Читать книгу Hard Passage - Don Pendleton - Страница 11

“I have to hand it to you, Carron,” Mack Bolan said. “I might never have thought of this.”

Carron chuckled and replied, “Yeah. I figure if you want to catch the mouse but don’t know where he’s hiding, then your next best option’s to sit on the cat.”

In this case, they were sitting on an entire den of cats. One of the things Carron had learned during the past few years working the Russian sector were the hangouts of every SMJ cell in St. Petersburg. This wouldn’t have necessarily been difficult information to come by given Stony Man’s significant reach into the intelligence community, but it certainly would have taken time. It was this fact that made Bolan glad he decided to enlist Carron’s help.

The snow stopped falling while they were in the café and the pair managed to get a taxi ride to the train station where Bolan had stored his weaponry. Another stop at a CIA safehouse allowed Carron time to check with his superiors and gave Bolan the opportunity to bring Stony Man up to date on the mission status. A second cab ride had brought them to a club, one that served alcohol and catered to the underage crowd.

It disgusted Bolan that such establishments were permitted to exist, although he knew the problem wasn’t isolated to St. Petersburg.

“We can’t save them all,” Carron had responded when Bolan voiced his concern.

“We can if we do it a few kids at a time,” had been Bolan’s reply.

The two men watched the entrance for about twenty minutes before Bolan checked his watch. “Almost 2330.”

“Sounds like it’s about time to crash the party.”

“My thought exactly,” Bolan said. “You’re fluent in Russian. How about I back your play this time around?”

“No problem.”

The two men stepped from the shelter of the awning and hurried carefully across the slippery street. Vehicles had been arriving infrequently to deposit their occupants outside the front door of the club. At the moment, the sidewalk was empty and they didn’t see anyone hanging around nearby. The weather and the weeknight hour seemed to have kept the majority of people indoors, leaving only the more young and daring crowd to venture into the nightlife. Carron had told Bolan that in the summer this part of town was typically packed with pedestrians and all the shops were open.

The pair reached the door and Bolan opened it to admit Carron first. They crossed a very dark and narrow vestibule, and beyond that was another entryway, this one a dark, heavy curtain, through which the briefest flash of lights and the steady thump of electronic dance music encompassed them. Carron pushed the curtain aside and was immediately detained by a huge, bald man. Bolan didn’t understand the full exchange but he caught the gist of the conversation.

“Hold it,” the bouncer said. “This is a private party.”

“I was invited,” Carron replied.

“I don’t think you were,” the door guy said, and he jabbed a finger into Carron’s shoulder.

In the blink of an eye the man’s finger disappeared from sight, enfolded by Carron’s left hand. The bouncer’s knees bent some in a show of submission as Carron bent the finger backward to the breaking point. A second man, a bit smaller than the door guy, stepped forward to intervene, but Bolan intercepted him with the barrel of his Beretta 93-R in the guy’s ribs. He held the weapon in such a way nobody inside the club could see it.

Bolan favored the man with a cold smile. “We’re not here for trouble, so don’t start any.”

“What do you want?” the man asked in English.

“We’re looking for two guys, names of Rostov and Cherenko,” Bolan replied. “We have it on good advice they may hang out here.”

The man’s face paled. “They are not here.”

Carron then said something to the bouncer in Russian. The man winced with the increased pressure applied to his finger and then jerked his thumb toward the back of the club. Through the smoky haze and the flashing lights Carron and Bolan could make out an older man surrounded by at least half a dozen beautiful women. Carron fired off a couple more questions, then released his hold on the bouncer. The bouncer’s eyes were filled with hatred but he made no attempt to detain them from entering the club.

Carron leaned close to Bolan’s ear to be heard over the incessant beat of the music. “He says we should talk to the blond woman over there. Her name’s Sonya Vdovin. She’s like part of the SMJ’s entourage, or something.”

“I didn’t know militant youth gangs had groupies,” the Executioner remarked.

Carron shrugged. “I guess.”

Bolan took point now with Carron watching his back. They advanced on the raised booth adjacent to the dance floor, approaching it from two directions. The man seated at the center of the booth wore a silk jacket in L.A. Lakers purple, and sunglasses. As many glittering, gaudy rings adorned his fingers as the number of women strewed sensuously across the massive booth surrounding his table. Bolan searched his mental files for a name to put to that smug face but came up empty. Apparently this one liked to keep a low profile. Bolan could only assume he was part of SMJ’s top echelon, and young as he might be, that still made him one of the enemy.

Among the man’s little harem were mostly dark browns and auburns, with one blond seated two spots to the man’s left. Sonya Vdovin.

A brief conversation took place in Russian between Carron and the pimp look-alike before total chaos erupted in the club. Bolan spotted the flash of strobes on metal in his peripheral vision and turned in time to see a pair of young men on approach, machine pistols held too close to their bodies to be effective in that space. Bolan reacted automatically, whipping the Beretta 93-R from shoulder leather. He drew a split-second bead on the first gunner and squeezed the trigger. The Beretta’s report couldn’t even be heard above the music but that made the shot no less effective. The 9 mm Parabellum round pounded into the man’s breastbone and pitched him into a table occupied by a man and woman a couple of booths down. The second gunman skidded to a halt and brought his SMG to bear, but Bolan already had him tagged. The Executioner fired a double-tap this time that drilled the first slug into his opponent’s chest and the second through his upper lip. The proximity of the shot flipped the guy off his feet and dumped him over the railing lining the walkway. His body smacked the dance floor and the people below began to scream and shrink away from the corpse.

