Soviet Specter

by Don Pendleton

  But the Executioner was on the floor, and a good eight feet away from the other uniformed man. He looked up as the same Ruger that had just shot Seven begin to turn his way. On his knees, there was no way he could close that gap before the 9 mm pistol roared again. He had only one chance.

  Drawing back his arm, Bolan sent the shank flying through the air at the attacker’s chest. But the poorly balanced weapon struck flat against the badge and bounced off harmlessly.

  The man in the guard’s uniform threw back his head to laugh.

  His arrogance was his downfall.

  Bolan transferred the broken broom handle stub to his right hand and brought it back over his shoulder like a spear. It was too short to fly well, and the balance wasn’t any better than the shank. But it was all he had during the split second that the guard was laughing and exposing his throat. In a moment, the man would look back down at him and pull the trigger. The less than perfect javelin would have to do.

  Putting all of the strength in his shoulder and arm behind the throw, the Executioner sent the broom handle streaking forward. The sharp broken end struck the uniformed man squarely in the throat, then flipped off to the side, end over end. But it had pierced the carotid artery just below the man’s skin, and now a projectile stream of crimson shot forth.

  The guard’s head dropped down to his chest protectively, all humor now draining from his face as the blood drained from his body. His free hand went to his throat in a fruitless attempt to stop the flow.

  The Executioner knew from experience that a severed carotid brought on unconsciousness in roughly five seconds, and death seven seconds later. But five seconds was an eternity in a gunfight. As he rose to his feet, Bolan saw the guard wave the Ruger back in front of his blood-soaked chest, trying to steady it on the Executioner as his eyes filled with hatred.

  Bolan lunged forward, his hand dropping into his pocket as he flew through the air. His fingers found the cracked wooden handle of the butcher knife and wrapped tightly around it. By that time, he was within arm’s reach of the guard.

  Grabbing the wrist that held the Ruger with his left hand, Bolan pushed the gun up and out of the way. The weapon discharged, and a 9 mm slug sailed into the air to strike the ceiling before rebounding around the interrogation room like an angry wasp. The Executioner felt nothing strike him this time, and he heard no moans or other indications that the others in the room had been struck.

  The guard was fading now. The Executioner helped him go. Clutching the butcher knife against his side, he then plunged it into the man’s sternum. The knife penetrated the thin uniform, and sank into the heart. Bolan twisted the blade, but little blood escaped the wound.

  Most of the guard’s blood had already left through his throat.

  The Ruger clattered to the floor and the guard slid after it, dead before he hit the ground.

  Spinning a quick 360 degrees to check for other threats, Bolan satisfied himself there were none. The woman Seven had knocked out had slept through the rest of the battle. The three other women sat perfectly still against the wall, no longer wanting any part of the action.

  Bolan hurried to where Seven had fallen onto his face and knelt next to the DEA man. Turning the heavy body over, two things surprised the Executioner. First, there was no blood where the duo of 9 mm rounds had struck. And second, Seven’s eyes were not only open, but he also looked alert.

  Through the ripped cloth of Seven’s shirt, Bolan saw the white ballistic nylon vest. It had been charred brown and black by the gunpowder and gases from the near contact shots, but the bullets hadn’t penetrated the layers of resistant cloth.

  “You okay?” the Executioner asked.

  Seven looked up at him, still only half-aware of his surroundings. “Oh, yeah,” he said. “Never been better.”

  Footsteps pounded down the run toward the interrogation area. Bolan turned to the door, Ruger in hand. But the men who entered the room, while wearing riot gear, had no guns. They were real guards. He looked down at the dead men in uniform on the ground. He didn’t know who they were—probably prisoners who had been paid to back up the women.

  Bolan helped Seven to his feet, then surveyed the carnage within the interrogation room once more. This had been a hit, pure and simple. An attempt to get Luiza Polyakova out of the way before she could talk. It involved at least six inmates, and it wouldn’t have come cheap, which told him whoever had put it out had both money and connections into the prison system.

