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“More than enough,” Kurtzman said.
“Okay, people. I need to bring the Man up to speed. He’s going to grumble about the possible effects on U.S.-Russian relations. I’ll have to put the emphasis on possible illegal Russian presence within our borders. I guess that should convince him we have enough to look into this. Press the Go button, Barb. We need to be on the starting blocks. You ready to move out, Striker?”
Bolan picked up his copy of the file. “Give me an hour to run through this again and I’ll suit up.”
“Any thoughts where you might be heading?” Price inquired.
“Spokane first, then Grand Rapids. See if I can pick anything up from the crime scenes. Liaise with the local P.D.”
“I’ll set up flights,” Price said, “and arrange for rentals at each airport.”
“If you get to talk to the cops, check out whether they got hold of the victims’ computers,” Kurtzman said. “If they have them, I could do with downloading whatever’s stored. Might add to our information.”
“You’ll be going in under Justice Department cover,” Brognola added. “I’ll call ahead and tell them we would appreciate their help. Aaron, what do you need?”
“Internet link is all. I can go in and pull out what I need from that.”
“If they know we’re downloading data, the cops might start asking questions,” Bolan said. “Cooperation is one thing. Downloading from a victim’s computer might hit their suspicion button.”
“Tell them all you need is ten minutes to have a look at their e-mails,” Kurtzman said. “My program can worm inside and download without even showing on screen once you get me Internet access. Nothing will be deleted and they won’t know.” He grinned broadly. “Sneaky, am I not?”
“You have no competition,” Bolan said. “Okay, Hal, set it up.”
CHAPTER FOUR
Natasha Tchenko had flown from Moscow to Heathrow Airport, in the UK, where she had been met by a cousin she hadn’t seen for many years. She spent almost a week in London, and carried out the first part of her plan by tracking down one of the men she had been looking for. She had gotten his name from the hired thug who had attacked her in the basement garage under her apartment. Before she had rendered him unconscious she had extracted the name of the man who had given him instructions on how to find her. She kept that part to herself, planning to deal with Ilya Malenkov her own way. All she had told people was that she needed a long vacation to get over the sudden deaths of her family. Her main goal remained her secret. If she had even hinted at what she hoped to achieve, she would not have been able to proceed.
It was in London that the first moves in the tracking of her family’s killers started. Using the information she had gained, she located Malenkov.
ILYA MALENKOV had paused at the entrance to the house, his feelings of uncertainty rising again. He half turned to look back over his shoulder, expecting to see someone watching. Apart from a couple of pedestrians at the far end, the street was deserted. The only movements close by were leaves from the trees blowing along the sidewalk. Even though he felt a little foolish, Malenkov took his time checking out the area until he was satisfied his feelings had proved false. Only then did he push open the door and step inside. Closing the door behind him he felt the silence of the house wrap itself around him. It still amazed him that despite being in one of the busiest cities in the world, here inside this house it was so quiet, removed from the frantic pace of London.
Malenkov shrugged out of his topcoat and hung it on one of the hooks in the narrow hallway. He felt the chill in the house and realized he had forgotten again to put on the heating before he went out. He moved along the hall to the door that led into the kitchen. As he pushed it open, his world went dark and silent around him as something slammed across the back of his skull….
HIS FIRST IMPRESSION WAS of bitter cold. Not just the chill he had felt earlier, but a persuasive cold that pervaded his whole body. The air he breathed in held a dampness that went with the smell of mildew. Malenkov tried to move, then realized he was unable. His wrists and ankles were bound and when he forced open his eyes he saw he was tied to the arms and legs of a wooden chair.
He realized he was completely naked, as well, his body pale and so chilled he was shivering. Now he could feel a sickly ache across the back of his skull. The clammy feel of drying blood that had run down the back of his neck. Someone had struck him as he had entered the kitchen, then dragged him down to the cellar beneath the house. He saw bare brick walls and felt the boarded floor beneath his naked feet. A single bulb hung from an electric cord, throwing pale light on the stacked boxes and other household items that had been stored in the cellar and pushed against the damp walls.
He squinted his eyes and tried to ignore the pain in his skull as he attempted to understand what was happening. Who had done this to him?
And why?
Malenkov believed it could be down to Karl Federov. He would do anything to discredit Krushen’s authority.
