Infiltration

“And how did you even know where to look?”

“I got my sources,” Bolan said. “Listen, let’s cut out all the BS and get right to the chase. I have some inkling of who you are, and you can, and most likely will, find out who I am before too much longer. Hell, I wouldn’t doubt you got cameras all around this room right now, and you’re running that high-tech face recognizing stuff. Well, fine with me, then we don’t have to waste a lot of time. Now I’ve got something here you want, and I went to a lot of risk to get it. The question is, are you willing to pay for it, and if so, how much? That leads to another question, and that is whether or not you’re impressed enough with my work that you might want to offer me a job.”

“You’re looking for work?”

“No,” Bolan said flatly, “I’m looking for an opportunity. You can provide something solid, then we talk. Otherwise, I’m walking out of here now and taking your prize with me.”

“Then I guess there’s nothing more to discuss,” Godunov said.

That’s when Bolan’s senses went into high gear.

The pair of goons who emerged from two separate panels hidden in the walls came bearing sound-suppressed .22-caliber pistols. Bolan half expected a bit more firepower, but Godunov would have had trouble getting anything more past building security. Bolan had counted on that, and it looked like he’d proved his theory.

They came hard and fast, but the Executioner was ready. Bolan brought the sound-suppressed Beretta 93-R smoothly into play and took the first hood with a 9 mm Parabellum slug to the chest. The impact spun the gunner into the thick plate-glass window of the big corner office, and he bounced off, leaving a bloody splotch as the only evidence of his presence. The goon from the panel about sixty degrees to Bolan’s left tried to flank his position, but the Executioner found cover behind a leather couch that provided him with a good defensive posture.

Bolan got the second target with a double-tap to the head. The first round punched through the gunman’s face even as he was taking aim: his finger curled reflexively against the trigger and a bullet discharged into the carpeted floor. Bolan’s second round creased the top of the guy’s skull as his body started to topple, and deposited a patch of blood and flesh on the wall behind him.

The subsonic cartridges from the Beretta 93-R had suppressed any significant reports. Coupled with their distance from the front desk and the fact that the heavy door was closed, Bolan figured the fight hadn’t been heard. He doubted that anyone even occupied the adjoining offices, but if they had it still might not have made enough noise to cause alarm. Either way, Bolan now had another hurdle to overcome with Godunov.

“This isn’t what I came here for,” Bolan said as he leveled the pistol at the Russian. “I’m not looking for a fight.”

Godunov’s voice was icy. “Then you shouldn’t have come here with your deals.”

“I guess I shouldn’t have,” Bolan said.

He looked at Lutrova and said, “Let’s go, pal.”

They were nearly at the door when Godunov said, “Wait!”

Bolan turned and eyed him.

“I didn’t say I couldn’t be reasonable,” the man continued with a mock smile. “After all, only a fool wouldn’t explore all his options. Such relationships are built on an equal measure of trust.”

“Trust and loyalty aren’t my problem,” Bolan said. He grabbed Lutrova’s arm and thrust him into a nearby seat. Lutrova hit it with surprise on his face, and glanced at Bolan, who pretended as if he wasn’t there. “I’m a freelancer. I’ve built a reputation on getting a job done. You want what I have, then you have to pay for it. Keeps things simple.”

“Then you won’t mind giving me your name,” Godunov replied.

Bolan made a show of considering it, and then shrugged. “Guess I’ve got nothing to lose. Name’s Frankie Lambretta. I used to work for the Righetti Family until this last stint in Otisville.”

Godunov nodded knowingly. “The upstate New York prison facility. I’m familiar with it. But surely you have a parole officer you answer to.”

“Not anymore,” Bolan said with a cool smile. “He met with an unfortunate accident.”

“You are a man of style then.”

“I’m a man of profit, plain and simple. Now are you interested in doing business with me or not?”

Godunov sighed and took a seat. “What’s your price?”

“I’ll take twenty-five g’s for the genius there,” Bolan said. “And a job.”

“I’m not sure I have a place for you directly in my organization,” Godunov replied.

“Don’t be sly, pal.”

“Not at all.” Godunov reached carefully for a card on his desk and extended it to Bolan. “But I believe I know someone who would be interested in your work.”

Bolan cast a cautionary glance at Lutrova before walking to Godunov’s desk and snatching the card. He studied it a moment, a plain white card with only a phone number. “What’s this supposed to do for me?”

“Call that number and ask for the Wolf.”

Bolan cocked his head with skepticism. “You pull anything on me and I’ll kill you, friend. You can bank on it.”

“Again, we agreed that any relationship should be built on trust.”

Bolan gestured toward the two corpses on the carpet. “Like that? That’s your idea of trust?”

“Surely a man of your talents must understand my position. I have gotten this far by being cautious. The people I work for absolutely demand this. If I weren’t, neither my life nor that of our friend here—” he waved at Lutrova “—would be worth anything.”

Bolan nodded and pocketed the card. “Fine. I’ll just hold on to my catch until you have the money.”

