Читать книгу Infiltration - Don Pendleton - Страница 11

Yan “the Wolf” Volkov rubbed his temples in an attempt to abate the splitting headache.

His conversation with Yuri Godunov hadn’t gone well, although it had gone about as he expected. What Volkov couldn’t understand was how four of his people had been put down so quickly and efficiently by one man. The bigger problem came from the fact that none of his contacts in the U.S. Customs had seen this man or gotten their hands on the security tapes in One Federal Plaza. Volkov didn’t even have a rough description, and that would make it next to impossible to identify him.

The other thing that bothered the Russian mercenary was the why of it. What reason had this man had for killing the team sent to retrieve Bogdan Lutrova? Had he been expecting them? And if so, did that mean Volkov had some sort of leak inside his own operations? His people had always been loyal in the past, never a one turning against him. That had to do partly with his training methods and partly from the fact that he paid them very well.

Soldiers-for-hire were a superstitious and close-mouthed lot. They generally didn’t talk to anybody about what they did, for any reason. Loose lips could get those in the business killed very quickly, or lead to ostracizing on a global scale. This most recent event had not only put Volkov’s head on the chopping block, but his reputation, as well—his employer wasn’t known for being the forgiving type.

Volkov sat back in his chair and thought about his options. While he took his instructions from Godunov, he knew the money came from someone higher. That someone—Volkov didn’t know exactly who, but he had his suspicions—expected positive results every time and wouldn’t hear excuses if things went sour. Volkov had to admit he’d never been in a situation quite like this one before. He’d almost declined the job when he heard how Godunov wanted to do it, but saying no wasn’t really an option. He was on retainer, a contract of sorts, and that meant whenever they told him to jump he simply did it. Everything else got put aside and there wasn’t even any asking “how high” he was expected to get it done quickly and efficiently.

The plan hadn’t been very good to start with. It would have been much simpler to get Bogdan Lutrova into America in secret. There were many ways to smuggle such persons into the country without much trouble at all—the Wolf had plenty of mechanisms in place for such an operation. In fact, human trafficking remained a financial mainstay of his operations, and as long as he didn’t do anything to expose the RBN, they were content to look the other way. Of course, he was mandated to remit a certain amount of his profits to them—kickbacks for certain of them to look the other way—but that was simply the cost of doing business. And Volkov didn’t mind paying off those individuals, since it didn’t cut that deeply into his profit margin.

This present problem, however, had become another issue, with a magnitude of complications. If Volkov had any hope of setting this right, he would have to locate the mysterious stranger who’d killed his men, and find Bogdan Lutrova. It didn’t really matter if—

A rap at his office door broke his concentration, and he barked, “Yes?”

The door opened enough to reveal the heavily made up face of his secretary. She was a short, blond, petite woman—midtwenties, Volkov recalled—who hailed from the same area of the Ukraine as he. On occasion she performed more than just secretarial duties for him, although she expected to be compensated for such things. Nothing in life was free.

“Mr. Volkov? It is Mr. Godunov for you. He’s on your personal line.”

“Put it through, Mira,” Volkov said, leaning forward to put his hand on the extension, and muttering curses as to what the man could possibly want now.

When Volkov answered, Godunov said, “I have our asset here with me.”

“What?” Volkov could feel his stomach knot. “You mean—”

“Yes, I mean that asset.”

“But how?”

“It seems we have a new benefactor,” Godunov said. “I’m almost sure that this man is working for one of our competitors, but there is a remote possibility he’s legit. He was looking for work, and so naturally, I sent him to you.”

Volkov wanted to laugh out loud. The one enjoyment he got from dealing with Godunov was the man’s penchant for being extremely careful in his telephone conversations. Volkov had assured him time and again that this particular connection was scrambled, and only the very best electronic communications thieves in the world could perhaps decrypt the complex algorithms utilized to mask their conversations, but Godunov insisted on keeping the talk all business.

“What are you looking for me to do with him?” Volkov asked.

