Moscow Massacre Read online

  He got in, cranked up the engine and backed out into the falling snow, angling toward the street.

  The snow would slow him down.

  Strakhov.

  Reason Number Two Bolan would not let this one go.

  He would have the KGB boss in his sights within hours if the mission got that far, if he made it through the hit on the prison.

  For a chance at Strakhov, Bolan knew he would travel to the ends of the earth. He had, in fact.

  And the third reason that fed the fire in Bolan's gut.

  The memory of April Rose.

  This one's for you, April.

  Hell, yeah.

  He headed toward central Moscow, toward Lefortovo. The Swedish car handled well on the snow. He saw more activity in the streets now than there had been only a short while earlier, but it was still dark.

  Bolan glanced at his watch.

  0500 hours.

  The human machinery of the Soviet bureaucracy was clanking awake, early risers already walking or driving here and there through the snow on the way to their jobs.

  Bolan was thankful for their presence as he steered the Volvo into the flow of traffic of a secondary thoroughfare, their presence making the Volvo inconspicuous as he drove along.

  He thought about Tanya. He did not know what to make of that breathtaking blonde. He was a soldier, not a psychoanalyst.

  Tanya.

  A beauty, yes.

  He could not deny what clicked between them, as it had in Iran not so very long ago. He had often wondered what had happened to her, and now he knew, but still he wondered.

  And Zara.

  Another fallen ally in this War Everlasting that was Bolan's life.

  A man did not turn from his duty, to Bolan's way of thinking, and his duty was to even the score for all the Zaras and Aprils and maybe, just maybe, manage to put a few new wrinkles into the scheme of things somewhere along the way. Perhaps someday the good ones could look out for themselves.

  This Executioner wanted more than anything a world where his type of man was not needed, but he did not think there was much chance of seeing such a world in his lifetime.

  A lifetime that could end tonight.

  And the bottom line.

  The mission.

  Helping a spy named Tanya ease another spy named Petrovsky into place.

  And, yes indeed, time was running out.

  For Mother Russia and for an Executioner named Bolan.

  The assault on the Balashika complex, the Group Nord meeting, would take out the brains behind the KGB's world network of terror.

  Or it could be the last mission Bolan ever undertook.

  The latex life mask that had turned him into Sergei Fedorin was good for only a maximum of twelve hours and could begin loosening on his face within ten.

  He coaxed as much speed as he could from the Volvo as he steered toward his destination through streets made treacherous from the snow.

  It was hard time, yeah.

  Kill time.

  The stage was set.

  And only Fate knew what would happen next.

  9

  Hal Brognola could not curb his impatience.

  The head honcho of Stony Man Farm was no stranger to the Oval Office of the White House. His liaison activities between the President and the Farm were of such a nature that presidential briefings had become the norm for a Fed cop who, less than a half dozen years before, had been chasing Mafia hoods up and down the mean streets.

  He still longed for those days on occasion. Life had seemed so much simpler then, though he understood this was far from the case.

  It was never a "simple" job when it came to hunter and hunted.

  In most ways, he realized anew, nothing had really changed at all, at least not as far as his work and Mack Bolan were concerned.

  The ante had been upped, damn straight, but the one constant between then and now was that Brognola was still the guy who tried to keep it together on the home front while a good man, the best buddy a guy could have, put his life on the line for a government that had put the Executioner atop its Public Enemy list.

  To Brognola's way of thinking, Bolan was the best buddy America had in these troubled times.

  Make that... mankind's best buddy, Brognola tacked on mentally.

  Yeah, it had come to that.

  Two husky Secret Service agents, clad almost identically in nondescript conservative suits, accompanied him along the carpeted hallway toward the President's office. A third White House staffer intercepted them with a metal detector device with which he fanned Hal from top to bottom. The man clicked off the device.

  "One moment, please, Mr. Brognola. The President is expecting you."

  The White House agents at Hal's side faded back.

