The head of the Thirteenth Section carefully digested each report of the far-flung activities of John Phoenix: Japan, Africa, the Caribbean, Latin America, Germany... The whole world was his warground! Undoubtedly, Phoenix was the main enemy — politically, as well as personally.
The KGB officer searched for a recognizable pattern, a repeated method that might indicate the man's carelessness or leave him vulnerable in the future. There was none. All he could find was a ruthless professionalism, a fighter every bit as zealous as Strakhov himself had been in the days of the Finnish campaign and the encirclement of Stalingrad.
He picked up the photograph of Boldin. The resemblance really was most remarkable.
"And you say this man is ready?"
"You can see him for yourself, sir, at any time."
Strakhov turned back to the file. He had almost completed his assessment when there was a commotion in the outer office.
"Send Mozhenko in!" barked the major general.
The administrative officer came in and flipped open his briefcase with a nervous and unnecessary flourish. "My contact at Tass sent these right over. It's Phoenix all right. Taken early this afternoon. He's wearing a mustache now, but it's definitely him. Don't you think so?"
"It certainly appears to be," agreed Strakhov, comparing this latest black-and-white glossy with the picture from the file. "And what do you say, Colonel?"
Vichinsky nodded quickly. He was too caught up in the tension now to worry about the abrupt disclosure that his cherished plan had really been no secret at all. They could fight for the lion's share of the credit later. He coughed to cover his excitement. "Yes, I'm sure it's Phoenix. There's something about his eyes..."
"Where was this taken, Mozhenko?"
"At a press reception in Djakovic Airport."
"Zubrovna? This afternoon?"
"Yes, Comrade General, in Zubrovna."
"And who is this girl in the foreground?"
"Her name is Kelly Crawford. She's the American pentathlete going up against Katya Timoshenko. The American girl was interviewed on her arrival at Zubrovna," continued Mozhenko. "One of our men there almost provoked her into an embarrassing answer regarding the partial boycott of the games. He took the picture, then sent it on with his report via Tass. As you can see, Phoenix is standing behind her. Like a bodyguard, I suppose."
"How long do these games go on for?"
"They start in three days and they'll take five days to complete," Mozhenko told them.
"Then we've got eight full days to..." began Vichinsky.
Strakhov lifted his hand and silenced his assistant. "Thank you, Comrade Mozhenko. The work of your unit is exceptional. I shall make sure the minister knows of your efforts."
"Thank you, sir." Mozhenko backed away. His part in this affair was ended. In fact, he was glad to be released from Strakhov's shadowy headquarters. He felt uncomfortable in the presence of these men; he was more at home with his files and computerized records.
"Crawford? I'm sure I remember that name," commented Vichinsky, as soon as Mozhenko had closed the door behind him. "It's been mentioned in connection with Phoenix before. May I see the file again, sir, please?"
Vichinsky riffled through the pages at the end, the one section Strakhov had not yet read. His nicotine-stained finger tapped at a closely typewritten report. "Yes, I thought so. General James Crawford. It's right here. Our connection in Washington says Crawford had something to do with establishing the group that backs Phoenix. In Virginia."
"Langley? CIA?"
"No, sir. They are under far deeper cover than that."
"You mean they might be our opposite numbers in a way?"
"I wouldn't say that exactly, General."
Strakhov shrugged it off. The two men had simply explored the notion of a match and dismissed it; the thought never once occurred to them that the United States had no equivalent to the Thirteenth Section.
"You indicated that the double is ready?"
"I believe he is, General."
"On the outside perhaps, but what about in here?" Strakhov patted his chest. "Is he committed to the success of this project?"
"I cannot vouch for that. Until now I've mainly been concerned with his appearance. Lednev is standing by in case it's a wet operation."
"Zubrovna. A city with problems, unpredictable problems. A place of social unrest," Strakhov mused aloud. "The birthplace of Unity, and the random violence it has spawned..."
