Moscow Massacre

by Don Pendleton

  He wondered, as he knocked lightly on Tanya's door, how Mack Bolan's presence in Moscow would affect Petrovsky's mission for the CIA, or for that matter his job in the Thirteenth Section.

  Strakhov had been right during that discussion earlier in the major general's office. Bolan had come after the KGB this time, going for the throat, and Petrovsky was doubly interested in that. The Executioner also happened to be at the top of the CIA's terminate-on-sight listing.

  The apartment door drew inward in response to his knock.

  Petrovsky wondered where Bolan could be at this moment.

  The Executioner could be anywhere.

  Then he forgot about everything else, just as he always did, when he saw Tanya.

  He noticed, as she opened the door and stepped back, that street clothes hugged her lithe, lovely figure the way he liked to see, but he had expected a nightgown, as usual.

  She stepped backward into the room, not flowing into his arms, pressing her figure against him, heating his blood to a boil as was her custom.

  He noticed her smile was not the same either — a lover's insight. He stepped into the apartment, starting to close the apartment door behind him.

  He wondered what was troubling her.

  The icy touch of a pistol barrel kissing his temple from deep shadow behind the door was the last thing he expected, because his attention, every bit of it, had been on the woman he desired. He realized he had walked into a trap when a man's voice intoned from somewhere behind the weapon.

  "Hand over your piece slowly, barrel first, and everything will be all right. Maybe," the voice said icily in Russian.

  Anton Petrovsky did as he was told, reaching very cautiously for the Tokarev pistol. He tried to read Tanya's eyes.

  She turned from him, gliding to the window. She inched the drapery back and gazed down into the street, saying nothing.

  Petrovsky also remained silent. He extended his pistol over his shoulder, butt first, as he had been instructed, intuition warning him this was no bluff. He knew the man belonging to that voice would pull the trigger of the pistol at his head and blow his brains all over the apartment.

  The gun barrel at his temple did not waver.

  Petrovsky did not turn his head, though he did look out of the corner of his eye as the gunman reached with a free hand from the shadow to snare the Tokarev. In that instant he thought he caught an impression of two commanding, steely eyes that matched the mankiller voice.

  Petrovsky became aware of one awful certainty as the Tokarev was plucked from his fingers.

  He did not know how, but he had found the Executioner.

  8

  The three of them sat at Tanya's table, she and Petrovsky facing each other, two shot glasses and a bottle of vodka between them forgotten.

  Bolan sat at one end of the table, having opted for a cup of strong black Russian tea, the AutoMag and Beretta residing in their holsters beneath his jacket.

  The two people with him knew he wore his jacket unbuttoned with reason: both or either pistol would fill Bolan's hands with the first hint of provocation. Petrovsky's Tokarev rested in Bolan's right-hand jacket pocket.

  As Bolan had relieved Petrovsky of his pistol, Tanya had told the KGB major, "He is not an enemy, Anton. You must listen to what he has to say and to what I have to tell you."

  Bolan had moved to stand in front of Petrovsky, keeping the silenced Beretta aimed at a spot between Petrovsky's eyes. He had had no intention of killing the man who called himself Petrovsky, but the major could not guess that.

  The major had remained motionless for long seconds, looking from Tanya to the big man in black aiming a gun at him in his lover's apartment.

  "I was not followed, if that's what you were looking out the window to see/' he had told the woman when she had turned from the window. "Tanya, what is the meaning of this? You're... CIA?"

  "I'm not," the blonde had lied, "and neither is he." She had indicated Bolan.

  "Do we talk?" The big man's deep voice had seemed to penetrate Petrovsky's very soul. "Or do you die?"

  Petrovsky had studied Bolan long and hard then, just as he did now, a few minutes later, as he, Tanya and Bolan sat around the table.

  But the man that Petrovsky was staring at was not Bolan, thanks to the latex life mask. Niktov had provided a state-of-the-art model of the type of mask that has become more and more commonplace in the illusionary hide-and-seek world of spy versus spy.

