“I must go the bathroom!” Ontomanov was practically dancing, standing first on one foot and then the other like a first-grader who needed to empty his bladder. Bolan looked at Seven and nodded. Then, his hand still covering the phone, he whispered. “Just keep an eye on him.”
Ontomanov took off for the bedroom with Johnny Seven. The DEA man stopped at the doorway and watched the man continue from there. Bolan heard the sound of the bathroom door closing and returned to his thoughts.
There was another thing about Gregor’s voice that bothered him. He’d heard it before. He couldn’t say where, when or who, but it was familiar—filed somewhere in the back of his brain, trying desperately to surface to his conscious mind.
The soldier pushed the thoughts from his mind. They would either become clear or they wouldn’t, but it was impossible to force them. In the meantime, he’d make one final stab at taking the easy route to the head man in Moscow. Uncovering the phone, he said, “The plan sounds fine to my partner. But he agrees with me. Before we go we want to get together with you and discuss the whole thing face to face. Maybe you play the game another way. We don’t.”
“You will, though,” Gregor said. “At least if you want to play in the game at all. And keep in mind that the half million is only the beginning.”
It was what the soldier had expected, so he wasn’t disappointed. He still didn’t know who Gregor was, but he knew the man had a direct line to Moscow. Bolan would have to take the long way to the man at the top, but he would get there with or without Gregor’s assistance. And he wouldn’t forget the man he was talking to now. He’d come back down the drug ladder and take him out before this mission was over.
“It’s a deal,” the Executioner stated.
“Almost,” Gregor said. “There’s one more thing. You used the woman to get into the game. Fine. I understand. But she’s no use to you anymore, and she’s a liability. We want her.”
“You can’t have her,” Bolan said without pause.
Gregor didn’t answer for a moment. Obviously he hadn’t been expecting any argument over the issue. “Why not?” he finally asked.
“Because I’ve grown to like her,” Bolan said simply.
“Tsk, tsk, tsk,” Gregor replied. “Tits like that have been the downfall of many a good man.”
Bolan let a trace of false anger creep into his voice to reinforce the cover. “You let me worry about that,” he said. “She’s not on the bargaining table. Put it out of your mind.”
“I’ll let it pass for now. But just in case this actually is some elaborate CIA or other-agency trap, let me remind you that men are ready right now to go after her family in Moscow. And I want your word that if she becomes a problem you’ll take care of her yourself.”
“I haven’t hesitated to kill anyone who needed it yet, have I?” Bolan asked.
“No, but it’s different with women. Men get crazy. Even men like you.”
“The subject is no longer open for discussion,” the Executioner said. “Who do we kill and where do we go?”
“I’ll get back to you with the details. Stay there so I can call you.”
From the bathroom off the bedroom came the sound of a toilet flushing. “I’ll stay here,” Bolan said into the phone. “But if you send any more of your goons to kill me, you’d better send somebody a lot more professional than the bozos I’ve met so far.”
The bathroom door opened as the raspy voice came back over the line. “That’s exactly what I’m trying to stop.”
Bolan glanced across the room to see Seven suddenly take a short step to the side with his left foot, brush the tail of his sport coat back around his side and pull his SIG-Sauer from the holster. Dropping the phone, Bolan shot to his feet and drew the Desert Eagle as the DEA man fired three shots at an unseen target in the bedroom.
A second later, Johnny Seven fired again as Ontomanov stumbled through the doorway, into the living room. Blood poured from his chest. The 9 mm Smith & Wesson 459 pistol Bolan had unloaded earlier fell to the carpet a second before Ontomanov did.
Seven grabbed the pistol off the ground, then knelt next to the Russian. He pressed a finger into the man’s throat, then looked up at the Executioner and shook his head.