  Bolan shoved the Ruger into his belt beneath his jacket. He didn’t yet know who had that kind of power and financing.

  But he intended to find out.

  2

  The glass outside the office read, Rutherford B. Kasparak, Deputy Commissioner, New York City Department Of Corrections. Bolan opened the door and ushered Luiza Polyakova, Johnny Seven and four other guards—genuine Rikers Island guards—into the outer office. A woman with coal-black, white-rooted hair and heavy makeup glanced up from her computer. “Go right on in,” she said. “Deputy Commissioner Kasparak is expecting you.” She indicated the door in a side wall with a nod.

  Again Bolan performed door duties, letting one of the guards go first. Another walked Polyakova—still in her orange coveralls but now wearing handcuffs and a belly chain—past him. The rest followed.

  Rutherford Kasparak stood waiting behind a desk covered with neatly arranged stacks of paper. He was nearing the end of middle age, painfully thin, and his face held the expression of a man who had just been diagnosed with an inoperable brain tumor. He wore old black horn-rimmed eyeglasses, and his blue pin-striped suit hung from his frame as if it might slide off at any moment. Like Johnny Seven the top of his head was bald but he had a thin ring of white hair that ran from one ear, around the back of his head, to the other ear. He coughed nervously, his hand making a strange little waving motion as he pointed them to seats around the room.

  The guards started to sit but Kasparak said, “No, Bandy,” as he nodded toward a guard wearing captain’s bars on his epaulets. “You stay. The rest of you won’t be needed.” His hand jerked again as he glanced toward the door. The three guards left while the captain took a seat in a straight-backed chair against the wall.

  Bolan and Seven found seats at the ends of a couch opposite Captain Bandy. The Executioner guided Luiza Polyakova between them. Kasparak leaned forward in his chair and folded his hands in front of him on the desk. His right hand continued to jerk, and Bolan now recognized the movement as a nervous twitch. An unusual tic, Kasparak kept bending his wrist back as if he were trying to touch the back of his hand to his forearm.

  Bolan wasn’t surprised that the man was bothered. The deaths on Rikers Island would bring about investigations from both state and federal authorities, and create the kind of accountability bureaucrats like Kasparak dreaded.

  When the guards had closed the door behind them, Kasparak tightened his folded hands and the tic stopped momentarily. “Okay,” he said. “Will someone please tell me what’s going on in my institution? I have two male prisoners dead, and four women being treated for minor injuries. The men—both of whom are awaiting trial for murder and somehow got out of maximum security—were wearing guard’s uniforms!” He had been looking down at the desk as he spoke, but now he threw up his hands and stared at Bandy. When he spoke next, it was with a sudden burst of anger and frustration. “Captain, I want to know how they got the uniforms!” he shouted. “And I want to know how they got out of max and into the women’s building! And I want to know now!” Suddenly Kasparak blushed in embarrassment. Whether his sudden self-consciousness came from the temporary loss of control or from the fact that his inward fear told him he couldn’t sustain the show of strength for any prolonged period of time, wasn’t clear. He tried to stare down Bandy, only to quickly avert his eyes and look back down at his desk. Both of the deputy commissioner’s shoulders slumped forward and the twitching began again in his wrist.

  Captain Bandy cleared his throat. He appeared
calm, as if Kasparak’s neurotic behavior was nothing new to him. “We don’t know that yet, sir,” he said. “But I have men working on it.”

  “My guess,” Bolan said, “is that before the day is out you’re going to find two dead guards some place in their underwear.”

  Kasparak turned to stare at Bolan, and his face flashed red again. But this time it was clearly out of rage. “And how would you know that?” he snapped.

  “Deductive reasoning,” Bolan said. “With a little bit of common sense thrown in.” The soldier didn’t like Kasparak, and it wasn’t just his faint-heartedness. The man exuded all of the shortcomings of an incompetent bureaucrat who slid though years of government employment with his focus on his personal career rather than his actual job. He cost the taxpayers far more than he ever contributed.

