Moscow Massacre

by Don Pendleton

  The Man strode behind his desk, took a seat and reached for his telephone. He punched the button to connect him with the central scrambler.

  "Blue Foxtrot Delta," he said to the computer at the other end.

  He sat hunched over his desk, waiting for the connection to be made.

  Hoping he was not too late.

  * * *

  Brognola hung up the phone with the President's words ringing in his ears. He turned in his swivel chair to Bear Kurtzman, who sat in a wheelchair next to him at the main console of the Stony Man Farm computer room.

  They had spent the day in near-silent vigil, by unspoken mutual consent, waiting on some word out of Russia on the progress of Bolan's mission.

  There had been no word.

  Activity had subsided in and out of the computer room and the underground complex surrounding it. Farm personnel were on twenty-four-hour alert during crisis situations, but at this moment Phoenix Force was on their way to a job and would be in transit for the next seven hours. Able Team was on its way in from a particularly difficult mission in the Andes.

  The Bolan situation was classified above standard Stony Man personnel access, except for Brognola and Kurtzman, and even they had not been given the whole picture.

  Brognola patted his pockets for matches to light the cold stogie that he had been chewing on for the past hour. Finding no matches, he just kept chewing. His stomach felt like butterflies were having an air war inside it.

  Kurtzman looked up from the display screen. "Bingo. Just heard from the Moscow cell that got Striker in. Limited communication, of course. Our man is in, arrangements to get him out within the hour are on standby, and if I read between what few lines there are, there's some sort of hell to pay that has nothing to do with the mission objective." Bear nodded to the phone in front of Hal. "Anything?"

  "The Man has made his decision. He's backing our guy, told the CIA boss to go screw himself, or diplomatic words to that effect."

  Kurtzman studied his friend. "So why the gloom? Striker's got his backup the way he's supposed to have. It's going down the way we want it to, right?"

  "It hasn't gone down yet," Brognola reminded him. "We have the Company out of our hair, but I still don't like it. The President called Striker a 'magnificent anachronism.' He said it like he was delivering a goddamn eulogy."

  "I know what's eating you, Hal. You wish it was you and the big guy back on the streets again, don't you? Where a man knew he was backed up by the best, that others would stand behind him. You wish it was that way instead of you sitting here and our man inside Russia."

  "Maybe it'll be that way again," Brognola grumbled. "But right now I want that dude back in one piece."

  "He'll make it," Bear said. "So long as the Company doesn't foul things up, the big guy will pull this one off no matter how tough it is."

  Brognola removed what was left of the cigar from his mouth and threw it in the vicinity of the nearest wastebasket. "I hope the hell you're right, Bear. We're down to the finish line. That's when something always goes wrong."

  * * *

  Greb Strakhov sat at his desk, his back warmed by the sunlight streaming through his window from the snow across busy Dzerzhinsky Square.

  He ignored the full cup of tea in front of him, concentrating instead on the saucer of lemon wedges next to the cup, sucking on the wedges one after the other, allowing the tart bite to awaken his senses, something the stopover and shower at his apartment on Petushka Street had been unable to accomplish.

  There was so much to consider, especially in light of what had happened at Lefortovo Prison two hours ago. He wondered what would happen within the next half hour when he and Bolan faced each other across the width of a room. Who would live, who would die? There could be no way of knowing, of course. He had never underestimated the big American warrior, and he did not intend to start now.

  He set aside the teacup and the saucer, which was now filled with lemon wedge rinds. He withdrew his pistol and double-checked the load and action.

  The intercom phone on his desk buzzed. He holstered the pistol and answered the phone. His secretary in the outer office told him, "Major Petrovsky to see you, sir."

  "Very good. Send him in."

  He set down the phone receiver, leaned back in his chair and waited. The office door opened and Petrovsky stepped in. There were dark circles under his eyes. He carried a folded and sealed dispatch. He saluted sharply.