Bolan hurried back to the phone, hoping to ask Gregor what the last comment had meant. When he pressed the phone to his ear, the line was dead. He looked up at the DEA agent, who still held the SIG-Sauer gripped in his fist. The man’s eyes were slightly dilated. He needed something to do to keep busy while the sudden adrenaline dump worked through his system. “We’re going somewhere,” Bolan said. “I don’t know where yet but somewhere. Luiza and I have clothes in the Highlander.” He pointed to the bedroom. “Go find some of Ontomanov’s shirts. They’ll be tight but they’ll have to do. He’ll have luggage you can use, too.”
Johnny Seven looked slightly confused. “But—”
“Go do it, Johnny,” the Executioner said.
Without another word the DEA man disappeared into the bedroom.
Bolan looked up at Polyakova. She looked back at him. She had just seen yet another man gunned down, but she didn’t look afraid.
Either she was getting used to it or she trusted the Executioner.
NIGHT HAD FALLEN over Moscow by the time Anton Zdorovye returned to his office. The building was dark, the only light in the ancient stone edifice glimmering from the second-story window of his office. He parked along the street in front of the building, let himself in through the front door and walked through the deserted lobby to the elevators. A moment later, the doors rolled back on the second floor.
The former KGB man was tired, not just physically but emotionally, as well. A minute spent with Movlid Akhmatov had to take at least a year off of one’s life, and it had taken him far longer than a minute to explain the situation and come to terms with the Chechen. He had never left the front room or ventured more than two steps past the front door, but the experience had still been harrowing. The darkness, and trying not to gag on the noxious cooking odor he dared not think too hard about. Not to mention wondering what kind of…thing it had been that Akhmatov kept prisoner in the disintegrating ruin. The ghastly, pathetic whimpering noises had sent shivers all the way up his spine.
Zdorovye opened the door to the outer office. Amalia, and the two armed guards who posed as office help during the day, had gone home. He passed the secretary’s computer hutch and went straight to his desk in the rear office, where he opened the bottom drawer. Pulling out a bottle of vodka and a small glass, he set them on the desktop and dropped into his chair, shaking his head in disbelief at the day’s work. Dealing with Akhmatov was like dealing with Satan himself.
Slowly the former KGB man filled the glass with vodka. He stared at the opposite wall, his eyes on the sword, his thoughts on the father he had never known. He was drained of strength, as if he’d just finished a marathon or two-hundred-kilometer bicycle race. Perhaps it was the fear that the Chechen induced in him, or the pure and simple evil that seemed to flow from Akhmatov’s every pore. Whatever it was, it robbed Zdorovye of all potency as if Akhmatov were some sort of energy vampire.
Zdorovye downed the glass of vodka in one fast gulp, then stood. He walked to the wall and stared at the sword, letting the alcohol hit his empty stomach and bounce back up to his brain. With the warmth in his belly came a calmer outlook on the situation. Things were not so bad. And they were about to be cleared up for good. The woman and the American federal agents would soon be dead, and Akhmatov would return to that stinking, rundown energy-vampire castle in the Caucasus Mountains. Zdorovye nodded silently as he stared at the sword that had killed his father. In his mind he saw the Chechen, clad in a long black cape, climbing the steps to his house as lightning flashed in the dark sky and thunder boomed down on the mountains. Good, Zdorovye thought. Let him go home. Let him torture whatever poor creature he kept captive there, and sleep in a coffin or whatever else he did. Zdorovye hoped never to see the maniac again.
“Yes?” he said into the instrument.
“Good afternoon,” said the voice from America.
“It is night, Gregor,” Zdorovye answered. “And I am tired. What do you have to tell me? Please get to the point.”
“The situation has changed since last we spoke,” Gregor said. “I think, for the better.”
Zdorovye let out a sigh. “The Americans are dead?” he asked. Already he was trying to decide on a way to break the news to Akhmatov. Certainly, he would pay the Chechen for his services even though they hadn’t been needed. First because even though he hoped never to have to use the man again, he suspected he would. But second, and far more importantly, he didn’t want the crazed mountain animal coming after him. The problem was that Akhmatov would still be angry. He had wanted the woman. Zdorovye didn’t care to speculate about in what way.
