A solitary visitor, taking a photograph of a barge plowing through the powerful currents of the river, gave him a friendly nod. Sensing danger, Bolan hunched deeper into his trench-coat collar and strolled along the water's edge uneasily.
He glanced over his shoulder. No one there. He moved forward again and suddenly the man in the raincoat was standing at the end of the cobbled quay. He was much younger than Bolan, perhaps an inch taller, with shoulders just as broad but a thinner trunk. His face was quite expressionless.
As Bolan studied his pursuer, only one word came to mind. Knife. The Executioner was carrying steel too, and he knew how to use it. Whoever this guy was, whichever side he was working for, he could not be allowed to make a report. He was standing directly between Bolan and the stone steps to the street above. Bolan came straight at him, forcing the other man to make his play.
He stretched out an open hand. "Mack Bolan? My name is Alexei Kirov."
Bolan shook his hand. "I haven't been followed — except by you."
"I had to make certain that no one was pursuing you."
"What's the next move?"
"I am to take you to the duchess. The car is waiting for us at the top of the stairs."
Bolan was driven across town, past the Eiffel Tower and over to the Right Bank.
The duchess lived in a quietly fashionable cul-de-sac just east of the Bois de Boulogne. The house was set back behind a high stone wall. Bolan caught a glimpse of a small front courtyard through the narrow wrought-iron gateway. Two dogs — an Alsatian and an even larger Russian wolfhound — were stretched out on either side of a sundial, watchful to warn off any unwelcome intruders.
Kirov touched a button in the vehicle's control console and waited while the garage door slid silently upward. He drove in, shut the sturdy metal door with the same switch, then turned off the engine.
"This way, Mr. Bolan."
A side door led directly into the house. The passage, which needed a fresh coat of paint, led past the kitchen.
The main rooms were not as gloomy as Bolan had anticipated. Kirov took the American up to an airy room on the second floor and left him there.
Bolan was looking down on the small, carefully trimmed lawn at the back of the house when Kirov returned.
"Her Imperial Highness, the Grand Duchess Marijana Sophia Mikhaylovna Rytova," he announced gravely.
Bolan found himself standing at attention as the elderly aristocrat entered the room. She was blessed with a fine bone structure and regal bearing; her white hair was pinned back, and yet she retained a hint of youthful vigor in her bright green eyes. The duchess must have been a strikingly beautiful woman in her prime.
"You come to us with the highest recommendation, Mr. Bolan." She sat on the couch and gestured that her guest should also be seated. "Professor Farson rarely displays such trust and certainly never misplaces it."
"I am honored, ma'am."
"I think it is we who should be honored. Few men will still fight for a cause that is considered so futile, if not utterly lost."
"I'm just trying to set something right. I'm fighting my own war, not yours — not one that started nearly seventy years ago."
"Perhaps they are the same," she murmured in reply. She was intrigued by the serious dark-haired stranger. Her war with the usurpers would never die as long as she could enlist the aid of a man such as Mack Bolan. She would extend to him whatever support was in her power. "I understand you wish to get into Russia unnoticed."
Bolan nodded. "As quietly and quickly as possible."
"That much can be arranged." She leaned forward. "And once you're there?"
He hesitated; he was used to playing long shots, but this time the odds seemed overwhelming. "I must find some way to establish contact with a high-ranking KGB official, Major General Greb Strakhov. And the meeting must be dictated on my terms."
The duchess glanced across to Kirov, who was still standing silently near the door. Bolan caught a flash of recognition at his mention of the name. "Do you know this man Strakhov?"
"We know of him, Mr. Bolan." She turned and issued her young bodyguard an instruction in Russian.
"What has a diary to do with all this?" asked Bolan.
Marijana faced him quickly. She was amused at being caught by surprise; so he understood the language.
"I was born with the turn of the century, Mr. Bolan. I am in my mid-eighties and I rather hope to live to the turn of the next. If only I could see Russia free again, I would die a happy woman."