  Bandy cleared his throat. “That’s very likely,” he said.

  His spirit broken yet again, Kasparak folded his hands on the desk once more and then stared at them. Finally he looked up at Johnny Seven. “You,” he said, “I know. We’ve dealt in the past.” His eyes shifted back to Bolan. “But you would be…?” He was trying hard to sound confident again. Bolan would have bet his life that he had a political connection somewhere who had landed him this job.

  “Matt Cooper,” Bolan replied. “Department of Justice.”

  A look of surprise fell over Kasparak’s face. He swiveled to look at Luiza Polyakova. “It was my understanding it’s about drugs.”

  “It’s a matter that concerns the DOJ,” Bolan said, not explaining further.

  A new respect—bordering on awe—came over Kasparak’s face as he turned back to look at Bolan. The soldier watched the deputy commissioner’s eyes and saw the window to a politically driven soul. Behind the expression of astonishment, Kasparak’s brain was carefully evaluating this new turn of events. The man was trying to determine how he might best use this development to further his own standing.

  Bolan was about to leave Rikers Island, and when he did, Luiza Polyakova was going with him. He had anticipated balking on Kasparak’s part when he informed the man of that fact in the next few minutes. But now he saw a way to make the transition smoothly, cut through any argument and red tape, and save time. “The DOJ would appreciate your full cooperation,” he said.

  Kasparak’s head rose a full three inches in the air and he literally beamed. “Of course!” he said enthusiastically. “However I can be of service. I’m more than willing to help in any way I can.”

  “Good,” the Executioner stated. “What we need is simple. I want to take Ms. Polyakova with me.”

  “That’s no problem,” Kasparak said. “Federal officers do sometimes request a leave for certain prisoners to help on cases. Simply complete the paperwork and—”

  “No,” Bolan said, stopping him. “No paperwork. With all due respect, Deputy Commissioner, this place is like a sieve. If six prisoners can get out of their cells, get guard uniforms and attack another prisoner, you’ve got a serious information leak. If there’s a paper trail, word that Luiza is helping the Justice Department would be on the streets before we were. It’ll leak out eventually anyway, but I want to delay it as long as I can.”

  Kasparak withdrew back into the frightened-bureaucrat persona again. “But Agent Cooper, we have policies.”

  “My boss said to tell you that he’d be grateful for this favor on your part,” Bolan said. “Very grateful. Do you get my drift?”

  Kasparak brightened again but his face still held an element of fear. Like most political animals, he felt more comfortable accepting favors than risking anything by doing them. Finally he said, “I suppose it will be all right. But there are state and federal investigators on their way here right now. I can’t let you go until they’ve interviewed you.”

  Bolan glanced at his watch. Already it was late afternoon, and getting tied up with prisoner officials for the rest of the day wasn’t on his schedule. “It’s late,” he said. “And they’ll have plenty to investigate today without us. Why don’t you tell them we’ll all be back here bright and early in the morning. Does 8:00 a.m. sound okay?”

  Kasparak was still hesitant. “I suppose—”

  “Good,” Bolan said and stood. “It’s all settled, then. But Luiza needs a place to change clothes. She can’t be running around in orange coveralls.”

  Kasparak lifted the phone on his desk. “I’ll have one of the guards bring up her—”

  “No,” Bolan said. “Leave the clothes she wore here where they are. Some prisoner is likely to see what’s going on and as far as you and Rikers are concerned, she’s still here, remember?”

  Kasparak gulped visibly, a lump in his throat swelling and then disappearing like a boa constrictor swallowing a small pig. “Oh. Yes. Certainly.” He replaced the receiver.

  “I have clothes for her right here.” Bolan lifted the large briefcase.

  Kasparak pointed to a side door of the office. “Washroom,” he said.

  Polyakova had remained seated on the couch. As the soldier turned toward her, she looked up at him timidly. “Do I have anything to say about this?” she asked.

  “Sure,” Bolan said. “Go with me or stay here and look through the yellow pages for a lawyer.” He paused. “Or, more likely, a funeral director.”