Once the search for Black Judas had been activated, all interested parties would be alerted. Any information gained would be fair game for the others. But Malenkov was surprised at how easily his location had been discovered. The London safehouse had always been just that. Safe. It was a jumping-off point where agents could travel from London to distant points, away from Moscow. Despite the stepped-up security in the UK capital, it was still a freer place than back in Russia. A cosmopolitan city, where almost every nationality from around the globe moved back and forth, London was still one of the easier cities to maintain a safehouse. And they had always been so careful. The address and location had never been committed to any database. It had been rented through a number of anonymous aides, making sure none knew any of the others personally, nor had any more contact than via dead-drop mailings. Malenkov reconsidered that, admitting that nothing in reality was ever completely risk-free. Somewhere along the line, someone might have let something slip that had been picked up by a third party. Also, there was no discounting the possibility of betrayal by one of their own. Again that was something not unheard of.
In the final analysis it came down to the fact that the safehouse had been compromised. At this juncture of Malenkov’s life the who and the why didn’t really matter.
Especially in regard to himself.
What did matter was whether he was going to emerge alive from this situation.
He heard movement off to his right. As he turned his head, a dark shape loomed from the shadows. A figure stood over him, silhouetted against the light from the suspended bulb. There was a sudden blur of movement and he took a hard blow to the side of his face. The force twisted his head, blood welling from a gash in his cheek. The blow dazed him for long seconds, and Malenkov let his head fall forward. Blood dripped onto his naked chest. He picked up more movement and braced himself for more blows. Nothing happened.
“What the hell do you want from me?”
“It speaks,” a voice said from behind in Russian.
The sudden sound startled Malenkov, and what added more surprise was that it was a woman’s voice. Young, too, from the tone. He was reminded of his naked condition.
The voice’s owner moved to stand in front of him, easing aside so that the light from the bulb fell across her. She was young, he saw. Midtwenties and very attractive, though the expression on her face hardened her features. Black hair framed a strong, well-defined face. Her eyes were cold, devoid of any emotion. She wore dark, slim-fitting pants and a black turtleneck sweater. A long, dark topcoat completed her outfit. Malenkov saw the dark shape of a handgun tucked in her waist belt and recognized it as his own. She had to have found it in the drawer where he kept it upstairs. Now she took her time deliberately looking him over, her gaze lingering, a wry smile edging her lips. Malenkov felt an embarrassed flush color his face.
“Who are you? Dammit, woman, do you realize who you’re messing with?”
“No one very big,” she said. “Just a small scrap of lowlife.”
“A dangerous mistake,” Malenkov said. “I have no idea what this is all about, but you are playing games with the wrong kind of people.”
“Believe me, Malenkov, I am not playing games.”
Malenkov struggled against his bonds. His face darkened even more as he failed to loosen the ropes. Added to his frustration was the fact that the woman apparently had no immediate fear of anything he might say.
“Get me out of here, you bitch!” he yelled. “This will bring you more trouble than you can imagine. One word from me and I could have your family wiped out.”
He saw her stiffen, recognized the fierce look in her eyes as she fought back some deep emotion.
“But you already did that, Malenkov. You and your sick comrades. My family all died at your hands, you pig. It’s why you’re tied to that chair. So I can let you feel what my mother and father and my young brother felt before you vermin finally killed them all. It wasn’t all that long ago, so you must still recall the name. Tchenko. My father was Captain Pieter Tchenko. You do remember? Yes, I thought you would. So you see, your threats don’t worry me. There’s nothing left you can take away from me.” She reached inside her coat and took out a gleaming steel-bladed knife, holding it so light rippled along the smooth metal. “Today is your turn. I ask questions, you answer. Each time you lie, I use the knife.”
Malenkov realized from the start that she was not just trying to scare him. She made him aware of this by making a token cut across the soft flesh of his stomach. Deep enough to make him bleed and feel the pain. Not enough to incapacitate him. As the warm rivulets of his blood settled in his groin, Malenkov realized he needed to make a swift decision.
Refuse to answer the woman’s questions and suffer further living pain, or tell her what she wanted and accept the bullet through the back of his skull that would end his life far quicker. He was under no illusion. One way or another, he was going to die today. The only question was whether he gave up the names of his partners and sent this woman after them, or tried to protect them and suffered by the knife in her hand. It was not much of a trade-off either way.
In the end Malenkov found out he was not so much of a man as he had anticipated. He gave up names and locations. He told her everything he knew. But not before Natasha Tchenko made him suffer because of his early resistance. Her use of the knife was crude, and Malenkov spilled a great deal of blood on the cellar floor. Whatever his resolve, it faded quickly, his pleas for mercy falling on deaf ears. So he gave her what he could, asking for her forgiveness. He did that with no sense of shame. Only because the pain he was enduring had to stop.
It did stop.