  The "doorman" turned to knock discreetly on the oak door and stick his head in when a voice responded from inside. He twisted the knob, pushed the door in and stepped aside, holding it open as he turned to Hal.

  "Please step right in, sir."

  Brognola nodded and walked past the agent, who closed the door behind Hal, leaving him alone with the President and one other.

  Heavy drapes drawn against the daylight lent a more tomblike ambience than usual to the Man's inner sanctum.

  The atmosphere crackled with tension.

  The President and the other man stood from a loose circle of wing chairs near the big desk. The President stepped forward, extending a hand, his countenance serious, yet cordial as ever.

  "Hal, good to see you."

  They exchanged a handshake.

  "Sorry it couldn't be under more pleasant circumstances, sir."

  "There are no pleasant circumstances in our work unfortunately," the Chief said. He indicated the man with him. "Hal, this is William Brooks. You two gentlemen have met, I believe."

  The other man nodded, not offering his hand. "We have."

  "Let us be seated then and get down to the business at hand."

  Hal joined them, sitting in one of the chairs. He had met the recently appointed head of the CIA twice before and had not liked him either time. The guy's presence here now gave Brognola a sinking feeling in his gut.

  "We've received verification on the subject's penetration into the Soviet Union," Brognola began.

  Brooks nodded. "Our Helsinki section got us word as well. I don't suppose Stony Man Farm has a monitoring station inside the USSR?"

  Brognola bristled at the guy's tone. "I don't suppose we do."

  The President, sensing the sparks between two key men, cleared his throat.

  "The CIA has received word, Hal, that all hell is breaking loose over there."

  "That was the idea, wasn't it, sir, when it was decided to send Striker in?"

  "It was," the Man agreed uneasily. "Only it now appears that the action has spilled over into the private sector."

  "How's that, sir?"

  "A man named..." he glanced at the CIA boss "...Niktov, wasn't it?"

  The Company head nodded, glaring at Brognola.

  "We've used Niktov several times in the past year alone," Brooks told Brognola. "He was a valuable source of intelligence, heading the black market as he does, uh, did."

  "We know about Niktov," Brognola replied. "And you should know that he's had one foot in the grave for the past year. Cancer. What happened to him?"

  "We're not exactly sure at this point," Brooks replied. "We have most of the Moscow agencies — police and militia — wired, but nowhere near as well as we'd like to. We'll get more. It's 5:30 in the morning Moscow time so the intel is coming in bit by bit."

  Brognola's rein over his patience weakened. "What's coming in, dammit?" he demanded of the CIA chief. "Are you telling me our man took out Niktov?"

  "It appears so. Niktov was the second-to-last link Bolan was to connect with after he penetrated Moscow."

  "Bolan and Niktov have had dealings before, haven't they?" the President inquired.

  "Yes, sir," Hal said, nodding. "And al
l I can say is, if Striker did liquidate Niktov, which I'm not sure he did yet, none of us are, but if he did, he can only have had a good reason."

  "I wonder," the CIA boss growled skeptically.

  Brognola bristled at that, too. "Look, our two agencies have never seen eye to eye. Stony Man Farm is a quick-punch, hard-strike military operation. The Company is hush-hush spies, and agency rivalry is the name of the game in this town. But don't forget, friend, it was your agency that came up with this brainstorm to send Bolan in there to do your dirty work, your killing, for you."

  "We didn't want Niktov hit," Brooks countered. "I don't mind telling you it took some long, hard convincing on the part of my staff before I consented to this idea. Dammit, I don't go along at all with the unsanctioned goings-on Bolan has been carrying out, and don't think for a moment we aren't aware that your operation is supplying him with all the assistance he needs."

  "Prove it," Brognola growled.

  "Gentlemen, gentlemen," the President murmured.

  "You're damn lucky," Brognola snarled at the CIA man, "that Bolan didn't tell me to spit in your face when I hit him with this crazy scheme of yours. He had every right."

