He was in a race against time.
Zara was waiting in the truck behind the boat house near the beach. "We must leave within forty minutes," she had warned him, "if I'm to get you back to Orekovo by two o'clock."
That was the deadline Zakop had given him when they made the deal. They had to put out to sea no later than two in the morning. And Bolan knew if he showed up with the other man over his shoulder, then Zakop would know for sure that they weren't Bible-thumping evangelists. The fisherman might want to raise his price, or he might not risk taking them across at all.
Bolan cautiously raised his head above the level of the bank and watched the house. There should have been at least one man circling the grounds.
Light from the kitchen window threw a pale yellow square on the patio bricks. It lit up the sentry as he strolled by outside. They were getting careless, thought Bolan, but he refused to feel overconfident.
It was still several top KGB guns against his solitary Beretta.
He withdrew the pistol from its holster and climbed up into the long grass. The reflection of the moon shimmered on the surface of the pond to his left. A frog croaked in the weeds as the deathshadow stalked along the edge of the orchard toward the greenhouse.
A light showed through the window of the room where they were keeping his double captive. There was probably one soldier in there with him, or else on guard outside the bedroom door. Whichever, Bolan had to reach his target before the others could put a bullet through his brain.
Bolan crouched behind a withered apple tree, waiting for the lookout to complete another circuit of the garden. In the ghostly moonlight the guy looked like the squat hardman who had been washing the sedan that afternoon. The sound of the sentry's footsteps diminished as he wandered up the front drive.
A small door led into the back of the wooden shed. Bolan eased it open and slipped inside. The big black limo was parked squarely in the center of the floor. It took a few moments for Bolan to accustom himself to the deeper gloom within the garage.
He carefully skirted the cleaning pail and moved to the far end of the workbench, where he found a pile of old rags. Bolan tucked the gun in his belt.
He picked up several cloths, slit them into strips with his knife and quickly knotted them together. Then he went to the car and unscrewed the gas cap. He took one end of the rag rope and fed it into the tank, then drew it back out until the other end touched the floor. He checked again through the grimy panes of the side window facing the house. Nothing. No one out there.
Retreating to the farthest corner, Bolan took a pack of cigarettes from his pocket. He extracted one and located a book of matches. Cupping his hands, and further shielding the brief flame with his body, he lit the cigarette and took one deep drag. Then he jammed it sideways through the back ot the matchbook and shut it light.
Crouching, knife in hand again, he gently positioned this crude time-fuse so that it just touched the end of the gasoline-soaked rags. If the fumes didn't ignite prematurely, it should give him about...
The main door creaked open. "Uksov? What the hell are you... uhh!"
A silver flash was all the sentry saw before the blade buried itself in the hollow of his throat. He swallowed against the cold steel and felt the warm rush of his lifeblood gushing from the severed pipe. The Executioner caught him before he hit the ground.
Bolan propped the body against the rear fender, pulled out the knife and wiped it on the shoulder of the dead man's jacket.
One down.
Bolan had guessed right from his earlier reconnaissance. It was a good twenty yards from the garage to the kitchen door, vaguely illuminated by the light from the side window.
He stepped outside and was poised to make his move when the patrolling guard came strolling around from the back garden. Bolan realized the man he'd killed must have come directly from the house. He turned to greet the guard
"Cigarette?" he growled.
"You're always smoking mine," Uksov complained. But he shifted the submachine gun to the crook of his left arm and reached for his cigarettes anyway. "Here..."
The rest of his offer was slurred into the grunting explosion of his last breath, as The Executioner rammed the point of the knife hard up under Uksov's rib cage. The wicked blade sliced straight through his heart.
Two down.
Bolan ran to the back door. The fuse was still smoldering. He had to move fast. Time, like the fuse, was running out!
The kitchen was empty. A kettle boiled on the stove. Evidently the first soldier had been making some tea when he decided to investigate the garage.
A short passage led from the kitchen to the main room. The door was half open; a single table lamp was still switched on in there. With the silenced Beretta ready, Bolan peered around the corner.
Lednev was stretched out full length on a comfortable leather couch. His shoelaces were undone, and a black-market imported skin magazine had fallen down across his chest; his sweaty fingers still had hold of it. There was a smirk on his face as he slept.
Bolan picked up the plump pillow from the other armchair and padded across the room to stand over the KGB marksman.
He clamped the cushion over the man's face, pushed the muzzle of the silencer toward it and pulled the trigger twice.
Lednev twitched once.
Three gone.
Tendrils of smoke were still curling upward from the blackened holes in the cushion as Bolan swiftly mounted the stairs.
He automatically oriented himself to the layout of the dacha's interior. The room he was seeking should be on the left, opposite the top of the stairs. An empty chair stood outside the door, marking it as the temporary cell.
Bolan gently tried the handle.
Locked.
He took two paces backward and smashed it open with one well-placed kick. He executed a sideways tumble into the room, coming rapidly to his feet, the Beretta sweeping the room.
Stefan Boldin had been sitting on the edge of the bed, reading by candlelight. He jumped to his feet in surprise as the big apparition rushed in.
They stood staring at each other for a second — a mirror image in flesh.
There was compassion in Bolan's eyes. He, too, knew what it was like to be trapped in a false identity.
At that instant, the impostor really didn't look like him at all. Brothers against the system maybe, but not the same man... Boldin had bewilderment and fear written across his face, and that made him quite different from Mack Bolan.
The impersonator grabbed the candlestick, fearful that he was going to be executed on the spot. It was the only weapon he had to defend himself. He took a wary pace to the left.
Bolan circled counterclockwise. He lowered the muzzle of his gun, then dropped his hand completely to his side. This man had fired a blank in Zubrovna. Bolan meant the man no harm...
