Executioner - Blood Circle Part 8

Bolan started the truck. "Where from there?"

"To New York. There is a man there you need to meet. His name is Ivan Pushkin. There is a chance he may be very helpful to us."

Svarzkova spoke from the back. "And why will this Ivan Pushkin talk to you, much less help us?"

"He knew my father from the great patriotic war against the n.a.z.is. They rode together on top of the same tank in the battle for Moscow. After the war my father stayed in the military, and Pushkin went into the black market. Years later Pushkin's son was sent to fight in Afghanistan. His son was an intellectual and a college student, and he spoke out against the government. Being sent to serve in Afghanistan was a common way of dealing with dissidents in the 1980s. Unfortunately Pushkin's son was somewhat anemic and not much of a soldier. He would not have fared well. Pushkin knew I was Spetsnaz, and he asked my father if I could do something for him. I could not manage a military deferment, but I had him a.s.signed to my unit as a clerical-support officer, which kept him out of the front-line fighting. Pushkin remembers this. It was he who helped me establish my mafiya contacts when I first came to the United States. If I ask him, I believe he will help us now."

Bolan calculated. It jibed with what he knew of the Russian mafiya. Unlike the Italian Mafia, Russian organized crime was based more on groups of friends and a.s.sociates than actual family clans. The Russian mafiya was also very young and open to entrepreneurs. Men who had been in the military together or had grown up on the same streets carried these allegiances onward into ventures in organized crime. Ramzin's story was entirely plausible. "How well established is he in the mafiya?"

Ramzin grinned wolfishly. "Very well established. He was one of the first to come to the United States. He and his son run much of the mafiya's action in New England. They are very well connected, both here and back home in Russia. If anyone can help us in our endeavor, Pushkin can."

The Executioner took the cellular phone off of the dashboard and handed it to Ramzin. "We'll be at the airport within half an hour. It's time for you to make a phone call."

Igor Baibakov stared down from his full height at the man standing before him. The man refused to look up and meet the giant's eyes. Boris Izeshkov was a large man, but he was dwarfed by Baibakov's presence. Baibakov stood over him and blocked out the warehouse's overhead light. A woman and several armed Serbs stood behind him and looked at Izeshkov in open disdain. Izeshkov's two disarmed bodyguards stared at their shoes and hoped they wouldn't be killed along with their boss. Baibakov stared unblinkingly at the Russian mobster and considered the man's immediate survival.

Izeshkov had promised him that his men were heavy hitters, who could kill the American commando with no problem. Baibakov shook his head and grinned wonderingly at the man's hubris. A whole platoon of Spetsnaz hadn't been able to kill the American before, and now this gangster had gotten six of his buffoons killed and a seventh in custody. Baibakov hadn't expected miracles, yet he had given these men the priceless advantage of surprise, and still they had failed utterly.

The American commando lived, and the hunt was on.

Baibakov continued to stare down at the man and let him sweat. The man stank of fear, and the giant despised him. Still, the operation in Kansas hadn't been totally without value. Baibakov now knew for certain the American was hunting him, and he knew that the commando had talked to Ramzin. An unknown woman was accompanying the commando in his efforts, and she had engaged in the firefight in the parking lot. She had also apparently given a good account of herself. That was intriguing, and Baibakov wondered who she might be and what she represented.

The giant relented. He still required this man's services for the present time. "You have acquired what I asked for?"

Izeshkov's shoulders sagged with visible relief. The subject was being changed, and in this regard he hadn't failed. "Yes. Everything you asked for is here, in these crates, as you specified." Izeshkov waved an arm at several large, long crates on the floor of the warehouse.

Baibakov nodded. "Open them."

Izeshkov pointed at the crates, and his two bodyguards levered the top crate open. They reached in and lifted out a Barrett .50caliber semiautomatic sniper rifle. They set the rifle on the crate lid and began to pull out spare magazines and boxes of ammunition. Baibakov grinned with pleasure as he stooped and picked up the weapon and checked the action. The clack of the bolt was smooth and positive. He nodded in satisfaction. "Good. The others?"

The bodyguards opened the other two cases and began to pull out weapons. There was a wide a.s.sortment of rifles, pistols and explosives. The Red Falcons began to check weapons and equipment thoroughly while the mafiya men looked on nervously. Madchen Krstic finished checking the action of a Dragunov sniper rifle, and her dark eyes glittered as she nodded. Everything Baibakov had demanded was scrupulously accounted for. The Russian was satisfied. Boris Izeshkov would make a better supply officer than mafiya street soldier, but at least he was good for something.

The mafiya man smiled shakily. "It is all there, as you can see. Do you require anything else?"

