THE RINGING WAS LOUD in the silent office, shaking Zdorovye from a half sleep behind his desk. He jerked his crossed feet off the desktop and found that his left leg had gone to sleep. For a moment, the leg was numb. Then, as blood shot back through the starved limb, needles of pain pricked his skin like a thousand tiny knives. He began to rub it as he tried to wake up.
Rather than go home at the end of the day, Zdorovye had waited at the office, anxious to learn that the problem in New York had been resolved. He felt certain Gregor would tell him that the woman was dead. But now some harbinger of doom filled his soul, and he grabbed the receiver and lifted it to his ear with a mixture of hope and trepidation. “Yes?” he mumbled, still rubbing his leg. Through the window, he could see a gray dawn beginning to light the Moscow skyline.
“We’ve still got problems,” said the voice from America.
“What do you mean?” Zdorovye asked, suddenly wide awake.
“The hit at Rikers didn’t go down. Couple of Feds were there and stopped it.”
Zdorovye’s tongue felt as if he’d slept with steel wool in his mouth. His sinuses were clogged, and that didn’t add to his mood. “Well, try again. You should have plenty of people available there.”
“No such luck. The Feds took the woman with them.”
“You couldn’t stop it?”
“What could I do? I sent men to her gallery.”
Although he was awake now, Zdorovye realized his brain still wasn’t running in high gear. He was about to ask if they had killed the woman there, then realized that if they had, Gregor would have told him so immediately.
“What happened?” Zdorovye demanded. The needles had left his leg and it was feeling better, but nausea was beginning to sour his stomach.
“The Feds were there with her. They killed all but one of our men.”
Zdorovye leaned forward across the desk, still absentmindedly rubbing his leg with one hand. It was all starting to sound like one of the Americans’ action-adventure movies. “Who are these two federal men?” he demanded. “Rambo and Arnold Schwarzenegger?”
“Going by what happened at Rikers, and what the guy who got away at the gallery said, one of them seems to be both. Big guy. Tough looking—looks like he’s been there, seen it all and brought back the T-shirt. The other Fed—he’s DEA—is good but not in the same league.”
“Do you know who the big man is?”
“Justice Department is what he claims. Name’s Matt Cooper.”
“You say that as if you don’t believe it.”
“I don’t,” said the voice on the other end. “Several things don’t add up. Why would the Justice Department be taking this away from customs and DEA? And this guy never hangs around for follow-up investigations. He took off before the other Feds and state agents could talk to him about the Rikers deal. And he and John Jameson—he’s the DEA agent—left the art gallery before the cops got there.” There was a pause. “You have any ideas?”
“How should I know?” Zdorovye said with more venom in his voice than he intended.
“Just being polite,” said the voice on the other end. “Sometimes two heads are better than one.”
Zdorovye shook his head silently, looking blankly at the sword hanging in front of him. The man he called Gregor was right. And it wasn’t his fault everything was suddenly going to hell. “Call Ontomanov,” he said. “Tell him to get some of his men together and hunt down the woman.”
“There’s no need for Ontomanov to find her,” Gregor said. “She’s already found him.”
For a moment Zdorovye was speechless. “What do you mean?”
“I mean she called him and he arranged to meet her at a sandwich shop. He didn’t know the Feds had her—thought she’d bonded out on her own.”
“You didn’t tell him the federal officers had taken her?”
“I hadn’t talked to him yet,” said the other man. “I tried to call him all afternoon. See if you can reach that whoremonger when he’s shacked up with some of his girls. He won’t answer the phone.”
Zdorovye shook his head again in disgust. It was a true comedy of errors, bad luck and bad timing on everyone’s part. It reminded him of a series of old American slapstick movies. “Well,” he said into the receiver, “where is Ontomanov now? Does he have the woman?”
“No. The two Feds got him.”
Zdorovye suppressed a curse. “What do you mean? They killed him, too?”
“Maybe,” Gregor replied. “But I don’t think so.” He then told him about the meeting.
“Were you at the sandwich shop?” Zdorovye asked.