  Polyakova took the briefcase and disappeared into the washroom.

  Johnny Seven had remained quiet during most of the conversation. But now he said, “What are we going to do?”

  The soldier didn’t want to discuss business in front of a self-serving politician like Kasparak. “We’ll talk later,” he said. He turned back to the desk and smiled. “No need to bother the deputy commissioner any more than we already have.”

  Kasparak didn’t seem to take the remark as an insult. In fact, he seemed relieved to remain ignorant of more than he already knew. He stood to get some big favor from the DOJ, and that was enough to satisfy him. He looked far more relaxed than he had when the conversation first began.

  A few minutes later, Luiza Polyakova reentered the office wearing an expertly tailored navy blue woman’s suit and high heels. She had redone her makeup yet again, and the overall effect was near staggering. Bolan led her and Johnny Seven out the door.

  The soldier hurried them down the hall to a row of elevators, then changed his mind when he saw the light indicating that one of the cars was on its way up. It might very well be the investigators Kasparak had mentioned, and he didn’t want to bump into them on his way out. Taking the Russian by the arm, he hurried her toward the stairs, then ushered her and Seven onto the landing. The door closed behind them just as the bell sounded down the hall, indicating that the elevator had arrived.

  Bolan glanced back through the mesh-glass window in the door long enough to see two men step off the elevator and start down the hall toward Kasparak’s office. They might as well have had New York State Police stenciled across the backs of their pinstriped suits.

  Bolan stayed outside the locker room with Polyakova while Seven picked up both of their weapons from the lock-boxes at the front of the prison building. While they waited, he reflected on all that had happened so far, where they stood and what they knew. Perhaps more importantly, he realized, the attempt on Polyakova’s life meant the enemy already knew the situation.

  A plan of action was beginning to form in Bolan’s mind, but he would wait until they were away from Rikers to talk about it. He led the way across the parking lot to the Toyota Highlander he had rented upon arriving in New York and took the wheel while Johnny Seven opened the passenger’s door for the woman. None of them had spoken since they’d left the deputy commissioner’s office, and the silence seemed to be uncomfortable for the DEA man. As Polyakova slid into her seat, Seven looked across at Bolan and said, “I’ll say one thing for you.”

  “What’s that?” Bolan asked as he stuck the key in the ignition and started the engine.

  “You guess women’s clothes sizes well.” He glanced at Polyakova and grinned.


  Bolan smiled. The navy blue suit did fit Polyakova perfectly, but it wasn’t because Bolan guessed sizes well. There was another reason.

  As they pulled out of the parking lot and started across the bridge linking New York’s most famous jail to the rest of the city, the soldier said, “We need a place to go sit and talk things out. I’ll find a motel.”

  Polyakova looked across at him for a moment, and even though her eyes were still filled with fear a tiny smile played around her lips. “We could go to my place instead,” she said, reaching out and fingering the cuff of the blue suit coat. “You know the way.”

  In the rearview mirror, Bolan could see a baffled look on Johnny Seven’s face. The conversation had taken a turn he couldn’t possibly have understood.

  Polyakova leaned back in the seat and sighed quietly. “I don’t know how you really are at guessing women’s sizes,” she said, her smile still in place. “But you have excellent taste in clothing.” She paused and stroked the arm of the jacket again. “I almost wore this today anyway.”

  BOLAN DID KNOW THE WAY to Luiza Polyakova’s apartment, and he guided the Highlander back toward it as a light rain began to fall over the Big Apple. He had stopped there as soon as he’d rented the vehicle, wanting to check out both the small but elegant loft and the art gallery below it before he met Polyakova for the first time. He had seen nothing that led him to believe the Russian woman was anything but what she claimed she was—a successful art importer and gallery owner. There were no traces of drugs or drug activity of any kind. The apartment was small and comfortably furnished but not luxuriously so. The furniture and other items he’d seen could have easily been afforded on the money he suspected she made in the art business.