Terminal Velocity

by Don Pendleton

  He would leave a typewritten account of his superior's instructions in his files. Vichinsky did not want to be implicated as an accessory to corruption if Strakhov should end up accused of a counterrevolutionary crime. After all, he might well be the accuser.

  "You must be at the Sverdlova metro, near the phones, at eleven-thirty," said Strakhov, pulling out the pocket watch from his waistcoat and checking the time. "The foreigner is delivering a Faberge egg — a real one — and a book. It's a diary, actually. Galuzin will issue you a miniature transmitter."

  "A direction finder?"

  "Yes, we'll keep a constant trace on you," Strakhov assured him. "Take three men to cover you. I suggest Batyuk, Sharkov and Gsovski."

  Vichinsky's narrow face relaxed. He felt safer now. All three were born killers, and they were men who enjoyed their work.

  "What if he asks questions? What should I say if..."

  "He won't when you hand over this." Strakhov pushed the heavy case of bank notes across the desk top. "Do nothing, I repeat, do absolutely nothing that will jeopardize the trade. Once the exchange is made and you have both those objects safely in your possession, then the others can close in."

  "You want him dead or alive?"

  Strakhov shrugged. No, it would be interesting to talk to this man. They might even have a future use for him. Who could say? "Alive, if possible. Remember, when this is over I want to have the artwork, the information, the money and the man. You are to bring the articles to my apartment. You know where I live?"

  "On Petushka Street." Of course he knew where Strakhov lived, but he had never once been invited to his superior's residence. This promised to be a most extraordinary evening.

  "Batyuk and the others can take their prisoner directly to the Lubyanka for interrogation."

  "Does he have a name?"

  "Karl Kelsen," Strakhov grunted. "That's all Niktov would give me."

  * * *

  Cities define themselves by the sounds and smells of their subway systems. Instantly transported anywhere in the world blindfolded, the experienced traveler would know if he was riding the New York system, the London Underground, or the Paris Metro. This was unmistakably Moscow. Bolan mentally filed the peculiar tang of stale tobacco, pickled sausage and heavy Russian perspiration.

  Bolan was carrying a cheap shopping bag like so many of the other passengers and clutching a woolen balaclava he had purchased on Gorky Street after Niktov's goons had dropped him off. If anyone had been following him, Bolan had led them on a merry tour before returning to the garage behind Masha Shukina's restaurant, where Zara parked her truck.

  The Romany woman had not returned. Bolan found a wire coat hanger and had used it to fish around in the large can of waste oil in which he'd hidden the precious packages. He hosed down the two plastic bags until they were clean enough to extract the treasures. Now they were wrapped in yesterday's Izvestia and sitting in the tote bag.

  He skirted the edge of the university grounds, looking down at the twinkling reflection of the city lights on the great sweep of the Moskva River. Even at night barges were still on the move.

  Bolan checked his watch. It was time to start Strakhov running. He waited for a bleary-eyed drunk to wobble past the phone booth. Dropping two coins into the slot, he picked up the receiver and dialed the number of a phone at the Sverdlova metro that he had noted earlier.

  It was answered on the second ring.

  "Proceed directly to the Kazan railway station. No cabs, no trolleys. Go to the phone booths on Novoryaz Ulitsa." Then Bolan hung up.

  He walked along a rutted path through the woods and selected the spot he wanted for the trade — a ruined gazebo surrounded by a tangle of goldenrod and camomile. Bolan judged he had given Strakhov enough time. He went back to the phone.

  On this occasion it rang four times before being picked up.

  "Look behind the phone itself." He waited for the Russian to extract the postcard he had hidden there. It was a picture of the main entrance to the Economic Achievement Exhibition. "Go there now. Quickly!"

  Each new move was pointing to the exchange taking place in Sokolniki Park. But this time he made a switch.

  "Take the subway to Leninskiye Gory," Bolan instructed on the third call, imagining his contact's frustration at having to cross town to the southwestern district. It would soon be time for the last train. Strakhov was going to have to hustle to make it.