Bolan stepped back and nearly lost his footing on some steps as the man in the Lakers jacket suddenly upended the table and produced a machine pistol. The soldier managed to keep his feet but in that brief moment he could only shout a warning at Carron. The Company man had drawn his pistol in the moment during Bolan’s initial encounter, but his focus had been on the battle and he forgot to cover his flank from the table man. Even as Bolan raised the Beretta and sighted on the hood, the rattle of the Uzi submachine gun resounded above the shouting and scrambling of the club’s patrons. A flurry of red splotches peppered the front of Carron’s shirt as he triggered his own weapon reflexively and sent a .45-caliber bullet into the kneecap of a woman seated next to the SMJ gunner. The force of the blasts from the SMJ gunner then drove him into an empty table. Carron crashed to the floor amid splinters of wood, torn polyester and glass from a broken candle holder.

The Executioner triggered four successive shots, but he knew he was too late. He drove the distraction from his mind as the SMJ gang member’s body slammed into the wall and tumbled off the seat, coming to a rest on the floor amid booze, food and blood.

The women had already made themselves scarce in the melee, and Bolan had to search long and hard before he spotted the flash of blond hair that signaled Sonya Vdovin. Bolan went after her as she disappeared through a back exit of the club. He nearly reached the doorway when the hulking bouncer blocked his way. Bolan never lost momentum as he left his feet and closed the gap with a perfectly executed flying kick to the bouncer’s stomach. The kick drove the man back with enough force to break down the door of the rear exit. Bolan landed catlike on his feet and jumped over the bouncer’s body now sprawled unconscious across the splintered door.

The Executioner pushed through a metal door that opened onto a back alley and looked both ways but saw nothing. He was about to turn back but then looked down and noticed a pair of tracks in the snow that could only have been made by high heels. He followed them with his eyes as they crossed the alley and then stopped at a garbage container. Bolan glanced upward just as he heard a clang from above and saw Vdovin making her way up a fire escape. Bolan thought about following, then realized she couldn’t go anywhere from there except back down the stairs of the building—assuming she could access the roof door—or down the fire escape on the opposite side.

Bolan could easily cover either one without a whole lot of effort.

The Executioner raced to the front of the building next to the club, then headed into the alleyway on the far side where he stepped into the shadows of the structure beyond it. His position allowed him to watch both the alley and the front of the building. Several minutes elapsed before Bolan heard the first wail of police sirens. If Vdovin didn’t make her play soon, he would have to leave to avoid the cops and that would put him back to square one—he couldn’t afford to give up his only lead.

As predicted, the faint clang of high heels on metal reverberated in the cold, thin air and Bolan followed Sonya Vdovin’s shadowy progress as she descended the fire escape. He moved deeper into the alley, finding concealment behind a large cardboard box, and considered drawing his Beretta. He thought better of it. If he wanted information, he needed Vdovin on his side and he figured sticking a gun her face wouldn’t be a good start to their relationship. Then again, he couldn’t be entirely sure where her loyalties lay—she did hang out with one of the worst criminal elements in the city, after all, and he doubted she behaved like an angel while in their company.

Bolan made his move as soon as Vdovin’s feet touched the ground. He stepped from the shadows as she walked past him and drew up on her left flank. He wrapped a hand tightly around her elbow and steered her onto the sidewalk. Her eyes grew big and she started to open her mouth to scream when Bolan clamped his left hand over it.

“Quiet,” he commanded. “I’m not going to hurt you. I need your help.”

She tried to kick at him with her spiked heels, but Bolan moved out of the line of attack. He swung her body into the wall, not hard enough to hurt her but with adequate force to get the message across he wasn’t fooling around. Hand still over her mouth, Bolan leaned close.

“I already said I wasn’t going to hurt you, so there’s no more reason to fight me.”

Tears glistened as they pooled in her lower eyelids. Bolan felt her body shudder against his own and realized she wasn’t wearing a jacket. He slowly let his hand off her mouth, released his hold and quickly shrugged out of his coat. He held it out and she stepped off the wall to allow him enough room to drape it around her shoulders. He still wore the sport jacket beneath the overcoat so the Beretta remained concealed in shoulder leather.

“Come on,” he said more quietly. “Let’s go someplace we can talk.”

THE SOMEPLACE TURNED OUT to be a cozy bistro-style restaurant a mile from the club.

The waiter took their orders for coffee, bread and a soup appetizer. Vdovin had kept the overcoat draped across her shoulders when they entered the place so as not to call much attention to the skimpy blouse and short skirt she wore beneath it. She looked older than her twenty years, so her appearance on Bolan’s arm didn’t seem out of place with the other patrons, most of whom looked to be from high society. The place was also crowded, which surprised Bolan until Vdovin explained, according to the waiter, that a late opera had just ended.