Baibakov handed the Barrett .50 to one of the Red Falcons and locked his gaze with Izeshkov. The man flinched but was unable to look away from the gray tombstones of Baibakov's eyes. The giant nodded slowly. "Yes. I have another job for you to perform. Listen to me very carefully."

A Beautiful redheaded secretary smiled up at Bolan dazzlingly as she pushed the intercom b.u.t.ton. Her accent was barely detectable. "Mr. Pushkin will see you now."

Bolan, Svarzkova and Ramzin, uncuffed, went through a set of magnificent double wooden doors and entered the office of Ivan Pushkin's "legitimate" business headquarters.

Pushkin was squat and bald, but solid looking for a veteran of World War II. He sat behind a huge oak desk in his Manhattan office. His son was tall and thin, with a long emaciated-looking face. He looked almost nothing like his father as he stood beside him. Only the two men's matching steely blue eyes betrayed their kins.h.i.+p. The younger man suddenly grinned and stood at ramrod attention as Ramzin entered the room.

Ramzin shook his head in mock disgust. "Well! If it isn't Private Pushkin." The major returned the salute. "It is good to see you again, Anatoly." He turned to the elder Pushkin. "You look well, Ivan."

Pushkin regarded Ramzin with open speculation. He glanced at Bolan and raised an eyebrow at Svarzkova before returning his gaze to the major. "You look well, Ramzin." His tone fell flat. "I had heard you were in prison."

"Yes, I was."

"And now?"

"Now I am out."

Pushkin nodded, but his eyes looked noncommittal. "Ah." He looked again at Bolan and Svarzkova and spoke in Russian. "And who is this American?"

Ramzin looked at Bolan for a moment. It was an interesting question. He thought about it for a moment and shrugged. "He represents the interests of the United States government." Bolan spoke up in Russian. "That is essentially correct." Pushkin blinked. It wasn't welcome news. "And the woman?" Ramzin cleared his throat. "She is Lieutenant Valentina Svarzkova, an agent of Russian Military Intelligence." Pushkin lost his poker face and gaped at Ramzin. "Why have you brought them here?"

The major folded his arms across his chest. "I was compelled."

Pushkin's face began to flush red. "No one ever compelled Pietor Ramzin to do anything. You brought them here in your own self-interest."

Ramzin shrugged. "I do not deny it."

Anatoly Pushkin's hand eased under his jacket as his father grew steadily angrier; Ivan Pushkin shook his head in enraged wonder. "So, Ramzin, you have become a Judas. You would sell me out? I am a comrade of your father's! I have known you since you were old enough to crawl!"

Ramzin shook his head. "No, I did not sell you out. You are not being investigated. These people are here to seek your help."

"My help?"

"Yes."

Bolan stepped forward. "I want Igor Baibakov."

Both of the Pushkins stared at Bolan in surprise. "I gather you know of him."

Anatoly sighed and spoke. "Yes, I know of him. I was in Afghanistan under Major Ramzin's command."

Bolan nodded. "And now he is here in America."

Ivan Pushkin stared at Ramzin. "What are you getting out of this?"

The major looked him in the eye. "Freedom."

Pushkin nodded and turned back to Bolan. "a.s.suming I knew anything about Igor Baibakov, what would I get out of helping you?"

The Executioner locked eyes with Pushkin. "Igor Baibakov is in the United States. He is aiding and abetting a Serbian terrorist group known as the Red Falcons. They're going to strike American targets, and I'm not going to allow that to happen. These people are at war with the United States, and I consider anyone helping them, or withholding information about them, to be at war with the United States, as well. If you don't help us, I'll be forced to tell the FBI that Ivan Pushkin was uncooperative in stopping a terrorist campaign on United States soil. You and your organization will then have the full attention of not only the FBI, but the CIA, Interpol and the IRS, as well. Do you understand?"

Pushkin gazed at Bolan stonily, then turned to Ramzin. "You have brought a wolf into my house, Pietor."

Ramzin shrugged. "It was this or grow old and die in jail. Besides, you are indebted to me, Ivan Pushkin."

The old man suppressed a flinch, and Anatoly glared at his former commander. "My father has already been of great help to you, Major. It is not his fault you landed yourself in an American jail."

Ramzin sighed. "That is true, but things are as they are. He will help me again, or all of us will fall."

Ivan Pushkin's shoulders sank. "Very well. I will a.s.sist you. It will take me some time to find out these things. I must call in favors from other organizations. Come back tomorrow, and I will give you all that I can."

Bolan nodded. "You have twenty-four hours." The Executioner strode from the office with Ramzin and Svarzkova in tow. Even before the office door had closed, the Pushkin family was speaking in rapid and angry Russian. They left Pushkin's office suite in silence. Bolan did not speak until they were in the elevator.