  Bolan knew it was all a hollow time-wasting exercise. Even though Strakhov could never be sure if he was being observed at any point along the roundabout route, the man was probably rigged for sound, or with a location transmitter, or he was being tailed by a carload of KGB goons. Maybe all three. Bolan wasn't fooling himself. But he wanted it to look right — all the way to the end of the line.

  A gang of hippi ran past, laughing and joking among themselves; they were far too self-absorbed to notice Bolan. With their long, greasy hair and pimply faces, he thought they looked even more unappetizing than their American counterparts.

  The drunk was weaving his way back down the street, pausing every so often to take his bearings. Two druzhiniki crossed over and started harassing him. Bolan melted into the shadows. He didn't want those overeager auxiliary policemen to demand his identification papers.

  Bolan kept watch on the glass-sided metro station from the lower tier of the bridge. An old woman in a gray shawl gave up waiting for a trolley bus and began plodding homeward. Two lovers were giggling as they walked along under the trees. One minute they were there, the next they'd vanished. He must have pulled his girl into the bushes for one last quick petting session.

  The train rolled in. Several people got off. Bolan waited, giving the bagman time to reach the bank of public phones. He dialed the last number.

  "You're late," Bolan snapped. "Walk up the hill, past the tourist overlook and keep on going along the ridge trail."

  Bolan stayed where he was in the phone booth up the street, the receiver still held to his ear, until his quarry walked past.

  Strakhov? No way! That wasn't him; Bolan was sure of it. Not unless the major general was the only seven-year-old to have fought at Stalingrad. So Strakhov had sent a substitute.

  The guy was KGB all right, and an officer — probably a subordinate from the same department. Bolan had anticipated as much. At least the thin-faced man was carrying a heavy briefcase; he'd come to trade.

  A light-blue taxi cruised past and a police car rolled down toward the river. The road was clear. Bolan ran across and raced up the hill to outflank Strakhov's messenger. The man was just about to seek the shadows of the carefully tended shrubbery when Bolan saw the black Volga glide to a halt. One guy got out and followed the bag carrier. There were two more men in the front of the backup car. Bolan had them pegged.

  Under the trees he shed his coat, reversed his jacket to black and slipped on the balaclava. He roiled the woolen mask down over his face; lips and eyes were all that showed through the grim visage.

  Bolan ran at a ground-eating pace behind the university buildings and through the thickening woods. Ahead of him the bleached broken dome of the gazebo shone in the moonlight with skeletal brightness through the trees. He paused and glanced down at the track below. The Russian was walking quickly along the path.

  Bolan snaked through the rambling overgrowth of the once peaceful garden and reached the gazebo. It was about sixty yards above the broken trail. The old brick steps leading up to it were choked with shoulder-high weeds.

  The courier stopped for a second and checked over his shoulder. Bolan smiled coldly at the officer's caution. The Executioner plucked the flashlight from his combat harness. The man nervously surveyed the darkly tangled slope above him.

  Bolan began to signal — a three-flash twice.

  Vichinsky stopped. He saw the pinpoint of light blinking between the tree trunks. Bolan signaled once more. The colonel shifted the briefcase upward, so that he actually clasped it under his arm. Then, brushing aside the first o
f the greenery bending over the narrow garden trail, he began to climb toward the gazebo.

  Vines littered the earth, threatening to trip him with each step. In places the old brick walkway had crumbled away and the red dirt was still moist enough to be slippery. Vichinsky paused to catch his breath.

  He checked his bearings. He thought he saw a movement at the garden summit, but there were no more flashing signals. Damn, but he hoped the others were moving into position. Vichinsky set off, a little more cautiously now, and yet still stumbled on a broken brick.

  Bolan crouched behind a thick clump of weeds. He had moved silently down to meet his contact. The Beretta was in his hand. He heard the messenger grunt as he stubbed his toe.

  The warrior rose in the darkness, reaching forward to press the cold muzzle of the silencer behind the courier's ear.

  "Stop!"

  Vichinsky froze.

  "Put down the case... Now open it."

  The colonel did exactly as he was told.

