Soviet Specter

by Don Pendleton

  The Chechen walked toward a newsstand roughly halfway down the long wall. From there, he knew he could peruse the books and have a clear view of the ticket counters. Ahead, he could see the priest and the two nuns looking at a rack of paperback novels just outside the alcove. Their backs were to him but something had struck them funny, and their bodies all jiggled in laughter.

  Akhmatov had walked up behind the three, ready to turn into the tiny store, when one of the nuns suddenly spun 180 degrees and stared straight at him in horror. It amused the Chechen, and he smiled. Her hand shot to the crucifix around her neck like a gunfighter slapping his holster. She took a step back, and her back struck the priest.

  Movlid Akhmatov laughed softly as he walked past.

  The Chechen found a magazine rack that allowed him to face outward, and pretended to scan the titles. Once in a great while, he got the feeling he might be different than other men. That wasn’t quite right, he thought as he looked up at the top rack, where he saw periodicals entitled Penthouse and Playboy. He knew he was different than other men in many ways. He was stronger, tougher, smarter. But sometimes he got a glimpse into his soul that suggested he might be different in ways he didn’t understand. He often wondered why other men took killing so seriously, and even seemed emotional over it. To Movlid Akhmatov, that made no sense. And it wasn’t that he was without emotion as one of the weak-minded psychiatrists in Moscow had suggested. Alone, with the women he made love to, he was pure emotion. He brought out pure, bare, stark emotion in them, as well.

  Their screams proved their passion. Their moans proved their love for him.

  Akhmatov shrugged his shoulders. He suspected he wasn’t only more intelligent but also more sensitive than other men.

  The Chechen looked up at a bare-breasted woman on the cover of one of the magazines. The woman had long blond hair and green eyes, and he knew she, too, would love him if he could only spend some time with her. For a moment, he wondered how she would look if he removed those breasts. As good, perhaps better, he suspected than the woman he had left chained at his house a few hours ago. His thoughts shot back to her, and he hoped she wouldn’t die before he returned. There was work to do on her yet.

  Movlid Akhmatov’s head suddenly jerked up over the top of the magazine rack. Across the hall, at one of the ticket desks, he saw a tall, muscular man wearing jeans and a light black jacket walk to the end of the line in front of the American Airlines counter. Standing just to the side of the line was a shorter, balding man. He was broad, and looked very much like a former Olympic weightlifter with whom Akhmatov had once trained. That man had had layers of muscle beneath the excess weight, and this one appeared to, as well.

  Standing next to the broad man was one of the most beautiful women the Chechen had even seen. She had long blond hair cascading down her shoulders like a golden waterfall. As he watched, transfixed, she removed her sunglasses and revealed a pair of hauntingly green eyes. Akhmatov glanced back up at the magazine. The two women looked very much alike.

  Moving around the side of the magazine stand, the Chechen left the book stall and crossed the tile toward the counter. An elderly woman was in front of the trio. A middle-aged couple had just fallen in behind them. Akhmatov patted the Colt in the outside pocket of his jacket. He could possibly shoot them all now and still get away. The .38-caliber pistol had a hammer shroud and could be fired from within the pocket. The roar would disrupt everyone around him for a few moments and there was every chance in the world he could simply walk out of the airport before anyone even realized what had happened.

  Akhmatov moved to the end of the line behind the middle-aged couple. He felt the excitement rising in his chest, and a familiar heat swept through his groin. He reached into his pocket and found the grips of the Colt. The big man in black was the one Zdorovye had said was the more dangerous of the two. He would shoot him first.

  Taking a step to the side, the Chechen lifted his coat slightly until he knew the barrel of the revolver pointed straight at the center of the man’s back. His finger began to tighten on the trigger. Then the blonde glanced his way and he relaxed his grip. Her eyes fell on him for only a second before moving on. But it was enough.

  Akhmatov knew a woman in love when he saw one, and this woman he had been sent to kill—Luiza Polyakova—was in love with him.

  He would have to kill her—he had given his word—and he would kill her, but before she died, she deserved the chance to show her love for him. Taking her back to the Caucasus would be a problem, but surely he could find some isolated spot there in New York where no one could hear her shrieks of ecstasy.