Vichinsky hardly dared follow his superior's train of thought, but Strakhov let him be the one to voice it. "Damien Macek!"
"Precisely. Macek himself is to address a rally there the day after tomorrow."
The risk was breathtaking. Vichinsky was giddy with its implications. Macek would be a nationalist worker-martyr if they so much as touched him; but if some foreign madman were to...
"Our two most serious concerns solved in one bold stroke!" It was a temptation too strong to resist. And it was certainly more daring than any plan Vichinsky might have contemplated on his own.
"We've two birds within our grasp," said Strakhov. He held out his hand, like a bear's paw and just as strong, with the open palm cupped. Then his fingers closed as he crushed them into a fist.
17
Pierre Danjou waited for her in the lobby. He had already put in two hours training, then returned to his quarters where he had shaved, showered and changed for his late-breakfast date with Kelly Crawford. They had made whispered arrangements the night before.
Glancing around the westernized surroundings of the hotel's reception area, he thought the Americans had been assigned far superior accommodations than his own team.
Because of the uncertainty of how many student athletes would attend ISIG, and of a pressing need for a public display of economic caution, the state government had not seen fit to build showcase housing for the foreign competitors.
Instead they had pressed into service every hotel, hostel and guest house within convenient reach of the sports stadium. Interested tourists and visiting spectators had been left to fend for themselves as best they could.
Kelly stepped through the elevator doors and gave Pierre a quick casual wave. She decided that with his fair hair neatly swept back over one side of his forehead, his blazer and slacks impeccable, and his seductively shy smile, Pierre looked, well, he looked so French.
"You look beautiful this morning, Kelly."
"Why, thank you!"
"First, I'll tell you the good news. I don't have to report back to the training gymnasium until three o'clock."
"And the bad news?"
"It's simply that I don't have the whole day off," replied Pierre, making an exaggerated show of his regret. "I wish I could spend every minute of this glorious day with you!"
Kelly nudged him playfully. "I don't have to check in until after lunch, either. My coach, Lee, says I'm not to dwell on the competition."
"I shall be glad to take your mind off the games. Come, let's go for a drive. As official competitors we have the use of a courtesy car." Pierre steered her toward the revolving glass doors. He gripped her arm. "But I thought Mark Bailey was your coach."
"Yes, well, he is, sort of. He's on the staff. A kind of special assistant." Kelly looked back across the lobby and then scanned the front entrance bay before pushing her way through the door. There was no sign of John Phoenix, but Kelly found this cloak-and-dagger exit added an extra thrill to her meeting with Pierre.
The doorman signaled to a waiting car. It cruised forward to the main entrance.
"Better service than you get in decadent, bourgeois democracies," commented Pierre with a chuckle.
He opened the back door. Kelly got in and slid over. Then Pierre jumped in and the car pulled away.
"And where would you two like to go?" asked the driver, glancing back over his shoulder.
Kelly's mouth dropped open.
Colonel John Phoenix sat behind the wheel.
"I thought we might all go for
a tour of the town," said Bolan, smiling. He enjoyed giving them a surprise.
"Yes, yes, of course. That would be great," stammered Kelly, giving Pierre's hand a squeeze as if to reassure him that she was still alone with him in her heart despite this unwelcome intrusion.
They drove down the Avenue Elena Skobla. Bolan looked in his mirror.
Wondered where you'd got to this morning, he thought as he saw the blue Zastava turn out of a side street and fall in behind them. He presumed Kelly had been briefed on what to expect before she left home: any highly visible guests at the ISIG were bound to be followed.
Still, there was no point in alarming the youngsters; they had enough on their minds with the stiff competition they faced. Bolan said nothing as he took a right turn into Zvedlo Park Road.
"I'm starving!" Kelly said. "Let's find a restaurant."
They cruised down a hill to the Petrovic Foundation. On the far side of a small square stood St. Savior's Church, with onion-domed tower and gaily colored tiling.
