband.

“No other bags?” he asked.

“That’s it,” Bolan replied.

“And if you need more clothes?”

“American Express.”

Apparently disgruntled at his failure to discover some incriminating bit of evidence, the agent scowled at Bolan’s passport stamp, then nodded him along to clear the station.

Thirty feet ahead of Bolan stood a wall of frosted glass, preventing those who gathered on the other side from seeing what went on at customs. Bits of faces showed each time the exit door opened and closed, but Bolan didn’t think his contact would be pushing up to head the line.

He cleared the doorway, with a hefty woman and her two unruly children close behind him. Bolan let them take the lead, converging on a thin, small-headed man whose pale face registered despair at the sight of them.

The joys of coming home.

Bolan was looking for his contact when he saw the skinhead on his left, leaning against a wall there, staring hard at Bolan’s face until their eyes met. Caught, be broke contact and made a show of checking out the other passengers, while muttering some comment to the collar of his leather jacket.

Glancing to his right, Bolan picked out another front man of the not-so-welcoming committee, nodding in response to something no one else could hear, hand raised to press an earpiece home.

Clumsy.

But in his present situation, Bolan thought, how good did his opponents really need to be?



“I THINK HE SPOTTED us!” Yuri Bazhov stated.

“So, he has eyes,” Evgeny Surikov replied, his voice a tinny sneer through Bazhov’s earpiece. “What’s the difference?”

Seething with anger yet afraid to make a spectacle in public, Bazhov hissed at the small microphone concealed on his lapel. “What do you think, idiot? That we should take him here, in front of everyone?”

“Why not?” Danil Perov chimed in.

Turning away from customs, Bazhov fell in step a dozen yards behind his target. “I don’t want the damned militia coming down on us,” he said into the microphone. “Whoever wants to be arrested, do it somewhere else. You can explain to Taras personally, if you don’t like following his orders.”

That silenced the bellyachers for now. Bazhov followed his man, still unsure where the stranger would lead him. The target carried a bag, but might have other luggage awaiting attention downstairs. Who flew to Moscow with a single bag, even if he was only staying for the night?

Who was this man? Why did he matter to the Family?

Nobody tells me anything, Bazhov thought, frowning to himself.

All right, the bosses didn’t owe him any explanation, but he should be told enough to let him do his job effectively and safely. What if this one was some kind of kung fu expert, for example? What if he was carrying a deadly virus in his blood or sputum? Bazhov and his men could wind up beaten to a pulp, infected with some damned thing that would kill them slowly.

Before it came to that, he’d use the GSh-18 and damn the consequences. But it was a last resort, and if he had to kill the stranger, Bazhov might consider saving one round for himself.

The target didn’t turn to see if anyone was following his path along the concourse. He played it cool, but Bazhov was convinced that he’d been spotted, maybe Surikov, as well. That made the job more difficult, but not impossible, by any means.

With odds of six to one, how could they lose him?

They took the escalator down toward the baggage claim and ground transportation area, and the other services designed to hasten new arrivals from the airport. Bazhov couldn’t help scowling as his target reached the bottom and turned left, away from the long bank of luggage carousels.

“No bags,” he told the microphone. “Repeat! No bags. Vasily, Pavel, come rejoin us.”

“On my way,” Vasily Radko answered.

“Coming,” Pavel Malevich replied.

Apparently, their target meant to hire a car. He had no less than half a dozen agencies to choose from, but he might have reservations with a car already standing by. In either case, they had to intercept him, before he vanished into city traffic.

Domodedovo International stood twenty-two miles from downtown Moscow. Call it a half-hour’s drive if nobody was speeding, drawing attention from traffic police. In the worst-case scenario, Bazhov could stop the mark’s car in transit, stage an accident if need be and lift him before the militia arrived.

Better to take him at the airport, though, perhaps in the garage where the hired cars were kept shiny-clean, with their dents and scratches inventoried for insurance purposes. There would be fewer witnesses, none likely to step forward and defend a stranger in the face of guns.

“Close in,” Bazhov commanded. “We will take him when he goes to fetch his car.”



ANZHELA PILKIN SMELLED the trap before she saw it closing on the stranger she had come to meet. She seemed to have a sixth sense for such things—so much so, if the truth be told, that fellow agents of the FSB sometimes referred to her as wed’ma.

Witch.

Unfortunately, she wasn’t a witch, only an FSB lieutenant who couldn’t work magic on a whim. She couldn’t twirl a wand and make the thugs who had staked out her contact disappear.

But in a pinch, she could draw her Yarygin PYa pistol and make them die.

Lieutenant Pilkin hoped it wouldn’t come to that. Her mission was covert, and her superiors would frown on gunplay at the airport. It was something they expected from Chicago, New York City—anywhere but Moscow, in the midst of a top-secret operation. Public killing that involved police would spoil the play.

And it would do no good for her career.

She watched the procession pass by, concealed behind a tourist information kiosk, shifting her position to prevent herself from being seen. It was impossible to say if the American now traveling as Matthew Cooper had discovered he was being followed. And while Pilkin hoped so—hoped that he wasn’t oblivious to such an obvious approach—she also dreaded what might happen if he tried to ditch the trackers on his own.

Pilkin visualized a free-for-all, fists flying, maybe weapons drawn, and what would happen next? When the militia came, what could she do?

Follow her contact to his holding cell, perhaps, and try to talk him out of custody? She might be able to pull rank on the militia, but to what end? Exposure of the man would automatically abort their mission, and she knew that her superiors likely wouldn’t permit a second effort.

So, whatever she attempted, it would have to be unauthorized and hidden from the brass at FSB headquarters.

She was on her own.

Pilkin watched the tall American bypass the sign directing him to the baggage claim and head off toward the bank of kiosks that dispensed hired cars. She knew he was expecting her to pick him up, which meant that his diversion was precisely that: a stall, either to locate her, throw off his enemies, or both.

Before the man she knew as Cooper cleared another thirty yards, Pilkin counted five men trailing him. They might have passed unnoticed in the flow of passengers, airport employees and assorted idlers, if she hadn’t been well trained and they had been more skillful.

Enemies came in all shapes, sizes and colors. Some were natural chameleons, while others stood out for their bearing, brutish looks, or quirks that give away their secrets. These five shared a common arrogance most often seen in the associates of the Russian Mafiya—and all of them were talking to themselves in turn, revealing to an educated watcher that they kept in touch by means of tiny two-way radios.

And they were armed. The bulges visible beneath some of their jackets told Pilkin that, and she assumed the ones whose weapons weren’t evident had simply dressed themselves more carefully. They passed a few militia officers along the way, but were ignored.

So much for tight airport security.

Anzhela Pilkin had a choice to make.

She could keep following her contact and his shadows, wait until they made a move and try to intervene, or she could leave the terminal and fetch her car. Be ready when he needed her.

The second course of action took some faith.

She had to trust that the mobsters were smart enough to bide their time and seek a place with fewer witnesses before they made a move. And she had to trust her contact to remain alive for several minutes on his own, away from Pilkin’s observant eyes.

She made her choice, broke off pursuit and started walking swiftly—nearly running—to the closest exit from the airport terminal.



WITH NO SIGN of his contact, Bolan had a choice to make. His basic options were to wait inside the airport terminal or leave it, but both choices had their built-in risks.

Waiting meant somehow dealing with the watchers who were trailing him. He’d counted three, but couldn’t tip his hand by dawdling along and sneaking peeks for any others who had joined them. Three was bad enough, with Bolan presently unarmed. A confrontation in the terminal would draw police, and that would be the end of his mission, whether he survived or not.

Leaving the terminal posed different risks. He could obtain a rental car with no great difficulty, but his shadows would most likely make their move when he went to collect it in some nearby parking lot or garage. Bolan assumed that some of them, at least, were armed. Whether their orders were to kill him on the spot or bring him out alive, when he resisted, one or more of them might snap.

And if he managed to survive that showdown, even take their weapons for himself, then what? He’d be adrift in Moscow, with its thirteen million people and no way of reaching his contact.

Who might or might not even be alive.

Bolan couldn’t approach the U.S. Embassy, since he was traveling as a Canadian. It wouldn’t help to reach the CIA’s station chief, since the Company had been frozen out of his mission. He had contacts, but only for potential “cleanup” jobs. Forget the Canadian consulate, too. Even if they agreed to send him “home,” his mission would have failed.

On the flip side, he couldn’t drop by FSB headquarters in Lubyanka Square and spill his story to a desk sergeant, either. The Russian side was worried about leaks of their own, keeping a tight lid on the operation. It was strictly need-to-know, or so he’d been informed, although the men now stalking him were living evidence that someone had to have spilled the beans.

The good news was that if he managed to clear the airport alive, he knew enough about his target to reach the man’s last known address. Bolan supposed that he could arm himself in Moscow, with an estimated 170,000 illegal guns in circulation, but what of it?

His mission didn’t call for an assassination. He’d been sent to find, extract and deliver one man to a team that would put him on ice and presumably ship him off somewhere for trial.

That end of it was not Bolan’s concern. But he’d been told, with heavy emphasis, that Washington required this guy alive. His showcase trial, apparently, was more important than the man himself or any of his crimes.

A message to the predators: no matter where you hide, you are within our reach.

As if they’d care and somehow magically reform.

Unless Bolan could bag his man and summon the extraction unit, none of that was happening.

He made his choice, passed by the car-rental kiosks and kept going, toward the nearest exit from the terminal. He would choose his ground, confront his enemies and see what happened next.

Outside, the sun was going down. The late afternoon was warm and humid, making Bolan’s shirt stick to his skin. Across six lanes of airport traffic, opposite his exit door, stood a tall parking garage. Hired cars were picked up and returned on the ground floor. The rest, Bolan supposed, was rented by the space to travelers or those on hand to meet them.

It would be as good a battleground as any.

He had one foot off the curb when a little gray sportster squealed to a stop in front of him, its right-front fender nearly grazing his shoe.

Behind the wheel, the face he had been watching for since his arrival snapped at him, “Get in, will you, while you still can!”




CHAPTER TWO


Washington, D.C., two days earlier

The International Spy Museum was located at 800 F Street Northwest, one block east of Ford’s Theater and one block north of FBI Headquarters, directly opposite the Smithsonian American Art Museum and the National Portrait Gallery. It occupied five buildings, renovated at a cost of forty million dollars, and had earned its keep with interest since it opened in July 2002.

The museum had no parking lot of its own, so Bolan left his rental in a commercial garage two blocks over and walked back, still early, enjoying the sunshine. Spring was being kind to Washington, so far.

He doubted that it would be kind to him.