  The Chechen pulled his hand out of his pocket. He would wait.

  The elderly woman finished at the counter and the man in the black jacket stepped forward. Akhmatov tapped the middle-aged man in front of him on the shoulder. When the man turned and looked into his eyes, he whispered, “May I cut in front of you, please?”

  The man looking up at him seemed to shrink. He swallowed as if something had caught in his throat. He started to speak but seemed unable to get the words out. “Please…go ahead.”

  Akhmatov stepped forward behind the blonde, who had moved up with the heavy man to join the tall American at the counter. He turned away from them but leaned back slightly, listening.

  “London,” he heard the man in the black jacket say. “Three tickets.” The counter attendant gave him a flight number, a time and a gate, and Akhmatov heard a rubber stamp come down on the counter. A second later, he saw the three people move away and he turned to the counter.

  “London,” Akhmatov said. “One. Business class.”

  As soon as he had his ticket, the Chechen hurried to a row of telephones against the wall. A moment later, he had placed a call to a former Soviet MVD sergeant living in Liverpool. He didn’t know exactly what the man now did for a living but he knew it involved some form of illegal gambling. “You must meet me in London,” he told Pavel Petrov when the call connected. “I will need guns.”

  The man on the other end seemed no happier to hear from him than the former Spetsnaz officer had been. “I can’t do it, Movlid,” he said. “I no longer—”

  The Chechen clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth. “Pavel, Pavel, Pavel,” he said in the voice of one scolding a child. “If you won’t come to me, then I must come to you.”

  “Where do I meet you?” asked the former MVD man.

  After the conversation ended, Akhmatov started for the gate, then passed a uniformed police officer and remembered he had one last stop to make first. Looking up, he saw two picture signs above the hallway. One featured the silhouette of a woman, the other a man. Following the arrow leading off from the figure wearing pants, he entered the men’s room and proceeded directly into one of the stalls.

  Five minutes later the .38 and .45 pistols were at the bottom of a toilet tank and Akhmatov had passed through the security checkpoint without incident.

  PARTIALLY HIDDEN behind London’s Wallace Collection—one of the city’s less famous but more excellent art galleries and museums—was Durrants Hotel. An unusually old-fashioned inn for a city that was fast becoming known for rooms that resembled motels in the Midwestern U.S., the Durrants was still a familyrun operation. The restaurant was revered for superior food at modest prices, and featured oak-paneled walls. All in all, the hotel had a “mom and pop” atmosphere no longer considered quaint in a modern city.

  Best of all, the Durrants was only a few blocks from the Smith-Williams Art Gallery.

  One concession to modernism the hotel had made, however, was electronic locks. Bolan inserted the key card into the door and waited for the tiny green light to appear. When it did, he heard a click and pushed the door open. Polyakova started to go in but the Executioner took her arm and shook his head. He nodded Seven through the opening first.

  Comprehension of this break in chivalry lit up the woman’s eyes as the DEA man slid his hand under his sport coat and entered the room. Bol
an followed, his own hand disappearing beneath his jacket. Instead of the familiar grips of the Desert Eagle or Beretta 93-R, he felt the thick handle of a Browning Hi-Power. They had flown commercial from New York to London in case Gregor had men watching them, and carrying weapons aboard the aircraft would have drawn other unwanted attention when they were forced to fill out an endless number of forms. Bolan had chosen to arrive in London unarmed. The 9 mm Hi-Power pistols had been waiting for them at Heathrow when they touched down, deposited in a locker by a British Special Air Services officer who had been trained at Stony Man Farm.

  Whether or not it was all an exercise in futility, the Executioner would never know. But he did know that Gregor was still suspicious of him and he still hadn’t shaken the feeling he had gotten at the airport that they were being watched. He couldn’t prove it, but he didn’t have to prove it to know it.

