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“No, but we can find out. What’s the interest? You figure on dating her?”
“Nothing as easy as that. I think she might be connected to an ongoing investigation.”
“How so?”
“Something I overheard her say. It meant something.”
“Oh? You sure it wasn’t ‘Hey, I’m available and I have an inheritance’?”
“For a cop you have one hell of an imagination.”
“Yeah? Cooper, I’m not sure whether to take that as a compliment or a put-down.”
“Believe me, it was a compliment.”
“I made copies of everything we have on our two vics. Right now you’re as up-to-date as we are.”
“I’ll leave my cell-phone number,” Bolan said. “If anything else crops up, I’d appreciate a call.”
Hollander turned and beckoned to the cop who had been talking to the young woman. When he came over Hollander introduced him to Bolan as Steve Cross, explaining that Bolan was a Justice Department agent. Bolan shook the young man’s hand.
“Some kind of Fed, huh?”
“Something like that.”
“Steve, Agent Cooper would like to get a line on that young woman you were talking to.”
Cross rubbed a hand across the back of his neck, a grin forming. “Who wouldn’t? You know her, Cooper?”
“Not personally, but I recognized a couple of things she said—OCD and Commander Seminov.”
“Still think she’s part of your investigation?” Hollander asked.
“I’m going to check that angle,” Bolan said.
“Turns out she’s a Moscow cop,” Cross explained. “Showed me her ID and said if I needed confirmation all I needed to do was to call this guy in Moscow. He’s her boss. By the way, her name is Natasha Tchenko.”
“What was her reason for calling here?”
“She saw a TV report about a drug-related homicide we’re dealing with. Said she might know the guy from Russia. Said she’d be grateful for any information we could give her. Said it was in-line with an investigation she was working on and she would give us feedback.”
Bolan found the information interesting, wondering what an attractive female Russian cop was doing in the U.S. with a connection to a murdered man.
“How did you leave it?”
“I told her we’d need to check out her credentials before we could pass along anything. Said I’d get back to her.”
“Did she leave you a contact?”
“Cell phone and the hotel she was staying at.”
“Can you let me have that information?”
“Sure.” Cross wrote the details on a sheet and handed it to Bolan. “Hey, Agent Cooper, if you see her, tell her I said hello.”
Bolan patted the young cop on the shoulder. “I’ll do that, Cross. In the meantime try to stay cool. And thanks for the assist. Both of you.”
“No problem,” Hollander said. He handed Bolan a business card. “That’s my cell number. Anything you need, you call.”
BOLAN SAT IN HIS CAR outside the Grand Rapids P.D., ready to talk to Commander Valentine Seminov of the Moscow Organized Crime Department. He had contacted Kurtzman on his cell and a solid connection had been made via Stony Man, then routed to Bolan’s cell.
“So how are you, my friend?” Valentine Seminov asked.
“Surviving. Have you brought down the crime figures in Moscow yet?”
“Ha. I see your sense of humor is as weird as ever. So, Matt Cooper, how can OCD help you this time?”
“A cynical attitude, Valentine. Maybe I’m just calling out of the goodness of my heart.”
Seminov’s throaty laughter rattled the telephone in Bolan’s hand. “How remiss of me not to realize that.”
“Natasha Tchenko.”
The line appeared to go dead for a long few seconds before Seminov spoke again. When he did, all traces of humor had vanished.
“Is she safe?”
“As far as I know right now.”
“You have spoken to her?”
“No. Only seen her once from a distance. She disappeared before I could get to her. She was in a police station asking questions. Identified herself as a cop working out of OCD in Moscow. Gave your name as a reference.”
“Damn. I told her not to…”
“Valentine, I need to know why she’s here and what it is she’s after.”
“Is it involved in something you’re investigating?”
“Right at this minute all I can say is it could be.”
“Are you sitting down?”
“Why?”
“Because this may take a little time.”
“Go ahead.”
“Tchenko is one of my officers. A very qualified member of the OCD. Determined. Single-minded. Resourceful. And stubborn. Like someone else I know.”
