The man’s given name was John Jameson. But watching him through the one-way glass, Mack Bolan knew Jameson was more often referred to as “Johnny Seven.”
An intercom connected the two rooms and Bolan stood near it. Not that he would have had to. Johnny Seven’s voice boomed as he lambasted the woman. “No, Ms. Polyakova,” the interrogator said sarcastically. “It’s not just smuggling drugs. It would have been just smuggling drugs—heroin, to be exact—but two men got killed during the takedown. One of ours—Fred Kiley—who I knew, and that skell you worked with, Rabashka. That makes it two counts of murder during the commission of a felony, lady.” He leaned in across the table and stuck his face into the woman’s. “Which, in turn, means if you don’t start answering my questions you’re going to find yourself strapped down to a table with a needle in your arm!”
Johnny Seven’s threat brought on a fresh flow of tears from the woman.
“Hope you like potassium,” Seven said, moving back away again. “Big doses of it. ’Cause that’s what they kill you with here in New York.”
“I have already told you all I know!” the woman sobbed. Her eyes searched the table for something. Tissues, Bolan guessed, because he had seen her do so several times already before finally resorting to her hands to wipe her eyes. As she did so again now, repulsion contorted her face. She was obviously a woman not used to the slovenly conditions of a Rikers Island interrogation room.
Bolan shook his head behind the one-way glass. He could readily see that Drug Enforcement Administration Agent John “Johnny Seven” Jameson was taking the wrong approach with Luiza Polyakova. Johnny Seven was right on one count—the woman wasn’t telling all she knew. Bolan could sense she was lying. But his instincts also told him she would continue to lie as long as these hardline tactics continued.
He glanced down at his watch in the dimly lit room. He would give the DEA agent another five minutes as a professional courtesy, then he would intercede.
As he listened to Johnny Seven continue to harangue Luiza Polyakova, Bolan thought back over the past few hours. He had just completed a mission in the Caribbean and been on his way back to the U.S. when Hal Brognola phoned him in the plane. Brognola, the director of the ultracovert Stony Man Farm and also a top-level Department of Justice administrator, had filled him in on the bust. U.S. Customs had called in the DEA. But word of the huge seizure had also reached the ears of the President of the United States. And the President had decided he wanted Stony Man Farm—the top secret counter-terrorist institution—involved. He suspected there was more to it than met the eye.
So did Mack Bolan.
When the five minutes had expired and nothing had changed in the interrogation room, Bolan opened the door and stepped out into the hall. As he entered the room he’d been watching, both the woman and man looked up. “Who the hell are you?” Seven demanded. “Get outta here.”
Bolan had no official commission with the Justice Department, but that didn’t mean he didn’t have credentials. He pulled out the badge case holding the DOJ badge Brognola had finessed for him and held it up. “Matt Cooper,” he said. “Justice.”
“Justice?” Seven said, standing up behind the table. “What business does Justice have here?”
Bolan shrugged. “That’s what I’m here to find out,” he said.
“I’m Jameson, DEA,” Seven practically spat. “And I don’t need you.”
“I know who you are,” Bolan said. “And the President seems to think you do need me.”
Johnny Seven scowled in puzzlement. “The president of what? ”
“The United States.”
“Right,” he answered sarcastically. “He probably called you personally.”
“No,” Bolan said. “But I can get him on the phone right now if that’s what it’ll take to convince you.”
Seven looked at Bolan as if he might have two heads. “Are you nuts? What, you expect me to believe all that? And I suppose you and the Man have a round of golf set up for later in the day, too.”
Bolan reached into the inside pocket of his coat and pulled out his cellular phone. Tapping in a number, he handed the instrument to Seven. “Ask him yourself,” he said. He smiled pleasantly. “And tell him I may have to cancel on the golf.”
Johnny Seven snorted through his nose and took the phone, holding it to his ear. But a second later, all the smugness left him. Bolan repressed a smile as he watched the shock come over the agent’s face. The President’s voice was still the most easily recognized voice in the world.