Only a few museums in Washington charged entrance fees. The Spy Museum was one of them, collecting twenty dollars from adults and shaving off a buck for active-duty members of the military. Entry through a “controlled” checkpoint included receipt of cover profiles for each visitor, with instructions to memorize the details in five minutes flat. Fledgling spies received a simple “mission,” but weren’t required to complete it. Staff “police” stopped visitors at random, grilling them for details of their cover, adding just a hint of spice. For true enthusiasts, the interactive Operation Spy pavilion offered simulations that included detection and disarming of a nuclear device.

Bolan went through the motions and moved on, idling past some of the museum’s six hundred exhibits depicting the evolution of espionage from ancient Greece and Rome to the twenty-first century. At any other time, it would have piqued his interest, but he had a real-life mission of his own.

Or would have, very shortly.

Keeping an eye on the time, Bolan drifted toward the museum’s Spy City Café, a snack shop for guests whose budgets wouldn’t cover dining at the adjacent, upscale Zola Restaurant. He wasn’t hungry, but he planned on meeting someone there.

And his contact, as always, was punctual.

“The fish is red,” Hal Brognola said as he sidled up to Bolan.

“Guess I’ll have the chicken, then,” Bolan replied.

Brognola frowned and said, “That’s not the counter-sign.”

“Sorry. I must’ve missed the memo.”

“Jeez. You kids today.”

“If I’m a kid, that makes you—what? A yuppie?”

“God forbid. Let’s take a walk.”

They walked.

“I thought this place would suit us,” the big Fed remarked. “With everybody hyped on spies and role-playing, we ought to fit right in.”

“But are we being shadowed?” Bolan asked, half-teasing.

“Hell, who isn’t in this crazy town?”

Bolan resisted the impulse to look around for lurking watchers. Paranoia in a spy museum was no way to begin a mission.

“So, what’s up?” he asked.

Brognola led him to a room labeled The Secret History of History. A black-garbed ninja figure stood beside the door, arms poised as if to strike, defending upright panels filled with Japanese calligraphy. Beyond the threshold lay exhibits dedicated to some well-known spies, and others who had flown beneath the radar in their day.

Pausing before an exhibit devoted to Harriet Tubman and the Underground Railroad, Brognola asked, “Are you familiar with Gennady Sokolov?”

“By reputation,” Bolan said. “Papers call him the Merchant of Death.”

“And it fits,” said Brognola. “He’s ex-KGB, if there is such a thing. Retired as a major when the Soviet Union collapsed and went into private practice, selling anything and everything one group can use to kill another. Absolutely apolitical these days. He’s peddled arms, aircraft and military vehicles to everyone from Congo warlords to al Qaeda and the Taliban.”

“An equal-opportunity destroyer.”

“Anyone who pays can play,” Brognola said. “He’s supplied both government forces and rebels in fifteen African states that we’re sure of, plus others in Afghanistan and Pakistan, Colombia, the Philippines. He gets around.”

“And no one’s thought to rein him in?”

“Oh, sure. He’s got indictments coming out the old wazoo from Justice, Interpol, the Brits and Belgium, where he used to have a clearing house. You know the story, though. Filing a charge is one thing. Making an arrest and bringing him to trial is a whole other ball game.”

“I detect a note of bitterness.”

“Damn straight, you do. At one time, Sokolov had carte blanche from the Company and State to arm our so-called friends abroad. His cargo planes flew out of Florida, for Christ’s sake. Diplomatic cover, when he needed it. Of course, times change. Some of the mopes we armed ten years ago are enemies today. We’re taking hits from our own hardware, and it’s setting off alarms.”

“I’m not surprised,” said Bolan.

“Did you know that Sokolov did business with the UN for a while? And NATO? This is after his indictment, mind you. Even on the run, he’s still got friends he can tap for contracts in Iraq, Afghanistan and Sudan. Can you imagine that? Son of a bitch sells weapons to our private contractors, for hunting insurgents he’s armed to kill them. Talk about the candle burning at both ends.”

“Is he that hard to find?” Bolan asked.

“Just the opposite. Not hard at all. He lives in Russia, safe and sound. Their constitution bans extradition of any Russian citizen charged with acts that are legal in Russia itself.”

“Which includes selling arms under legal contracts.”

“Absolutely. They’ve done it for decades. So have we, the Brits, the French, Chinese—you name it. Hell, we’ve sponsored some of Sokolov’s transactions. In the Russian view, we’re just pissed off today because some of yesterday’s allies have jumped ship.”

“It doesn’t end there,” Bolan said.

“You got that right. Call it principle, machismo, whatever you like. The folks I report to aren’t letting it go. They’ve already tried once to extract Sokolov.”

“And missed him?” Bolan guessed.

“I wish that’s all it was. They lost eight guys from HRT. It damn near took an act of Congress just to get their bodies back.”

“So, he’s got tight security.”

“The best,” the big Fed said. “If that’s all it was.”

“You think someone on this side burned them?”

“I’m not pointing any fingers,” Brognola replied. “But any time the Bureau goes off campus, there’s a protocol for giving heads-up to the nearest chief of station for the Company. It helps with technical assistance and avoids stepping on any tender toes.”

“The whole new era of cooperation.”

“Don’t you love it? All the stupid backstabbing that came down from the Hoover-Langley feud supposedly got swept away with 9/11. The Company got back into domestic surveillance—assuming they ever got out—and Congress told everyone to play nice. Share the intel both ways, no more hoarding or disinformation between so-called allies.”

“Let me guess,” Bolan replied. “It isn’t working.”

“That depends on what you mean by working. After all the fretting and reshuffling, look at the twenty-two agencies lumped together in Homeland Security. You’ve got the Secret Service, Customs, Immigration, the Coast Guard, FEMA, the Border Patrol—even the Plant and Animal Inspection Service, for God’s sake. But who’s left out?”

“The Bureau and the Company?”

“Bingo! A minor oversight, okay? Leaving our two primary intelligence agencies on the outside, looking in. And if you think the falling towers made them start to love each other, guess again.”

“Business as usual,” Bolan observed.

“Or worse. Who doesn’t want a ton of money to fight terrorism? Spend it any way you like. Just get the job done.”

“Well…”

They’d drifted into an exhibit labeled “Spies Among Us,” laying out the history of espionage preceding World War II—or, at least, one version of it. Bolan saw no mention of the meeting at FBI Headquarters in November 1941, where J. Edgar Hoover had rejected warnings of an impending attack on Pearl Harbor and threw the informant out of his office.

“The problem arises,” Brognola said, “from conflict of interest. Let’s imagine Langley has an asset helping arm its clients in the field, while Bureau agents try to lock him up for arming terrorists. One side indicts, the other intervenes. It could get nasty.”

“Sokolov’s still dealing with the Company?”

“A rumor,” Brognola replied. “These things are written on the wind, you know. If there’s a document to prove it, I’d be very damned surprised.”

Bolan had never given any major thought to how his own missions were logged at Stony Man. He had assumed some record had to exist, suitably sanitized in the best interest of all concerned.

“And if the Bureau thinks the Company’s responsible for eight men down…”

“We’re talking cloak-and-dagger civil war,” Brognola said. “Aside from which, their boy’s still out there, dealing any damned thing he can get his hands on. Which, I’m told, included enough loose nukes to light up all our lives.”

“You want him taken out of circulation.”

“Not just taken out. Returned alive for trial.”

“That could turn out to be embarrassing,” Bolan suggested. “Airing all that dirty laundry in a courtroom won’t do much for either side’s prestige.”

“We’re the mechanics on this job,” Brognola said. “Or, rather, you are. Bring him back alive.”

“Or?”

“There’s no or on this one. We could always find a way to smoke him. Drop a smart bomb down his chimney Christmas Eve and claim that Santa farted on the fire. Whatever. Trial is deemed essential, PR-wise.”

“Terrific.”

“Should you meet our boy’s suppliers and customers, however, then the gloves are off. For them, not him. No one will think twice if they go down for the count.”

“You mean, no one in Wonderland.”

“That’s understood. Of course, their friends and family may take offense.”

“At least my hands aren’t tied.”

“Look at it this way,” Brognola suggested. “It’s an all-you-can-eat buffet, except for one small item in a doggie bag.”

“That makes it so much easier.”

“I’ve got the background information that you’ll need, and intel on your contact.”

“Someone from the Company?” Bolan asked.

“Better. From the FSB.”

“Outstanding. All I need now is a Cheshire cat.”

“Maybe you’ll find one as you go along.”

Brognola pulled a CD in its jewel case from an outer pocket of his coat and handed it to Bolan. The soldier palmed the gift, catching a small boy nearby watching from the shelter of his mother’s skirt. Wide-eyed and curious.

Bolan gave him a smile, raising a cautionary finger to his lips, and made the jewel case disappear.

“Who’s that?” Brognola asked.

“My backup,” Bolan said. “He kneecaps anyone who tries to follow me.”

“He’s built for it.”

“So, I’ll look over this and book a flight to…where, again?”

“Moscow. Our boy lives near Saint Petersburg, but he’s forever back and forth, tending to business.”

“With any luck,” Bolan said, “I can interrupt his cash flow.”

“Interrupt him altogether,” Brognola replied. “But gently, if you please.”

“My middle name.”

“Uh-huh.”

“We ought to talk about what happens to the target if it all goes sideways,” Bolan said. “How badly do you want him breathing, if I can’t deliver him intact?”

Brognola frowned. “The notion of your failing,” he replied, “has never crossed my mind.”



THAT WAS A LIE, of course. Brognola’s job at Justice—and at Stony Man—was to consider all the options anytime he put an asset in the field. Failure was always possible, no matter how much he abhorred the thought of it.

Mistakes were made. Luck turned. Men died.

Sometimes the wrong men died. And women, too.

Brognola didn’t like to think about that aspect of his job, but he was paid to think about it, to plan around it. Have another hole card tucked away when best-laid plans went south, sideways, or up the chimney in a puff of smoke.

False modesty aside, Brognola was the best in Washington at what he did, which, on the public record, was a paper-shuffling job at the Justice Building on Pennsylvania Avenue.

He weighed the price of failure in advance. His field agents were also friends, a lapse in strict professionalism occasioned by the circumstances of their meeting. Bolan and the rest had crossed Brognola’s path initially while he was with the FBI, assigned to bust the Mafia. He’d played within the rules in those days—to a point, at least, before he’d seen the Executioner in action, scoring wins with the direct, scorched-earth approach.

The rest was history. He’d known who to recruit when Stony Man was organized, and they’d been carrying the fight to human predators around the globe since then.

But not without a cost.

Sunlight enveloped Brognola as he emerged from the International Spy Museum. It stung his eyes and cued his sweat glands to resume their labor. Slipping on a pair of sunglasses, the big Fed focused hard on blocking out the names and faces of lost friends who jockeyed for position in his mind.

Go back to sleep, he warned them. I’ve got work to do.

And leaks to plug. Maybe.

It wouldn’t be the first time that a rivalry between competing federal agencies had drawn blood. In most such cases, wrists were slapped, someone was reassigned or quietly encouraged to retire. Charges were rarely filed. Brognola couldn’t think of anyone who’d actually gone to trial during his decades on the job.