Seminov detailed Tchenko’s background. She came from a family with a long history of law enforcement. It seemed to be in the family genes. Her father had been a captain in the civil police, stationed in Moscow. “Had been” were the operative words. Tchenko’s family—father, mother and her teenage brother—had all been murdered a couple of months back. Her father, Captain Pieter Tchenko, had been handling a case that had delved deep into matters that had moved far beyond his normal investigations. He had, it seemed, stumbled onto a deeply covert operation involving the FSB and former associates of the old KGB. When his inquiries started exposing names, Tchenko was asked to back off. When he continued his investigation, he was officially ordered by his superiors to let the matter drop. The case had been referred to internal FSB jurisdiction. Word came through that Tchenko was putting his life at risk if he did not back off. It had been the wrong thing to say to Pieter Tchenko. While he considered his options, something happened that forced his hand. His wife received a telephone call promising extreme violence if he did not walk away. The same evening Tchenko himself was tailed as he drove home and someone fired on his car with an automatic weapon. A second phone call, just after he got home, told him that next time the bullets would not miss. The physical and verbal threats simply increased Tchenko’s determination. He upped his pressure on his contacts and concentrated his searches into the background of his investigation.
Less than a week later his Moscow home was broken into by hooded men. Tchenko, his wife and his son were tied to chairs and subjected to savage beatings. Worse was to come. Tchenko’s son underwent a terrible attack by one of the invaders who tortured him with a knife and finally eviscerated him. The house was ransacked as the invaders searched the place for any files of evidence Tchenko might have put together. When they found nothing, Tchenko was shot twice in the head. The same happened to his wife.
“Natasha was on an OCD investigation at the time, out of the city,” Seminov concluded. “She came back to Moscow to find her family slaughtered. Then she had to identify the bodies officially.”
“Had she been aware of what was happening?”
“Yes. She and her father were very close. They discussed work all the time. She knew about the threats. She also knew that Pieter Tchenko would never give in.”
“How did she take it?”
“That was the odd thing. She was calm. Even when we went to identify the bodies. I knew she was grieving but she refused to let it out. Not one tear showed, Cooper.”
“Valentine, are you sure the killings were connected to the investigation? Couldn’t they have been caused by a crime that went wrong?”
“We considered that but I don’t believe so. From the way the family had been beaten and tortured it was obvious the raiders were looking for something. It was all very methodical. These people knew their business. They were more than street criminals. Oh, one more thing. Two days later Tchenko’s office was found to have been searched, too. And the small dacha they owned outside the city. These people were searching for something.”
“And Natasha?”
“She told me that on the day of the funeral she was followed to her apartment. Being Natasha she turned the tables and waylaid him in the basement parking garage. He went for her so she defended herself and broke an arm and gave him a good thrashing. We brought him in and questioned him for some time. He refused to talk until I threatened him. He broke down soon after and admitted he had been hired to follow Natasha and get her alone in her apartment. It seemed he was looking for data her father might have left with her.”
“Who was he?”
“An ex-soldier. Hired by a voice on the telephone. That is how he described it to us. Even threats from Natasha couldn’t get any more from him. We arrested him but by the next morning I had instructions from above to release him. I suspected OCD had been put under pressure from Lubyanskaya Square. My superiors told me not to make any protests and to let it go. Two days later that ex-soldier was pulled out of the Moscow River. His throat had been cut. Explain that if you will. I have a theory that when he attacked Natasha at her apartment she got something out of him. She never gave me any indication she had, but I think this is what she must be following up.”
“Silencing that suspect could have been his employers covering their tracks. Making sure he couldn’t be picked up again.”
Seminov grunted.
“There is something going on here that is driving me crazy, Cooper. It has me by the throat and won’t go away until I find out what is happening. This has the oily hand of the FSB involved. A shady deal.”
“You watch your back, Valentine.”
“I wish you were here to do that for me, Cooper.”
“Was any data retrieved from Tchenko’s investigation?”
“Nothing yet,” Seminov said.
“Let’s talk about Natasha Tchenko some more,” Bolan said.
“I saw how restless she was so I insisted she take an extended leave. It was as much for her own state of mind as to get her out of the way for a while. Maybe I should have become suspicious when she accepted my suggestion so readily. I reminded her that she was not authorized to look into the case of her father’s death. I should have known better. A day after she left I telephoned to see how she was and there was no reply, just a message saying she was taking a break, going to stay with family in London and she’d be in touch when she got back. Now you have told me where she has gone, Cooper, I can’t prove why she went to the United States. But my guess is it has something to do with what happened to her family. As I said, I believe she learned something from that thug who attacked her.”