Bolan realized she meant just that: her first priority was freedom, not merely the reestablishment of the Romanov dynasty.
"As a young girl I often played with my cousins, sometimes Maria, but more often Anastasia..."
For a brief instant Bolan saw a distant look in the duchess's eyes as she remembered her childhood.
Kirov returned with a slim leather-bound volume, securely fastened with a brass lock. He handed the diary to his elderly charge.
"There is no one left but myself who knows the full truth about Anastasia. I have met or interviewed all those women who have claimed her identity. My conclusionsare written down in this diary."
"Stuart Farson mentioned that Strakhov is absorbed by the mystery of the missing girl."
"Greb Strakhov would kill me to lay hands on this book. He would kill anyone who possessed it." She placed it on the side table between them. "Vasili Tretyakov is an art dealer here in Paris. He does business on both sides of the iron curtain. I know he has already supplied Strakhov with other memorabilia regarding the Romanovs. It was Tretyakov who warned us of Greb Strakhov's passion and the lengths to which he would go."
Bolan reached for the journal. The duchess did not stop him. He weighed it in his hand; it would fit easily in his inside pocket.
"If you were a thief who had broken into this house, Mr. Bolan..." Marijana sounded doubtful, though she realized that if any man could breach the security Alexei had installed it would be this American "...it is not likely that you would take only the memoirs of an old woman. Alexei, open up the safe again and bring me the Faberge egg."
Kirov hesitated for a moment, but one imperious stare from the duchess sent him on his way.
"How did you two.?.."
"Alexei's grandmother was my private nurse when I was forced to leave Russia. The Kirovs have always been retained in the service of my family. Now we are both the last of our lines. It is an appropriate partnership."
This time Kirov came back with a cylindrical leather case, dull with age. He placed it on the wooden table.
"This is what you would have stolen," said the duchess, accepting the key from Kirov and unlocking the container.
The side walls of the case opened out like two small doors. Nestled on a cushion of velvet was a single unblemished nugget of turquoise, the color of a robin's egg, smoothed into a decorative Easter egg about three inches high. It was enclosed in a delicate latticework of silver branches, and each junction of this shining tracery was pinpointed with miniature flower petals that held within them a sapphire as a bud.
Marijana lifted out the egg and with a gentle twist opened it up. Cleverly hidden inside was a tiny bird perfectly carved from lapis lazuli. And the base of this whole incredible confection was a tangle of silver filigree representing a robin's nest.
"That's worth a fortune," said the soldier.
"Oh, more than that, Mr. Bolan. It is priceless. There are more than thirteen thousand works by Picasso. But Faberge created less than sixty of these famous jeweled eggs. In the realm of art and craftsmanship, you are looking at the very definition of rarity."
"I must agree with you — if I were a safecracker, this is what I would be after."
"Then in the morning, once Alexei has laid a trail of 'breaking in,' I shall report the robbery. Within twenty-four hours several key people in Paris will know all the details."
"Would one of them be Vasili Tretyakov?"
Marijana nodded. "Undoubtedly. And the ne
ws of the theft will be in Moscow before you arrive."
'The egg will prove that I broke into your home and am therefore in possession of the authentic diary. It will be too much of a temptation for Greb Strakhov."
"It is a calculated risk." Marijana directed this remark to Kirov. "I have faith that you will return to us, Mr. Bolan. And I trust you will bring back both these invaluable objects to my safekeeping once more."
"First I have to get there."
"I am the principal patron of the Gospel Light Mission. They specialize in taking the Word to the enslaved peoples of Russia. Bibles and other tracts are smuggled across in specially constructed vans and cars. They will also be able to arrange for the necessary documents."
Bolan watched as the duchess carefully placed the Faberge creation back in its velvet-lined box.
He was going to engage the KGB in their own game.
Treachery.
The lure was dangling in front of Strakhov's nose.
