Terminal Velocity Read online

  Brognola replaced the phone and looked up. "For too long I've watched you go out there in the field. I issued instructions or made suggestions, and you put yourself on the firing line. Well, it's time I picked up the ball and ran with it myself."

  Bolan nodded.

  "Good," Brognola muttered, "then I want you to lake a short break. Just for a few days. Actually, General Crawford has a favor to ask of you — they're patching him through now — and it comes at just the right time. You deserve a little time off."

  A soft repetitive buzz signaled the call was coming through. Hal Brognola pushed the chair back and gestured to the phone. Bolan picked up the receiver and identified himself.

  "I understand that congratulations are in order, Colonel." The Arkansas drawl was unmistakable. "The Stony Man operation has proved itself once again."

  "Thank you, sir."

  "I won't go into the developments here in Washington. Hal Brognola can give you all the pertinent details. I'm calling to ask a personal favor of you, Mack. It's about my daughter, Kelly. You've met her."

  Bolan hoped the general's daughter had not gotten herself into more hot water. For the old man's sake. He didn't deserve it.

  "The day after tomorrow she's flying to Zubrovna to take part in the International Students Invitational Games."

  "Sir, I wasn't aware that Kelly was involved in athletics."

  "Oh, yes, Mack. She's been a star athlete for several years. That is, until the time she hooked up with that scum, Grover Jones. Fortunately that episode didn't last too long. I suppose she felt she was missing out on some of the things girls her age do. Besides, it was easy for her to be attracted by Jones's flamboyance."

  Even on the phone Bolan could sense the concern the general felt for his daughter. He was a caring man. After all, he had taken the young recruit Bolan under his wing in Vietnam. Bolan suspected he filled a gap in the general's life: the son the general never had.

  Bolan thought of his own sister, who had been killed by their father when he found out she was a prostitute for the Mob. But she had only been trying to repay a debt her father had incurred with the Mafia. And there, but for the good fortune of Bolan's presence, went Kelly Crawford. Yeah, Bolan resolved to help out the old man.

  "She was looking for some direction," the general was saying. "I was spared the painful teenage years because I was in the military, so I guess I'm to blame for not being there when she needed me. With her mother gone and me with my career, Kelly really had no one to guide her. So the first male who paid attention to her — that was it.

  "Anyway, all these recent problems they've been having with the athletes — the steroids controversy — have opened up a position on the Olympics team. If she can win the pentathlon event at the ISIG, she gets a shot at the big one."

  Bolan could only guess what a chance to compete at Los Angeles would mean to Kelly herself but, from the tone of his voice, it was obvious what it would mean to her father.

  "How can I help her, General?"

  "I'd rest a lot easier if I knew you were there to keep an eye on her, Mack. Zubrovna's something of a hot spot right now. They're having problems containing the Unity movement. I'd be grateful if you were around to make sure she doesn't get into any trouble."

  Yeah, thought Bolan, he'd found out the hard way what a rebel Kelly could be. Still, what kind of mischief could she get into in Zubrovna? The athletic competition would demand her full concentration.

  "It's just for eight days," pressed Crawford.

  Bolan realized how weary he was; six days of Mediterranean sunshine and Balkan hospitality sounded appealing. He needed to conserve his strength for the brutal task that inevitably faced him at home. Besides, he wanted to think things through more thoroughly before deciding his future options. A few days R&R would give him the chance.

  "We can fly you there directly," mouthed Brognola, double-teaming with the general.

  "All right, General Crawford. I'll look out for her. I'll go to Zubrovna for a few days."

  15

  Zubrovna bore the weight of its mongrel past with bustling pride. The downtown core, known locally as the Old Citadel, was an ancient warren of cobbled laneways thronged with craft shops. In the jostling crowd, Serb rubbed shoulders with Croat, and Slav intermingled with Muslim.

  Bolan felt as if he were traveling through the centuries as he turned the corner from the Street of the Silversmiths onto the broad boulevard that brushed its way past the modern administrative offices all the way out to Djakovic Airport.