Agents were jailed for bribery on rare occasions, or for selling secrets to a foreign power, but screwing with their rivals in the “sister” services was more or less a given.

Until someone bought the farm.

Brognola made himself a promise. If he found out someone in the Company—or any other branch of government—had sent eight G-men to their deaths in Russia, he would see the guilty parties punished. Off-the-books, if necessary.

Even if he had to do the job himself.

“Homeland security” was nothing but a joke—and a bad one, at that—if the people who’d sworn to uphold it spent all their time looking for ways to hamstring one another. They were worse than useless, in that case.

They were the enemy.

Brognola had spent his professional life negotiating red-tape jungles and negotiating labyrinths of office politics. He played the game as well as anyone in Washington.

But he was sick of it.

In peacetime, it was one thing. Call it busywork or personal amusement. Each department had a reputation and budget to protect—goals that could often be achieved more easily by undercutting so-called friends than going to the mat against real enemies.

But peace, such as it was, had ended when those hijacked planes hit the Twin Towers and the Pentagon. Like it or not, the country was at war, with no end in sight.

And in a war, you either pulled together…or you lost.

In wartime, those who helped the enemy were traitors.

And in Brognola’s world, traitors could expect no mercy.

As for Sokolov, the global death merchant, Brognola recognized the man for what he was. A player and a pawn. He armed the killers, but he also served them. And above him, shadowing his every move, were men and women who could take him off the board at any time. He lived because they found him useful for advancement of their various agendas.

Brognola, likewise, had masters watching him and breathing down his neck. Self-interest motivated them, like anybody else, and he could only hope that their needs in this instance coincided with some greater good.

Alive or dead, removing Sokolov from circulation was a good thing. Putting him on public trial, revealing those—or some of those—he’d served might also benefit humanity. It wouldn’t stop the global trade in arms or any of the slaughter that resulted from it, but it might slow down the pace of killing.

For a day or two.

Small favors, Brognola thought as he neared the entrance to his subway stop.

If anyone could do the job, Mack Bolan was the man.



BOLAN SAT in a drab motel room on I-495, better known as the Capital Beltway. His focus was the laptop humming softly on the smallish writing desk in front of him. Brognola’s CD-ROM was giving up its secrets, prepping him for Moscow and beyond.

First up were photos of Gennady Sokolov, with a detailed biography. Bolan surveyed the high points. Born in 1962, in what was now Turkmenistan. No record of his parents had survived, nor any hint of siblings. Sokolov had joined the Russian army at eighteen, had made the cut for Spetznaz—Russia’s special forces—eight months later, and had been a captain by the time he mustered out to join the KGB in 1984. Six years later, he had graduated from Moscow’s Soviet Military Institute of Foreign Languages, fluent in English, French, Spanish, German and Arabic, besides his native tongue. After the Soviet collapse, he was in business for himself.

And what a business it had been.

Over the past two decades, Sokolov had founded half a dozen cargo airlines, shipping military hardware out of La Paz; Miami; the United Arab Emirates; Liberia and Ostend, Belgium. From 1992 until the present, Sokolov had armed at least one side in every war of any consequence, and several dozen that had barely rated mention by the talking heads at CNN. He’d left his bloody tracks in Africa and Southeast Asia, in the Middle East, Latin America and Bosnia. In nations theoretically at peace, Sokolov’s weapons and explosives found their way to neo-fascists, would-be revolutionaries, ecoterrorists and mafiosi.

Sokolov had been arrested once, in Thailand, but had bribed his jailers to go deaf and blind while he escaped and caught a charter flight out of the country. That had been two years ago, and in the meantime Sokolov had spent most of his time in Mother Russia. Recent sightings reported from Damascus and Islamabad remained unconfirmed. No charges had—or would be—filed against him in the death of eight FBI agents who’d died far from home, in a failed bid to end his career.

The next face up on Bolan’s laptop monitor belonged to Ruslan Kozlov, a sixty-year-old colonel general in Russia’s ground forces. The CIA pegged Kozlov as Gennady Sokolov’s primary source of Russian “surplus” military hardware, up to and including stray nuclear warheads. There would be other rogue suppliers scattered far and wide around the globe, but Kozlov was the source closest to home.

The general’s face was bland, with full cheeks, gray eyes under snowy brows, and a flat, Slavic nose. He had led troops in Afghanistan, commanded Russian forces in the Chechen wars, and had reportedly given the order for Spetznaz to gas Moscow’s House of Culture theater in October 2002, after Chechen separatists seized the building with nine hundred hostages. The gas and subsequent Spetznaz assault had killed the forty-two terrorists and at least 129 hostages, injuring an estimated seven hundred others.

The last face up on Bolan’s screen belonged to his contact, Lieutenant Anzhela Pilkin of the FSB. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d worked with a Russian agent, when Washington’s interests overlapped Moscow’s, and while none had betrayed him so far, Bolan always felt as if he was waiting for the other boot to drop.

The lieutenant was thirty years old, auburn-haired, with a grim sort of beauty that might be less rigid in person. Five-seven and 130 pounds, well versed in martial arts and skilled with standard Russian firearms, bilingual in Russian and English. According to Brognola’s dossier, she’d joined the FSB five years earlier, after a stint with the military. She’d been promoted to sergeant in that post, after killing a Ukrainian gangster during a drug raid, and had polished off two more sent by the first thug’s boss to punish her. The boss, one Mikola Hunczak, had made the next attempt himself and currently resided in Moscow’s Mitinskoe Cemetery.

Overall, not bad.

Bolan assumed Lieutenant Pilkin would cooperate with him as ordered by her FSB superiors. But going in, he had no fix on what her orders might entail. When working with Russians—or with anyone outside the normal crew at Stony Man, for that matter—he always kept his guard up, conscious of the fact that while he went about his business, others might be marching in pursuit of separate agendas.

Why, for instance, would the FSB collaborate in Sokolov’s extraction, when the government refused to simply extradite him? Was there something to be gained, some face to save, by ordering covert removal? Who was in the know concerning Bolan’s mission? Who on the official side might still oppose him?

Colonel General Kozlov could supply an army on short notice to protect his business partner, if he wasn’t ordered to stand down. Smart money said that Sokolov would also have his share of allies in the Russian Mafiya, who might resent him being snatched and packed off to the States.

And, as the FBI had learned the hard way, Sokolov had to have his own hardforce of mercenaries, paid to keep him safe and sound in Moscow, or his dacha near Saint Petersburg.

Against those odds—and the military, whose officers would do their best to cage or kill him, if and when they were aware of Bolan’s presence in their homeland—he would pit his own skills and the still-untested talents of his FSB contact.

Two against how many? Dozens? Hundreds?

Situation normal for the Executioner.

He prepped the files and tapped a button on the laptop’s keyboard to erase Brognola’s disk. When that was done, he’d break it into half a dozen pieces, just in case. There was no point in taking chances yet, even before he caught his flight across the polar cap to Moscow.

There’d be time enough to risk his life tomorrow.

Every day beyond that would be icing on the cake.




CHAPTER THREE


Domodedovo International Airport, the present

Bolan slid into the sports car’s shotgun seat. Sudden acceleration slammed his door and pushed him backward, made him miss his seat belt on the first try. Bolan’s side mirror revealed his shadows spilling from the terminal, one of them speaking into a cell phone as the sportster sped away.

“I hope we’re cleared for takeoff,” he remarked.

“We are supposed to use the passwords,” his auburn-haired savior reminded him.

“Think we can skip it?”

“Under the circumstances,” she replied, “I believe that we can. I am Lieutenant Pilkin, FSB.”

“Matt Cooper,” he replied, without alluding to a rank or government affiliation. Likewise, Bolan didn’t mention that he recognized her face from photographs on file.

In these days of cell phone cameras and surveillance equipment, Bolan couldn’t be certain that there were no photographs of him.

“I thought we’d have more time,” she said.

“For what?”

“Before they broke your cover.”

“And ‘they’ would be…?”

Pilkin shrugged, a good thing, Bolan thought, in the clingy turtleneck she wore. “Who knows? The man you’re looking for has many friends. Whether they like him or he buys them, it is all the same.”

“That’s we,” he said, correcting her.

“Excuse me?”

“Not the man I’m looking for. The man we’re looking for.”

“Of course. Exactly.”

“They picked me up first thing, out of the gate,” he said. “It’s doubtful they have photos, but a name cross-checked against the airline’s manifest would do it, if they got a nod from customs or passport control.”

“Such things are possible. The man we seek—”

“Can we just use his name?” Bolan asked, interrupting.

“Certainly.” A note of irritation was in her voice, tugging the corner of her mouth down on the side Bolan could see. “Gennady Sokolov is, as you know, a smuggler. It would not be unexpected for him to have contacts at our major airports.”

“You could sweat the officers who passed me through and find out if they’re dirty. Crack one of them, and you’ll find out who he’s dealing with.”

“And if they’re innocent?”

“No harm done,” Bolan said. “I’ll send word back to triple-check whoever knew about my travel plans on our side. One way or another, something had to leak.”

“And I’m afraid that it’s still leaking,” Pilkin replied.

Another glance at Bolan’s mirror showed him headlights following their car. That wasn’t any kind of shocking revelation at a busy airport, but the vehicle in question was performing risky moves to keep Pilkin’s car in sight and close the gap between them.

“That was quick,” he said.

“They must have had a driver waiting.”

“Too bad they’re so organized.”

“Too bad for them,” she said, and flashed a wicked little smile before she shifted, then floored the gas pedal, giving Bolan another taste of Newton’s third law of motion in action.

“If you don’t mind me asking, what’s the plan?” Bolan inquired.

“Evade them, if we can. If not…eliminate them.”

“I’d be more help on the last bit if I wasn’t naked.”

“What?” Pilkin shot a sidelong glance at Bolan, making sure.

“Unarmed,” he said. “Airline security, you know?”

“Of course,” she answered. “Try the glove box.”

Bolan opened it and found what he presumed to be her backup duty gun, an MP-443 Grach semiauto pistol, also known as the Yarygin PYa for its inventor. The Grach was a double-action piece with polymer grips, chambered for 9 mm Parabellum rounds and packing ten or eighteen in detachable box magazines. Its resemblance to the more famous Glock ended with a partially exposed hammer and an external ambidextrous safety.

Bolan pulled the magazine, relieved to find that it was one of the high-capacity staggered-box models. A nineteenth cartridge nestled in the firing chamber.

He was good to go.



“GET AFTER THEM!” Yuri Bazhov snapped.

“On it,” Osip Bek replied, before he whipped their BMW sedan around a slower car and stamped on the accelerator.

“Who’s the woman?” Danil Perov asked from the backseat.

“How should I know?” Bazhov replied. “Someone sent to pick him up.”