  Tanya had assisted Bolan in applying it in front of the medicine cabinet mirror in her bathroom before Petrovsky had arrived. Applying a life mask was another of the espionage skills developed by Bolan during his Stony Man Farm days, when the full array of equipment of the American intelligence community had been at his disposal.

  A life mask is attached to the wearer's face by spirit gum. The porous mask molds itself to the wearer's features, allowing the natural eyes, mouth and nostrils to operate unhindered while the mask alters the shape of cheekbones and forehead. Theatrical makeup is used to disguise where the "fake face" ends and the real flesh of the wearer's neck begins.

  A phony mustache completed the facial features seen by Anton Petrovsky or anyone else looking at Bolan. Bolan disliked the mustache. It irritated his nose but was necessary to conceal the tiny lines that connected the mask's narrow strip between nostrils and mouth. In the right light they would be noticeable to a sharp eye.

  "It appears I have no choice but to listen," Petrovsky said now at the table. "We will talk. For a moment... I thought you were someone else. May I ask who you are?"

  "I am Sergei Fedorin," Bolan told him, "of the Sixteenth Directorate."

  "The Sixteenth Directorate?" Petrovsky repeated with a surprised blink. "But I thought..."

  "It does not matter what you think," "Fedorin" interrupted harshly.

  Bolan reached into an inside jacket pocket.

  Petrovsky jerked back, eyes widening, then he relaxed when he saw the big man produce a slim leather id packet.

  Bolan flipped open the bogus identification for Petrovsky.

  "I hope you will forgive me, Anton," Tanya said, "but I had no choice. Comrade Fedorin showed up an hour ago and instructed me to phone you and tell you to come over. I'm sorry."

  Petrovsky — that is how Bolan thought of the guy, not knowing the Russian's real name — reached across the table. He patted Tanya's hand reassuringly. "I understand."

  Bolan saw clearly how infatuated Petrovsky was with Tanya. The Executioner wondered briefly how much each of them really felt for the other. If these two CIA agents had actually fallen in love, would it affect his mission? He could say nothing regarding this, though. It would be obvious to anyone with half an eye that Tanya and Petrovsky felt a fondness for each other, no matter how real or feigned, but "Sergei Fedorin" would hardly be expected to give a damn, which is how Bolan played it.

  He snapped shut the phony id, repocketing it.

  "You will cooperate, Major?"

  "As I say, it appears I have no choice. I have heard rumors of the Sixteenth Directorate, of course, but... can you refer me to anyone who could verify who you are?"

  "You don't seem to understand," Bolan snarled. "You have two choices: cooperate or die, now that you know who I am. If you cooperate and repeat any of what is said between us to anyone, I will kill you. The same applies to the woman, as I've told her. People do not find out that there is a Sixteenth Directorate until it is too late. The two of you are lucky. I demand your assistance, not your lives. Unless you choose to be troublesome."

  "May I ask what you want with Tanya? She is but a secretary. What possible use..."

  "It is because of her lowly position that her assistance will not be suspect," Bolan snapped.

  "And what of me?" Petrovsky asked.

  "You will find that out at Balashika."

  "Balashika? The Group Nord briefing?"

  "I will be at Balashika," the Executioner told him. "There will be death at that meeting. You will live."


  Petrovsky got it then.

  "Strakhov?"

  The "Man from the Sixteenth Directorate" nodded, not breaking eye contact with the KGB officer.

  "Strakhov, and others."

  Petrovsky rapped his knuckles lightly on the tabletop.

  "I knew it. I knew there would be trouble. I haven't been assigned to the major general long but... Comrade Fedorin, I don't mind telling you in light of who you are and what you say that I have been... noticing things."

  "What sort of things?"

  "Small incidents that would mean nothing, taken individually, but in light of what you say..."

  "Yes?"

  "Well, I have been instructed to leave the major general's office on several occasions when he was making or receiving what I'm sure were official calls. I am supposed to be privy to all goings-on at the office. And then there was the flare gun."

  "Tell me about that."