“When I meet her I’ll ask.”
“You can tell her I’m mad at her, too.” Seminov paused, clearing his throat. “But don’t tell her I was worried. I like that young woman. She is a good cop. Intelligent. Capable of becoming a high-ranking officer. I would hate for anything bad to happen to her. Cooper, one more thing. I think you should hear about it. I did receive an e-mail from Natasha some days after she left Moscow. There were names she had learned about that only increased my curiosity. Enough to keep me looking. But I have to stay low key. You understand? In the e-mail she mentions a name. Mischa Krushen. He is FSB, and from what Natasha e-mailed he has some covert connection to a man in Moscow called Leopold Bulanin. Bulanin is a racketeer. His greasy hands are in everything illegal. The e-mail got me thinking. And I am still mad at being told to drop my investigation into Pieter Tchenko’s death. I do not enjoy being made to back off.”
“The more people make a fuss over something usually means they have a reason not to have it dragged into the open.”
“We think alike, my friend.”
“Valentine, I’ll be in touch once I have some answers.”
“Good. If I turn anything up here I will pass it along. You be careful, too. If there is a connection to the FSB, and maybe former KGB thugs—we need to be cautious. There is nothing nice about them. These are bad people.”
“Hell, Valentine, if there weren’t any bad people, you and I would be out of a job.”
“That is very true. If I find anything I will let you know.”
“I owe you, Valentine.”
“Again? One day, Cooper, I will collect.” Seminov’s booming laugh echoed down the line. “Take care, Cooper. I have a feeling these people have something to hide and will do anything to keep their secrets.”
“Remember that when you start poking around again.”
“Of course. I am always careful.”
“I remember that, Valentine. Goodbye, my friend.”
Bolan ended the call, started the car and headed across the city in the direction of the hotel where Natasha Tchenko was staying. His conversation with Seminov had alerted him to the fact the young woman could be pitting herself against extremely dangerous opponents. It crossed his mind that they might be watching her and could decide to take some kind of offensive action.
CHAPTER SIX
He parked outside the hotel and went inside. At the desk he asked for Natasha Tchenko’s room. The clerk was unhelpful until Bolan flashed his Justice Department badge. After that the clerk was only too eager to help. Bolan took the elevator to the third floor and made his way to the Russian agent’s room.
He stood at the door, about to knock, when he noticed scuff marks in the pile of the carpet. Bolan crouched. The pile had been disturbed by twin trails of deep indentations. The pile had not had time to return to its normal position, so the marks were fresh. They could easily have been made by the shoe heels of someone being dragged away from the room. Bolan was about to move when he picked up sound from inside the room. He rose to his feet, opening his jacket and taking out the Beretta 93-R. He checked the selector switch and set it to single shot.
He tapped on the door.
“Room service, miss. Your coffee and sandwiches.”
Bolan heard movement as someone approached the door. He heard the interior lock being released and the door was pulled ajar. A lean male face peered at him, scanning Bolan’s clothing.
“You are not room service.”
The accent was Russian. Bolan drove his full weight at the door, pushing the guy backward. He stepped inside, heeling the door shut behind him, then followed through as the surprised guy went for the handgun tucked behind his belt.
Bolan back-fisted the guy across the side of the jaw, following with a solid kick that slammed into his opponent’s exposed stomach. The man grunted, still trying to pull his handgun free. The Executioner caught a handful of his shirtfront and hauled the guy close, then slammed the Beretta across the side of his skull. The Russian stumbled to his knees, his handgun slipping from his grasp. Bolan kicked it out of sight under the bed, then planted a foot against the guy’s rear, shoving hard. The Russian skidded across the carpet, burning the side of his face on the pile. Bolan knelt astride him, one knee hard in the guy’s spine. He caught a handful of the thick black hair and hauled the man’s head up and back. The cold muzzle of the 9 mm pistol ground into the Russian’s flesh, just behind his right eye.
The Russian cursed in his own tongue.
“You’re in America, talk English.”
“Who the fuck are you?”
“I see you have a good grasp of the language,” Bolan said. “See how good you are answering questions?”
