Hard Passage

Then it would become a waiting game. He would need to touch base with Stony Man at some point to see if he could get a line on Carron. There was no point in keeping his cover. He would need some backup in his search for the two missing contacts, and Carron seemed the most sensible one to provide that given he was out to accomplish the same end as Bolan. Things were shaping up just as they always seemed to for the Executioner.

Yeah. Business as usual.

EVEN WITH THEIR ADVANCED computer systems, it took Stony Man more than four hours to track down Lyle Carron. By the time Bolan found him in a small coffee shop on the outskirts of St. Petersburg, the massive clock on a nearby church had nearly struck 10:00 p.m. and another three inches of snow had fallen. Bolan shook the snow from his overcoat as he came through the door. He nodded at the barista, ordered a coffee in Russian and then moved over to Carron’s table.

“Mind if I sit down?” Bolan asked quietly.

Carron’s eyes focused on Bolan’s with surprise, then the company guy gestured to a seat in front of him. Bolan sat but the two men said nothing until the barista arrived with a carafe of hot coffee and then departed. Wisps of steam danced off the coffee as Bolan poured a cup for himself and then refilled Carron’s. The Company man looked bothered, his face gaunt and drawn, and Bolan had been in the business long enough to know what was eating at him.

“It wasn’t your fault,” Bolan said. “Balford, I mean.”

Carron looked Bolan in the eyes, something few men seemed able to do without looking away just as quickly. While the CIA agent didn’t say anything, Bolan could tell Carron was sizing him up. Many other men had looked into those same twin points of ice blue and shrunk under the stare. Carron seemed to take little more than a passing interest, obviously trying to decide whether he could trust Bolan.

“How did you find me?” When Bolan frowned, Carron waved it away and added quickly, “Never mind. Dumb question.” He took a sip of coffee and said, “You’re not Company.”

It wasn’t a question and Bolan shook his head. He extended his hand and said, “Name’s Cooper. Or Matt, if you prefer.”

“NSA?”

“Let’s just say I’m not on any page in the book,” Bolan said with a wan smile.

“The other shooter at the hotel. You?”

Bolan nodded. “Sorry I didn’t stick around, but I had to beat feet for the same reasons you did.”

“I’d like to know who sent you,” Carron said matter-of-factly. “And why.”

“And I’ll be happy to tell you,” Bolan said. “But first I have a question for you. What do you think may have happened Rostov and Cherenko?”

Carron shrugged and let out a sigh. “I figure they made someone who was onto them, maybe they had a tail. They would have known it was too risky to make the rendezvous or lead their friends from the SMJ to the hotel. Probably took them on a wild-goose chase. Either that or the SMJ caught up to them before they could meet us, tortured them for the time and place, then sent some boys to take care of me and George.”

“What about the car? You didn’t try to follow it?”

“What car?”

“The one that deposited the four hardcases outside the front door.”

Carron shook his head and frowned. “There wasn’t any car there. I used the front for my own exit, and only thing I saw was a corpse. Figured that was your handiwork, too.”

“No dice,” Bolan replied.

The Executioner felt a knot settle in his stomach. Somebody had obviously ambushed the driver, left his carcass on the sidewalk and taken the car. All of that had probably happened during Bolan’s trip to the first floor and the subsequent gun battle. He hadn’t even thought about that; he figured the driver would either get spooked after a certain amount of time elapsed and split, or the cops would pen him in and nab him when they arrived.

“The fact someone smoked the driver and got away means they were waiting for them,” Bolan finally said. “Either that or they saw an opportunity and decided to exploit it.”

“Yeah,” Carron replied. “And I don’t think it takes a genius to figure out who did it.”

“I sat watch on that street for more than an hour,” Bolan said. “And I never saw Rostov or Cherenko. Never saw anybody.”

“Not your fault. The weather was shit and you couldn’t have figured the SMJ would try making a play with me and Balford covering all bets. Besides, you weren’t there as the primary.”

Bolan reacted to that.

The CIA man smiled. “Don’t look so surprised. The Company has some sources, too.”

“So you knew they sent me?”