“Uh, excuse me, sir,” Johnny Seven said uncomfortably. “I wasn’t really expecting it to be you.” He paused a few seconds while the President spoke, then said, “Yes, sir. My name’s John Jameson. DEA. And yes, that’s what it’s about.” After a few more seconds, he said, “Yes, sir,” again. Then, “Thank you, sir. It was a pleasure talking to you.” Pressing the button to end the call, he looked up at Bolan as he handed back the phone. “Sounds like you’re for real.”
“Sometimes too real,” Bolan said as he stuck the phone back in his pocket.
“Good man, that guy,” Seven said. “At least one hell of an improvement over the scumbag we had in the White House last go around.” The shock of talking to the President suddenly wore off and Seven remembered Polyakova. His head snapped back her way.
Before the agent could say anything further, Bolan cleared his throat. “I’d like to see you outside for a minute before we go on,” he said. Without waiting for an answer, he turned and exited the room. Johnny Seven followed.
As soon as the door was closed behind them, Bolan asked, “How about letting me have a go at her?”
Seven’s bristle was instinctive. He glanced at the observation room next door. “You’ve already been watching?”
Bolan nodded. He had read Seven’s file during the flight to New York and knew enough about the man to respect his abilities. “You’ve hit a stone wall,” Bolan said. “It can happen to anybody. Sometimes a fresh face behind the questions can change everything.”
Johnny Seven didn’t like it—his face showed that—but Bolan’s low-key approach hadn’t backed him into a corner in which his pride took over. Slowly, he nodded. “Want me in there?”
“Definitely,” Bolan said. “But later. Let’s throw her off stride with me by myself for now.” He nodded to the observation room. “Why don’t you watch from there?”
Seven hesitated, and for a moment it looked as if he might be angry. Then his entire body visibly relaxed and a thin grin curled his upper lip. “Well, hell. At least you’re polite about stealing my case.”
“Nobody’s stealing your case,” Bolan said. Then, before the conversation could get started again, he pushed back into the room and took the seat across from the Russian woman. He set his big briefcase down on the floor as he studied the frightened green eyes and smeared makeup on the other side of the table. Then, pulling a clean handkerchief from his pocket, he handed it to Luiza Polyakova.
Taking the cloth, she gently wiped her face. “I must look a mess,” she said.
“You look fine,” Bolan replied. He let a gentle smile spread across his face as Polyakova tried to return the handkerchief. Her eyes were still wet and he said, “Keep it.”
The woman looked surprised, her hand freezing over the table. But already, Bolan could see, she was responding to his softer approach.
So he would continue it. There would be no more talk of dead men or murder charges or trials or executions. At least not from Mack Bolan. Even though he was better by his other name.
The Executioner.
WHILE LUIZA POLYAKOVA continued to compose herself from the crying jag, the Executioner glanced over at another table against the wall. A black purse rested on top of the otherwise bare surface. When the Russian saw him looking that way he asked, “Yours?”
She nodded.
The soldier rose to his feet, walked to the table and lifted the purse. He assumed it had already been searched for weapons and
other contraband before his arrival. But he glanced through it quickly as he walked back to the woman and set it before her. “Go ahead,” he told her as he resumed his seat. “You’ll feel better.”
Polyakova stared at him as if he’d just told her she’d won the lottery, then opened her purse and pulled out a small package of tissues, a compact and a lipstick. Bolan watched her as she went to work on her face. She really was an attractive woman, and a classiness emanated from her that even the seediness of the bright orange jail coveralls couldn’t disguise. Bolan had noted that prisoners he’d seen in other cells on the way in also wore bright orange. The trustees, who moved through the runs and cell blocks with far more freedom, wore white.
Finally she snapped her compact closed again. She had redone her makeup, and her eyes were now dry. Her lips glistened wetly with a ruby-red hue, and her mascara was back in place on her eyelids rather than running down her cheeks.
Bolan reevaluated his opinion of her. She wasn’t just attractive. She was stunning.
“I look better?” Polyakova asked.