"Oh, it's all so quaint. I must get a photo," Kelly enthused.
"I thought you were hungry," Bolan said, indicating the open-air cafe on the other side of the fountain. It looked like a good place to eat. The guys in the blue car must have thought so, too; they pulled up in a parking space on the far end of the courtyard.
Bolan suddenly wished he hadn't picked this particular place to stop. A couple of press photographers were weaving and bobbing to get some close shots of the group that was getting up to leave.
The two men, one apparently a wrestler and the other his trainer, looked at the Westerners with suspicion, then with scarcely veiled hostility. The three women with them displayed a more honest curiosity.
"Some of the Russian team," murmured Pierre, without so much as disturbing his smile of greeting.
The athletes from Moscow veered to the left, giving their rivals a wider berth than was needed. The last woman stopped briefly, looked first at the older American before turning her attention to Kelly.
The Russian was tall, perhaps five foot eight, but her lithe-limbed grace and perfect posture made her seem taller. Her face was a study in contrasts, with the line of her delicately angular cheeks running down into a strongly defined jaw. And her eyes were a self-confident blue, almost as fathomless as Bolan's.
"Hello, Miss Crawford." Her English was faultless.
Kelly stared back. "Hello, Katya."
As the Soviet woman traded glances with the American blonde, the faster of the two photographers got his shot of two superpower athletes facing off.
Bolan detected just the slightest deepening of the smile lines that framed her mouth, then the young woman whom the world had taken to its heart as "The Kat" turned away and followed quickly after her companions.
One of the paparazzi decided to stick with the Russian party for his story. The other hadn't made up his mind, but Bolan's hand closing on his shoulder took care of that decision. "You're not going anywhere for a moment."
Bolan propelled the fellow to the table chosen by Pierre and Kelly. He recognized the photographer from the reception at the airport.
"Mr. Radic, I want that film in your camera — the picture you just took of the two girls. No need to stir things up."
"What!" exclaimed Radic. "But that's my best picture! Miss Crawford, I appeal to you..."
He glanced over at Kelly, his brown eyes pleading.
Kelly fell for the man's act. "Oh, let him keep the pictures, Mark."
"Then may I take some more?" Radic pressed his luck. "Some shots of Miss Crawford relaxing here in my beautiful city before the games get under way."
Bolan shrugged impatiently. Customers turned to watch Kelly being photographed. Kelly ordered a coffee and croissant for Radic, too, when the waiter came.
"Thank you!" Radic snapped half a dozen shots or more. Kelly did her best to appear quite blase about the young cameraman's attention.
The Frenchman picked up a sheet of paper that he thought the Russians might have left behind. It was a flier advertising the Unity rally to be held the next morning at Revolution Square. "If I can get a couple of hours off tomorrow, I might go along to watch some of it. Kelly, would you like to go?"
Kelly was about to voice her acceptance when Bolan, who had temporarily been watching the blue car, shook his head. "You're not to go anywhere near that meeting."
"I think we should all hear what Damien Macek has to say," Pierre suggested. "It will be a rare opportunity to see history in the making."
"What do you say, Georgi..." Kelly began to ask.
"George. Please, call me George."
"Do you think there's going to be any trouble at the Unity rally?" Kelly continued.
"I think perhaps that you should not go, Miss Crawford," he replied gravely. "The authorities are very angry. They have let it be known they want this meeting canceled, but they dare not impose martial law while all the visitors are here for the games."
"Unity is taking a tactical risk that might very well backfire," added Bolan.
"But Pierre has a point, doesn't he? It's like meeting the Pope, or seeing the space shuttle land or something. It really will be history as it happens!"
"Miss Crawford, I tell you sincerely that even those among us who are committed to the cause of Unity..." Radic's voice had dropped to a conspiratorial whisper "…are asking if this is the wisest course of action."