  The traffic cop, standing on a circular steel pedestal, jabbed his finger toward Bolan's rental car, ordering the vehicles in that lane to halt. The American waited patiently for the flick of the wrist that would signal him to proceed. He was in good time to meet Kelly Crawford's incoming flight from New York via Rome.

  Sitting there with the window rolled down in that early-spring sunshine, Bolan was beginning to feel like a new man. In a way, he was — the intelligence boys on the carrier had seen to that.

  His stubbly beard had been shaved, leaving only a dark mustache that gave him a decidedly buccaneer look. A passport had been prepared to match his new identity, and Bolan had filched two more blank ones. Brognola had wisely brought along a replacement for Bolan's Beretta; another garrote was threaded into his belt. The hollowed heel of one shoe concealed a short, wicked blade while the other carried a compact emergency-escape kit.

  He was not expecting trouble but he was prepared for anything. Mack Bolan, or Mark Bailey as his new passport had it, was probably the deadliest equipped "tourist" ever to set foot in Zubrovna.

  A brightly painted truck rattled past. A Gypsy boy, whose dark Romany looks reminded Bolan of young Kasim, sat perched on stacked cords of firewood. He gave Bolan a shy wave as the truck overtook the rental car.

  For a few brief seconds the American visitor and the Gypsy boy were friendly travelers headed in the same direction. But Bolan only had to glance up at the mirror and confirm that the drab blue car was still following half a block behind to remind himself where he was — at the ragged end of the iron curtain.

  Guards patrolled along embassy row, their shiny hobnailed boots clashing on the paving. The additional hardware in the streets was supposedly there for ISIG security, but steel bayonets were standard issue and always stood watch over Zubrovna. The bleak look in the troopers' eyes and the will with which they enforced control were the results of an iron-hard ideology.

  The weather was bright and clear, so Zubrovna did not have the gray, shabby look of cities in the more northerly reaches of the Soviet empire.

  The sunshine found a natural reflection in the people's smiles and their ready laughter. They accepted their lot with more equanimity than the Afghans, Bolan observed, but then they had had longer to get used to it.

  They had been ruled by perverted Roman dictators and Turkish despots, by the mad kings of degenerate empires and jackbooted Nazis. Now they were prisoners within the Kremlin's sphere of influence, and they would try to make the best of it any way they could.

  But dissent was never far beneath the surface. Despite the current crackdown, Bolan saw posters on walls advertising the Unity rally. General Crawford was right: the situation in Zubrovna was volatile. For once, Bolan didn't mind playing the role of watchdog.

  He kept his eyes on the traffic and the road signs, but in his mind the wheels were still turning over on the most important problems that faced him. Who was the most likely suspect? How best to trap the mole? And how could he continue to fight the good fight now that the Stony Man cover had been compromised?

  The dark blue Zastava followed him right into the airport parking lot. But whoever had been assigned to trail the American didn't get out. Bolan saw two newspapers being unfolded as he walked off toward the terminal building. He presumed there would be other watchers inside the arrivals lounge.

  Only a small group of local sports enthusiasts had come out to Djakovic to greet the visiting athletes. They waite
d in a very orderly fashion, not daring to push too close to the row of guards that cordoned off the entrance. There were more photographers and newsmen inside the terminal than there were fans outside.

  Bolan was asked for his papers. They identified him as part of the coaching staff for the American team. A grim-faced sentry waved him through to the reception area.

  Flashes were popping in all directions. It looked as if contingents from every country had just arrived.

  The student games in Zubrovna had precipitated a bitter debate in U.S. athletic circles as to whether they should participate or not. Some sanctions were still in effect from the invasion of Afghanistan, and bad feeling for the Russians' cold-blooded attack on the Korean jetliner had not been resolved.

  As General Crawford had explained to Bolan: "I think we should restrain our contacts with those bastards to a minimum. The Eastern bloc is our enemy; it has branded itself as such by its own actions. But isn't sports the one area where we should, at least in theory, be able to compete with one another without dragging politics into it? Maybe I'm being selfish. But I can't let Kelly pass up this chance to have a crack at a gold medal in Los Angeles."