“No need.” Godunov reached into a drawer, again careful not to make any sudden moves, and withdrew three one-hundred-dollar-bill bundles. He tossed them on the desk and said, “There’s thirty thousand in cash. Let’s call the added five a measure of my good faith.”

Bolan didn’t hesitate before scooping them off the desk and pocketing them. “Fine. Consider us square.”

He wheeled around and headed for the exit.

“One more thing,” Godunov said as Bolan reached the office door. “I will be looking into your background. If you are not who you say you are, I will find out. And when I do, you would be better to take the money and disappear rather than attempt to deceive me.”

Bolan flashed a cocksure grin and replied, “Yeah. You do that.”

ONCE BOLAN LEFT the building, he walked several blocks past the parking garage to check for marks. Nobody appeared to be tailing him, so he circled back to the garage and retrieved his rental. He contacted Stony Man after putting some distance between him and Godunov’s offices.

Barbara Price answered. “How did it go?”

“I think I’m in,” Bolan said. “I need another favor. Do some looking into any mercenary groups operating in the U.S.”

“Sure. Are we looking for anything in particular?”

“Not certain yet, but I have a moniker called ‘the Wolf.’ I don’t know if it means anything, but I if you cross-reference it with known freelancers, you may come up with something solid.”

“Will do. Hal’s here now, too. Anything else you can tell us?”

“Godunov’s definitely careful,” Bolan replied, “but I don’t think he’s calling all the shots with the RBN. He specifically mentioned that the people he works for expect him to be careful, which tells me someone sits above him in the ranks. Still, I get the impression he’s close to the top.”

“Any idea what he’s up to, Striker?” Brognola asked.

“Hard to tell this early on,” Bolan said. “He’s going to check into my background, and I gave him the Lambretta cover just as we discussed. Bear’s got that tightened up?”

“Definitely.”

“So what do you have in mind for your next move?” Price asked.

“I’m going to get in touch with this contact he called the Wolf,” Bolan said. “See where that leads me.”

“You could be walking into a trap.”

“Probably. But I’m banking on the fact that whoever this contact is, he’ll be chomping at the bit to recruit some new talent, particularly since those I took out in Boston were likely part of his team. One thing’s for sure—Godunov doles out all the wet work to specialists. I don’t think he’s got any internal people other than for personal security. So the sooner you can get me some intel on this contact I’m supposed to make, the easier it will be to gain a picture.”

“We’ll get on it right away,” Brognola promised. “Give us two hours?”

“Fine,” Bolan said. “I can lie low for that long.”

“What about Lutrova?”

“I left him there for a price,” Bolan said. “That should firm up my cover some as being in this strictly for profit. I just hope our timing’s good.”

“Well,” Price said, “we’ve done some other snooping into Godunov’s background. He’s operated here in the U.S. for about the past five years. That’s left significant paper trails, even if they only lead back to shell or paper companies.”

“I imagine he’s attempted to deal in smaller transactions?” Bolan inquired.

“You’re absolutely correct,” Price replied. “After 9/11, the federal government instituted new policies relative to financial transactions. Any single transaction of ten thousand dollars or more requires the receiving institution to generate what’s known as a currency transaction report. The CTRs are typically routed to the compliance departments for those banks, who then file them with a central database. These CTRs are then analyzed and flagged against a list of known financiers for terrorist or other national and international criminal organizations.”

“So Godunov’s managed to slip through the cracks by keeping the amounts of his transactions low?”

“Exactly. And since he’s never directly involved, his name has never been on the list,” she explained.

“We’ve taken care of that, though,” Brognola interjected. “We had him added as soon as you contacted us with Lutrova’s story. Speaking of which, do you think he’ll roll on you?”

“It’s always a possibility, but I’m confident he’s scared enough to keep his mouth shut. He knows if he tells Godunov that he was coerced into cooperating with us, it will likely cost him his life. I think he’ll pull through it.”

“Agreed,” Brognola said. “It’s not like he has a choice.”

“Well, we still don’t know what Godunov plans to use him for,” Price said.

“We know Lutrova’s an expert hacker and a technology genius. I think Godunov plans to exploit his talents in some way, and I’m guessing it has something to do with the funds they’re channeling through all the bogus investment accounts.”

“You think it’s money being used to fund RBN operations overseas?”

“Why not?” Bolan said. “It makes complete sense in light of what you’ve uncovered.”

“You could be on to something, Striker,” Price replied. “Given the state of the world economy, it’s likely they’re starting to see a rapid depletion of funds. The only way for them to continue their efforts would be if they get more money from their investors, or find new ones. The latter would take too long, so for the sake of expedience they may be attempting to tap the current list.”

“Which means they’d need to get all the financial data they could on those financiers,” Brognola concluded.

“Right,” Bolan said. “And I think that’s what Godunov may have brought Lutrova in to do.”

“You think Godunov’s looking to crack that list?” Price asked.

“I think he’s going to do a lot more than that,” Bolan replied. “I think he plans to make Lutrova crack the New York financial network.”

“Okay, but to what ends?”

“To suck it dry in one fell swoop,” the Executioner replied.

CHAPTER FIVE

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.