“Your English is good,” Bolan said. “With barely any trace of an accent.”

Vdovin smiled briefly. “I was born in Russia but spent a number of years in Australia.”

“That explains the strange inflections.”

“My parents were not popular people. I was too young to remember, but they were forced from the country during the revolution. I only returned a few years ago.”

“And got in with the best crowd right off,” Bolan quipped.

“You’ve no right to judge me for that,” she countered.

“You’re right. Sorry. But I’m sure you know by now I’m not out to hurt you. All I want to know is where I can find Rostov and Cherenko.”

She snorted. “Of course. You and half of the people I know in the Sevooborot. But I don’t know where they are. And even if I did, I would not betray my friends.”

“I thought Rostov and Cherenko were your friends.”

Vdovin signaled for the cigarette girl who came over and extended a tray arrayed with a variety of smokes. Vdovin selected one, waited for the cigarette to be lit and then looked expectantly at Bolan. The Executioner shook his head at the cigarette girl as he handed her a generous tip and she sashayed from the table. Bolan looked around them but nobody seemed to notice them.

“You were saying?” he prompted.

“I have nothing to do with Leo and Sergei, either for or against. I only knew them for a short time, and I broke all contact with them once I had learned they betrayed the Sevooborot. My only connection with them is my friendship with Kisa.”

“Kisa…Kisa Naryshkin?”

Vdovin seemed to let her guard down some. “You know Kisa?”

“Not personally,” Bolan said with a shake of his head. “But I know she’s Rostov’s girlfriend, and I know she could be in serious danger from people inside the SMJ.”

“She is in no danger from the Sevooborot.”

“Want to bet?” Bolan countered. “I think there’s something you don’t understand here. Those people you like to hang out with aren’t in this just for the sake of Mother Russia. Don’t get that in your head for a second. They’re driven by two things, power and money, and they’re willing to steal or kill or whatever else they have to do to accomplish their ends.”

“I do not believe you,” she said. “I know these people. They are my friends.”

“Time to find some new friends, Sonya.” Bolan leaned over the table and lowered his voice. “You act like this is some kind of country club you belong to. I have intelligence that these supposed friends of yours are in bed with members of the Jemaah al-Islamiyah. Are you familiar with that group?”

Vdovin shook her head.

“Well, let me give you a clue. The JI is one of the most influential terrorist organizations in Southeast Asia. They’re responsible for the murder of thousands of innocent people.”

Vdovin took a long drag off her cigarette, sat back and folded one arm across her body defensively, holding the cigarette high in her opposing hand. “I do not believe you.”

“Whether you believe me or not isn’t important,” Bolan said. “And it doesn’t change the fact the JI is active in places like Afghanistan, the Philippines and Indonesia, to make no mention of the campaigns they sponsor in a half dozen other countries.”

“My friends fight against those people. They stop them from coming into our country and stealing jobs and murdering our people.”

Bolan’s smile was frosty, at best. “I think you’re confused, Sonya. The SMJ has made some kind of deal with the JI. Now I don’t know what it’s for, but Rostov and Cherenko know. That’s why your friends in the SMJ want them dead.”

“Leo betrayed the code of silence,” Vdovin insisted. “Anything that was done to him or is done to him is because of that. And in the course of betraying the Sevooborot, he brought down Sergei, as well.”

“I’m not part of these people. Why did they try to kill me?”

“Because you came to kill them.”

Bolan shook his head. “No dice. We came looking for you, not them. The man you were with tonight. Who was he?”

“I have told you before, I will not betray my friends.”

“What about Kisa?” Bolan said. “You said she was your friend.”

“And so she is.”

“Who do you think arranged to get Rostov and Cherenko out of the country?” Bolan replied. “You don’t think your precious revolutionaries won’t try to kill her once they find out?”

“They will probably do nothing,” she said. “She is not even part of the Sevooborot.”

“Really,” Bolan said. “Then I guess it would surprise you to know they’ve had her under surveillance for some time now.”

“How do you know this?”

The Executioner decided to go for broke and play his only trump card. “The same way I knew how to find you. Listen, Sonya, you don’t have to believe anything I say. But two good men have already died at the hands of your friends, and I’m here to make sure nobody else falls. Now I can do that with or without your help, but in any case you need to wise up and see what’s going on around you.”

“I have already told you that I don’t know where to find Leo and Sergei.”

“But Kisa confided in you,” he said.

“Yes.”

“If she were in trouble, where would she go for help? Would she come to you?”

At first, Vdovin didn’t answer—she just sat and stared—and Bolan wondered if she had finally decided to shut down and not answer any questions. Slowly, he realized that she was thinking about what he’d said. Something had dawned on her, some small bit of their discussion had taken hold, and she was now beginning to see Bolan had told her the truth.

Finally, Vdovin shook her head. “No. There is only one person she would go to for help. Her father.”

Bolan nodded grimly and replied, “Tell me where to find him.”