“Well, not you specifically, but I figured they’d send someone,” Carron replied. “Let’s face it. It would’ve been stupid for the upper echelon in Wonderland to put all of their eggs in one basket. I think that’s what got me incensed more than anything. They put out George and me as sacrificial lambs, almost like they were expecting us to blow it. Okay, I’m thick-skinned and I can take it, but George was barely out of college. Just a kid, Cooper.”

Carron lit a cigarette and poured them more coffee, then said, “I get it, though. And I understand them sending you as backup. The information Rostov and Cherenko have is obviously too important to trust without some type of failsafe operation in place. For what it’s worth, pal, I’m still glad you were there to cover my six.”

“Fact of the matter is, we both lost this one,” Bolan said.

“Maybe just the battle,” Carron replied with a wink. “War’s not over yet. Just what do these two know that’s so important? Any idea?”

Bolan weighed his one of two possible responses. He liked Carron, genuinely trusted him, but he couldn’t be sure how much he should let on he knew. Of course, Carron would have had a general idea anyway, although maybe not privy to all the details Stony Man had given Bolan. Still, the Executioner would need all the allies he could get if he were to find Rostov and Cherenko and get them out of the country. Carron had all of their documents, and he also knew the Russian sector pretty well if the information contained in his dossier was any indication. Besides, he’d lost his partner to this mission already and Bolan doubted he’d be able to keep that guy at any distance. Bolan had succeeded on missions like this partly because he knew when it was appropriate to take a lone-wolf stance versus when to accept an offer of help.

“I can give you a lot more details,” Bolan said. “But before I do, you should know I expect we’ll be working together from this point forward. And since we’re now in backup plan mode, and I’m the backup, I call the shots. You read me?”

“I read you,” Carron said, leaning forward on his elbows. “We follow your lead.”

“So we agree. Now, Rostov and Cherenko’s introduction to our people came by way of a woman named Kisa Naryshkin. Apparently she’s Rostov’s girlfriend or fiancée, something like that.”

“You’re thinking we should reach out to her.”

Bolan shrugged. “That’s a possibility if we don’t turn up any solid leads on Rostov and Cherenko, but I worry about compromising her cover. In fact, what happened at the hotel may indicate she’s already been compromised.”

“So how do you propose we find them?”

“I’d say it’s a pretty safe bet they’re our mysterious carjackers,” Bolan replied. He gestured at the window and continued, “We can also assume they won’t get far in this weather.”

“Agreed.” Carron took a last, deep drag from his cigarette, then stubbed it in the ashtray. “Where do you want to start looking?”

“Well, this is your neighborhood,” Bolan said. “If you were a pair of ex-militant youths in a stolen vehicle, where would you hide?”

Carron scratched his chin and stared at the ceiling in thought for a time. Finally he replied, “It’s not where they’re hiding that’s important. That could be like trying to find a needle in a haystack. I’d suggest we find the ones who are after them. And for that, I know exactly where to look.”

CHAPTER TWO

A cool morning wind gusted across the veranda of Anatoly Satyev’s retreat home in a private community outside Reno. Satyev’s mansion was one of several secreted within the Sierra Vista on more than seven hundred acres sprawled around a central golf course and private resort. Only the richest and most influential people lived there.

Once a high-ranking military power broker inside the Soviet Union before its dissolution, the tide of change had forced Satyev to flee his country. He’d barely escaped with his life, and it had taken a number of years to secure his holdings and move his liquid assets safely out of the now-defunct commerce system. The cash from his investments had proved more than adequate to satiate his eclectic if not rather lavish tastes and within a few years he’d establish a sound reputation within the American business community.

With his personal and professional reputation now reestablished in a new land, Satyev set upon a course for reinstating the Communist Party in his homeland while profiting from the socialist fanaticism of those who considered themselves pure revolutionaries.

This morning, though, Satyev had awakened to a new sensation, one he’d not experienced for more than a decade: dread. And he was going to make sure that the man who arrived soon heard about it. That man was Jurg Kovlun, a former Spetsnaz commando and head of Satyev’s personal security force during his tenure with the Party. Kovlun showed up shortly after Satyev finished his breakfast in front of an open-pit fire that his servants had lit to keep off the morning chill.