  "Okay, walk past it. Now, move... farther. No, don't turn around. On your knees, hands on your head. Kneel!"

  Bolan flashed the light for a fraction of a second. His eyes were still on the Russian officer — but in his peripheral vision he caught a quick glimpse of the bills neatly wrapped and stacked inside the case.

  Vichinsky was quivering — more in anger than in fear. This amateur had given away his position and the others must be close by.

  "This is what you came for," said Bolan, setting down the shopping bag beside him. "Don't move a muscle. You just stay where you are!"

  Bolan risked a fast look over the tops of the tall weeds. He could make out the loitering bulk of the escort on the path below. A second shape was flitting through the trees to his right.

  Bolan began to step back.

  "Here!" shouted Vichinsky, rolling desperately to one side. "He's over here!"

  An orange-red tongue of flame split the night as the bullet crackled through the branches above Bolan's head.

  35

  Primeval instincts took over in the midnight woodland. Bolan padded through the undergrowth. A jungle was a jungle — most especially this peaceful park in the heart of terrorland.

  Gsovski fired at a swaying branch. Vichinsky shouted, "No, over there! I think he went that way."

  Bolan put down the briefcase and let the KGB hit man blunder past him. He slid the Beretta into his belt and silently extracted the wire loop from his pocket.

  The Russian marksman heard something, sensed something and began to turn as the garrote cut a burning line around his throat. He couldn't force a scream out of his ruptured windpipe; his jaw worked uselessly above the cruel caress of the deathwire.

  Bolan lowered the limp body behind a screen of goldenrod. He knew the other gunman was about forty feet to his right. The Executioner picked up the dead man's pistol and fired two quick shots in that direction.

  "Stop shooting, Gsovski! It's me over here!"

  Bolan marked his position. Brushing the ferns gently to one side, placing each step with silent precision, the nightstalker stealthily circled toward his prey. There was a third man somewhere on the slope. Bolan heard a twig snap... Thug Three was approaching from the left flank. Okay, Gsovski's pal would go first.

  The slight rustle of the Beretta being drawn from his belt gave Bolan away. He heard the faint hiss of indrawn breath. He could feel the blood heat of the killer. Sharkov called out in a hoarse whisper, "Gsovski?"

  "Nope," replied Bolan as he squeezed the trigger.

  The bullet plowed a white-hot furrow through Sharkov's shoulder, but still he managed to fire back. The blinding roar of the Russian's cannon sent bullets shredding through the greenery.

  Batyuk, seeking the enemy's trail, had his eyes fixed on the flickering flashes of gunfire under the birch trees. The abandoned briefcase tripped him headlong.

  Bolan fired a burst in the direction of the sound, taking a quick pace sideways between shots, slowly moving toward the higher ground.

  Sharkov suddenly appeared out of the darkness. He'd dropped his gun as he tried to reload it; it was slippery from the blood gushing down his arm. Now he held a dead branch in his good hand and swung it haymaker-style at Bolan's head.

  The American swayed beneath the rushing arc of the crude weapon, and from the crouch position stitched three shots through Sharkov's side. The KGB goon fell to his knees, lingered a moment as if in silent prayer then crumpled forward on his face.

  Bolan released the expended magazine from the Beretta and took a fresh clip from his pocket.

  A flurry of snapping and crackling sounded below, as Batyuk used the briefcase as a shield to beat his way through the bushes. He broke into the open nearly sixty yards along the trail. The courier himself was less than five paces behind. They raced each other toward the soft yellow safety of the university floodlights. There was no point in wasting another shot.

  Bolan squatted, balancing on his heels, catching his breath as the Russian agents fled for their lives. A whistle sounded on the far side of campus, and its shrill alarm was echoed by a siren. Time for him to get out, too.

  He'd lost the precious Faberge egg, Marijana's diary and the money. The scheme was working.

  * * *

  Strakhov was alone in his apartment. It was a rambling old place, large by Soviet standards but commensurate with his privileged rank. He had never noticed how much space he really had, not since those first few weeks following Anna's death, but tonight it seemed as if the very emptiness of his quarters made him nervous. He closed the heavy living-room curtains and carried a bottle of vodka into the study.