“We nearly had him,” Vasily Radko said.

“We still have him,” Bazhov answered, as he drew his pistol, eased off its safety and held it ready in his lap.

He’d left two men behind to fetch the second car and follow up as best they could. Evgeny Surikov and Pavel Malevich together in the UAZ-469 SUV. They’d have to get directions via cell phone and would likely miss the action, but at least Bazhov had backup if he needed it.

Against two people?

How could they match Bazhov and the four men riding with him now?

As if reading his thoughts, Radko chimed in from the back, saying, “He won’t be armed. You can’t take anything on planes these days. They even catch the plastic knives.”

“Suppose the woman brought him guns?” Bazhov replied. “You didn’t think of that?”

He saw Radko grimace in the rearview mirror.

“Are we still required to take the target back alive?”

“Our orders haven’t changed,” Bazhov reminded all of them. “Whoever kills this guy has to deal with Taras on his own.”

Radko muttered something, but he kept his voice low-pitched, allowing Bazhov to pretend he hadn’t heard. The fear of Taras Morozov would curb his temper to a point, but if their quarry started shooting at them, or seemed likely to escape, what could they do?

Go back to Taras empty-handed, with excuses?

How would that improve their situation?

“What’s that she’s driving?” Bazhov asked his wheelman.

“It’s the VAZ 2112,” Bek answered, staying focused on the traffic that surrounded them. “Zero to sixty-two in twelve seconds. One hundred fifteen miles per hour at the top end. Doing fifty, she will need 120 feet to stop.”

Bek knew cars.

“Don’t run them off the road, then, eh?” Bazhov instructed. “I’m not handing Taras a bucket of strawberry jam.”

“I won’t ram them,” Bek said. “But I can’t promise you that the woman knows how to drive.”

“She’s doing all right, so far,” Bazhov said. “Be damned sure you don’t lose her.”

“No problem,” Bek answered, and put on more speed.

“You be ready,” Bazhov said, half-turned toward his men in the rear. “When we stop them, be careful. The woman can die. Not the man.”

“Not to worry,” Perov said.

“We’re ready,” Radko stated.

Bazhov heard them cocking their weapons behind him and hoped neither one of them blew out his brains by mistake. They were pros, yes, but accidents happened.

If he had to die this night, Bazhov could only hope it would be like a man, and not some poor bastard slaughtered by mistake.



BOLAN COULDN’T READ the street signs written in Cyrillic, but he knew that they were heading north, toward central Moscow. That meant crowds, more traffic, innocent bystanders.

And police.

“You have someplace in mind to ditch them, I suppose?” he asked.

“I’m working on it,” Pilkin replied. “I did not come expecting you to have a tail.

“There is a park off Chertanovskaya Street,” she said. “They have a lake there. Little innocent civilian traffic after dark, because of crime.”

“Just muggers and what have you?” Bolan asked.

“No one likely to trouble us, as long as you have that.” She nodded toward the pistol in his hand. “Unless you’re dead, of course.”

“Won’t matter then.”

“So, we agree,” she said. “Five minutes more, if all goes well.”

And if it didn’t, Bolan knew the drill from prior experience. They’d stand and fight as necessary, if and when they had no other choice.

He shied away from small talk, letting Pilkin drive the car, and concentrated on their tail. Still just one vehicle, as far as he could tell, gaining by fits and starts. Headlights behind it showed him three heads, maybe four.

Assume the worst, and you won’t be surprised.

The worst would be more cars, more guns closing in. With a single chase car there were options. A crash could disable the hunters inside without shooting, and even if guns were required, killing three or four men would be quicker, easier, than taking out eight or a dozen.

Bolan didn’t mind the wet work, but it grated on his nerves that he’d been burned even before he set foot in the country. He considered that a past trip to Russia, or his past collaboration with the FSB, might have some kind of boomerang effect this day, but none of it made sense.

The enemies he’d faced when Moscow was the global capital of communism were no more than faded memories, long dead and gone. More recently, he had enjoyed cautious collaboration with the FSB. Bolan could think of no reason for them to plot his death, much less kill eight G-men to bait the trap.

Anzhela Pilkin could have shot him at the airport terminal, or simply missed their date and left disposal to the thugs who were pursuing them. The whole rescue charade was pointless, if she and her masters wanted Bolan dead.

What if they simply wanted him?

Interrogation was another possibility, but once again, Bolan collided with the brick wall of impracticality. To dress the stage, go through the diplomatic motions, lay the trail—it only clicked if someone in the FSB knew Bolan’s true identity. Or, at the very least, the role he played for Stony Man.

And that, he told himself, was next door to impossible.

So, wait and see, he thought.

And from the chase car’s progress overhauling them, he wouldn’t have to wait much longer.



“WHERE ARE THEY going?” Yuri Bazhov asked no one, thinking aloud.

“Can’t say,” Bek responded from the driver’s seat.

“Just drive!”

Bazhov hit speed-dial on his cell phone, waiting through four anxious rings before he got an answer.

“Who’s that?” Pavel Malevich demanded.

“Idiot! Who do you think it is?” Bazhov snapped.

“Yuri! Where are you?”

“Heading north on Chertanovskaya Street. Looks like she’s taking us downtown.”

“Why would she do that?”

“Depends on who she is,” Bazhov replied. “Catch up with us, soon as you can. We need to cut her off.”

He broke the link, muttering curses to himself.

This was what came from working in the dark, when everything was need-to-know and no one told him shit. He couldn’t second-guess the bitch who’d plucked their pigeon from the snare, because he didn’t know who she was or why she’d intervened. Bazhov had no idea why he’d been sent to snatch a stranger from the airport, with instructions that the mark had to be alive upon delivery.

It could be anything. A rival syndicate invading local turf. Perhaps a businessman who’d balked at paying tribute to the Family and now required an object lesson in security. It might be something personal for Taras or the man on top, Leonid Bezmel.

Yuri Bazhov hated puzzles, riddles, anything that taxed his brain unnecessarily. He understood connect-the-dots and liked to skip ahead whenever possible, surprise his adversaries and destroy them with brute force.

He couldn’t do that in the present case, because his hands were tied. His orders barred disposing of this Matthew Cooper, while the woman was a wild card, trouble from the first time he’d laid eyes on her. Bazhov could kill the woman.

But he’d have to catch her first.

And if she had some destination fixed in mind as she was fleeing, what did that mean to Bazhov, his men and his plan? Was she leading them onto another gang’s patch? If she was mixed up with the law, somehow, it could be even worse.

Bazhov would ask her, if he had the chance.

Before he put a bullet in her brain.

Somewhere behind him, Malevich and Surikov were racing to catch up and join the chase. Two cars might box the woman’s vehicle. Better than one, in any case. With one, all he could do was ram her, sideswipe her, or try to shoot her off the road.

And if Bazhov should kill his sacred target in the process, it would be his ass. He couldn’t blame his men for the mistake, when he gave them their orders.

“Osip!” he barked. “Can you catch her, or not?”

“I can!”

“You’re sure it isn’t too much trouble?”

“No, Yuri!”

“All right, then. Will you do it, for Christ’s sake?”

Bek’s cheeks flushed crimson at the insult, but he offered no response. Instead, he let the BMW do his talking for him, surging forward as he found more power somehow, somewhere underneath its hood.

Clutching his pistol in a fierce, white-knuckled grip, Bazhov prepared himself for battle.



“ALMOST THERE,” Anzhela Pilkin told her silent passenger.

“The park there, on the left?” he asked.

“That’s it.”

Despite its grim-faced reputation, Moscow was a “green” city. It boasted ninety-six parks and eighteen public gardens, comprising 174 square miles of green zones and thirty-nine square miles of forest. Each citizen of Moscow was blessed with 290 square feet of parkland, versus nine in New York, seven in London and six in Paris. Thousands enjoyed the parks each day.

But few by night.

Pilkin counted on the fear of crime that kept most of her fellow Muscovites away from dark, secluded places after nightfall. There was risk enough of being mugged, robbed, raped, or shot by accident in daylight, without tempting Fate.

She found the side street she was looking for and swung her VAZ sportster off Chertanovskaya Street, leaving the main flow of traffic behind. She lost the rest turning in to the park, killing her lights at once and watching for the chase car in her rearview mirror.

Was there any chance that her pursuers would be fooled and drive past?

No. There they were, making the left-hand turn, and then the right.

“So much for losing them,” she said. “We’ll have to fight the bastards.”

“Ready when you are,” he replied.

Pilkin sped along a narrow drive that ran halfway around the park, dead-ending in a parking lot located at the north end of a man-made lake. Arriving in the lot, she put the VAZ through a squealing one-eighty, then killed its engine.

“I’d rather meet them on foot,” she told Bolan.

“Sounds good,” he replied, and was out of his door in a flash.

They ran into darkness, away from her car, which she knew the pursuers would make their first target. Pilkin hoped it wouldn’t be destroyed. She was dreading the paperwork required to explain any damage to state property. There’d be enough just for the shooting, without car repairs on top of it.

She thumbed off her pistol’s safety, crouching next to Bolan in the shadow of a hedge, watching the headlights of the enemy’s vehicle sweep across the parking lot and focus on her VAZ.

“Now!” she told Bolan, squeezing off three rounds in rapid fire, aimed at the driver’s deeply tinted window.

Pilkin heard glass smash as she fired, then Bolan’s borrowed pistol barked in unison with hers. The chase car’s driver hit his brakes, then switched to the accelerator in a heartbeat, revving past her VAZ, on toward the lake.

Go in! Go in, she urged them silently.

But it stopped just short of splashdown, and the engine died.



YURI BAZHOV FLINCHED from the first crash of gunfire, cursing as something wet and warm spattered the left side of his face. Bek was gagging, choking in the driver’s seat, still clinging to the steering wheel as dark blood spurted from his neck, streaking the windshield and dashboard.

The BMW jerked, then powered forward as Bek slumped in his seat, his right foot jammed on the accelerator. Bazhov saw that they were headed for the lake, and he envisioned sinking with the car into its strangling depths.

He cursed the dead or dying man beside him, who was once a friend of sorts. When a hard slap had no effect on Bek, Bazhov bent to grab his right leg, slammed his head against the steering wheel and cursed again, then wrenched Bek’s foot sideways and off the gas pedal.

The BMW slowed, stuttered and stalled. Peering across the hood, Bazhov could see that they had stopped with yards to spare before taking the final plunge.

More bullets struck the car, cracking its rear window, drumming against the trunk and left-rear fender. Perov and Radko shouted from the backseat, angling to return fire, finding no immediate targets.

“Get out!” Bazhov ordered. Feeling absurd, he added, “And remember! Do not kill the man!”

Bazhov nearly dropped his cell phone, stumbling from the car, while Perov and Radko unlimbered their guns. He speed-dialed Pavel Malevich, and this time got an answer on the second ring.