Suddenly and without warning. He experienced a sudden powerful impact to the back of his head, and before he even had time to realize what it was, the bullet from the gun in Natasha Tchenko’s hand ripped into his skull and reduced his brain to mush.
Tchenko returned to the main part of the house and made her way into the living room where she had finished her search earlier while waiting for Malenkov. She had found the laptop he had stored in a cupboard. Now she connected it to the power and ran the modem cable to the telephone socket. Once on the Net, she opened the link and tapped in her own password to access the OCD’s central computer database and ran a check on Malenkov. She had to utilize different strings before she pinned down his file. Her first attempts at getting deeper into the files were blocked. She had to employ her not inconsiderable computer skills to get around the blocks.
Interestingly she found herself in the FSB database and managed to extract data files before she was closed down. Despite her repeated efforts, Tchenko was unable to get back into the FSB computer. She had been locked out once her intrusion had been discovered and knew that a trace would already be in operation to find out where she had been working from. It would confuse Moscow when they learned she had been hacking in from an FSB link. She picked up a flash drive from the table beside the laptop and placed it in the USB port, quickly downloading the data she had saved. With the flash drive in her shoulder bag, Tchenko composed a short e-mail and mailed it to her OCD boss, Commander Valentine Seminov. She cleared the computer, making certain it was disconnected from the Internet, then pulled the modem and power plug.
Minutes later Tchenko let herself out of the house’s rear door. She walked along the cracked stone path, through the untended garden and out through the gate. The alley at the rear took her almost to the end of the street, where she rejoined the sidewalk, checking the area. No one saw her leave the house, as no one had noticed her original entry to the building. It was that time of day when the majority of people were at work. Tchenko picked up a taxi shortly after reaching the main road. She rode it into the city and made her way to the river. Here she bought a ticket and boarded one of the Thames’s excursion boats. Partway through the trip, alone, she leaned on the stern rail, waiting for her moment, then calmly eased the pistol from her coat. It was wrapped in a duster she had picked up in the kitchen and had used to wipe the weapon clean. Now she let the gun slip from her grasp and watched it hit the dark water and vanish. She repeated the move with the knife, then remained at the stern until the boat turned and started its return journey. Only then did she move away from the stern to wander along the deck, her thoughts racing ahead as she planned her next move, which would see her arranging a flight to the U.S. where she would carry on her search for the other men responsible for the deaths of her family.
THREE DAYS LATER, in the air over the Atlantic, Natasha Tchenko huddled in her seat, grateful at least that no one was sitting beside her, and refused to even admit that what she was doing bordered on the impossible. In her mind it was clear and direct.
She was going to America to find the people responsible for the deaths of her family.
And when she did find them she was going to kill them all…or as many as she could.
Ilya Malenkov had furnished her with a mix of information and, combined with what she had gleaned from the computer, it was enough to give Tchenko a starting point.
Malenkov, an FSB agent, had been part of the team responsible for the slaughter of her family. The initial hunt had been orchestrated by Leopold Bulanin. Bulanin was a Moscow racketeer, an opportunist who would involve himself in any venture that offered a profit. He was a careful man, who covered his tracks well and managed to stay ahead of the law through high contacts and bribery. From Malenkov’s confession Tchenko learned of Bulanin’s involvement with the search for information her father had gathered on the FSB’s involvement with something he called Black Judas. Pieter Tchenko’s investigation had brought the covert team of FSB and gangsters on his trail. Though she didn’t know whether her father had given up the information he had collected, her family had still been murdered. Coming to terms with that was proving difficult for Natasha Tchenko, and she was not even sure that if she actually completed her mission her pain would be ended. All she could do now was go through the motions, pushing the memories to the back of her mind while she conducted her search.
She had names and locations.
The e-mail to Seminov pinpointed the names she had extracted from Malenkov. Her hope was that it might kick-start another investigation into the connection between the FSB, Krushen and Leopold Bulanin.
Her starting point was the city of Grand Rapids, Michigan, where Malenkov had told her the Russian team led by Mischa Krushen had just moved. Once she had her flight arranged, she had asked the London travel agent to book her into a hotel there. It would give her a base, somewhere she could work out of. She knew she was going in cold, with little advance information about her enemies. When she was on undercover operations for OCD, there was always a pre-ops period to study the opposition to learn about their habits and their propensity for violence, whether the undercover operative might be known to the target. It was standard procedure, necessary so that the undercover agent had less chance of facing the unexpected. It didn’t guarantee total safety. There was no such thing in undercover work.