  He could no longer pretend to be concentrating on his overview report. He was as ready as he was ever going to be to present it to the chairman. He straightened the papers in their file folder and put them away in the wall safe.

  It was well after midnight. Had Vichinsky made contact? He poured himself another tot of the pale brown vodka. Did they have this Kelsen character in custody? What was taking Vichinsky so long? Perhaps he should have gone himself.

  The buzzer sounded.

  Strakhov waited at the open door.

  He'd never seen Vichinsky look so bedraggled. His shoes were badly scuffed; the bottoms of both trouser legs were smeared with patches of dried mud, and his hair, usually so carefully combed, fell down the side of his face in unkempt strands. Strakhov was an expert at reading faces and what he saw in the colonel's rigid expression was failure.

  "The diary?" Strakhov grated.

  Vichinsky nodded, holding up the bag. "I have the things he brought. And Batyuk recovered the money. But the man escaped."

  "Well, don't stand there... come in."

  Strakhov led the way through to his study. Vichinsky put down both the bags he was carrying and crouched to open the briefcase, showing his boss that at least the department funds were still intact.

  "Yes, yes, but give me that other bag!"

  The man would not get far. They could hand over the matter at any time to the Moscow police. Anyway, one of his key informers might still call with a lead they could act on. What was important now was the diary.

  He'd have to humor Vichinsky for a few moments, just as long as courtesy demanded and no more. "I expect you'll want to get off home quickly. But pour yourself a drink first."

  Vichinsky was in no hurry. He'd been led on a wild-goose chase around Moscow, confronted a foreign gangster and very nearly been killed for his pains. He drained the glass in one gulp and poured himself another.

  Strakhov screwed up the newspaper wrapping and swept it to one side. He looked at the locked journal; in fact, his eyes never left it. "No need to make your report until the morning."

  Vichinsky nodded but made no move to leave.

  Strakhov touched the smooth leather binding, as if, like a blind man, he could discern the book's secrets through his fingertips.

  He felt his throat constrict; there was a fast, fluttering disturbance dancing somewhere between h
is stomach and his lungs. He reached for the letter opener — a czarist dagger with the imperial eagles on its hilt. He slid the polished blade through the hasp and snapped open the tiny lock.

  He took a deep breath; he was determined that Vichinsky should not see how shaken he was. Strakhov opened the thin volume at random.

  From where he sat, Vichinsky could see that the pages were crowded with a fastidiously cramped script.

  Strakhov tilted the book closer. "What the...!"

  The phone had started to ring. Vichinsky swung around. Perhaps it was someone with information on Kelsen.

  It continued to ring as Strakhov sat there mute, enraged. Then he slammed down the diary and stomped to the phone.

  "Yes, yes... of course... as soon as possible. I understand... No, in a matter of minutes."

  He put down the receiver and stood there a moment, chewing his lower lip as he stared at the wall.

  "There's been a call from Washington. On the hotline. They don't like what we're doing in Central America, and they're prepared to push back. An emergency meeting has been convened to review the options."

  Strakhov scooped up the diary and the unopened case containing the Faberge egg and locked them in his safe. He straightened the framed photograph of Lenin, then turned to his assistant with a curt nod. "I think you should come with me, Colonel. You can tell me everything that happened to you tonight on our way to the Kremlin."

  "Certainly, Comrade General, I am more than willing."

  "These meetings can be difficult. Blame may be apportioned, diversionary subjects can be raised... There's no way of knowing what might come up," Strakhov explained. "But if there are any questions at all about the Janus Plan, you will be there to explain it."

  Vichinsky suddenly felt sick. Very sick indeed. He wished he had gone home sooner.

  * * *

  Bolan was angry.

  He was angry with Strakhov. Angry with himself. He knew he had been playing percentages all the way along. What other choice did a man have when he was that far out on a limb? But he'd felt so certain he was going to catch Strakhov red-handed. He even had the tiny camera ready to take some fatally embarrassing shots of the man. But the musty apartment was deserted.