“That would be entirely up to you. Although I believe you will probably need to subsidize your staff, given your recent turnover, yes?”

So the bastard wasn’t planning to let it go. Stick the knife in and turn it a few times just to make sure he kept Volkov in what was “his place.” Well, the Wolf knew how to play that game as well, and he wasn’t planning to fall into Godunov’s trap so easily. This situation would require deft handling, at best.

“Yes, I believe I could find a place for him here. Do you have the details?”

“He goes by the name Lambretta. I’m having him checked out as we speak.”

“He has other connections?”

“He indicated as much,” Godunov said. “Although I don’t believe he’s friendly with those particular contacts anymore. He was away on an extended business trip for some time and is now back in the area looking to establish a new territory with new clients. Based on what I’ve seen of his résumé, he might prove useful to you. Assuming his references check out, of course.”

Of course, Volkov thought, but he said, “I will await his call then.”

“Yes, do.”

“I assume that your other assets are intact?”

“It would seem so. I’m still inspecting them.”

“You’ll let me know, then, if something is damaged or missing.”

“Of course,” Godunov replied, but not without some acid in his voice.

“I shall wait to hear from you.”

Volkov hung up and rubbed once more at his temples. So, another riddle had presented itself for him to decipher. Volkov had to wonder if this mysterious stranger that showed up with Lutrova was the same one who’d killed his men. It didn’t seem improbable, but Volkov couldn’t risk killing the man out of hand, either. If he checked out and Godunov thought he could be of some use, Volkov wouldn’t turn it down; at this point, he’d already taken significant losses among his ranks.

The Wolf always kept his operations relatively small. At no time did he employ more than twelve individuals, and that number had just been cut by one-third. He had other resources upon which he could call at a moment’s notice, but as he only employed freelancers, none of them were bound to take any assignment he offered. It seemed almost too convenient that this new opportunity would have dropped so easily into their laps, but Volkov was willing to take a chance if Godunov vouched for it.

This way, he couldn’t be held responsible if something went wrong. It would all fall onto Godunov’s shoulders, and Volkov could walk away clean.

The regular extension, the one used for public business, buzzed, and Volkov picked it up immediately.

“I’m looking for the Wolf,” the caller said.

“You’ve got him.”

“I was referred by a mutual business acquaintance.”

Good! This one was careful, didn’t assume it was wise to use any names; at least that spoke to his experience. If he’d been sloppy right off, Volkov would have dismissed him as an amateur and hung up immediately.

“Yes, I was just told to expect your call.”

“I assume we need to meet.” It wasn’t a question.

“That would be best,” Volkov said. “I have a particular place in mind.”

“I’d prefer we do this on some neutral ground,” the man replied. “You’ll understand that I can’t be too careful. I’m a stranger to the area, and it wouldn’t be proper or respectful to impose some sort of intimacies until we get to know each other better.”

“You sound very savvy,” Volkov said. “I’ve been informed your résumé is impressive. I’ve also noted that you have quite a bit of experience, although it seems you’ve been seeking work for some time. I take it the prospects have not been good?”

“They’ve been scarce with this economy,” the man replied. “So are you willing to interview on my terms?”

“I think that can be arranged,” Volkov said.

The man immediately gave him an address for a quiet, out-of-the-way spot down on the waterfront. It was a café of some sort; though Volkov had never been there, he did know of it. The environment catered to a yuppie clientele, business class types, so meeting in that place wouldn’t seem out of the ordinary. They agreed to rendezvous in one hour.

“Come alone,” the man said, and hung up before Volkov could reply.

Oh, I most definitely will not come alone, Volkov thought.

BOLAN DIDN’T TRUST the Wolf, but his mission required he make the connection. This guy was obviously the muscle for Godunov, who was the apparent brains of the operation. Not that Bolan would make the mistake of thinking the Wolf was stupid; a soldier didn’t live long if he had a habit of underestimating his enemy. The name of the game was cunning and a healthy respect for the abilities of somebody with the Wolf’s background.