  "We, er, may be willing to offer some unofficial hands-off amnesty to Bolan when this mission is concluded, Hal," the President assured Brognola, "but I'm sure you can appreciate the CIA's position on this, too. They've worked hard to get their man, the one who calls himself Petrovsky, into place. I must say I share their concern."

  The Company chief nodded agreement. "The chance of moving Petrovsky up another notch and taking out the heads of Group Nord are the only reasons I consented to bringing Bolan in. He's certainly proven himself more than capable at pulling off such actions in the past, and he is our only chance. But personally I think that mad dog killer belongs more on a wanted poster than he does representing this country with his outlaw activities."

  Brognola checked himself from taking a swing at the guy.

  "Name one of your operations Bolan has ever screwed up," he demanded testily. "Name one of your agents whose death he was responsible for. Or would you prefer I cited the instances, like this one, where the guy pulled your agency out of the fire? Or the number of your agents who owe their lives to the Executioner?"

  The President spoke up. "I think," he said to Hal, "the apprehension is that Bolan will do more to damage Petrovsky's situation than help if his activities take him outside the KGB sphere, as in the case with this Niktov."

  "But we don't know, sir, if Striker is responsible for terminating Niktov. He's no mad dog killer. You, of all people, should know that."

  "It is true I've seen him in action," the President agreed. "I'll never forget the sight of Bolan terminating a KGB spy in this office. I know what you're saying, Hal, and yet you must understand the Company's point of view."

  "I'm not sure I do, sir."

  "It's simple," the CIA boss grumbled. "We stand to gain if he takes out Strakhov and Group Nord, and if Petrovsky moves up a couple notches. On the other hand, we stand to lose a damn sight more if the whole thing falls apart and Bolan fails. And if he starts to take out the wrong people, like Niktov, well... maybe he has gone kill-crazy after all, if he wasn't before."

  "Like hell he has," Brognola argued. "I guess it's up to you, sir," he said to the President. "Are you going to send the best man we have into the middle of hell to do the impossible for you, then cut off his lifeline and let him die inside Russia with no way out?"

  The President of the United States sighed with all the weight of his job apparent in every line of his familiar features, making him appear older, sadder, than he ever had in campaign pictures.

  "God forgive me, Hal, but I just don't know. I will hold off making a decision, for another hour or two at least, until we get more information from Moscow. Yes, Bolan is the best man we have, but... if it comes to that, we may have to sacrifice him."

  Brognola could not believe his ears, but he held his tongue. The President stood, the meeting obviously over, giving Hal Brognola a whole new gutful of worry.

  He had no way of contacting Striker inside the Soviet Union. Brognola's job had been to pass along the government's offer to Bolan; the rest had been orchestrated by others.

  Bolan had agreed to go along with it when he heard about the chance to get Strakhov, and the opportunity to advance an agent buried in the KGB's hierarchy.

  Had he set Bolan up for the biggest double cross of all?

  Bolan had agreed to go along with this mission because he trusted Brognola, and for no other reason.

  Were Bolan's instincts right all along?

  Was it possible for a man of Bolan's intensely personal moral vision and sense of justice to ever again ally himself to the shifting vagaries of official government service?

  The odds were already stacked astronomically against one man pulling off what the Executioner intended inside Russia, and now it looked as if even that slim chance was about to be snuffed out.

  And Hal Brognola, the one man trusted by Bolan, had no way of warning him in time.

  * * *

  Katrina Mozzhechkov's heartbeat increased when she heard the steady footfalls of her jailers' boots marching down the corridor toward her cell.

  She rose from the cement ledge that jutted out from the wall, the only place to sit.

  Her cell in the basement of Lefortovo Prison was a cramped, dank, brick-walled square with a narrow high window in one wall, but she had been unable to stretch or jump high enough to look out of it during the time she had been imprisoned there.