“Good morning, sir,” Kovlun said.

Satyev waved him into a seat across from him at the table. He reached into the pocket of his robe and opened a silver case. “Cigarette?”

Kovlun nodded and gingerly removed one. Satyev took one for himself, which he affixed to a long cigarette holder, gestured for a light, and then once they were both comfortable and smoking he dismissed the house servant who had attended them.

“I’m not happy, Jurg,” Satyev said. “What is going on with this operation?”

“I’m sorry, Comrade Colonel, but I’m afraid I do not understand.”

Satyev pulled the long stem of the holder from his mouth, exhaling slowly through his nose as he repeated “You don’t understand” several times. “I see. Well, let me ask it another way. Why the fuck are two members of the Sevooborot running around the Mother Country shooting off their mouths about our agreement with the Jemaah al-Islamiyah? Hmm? And more importantly, why the fuck are they breathing? Hmm? Can you explain that, Comrade?”

“Ah, yes I have just recently heard of this.”

“Why have you just recently heard of it?” Satyev demanded.

“Well, I—”

“Never mind,” Satyev cut in, raising a hand. “I’m sure I don’t want to know why your men aren’t keeping you properly informed. That is not my problem to work out. Rather, it is yours. And you will work it out, Jurg, or I’m going to become very angry with you, and I’m sure you do not want that.”

“No, sir,” Kovlun replied quickly and he took a few short, successive puffs from his cigarette.

“Take care of this, and I mean soon. Otherwise, I’ll have to find someone else to handle this little problem. Understood?”

A few quicker, more nervous puffs. “Perfectly.”

“Fine. Now, tell me about the rest of the operation and how it’s proceeding.”

“We’ve secured the weapons we were promised, and the training is almost complete. I expect the first operation to begin tomorrow night.”

“Where will it begin?”

“It starts in Seattle. By the timeline you’ve given us, we’ll then move operations slowly down the West Coast until we reach Los Angeles. Then we will begin to expand toward the east. We expect everything to be completed within the year, just as you originally planned it.”

“Good, good,” Satyev said with a nod. “I cannot be any more satisfied with this news. What of our personnel issues?”

“We’re still having a bit of trouble getting some of the JI’s men into the country. None of our personnel have had a problem, but with the crackdowns it’s more difficult to get Muslim males through customs without them being subjected to some scrutiny.”

“Maybe I can do something about that,” Satyev replied. “Maybe we need to change the cover stories. Perhaps we can convince the American government they are mostly students, refugees of the recent violence against foreign immigration into Russia.”

“That might speed things up considerably, sir,” Kovlun agreed.

“I’ll see what I can do.” Satyev made a show of looking at his watch. “In the meantime, you have a plane to catch. I want you in place in Seattle well before the operations begin. You are to personally oversee every phase of it.”

“Of course, Comrade Colonel.” Kovlun jumped to his feet, nodded at Satyev in respect and then headed for the patio doors.

“And, Kovlun?”

“Yes, sir?”

“Don’t forget to take care of that little problem we discussed. Rostov and Cherenko can never testify. Never. Do whatever you have to, but make sure those two are dead before the sun sets.”

“Consider it done, sir,” Kovlun replied.

WHEN KISA NARYSHKIN MET Leonid Rostov, she never expected he would be part of the Sevooborot; she definitely never expected to fall in love with him.

In some ways, their relationship had been doomed from the beginning. When she first discovered he was a member of one of the most violent youth gangs in all of Russia, she felt betrayed and incensed that he could deceive her about his business dealings. She remembered the encounter that night in her parents’ home where she was house-sitting while they were away on vacation. She recalled how they argued, how she screamed “I hate you” over and over again, and demanded that he decide between her or his murderous cohorts. That was when he’d broken down and professed his love for her, and they sat in the middle of the living-room floor, crying and holding each other. That was the same night they made love for the first time, when she had fully and completely given herself to him.

And that was the night she agreed to help him get out.

“But only if you help Sergei, too.”

