The DEA man stopped talking in midsentence. His eyes shot to Bolan’s side—to the one-way mirror.
The Executioner turned to see that someone in a pair of orange coveralls had just entered the interrogation room, and suddenly realized why his battle senses had gone on alert a moment earlier. Trustees—who wore white—were the only women who walked the runs and cleaned up the hallways. Anyone clad in orange was not a trustee and should have been locked in a cell.
But before he could think about it further one of the woman carrying a broom let it fall to the floor. She jerked a kitchen knife from inside her orange coveralls.
The woman behind her lifted a knee and broke the broom handle over it, creating two long, sharp-pointed stakes.
The other pair of female prisoners appeared in the doorway.
And all four began closing in on a shrieking Luiza Polyakova.
THE SWORD HANGING on the wall had a thirty-two inch blade. The overall length was 37.5 inches and it weighed slightly under 2.5 pounds. A Nazi eagle had been cast into the brass pommel on the end of the hardwood grip, a brass bolster separated the blade from that grip.
The sword had been used to kill his father.
From behind his desk, Anton Zdorovye studied the sword hanging on the opposite wall. It had been appropriated by Igor Golitsin, only seconds after Golitsin had shot the Cossack who’d used it on Zdorovye’s father. At the time, Zdorovye’s mother hadn’t even known she was with child. That realization had come nearly a month later, and two weeks after learning that the father had been killed in Ukraine by one of the traitorous Don Cossacks. The Cossacks had joined the invading Germans early during World War II, and many such swords had been forged bearing the eagle and swastika. Later the Germans and Cossacks had parted ways, and the fragmentation of that union had played an instrumental part in changing the course of the war, and consequently, world history.
But the breakup had come too late to do Zdorovye’s father, or Zdorovye himself, any good. The Russian often wondered about the man who had sired him, and wished he could have known him. He had died an honorable death, which Zdorovye longed to do himself. But he knew that the road in life he had chosen made that highly unlikely.
Zdorovye heard the phone ring on his desk and dropped his eyes from the wall. He lifted the receiver and heard the voice of his secretary, Amalia. “You have an overseas call, Mr. Zdorovye,” the woman said in Russian.
“From…?” he asked.
“Afghanistan. It is Ali.”
“Put him through,” Zdorovye said in a brisk voice.
A moment later a heavily accented Mideastern voice said, “Hello?”
“I am here, Ali,” Zdorovye said. “Speak Arabic. I can understand it better than your fractured Russian.”
The connection wasn’t good and the line crackled. “I have a decision to make,” Ali said in Arabic.
“Go on.”
“As you may know, the Americans have offered us money to destroy the poppy crops,” said the Afghan. “A substantial amount of money.”
“Take it.”
On the other end of the line, Zdorovye heard a cough. “Excuse me, the connection is not good. Can you repeat that please?”
“I said take the money.”
“That is what I thought you said. But that will mean we can’t do business.”
“Why?” the Russian asked. “I see no problem.”
“But Mr. Zdorovye,” Ali said, “if we destroy the poppy crops, I will have no opium or heroin for you.”
Zdorovye shook his head silently. He wondered briefly how such men had ever run a country. He wondered even more how they could have repelled the Soviet invasion and occupation years ago—an invasion and occupation of which he had been a part of as a tank crewman. He had always found Ali to be wretched, dirty, and not particularly bright. But the Afghan was cunning—he had to grant him that. Ali served his purpose, and Zdorovye was grateful for all of the contacts he had made in that godforsaken wasteland during his two years there. He hadn’t gotten rich by any means, but he had made a decent living on the side, supplementing his army pay by dealing with local tribesmen in the black market. And the men he had dealt with then had gone on to bigger and better things after the Soviets had pulled out. The Taliban could boast as much as it wanted that it had curtailed the growth of poppies during its short and maniacal reign. Zdorovye knew different.