  Bolan left the luggage in the hallway with the woman and followed Johnny Seven into the room. The DEA man lifted the tail of his buttoned sport coat and clumsily drew his own Hi-Power as he ducked into the bathroom just inside the door. The Executioner heard the sound of a plastic shower curtain being drawn as he moved to the open closet door opposite the bath. Seeing it empty, he passed the closet and dropped low to check under the bed before moving on to the large picture window at the other end of the room. The curtains were open, and through the glass he saw that the room looked out onto the alley. Several taller buildings stood behind them in the next block. Just outside the window was a small walkway-balcony that apparently ran around the building. Ten feet to his left was a staircase from the second floor to the ground. The Executioner glanced back at the picture window and saw hinges. In case of fire, it could be turned into a door that would lead to the common steps.

  Bolan walked back to the door and ushered Polyakova inside as Seven came out of the bathroom. He had seen no advantage in mentioning that he had unloaded all of Ontomanov’s guns before the DEA man shot him. Johnny Seven, while proving to be fearless and trustworthy, had so far been a step behind the Executioner every time shots were fired. Finally getting in on the action seemed to have given him confidence, and Bolan didn’t intend to take the chance of ruining that self-assurance.

  Bolan stepped back into the hallway, grabbed the suitcases and carried them inside, letting the door close behind him. Seven stood next to the bed in the small room, stuffing his pistol back into his pants against a too-tight striped shirt he had taken from Ontomanov’s closet. The shirt not only didn’t fit, but also it clashed terribly with his worn and frazzled sport coat. Polyakova had actually winced when he had come out of Ontomanov’s bedroom wearing the combination back in New York.

  The outfit hadn’t bothered the DEA agent in the least, but what Bolan had noticed irritated him was the way the tight shirt threatened to pop the buttons over his stomach. Seven still looked like a powerful man but he was nearing retirement age, and like so many men in law enforcement, had developed a weight problem. Bolan had noticed that he kept his jacket buttoned over the shirt, which meant he had to lift it to get to the Browning. Hardly an advantage to start a speedy draw. The man was letting vanity get in the way of performance, and Bolan knew he had to do something about that before it got the DEA agent killed.

  Bolan set the suitcases on a pair of metal-and-canvas luggage racks along the wall. Jack Grimaldi, Stony Man’s ace pilot, should have arrived in one of the Farm’s Learjets by now with both men’s regular weapons. They’d be hearing a knock on the door any time now. In the meantime, he’d take care of Seven’s clothing problem.

  The DEA man dragged the suitcase he had taken from Ontomanov’s apartment in from the hall and, with the luggage racks both full, dropped it on the bed. Bolan walked to a door leading to the adjoining room and made sure the bolt lock was in place.

  The soldier came back in and saw Polyakova looking at the bed. She glanced up and their eyes met for a moment, then she blushed and turned away. Bolan walked to his suitcase and opened it, pretending not to have seen her embarrassment. He had considered leaving Luiza behind, hidden somewhere where she’d be safe, but he had a plan for London, and that plan needed her art expertise. Unzipping his suitcase, he pulled out a clean T-shirt, socks, a pair of khaki pants and dropped them on the bed. Then he turned to Seven and reached into his pocket for his money clip. He shoved several hundred-dollar bills into the man’s hand and said, “While we’re waiting, go downstairs and change this for British pounds. And I saw a men’s clothing store just down the street.”

  Seven took the money and nodded. “Thanks.” He kept his jacket buttoned as he hurried out the door.

  As soon as he was gone, Polyakova said, “Did you do that on purpose?”

  Bolan had turned back to his suitcase but now looked up. “What?” he said, then saw the look on her face and suddenly knew what she meant. She was standing five feet away but he could still feel the heat radiating between them. “No,” he said softly. “I didn’t do that on purpose.”

  The woman took a step closer to him and her green eyes bore into his. “I wish you had,” she whispered, and then she was suddenly in his arms.

  Bolan felt the beautiful Russian woman’s full red lips press against his as his arms encircled her, and hers wrapped around his waist. She hugged him tightly, pressing her body into his, and pulling against his back as if trying to force the two of them to become one. Bolan was lost in the embrace, stroking the long blond tresses that fell down her back. For a brief moment in time, there were no Russian drug dealers, no murderers, rapists or thieves in all the world.