“What’s happening?” Malevich asked.

Bazhov raised his phone and let the man hear staccato gunfire.

“That’s what’s happening, idiot! Do you hear it? Osip’s dead, and where in hell are you?”

“On Chertanovskaya Street. You said—”

“Look for a park,” Bazhov said, interrupting him. “I don’t know what they call it. On your left, somewhere. It has a lake. Listen for gunfire. Move your ass!”

A bullet struck the car within a foot of Bazhov’s head and ricocheted into the darkness with a sound that nearly made him wet himself. He had been under fire before, of course, and more than once. But this, somehow, felt different.

It felt like his last moments of life.

In which case, what did he have to lose?

Morozov could hardly punish him if he was dead. There was no pain beyond the final moment of oblivion…unless the priests were right about hellfire.

Bazhov could only face one peril at a time, on one plane of existence. If the fires of hell were waiting for him, by God, let them wait.

Edging around the BMW’s right-rear fender, Bazhov risked a peek in search of targets. He saw muzzle-flashes, moving closer, and heard more rounds strike the car.

Thankfully, the BMW had been stolen. It was no great loss, nothing for Morozov to be angry about, he thought. Letting the stranger from the airport slip away, however, was another story altogether.

Bazhov saw his targets now—a man and woman, racing through the night, advancing as if totally devoid of fear. They used the shadows as a cloak, but still came on to meet their enemies.

Bazhov admired that, in his way, but admiration wouldn’t interfere with duty. Aiming at the woman, he fired two quick shots, then ducked back under cover as a bullet struck the BMW’s taillight inches from his face.



FOUR SHOTS GONE, and Bolan wasn’t sure that he’d hit anyone. He’d definitely hit the BMW, and it wasn’t armored, but that didn’t mean he’d scored on any of its occupants.

Time to get serious.

Pilkin dodged two hasty shots from someone crouching at the Beemer’s rear, and Bolan drove the shooter under cover with a round that blew out the right-hand taillight. Almost simultaneously, two guys popped up to fire across the sedan’s sleek hood.

One had a pistol, the other one some kind of stubby submachine gun. Possibly a Bizon, with its 64-round magazine, or the smaller PP-2000. As he hit the dirt and rolled, his ears told Bolan that the stuttergun was no Kalashnikov. It was 9 mm, tops, but no less deadly for its caliber.

He came up firing, two quick rounds to make the shooters duck, then rushed them. It was the only option available, since Bolan couldn’t linger where he was, and a retreat would only let them shoot him in the back.

Off to his right somewhere, he heard Pilkin firing on the run, another pistol answering. Bolan could only fight one battle at a time, and left her to it, with a silent supplication to the Universe.

The shooters he was looking for had made a critical mistake, both emptying their magazines together. It was easy, in the heat of battle, to forget coordination with the troops around you, but there was no “little” error on the firing line. One slip could get you killed.

Like now.

Instead of wasting precious time and energy to run around the front end of the Beemer, Bolan launched himself across its hood, sliding to meet his enemies. He had a flash impression of their faces, gaping at him, then their guns were coming up, ready or not, to meet his charge.

Chaos took over then, with Bolan rapid-firing at the startled faces, blowing them apart at point-blank range where it was strictly personal. The Russians died as Bolan guessed they had to have lived, with brutish violence. They jerked, danced, stumbled, fell together in a twitching heap.

The slide on Bolan’s pistol locked open on an empty chamber. He dropped it, claimed the nearest dead man’s SMG—it was a Bizon, after all—and snugged its unique cylindrical magazine into place.

In front of him, with his back turned, a final shooter blazed away at Pilkin, somewhere beyond the BMW. Bolan shot him in the back without the High Noon drama of asking him to turn around and make it “fair.”

In Bolan’s world, the fair fights were those that he won. No holds barred. There were some lines he wouldn’t cross, but none of them applied to adult predators in battle.

“Clear!” he called to Pilkin, and gave her time to chill before he rose from cover.

She approached him, frowning.

“You got all of them yourself,” she said.

“I wouldn’t claim the driver.”

“What are you, exactly, Mr. Cooper?”

“Just a public servant, like yourself.”

“I don’t think so,” Pilkin replied.

“I think we should be leaving, if your car’s all right.”

“It’s fine.”

“And before we throw any more parties,” he added, “I’ve got some shopping to do.”




CHAPTER FOUR


Kotlin Island

Gennady Sokolov sipped black-cherry vodka from a crystal glass, letting it linger on his tongue before he swallowed and felt the welcome heat begin to spread throughout his body. He hadn’t decided, yet, if it would be his last drink of the old day or his first of the new one.

That, he reckoned, would depend upon the news from Moscow.

Sokolov wasn’t a patient man by nature. He had learned patience as other men learned carpentry, mechanics or book-keeping—through determination and practice. Much of his time with Spetznaz had been spent waiting or getting ready for some crisis that might never come to pass. Later, when he was serving with the KGB, the typical pace had been slower still. Espionage by committee. Murder by decree, with orders handed down through bureaucratic buffer layers until the deed was executed in New York, Bangkok, Madrid or Rome.

The patience he’d acquired while serving Russia’s government had been of great value to Sokolov once he went private. Those who came to him for weapons always wanted them today—or yesterday, as the Americans were fond of saying—but negotiation of a price and terms for the delivery took time. Oddly, it seemed to Sokolov that those who wished to kill their enemies most urgently were also those who dithered over dimes.

This night he needed patience on his own account, waiting for word that would relieve him of a burden that was tainting every aspect of his life. The Americans were breathing down his neck, determined that he should be extradited in defiance of his homeland’s sacred law.

Whatever happened to their passion for democracy?

So far, they hadn’t laid a glove on Sokolov, though he resented the restrictions on his foreign travel. Documents weren’t a problem, under any name he chose, and Sokolov was self-taught in the art of personal disguise, but covert travel meant that he couldn’t enjoy the luxury to which he had become accustomed.

What, in God’s name, was the point of being filthy rich if he could only flaunt it where he lived?

How was a world-class death merchant supposed to awe new clients when he had to scurry through the shadows wearing a trench coat and an artificial beard?

He’d taught a lesson to the damned Americans when they came sniffing at his dacha, but they hadn’t learned it well enough. Now, sources told him, there was yet another plan afoot to snatch him, this time with collaboration from the FSB.

That hurt.

And when he hurt, Sokolov liked to share the pain.

The latest lesson for his enemies would start in Moscow, where a certain agent from the States was scheduled to arrive that very night. In fact, a stylish wall clock and Sokolov’s Rolex GMT Master II wristwatch agreed that the job should be finished by now. His friends in Moscow should be acquiring the information that Sokolov needed in order to—

He smiled when the telephone rang. Not his cell, but the gold-plated one on his desk, which he rubbed with a chamois after each and every use. Gold smudged with fingerprints was strictly déclassé.

“Hello?”

There was a heartbeat’s silence on the other end, before the gruff, familiar voice replied, “Gennady?”

“Who else would it be?”

“No one, of course,” said Leonid Bezmel, the boss of bosses for the Moscow Mafiya.

“What news?” Sokolov prompted him.

“It’s not good, I’m afraid.”

“Not good.”

“Unfortunately, no.”

“Tell me.”

“These incompetents Taras sent out to the airport missed their man. They’re dead, in fact, which cheats me of the pleasure I’d derive from their chastisement.”

Sokolov drained off his vodka in one swallow and commanded, “Tell me everything.”



CROSSING THE Moscow River on Mokhovaya Street, with the Kremlin complex on their right, Bolan told Pilkin, “We’re not off to the best of starts.”

“I see only three choices,” she replied. “We can give up, press on, or waste time trying to determine which side has the leak.”

“It could be both sides,” Bolan said. “I’ve got someone on my end who can try to run it down, but I won’t guarantee results.”

Pilkin hesitated, then said, “Even asking, with the FSB today, may cause some difficulty.”

Bolan heard that, loud and clear.

“Another way to do it,” he suggested, “is to cut the apron strings and carry out the mission as assigned, before it started going off the rails.”

“The kind of thing that ends careers,” she said.

“Depends on how you finish, I suppose. Or whether you were really meant to do it in the first place.”

“You suspect corruption?”

“Always. I trust the friends I’ve had forever,” Bolan said, “but I can count them on my fingers. And I still look out for number one.”

“I understand this. Here, it is the same. Before the change, we always knew the party leaders placed themselves above the people, but at least they feared exposure and the discipline to follow. Now, when there is so much money to be had, and no one left to draw the line…it’s hard to know the rules, sometimes.”

“When I run into that, I make my own,” Bolan replied.

“We have a handicap,” she said. “You were expected, at the airport. So your name, at least, is known in Moscow. If they also know your face—”

“That isn’t likely,” Bolan interrupted. “And the guys we met tonight aren’t handing out descriptions.”

“You must not use any credit cards, in that case. Or a driver’s license. No cell phone that can be traced.”

“I’ve got cash,” Bolan said. “If we run short, I’ll pick up more. My phone’s secure as it can be.”

His Inmarsat satellite phone had a built-in scrambler coded to coordinate with gear at Stony Man and on Brognola’s desk in Washington. If necessary, it could store a message for transmission as a high-speed data squirt, in lieu of real-time conversation. In the time the FSB would need to crack the code, assuming that his calls were intercepted in the first place, Bolan hoped to have his mission finished and be back in the States.

“You have assistance waiting, if we are successful?”

“When we are successful, transportation’s covered,” Bolan said. “But first, I need to soften up the other side a little.”

“Soften up?” Pilkin frowned.

“Shake up their world and start them finger-pointing,” he explained. “Put a few cracks in their united front.”

“They’ll be surprised already, with tonight’s failure,” she said. “Whoever they are.”

“It’s a start,” Bolan said. “And it doesn’t matter much who sent the welcoming committee. As I see it, there are only two or three real possibilities.”

“And they are…?”

“Sokolov himself, for starters,” Bolan answered, ticking off the options on his fingers. “Second, someone from the Mafiya who’s working with him. Third, somebody in authority.”

“Those men were not militia or FSB,” Pilkin said.

“But maybe working under contract.”

“Yes,” she said reluctantly. “It’s possible.”

“We’ll find out more when I start rattling cages,” Bolan told her. “Are you up for it?”

“You’re asking me?”

“Seems only fair. If you don’t want to ride the tiger, now’s the time to bail.”

“I have a job to do,” she said. “My orders don’t include surrender.”

“Right, then,” Bolan said. “Our first stop needs to be an all-night hardware store.”



MAKSIM CHALIAPIN HATED late-night phone calls. None had ever brought him good news, and they typically required him to take action that posed some risk to his standing and career, if not his life.

Such risk and aggravation came with service to the FSB, in which Chaliapin held the rank of First Assistant to the Director of the Economic Security Service. Chaliapin’s duties included supervising campaigns against organized crime of all kinds within Moscow Oblast—the city proper and its surrounding federal district—as well as liaison with Interpol and other foreign law enforcement or security agencies.