Ali cut into Zdorovye’s thoughts. “Did you hear me?” he asked. “Did I hear you? You want me to destroy—”
“I want you to destroy nothing,” the Russian said in the same voice he used when correcting his four-year-old niece. “Do what everyone always does to the Americans.”
“What is that?”
“Screw them. Take their money, tell them you will destroy the crop, then harvest it and sell it to me as always.”
“But what if they find out what I have done?”
“Then they will react the way the Americans always react. They will decide it was all their fault because they didn’t pay you enough this year. So they will pay you even more money to destroy the next year’s crops, and you can do it all over again.”
A soft chuckle came over the other end of the line. “I should have thought of that myself,” Ali said.
“You did think of it yourself,” Zdorovye said. “You aren’t stupid. The real purpose of this call was in the hopes that you could raise the price on me by pretending there was a shortage of product. There will not be, and the price will be the same.” The Russian hung up the phone in Ali’s ear.
Zdorovye’s eyes shot back to the wall and the sword. He wondered, as he always did when he looked at the sword, what kind of man his father had been. Igor Golitsin and his mother had told tales of a fearless warrior when Zdorovye was growing up. But the former tank crewman knew such tales were always inflated when one died. The phone ringing again pulled him once more from his reverie.
“It is from America,” Amalia said.
Zdorovye frowned as the call was transferred to him. He opened a large desk planner on his desk and looked at the week. Several shipments were planned for America that week, but the only one that should have already gone down was yesterday. A simple one—Moscow to New York. To the art gallery of the Russian woman in Greenwich Village.
The man who now said hello had little, if any, trace of the accent which had once dominated his speech. But he still spoke Russian perfectly and there was no need to decide on a common language as there had been with Ali. Zdorovye had known the man for over twenty years, and still used his code name, Gregor.
“We have trouble,” Gregor stated.
Zdorovye’s stomach tightened. “What kind of trouble?”
“A bust at the airport. Customs got the drugs and the paintings.”
“Customs? American Customs? How could that happen?” Zdorovye felt his fingers tighten around the receiver. He glanced down and saw that his knuckles had turned white.
“Freak accident, the way I hear. Rat chewed through the cardboard containers and insulation, all the way into one of the pictures. They saw white powder on the floor and freaked. You know the Americans—guy’s first thought was anthrax.”
“How much money did we lose?”
“It wasn’t gigantic. Just a little over a million.”
Zdorovye’s fingers relaxed slightly. It could have been worse. Much worse. “What is your man’s name who accompanies those flights? Is he in custody?”
“Rabashka. But no, he’s not in custody. He’s dead. They shot him.”
More blood drained back into Zdorovye’s knuckles. At least the man couldn’t talk. They had lost a million dollars, yes, but they could easily absorb such a loss, and it was one of the hazards of the profession he was in. The situation would be salvaged.
“But there’s other bad news,” said the voice from America.
Zdorovye waited.
“They got the woman. Luiza Polyakova.”
The hand on the receiver gripped down so hard now
that Zdorovye heard the plastic crack. “Where is she?” he demanded.
“Rikers Island.”
The Russian suddenly realized he had been holding his breath, his teeth clenched. Now, he let it out. The woman would break under the pressure of even a lightweight American interrogation. But if she hadn’t yet talked it was still not too late, and they couldn’t have taken her to a better place than Rikers for Zdorovye’s purposes.
“Take care of that problem,” Zdorovye asked. “But don’t put yourself at risk in so doing.”
“Consider it done,” Gregor said.
Zdorovye hesitated, then said, “Have you informed Ontomanov?”
“I just got off the phone with him,” said the man in America. “He knows to stay away from the gallery.”
“Good,” Zdorovye said. “Keep me informed. I want to know as soon as…what is her name again?”
“Polyakova. Luiza Polyakova.”
“I want to know as soon as she is dead.” Zdorovye hung up the phone, stood, and walked to the wall. Reaching up, he grasped the sword with both hands and lowered it from the brackets on the wall. Slowly he ran his hand over the steel. Dark black splotches covered the blade—his father’s blood had stained the steel permanently. Reverently he replaced the sword and turned back to his desk.