"They'll help?" Bolan asked when they entered the elevator.

Ramzin watched the floor numbers as the car started to descend and held out his hands for the handcuffs. He answered as Bolan took out the manacles. "I believe they will. You have put us both in a desperate situation, I-"

Ramzin spun on his heel and slammed his elbow into the pit of Svarzkova's stomach. The woman gasped and doubled over. He yanked the CZ-75 9 mm pistol out from the holster behind her back as she sagged to her knees. The click of the safety coming off was very loud.

Bolan thrust his foot into the Russian's solar plexus with all of his weight behind it. Ramzin winced in pain, and the report of the gun in the confines of the elevator was deafening. Sparks shrieked off of the gleaming elevator wall as the bullet ricocheted. Bolan flung the handcuffs into Ramzin's face and grasped the Russian's wrist as he closed with him. The pistol fired into the elevator roof as the Executioner's fist crashed against Ramzin's jaw. The Russian bounced off the elevator wall and brought his knee up at Bolan's groin. The big American raised his own knee to block and lunged forward, his forehead meeting the bridge of Ramzin's nose with the cracking of cartilage.

The Russian's head snapped back, and Bolan followed through with an elbow smash under Ramzin's chin. As the man started to buckle, Bolan drove his fist into the man's biceps, forcing him to drop the gun. Svarzkova's pistol twisted and fell out of Ramzin's suddenly nerveless fingers and clattered to the floor.

Svarzkova sucked in a strangled breath as Bolan helped her to her feet. She took her pistol and leaned heavily against the elevator railing as she fought to draw air into her lungs. The Executioner stared down at Ramzin. His elbow had split the man's chin, and blood leaked out of his broken nose. Bolan knew that Ramzin wouldn't be able to move his right arm the next day. He couldn't blame the man for attacking. The Executioner knew that he, too, would attempt to take out his captors and effect his own escape at the first opportunity. He could understand why Ramzin had turned on him. He just couldn't afford to tolerate it.

Bolan took out his handkerchief and flipped it to the bleeding Russian. "That was your one freebie, Ramzin. Next time I'll just kill you."

The Russian glared and wiped his mouth as the elevator door pinged and opened on the lobby level of the building. Two businessmen in suits carrying briefcases stared in shock at the car's occupants. Bolan grabbed Ramzin by his lapels and yanked him to his feet as Svarzkova holstered her pistol and picked up the manacles.

The businessmen gave them a wide berth as they dragged Ramzin out of the elevator. Once they were in the lobby, Svarzkova snapped the handcuffs around the major's wrists, hissing several sizzling remarks at him in Russian. Ramzin started dourly into the distance. Bolan halted at the door.

"I still need the information from Pushkin, and I'll need your help in following up on it. As far as I'm concerned, this incident is settled, and you're still going home at the end of this. But I want you and I to understand each other. My government has promised to let you rot in jail if you attempt to escape or hinder our operation. Understand my words, Ramzin. If you make a move like that again, you don't go back to Leavenworth. I kill you. Do we understand each other?"

Ramzin nodded and spit some blood on the floor. "Exactly so. We understand each other perfectly."

Svarzkova spoke icily. "I believe it would be safest if we break his arms."

Bolan almost smiled. Unfortunately, crippling Ramzin would probably not help his ability to deal with the other Russian mafiya bosses. "No, just kill him if he makes a move. Let's get him to a hospital so they can fix his face, then I need to see what my people have dug up for me." It was time to have another talk with Kurtzman.

11.

"What have you got for me, Bear?" Mack Bolan asked.

Aaron Kurtzman looked at the pile of computer readouts in front of him. "The short-list."

The Executioner's voice sounded skeptical. "How short is it?"

Kurtzman shook his head. "It isn't."

There was a pause on the link. "Shorten it."

The computer expert leaned back in his chair. He and the Stony Man cybernetics team had been crunching data nonstop for the past twenty-four hours. "That could be difficult, Mack. Even a.s.suming that the Red Falcons will go for specific targets related to United States intervention in Bosnia, the list is extensive. There are literally hundreds of military targets, from bases involved in sending troops and equipment to individual officers and their families involved. There are hundreds of civilian businesses and organizations involved in supporting and supplying our troops over there. They've all been contacted and put on full alert."

Bolan's tone was wry. "There isn't much I can do to safeguard a military base that it can't do better on its own, and I can't cover hundreds of civilian organizations."

"I know. That brings us down to individuals."

"Like who?"

"The question is where to start."