32
Bolan flew from Paris to Munich, where he was introduced to Rudi Dietz, a German evangelist. Together they traveled to Graz, Austria. The Volkswagen van was loaded and waiting for them. Dietz did the driving right across Hungary. The Hungarian border guards gave them little trouble. Now the frontier checkpoint was just ahead. Bolan watched the Russian soldier amble toward the small Peugeot that waited at the side of the road less than twenty yards ahead of them. The roof of his mouth was dry. This would be the real test.
"Where is he?" Dietz asked aloud, impatiently drumming his fingers on the steering wheel.
Two more men appeared from the corrugated-metal shed that served as the guard post. But there was still no sign of Fat Ernst. Dietz glanced at the American and watched as he calmly took a drag of his cigarette. The preacher had never smoked in his life but at that moment he almost asked for one.
Bolan judged Dietz to be in his early thirties.
He was sandy haired, with a short beard trimmed to follow his jawline. Bolan thought him rather dour for someone engaged in spreading the Good Word. Dietz did not offer any explanation of why he had chosen this dangerous ministry, and Bolan didn't ask him. Their silence was mutually acceptable.
They were traveling on the second set of papers from the documents provided in Munich. Bolan's new name was Karl Kelsen. The two of them were supposed to be engineering consultants on their way to supervise repairs on the natural-gas pipeline outside of Dashava.
Gospel tracts were hidden in a false compartment within the enlarged gas tank. More pamphlets were bundled in the metal tool case. And one wooden crate marked Electrical Equipment contained a consignment of Bibles. Bolan's duffel bag, holding the diary, the priceless egg and his gun, was in the same box. His personal effects were now in a cheap suitcase that lay on the floor of the van.
"How do we work it at the border?" Bolan had asked Dietz as they drove over the bridge spanning the Latoritsa River.
"Mostly we use the quietest checkpoints. We have contacts who find out the rosters. Sometimes a guard is so stupid we risk brazening it out; sometimes we find an odd one who is sympathetic, but the most common method is to bribe them."
"And today?"
"Fat Ernst has been bought."
But there was no sign of him. The three soldiers in front had the family out of the Peugeot and were opening their luggage for inspection. Bolan stubbed out his cigarette. Dietz's lips were moving in a silent prayer. It must have worked — the German gestured toward the shack.
"Here he comes." There was no mistaking the fat Georgian corporal. Right behind him was a poker-faced officer. "Meine Güte! What's he bringing him over for?"
Bolan's hand moved instinctively... Then he remembered. The gun was buried in the spare crate.
Ernst was panting as he marched past the others, who were beginning to hassle the Hungarian visitors. He looked far too agitated to be coolly setting up a trap.
The serious young lieutenant walked right up to the open window of the van. Dietz surrendered their papers. The officer glanced at the travel permits and handed them to the corporal.
"Why are you driving? Why not take the train to Lvov?"
"We want to get there quickly, Lieutenant. And the minute we've done our job we want to get back home." Dietz swallowed as soon as he had spoken. He hoped his remarks would not be taken as an insult.
The Russian officer stared into the cab to where Bolan leaned back into the darkness. He was just about to ask another question...
"Come over here, comrade. Look at this!"
A soldier leaning against the Peugeot held up a brown paper bag. It had split open to reveal half a dozen oranges and apples.
"Check them out!" the lieutenant ordered Ernst before he turned to walk away.
Dietz gulped down his first breath in what seemed an eternity as he watched the man stalk toward the unfortunate Hungarians. The discovery of fresh fruit gave the customs detail the license to search the car to see what other contraband they might be trying to smuggle over the border.
The corporal thrust the papers back into the evangelist's hands. They were both sweating. His jowls shook as he jerked his head. "Go on! Drive on through!"
It took the missionary three attempts before the engine roared to life. They lurched forward and steered around the group probing the Peugeot.
"How far is it to Dashava?" Bolan inquired.
"We can follow the pipeline all the way to Kiev. You can make your own way to Moscow from there. I have to travel south."