  "Any father would feel the same way," Bolan had replied.

  A rippling movement surged through the crowd, spilling it closer toward the frosted glass doors of the customs-inspection area. A young man with tousled brown hair and a quick grin pushed past the American with an apology. His English was good; his lapel badge identified him as Georgi Radic. Bolan followed him to the barrier.

  The dividing doors slid open, and the American team poured through into the reception lounge. Bolan scanned the incoming passengers. The group of French athletes who had joined the flight in Rome were easily recognizable by the tricolor one of them held.

  Kelly Crawford was dressed in the same outfit as her teammates: a white windcheater with red-and-blue piping, and dark blue slacks. The glossy blond hair was quite unruffled despite the long flight. And she smiled readily for the waiting cameramen. She was one hundred percent all-American.

  It looked as if Kelly had already made her first international conquest somewhere en route. The young Frenchman tactfully moved to one side when Bolan approached.

  "Hello, Kelly."

  "Hi, Colonel! Fancy meeting you here." There was a slightly sarcastic edge to her voice that did not slip Bolan's notice. "Actually, dad had me paged at Kennedy. He said you'd be here to meet me."

  "This time it's Mark Bailey," Bolan cautioned her softly. "Mark will do."

  Kelly shrugged. She studied his face for a moment. "You look different with a mustache. I'm not sure I approve of it."

  "How was your flight?"

  She merely shrugged again, then turned to signal for her new friend to join them.

  "Pierre, I'd like you to meet Mark, uh..."

  "Bailey." Bolan proffered his hand. The other man had a strong, self-confident grip.

  "And, Mark, this is Pierre Danjou. He's the junior fencing champion for France."

  Before Bolan was forced to improvise about his coaching responsibilities, one of the ISIG officials had plucked at Kelly's arm. "This way, Miss Crawford. Just a few moments at the microphones, please. The reporters have some questions for you."

  It was too late for Bolan to stop her. Kelly gave a cheery wave as she stepped toward the crowded stand of recording equipment. "Over here, Miss Crawford!" shouted Georgi Radic. She repeated her wave for the photographer. Bolan stood patiently in the background, wondering which of the correspondents were for real and which ones worked for more sinister masters.

  Kelly Crawford was certainly quick to inspire devoted admiration. Radic must have used up a whole roll of film in less than two minutes.

  "Is this your first time traveling outside the United States?" one reporter asked.

  "Of course not." The smile remained in place but it was undercut by a hint of impatience. "My father is regular Army. We were often stationed abroad."

  "Damn," muttered Bolan. "Why does she have to remind them that she's General Crawford's daughter?"

  The Frenchman had obviously heard him. "I think everyone here is quite aware of who her father is," Pierre Danjou said, a puzzled look on his face.

  An English-accented voice broke in. "How do you rate your chances against the Kat?"

  "The Kat?" shot back Kelly, all wide-eyed innocence.

  "Katya Timoshenko. The Soviet champion."

  "We'll have to wait and see..."

  "Miss Crawford, why did you decide to compete in Zubrovna while some American athletes are privately boycotting this meet because of what is happening in Afghanistan?"

  "What are your views on the Unity movement here?" It was Radic who asked that last question.

  "Naturally, I don't approve of what the Russians are doing," she fired back. "If I had my way, I'd..."

  "She'd like to get to her hotel. Thank you," completed Bolan, as he gently but firmly swept Kelly away. The nearest journalists laughed at the forceful tact with which her coach had terminated the interview.

  16

  The room was almost in darkness.

  Two oblongs of pale gray light filtered through the dust-streaked windows behind the desk. The glass of tea was growing cold as Greb Strakhov sat alone in the twilit gloom.

  Alone with his grief.

  And alone with his anger.

  One stubby finger poked the green button set in the edge of his heavy wooden desk.