A floorboard creaked behind him. Bolan spun around to see Vichinsky standing in the doorway behind them. A checkered gown hung open over his pajamas. He held a Tokarev automatic in his hand.
His startled eyes flashed white in that narrow pockmarked face. There were two of them in front of him! And he had them both!
The gas tank exploded with a roar, blowing out the side of the garage wall. The incinerating blast showered glass fragments and flaming wood over the side of the chalet.
In the momentary confusion, Boldin drew back his arm to throw the heavy candlestick.
Instinctively, Vichinsky twisted in his direction and fired. The Polish prisoner was thrown back onto the bed.
It was a split-second decision that cost Vichinsky his life.
"You bastard!" Bolan snarled, as he squeezed the trigger. "You've cheated me!"
Vichinsky staggered back across the landing, clutching his dressing gown about him as if it would protect him from the deadly hail of hot lead. Bolan kept shooting until the final hit spun the KGB colonel around and he tumbled head first down the stairs.
The faded paintwork had caught fire outside, an
d a burning plank had been hurled through the kitchen window. The whole west side of the dacha was going up in flames.
It was too late to do anything for the pretender. Vichinsky's one shot had smashed through his face. No one would recognize him now.
Bolan started to tug down the top of the sheet. It was eerie — it was like covering himself with a shroud.
He paused, even though he could hear the flames crackling fiercely below. If Strakhov was confused and frustrated and angry by the burglary of his apartment, then he'd be really upset when he got the report on the charred carnage at his dacha!
Bolan slipped off the chain he wore, removed only the Gypsy amulet, and draped the chain around the impostor's neck. He looked down at April's ring lying there against the stranger's skin.
It was his past he was leaving behind.
Phoenix could return to the ashes from which he had sprung.
Epilogue
Kirov poured the brandy.
Bolan swirled the Remy Martin in his glass.
The duchess had wine. She lifted the crystal goblet, softly glinting in the candlelight. "To victory, Mr. Bolan."
The Faberge egg and the diary were displayed upon the fourth placemat at their dinner table.
"I knew you would come back," she said, sipping the last of the Pouilly-Fuisse. It was not so much an affirmation of her trust in Bolan's strength and his will to endure, as it was a hint of her mystical insight into his destiny. "You have made an old woman very happy, Mr. Bolan. He has given us fresh hope, hasn't he, Alexei?"
Her companion nodded gravely.
"But tell me, ma'am, what was in the diary that so intrigued Strakhov he'd kill to get his hands on it?"
The duchess brought the wineglass to her lips before she spoke. "The man is consumed by the mystery surrounding the fate of the Romanovs, she said. He thought the contents of the journal would reveal the whereabouts of some surviving members of that ill-fated family. Perhaps he had the idea he could use them for his own venal purposes within the Soviet socialist republic."
"So what was in the book?" Bolan repeated.
The duchess lifted her hand at the interruption. Her aged features became animated as she continued her explanation.
"Please bear with me," Bolan's benefactress said. "I would never let the information Strakhov seeks fall into his hands. The diary he got from you was not a diary at all, just the bindings from the original."
"But what did it say?" Bolan persisted.
"You've met my friend, Professor Farson. He sent me a package before your first arrival here. It amused me, being handwritten in Russian Cyrillic script. Excellent piece of work," said the duchess, warming to her tale as she realized she'd now thoroughly aroused Bolan's curiosity. She would play the game a bit longer.
"Please, Duchess Marijana, you must tell me what was in the..."
The duchess chuckled at her performance. But it was time for the denouement.
"Why, Mr. Bolan," said the diminutive noblewoman, "it was the story of one man's war against the Mafia. It listed every mobster killed, every battle fought. Two thousand homicides documented in detail. Mr. Farson has superb intelligence access and he told me that together with a colleague of his, a certain Mr. McCarter, they were able to compile this extraordinary record. I thought it would be amusing to declare war on the KGB. Your history, such as we know it, is just such a declaration. A calling card, you might say. An Ace of Spades. I hope you have no objections..."
Bolan's ice-cold eyes bored into her, riveting her with his gaze.
"No," he said at last. "I have no objections whatever." Then he smiled slightly and stood up. "It's time for me to go. I have a rendezvous with yet another fast boat."
"It was a cunning thing that you did," concluded the duchess. "The ring you left around the neck of your dead impersonator — undoubtedly it helped your escape, convincing those who found it in the ashes that it was John Phoenix who died there. You said that the ring was uniquely yours. It must have been very special. What did it mean to you?"
They lingered in the doorway for a long, silent moment. Bolan, standing erect in his dark clothes, towered over the diminutive duchess. He might have been a Cossack officer reporting to the patroness of his regiment.
"I'm proud to have served you, ma'am."
It was a permissible lie. Who had served whom? But Marijana enjoyed his compliment nonetheless; she decided not to press her questions. She kissed him on both cheeks.
Bolan signaled for Kirov to stay. He did not require the car. Tonight he would walk.
Bolan strode along the Paris pavement knowing that he was taking the first few steps down another long road that he had to walk alone.
The microfilm of Strakhov's plans for the KGB's terror network was in his pocket. Bolan knew where he was going. He knew what he had to do.
And nothing was going to stop him now.
The man in the Scotland Yard-type raincoat had been following him for three blocks. Was he KGB? An enemy of the duchess? The Sûreté? CIA? They would always be out there in the shadows — lying in wait for him, or else snapping at his heels. Well, he'd fight them as they came.
A mist was blowing up from the Seine. He was confident he would lose the man behind him in the fog rolling across the boulevard.
It would always be this game of cat and mouse; the test of the hunter and the hunted. But who was the cat, and who was the mouse?
Bolan vanished into the drifting, silvery cloud with an easy catlike grace.
Terminal Velocity Page 23