This time Natasha Tchenko was walking in blind. All she had were sketchy pictures of the men she was stalking. She had read up on what OCD had on the suspects. It gave her some physical images, but little else. But she knew they were dangerous individuals, used to working in the shadows. If it hadn’t been for Commander Seminov’s generosity, she might never have been able to look at their thin files.
It was late afternoon when she finally checked into the hotel. She went directly to her room, undressed and relaxed under a hot shower. After she had dried herself she fell into bed and slept through until the following morning from sheer exhaustion.
TCHENKO AWOKE from a deep and troubled sleep with a shocked gasp bursting from her lips and sweat coursing down her face. Panting for breath that seemed to have difficulty forcing itself from her lungs, she stared across the hotel room, barely aware that sunlight was ghosting through the curtains. The bedsheets were tangled around her lower body, almost imprisoning her legs, and she kicked them free with frantic actions until they slid to the floor. In a protective response she pulled her arms around her body, lowering her head, and fought back the tears threatening to flood her eyes. She remained in this position until her emotions calmed and she was back in control. Only then did she uncoil and slowly swing her legs off the bed, pushing to her feet where she remained motionless. She fought to eliminate the dark horrors flooding her mind, concentrating on reminding herself who she was and why she was here….
Her name was Natasha Tchenko. She was twenty-six years old, and was a Russian cop with four years served in the OCD in Moscow. At this present time she was on extended leave in the United States of America.
She had come to America to find the men responsible for the slaughter of her family, and when she found them she intended to pass sentence and execute them.
As the departing fragments of the dream drifted from her conscious thoughts—the same dream that came to her unbidden and unwanted most nights—Tchenko crossed the room and parted one of the curtains enough for her to stare out at the morning.
The dream was the same as always, seen from her perspective and reliving that dreadful moment when she had walked into the Moscow apartment to find her cruelly murdered family: her father and mother, throats crudely slit, blood pooling thickly into the carpet; her fourteen-year-old brother, Karel, his adolescent body naked and disemboweled, the glistening viscera trailing in soft coils across the floor.
The visions returned to her in the long, dark nights when her very soul cried for release, when she fought her silent battle to be released from those images, yet felt herself paralyzed and helpless as only the victim of a sleeping nightmare can feel. There was no escape until the nightmare scenario had played itself out and she would burst from that soundless torment, as if floating up from the deep, escaping into reality, her naked body bathed in sweat, gasping for breath.
The woman turned from the window and crossed to the bathroom where she stepped into the shower and turned on the cold water. As it struck her flesh she gasped against the chill, but stood until she became used to the hissing stream. She reached for the soap, lathering herself until she had washed away the sweat and with it the remaining shadows of her nightmare. When she stepped from the shower, she crossed to the sink. Her image stared back at her from the mirror. Thick dark hair framed a strong, not unattractive face. True, she needed a little sun to remove the pale skin and the emergence of shadows under her bright, deep brown eyes. She stroked fingers across the firm, high cheekbones, flexed her full, generous mouth.
“Tasha Tchenko,” she said to her image, “you are a mess. Do something about it.”
She called room service and ordered breakfast. While she waited for it to arrive she turned on the TV and flicked through endless channels until she found a news program that felt a little less frenetic than most. She sat in one of the comfortable leather chairs and immersed herself in the news summary. When her breakfast arrived she handed the smiling bellman a tip, then settled down to scrambled eggs, crispy bacon and toast. She helped herself to a cup of coffee. Immersed in her food she almost missed the item on the TV. She leaned forward so as not to miss a word of the report, turning up the sound.
It concerned a death. A murder, in fact. Nothing unusual in that. Most TV news reports back home in Moscow carried such items every day. East or West, people still indulged in killing each other on a regular basis.
This crime caught Tchenko’s attention because the photograph displayed on the screen, taken from the dead man’s passport, identified him as one Jarek Ovid. That was not his real name. She knew him as Oleg Risovich. He was a member of the FSB, working under Mischa Krushen. She listened to the report with growing interest. It appeared that Risovich had been attacked and stabbed to death in a downtown area known for its drug dealing. If Risovich had been trying to do some business, he most likely would have been going against Krushen’s agenda. Krushen would not be pleased about that. He would want to remain in the background, not draw any unwanted attention to himself or his people.
Tchenko picked up the local telephone directory and searched for the Grand Rapids Police Department’s address.
CHAPTER FIVE
Mack Bolan picked up his rental car from the agency and headed for the city. His task here was relatively simple—liaise with the Grand Rapids P.D. and take a look at the computers the police had seized as evidence. It was normal procedure for the police to check personal and business computers following unexplained homicides. Vital information could be stored on hard drives, something that could point to the reason why the victim had been murdered.