“No,” Gregor answered. “The American agents are alive and well and so is the woman. In fact, the large American has killed several more of my men.”
“Gregor,” Zdorovye said. “I am tired. Did I hear you correctly? If this is true, how can the situation have taken a turn for the better as you said?”
“It seems the Americans don’t want our organization broken. They wish to become part of it.”
Zdorovye cursed in Russian. “Gregor, have you taken leave of your senses? It is the oldest ruse in the world for both police and espionage. They are setting us up, old friend.”
“No,” Gregor said. “I don’t think so.”
Zdorovye sat back down in his chair. He listened as the man in America went on to tell him about the meetings at the restaurant, the shoot-out in the New York City park and the videotapes in which the American agent not only entered into an illegal drug deal but also killed a man.
“He is on our side,” the voice on the other end of the line finished.
Zdorovye reached up, rubbing his weary face in order to clear his head. He wouldn’t have to tell Akhmatov that the Russian woman and Americans were dead. But this new development presented another dilemma.
“Have you engaged Movlid yet?”
Zdorovye pursed his lips, leaned forward and poured himself another drink. “Yes. I have just returned,” he said.
“No wonder you are worn-out,” Gregor responded. He chuckled in the low, rough voice Zdorovye had grown to despise over the years. “Did you return with all of your limbs and body organs still intact or are they in his stew pot?”
Zdorovye chose to ignore the remark. Anticipating the next question, he said, “He is already on his way to the U.S.”
“On your plane?” Gregor asked. “You could contact him.”
“No,” Zdorovye said as he lifted a fresh glass of vodka. “The Chechen makes his own arrangements—you know that. He will tell no one where he goes or how he performs his work. But the job always gets done.”
“Surely you must have some way to reach him?” Gregor asked. “This arrangement with the American agents could be quite profitable, I believe.”
Zdorovye downed two more ounces of vodka, throwing it back against his throat, feeling it burn in his belly once more. Gregor’s words were irritating, and he said, “Did you not hear what I just said? There is no way to contact him. Once he is gone, he is gone. The job cannot be stopped. These Americans and Luiza Polyakova are as good as dead.”
Silence fell over the international connection.
The vodka hit Zdorovye again and he relaxed. “But it is too bad, I suppose,” he said after a moment. “Perhaps you are right. From what you have told me about these federal agents it could have been profitable.”
“Perhaps it still will be,” Gregor said. “You haven’t seen what this man Cooper is capable of. Don’t be so sure it will be him who dies instead of Movlid.”
The very thought brought a laugh to Zdorovye. He almost spurted vodka from between his lips. Finally he got the fiery liquid down his throat and said, “Fifty thousand dollars says the Chechen will fly back with Cooper’s scalp on his belt.”
Gregor laughed. “Considering the Chechen’s bizarre appetite, you may well be right. In any case, the bet is on.”
“Only one of us will win the bet,” Zdorovye said. “But neither of us can lose when you consider the larger picture.”
“No,” Gregor agreed. “If Cooper kills Akhmatov, then we can look forward to many profitable years in business with the DEA and Justice Department.”
“And if the Chechen kills the American and the others,” Zdorovye said, “we are no worse off than before. We have accomplished our original objective and the heroin pipeline will remain intact.” He took another sip from the glass and found it was empty.
“I am sending Cooper to London,” Gregor stated. “For the Briton.”
“Good,” Zdorovye answered. “It is time that situation was resolved. Is there anything else we should discuss?”
“Not at this time.”
“Good. Then goodbye.” Zdorovye hung up. He had consumed a third of the bottle of vodka in only a few minutes and, along with the call form Gregor, it had taken the edge off his nerves. Thinking more calmly now, he could see that he really had no downside in the matter at hand. Regardless of who lived or died, he would come out on top.
Zdorovye walked to the wall, the bottle gripped by the neck in his left hand. He took the sword down from its hangers and stared at the dark red bloodstains near the guard. A quiet voice in the back of his brain was now all that bothered him. It was a voice telling him things might not be going quite as smoothly as he suspected. Gregor had quickly accepted the bet from him, and he had never known the mole to wager whimsically. This Cooper had to indeed be a man of impressive talents.
