"Something else? I don't understand. This cannot wait. Major Petrovsky..."
He told her then about Katrina, about the vital role she had played in helping get him into Moscow, and of how he had seen Katrina off just before the Moscow cops had closed in at the park.
"I don't know if they caught her tonight," Bolan finished. "I've got a gut feeling they did. If so, I've got to go in wherever they've got her and get her back."
A pause.
Tanya said with a frown, "This is difficult for me to say, Mack, but in doing so would you not be endangering the mission for which we have brought you here?"
"I brought myself. I owe Katrina too much. If they have her, I'm going to get her back."
"Forgive me for sounding coldblooded," the blonde pressed, "but your Katrina knew what she was getting into. Sacrifice is a way of life in this line of business. The timing of the action at Balashika tomorrow, rather, this morning, is of the utmost importance."
"So is Katrina. You know what they'll do to her, and they won't wait around until I have the time to move. You must have contacts you can call, even at this hour, who can find out if she was apprehended in that park tonight."
Tanya paused again to think about it.
She said in a different, softer voice, "If I were in the trouble Katrina may be in, I would want a friend like you I could depend on, Mack Bolan."
Bolan did not know what to make of Tanya in Moscow any more than he had been able to get a gut fix on the lady in Iran. He thought again of how Niktov had died before the art dealer could tell Bolan the name of his next contact on this hit-and-git strike into enemy territory.
The Executioner had only the word of this beauty, this double agent, that she was to be his next link in the action.
"Make those calls," he instructed her. "Let's find out about Katrina."
7
Greb Strakhov tried to ignore the arthritic aches that told him snow was on the way. The KGB section head pulled the furry collar of his heavy coat tighter around his throat to ward off the chilly wind that stirred tree branches overhead.
He stood on a rise beside the plainclothes police officer, observing the cleanup of the aftermath of what must have been a terrible firefight. This stretch of the roadway through Sokolniki Park looked like a battlefield. The policeman, Captain Anatoli Zuyenko, had called in the mop-up detail several minutes before Strakhov had arrived.
Tow trucks with mounted high-intensity lamps and official vehicles with rooftop flashers cast the scene in stark relief against the night, and to Strakhov the illumination seemed to magnify every detail, every horror, stretched out below them. It was deserted at this hour as he gazed down on the carnage around the marble World War II monument. The corpses strewn along the parkway had already been bodybagged and still lay there.
What remained of a Fiat and, a little farther along, a ZIL limousine that had totalled itself against a tree, which had nearly burned to the ground, had been doused with chemical fire retardant. The wreckage of the cars looked like ghostly growths on the dark ground. Strakhov had seen the overturned Rolls-Royce along the parkway as his own ZIL officer's limo had whisked him into the park. He glanced sideways at Zuyenko.
"A terrible business, Captain, but I do not understand why my presence here was requested."
Strakhov thought again of the Group Nord meeting scheduled for three hours hence at the Balashika complex, and of the last-minute details needing his attention at his office in Dzerzhinsky Square prior to that meeting.
"But, of course, Comrade Major General." The policeman tried for a show of contriteness. "I hesitated before calling you, but... well, something does not seem quite right here."
Strakhov scanned downrange across the battlefield, masking his irritation.
"I daresay, but what, precisely, is troubling you, Captain? You are assigned to the black marketeers, are you not?"
"I am."
"And so what has happened here? Some altercation between two gang factions?"
"Exactly, sir."
"And how does that affect the Thirteenth Section?"
Zuyenko shifted his weight uncomfortably. "Er, perhaps not at all, Major General. Perhaps I did act rashly. I, er, that is to say, I'm not so sure now, but I thought you should be advised all the same."
"Out with it, damn you. What have you got?"
Zuyenko briefly sketched for Strakhov the events leading up to the battle that had been fought there. He told him of his plan to set up Niktov along with the art dealer's black market rivals, then close in on what was left after the smoke cleared.
Strakhov felt his interest perk at the mention of Niktov's name but kept this to himself. Few knew of Strakhov's dealings with Niktov. Fewer still knew enough to realize that a Major General in the KGB had nothing to fear from a common policeman such as Zuyenko, even if the plainclothesman had somehow managed to establish a link between the boss of the city's black market and one of the most powerful men in Moscow.
Strakhov's dealings with Niktov had not involved black marketeering in any case, and yet Strakhov concealed his interest only with effort, listening to the police captain describe the flamethrower deaths of Niktov and the art dealer's henchmen. He had had at his disposal the means by which to effortlessly terminate the art dealer, but he had chosen not to, having no way of knowing how much Niktov knew about his, Strakhov's, "extracurricular" KGB activities.
The chief of the Thirteenth Section would have been surprised if Niktov had not kept a file on Strakhov as insurance, to be turned over to the Central Committee in the event of the art dealer's death. Strakhov had intended to get those files for himself, then see to it that Niktov was taken out of the way. The Major General had obtained the files, thanks to a paid informant deep within Niktov's organization, and had been considering the various ways of dealing with the black market boss when reliable word had come that Niktov would soon be dead, anyway, of natural causes.
And now this.