Dietz slipped onto a secondary road — little more than a dirt track — that wound through the wooded hills of the Transcarpathians. He broke the silence only to have the American memorize his alternate routes out of Russia. The preacher himself would be coming back through Kiev in exactly a week.
Two days after that, another Gospel Light driver would be leaving Minsk for the run through Czechoslovakia. Failing either of those rendezvous, Dietz could only give Bolan his own backup escape route: a fisherman named Zakop who lived in a small village on the coast outside Odessa. For a price he would risk a run across the Black Sea.
The preacher cared not at all about the identity of his passenger. He wished only to carry out the bidding of his good duchess.
They slept in the van that night. Late the following afternoon, still sticking to the side roads, they drove into Kiev. The German left Bolan in the hands of the Malinovsky family, devout believers in the evangelist's underground crusade.
As they said their farewells, Bolan could tell from his companion's expression that he hoped the American would decide to return via Minsk.
Dietz made the sign of the cross, then shook his head as he departed.
* * *
The next morning Mr. Malinovsky drove his guest as far as he dared. He followed a circuitous route to avoid the militia posts strung along the main roads in and out of every major city like Kiev. He left the "engineer" at a junction on the way to Gorzhin, warning him not to hitch a ride on any truck heading into the restricted zone. There, a traveler's papers were sure to be examined closely.
A farmer returning to a collective near Novabelitsa gave him a ride. He was a talkative fellow, and Bolan had to do little more than mutter da or kharoshi to keep the conversation going. The chatter continued until the driver dropped off his grateful passenger.
The day was getting hot and the highway very dusty. Bolan draped his coat over his arm and unbuttoned the top of his shirt. He carried his suitcase into a truckers' cafe and ordered lunch. A bovine waitress with thick ankles brought him a bowl of tepid charcho— mutton soup reddened with tomato sauce. She almost tripped over his cardboard valise. Bolan muttered an apology and pushed it farther under the table. He knew the absence of newspaper and television served to preserve his identity, but he wished to raise no fuss.
Through the flyspecked window he could see a couple of workers waiting at the crossroads ahead, ready to thumb the next ride. He didn't want their company; they might be overly curious. Bolan cas
ually glanced at the other customers, wondering which of them were pushing their rigs on through to Moscow.
The woman was standing by the counter sipping cola from a bottle. It was only now, when she was half turned toward him, that Bolan realized she was in her mid-twenties. Their eyes met, and she didn't take hers away.
She wore a pair of sturdy boots and muchlaundered coveralls; the seam on the shoulder of her T-shirt was torn, and her dark brown hair was tucked into a cloth cap set back at a jaunty angle. Bolan could see the feminine curls at her nape, and the way her full breasts strained at the denim bib. She had a very rich, even tan for this early in the year, which almost hid the scattered dusting of freckles on her fine cheekbones.
Her eyes swept over him, too, and finally settled below his throat where the shirt was parted. She must have glimpsed April's ring, for she looked away sullenly.
The cafe door flew open. The newcomer was in uniform. He was a cop!
He surveyed the diners and took his time moving to the far end of the room. "Hello, Leo. What are you carrying this time?"
The trucker mumbled in reply.
"I can't hear you, Leo. Speak up."
Bolan put down his spoon as the policeman continued his informal interrogation.
The woman was watching him again. She raised her eyebrows and fractionally tipped her head to indicate that Bolan should proceed outside.
Bolan placed a couple of coins next to the soup bowl and slowly stood up. The woman swigged the last of her drink, then walked over to the policeman. "What shall I bring you back from Moscow, Shapkin, a beryozka from the corner of Kutuzov Prospekt?"
While his newfound ally was distracting the cop with her banter, Bolan walked out into the yard. Six trucks were parked out front. Bolan slipped behind the first diesel rig to get out of sight of the cafe window.
'This way," came the woman's voice. "It's the old Roman at the end of the row."
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