Then again, Zdorovye thought as he replaced the shashqa on the wall, Gregor didn’t know Movlid Akhmatov as he did. He hadn’t seen the evil in the man’s eyes or known how totally ruthless the Chechen could be.
Anton Zdorovye had. And that memory caused him to lift the bottle to his lips and drink again.
7
Movlid Akhmatov shrugged out of his black trench coat, folded it and laid it over the chair next to the seat he was about to occupy in the small bar. He glanced through the glass at the airline ticket counters across the hall. He was playing a hunch, but he had always trusted his instincts in the past, and they had rarely led him astray. This time, those instincts told him the two American agents and the Russian woman would be traveling by air.
A waiter walked over to the table. “What can I get you, sir?” he asked pleasantly.
Akhmatov continued to stare out the window. “Vodka,” he said. He didn’t realize how he had pronounced the word until he heard the waiter laugh and say, “Wodka? Hey, man, you’re the real thing, huh? Russian?”
Akhmatov looked up at the smiling man, and the smile vanished.
“Yes, sir,” the waiter said, taking a step back. “Vodka. I’ll get it right away.” He turned on his heels and was gone.
From the inside breast pocket of his suit coat, the Chechen produced a well-worn paperback book. Friedrich Nietzsche was his favorite writer and philosopher, and Beyond Good and Evil was by far, in Akhmatov’s opinion, his ultimate work. There was, indeed, a realm beyond the bad and good that manacled the common man. It was a realm where superior beings made their own rules, and even broke those rules when they chose to do so, simply creating new ones when the time was right. Akhmatov opened the book arbitrarily and read a passage, then looked back out the window. For another moment, he watched the people in the airport come and go, buying tickets at the counters or asking questions about incoming and outgoing flights. Reluctantly he returned the book to his pocket. He couldn’t afford to be distracted right now. He was looking for two men and a woman. He had descriptions.
The waiter came back carrying a shot glass on a tray. As he set it down he said
, “It’s on the house, sir,” and was immediately gone again.
Akhmatov downed the shot in one gulp without taking his eyes off the counters. He saw three sets of two men and a woman. But none of them even remotely fit the descriptions. The first three were all in their late seventies or early eighties. The second were African-American. The third were two nuns and a priest.
The Chechen had arrived in New York a few hours earlier and taken a cab directly to the house of a former Spetsnaz trooper now working as a bodyguard for a Russian hockey star. The man hadn’t seemed happy to find Akhmatov banging on his door, but he had done what the Chechen wanted, turning over a Colt .38 Special and one of the old U.S. Army .45 pistols Akhmatov had always liked. He had told the cabbie to wait, and they had gone from there to Ontomanov’s apartment.
The apartment had been empty, but there were signs that people had recently been there. Not the least of those signs was Ontomanov’s dead body—still warm—on the living-room carpet just outside the bedroom. Overall, the apartment had been tidy. The exception was one drawer in the bedroom containing T-shirts, and another drawer with socks and underwear. Both were open, and that had caused Akhmatov to wander into the closet where he saw a shirt half falling off a hanger. It led him to believe that someone had hurriedly grabbed other shirts off the bare hangers in front of it. Looking overhead, he saw a lone leather suitcase. The dust around it showed it had been shifted, and the lack of dust next to it suggested another suitcase had recently rested by its side.
All of which, had led the Chechen to the airport.
“Excuse me, sir,” the waiter asked nervously. “Could I, er, get you another vodka?”
Akhmatov ignored the man. He got up, put on his coat and walked out of the bar. He moved silently along the wall opposite the ticket counters, still watching the men, women and children who came and went. Police officers, airport security personnel and Homeland Security guards patrolled the area. He hadn’t been to America since the terrorist attacks on the World Trade Center and Pentagon, but he had heard they looked like an armed camp.
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