"All went according to plan," Zuyenko concluded. "All dead, as you can see. Niktov, his men, those who came to kill them. All dead, that is, except for two."
"Oh?"
"A man and a woman."
"And who are they?" Strakhov asked. "Where are they?"
"The woman's name is Katrina Mozzhechkov. She broke away from the others when the shooting started. You see, we..."
"Never mind that. Where is she and what have you learned from her?"
"I have had her taken to Lefortovo. My assistant, Sergeant Kulik, took her there immediately in my own car. I have instructed no one to question her until I spoke with you."
"My dear captain, I have long passed my days of interrogating street criminals." Strakhov's curtness dripped acid. The early morning had never been his best time. He decided Zuyenko was an idiot. "You will question the woman. What is she? The mistress of one of these dead? Again, why my presence here? My patience grows short."
"I will try to be more succinct. The Mozzhechkov woman is a dissident. Her father..."
"Yes, yes, I remember the name." Strakhov found himself suddenly more interested, and for a moment could not be sure why, could not pin down something elusive he knew he would remember were this a more civil hour. "Well, that is not all that unusual, is it, Captain? The black market gangs have been working in connection with the dissidents for some time. Their pipelines serve to channel human cargo as well as goods both in and out of Russia, and the two are often mutually supportive. What about this man you mention? Is he the real reason you called?"
"He is."
"Well?"
Strakhov felt a strange, exhilarating tingle course through his body.
Bolan, he thought.
He recalled now that the Mozzhechkov woman had initially defected not too long ago in Afghanistan because of Bolan.
"Major General, the man escaped. He was not one of Niktov's gang nor one of those who killed Niktov and his men. He arrived with the woman and another before the shooting started. The other woman is i
n that body bag over near the Rolls-Royce. We haven't identified her yet. The man who got away... he is difficult to describe, Comrade Major General. I could not get a look at his face even though I had them under surveillance for some time, but there was about this man a... a sort of... presence is the only word I can think of to describe him."
Bolan, Strakhov thought again.
"Proceed."
He barely recognized his own voice.
Bolan is in Moscow...
"Niktov handed him an attaché case," Zuyenko went on. "When the shooting began, the man, this stranger, reacted in a way I have never seen a man respond. He is a fighter, Major General. A professional of some kind. Very, very proficient, very deadly. I saw him in action. He killed several of my men. He is either a professional criminal of some sort or someone... in your own line of work, if I may say so. It is to apprise you of this, and for you to see the results of this demon's work, that I called Dzerzhinsky Square requesting your presence."
Bolan!
Strakhov knew it could be no other.
The militia patrol on the outskirts of the city less than two hours ago and now this.
He realized he was too wrapped up in his own thoughts when he became aware that the idiot policeman was addressing him. Strakhov mentally reprimanded himself. Bolan had this effect on him.
Vengeance is at hand, thought Strakhov, turning back to the policeman. Bolan thinks he has me. I have him...
"And so I wondered, Major General," Zuyenko was saying. "Did I do right in sending my man to Lefortovo with the woman? Do you wish to have her detained there for your interrogation?"
"No. I shall leave the preliminary investigation in your capable hands, Captain. I'll have my man, Petrovsky, see to the subsequent questioning. Do not have her moved."
The policeman's chest swelled with pride at the notion of taking a hand in such high-echelon matters.
"As you wish, Comrade Major General. I leave for Lefortovo at once."
Strakhov inwardly cursed Petrovsky, whom he had not seen since earlier that morning when Petrovsky had reported on the firelight outside Moscow. He lifted his hand in a gesture of dismissal to the police officer.
"That will be all, Captain. Keep my office advised at once of any other such action as this tonight or tomorrow in or near the city."
"Very good, sir. You know who it was, then, this man I've told you about?"
"I believe I do."
"May I ask, Comrade Major General, what connection this demon could have with black marketeers? Do you think a gang war is about to break out, or..."
"Our friend Niktov had his hand in many pies, Captain. That is all, I think. Now leave me."
Zuyenko fielded this last order with a salute, turned and left Strakhov alone with his thoughts. The major general remained a few minutes more on the low bluff overlooking the site of the Executioner's second strike into his territory in less than two hours. The KGB boss's thoughts touched again on the Group Nord briefing, scheduled for 0800 hours at the Balashika complex.
Less than three hours from now.
Strakhov knew why Bolan had come to Moscow on this day, not a day or two before nor a day or two hence but this morning. The Executioner intended to be at that meeting, he told himself with certainty.
He turned from the scene of Bolan's latest handiwork and strode back to his waiting car. He would attend to the Mozzhechkov woman in due time, but first, always first, there was Bolan. These next few hours would see a duel to the death between Bolan and him. Strakhov knew there was a real chance that he, Strakhov, would not survive it. But the prospect of dying did not bother Strakhov one little bit if it meant Bolan's death as well.
The chauffeur returned to his place behind the wheel, and the limousine coasted away. The first smattering of faint powdery snow began swirling outside the ZIL's smoked windows as the driver steered out of the park toward the city lights.
Strakhov felt a strange twitch at the corners of his tight mouth. He realized he was smiling.