It was a minor setback. Business would go on as usual.
He had other calls to make. Some would be for the Zdorovye Russian Fur Company, which acted as his cover business. Other calls would concern the many drug shipments going out to America, Canada, Europe and other places. The situation in New York wasn’t good but it would soon be under control and he forced a sigh of relief from between his clenched teeth.
Zdorovye glanced at his watch as he sat back down. There were so many Russian mobsters locked up in Rikers Island that the Americans had doubled local police and even U.S. Coast Guard patrol of the area, fearing a major breakout would some day occur. No, the American police who had arrested Luiza Polyakova couldn’t have taken her to a better place as far as he was concerned.
BOLAN BOLTED OUT THE DOOR of the observation room into the cell run. Dropping low, he pivoted like an offensive guard pulling on a trap play, and turned the corner into the interrogation room. His hand had already slapped the empty holster under his coat before he realized he had left his weapons secured in a locker before entering the holding area. Such was the usual procedure in jails and prisons around the world, and since he had been masquerading as a Justice Department agent he had followed the rules.
As he swung open the door to the interrogation room the Executioner heard Seven’s rubber-soled shoes slapping the concrete behind him. He pushed inside just as the woman with the kitchen knife reached Polyakova.
He’d never get between them in time.
But the wealthy art gallery owner surprised the Executioner. Drawing back her fist, she sent a fairly respectable right hook into the eye of the woman in orange.
The prisoner screamed in both pain and rage as her free hand flew to her face, pressing the dirty blond hair that had fallen over her eyes into the socket. Bolan left his feet just as she recovered, diving through the air, his arm outstretched.
The butcher knife was halfway to Polyakova’s chest when the Executioner grabbed the wrist holding it. He twisted hard as he fell onto his chest across the interrogation table.
The blonde screamed again. The clank, then rattle of steel against steel met Bolan’s ears as the knife fell to the table then wobbled back and forth next to him. Brushing his arm across the surface, he swept the blade away and heard it thump against the wall.
Bolan rolled to his back and came up in a sitting position just in time to see a sharp object heading toward his face. He ducked, parrying upward at the same time and redirecting the broken broom handle away from him. The second woman—her hair dyed a bright and unnatural red—brought the sharp stick toward him. As he had done with the blonde, the Executioner reached up, grabbing the wrist that held the broken broom handle.
Bolan brought his other hand across his body. He slapped the heel of his palm against the inside of the woman’s arm. The redhead howled even louder than her partner had as the makeshift spear went flying across the room. Before she knew what had happened, the Executioner had ripped the first stick from her other hand.
Reaching up with both hands, Bolan grabbed both females by the front of their coveralls. He threw them back toward the door. Both of the orange-clad females hit the wall and loud gasps echoed across the room as the air rushed from their lungs. They slid to sitting positions on the floor.
But another flicker of orange appeared in the Executioner’s peripheral vision. He pushed himself off the table as a homemade knife stabbed through the air past his cheek. The woman holding it was big, maybe five foot ten, and weighed 250 pounds. Sweat poured from her forehead as she pulled the shank back, chambering it next to her side and preparing to thrust again.
As the crude weapon came forward, the Executioner twisted and stepped in, grabbing her hand and trapping the blade against the woman’s chest with his own. Reaching out for her other forearm, he secured it by the wrist and twisted it behind her back, using his weight to spin her away from him. The pain shot up her contorted arm, causing her to cry out and drop the knife to the floor. The Executioner reached up and grabbed a handful of her sweaty black hair, pulling downward as he kept her arm twisted painfully behind her.
Looking up, Bolan saw that Johnny Seven was entangled with the fourth and final attacker. She, too, had a shank, but the DEA man had been less successful at disarming her. She wore her hair long and straight, and Seven had grabbed two handfuls of it. He now threw her back and forth in an attempt to keep her off balance as the knife flashed in front of his face.