As Chaliapin left his bed and lumbered toward the shrilling telephone, he knew that he was lucky to have any job in government, much less a post with so much personal authority. At fifty-eight, he was a thirty-four-year veteran of what passed in Russia for a civil service. Chaliapin had joined the KGB as a fledgling strong-arm man in 1976 and worked his way up through the ranks to major with a combination of fancy footwork and apparent slavish obedience to his superiors of the moment. When President Boris Yeltsin dissolved the KGB in August 1991, Chaliapin had pulled every string within reach to secure a post with the new Federal Counterintelligence Service, or FSK, which, in turn, was magically transformed into the FSB in April 1995.

He was, if nothing else, a survivor.

Lifting the telephone receiver as if it weighed fifty pounds, Chaliapin spoke into the night.

“Hello?”

“It’s me.”

Of course it was. Chaliapin grimaced at the sound of Gennady Sokolov’s voice. Double-edged steel sheathed in moldy velvet.

“Good evening,” he said, careful not to use names. “How may I help you?”

“I assume you’ve heard about the difficulty at the airport?”

“No.” Lying was second nature to a lifelong member of the KGB.

“Nothing?”

“Is this about—?”

“It is.”

“And what went wrong, exactly?”

“You were not informed?”

“I’ve told you—”

“Then, by all means let me break the news. Our package went astray tonight. Four of my men attempted to retrieve it.”

“And…?”

“You’ll get an invitation to their funerals.”

“All four?”

Now Chaliapin was surprised. He had supplied a name to Sokolov, a flight number, and then had washed his hands of it. He’d wanted to know nothing more about the problem unless Sokolov discovered something that affected Chaliapin personally. He had regarded that as an unlikely circumstance.

But now…

“All four,” Sokolov said, confirming it.

That meant more paperwork for Chaliapin, poring over field reports of four deaths presumed to be Mafiya-bound in some way. It would be busywork, at best.

Chaliapin could play stupid with the best of them.

But he was curious. “How did this happen?” he inquired.

“Another person claimed the package,” Sokolov replied. “Ran off with it, in fact. My men…protested. They were unsuccessful in asserting ownership.”

“Apparently. This other person—”

“Was a woman.”

“That is most unusual,” he granted.

“It’s unheard of,” Sokolov corrected him. “Unless she was official.”

“What? You can’t mean—”

“Do you not have female agents?” Sokolov demanded. “Certainly. But—”

“And it’s possible that some other department might be operating at cross-purposes to yours?”

It was entirely possible. Within the FSB, he constantly competed with the Military Counterintelligence Directorate and the Service for Protection of the Constitutional System and the Fight against Terrorism. Beyond that lay competing agencies—the Federal Protective Service and the militia. Both employed women as agents.

“I will look into it,” Chaliapin said.

“I know you will, Maksim. And find the bitch that I need to kill.”



THE “HARDWARE STORE” that Bolan needed didn’t carry saws, hammers or nails. It wouldn’t keep the hours of a normal Moscow shop, and definitely wouldn’t advertise in print, or through the broadcast media. Its reputation—its existence—would be carried on the whisper stream that underlaid so-called police society in every nation of the world.

The hardware store he sought carried the tools of death.

“In Moscow,” Pilkin informed him, “there are several outlets for the merchandise you seek.”

“There always are,” Bolan replied. “Take me to one that offers quality as well as quantity. I don’t want rusty junk from Chechnya, much less Afghanistan.”

“Perhaps Iraq would suit you better?” she replied.

“Nothing immediately traceable,” he added, carefully ignoring her remark.

“Such dealers are…how do you say it in America? Connected? They won’t hesitate to sell you out if anyone with influence comes knocking.”

“Sell who out?” he countered. “The only introduction I’m supplying is a roll of cash. Unless the guy you have in mind knows you.…”

“No,” Pilkin replied. “We’ve never met.”

“Sounds good, then,” Bolan said, and settled back to wait.

They found the dealer’s shop west of downtown, a block north of Povarskaya Street. A stylish jewelry store filled the ground floor, with living quarters upstairs.

A wise man kept an eye on his investments.

Lights were on in the apartment windows when Pilkin rang the bell downstairs. A voice responded on the scratchy intercom, bantering back and forth with the woman for something like a minute, then switched off.

“He’s coming down,” she told Bolan.

“No problems?”

“None so far.”

The man who finally arrived to let them in was forty-something, stocky, with slicked-down hair and bushy eyebrows that resembled Leonid Brezhnev’s. Unlike Brezhnev, he smiled—albeit cautiously—for paying customers he’d never met and likely wouldn’t see again.

When they were safely locked inside the shop, its owner introduced himself as Fedor Tsereteli. He spoke fluent English without asking why it was required, and Bolan saw him file that fact away for future reference.

So be it.

“You have need of special merchandise,” he said.

“That’s right,” Bolan replied.

“Please follow me.”

He led them from the main showroom into an office, where a bank of filing cabinets stood against one wall. At Tsereteli’s touch, two of them swung aside, revealing a smallish door secured by a locking keypad. Tsereteli blocked their view with his bulk while he punched in the code, then opened the door. Beyond it, stairs descended to a darkened cellar.

Tsereteli found a light switch, and fluorescent fixtures came alive downstairs. Bolan ducked his head, going through the doorway, and made his way down to the gun vault.

The place had something for everyone: assault rifles and submachine guns, light machine guns and squad automatic weapons, shotguns and pistols, RPGs and rockets, crates of ammunition and grenades. Bolan browsed, taking his time.

His final selections included a Steyr AUG assault rifle, a familiar Beretta 93-R selective-fire pistol with sound suppressor, a Mikor MGL 40 mm grenade launcher, plus spare magazines, ammunition and a selection of hand grenades from Tsereteli’s stockpile. Accessories included a shoulder rig for the Beretta, a tactical vest and a Cold Steel Recon Tanto dagger with a black epoxy finish on its seven-inch blade.

“All this?” Pilkin asked him, surveying his selections with a raised eyebrow.

“You’re traveling a little light yourself,” Bolan replied. “Want something for the road, on me?”

Or, rather, on the two Colombians he had relieved of half a million dollars when he punched their tickets outside Baltimore, two days before his meeting with Brognola in D.C.

With visible reluctance, Pilkin checked Tsereteli’s wares and chose a Vityaz submachine gun, model PP-19-01. It resembled an AKS-74U compact assault rifle, but the Vityaz was chambered in 9 mm Parabellum, fed from 30-round box magazines, with a cyclic rate of 750 rounds per minute. Its stock folded against the gun’s left side when not in use, and special clips held a spare mag in place beside the one in use.

“That’s it?” Bolan asked.

“Everything my heart desires,” Pilkin told him, frowning.

“Then,” he said, “we’re good to go.”



LEONID BEZMEL wasn’t woken by the purring telephone. A nocturnal creature by disposition and necessity, he rarely went to bed before sunrise, and then didn’t wake until noon, unless some dire emergency compelled it.

“Hello,” he said without enthusiasm.

“Have you found out any more yet?” Gennady Sokolov asked.

“Nothing beyond what we discussed,” Bezmel said.

“How can that be possible?” Sokolov asked.

“Nothing from the police beyond the basics,” Bezmel said. “When they know something more, I’ll pass it on to you, of course.”

“And in the meantime, he’s still out there. With this woman. Doing who knows what.”

“Perhaps they’re having sex,” Bezmel suggested.

“I don’t find that amusing,” Sokolov replied.

“You’re asking me to read this stranger’s mind and tell you where he’s gone with yet another stranger. I can’t do that. I’m investigating, but I will not feed you bullshit just to pacify you. Okay?”

“Four of your men are dead.”

“While helping you,” Bezmel reminded Sokolov. “And still I do not understand how this applies to me.”

“Permit me to enlighten you,” Sokolov said. “If the Americans take me, they will be taking those associated with me—or, at least, delivering their evidence to prosecutors here. Director Bortnikov would love to mount your head in his Lubyanka trophy room. So would General Nurgaliyev, at the Ministry of Internal Affairs. Perhaps they’ll fight over the scraps.”

“Is that supposed to frighten me, Gennady?”

“I make no threats,” Sokolov replied.

“That’s very wise. Because you know I’ve seen policemen come and go. Some are dismissed, others retired in luxury. A few…have accidents.”

“Now you would threaten me?”

“By no means. We are friends, Gennady. Better yet, we’re partners. I would hate to see that ruined by a moment’s panic over nothing.”

“Nothing? With your men dead and this man running loose?”

“I’ll find him. Don’t you worry. No one hides from me in Moscow. He’ll be gone before you know it.”

“I already know it, Leonid.”

“Then, by all means, endeavor to forget him. He’s the next best thing to dead.”

“Make him the best thing, eh? And then we’ll celebrate.”

“Concerning that,” Bezmel digressed, “is everything prepared?”

“It will be, when you’ve solved our problem.”



“IT SEEMS we are about to start a war,” Anzhela Pilkin said when they were on the road again.

“A small one, if we’re lucky,” Bolan said. “But I’ll be ready, either way it goes.”

“I thought this was supposed to be a simple thing. Extract one man. Deal with his guards if necessary and move on.”

“Eight men already tried the ‘simple’ route,” Bolan replied. “They’re dead. I don’t intend to join them if it isn’t absolutely necessary.”

“You would die to catch Gennady Sokolov?”

“It isn’t on my list of things to do,” Bolan said, “but the risk is there on any mission. Same with you, I’d guess.”

“Sometimes,” she granted. “But I do more paperwork than shooting. This night is unusual.”

“It’s bound to get worse,” Bolan said. “You can still pull the plug.”

“Pull the…?”

“Hit the silk. Call it off.”

“I have orders,” she said.

“To meet me and serve as my guide, am I right? Some translation? I’m betting that no one told you to go out and get killed.”

“I’m not planning on it.”

“No one plans it, except suicides,” Bolan said. “Here’s the deal. I intend to flush Sokolov out of his hole, whatever it takes. I’ll be starting with those who support him, his partners and friends. They’ll be loyal to a point, but beyond that, self-preservation kicks in. When he’s flushed out of cover, I’ll grab him and pass him along to the transporters.”

“You make it sound easy.”

“That’s just my point,” Bolan replied. “It isn’t. It gets harder, bloodier, with every step we take from this point onward. You don’t have to make that trip. I do.”

“I won’t go back to headquarters and say you’ve talked me out of my assignment. That is unacceptable.”

“If you go, there’ll be a point where you can’t change your mind,” said Bolan.

“Is this chivalry?” Pilkin asked. “Or are you looking out for number one again?”

“What difference does it make?”

“I’m curious.”