There was a pause. "Narrow it down to targets on the East Coast."

Kurtzman punched keys on the computer. "Any particular reason?"

"Call it a hunch. It's the staging ground for any troops or military equipment we send, and it's where the seat of our government is located."

"I agree, but most of our targets on the short-list were on the East Coast already. It narrows things down a little but not much, and it still leaves everyone from the President on down to lobbyists and peace organizations."

"I'm betting they'll do something that will make a real statement, but short of starting an all-out war between the United States and Serbia. I don't think a.s.sa.s.sinating the President of the United States would help their cause much. It's much more likely to put Americans up in arms. They want to drive us out. Work on that angle."

Kurtzman s.h.i.+fted in his chair. "I need more information, Mack. At this point we're still looking at needles in a dozen haystacks, and that's just targets. Our opponents still have the entire United States to hide in."

"I know." The line was silent for a moment. "I may have some leads for you tomorrow. The Russian mafiya is territorial just like other criminal organizations. If I can get a lead on who Baibakov has contacted and where, that may give us clues about his targets."

"That would be extremely helpful."

"I thought it might."

"Be careful around Pushkin. He's dangerous, and you've made him very unhappy."

Bolan's tone lightened. "I'm doing him a favor. If we don't get Baibakov before he strikes, the entire Russian mafiya in the United States will be crucified in the media for helping him. People will demand retaliation, and there will be one h.e.l.l of a witch-hunt to make them pay. Once he gets over being angry, he'll figure that out on his own if he hasn't already."

"I suspect you're right, Mack, but do me a favor and be careful anyway."

Ivan Pushkin peered at Ramzin's face but decided to keep his thoughts to himself. Ramzin's chin was freshly st.i.tched, and a bandage covered the swollen bridge of his nose. The left side of his jaw had a lump on it, and the Russian major's eyes peered out sourly from racc.o.o.n-like bruising.

Anatoly Pushkin was openly appalled. He had naturally laid about the ruckus in the elevator, and the idea that someone could defeat his former commander in close combat was nearly blasphemy. The beaten and bruised proof sitting stiffly at the conference table between the American and the woman intelligence agent was distinctly unsettling. He peered at Bolan with wary respect.

The Executioner decided to skip formalities. "What do you have for me?"

Ivan Pushkin grunted. "You are direct. Very well. I have called in some favors and put my ear to the ground about Baibakov. I can tell you he has received weapons and supplies."

Bolan nodded. The giant's primary instinct would be to arm himself immediately. "What kind?"

Pushkin pulled a pair of reading gla.s.ses from his vest pocket and opened a manila folder. "Twelve 9 mm Uzi submachine guns, twelve sound suppressors for same, a pair of Smith & Wesson .44 Magnum revolvers, twelve .22-caliber silenced Beretta pistols, a pair of Barrett .50caliber semiautomatic rifles, three dozen Browning Hi-Power 9 mm pistols of Hungarian manufacture, fifty pounds of C-4 plastic explosive, three crates of Russian-manufacture RGD-5 antipersonnel grenades, twenty-four grenades to a crate, four RPG-7 rocket-propelled grenade launchers, with ten rockets per weapon." Pushkin removed his reading gla.s.ses and smiled thinly. "At least according to my sources." He pa.s.sed the list around the table to Bolan. The Executioner scanned it.

"What Mafiya organizations has Baibakov contacted in the United States?"

Pushkin smiled and flipped a page in his file. "As you are probably aware, he made contact with one of the minor local mafiya heads in Kansas City, a man named Boris Izeshkov." Pushkin paused. "A contract was put Out on your life. Your description has been circulated, and that contract is still open. The price on your head is one million dollars. There is also a contract out on you, Lieutenant Svarzkova, though, like the American, they do not know who you are."

Svarzkova looked up from taking notes. "Even if they did, I do not believe that my status as a Russian Military Intelligence agent acting on the behalf of the motherland would stop them from putting a bullet in my brain."

Pushkin snorted and turned an amused eye on Ramzin. "There is also a contract out on you, Major Ramzin, and you are very well known."

Ramzin shrugged indifferently and gazed out of the high-rise window. Bolan had to give the giant grudging admiration. Baibakov was using excellent strategy. Wherever he went, he would tip off the local mafiya shooters that there were three very valuable heads for the taking. It complicated things immensely. Wherever the hunt led, armed killers would be waiting. Bolan looked over at Ramzin. The one good thing about it was that it helped ensure the Spetsnaz officer's loyalty. With a million dollars on his head, if Ramzin escaped and tried to disappear into the Russian mafiya network, he would disappear permanently. His best insurance was to see the contract nullified by Baibakov's death.