  "I happened into the office early one morning to catch up on some paperwork. Strakhov was receiving the thing from another man in the outside office when I walked in. They reacted in a rather surprised fashion. The major general rarely, if ever, displays any sign of emotion, but it was an unguarded moment.

  "I picked up the distinct impression that it was something he and the other man did not want me to see. They quickly wrapped it up in oilcloth and stepped into Strakhov's private office. The man left a few minutes later without the oilcloth."

  "Did you recognize him?"

  "I've seen him around. He's KGB, from one of the other sections. I can find out if it's important."

  "Probably just a carrier from the supply section. Do you know what Strakhov did with the flare gun?"

  "I'm sorry. I do not."

  "It's the why of it all that concerns me," Bolan wondered aloud. "What you saw supports what we of the Sixteenth Directorate already know to be true."

  "And what is that, may I ask?"

  "You may not," Bolan snarled. "I think I'm through with you here. Major. You may leave us. And don't miss that Group Nord meeting or it's your life as sure as you're sitting here."

  Petrovsky chuckled humorlessly. "I'm afraid it would be a race between you and the major general to see who had my head if I missed that briefing."

  Tanya cleared her throat right on cue. "May I hazard a guess, Comrade Fedorin? There has been word of Major General Strakhov's, er, extracurricular activities using KGB cover..."

  Bolan barked back at her, also right on cue. "Your job was to arrange this meeting, Citizen Yesilov. I'd advise you to let it drop there if you value your life." Bolan glared at Petrovsky. "That will be all, Major." He slid Petrovsky's pistol back to him across the table. "Go."

  Bolan did not miss the long look Petrovsky sent in Tanya's direction.

  Tanya kept her eyes averted.

  Petrovsky did not like it, but the curt order from this man from the Sixteenth Directorate brooked no questioning or denial. He holstered his pistol beneath his jacket.

  "Very well," he said.

  The major stood and exited the apartment without looking back, leaving the full shot glass of vodka untouched where he had been sitting. He closed the door after himself.

  Bolan eyed Tanya as the blonde watched Petrovsky leave. He could not decipher the emotion he saw flicker in her eyes. He waited until they were alone before he spoke.

  "Do you think he bought it?"

  She thought about that for a moment, then nodded. "I think so. Like myself, Major Petrovsky, whatever his real name, has spent enough time immersed in the KGB to know those we work with are capable of anything. Life, dignity, mean nothing to them. Yes, Anton believed what we told him. Ironic, is it not? Three of us, Americans in a common cause in a foreign land, sitting at this table, talking to each other, pretending to be what we're not. What a strange world this is."

  "And what do you pretend to be that you're not, Tanya? Whose side are you on really?"

  She flashed him a smile. "Confusing, isn't it? Would you believe the truth if you heard it?"

  "Probably not," he admitted, disarming the barb with a chuckle. "I hope we're on the same side."

  She lost her lightness of eye and voice. "I know something of your work, Mack. You are new to this espionage game, but it is happening to you as it happens to all of us. No one knows whom to trust. Most of us do not even trust ourselves." The eyes and voice softened again. "In any event, I don't believe you have any choice but to trust me as things now stand... with time running out."

  "You're right," he growled. "I've been here long enough. I need you to find out if they're holding Katrina Mozzhechkov and if so, where."

  She frowned. "You will not reconsider? This mission of yours to strike at Balashika, to destroy Strakhov, to move Petrovsky into place, is so terribly important."

  "We've been through this, Tanya. Do you help me or not? I can find her without you. It would just take a little longer."

  She smiled at that. "I believe you could. I believe you would. Very well."

  As he watched and listened, Tanya made a call from the wall phone near the table. She tried two numbers and received no answer, but the third call got it. Bolan had no idea whom she spoke to on the other end, but her side of the conversation was curt, monosyllabic, except for her inquiry about Katrina's fate. She mentioned no names.

  Bolan had the impression that whoever she pumped for information was not too excited about giving it out. She replaced the receiver and turned to face Bolan.

  "They have her."