Red Square was passing on their left. Somewhere inside its walls, Vladimir Lenin lay entombed, preserved since 1924 with semiannual baths in potassium acetate, alcohol, glycerol, distilled water and, as a disinfectant, quinine. Others were almost equally revered but buried more conventionally, barred from public viewing—Mikhail Kalinin, titular head of the Supreme Soviet from 1919 to 1946. Felix Dzerzhinksy, founder of the Soviet secret police and Gulag. Konstantin Chernenko, known as “Brezhnev’s Shadow,” who engineered Russia’s boycott of the 1984 Olympic games.

“I have no wish to see you killed or maimed,” Bolan replied at last. “If that’s what you call chivalry, I guess I’m guilty. On the other hand, self-preservation means I won’t have time to coddle you if you go forward.”

“You believe that is what happened tonight?” she challenged, sparking anger.

“Not at all. You jumped right in and pulled your weight, no doubt about it.”

“Well, then—”

“It gets worse,” Bolan repeated. “If you come along for this ride, be prepared to go through hell. Beyond the point of no return, it’s do or die.”

“I’m ready.”

“Be damned sure.”

“I am,” Pilkin said, “damned sure.”

“Okay, then. I understand that Sokolov works closely with a General Kozlov?”

“Colonel General,” Pilkin corrected him. “One of his arms suppliers, we believe. Untouchable, politically. He’s not the only leak in Russia’s arsenal, but probably the single largest.”

“And at some point, there’s a linkup with the Mafiya?”

“Of course. Sokolov deals extensively with Leonid Bezmel. He is what you might call the ‘godfather’ of the Solntsevskaya Brotherhood, Moscow’s most powerful crime Family. His leading competition is the Obshina, the Chechen group led by Aldo Shishani. They hate each other bitterly, and so Shishani hates Gennady Sokolov.”

“Sounds like a place to start,” Bolan replied.




CHAPTER FIVE


Kotlin Island

Some nights, when sleep deserted him, Gennady Sokolov amused himself by trying to surprise his sentries, catch them napping, as it were, although he’d never actually found one sleeping on the job. Such an infraction would have earned a penalty far worse than mere dismissal, and his soldiers knew it.

Sokolov wasn’t a man to trifle with.

He’d made that point with each of those he had disturbed that night, reminding all of them in no uncertain terms that they relied upon him for some measure of their affluence, and that their fates were linked to his. That was a risky game, since any one of them, if pushed too far, might turn against him.

But Sokolov knew people. He could read them—almost read their minds, it seemed—and use his knowledge to control them. How else had he survived four years in Russia’s army, seven in the Kremlin’s secret service, and nearly two decades of personal dealings with volatile dictators, warlords and rebels? If Sokolov wasn’t the best at what he did, he would be rotting in a jungle grave or desert trench by now.

Or worse yet, he’d just be ordinary, some pathetic drone punching a time clock, slaving for his daily borscht.

No, thank you very much.

Better to die than be deflated to the status of a peasant, groveling before the powers that be.

Sokolov took a vodka bottle and a shot glass from the wet bar in his office and retreated to his massive teakwood desk. He pressed a button on the desktop intercom but didn’t speak. Only one person in the household would answer that summons.

Less than a minute passed before Sokolov heard the rapping on his office door.

“Come!”

Sergei Efros entered, closed the door behind him and crossed the room to stand at attention before Sokolov’s desk. He didn’t move again until Sokolov ordered him to sit.

Sokolov spent a moment staring at his chief of security, framing his thoughts before speaking. Efros had spent eleven years with Spetznaz, in the “Alfa” unit, whose main duty was suppressing terrorism. He’d done time in Chechnya and was among the troops who’d stormed the House of Culture in Moscow’s Dubrovka district, during the theater siege of October 2002. As one of those cashiered to satisfy public outrage, he had left the service embittered and never thought twice about serving the Merchant of Death in return for a general’s salary.

“Still no word from Moscow,” Sokolov told him at last.

“I don’t trust the militia or FSB,” Efros replied. “Let me go there myself, sir. I’ll get the information you require within a day.”

“It’s tempting,” Sokolov admitted. “But you may be needed here.”

“As you require, sir.”

Compliance normally pleased Sokolov. This night, it irritated him. “There’s something on your mind, Sergei,” he said. “Out with it.”

“Sir, it isn’t only the police and FSB that I distrust. The Solntsevskaya Brotherhood are scum.”

“But useful scum,” Sokolov said. “Most profitable scum, as you’ll no doubt agree.”

“And then, there’s General Kozlov.”

“Ah. A personal acquaintance, is he not?”

“We never met, sir, but I had the misfortune of serving in his command, as you know.”

“The Nord-Ost siege.”

“Which he coordinated with the FSB, attempting to impress his own superiors and thus advance himself.”

“It’s the way of the world, Sergei.”

“Yes, sir. But when his plan failed—disastrously—a real man would have claimed responsibility, instead of sacrificing those who simply carried out his foolish orders.”

“You believe the Colonel General may betray us?”

“It’s a nasty habit of his,” Efros said.

“Perhaps you should go down to Moscow, after all. To keep an eye on friends and enemies alike.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Providing that you leave me in good hands, of course.”

“Of course, sir. Ivan has my every confidence. I will instruct him personally, prior to leaving.”

Ivan Fet was second in command to Efros, concerning Sokolov’s home security. He had dealt with one of the FBI snipers himself when the kidnappers came.

“In which case,” the Merchant of Death told Efros, “make me proud.”

Moscow

NO ONE AT Lubyanka Square was pleased when Maksim Chaliapin worked a night shift. His presence after normal quitting time for officers in charge meant tension, aggravation and a risk of collateral damage.

The Lubyanka was erected in 1898, as headquarters for the All-Russia Insurance Company. Following the Bolshevik Revolution, it was claimed by the Communist Party as headquarters for the new secret police—the Chrezvychaynaya Komissiya, or Extraordinary Commission, shortened to Cheka. That agency had changed names many times over the next seven decades, eventually becoming the home of the FSB.

A prison on the Lubyanka’s ground floor had witnessed the detention, torture and death of thousands. Some of its celebrated inmates included British spy Sidney Reilly, Swedish humanitarian Raoul Wallenberg, Czechoslovakian Count János Esterházy, Polish Jesuit Father Walter Ciszek, and Nobel Prize-winning author Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn.

They were among the survivors.

When Maksim Chaliapin found out who had spoiled his evening, he vowed that the persons or persons responsible would not be so lucky.

The FSB no longer had a government license to torture and kill on a whim, but there were exceptions to every rule. Its primary raison d’être was maintenance of national security, and that was clearly at risk when foreigners appeared in Moscow and involved themselves in gunplay as if they had time-traveled from the American Wild West.

Moscow suffered far too much mayhem already from home-grown thugs and mercenaries. Importation of more gunmen to make matters worse was unthinkable. Intolerable.

And it could prove costly to Chaliapin.

While his rank brought him a measure of respect—and fear—from fellow Muscovites, a civil servant’s salary in Russia allowed for few luxuries. Maksim Chaliapin, like nearly all of those around him in the present government, supplemented his normal income with gratuities from affluent citizens whom he had helped in one way or another. He resolved their problems, shifted obstacles out of their path, and they were naturally grateful.

What was wrong with that?

None of his private clients was more grateful—or more generous—than Gennady Sokolov. Of course, that gratitude and generosity depended on his satisfaction. Payment for services rendered, not for excuses delivered with failure.

Loss of such a friend, and his money, would gravely affect Chaliapin’s lifestyle. Worse yet, if Sokolov was extradited and tried, the proceedings might reveal his ties to Chaliapin. Which, in turn, could force Chaliapin’s superiors to protect themselves by sacrificing him.

This night, Chaliapin was doubly worried, fearing that the problem that vexed him might have originated under his own roof, at the Lubyanka. Like any other intelligence agency or large police department, the FSB was split into sections: Counterintelligence, Economic Security, Operational Information and International Relations, Control, Investigation, Science and Engineering, International Relations, and Chaliapin’s own Service for Protection of the Constitutional System and the Fight against Terrorism. Within such a system—even within a specific department—there were times when the left hand didn’t know what the right hand was doing.

There could be rogues at work under his very nose, following orders Chaliapin hadn’t issued and of which he had no knowledge. Orders which, for all he knew, might include his destruction.

But he would soon find out if that was true. And he would put a stop to it, oh, yes.

No matter who fell by the wayside in the process.



“EVERY TARGET on the list is dangerous,” Anzhela Pilkin said as they drove past Gorky Park, southwest of downtown.

“Targets always are,” Bolan replied.

“Before we start,” Pilkin said, “you need to understand that crime and politics are not distinct and separate in Russia.”

“That’s been my experience around the world,” Bolan observed.

“But it is not the same. In your country, a mafioso bribes the politicians secretly. To pass a law or to ignore one, grant some favor, close the eyes to this or that transaction. Yes?”

“That’s right.”

“And when those dealings are exposed, you have a scandal.”

“True,” said Bolan. “But it seldom changes anything, in the long term.”

“In my country, the Mafiya and politicians make no secret of their friendship. They appear in public, shaking hands, attending balls and banquets. Reporters for the tabloid press observe, but rarely publish. Do you know of Dak Safronov?”

“It doesn’t ring a bell,” Bolan admitted.

“He covered military affairs for the Kommersant, a daily newspaper in Moscow. In 2007 he reported on an army plan for selling arms to Iran and Syria through Belarus. First, he was ‘cautioned’ by the FSB. When that did not dissuade him, he fell from a fifth-story window. Four months before that, it was Anna Politkovskaya, shot by contract killers after she criticized Russian policy toward Chechnya. The president denounced the crime, of course, but added that her influence was ‘very minor.’ Others got the message.”

“So, I’m up against a monolith,” Bolan said.

“We are up against it,” Pilkin corrected him. “And it won’t help that I am part of it. You know the Bible saying about many mansions?”

“Vaguely.”

“It refers to heaven.” She surprised him yet again. “But it applies to Earth, as well. Maybe to hell, for all I know.”

“Meaning, your own people could wind up hunting us?”

“I guarantee it.”

“One more reason why you should consider backing off. It’s your life and career on the line.”

“I’ve thought about it,” she replied. “It makes me angry to consider that I cannot trust my own superiors. If they were hoping that I would be frightened, they’ve made a mistake.”

“Anger’s not the best emotion for a soldier going into battle,” Bolan counseled. “It can breed mistakes and get you killed.”

“I understand this.”

“You’ve heard of General Patton?”

“Blood and Guts,” she said. “I know of him.”

“He once said, ‘No poor bastard ever won a war by dying for his country. He won it by making other bastards die for their country.’”

“Or for their cause.”

“That’s it.”

“So, Mr. Cooper, which poor bastards shall we visit first?”



KIRIL ASTAPKOVICH DREW deeply on his cigar, then waved away his aide with the gold-plated lighter. “Leave us now,” he commanded, and heard the door close seconds later.