“Of course not. I’m getting all this from the one man who survived that incident. This Cooper bashed everybody’s head in with one of those collapsible batons.” There was a pause, then the voice said, “Look, Anton, do you want me to take care of this problem personally?”
Zdorovye didn’t hesitate in saying, “No. We can’t take the chance of exposing you. I need you right where you are.” But he also couldn’t resist taking at least some of his frustration out on the other man. “Besides, it sounds to me like this Cooper would just kill you, too.”
The voice on the other end of the line went quiet now. Zdorovye could hear the man’s irritated breathing. But the truth was the truth. Gregor was a skilled mole but not an assassin. When the Soviet Union had fallen, he had stayed in place but shifted his focus to private enterprise, namely Zdorovye’s drug-smuggling ring.
Zdorovye sighed to himself. He had insulted the man and he didn’t need problems with the him right now. So, to soften his earlier comment, he repeated, “You are simply too valuable to risk, my friend.”
There was another silence on the other end, and Zdorovye could imagine the man in America weighing the sincerity of the statement. Finally the voice said, “We can send more locals after them, but I’ve got a bad feeling we’re just going to lose more men.”
“Do you have a better idea?” Zdorovye asked.
“No. Not yet.”
“I do,” the Russian said. “Movlid.”
“Movlid Akhmatov?” Gregor asked incredulously. “He’s a madman, Anton. I would have assumed someone had killed him by now.”
“Many have tried,” Zdorovye replied. “But no, Movlid is alive and well.” He stopped a moment to rephrase what he has just said. “Well, he is alive at least. Whether or not Movlid has ever been well is debatable.”
“You won’t get that debate from me,” said the other man. “He’s the original loose cannon, Anton. Like I said, I can’t believe he’s not dead or in some asylum by now. He’s actually still working?”
“He has left Moscow and gone home to live. But, yes, he is still available. I have used him a few times. Expensive, but the best.”
“He’s the best, all right. Or the worst, I suppose. Depends on your point of view.”
“Keep your phone with you,” Zdorovye said. “I will contact you and let you know when Movlid is coming.”
“You’re going to call him now?”
“There is no way to call him. I must go see him in person.”
“I should have figured as much. He’s probably living in the woods some place with a pack of timber wolves and they’re all screwing the sheep before they kill and eat them. Where is he?”
“Just keep your phone handy,” Zdorovye said. “Goodbye.” He hung up, then lifted the phone again and called for a cab. Walking swiftly to the closet of his office, he located the small overnight bag he kept packed for emergencies. Quickly he checked it to make sure his clothing, toiletries and other items were all there.
Finally Zdorovye walked back to the desk, opened the bottom drawer and pulled out a hard plastic case. Flipping the latches, he opened the lid to reveal a Heckler & Koch Mark 23. The .45-caliber ACP double-action pistol was a civilian version of the U.S. Military’s official Special Operations pistol, and was used by the elite forces of the Army, Navy, Air Force and Marines. It could hold eleven rounds with one in the chamber.
>
Zdorovye double-checked to make sure it held all eleven now, then dropped the gun and slipped three extra magazines into the side pocket of his bag. He started to turn back, then stopped. Reaching back into the case, he pulled out the remaining two magazines.
He was going to visit Movlid Akhmatov. Gregor had exaggerated about the wolves—but not by as much as he probably thought. Considering who Akhmatov was, where he lived and the decadent lifestyle he pursued, it was always best to be prepared. For anything. He glanced up at the sword hanging on the wall, and for a moment considered taking it. It was a sword of honor—of romance and adventure, and should he be forced to kill Akhmatov, it would be fitting to do so with such a weapon. Immediately he discarded the idea. Honor, romance and adventure were one thing. Pragmatism was another. And he knew that if Akhmatov ever decided to kill him rather than work for him, he wouldn’t last two seconds within sword range. He might not at gun range, either. But at least the odds were better.
Dropping the extra two .45-caliber magazines into his bag, Zdorovye lifted it and walked out of his office to meet the cab.