  Then the knock came.

  Bolan leaned back, holding Luiza Polyakova at arm’s length. Her face was flushed a soft pink. One long strand of golden hair fell over her left eye. She muttered something in Russian—some curse word that wasn’t in even the Executioner’s extensive Russian vocabulary. Then she laughed softly. “Perhaps later,” she said. “When we have time.”

  Bolan smiled and turned to the door.

  In his faded brown leather bomber jacket, Jack Grimaldi looked every bit the air ace that he was. “Howdy, Striker,” he said as Bolan opened the door and stepped back.

  Grimaldi walked in carrying two musical instrument cases. One was for a guitar, the other big enough to hold a viola. “I’ve felt like Al Capone ever since I stuffed these full of—” The pilot suddenly saw Polyakova standing there, her face still flushed, and stopped in his tracks. “Whoa, son!” he said, turning back to the Executioner. “Did I come at a bad time?”

  “Drop the gear and have a seat,” Bolan told him.

  The woman stepped over the desk and pulled her ever present nail file from her purse. She sat down and began to work furiously on her fingernails.

  Grimaldi followed the first order, setting the cases on the floor next to the bed. But he ignored the Executioner’s invitation to sit and turned back toward the door. “No time, big guy,” he said. “Five of your friends need me to pick them up in the Belfast and drop them off near Madrid, stat.” He glanced back at Polyakova, and even a well-disciplined man like the pilot couldn’t keep his eyes off her chest for a flicker of a second. “Besides that, the hormones are bouncing off the walls in here. I’m afraid I’ll get hit with a ricochet.” He grinned at the Russian woman. “Ma’am,” he said, and then with a wink at Bolan he was out the door again.

  Polyakova laughed when he had gone. “I think he knew,” she said.

  Bolan smiled at her. She started toward him again but he shook his head. “You said it yourself,” he told her. “Later. When we have time.” He tore his eyes away from hers and walked to the black cases on the floor, lifting them both up and setting them on the bed next to the suitcase already there. He forced himself to concentrate on opening the latches. He didn’t need to be thinking about the two of them together right now. He needed to keep his mind on keeping her alive.

  The guitar case Bolan opened held Seven’s Taurus, his SIG-Sauer, ammunition and other accessories. The Executioner closed it
and opened the bigger container. Inside was an M-16 A-2 and various other guns, including the Beretta and Desert Eagle. His constant companions had flown over the Atlantic in their holsters, and he took off his jacket and slipped into them now. He checked both magazines and chambers, flipping the safeties back on when he was done. Drawing the Loner knife from its sheath, he tested it against his thumbnail. The edge bit into the nail with no effort.

  Bolan dropped the Browning Hi-Power into the case, then dug through the rest of the guns and other equipment, sorting it. He glanced up once at Polyakova. She had taken a seat in a chair at the table by the window and faced away from him, looking through the glass at the buildings across the alley. When he had finished, the soldier closed the case again and latched it.

  Bolan heard footsteps in the hallway and walked to the door, his hand on the butt of the shoulder-holstered Beretta. The peephole had an extrawide field of vision, and he was able to see for several yards both ways, up and down the hall. He watched another hotel guest wrestle his baggage past their rooms. The burly man set two suitcases down in front of a room across the hall and two doors down, stuck his card in the door, then entered.

  As the door was closing, the Executioner saw Johnny Seven come walking down the hall carrying two large sacks. He waited until the man was almost at the door, then opened it for him.

  The DEA agent walked in, smiling nervously. He still wore Ontomanov’s striped shirt beneath his sport coat as he walked to the bed. Seeing the guitar and viola cases on the bed, he said, “Looks like either your man arrived or you’ve got talent I didn’t know about.” He dropped the sacks on top of the suitcase.

  “Your stuff is in the guitar case,” said the Executioner.

  Polyakova had continued to stare out the window, but now she stood and walked across the room. “Come on,” she said, smiling at the DEA man. “Let’s see what you bought.”

  Johnny Seven was facing away from him, but Bolan saw the back of the man’s neck turn red. “Well…” he said.