  Vichinsky rapped at the door. He entered, then paused, puzzled, as if he had been summoned to an empty office by mistake.

  The shadowy bulk in the tall chair moved, leaning forward across the desk top. Vichinsky heard the little brass chain rattling against the lamp stand as Strakhov searched for it. Why did he not get a more modern desk lamp, Vichinsky wondered.

  When Strakhov jerked the switch, the light barely illuminated the surface of the desk and the faded carpet immediately in front of it. That was where Vichinsky stood.

  Strakhov picked up the glass, sipped at its contents and quickly put it down. Belikov had left a saucer full of lemon wedges next to the tea. The security chief took one of the tart slices and sucked on it without the hint of a grimace. It always set Vichinsky's teeth on edge to watch him do that.

  Greb Strakhov came from an entirely different school, a much tougher one than today's young managers and ambitious bureaucrats. Despite his years he was still broad shouldered. His narrowed eyes expressed a somber watchfulness, and although his hairline had receded, he retained a thick iron-gray mane at the back.

  If circumstances demanded, he would wear his modestly decorated uniform; but usually, as this evening, he was attired in a slightly shiny dark suit.

  The head of the Thirteenth Section was a serious man. Utterly serious. The years had added lines of solemnity to his broad square face.

  Within these walls Vichinsky had heard him laugh on only two occasions, and neither time was the laughter shared with his GRU assistant. But through the door the laugh had sounded like a hearty peasant bellow.

  Strakhov's eyes were little more than razored slits as he looked up at his subordinate. "Tell me, comrade, just how far have you got with your — what do you call it — Janus Plan?"

  Vichinsky was stunned, but detected no trace of trickery. Nor was there any hint of reproach in his boss's voice. Greb Strakhov's anger was channeled toward only one goal.

  "I'm sure you were going to tell me of this plan quite soon," coached the old man.

  "Yes, sir. Of course I was. It, er, seemed such a long shot that I didn't want to trouble you until I was confident it was operational."

  "And how far have you proceeded?"

  Vichinsky reported on the latest developments in the transformation of the once-dissident Stefan Boldin into Colonel John Phoenix. Strakhov nodded at each new revelation as if he were already familiar with the details.

  How had he found out so much that he could have it pieced together already? One of the guards at the safehous
e where Boldin was now kept under constant supervision? Or was it the filing clerk who had originally searched out Boldin's record for him? Vichinsky seriously wondered if everyone was reporting directly to Major General Strakhov.

  "Fetch me the file," the section head ordered when Vichinsky had finished his briefing.

  He wasted no time returning to his office to pick up the thick buff folder he had been working on when Strakhov had summoned him.

  "Who is who?" asked Strakhov when the file was placed open before him.

  "This is the latest picture of Boldin." Vichinsky tapped the photo on the left.

  Strakhov ignored it and picked up the grainier portrait of their American target. "Then this is the man who killed my son."

  Strakhov tilted the photograph under the light and pursed his lips as he contemplated the hard-eyed visage of the deadly American agent. In the previous picture he had seen the man was obviously unconscious. "Kyril dispatched some material for my attention on the very day he died. He had this saboteur in his personal custody."

  Vichinsky said nothing. Strakhov was passing judgment on his own son merely by choosing to tell his subordinate. "Positive identification has been made: Phoenix, John. Colonel. Supposedly retired. But active enough to steal our prototype of the M-36 and to kill anyone who tried to stop him. You know, comrade, this afternoon I heard that the whole assault-helicopter program might be scrapped. Well, for once a lot of people can rightfully claim they were against it from the start."

  "So Phoenix was in Afghanistan... But where is he now?"

  "I've had men working on that ever since his ints checked out. Mozhenko called an hour ago, said he might have a lead. I'm waiting for him now."

  Strakhov slowly began to read through the thick folder of information Vichinsky had compiled. He felt some respect for the man's thoroughness even though he despised his GRU assistant for his deceit in attempting to conceal the Janus Plan.