“You look better,” Bolan agreed. “Now, I know this is difficult, but we still need to talk.”
Slowly, losing a little of her composure again, the woman nodded.
The soldier lifted the oversize briefcase to the top of the table. Leaving the clasps that secured the large main compartment in place, he unzipped a side pocket and pulled out two manila files. Dropping them on the table in front of him, he returned the briefcase to the floor. Opening the top file, he looked down at an Immigration and Naturalization Service photograph paper-clipped to the first page. It showed the smiling face of a ten-years-younger Luiza Polyakova. The face he saw before him now didn’t look nearly as happy. But if there was any change at all, it had gotten even more lovely since she had become a U.S. citizen.
“Tell me what happened, Luiza,” Bolan said in a calm voice.
“I don’t know,” the woman across from him said. “I have done business with these people many times in the past. This is the first time we have ever had any trouble.” She stopped talking for a moment, gazing with hope at Bolan. Her eyes told him she was praying that he, unlike the DEA agent, would believe her.
And he did. At least partially. “I believe you’ve done business with them before,” Bolan said. “But I can’t believe the part about you not knowing what was going on.”
She fidgeted in her seat. “They may have smuggled things in my paintings,” she said. “If they did, I didn’t know it.”
It was the same story Bolan had heard her tell Johnny Seven as he watched through the one-way mirror. Seven didn’t buy it. Neither did Bolan. “That would all make sense,” he said calmly. “Except for one thing. You take possession of the shipments upon their arrival in the country. Straight from the customs department. I assume you then have them taken to your gallery?”
“Yes,” Polyakova said. “Straight there. To sell.”
“Then explain how Rabashka, or whoever was working with him, got to the drugs and stolen artwork without you knowing about it?”
Tears threatened to ruin her face again and Bolan held up a hand. “Relax,” he said quietly. “Don’t answer yet. I’m going to tell you how I think it happened, and then you can tell me if I’m wrong.” He paused. “That’s not the usual approach. But it beats having to wait while you do your makeup all over again.”
A nervous giggle escaped her lips and she covered her mouth with long slender fingers. For the first time since he’d laid eyes upon her, Bolan saw a hint of a smile play at the corners of her sensuous lips. Hardly an expression of total relief, it was rather the look of a person who felt she had just bought herself a little more time.
Bolan opened the second file and saw a surveillance photo. In it, a man wearing a wrinkled brown suit was getting out of a car. The soldier glanced up at Polyakova. “We knew who Nestor Rabashka was before today,” he said. “He’s a former midlevel Soviet KGB official. Since the downfall of the Soviet Union, he’s been hooked up with one of the organized crime syndicates operating out of Moscow. You know what I’m talking about.”
Polyakova’s eyes widened. But rather than a look of surprise, Bolan saw more the expression of a woman who had just had her worst fears confirmed. She had to have suspected Rabashka’s mob connections all along.
Bolan leaned back against his chair and clasped his hands behind his head. “Here’s what I’d guess happened. I think you knew all along that they were bringing in dope and stolen paintings. You didn’t know the details but you knew something illegal was going on.”
The woman started to protest but Bolan held up his hand again. “Let me finish. Even though you knew it, I don’t think you wanted it done. I don’t think you wanted to help them.” He paused to watch her face soften again before going on. “I think they have some kind of hammer on you, Luiza.”
The Russian woman’s eyebrows lowered slightly. “They have a hammer? What does this mean, they have a hammer?”
The Executioner smiled. Leaning in across the table, he clasped his hands in front of him. His face was now only a foot from hers. But rather than draw back as she had when Seven had pressed her that way, she now leaned in slightly. “It’s an American police expression,” Bolan said softly. “It means they have some kind of leverage on you. Something they could hold over your head in order to make you do what they want.” He stopped. Luiza Polyakova was, yet again, about to burst into tears.
“What I’m saying,” Bolan went on, “is that I don’t think you’re guilty, Luiza. Technically, yes. But I don’t think you wanted to do what you did. I think you felt like you had to. And I think we may be able to work this out so that you help us and you don’t end up doing any time in prison or even have a felony record.”