  She had lost track of time, though it was still dark outside the window. She could tell that much.

  She pressed her back against the wall farthest from the door, wishing she had something, anything, to use as a weapon in case it was Kulik coming for her again, but of course there was nothing to fight with.

  The twenty-five-watt bulb in the ceiling was too high to reach, to break and use to cut with, and in any event the bulb was encased in a wire mesh housing bolted to the ceiling.

  She had heard horror stories about the "psychological cells" in Lefortovo, and this one was typical: an asphalt floor with a half inch of scummy, foul water, the maddening drip-drip-drip coming from some source she had been unable to ascertain.

  The water was very cold, the heating valve located in the corridor outside the cell where only her guards had access to it. There was no latrine bucket, and many previous prisoners had relieved themselves upon the dirty floor or against murky walls.

  The stench had at first threatened to gag her when she had been thrown in there, but she had fought to remain calm.

  A spasm of fear quivered through her now.

  The footfalls stopped outside her cell.

  She had hoped they would pass her by. She could hear that she was not alone down in this black hole of misery. Moans and cries of suffering and desperation echoed weirdly through the underground maze of cells.

  After running into the police net in Sokolniki Park, she had regained consciousness in the back of the police car driven by the bull-necked brute in uniform named, he had gruffly informed her, Sergeant Kulik. During the short drive, Kulik had leered at her in the rearview mirror. She had noticed that the inside of the patrol car's back doors did not have handles.

  There had been no way to escape, nor had there been when Kulik had delivered her into the hands of the prison guards, who had accompanied them, each uniformed, robotlike guard grabbing one of her arms and half leading, half dragging her to the cell she was now in.

  Kulik had followed Katrina and her guards down whitewashed corridors. She had felt the beast undressing her with his eyes every step of the way.

  There had been no use trying to say anything to these men. The guards had worn AK-47s strapped over their shoulders, each guard loudly, repeatedly snapping the fingers of his right hand as they had led her deeper and deeper into the bowels of Lefortovo, the finger-snapping sounding odd to Katrina, like someone keeping the beat while
listening to some popular tune. But she had quickly realized the snapping had had a more practical purpose.

  Other prisoners were being escorted in either direction along the same corridor as they were led to or from interrogation, and the finger-snapping by all the guards would signal the approach of another prisoner.

  She knew something of the methods of this madhouse. Dissident suspects were kept separate from one another at all costs. They were not even allowed to know who their fellow inmates were, so that when her guards had heard the snapping fingers of other guards coming from the opposite direction with some other unfortunate, Katrina's escorts had twisted her around to face the wall, smashing her nose brutally into it so as to divert her eyes from the person being led by.

  This had happened twice, and on the second occasion she had felt Kulik's slavering breath against the back of her neck as the giant had pressed himself against her from behind, reaching down between her legs to paw at her roughly through her slacks.

  She had cried out into the wall, but her guards had done nothing to stop Kulik, who had snickered and followed closer behind when the other guards and prisoner had passed. Then they had tossed her into her cell and had left her alone.

  Her guards had left her alone, that is.

  Not Kulik.

  She heard a key turning in the heavy lock.

  She stopped breathing for a moment, waiting with increasing panic to see who would enter. The guards, she hoped.

  Kulik had visited her twice, alone, in the thirty minutes or so since she had been thrown in the cell. He had not touched her as he had had in the corridor. He hadn't touched her at all. He had stood there just inside the door, leering hungrily at her, nothing more. But it had been bad enough the way he had silently stripped her with his eyes, not speaking a word. Then he had let himself out of the cell... until he had come in again a few minutes later and done the same.

  Part of her, most of her, trembled with terror, but a spark burned inside and would not let her give in to the growing desperation.

  She knew Mack Bolan would not give in at a moment like this. She intended to emulate the spirit of the big American fighter who had passed through her life tonight like a lithe panther on the kill.