Ten minutes before the meet, Bolan reconnected with Stony Man. The information Price could offer him was scant, at best.

“I’m afraid we can’t tell you a lot about this guy,” she said. “He covers his tracks pretty well.”

“Surely he’s left some sort of trail.”

“Most of this came from an old friend I have in the NSA’s Signals Intelligence unit, and there’s not much to go on,” Price told him.

“I’ll take whatever I can get.”

“We think his real surname is Volkov, first name unknown. Possibly raised in the Ukraine, but that’s also unconfirmed. There are about three dozen men with that last name, all of whom hail from northern Russia, and about half that many the right age and type suitable for the Wolf’s kind of work. We’re pretty certain he’s operated in about a half-dozen countries and under a variety of aliases.”

Bolan sighed. “Sounds like a lot of ifs and maybes, Barb.”

“I know, Striker, and I wish I could give you more, but that’s what we’ve got. I’m not keen on the idea of you going into this situation on such weak information.”

“I’ve done a lot worse recently,” Bolan said.

Price laughed, because she heard the grin in his voice. “Yes, that you have.”

“What about this moniker, the Wolf. That jingle any bells with your sources?”

“Yes, we did get that much. Volkov is actually Russian for wolf.”

Bolan chewed on that a moment before replying. “Okay, sounds like I’ll just have to go for broke on this one and hope fate deals me one more decent hand.”

“Don’t take any risks, Striker,” Price replied. “If it gets too hot you can always pull out and regroup, give us time to hit this from another angle.”

“I don’t think we have that much time, Barb, but I’ll keep it in mind.”

“Be careful.”

“Out here,” the Executioner said.

He sat in his rental and studied the harborside café and surroundings, watchful for anyone out of the ordinary. Chances were slim to none that Volkov would follow his instructions to come alone, and if he did have additional men, Bolan knew they’d be professional enough to make themselves conspicuous. The soldier figured if he played his cards right he’d walk away from the meet. He’d picked the place at random out of a phone book, after checking with a local shop owner for a decent public venue to conduct an impromptu business meeting. The shop owner had taken one look at Bolan with an expression that implied he wasn’t buying the whole business meeting story. Obviously, this area was used more to conduct meetings between unsavory characters than Bolan had first surmised. Still, the shop owner’s recommendation had seemed acceptable.

Bolan kept one eye on the storefront and checked his watch. Ten minutes until the meet was supposed to go down, and so far he hadn’t seen anything to alert him that trouble brewed in the near future. But again, he couldn’t rely on that alone. The Wolf hadn’t survived this long without being careful, and he would most certainly bring backup, even if he bought Bolan’s cover and story as a down-on-his-luck enforcer looking for work.

The entire thing was thin at best, but Bolan knew he didn’t have any other options. Without this charade he stood almost no chance of getting inside Godunov’s operations. Even this move wouldn’t necessarily put him in the center of things unless he could convince Godunov that some “outside force” threatened the operation. That would be the crux of his story to the Wolf, and maybe, just maybe, Bolan could pull it off.

He scanned the crowd in front of the café again, and this time he spotted the mark. The man was tall and muscular, his conditioning visible through the tan slacks and black T-shirt he wore. It wasn’t so much how he looked as how he moved that allowed the Executioner to pick him out of a crowd. Trained and experienced combatants carried themselves in very specific ways, and while those telltale signs weren’t obvious to the untrained observer, they spoke volumes to a professional like Bolan. This was definitely the Wolf.

The soldier got out of his sedan, locked it and proceeded straight toward him. He reached the café just as the mercenary stepped inside and began to scan the crowded tables.

Bolan came up behind him and quietly said, “Looking for me?”