“Major Chaliapin,” he said, through a light veil of smoke, “you are aware of why I summoned you?”

Leaving no doubt as to their relative position in the pecking order—or the food chain.

“I am, sir,” Chaliapin replied.

Some might consider it an honor to be summoned by one of Moscow Oblast’s two senators on the Federation Council of Russia. At the present hour, though, most would be wise enough to know that it was not a social call. The senator had to want something, and he wasn’t accustomed to refusal.

“Perhaps you will explain, in that case,” Astapkovich said.

At forty-eight, he was a rising power in United Russia, the Federation’s strongest political party. In the last parliamentary election, United Russia had won 305 seats out of 450 in the State Duma, and eighty-eight out of 178 in the Federation Council. Its centrist message steamrolled special-interest opposition from competitors including Yabloko, Right Cause, Just Russia, Patriots of Russia and the misnamed Liberal Democratic Party of Russia, whose right-wing ultranationalism bore little resemblance to liberal democracy.

“Our friend in Saint Petersburg cannot have instant results on his latest demands,” Chaliapin replied. “So he calls you to draw me away from my work and delay me with threats.”

“You have it, precisely,” Astapkovich said. “There is no need for any hard feelings, however.”

“No, sir. If I gave that impression—”

Astapkovich waved off the budding apology. “Not a bit of it, Major. I simply wish to hear your insight on the matter, which was not, perhaps, explained to me in full.”

“Quite simply, Senator, we received word yesterday that a second attempt would be made to remove Gennady Sokolov from Russian soil.”

“Another G-man melodrama?” Astapkovich said with a sneer.

“No, sir. According to our information, one man was expected to arrive at Domodedovo this evening and proceed from there.”

“One man, in place of…what was it, last time?”

“Eight, sir.”

“That’s confidence for you. But proceed where? To what end? Surely, Saint Petersburg would be a better starting point?”

“That would depend, I must suppose, on what he meant to do.”

“I see,” Astapkovich said, though he saw nothing. “This stranger, then. Is he American?”

“He’s traveling on a Canadian passport, for whatever that’s worth. Flying from Montreal to Moscow, via London. Which proves nothing, as you know, sir.”

“Do we know this pilgrim?”

Chaliapin shook his head. “No, sir. He’s traveling—or was—as Matthew Cooper. We assume it is a cover. Immigration at the airport failed to make a photocopy of his passport, although we requested it.”

“An oversight, you think? Or sabotage?”

This time, Chaliapin shrugged. “Most likely, simple negligence. Failure to pass the order on, perhaps.”

“This Cooper was expected, though. You had his flight number?”

“Yes, Senator.”

“So, he was met?”

Chaliapin cleared his throat. His nervous eyes made a quick circuit of the room, as if seeking escape.

“Sir, I was told… That is, our friend requested that the interception be left to private parties.”

Meaning the Mafiya, presumably the Solntsevskaya Brotherhood. At least they were fairly efficient when it came to killing.

“And?” Astapkovich prodded his anxious guest.

“Sir, I regret to tell you that they failed.”

“Failed to do what, exactly, Major?”

“To detain the subject, sir.”

“Meaning that he escaped.”

“Yes, sir. That’s true.”

“Did they pursue him?”

“To their sorrow, Senator. Four men are dead tonight.”

“And greatly missed, I’m sure. This Cooper killed them?”

“With the possible assistance of a woman.”

“What?”

“Two members of the interception team were spared, sir. Something about separate cars. They were together at the airport, though, and saw a woman give the man a ride. The chase began from there. They were delayed, but followed from directions they were telephoned. When they arrived, the rest were dead, sir.”

“Most unfortunate.”

“Indeed.”

“But you, of course, are doing everything within your power to redeem the situation?”

“Absolutely, Senator.”

“I would expect no less. What progress, then?”

“So far, sir, none.”

“An unknown man and woman, lost somewhere in Moscow,” Astapkovich said. “Two out of millions.”

“If they’re still inside the city, sir.”

“Again, why fly to Moscow, if your target is Saint Petersburg?”

“Some kind of misdirection, possibly.”

“If so, Major, it’s working.”

“Not for long, sir.”

“Do I have your word on that?”

“You do!”

“Then I shall leave you to it. Thank you for your time. By all means, hurry back to work.”



TARAS MOROZOV kept his rugged face deadpan, emotionless, while Leonid Bezmel glowered across his desk. If looks could kill, he thought.

“I’ve just had Sokolov back on the line,” Bezmel declared. “Third time tonight, so far. The bastard never sleeps.”

“He’s worried,” Morozov replied.

“With reason, I suppose.”

“After that business with the FBI, I’d say so.”

“He bloodied them last time.”

“And they’ll be hungry for revenge.”

“We should have stopped this agent at the airport, Taras.”

“Yes.”

“Instead, he killed four of our men and made us look like idiots.”

“We would have had him,” Morozov said, “if the woman hadn’t intervened.”

“Would have is just another word for failure.”

It was two words, but Morozov didn’t think it wise to interrupt his boss with grammar lessons.

“I will find them,” he declared.

“Personally?” Bezmel asked.

“If that is what it takes.”

“Then, I’d suggest you do it soon. We’re to be graced with Sergei Efros helping us, first thing tomorrow. Gennady thinks that Spetznaz reject can accomplish something we cannot. In Moscow!”

“Maybe he intends to gas us,” Morozov said.

“I wouldn’t put it past him. I want someone covering him every minute he’s in town. If he breaks wind or eats a bag of pretzels, I expect to hear about it as it happens.”

“That’s no problem,” Morozov replied with utmost confidence.

Gennady Sokolov insulted him and all the Brotherhood by sending a man of his own to hunt the targets they were seeking. What could one damned Special Forces failure do that Morozov’s own army could not?

“We profit from Gennady’s business. There’s no doubt about it,” Bezmel said. “But in his agitation, he forgets about respect. I cannot reason with him in his present state. You must prevent Efros from running roughshod over any of our friends, especially official ones.”

“I will,” Morozov promised.

“I’ve been thinking that we might divert him toward Shishani and the Obshina. It does no harm to us, if he harasses them. And who knows? We might even benefit.”

If the damned Chechens killed him, for example.

“Won’t that agitate Gennady even more?”

“Perhaps. But he can’t blame us for whatever happens, and he’ll be in a forgiving mood when you produce this Cooper for him.”

“And the woman,” Morozov said.

“I’m not forgetting her,” Bezmel replied. “After we find out who she’s working for, maybe I’ll let her work for us. Pick out the worst whorehouse in town and make a reservation.”

“It’s my pleasure,” Morozov agreed.

And smiled, for the first time that night.



THE MEN’S CLUB known as Paris Nights stood eight blocks northeast of the Kremlin, on Nikolskaya Street. Its conservative marquee headlined singers whose names meant nothing to Bolan.

“So, this is the place?” he asked.

“Shishani’s primary casino,” Pilkin replied.

“It doesn’t look like much.”

“Just wait until you get inside.”

She’d given him the rundown on Russia’s gambling situation while they drove across town to their target. In the heady days after communism’s collapse, in the early 1990s, wide-open casino gambling was only one aspect of capitalism eagerly adopted by the former Soviet Union. The industry grew by leaps and bounds—an estimated thirty-five percent each year, with no federal laws to control it. Reported income from gambling topped six billion dollars in 2005, with few observers publicly willing to speculate on the extent of skimming.

Then, a reaction set in from the Russian Orthodox Church, conservative politicians and reformers outraged by rising crime rates coupled with reports of families left destitute by compulsive gamblers. In October 2006 the Russian Parliament had taken the first step toward strict limitation of legalized gambling, dictating that any licensed casino owner had to hold at least thirty million in liquid assets. Minimum sizes were decreed for gambling halls—eight hundred square meters for a full-fledged casino, one hundred for a slot-machine joint.

If that wasn’t enough to torque the shorts of big-time gamblers, a new law also mandated removal of all gambling facilities to one of four designated “uninhabited” areas by July 2009. Henceforth, players would have to seek their pleasure in Kaliningrad, in Krasnodar’s Azov City, in Siberia’s Sibirskaya Moneta, or on Russky Island in the Kara Sea, offshore from Vladivostok.

Faced with those restrictions, mobsters did what they had always done throughout recorded history. They went underground.

Granted, they didn’t burrow very deep. Club names were changed. Some neon signs came down. Proprietors dismissed the sidewalk barkers they had used to virtually drag new players off the streets in better days.

But play continued, at a price.

The same police who took bribes to ignore drug trafficking and prostitution willingly accepted more to let casinos operate with near impunity. On rare occasions when a raid was forced by public pressure, ample warning would be given to permit removal of incriminating evidence. The overzealous beat cop who had walked into a Mob casino unannounced and caught two judges shooting craps was reassigned, then fired and prosecuted after kiddy porn was found inside his locker at the station house.

“Do you have any specs on club security?” Bolan asked.

“All the usual,” she said. “Alarms inside and out. Full video surveillance on the players and employees. There will certainly be guards, but I can’t say how many, or how heavily they may be armed.”

“Shishani won’t send two or three to guard his gold mine with slingshots,” Bolan said.

“It may be too risky.”

“I didn’t say that. Those alarms you mentioned. Do they sound for an unannounced raid?”

“I assume so,” Pilkin said.

“So, there’ll be exits for players and staff, besides coming out through the front door.”

“I’ve heard rumors of tunnels,” she said.

“Should be doable,” Bolan declared. “While the players and dealers bail out, I can handle the watchdogs.”

“We handle them,” Pilkin quickly corrected.

“You know we’re not making arrests?”

“Understood.”

“So, we smoke the place.”

“And blame Bezmel, yes?”

“That’s the plan,” Bolan confirmed. “If we can’t leave a message here with one of his lookouts, we’ll phone it in and spoil his beauty sleep.”

“Too bad,” Pilkin said. “Aldo needs all that he can get.”




CHAPTER SIX


Nothing that Bolan saw on Nikolskaya Street reminded him of Paris. Least of all Aldo Shishani’s club that bore the name, although a tiny Eiffel Tower was featured in its understated neon sign.

Some people, Bolan thought, and let it go.

Leaving Pilkin’s car a block from the casino, Bolan took a beat to hide his Steyr AUG under the lightweight knee-length raincoat he had packed in Montreal. His backup, snug in armpit leather, was the sleek Beretta 93-R, minus its suppressor.

There’d be no disguising his intentions once he entered Paris Nights, so he had ditched the extra weight. If it came down to pistol dueling in the Mafiya casino, he’d let the Beretta speak in full voice, loud and clear. Whether the punks who heard it lived to pass the message on was something else entirely. But there was a message to be passed, and he’d agreed with Pilkin to make delivery job one. She had her game face on as they stood waiting for a break in traffic, poised to cross the street.




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