  "Good morning, Major General."

  Strakhov did not return the salute, as was his custom. He nodded to the dispatch. "What have you there?"

  Petrovsky set the piece of paper on the desk. "For Your Eyes Only, sir. Comm section asked me to walk it over on my way through. It just came in. And I have our automobile waiting for the drive to Balashika."

  "You have heard what happened at Sokolniki Park last night?"

  "Yes, sir. I received word just as I was seeing to your orders to increase security checkpoints around the city. It appears our additional precautions were, uh, a bit late."

  "So it does. And have you received word of the activities at Lefortovo Prison?"

  Petrovsky shifted his weight — uncomfortably, Strakhov thought — where he stood facing the major general's desk.

  "I am... afraid that is news to me, sir. I have been busy collating the necessary reports and data for the Group Nord meeting, as I understood you wanted done. Is... something wrong?"

  Strakhov picked up the folded paper, motioning Petrovsky to the stiff-backed chair facing his desk. "Not at all, Major, not at all. Do have a seat. Forgive my brusque manner. Morning is never my best time, as you will learn. Let me see what this is before we leave."

  "As you wish, sir. Thank you."

  "Help yourself to the tea." Strakhov indicated the pot with a nod as he broke the seal on the message.

  "Thank you, Major General. I believe I will," Petrovsky said, leaning forward to pour himself a cup.

  Strakhov read, mentally decoding the message with a practiced ease that was second nature to him. He read the missive twice, then set it down on his desk, experiencing a glow of satisfaction.

  "Is it something regarding the man Bolan, sir?"

  "As a matter of fact, it is, Major, and it is ironic you should be here with me when I received it. There are some things you should know before we leave for Balashika."

  "Sir?"

  Strakhov leaned back in his chair, regarding the man sitting across from him. "You are aware of our recent progress in gaining access to the computerized scrambler of the American intelligence system?"

  "I am."

  "We have intercepted a most interesting telephone conversation between the President of the United States and a gentleman named Harold Brognola. You do recognize that name."

  "From the Executioner file, yes, sir."

  "Very good. A trap is about to be sprung, Major, as I told you this morning. Would you like to hear more about it?"

  "But of course, Major General."

  Strakhov pointed to the piece of paper Petrovsky had brought him. "That is a transcript of the conversation between the President of the United States and Brognola. The President has informed Brognola that the CIA will support Mack Bolan during his present mission into Moscow as will a local cell of dissidents. There had been some doubt, you see, as to whether or not the CIA would provide support, considering their cross-purposes with the Executioner."

  "I thought the Americans had detected our tapping into the Blue Foxtrot Delta system."

  Strakhov rose from the desk, turning away from Petrovsky, clasping his hands behind his back to stare out at the square without really seeing anything down there.

  "It is a fact they did discover our entry tap, yes. It was the first glimmer we had that they had a man planted high in our organization. At the very top."

  A pause.

  "Any idea who the spy is, sir?"

  "I devised a plan, with some help," Strakhov said, staring vacantly at the window before him. "T
he fact that we were able to reenter Blue Foxtrot Delta's computers after their programs had been changed really has little bearing on what I am about to tell you. I mention it only because that communication you brought me serves as proof positive that my plan is about to reach fruition. Major. And you are to play an important part in the final act."

  "I had hoped to, Major General. I am at your disposal."

  "Yes, I know." Strakhov turned, picked up the remaining unsucked lemon wedge from the dish on his desk. He sucked at it, nodding to Petrovsky's empty teacup. "Please do help yourself to another, Major."

  "Thank you, sir."

  Petrovsky appeared perfectly at ease. Unsuspecting. Good, thought Strakhov.

  "The telephone conversation between the President and Brognola indicates that in the mission they have sent Bolan on, their objective is about to be achieved or, I should say, attempted."

  "The objective most certainly being you, sir," Petrovsky said. "Us, that is to say, as you surmised."