A glimmer of hope now sparked in the beautiful green eyes. And this time there was no holding back the tears—they flooded out as if the gates of a great aqueduct had sprung open. But now they were tears of joy rather than terror.
Bolan stood. She needed time to think, time to relax. He suppressed a smile. And to redo her makeup again. Luiza Polyakova was obviously a woman who took pride in her appearance, and she’d feel even better once they got her out of the coveralls and back into her own clothes. “I’m going outside for a moment,” he told her. “I’ll be back.”
Polyakova was reaching into her purse as he headed into the hallway.
Turning the corner, Bolan saw a white-clad woman pushing a broom down the run. The stub of a cigarette hung from the corner of her mouth. He entered the observation room where Johnny Seven stood staring through the mirror as Polyakova went to work again on her face. He turned to Bolan as the door opened.
“Congratulations,” the DEA man said, a slight smirk on his face. “You got her to stop crying. But beyond that, you haven’t gotten a thing I didn’t already have.”
“We aren’t finished yet,” Bolan said. The female trustee pushed the broom past the door as it swung closed behind him. “Before I could talk to her—or get her to talk to me—I had to get her to trust me.” He refrained from adding, And undo the damage you already did.
Seven snorted. “Okay,” he said. “We’ll see.” He glanced back into the interrogation room before his eyes returned to look up at the Executioner. “What’ve you got planned next? Wine and cheese tasting, maybe? Or you might want to take her to the opera?”
Bolan couldn’t repress a short laugh. Seven was a pushy sort. But there was something about him that kept Bolan from getting mad. Maybe it was the fact that the soldier sensed that he was really a good cop, probably one of the best when interrogating suspects who were truly guilty rather than victims of circumstance. Or it could have been the fact that Bolan knew that any cop would get ticked off if some outsider came in and took over his case. “I’m going to give her a little time to think about it,” he said. “Then I’m going in and offer her a deal.”
“What kind of a deal?” Seven was suspicious.
“The best I can.�
�� Behind him, Bolan heard the swoosh of more brooms sweeping the hall. He turned to see two more female prisoners in orange coveralls pushing dust mops along the run. He looked back to Johnny Seven. “You heard us in there, didn’t you?”
“Yeah, I heard you,” the DEA agent answered.
“I meant what I said. I don’t think she did this because she wanted to. I think she was coerced.”
“Of course she was coerced,” Seven said in exasperation. “Any rookie could see that. She’s a successful self-made millionaire. She has art galleries here and in Europe, too, from what I hear. And she has no criminal record.” He stared at the Executioner incredulously and repeated, “Of course she was coerced into this. A woman like that doesn’t get into it on her own.”
“You weren’t treating her as if she was innocent,” Bolan said.
“That’s ’cause I want to know what she knows. And the threat of prison or a lethal injection is the best way I know to get it.”
Bolan grinned at the DEA agent. “With some people it is. Not with her.” More sounds in the hallway caused him to turn to the window in the door. Yet another pair of orange-clad women had entered the run outside the interrogation and observation rooms. One carried a mop, the other, a bucket filled with water.
An uneasy feeling spread through the Executioner’s chest as he turned back around. He couldn’t put his finger on exactly what it was, but something was out of place.
“Well, we’ll see,” Seven said. “What exactly is the deal you plan to offer her?”
“Immunity from prosecution,” Bolan replied. “No record—not even of the arrest. As long as she helps us.”
“You can’t guarantee that,” he said. “You’ll never get the D.A.’s office to go for it.”
Bolan pulled the cell phone halfway out of his inside pocket, reminding Seven of the phone call they’d made earlier to the White House.
Jameson shrugged in resignation. “Then again,” he said, “maybe you will.” He shook his head in disbelief. “Forget everything I’ve said so far and everything I say from now on. Suddenly the rule book has changed on me. It’s like I’ve played baseball for twenty years and thought we were still playing baseball, then you walk in and suddenly I’m in the middle of a football game. When do you plan to—”
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