Naryshkin’s contacts in the Russian government had proved the saving grace for her love and his friend. It hadn’t taken much to convince certain people that Rostov had information of considerable value to the United States. A whisper in the ears of a few select people working at the municipal records building. Someone had to have told the right people because less than a week passed before Naryshkin received a plain, unmarked envelope on her desk. Inside were instructions for the meeting.

She arrived two minutes early at the gift shop of a massive building, a new construction at the edge of Alexander Park, known as the Palace of the People. A work of the St. Petersburg Committee of Temperance, the building included an opera house and massive dining area, and the gift shop stuffed with souvenirs and trinkets of every kind acted as a type of guardian near the entrance. The back of that shop served as the meeting place.

The man who met with Kisa Naryshkin didn’t offer his name or agency, and she decided it better not to ask about such things, but when the conversation got under way she had no doubts this man could help her beloved Leo.

“I’ve been led to understand,” said the distinguished-looking man with gray eyes, salt-and-pepper hair and a British accent, “that you know a man who holds a high-ranking position inside the SMJ.”

Naryshkin nodded, the stray dark hairs of her head dancing in the golden morning rays that shone through the skylight. “It is my boyfriend, actually, Leonid Rostov. He is a member of the Sevooborot. I do not know his ranking inside of it. And his friend,” she added quickly as an afterthought. “The deal is for his friend, as well. Sergei Cherenko.”

The man smiled not unpleasantly. “You must understand, Miss Naryshkin, that there isn’t necessarily any deal on the table right now. My friends must be able to verify the validity of the information before the benefactors in question would be willing to make any arrangements.”

“Leo said you might say that,” she replied, just as she’d rehearsed with him two days earlier. She reached into her small handbag and removed a thick envelope, which she slid across the table at the man. “That contains the dates and details of certain crimes committed by the Sevooborot but never solved by local police or Interpol. These are details never released. There are also the names of the perpetrators, where they can be found and the location of evidence that should be sufficient to prosecute them.”

The man didn’t make a move for the envelope, something that surprised her. She had never practiced that part with Leo, and she wasn’t sure how to respond if the conversation took a turn in a direction that wasn’t part of the script.

For a long time, the man said nothing. He just looked at her and smiled. Finally he said, “I’m sure there’s some validity to the contents of this envelope.”

“There is, I can assure, sir. Check it out.”

“Oh, you can be sure we’ll validate the information. You have no need to worry about that. But to arrange for the safe passage of these two young men out of Russia without the SMJ finding out about it will be much more complex. You see, Miss Naryshkin, the SMJ has a growing number of connections and supporters within St. Petersburg. That support has extended to places like Moscow and Vladivostok.”

“Why should good and influential people wish to support a gang of hoodlums like the Sevooborot?”

“It would take me too long to explain the politics of your question,” the man replied. “And this is neither the time nor place for such a discussion.”

“You think me too naive or meager of intellect to understand it,” Naryshkin replied with a haughty raise of her chin.

“I did not say that.”

“You didn’t have to. I could see it in your expression and condescending manner.” She tapped a long fingernail on the table and let a moment of silence lapse before asking, “Do you know who my father is, sir?”

“Of course.”

“Then you know I am an educated woman,” she replied. “And you must also know that I have quite a number of influences inside the Russian government.”

“I never said I doubted you, madam,” the man replied. He sat back in his chair, folded his arms and crossed his legs. “I’m simply trying to avoid any measure of antagonism by entertaining a conversation that can undoubtedly end in nothing but an argument, one that should serve no purpose as it pertains to Rostov and Cherenko.”

“So there’s something about all of this you don’t wish to tell me,” Naryshkin concluded.

The smile again. “That would be correct.”

That’s how it began and everything seemed to move at a blinding pace after that. Within a few days she received a second envelope, this one in her mail slot, with another envelope inside of it stamped with the letters “LR” in block letters. When Naryshkin delivered it to Leo and asked him about its contents, he declined to talk to her further about it. She could understand his concern, his desire to protect her, and at the time she’d had the meeting with a man she assumed to be some type of British agent, she hadn’t even considered what would become of them if Leo left the country.

“I don’t know yet,” he told her. “But I promise you that I will find a way for us to be together. No matter how long it takes me. I promise you. I love you.”