The call from Hal Brognola, explaining to the G.R.P.D. that the Justice Department needed some cooperation, had fixed the visit for Justice Department Special Agent Matt Cooper. All Bolan needed was to have access to the victims’ computers and a modem so that he could set things up for Aaron Kurtzman to download the contents of the hard drives. The operation would be completed without any outward sign and the original data would still be left intact.
Bolan had already completed the first part of his assignment by visiting the police in Spokane, where he had performed the same routine on the laptop owned by Harry Jenks—Leon Grishnov. He had also carried out the same routine on the one from the bank where Jenks had been employed. Stony Man was already analyzing that data.
Clad in a smart gray suit, white shirt and a dark blue tie, Bolan approached the desk sergeant. He showed his Justice Department credentials and asked for the cop whose name he had been given by Brognola. He was shown to the squad room and introduced to the homicide detective in charge of the double investigation.
Homicide Detective Rick Hollander was in his midthirties, fit, but looked as if he had just emerged from a war zone. The guy looked weary, a little pissed off, struggling with the myriad complications that together make up the working life of a police officer.
“What I hate the most is the paperwork. It just never stops coming. Fresh forms to fill in. New rules to follow. And I keep asking myself, why did I want to be a cop? You know what else? I can’t remember.”
Bolan grinned, sympathizing with the cop. “Paperwork? Tell me about it. It’s all I get to do most days. A field trip like this is heaven.”
Hollander led Bolan across the squad room to his office. He showed Bolan the table that held the computers that had belonged to the two victims.
“Both plugged in and connected to phone lines. Anything else you need, Agent Cooper?”
“That’s fine,” Bolan said gratefully. “Hollander, thanks for your cooperation. I know you’re busy and probably figure I’m a pain in the ass, so I appreciate your help.”
Hollander grinned. “Hey, we’re supposed to be helping each other these days. Right?” He jerked a thumb in the direction of the computers. “Knock yourself out, pal. I’ll go get you copies of the case files I was told you need.”
He left Bolan alone, closing the door behind him. There were two units on the table, a desktop computer and a laptop. Bolan set up the connection that allowed Kurtzman to access the first computer. While the download took place Bolan sat in front of the monitor, going through the motions of checking it out, jotting notations into a notepad. When the signal came through that the download was complete, Bolan made the second connection. Once the two machines had sent their data to Stony Man, Bolan used his cell to contact Kurtzman.
“We done?”
“My man, you have performed sterling work here today. Have the rest of it off.”
“As generous as always.”
Bolan switched off the computers and slipped the notepad into the pocket of his gray suit.
RICK HOLLANDER THREADED his way back across the busy squad room, a buff folder in his hand. One of his fellow officers waylaid him, discussing an ongoing case. As he listened, Hollander noticed Agent Cooper, back in the noisy squad room, watching Detective Steve Cross who was in a conversation with a striking young woman. Cooper seemed to be taking particular notice of the woman. Not that he could be blamed for that. She was, Hollander saw, a looker. Very attractive, with dark hair and a supple figure that couldn’t be hidden beneath her slacks and jacket.
What Hollander was not aware of was the reason Bolan had taken an interest in the dark-haired beauty. She and the police detective were close enough for Bolan to have picked up on their conversation.
Bolan heard the words Commander Seminov.
And OCD.
He had turned his attention on the woman, just as Hollander appeared in front of him, holding up the file.
“Hot off the copier,” he said.
“Good,” Bolan said, neatly sidestepping the cop.
“I thought you said this was urgent.”
“Thanks. It is. Keep hold of it for me.”
In that moment the squad room erupted in a burst of shouting and general mayhem as a group of suspects decided they had taken enough time and decided to cause trouble. Fists flew and bodies were shoved back and forth. Desks were pushed across the floor, chairs thrown. Bolan was caught in the human swell, and the last glimpse of the dark-haired woman was of her being hustled out the door and into the corridor. By the time he shoved his way through the melee she was gone and so was the cop who had been talking to her. Bolan stood, glancing up and down the corridor, wondering who she was and why she had been at the precinct.
It was at least a good ten minutes later before the squad room was restored to what was considered normal. Bolan spotted Hollander, still clutching the file and nursing a bruised cheek, leaning against a desk. He made his way over to the detective.
“You okay, Hollander?”
“All in a day’s work.” He held up the file again and Bolan took it. “I thought you’d run out on me.”
Bolan grinned. “Sorry. That woman talking to one of your detectives. You know who she is?”