MADDUX MANOR, directly across from Central Park in Manhattan, was a luxury building complete with security and a doorman. Bolan guided the Highlander slowly past the front doors in a quick reconnaissance before turning into an all-night parking lot two blocks down. As the attendant—an old man who had retired NYPD written all over his wrinkled face—limped over to the vehicles, the soldier turned in his seat to face Ontomanov, who was riding shotgun. “If this guy, or the doorman at the building, or anybody else for that matter asks, you were in a car wreck and we’re bringing you home from the emergency room. He—” Bolan thumbed over his shoulder toward Johnny Seven, in the back seat directly behind him “—and I are your friends.” Glancing at Polyakova, he added, “Considering her accent, we can make her your sister. Got it?”
Ontomanov didn’t respond.
Bolan reached out toward the cast. “I asked if you understood.”
The Russian pulled the cast back toward his body protectively. “I understand,” he said.
The attendant, however, couldn’t have cared less. He reached the window and Bolan rolled it down. The man didn’t even bother glancing inside, and Ontomanov’s cast and neck collar didn’t become an issue. Bolan handed the old man a fifty-dollar bill. “Keep a close eye on it,” he said.
The old man turned silently back to his tiny shack as they all got out.
The doorman stood just inside the glass doors to the Maddux building. Before he would open them, Ontomanov would have to show ID at the security window.
“My goodness, Mr. O!” blurted out the young woman seated behind the glass window. She wore a blue security guard uniform, and what she lacked in physical beauty she made up for in enthusiasm. Leaning closer to the crescent-shaped hole at the bottom of the glass, she went on. “What happened to you?” Her face showed true concern.
Next to him, Bolan saw Ontomanov force a smile. “It is what I believe we call here a fender bender,” he said in his Russian accent. He reached back awkwardly with his injured arm, banging the cast against his leg and grimacing as he groped for the billfold in his back pocket.
“Looks like more than a fender bender,” said the girl. “More like a major collision.”
Ontomanov nodded his head as he continued to try to find his pocket. “Major collision, yes,” he repeated. “I will make the correction in my mind and add the term to my English vocabulary.”
The young security woman seemed to notice for the first time his struggle to locate his billfold. “What are you doing, Mr. O?” she said. “You stop that, now—you’re hurt!” She waved them toward the front door. “You have your friends take you in and put you to bed! I know your number and I’ll enter it in the log.” With a smile that spread from ear to ear, she lifted a pen and tapped it on a large book, open in front of her.
Ontomanov nodded, relieved. Bolan and Seven flanked him on the way to the door. Polyakova followed. Bolan saw the doorman’s eyes move involuntarily to the Russian woman’s chest as he swung back the door.
Ontomanov’s condominium was on the seventeenth floor. They found an elevator marked L-20 and took it. A moment later, they stepped off and followed Ontomanov down the hall.
Bolan left Seven and Polyakova to watch the Russian as he quickly scouted the apartment for any surprises. The living room was a sterile black-and-chrome horror of high-tech furniture with a fake fireplace set into one wall. Another wall had been made of synthetic stone, and water trickled down the would-be rocks to fall into a pool of goldfish at the bottom. Cherubs in flight, holding miniature bows and arrows, were mounted along the waterfall’s path. A coffee table between the counterfeit fireplace and couch held three large books. The Executioner would have bet his life none had ever been opened.
The kitchen was spotless—apparently never used. But the bedroom took the prize as the most crass room in the house. Ontomanov had reverted all the way back to 1965 with no apologies. Against one wall was a round bed covered by a leopard bedspread. In the hutch at the head of the bed was a control system that undoubtedly made the bed revolve. Strobe lights were mounted on the wall, and when he looked up Bolan saw what he’d known he’d see on the ceiling—the mirror that was inevitable considering the rest of the garish decor.
Bolan was no interior decorator and had little interest in such things, but this was obviously the lair of a would-be ladies’ man, and he couldn’t help but wonder if old copies of Playboy and Penthouse hadn’t been smuggled into the Soviet Union and found their way into the hands of an adolescent Agafonka Ontomanov.