More than a month had passed since their last meeting and she had neither heard from nor seen him. For all she knew, he’d already left the country along with the Cherenko. One of her closest girlfriends, Sonya Vdovin, happened to be part of the Sevooborot scene, partying at a lot of the same clubs as its members. But Naryshkin had decided not to publicly condemn her friend, rather she kept her mouth shut and pumped the young woman for any information she could get.

“No, I haven’t seen Leo around,” Vdovin would say. “I haven’t seen Sergei, either. Which is really too bad because he’s quite…how do I say it, adept in bed.” And then a mischievous smile would play at her lips. “Yes, that’s a good word.”

So Naryshkin lay alone in bed each night, wondering and worrying, finally drifting off to sleep in the wee hours of the morning after waiting for him to call. Eventually she started to give up and she hated herself for thinking that way. Leo had made her a promise and whatever else he might have done or not done, she loved him and she knew him well enough to know that he was a man of his word. And then one night, this night, the phone rang.

She answered it breathlessly. “Hello?”

“Hello, my sweet.”

“Oh, Le—”

“Don’t use names!” he snapped.

Naryshkin swallowed her voice along with a big chunk of disappointment. She yearned to see him, to talk to him, to touch him at that very moment but she didn’t dare. Finally she asked, “How are you?”

“I am okay.”

“Are you…” She hesitated, not sure how to ask the question, but then she didn’t have to worry about it.

“No, I am not,” he said. His voice cracked when he added, “Something went wrong, dearest. Something went horribly wrong. Good people are now likely dead.”

Before she could conjure a reply he moved away from the phone, a fit of coughing and wheezing having overtaken him. That cough and shortness of breath had grown progressively worse. Naryshkin had feigned an allergy to get a doctor friend of her father’s to prescribe an inhaler of powerful medicine. Medical care in Russia still wasn’t adequate to meet the needs of many people. She had provided the last inhaler to him more than a month ago, so she knew he had to have exhausted his supply of medicine by now.

“You do not sound good,” she said. “Hello?”

It was Sergei Cherenko’s voice that came on the line. “Hello.”

“Is he okay?”

“He’s not doing well. I’m worried about him. I am also worried for myself.”

“Where are you? Let me come get you.”

“No,” Sergei replied. “He would never forgive me if I put you in any sort of danger. In fact, I would never forgive myself.”

“Don’t be silly.”

“It is not silliness, it’s practicality! This has become a very dangerous game for us, and I’m not sure how much longer we are going to be able to play it. We need your help but the only way we’ll accept it is if you immediately get in touch with your contacts. Let them know things didn’t happen like they should have. Tell them ‘The meet did not happen. We are going to the alternate plan.’ Do you have that?”

“Yes, I have it. But—”

“I must go now.”

“No, wait! Let me speak to him.”

“He is still having trouble. He cannot speak right now.”

“Okay,” she said, doing her best to be brave and hide the disappointment in her voice. “You take care of him. And yourself.”

But Naryshkin then realized she was talking to dead air—Sergei had hung up the phone. She slowly replaced the receiver in the latch hook of the phone pedestal and considered this news. What had happened? It should have been so easy and yet here they were, calling her, still inside Russia—maybe still even in St. Petersburg—with the mother of all storms outside. She knew what Sergei’s comments had meant. The meeting hadn’t taken place and they were now going to their alternate plan, one that involved traveling to Murmansk where they would seek passage aboard a trawler or small cargo carrier.

The woman started to pick up the phone and then thought better of it. Leo hadn’t wanted her to use any names, which meant he believed someone might be tapping her phone. In fact, members of the Sevooborot might even have her under surveillance, although she’d been mindful to keep her eyes open for any observers since her last night with Leo. Not that she hadn’t worn her emotions on her sleeve. Both of her parents had repeatedly inquired as to what was bothering her ever since their return, but she simply laughed it off and concocted excuses about how hard she’d been working, how stressful her job was and so forth. Her father offered to intervene but she expressly forbade him, warning that she was an adult now and that he’d taught her to stand upon her own two feet. That was usually enough to end the conversation.