He had worked long and hard to set in motion what was happening this night.
The end is near.
Thoughts of Bolan's death, of seeing the American's lifeblood spurt red and fatal, brought the tingle back.
There was still much to be done.
And time was running out like a time bomb ticking beneath the city itself.
The devil was running loose in Moscow. The Executioner was spilling blood in the streets with more to follow, but Major General Greb Strakhov could not stop smiling to himself in the darkened tonneau of his limousine.
Everything was going precisely according to plan.
* * *
Peter John Farrell, who had spent so many years as Anton Petrovsky that he sometimes barely remembered his own name, dodged hurriedly down cement steps leading from street level to a tobacconist's shop half a block away from Tanya Yesilov's apartment just in time to avoid the sweep of headlights.
A roving police patrol car cruised into Groholski Street.
Petrovsky, for that is how he thought of himself, even subconsciously, so long had this deception been his, glued himself against the cold brick of the stairwell, fingertips unbuttoning his heavy overcoat, reaching for the shoulder-holstered Tokarev pistol beneath his jacket. He also carried a dagger in the lining of his fur cap.
He watched the headlights flit across the front of the building above him, missing the spot where he hid. The vehicle passed and continued down the deserted street.
He waited until the car sounds died away, then left his concealment, regaining the street where the only light came from lamps at either corner of the block. He hurried along the sidewalk in the direction of Tanya's apartment building.
The snow fell in huge flakes, swirling on the night wind, filtering the distant lamplight into surreal patterns. The fallen snow muted his footfalls.
He rushed across the final distance, his breathing almost deafening to his own ears in the silence. He again reconsidered the advisability of this predawn assignation.
He knew he would be in for a hard time from his superiors at Dzerzhinsky Square, most especially from Major General Strakhov, were it known that he was keeping a rendezvous with a beautiful woman when so much else should be occupying his mind, like the Group Nord meeting scheduled at Balashika.
He also had to carry out Strakhov's orders for the city to be sealed off in regard to the "Bolan Problem," as the major general had referred to it a day or so ago. To say nothing of Bolan himself.
Petrovsky figured Strakhov knew what he was talking about when it came to the Executioner. Petrovsky had immersed himself in everything there was to know about Strakhov when he was moved into the Thirteenth Section as Strakhov's assistant.
Major Anton Petrovsky again considered the possible consequences if he were caught visiting Tanya Yesilov at this hour... and knew he could not stay away.
He had his key out and ready when he reached the door of the apartment building. He slipped the key into the lock and twisted it. The door opened and he stepped inside with all the ease born of a dozen or more previous visits. He turned to close the frosted glass door behind him.
Another set of headlights blazed into life along the snow-covered street. This vehicle was equipped with a spotlight that lit up the side of the street he was on.
The vehicle began to roll in his direction.
Petrovsky flattened himself as best he could against the row of apartment mailboxes.
The vehicle — he could see now that it was a sixwheeled armored car — crunched over the snow, its spotlight stabbing into the foyer.
The military vehicle cruised past without slowing, proceeding to the next intersection where it turned out of sight.
Strakhov's orders have certainly been carried out, Petrovsky thought wryly. The police, militia and military seemed to be patrolling the city streets heavier than usual despite the weather, which Petrovsky imagined would only hamper things more.
He had received word of the fi
refight in Sokolniki Park before leaving his office.
It seemed that Mack Bolan had indeed come to Moscow.
The man who thought of himself as Anton Petrovsky continued up the stairs toward his lover's second-floor flat.
He knew he was attractive to the opposite sex, and this natural endowment had served him well during his spying career, in and out of the Soviet Union. Women always fell for Anton Petrovsky, and he was of the philosophical inclination that one should gather one's rosebuds whenever the opportunity presented itself.
And yet he had never known — in any sense — a woman like Tanya, whose ice-blond beauty melted into smoldering fires of unquenchable lust that matched his own when the lights were off and they were between the musk-scented sheets of her bed.
There was no woman like her in Petrovsky's life — even though lately he had sensed an occasional dark moodiness about her — and he knew he would never be able to stay away from her when she called him in the middle of the night with that throaty, seductive voice of hers.
And yet he wondered why he thought this summons from her was unusual. She had been so secretive about it. He had read tension in her whispered invitation across the phone line such a short time ago.
He and Tanya both worked at KGB headquarters, not in the same office, but near enough to see each other every day. And he was almost always thinking about her. He knew that wasn't good, but still he couldn't stay away.
Petrovsky knew full well the Company would have another agent, perhaps more than one, planted at various bureaucratic levels in Dzerzhinsky Square. Their jobs: to monitor his reports from a station somewhere in the city.
Petrovsky's situation was far too delicate for him to report directly. The other CIA mole could be anyone — a secretary at the office, perhaps one of his mistresses, perhaps another KGB agent.
Perhaps Tanya, he thought. Or Strakhov himself.
He reached the top of the stairs and headed straight for Tanya's door.
He chuckled to himself at the notion of Strakhov himself being a CIA spy. Sure, right. That was how this game made one's mind work.
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