Kelly's cheeks flushed slightly; she was excited by the tensions the argument had generated. She knew that several of the other customers were watching them closely. "Well, we'll see..."
"No, you won't," Bolan shot back.
* * *
Bolan turned restlessly. The sheets and thin blanket had become as confusingly tangled as his thoughts. Baby-sitting Kelly Crawford was not turning out to be the rest and recreation that Brognola had promised him it would.
He had left Kelly Crawford in the care of her regular coach, Lee Brebner. Then Bolan had spent the late afternoon playing cat and mouse with the two guys in the blue sedan. One was a fat operative in a greasy raincoat, the other man wore leather gloves despite the warm weather.
Just before returning to the hotel Bolan shook off the two men in a crowded department store, doubled back and left them stranded with two flat tires.
It was a provocative risk, but it released a little of Bolan's frustration. He still hadn't heard anything from Brognola. How much time did he need? That was where he should be, thought Bolan — in Washington. And a long way from Kelly Crawford.
The sight of Kelly with the dashing French fencer forced Bolan to think of April Rose. He missed her deep in his heart, in his guts. Yet in a way it still had not struck home. Bolan toyed with the ring he wore on a chain around his neck. It was almost as if she were still waiting for him back at Stony Man Farm.
But the enemy had turned his headquarters into just another blood-soaked killzone.
Yeah, April was gone, and inside Bolan knew that part of himself had died with her.
For years he had been putting out the brushfires of international terror. But it hadn't worked; even with the loyal support of Able Team and Phoenix Force. The body count mounted — now on both sides — but the inferno raged on, as uncontrollable as ever.
It was no good to merely hack away at the limbs and heads of this monstrous Hydra. He had to attack its central nervous system, again and again, as many times as were needed to paralyze the beast.
Bolan lay back, one arm cradled behind his head, and tried to organize this chaotic stream of semiconsciousness. First, they had to identify the mole who had burrowed so close to the President, isolate him and destroy him. If Hal Brognola hadn't got the job done by the time Bolan returned from these games, then he would attend to the matter with brutal dispatch.
Secondly, he would have to discuss the whole notion of a new unit. If Brognola didn't go for the suggestion, then he would resign.
But, would they let him quit? Would they allow John Phoenix to simply wal
k away — and live? Not likely, not after all he'd been through and what he knew of current American security measures.
Nobody resigned from that.
Unless it was a terminal retirement.
* * *
The airport manager and his deputy, together with his most experienced controller, were all in the control tower to watch the landing of the unscheduled Aeroflot night flight. It touched down at Djakovic at 0240 local time.
The airport was closed to the public. Normally there were no flights coming into Zubrovna at this time of night.
Branislav Pepovski mopped his brow with the limp handkerchief he'd been clutching for the past twenty minutes. Looking down across the tarmac, he could see the local commandant of the state-security forces with Mr. Novikov, a Soviet official.
Pepovski was quite certain the Russian was not a press attaché. Both men turned to look up at the tower windows as the Yakolev whined to a halt close to the cargo terminal.
Pepovski's assistant, who had been monitoring the walkie-talkie, repeated the garbled instructions more clearly. "They want us to kill the lights."
"Do what they say!" the manager urged. The man extinguished the tarmac floodlights just as the ramp was wheeled in place under the door of the jet. "And the ones in here. Turn everything out!"
There was another delay while the ground crew left the area. A long black limousine, sleekly reflecting the moonlight, cruised to the foot of the ramp.
Four men came out. They hurried down the darkened steps. Pepovski couldn't resist taking a look. After all, they had called him out with scarcely an hour's notice, and surely he was entitled to know something of what was going on in his own airport. But there wasn't much to see. He could have sworn the man in the middle had a coat or cloth pulled over his head.
The passengers quietly piled into the waiting Mercedes.
* * *
Stefan Boldin took the jacket off his head and glanced out of the tinted windows.
Terminal Velocity Page 11