  His heart sank. "Where?"

  "Lefortovo."

  He finished off the strong black tea in his cup, feeling the mildly rejuvenative effect of the caffeine on his system.

  "Then that's my next stop."

  "Lefortovo? But... along with the Kremlin, Lefortovo Prison is the most heavily guarded area in Moscow!" she told him. "It is a prison, alter all. It would be suicide for you."

  "Where are they holding her in the prison? Did you learn that?"

  "On the third floor of Building D, third door from the end." She watched him intently. "It is the largest building at the southwest corner of the prison. My information is that they are to begin interrogating her any moment. Perhaps they already have. The order comes directly from Major General Strakhov himself."

  Bolan buttoned his jacket and started toward the door, toting Niktov's attaché case with him.

  "I've got to move fast. They won't spare any means of torture if Strakhov links her to me."

  "A police captain named Zuyenko is in charge of the interrogation," she said. "He is the one responsible for what happened in the park tonight. An attempt to trap Niktov and his enemies, as you thought. I know of this Zuyenko. He is said to be a sadist. A truly evil man, as is the one who serves him, a Sergeant Kulik."

  She stood to join him at the door, where Bolan paused for a moment with a hand on the doorknob.

  "As a spy for the CIA, I cannot condone your endangering of the mission like this, but as a woman... I can only hope you reach your friend Katrina in time. Good luck, Mack. I'm afraid you're going to need it. You'll also need a car."

  "I'll get one. It won't be the first one I've stolen tonight."

  She turned to her purse nearby, unclasped it and returned, extending car keys to him.

  "Take mine."

  "I don't want to lead trouble to your door."

  "If anything happens," she said uneasily, "I will tell them my car was stolen. Please. My soul would not know peace if I knew I didn't do what I could to help you and Katrina."

  He took the keys from her. "Thanks, Tanya. I'll be back in time, or I won't be back at all."

  "I would like to see you again, mister," the beautiful blonde told him fervently. "And... you can trust me."

  She moved in against him then, her arms snaking around his neck. She lifted her face to his and delivered a brief, fiery kiss of tender promise. Then she stepped away and watched him ease out of the apartment.

  Bolan retraced his way down the back stairw
ay that he and Tanya had come up a short time earlier after parking her car in the designated stall adjacent to the rear of the apartment house. He moved down the steps two at a time, staying close to the wall so as not to squeak any loose steps.

  He expected anything.

  He encountered no one.

  He made his way out the back door of the building and eased toward the Volvo, thinking about the angles and complications of what had hardly been a simple job to begin with but had only grown more labyrinthine with each new twist, each new death. It was a mission that seemed to have fallen apart except for Bolan's determination to do what was right.

  The death of Niktov, the deaths of the dissidents, Andrei and Vladimir, would have been reason enough to abort a mission of such importance as this, but there were three reasons Bolan would not, could not, allow himself to even contemplate slowing down on this kill hunt.

  Katrina.

  Bolan would never allow that good, decent, fighting soul to languish in enemy hands. He had marveled at the difference in Katrina since the two of them had taken fire together in Afghanistan.

  The lady who had been a tormented soul at war with herself then had evolved into the confident warrior Bolan had met tonight. In some ways it seemed as if he had just met her.

  Bolan's military specialty, dating back to Nam, was striking at heavily fortified enemy strongholds.

  No, he would not leave Katrina in enemy hands. No way.

  He would bust that lady out if he had to shake Lefortovo Prison down stone by stone, and the fury building in his gut almost made Bolan think that, yeah, maybe he could do just that.

  He would get her out if it cost him his life.

  And, yes, this soldier knew it could come to that.

  Unbidden, mental images of other casualties in his seemingly endless war, dating back to the deaths of his own mother and father, spurred Bolan on.

  The Executioner would give anything he had to bust Katrina Mozzhechkov out of that snake pit.

  He spent thirty seconds on a thorough search under the Volvo's hood. With a flashlight he had found in the glove compartment, he checked the whole car, but he found no bombs, no homing devices.