“Drop it!” Seven shouted over and over.
Bolan’s eyes flew to the wall where the two women sitting down were about to recover. Their weapons were still scattered across the room, and before long they would catch their breath and begin looking for them. In the meantime he had his hands full with the big woman who still wriggled and cursed in his arms.
So far, the Executioner hadn’t seriously hurt any of the women. And he hoped he wouldn’t have to do so. But if the DEA agent didn’t take care of the woman with the shank soon, he was going to have to resort to more drastic action.
The problem was answered for Bolan as Johnny Seven, who obviously held no reservations about injuring women, suddenly had enough. Drawing back his fist, he held the woman still long enough to drive it into her face. There was a loud cracking sound as knuckles met jaw, then she dropped the shank and fell to the floor unconscious.
Bolan pushed the big woman in his hands away from him toward the other two he had disarmed. She stumbled, crashing down to sprawl across both of their laps. Before any of them could rise to their feet again, the Executioner circled the room, grabbing up the broken broom handles, the butcher knife and the two shanks. By that time the female prisoners who were still awake had started to get up. But when they saw their weapons in Bolan’s hands they sank back to the floor in defeat.
By now the screaming and other noise had brought two uniformed male guards to the interrogation room. Bolan looked up as they entered the room, and the same feeling of unease he had experienced when he’d seen the orange-clad women spread over him. But this time, he had no doubt what caused it.
Several discrepancies caught the Executioner’s eye immediately. First, the hair below the caps of the two guards was long, unkempt and greasy. Second, their uniforms didn’t fit. But third, and most importantly, they not only had sidearms in their holsters, but also they were in the process of drawing them. And neither of them was looking at any of the female prisoners.
THE EXECUTIONER’S FOOT SHOT OUT, tapping Polyakova on the back of the knee with the flat of his sole. The Russian woman’s legs buckled under her and she fell to the floor, behind the table and out of the line of fire.
A split second later a loud explosion sounded within
the confines of the interrogation room. Bolan felt the air pressure change as the bullet passed just over his head. It struck the wall, then ricocheted off the concrete to zip around the room.
Johnny Seven reached out to grab the 9 mm Ruger in the hand of the nearest guard, but the man in the uniform stepped back and pumped a quick double-tap into the DEA agent’s chest. Seven groaned, backpedaled a half dozen steps, then hit the floor.
The guard’s knuckles went white as his fingers tightened around the pistol again. Bolan dropped farther, joining Polyakova on the floor behind the table and shielding her with his body.
The next 9 mm round missed him by a wider margin but again struck the wall and bounced off. What felt like a hard-thrown rock struck Bolan in the back, and he knew it had to be the deformed lead. But the bullet’s lack of velocity meant it failed to even penetrate his jacket.
Lucky. But such luck wouldn’t last forever.
In any case, it wasn’t ricochets that worried Bolan. Even now, beneath the table, he could see the feet of both guards advancing toward him and the Russian woman. The men intended to move forward to achieve a better angle—where they could shoot down over the table at their targets. The old cliché about shooting fish in a barrel raced through the Executioner’s mind as he formed his battle plan. With Seven out of the way, he could expect no assistance.
Bolan still held the broken sticks, butcher knife and shanks in his hands. He dropped the knife into the side pocket of his jacket. Keeping one of the shanks in his right hand and the longer piece of broom handle in his left, he let the rest fall to the floor. Then, diving headfirst beneath the table, he lunged out with his arm and sank the shank into the shin of the nearest guard.
A howl of anguish went up above the tabletop.
The Executioner’s own momentum carried him out from under the table, and his shoulder caught his attacker at the knee. A sickening snap sounded as the vulnerable joint broke, and the man dressed as a guard screamed again. Rising to his knees, Bolan broke the shortened broom handle over the man’s head. The end piece fell to the floor. He then caught the guard in the jaw with the stub in his hand as the man went down.
Soviet Specter Page 3