In a drawer by the bed the Executioner found a Walther PPK.
In the closet a sawed-off double-barreled shotgun rested against the wall. In the bathroom, he uncovered a 9 mm Smith & Wesson 459 semiautomatic pistol in the cabinet under the sink. The Executioner unloaded all three firearms, returned them to their points of origin and dropped the ammunition into his pocket. A quick search of the rest of the apartment disclosed no other weapons or contraband of any kind.
Returning to the living room, Bolan waved Polyakova, Johnny Seven and Ontomanov toward the chairs and couch.
“What do we do now?” the Russian asked.
“First I tell you what you’re going to say when the call comes.” Bolan pointed toward the phone on an end table. “Then we wait.”
5
Before the fall of the Soviet Union, few people outside of Eastern Europe could have found Chechnya on the map. Fewer still had known that this small Trans-Caucasian country had been the birthplace of Russia’s three most powerful crime families.
While they had begun in Chechnya, and still maintained their home bases in that war-torn former Soviet territory, each of the groups had secondary offices in some of Moscow’s finest hotels. The Central syndicate smuggled drugs, ran prostitution and extorted protection money from markets, retail stores, restaurants and other business. Ten percent of the gross was customary, and everyone from the largest corporation to the newspaper boy on the street paid up or lived to regret it.
The Ostantinsky cartel—named after the Ostantinsky Hotel out of which it operated—shipped stolen merchandise of all kinds between Moscow and Chechnya and throughout the rest of Europe and America. Whether someone wanted a microwave oven hijacked from a truckload in France or an untaxed television from Japan, the Ostantinsky organization could get it.
The Automobile group was the smallest in size and power but every bit as ruthless as the other two families. As the name suggested, their specialty was stolen vehicles—most of which were brought in from Europe. They also owned and operated Russia’s largest chain of gasoline stations.
Movlid Akhmatov had been the illegitimate product of a romance between the daughter of an Ostantinsky don and a Central soldier. He had been raised by both criminal families, where larceny and murder were taught alongside potty training and table manners. But he had taken to crime, vice and perversions of all kinds far beyon
d what even the normal Russian mobster could imagine.
Movlid Akhmatov had grown up to be the worst in the land of the bad. And no man who knew him could say he felt no fear when the Chechen crossed his path.
Zdorovye’s helicopter flew over the last in a series of peaks within the northern Caucasus mountains and began its descent into the valley below. The house, built on the side of one of the foothills, was old, dating well back into the 1800s. It hadn’t been restored, nor even kept up in any way. It lay in shambles; the fence broken and wood scattered across the ground, the roof and walls one step from crumbling down. Anyone who didn’t know better would assume it had been deserted years ago, and that its only possible inhabitants would be wild animals.
And they wouldn’t have been far from wrong.
The chopper touched down and Zdorovye turned to the pilot. “Wait!” he shouted above the sound of the rotor blades above his head. Digging into the overnight bag between the seats, he jammed the Heckler & Koch pistol into his belt beneath his jacket. Then he filled his pockets with the extra magazines.
Zdorovye stepped down from the helicopter and bent low, making his way out from under the whirling blades. As he walked toward the house, he felt the air behind him gradually grow less turbulent. But the gentle breeze blowing in from the direction of the house seemed to bring with it a scent of debauchery. Unconsciously the Russian patted the gun in his waistband for reassurance.
He saw no signs of life around the house. As he made his way toward the crumbling stone path leading up the side of the foothill, he wondered how much of his perception of Movlid Akhmatov was real, and how much imagined. The man was a killer—there was no doubt about that, not in the mind of anyone who knew him—but was he really the mad dog, ready at any given second to bite through the leash that restrained him and attack whoever was closest?
Zdorovye didn’t know, but if he had to place a bet, he’d bet yes. He knew that most reputations—both good and bad—were inflated. When men became legends, regardless of the reason, the stories of their accomplishments were almost always exaggerated into the realm of pure fiction. But with Akhmatov, Zdorovye wasn’t so sure.
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