The Wolf, aka Volkov, turned and glanced at him in surprise. They were about the same height, although the Russian might have had an inch or two on Bolan. His blond hair and cool blue eyes reminded Bolan of Carl “Ironman” Lyons, Able Team’s fearless leader, but that’s where the similarities ended. Where Lyons possessed a humoring demeanor just beneath the cynical surface he wore, there was nothing even remotely gregarious about Volkov. Bolan guessed there was only hard, cold granite in the muscular chest of this guy, and a psychopathic nature born from a love for killing—and it was obvious Volkov had done a lot of it.

“Not a good start, sneaking up on a potential employer,” Volkov said with a sneer.

“Funny, I didn’t think I was ‘sneaking’ up on you,” Bolan replied with an equal amount of acid in his voice. He had to be conciliatory, but he also needed to maintain the aura of a hardened Mob enforcer. It was important in his role that he show Volkov he wouldn’t just flip over and show his belly to anybody; such a move would cause him to lose any and all credibility in the Russian’s eyes, and more than likely lead to trouble.

Bolan glanced outside, and although he didn’t spot anybody, he said, “I see you didn’t come alone like I told you.”

“You seem to have forgotten your place here, Frankie,” Volkov replied. “You’re here asking me for something, not the other way around. I do whatever the fuck I want to do. You get me?”

Bolan made a show of looking uncertain, letting Volkov think he’d taken him off his guard, and then he smiled. “Yeah, sure… I get you, pal. No need to get your shorts in a bunch. I was just feeling you out, is all. I’m pretty careful when it comes to choosing the people I work for. I don’t want to end up getting my throat cut because the crew I’m with or its leader has no jewels. Know what I’m saying?”

Volkov nodded. “So what is it you want?”

“Well, since you know my name, then I assume our, uh, mutual friend contacted you and told you I was looking for a new crew.”

“I saw some tables out there,” Volkov said. “Let’s sit outside.”

Bolan nodded and the two men made their way to a table on the fringes of the patio. The rest of the harborside dock was busy, as lunchtime had finally arrived. Longshoremen and suits from nearby businesses had started to flood the area, cramming like sardines into every coffee shop, deli and grill they could find along the harbor. The sun streamed down onto the dock and took much from the bite of the slight breezes off the water. It actually turned out to be a pretty nice day for mid-February in New York.

When they were seated, Bolan got straight to business. “So I understand you may be looking for some additional hands.”

Volkov nodded and waited for him to continue.

“Hey,” Bolan said, “those guys that your boss sent after me in his office… I hope they weren’t your guys. Because I was just defending myself. Guy’s got a right to do that, huh?”

“I don’t provide private security for Mr. Godunov,” Volkov said. “I operate, shall we say…independently. And yes, I’m in the market for new talents. But I’m not sure you’re going to work out.”

“Why not?” Bolan splayed his hands in true Italian fashion and said, “What’s the beef you got with me? We barely know each other and you’re already backing down.”

“I’m not backing down,” Volkov said, his gaze roving among the crowd. “I’m just saying that I don’t know if your type of skills and training would fit into the outfit I run. You’re used to doing things a certain way, and anybody I bring on board would have to adjust to doing things my way. Your résumé says you’re a little on the wild side, taken to doing things your own way, and I cannot afford that kind of risk. It’s a liability to me and to the people I work for.”

“Hey, listen, pal, I get results.”

“That may be,” Volkov replied, now meeting Bolan’s gaze directly for the first time. “But I don’t want results at the cost of compromising my position. I want loyalty. I want obedience. I expect you to do things my way and only my way. Do you think you can do that?”

Bolan appeared to think about it for a while, and then said, “Yeah, I suppose I could give it a try.”

Volkov stood. “Oh, you’ll have to give it more than a try, Frankie.” He slid a card across the table. “Be at that address tomorrow morning, 0600 sharp.”

“Oh-six what?”

“That’s six o’clock in the morning.”

“Uh, kind of early.”

Volkov raised a finger. “Remember our agreement. My way.”

“Yeah, yeah… Your way.”

So just like that, Bolan was in. Although there was one small problem: it had been a little too easy.

And the Executioner knew he was about to find out why.