  "Indeed, I am the Executioner's objective," Strakhov said, nodding. "As he is mine."

  He left the desk to move idly about his office as he spoke, strolling over to absently restraighten a marble bust of Lenin atop a filing cabinet.

  "It was Bolan in Sokolniki Park then?" Petrovsky asked. "And at Lefortovo?"

  Strakhov nodded. "And you need not trouble yourself too much about not having tightened security around the city in time to stop him." He moved to glance over a shelf of manuals behind the executive officer. "You see, Bolan coming to Moscow was my idea."

  Petrovsky half turned in his chair, craning a surprised look at his superior. "Your idea, sir? The trap you mentioned?"

  "You catch on quickly. I will admit the events at the prison were not anticipated by me, but I should have suspected it. Damn me for an old fool. I have been outfoxed too many times by that wily American, but he is walking into my trap now and nothing will save him."

  "Balashika?"

  Strakhov nodded, eyeing Petrovsky closely. "Balashika. You see, Major, I have been guiding Bolan to his death, not his superiors, not Fate, but I, Greb Strakhov."

  He curbed himself when he heard the rising passion of his own voice.

  Petrovsky uncomfortably shifted his attention away from the major general, returning to set his teacup on Strakhov's desk, his back to where the major general stood at the shelf of manuals and regulations.

  "I see..." Petrovsky seemed to be speaking more to himself than to Strakhov. "It was Bolan then."

  Strakhov stepped away from the shelf, loosening his tie. "What is that, Major?"

  "Er, at the prison, I mean," Petrovsky said a bit more brightly. "I mean, there isn't any doubt it was Bolan then, is there, sir?"

  Strakhov remained standing behind Petrovsky. The KGB chief began to undo his necktie.

  "I made a slight, intended error of speech a few moments ago, Major. I said I had a few things to discuss with you before we left for the Group Nord meeting. In fact, we will not be leaving."

  He pulled his tie from around his neck, grasping one end in each fist.

  Petrovsky started to turn.

  "What do you..." he began, managing to turn halfway around.

  "J will attend the meeting and I will see Mack Bolan die," Strakhov spat in a ferocious whisper, taking a quick step forward to stand directly behind Petrovsky. "You, my dear Major, will be dead. You were the bait, along with myself, and you are no longer needed."

  He looped the necktie around Petrovsky's throat before the executive officer could fully turn in the chair or stand.

  Strakhov yanked both ends of the tie together behind his victim's neck, twisting the tie, tugging both ends outward.

  Petrovsky sat bolt upright, raising his hands frantically to claw at the material of the necktie digging into his throat, cutting off his wind.

  Strakhov felt himself smile as he relentlessly applied more pressure.

  Petrovsky almost managed to stand and turn, but his breathing was ragged now, his face flushing red, his eyes popping as if they would burst from their sockets, and he did not have enough strength to resist.

  Strakhov slammed him back into the chair, then loosened the strangling necktie, not enough to allow the man in the chair to fully breathe, but enough to grant Petrovsky a few more seconds of life to hear what he had to say.

  "I have known about you for weeks, Major, whatever your real name is. I have known you were CIA. I knew they wanted you where I am or close to it and, yes, you were the bait. You were not a very good executive officer, and you were a worse spy. You are not at my disposal, dear Major. You are disposed of. Give my regards to Bolan when you meet him in hell."

  Strakhov jerked on the necktie, once more tightening it around his victim's throat, twisting, pulling each end of the tie in opposite directions with all his might, forcing Petrovsky's squirming, wildly spastic body against the back of the chair.

  Petrovsky's grip slackened from Strakhov's arms. The major's struggling ceased, and all that remained then were small body twitches and the staccato drumming of the dying man's heels on the office floor. Then the hands dropped to his side, the feet stopped beating and Petrovsky's body went limp.

  Strakhov continued twisting and pulling the ends of the necktie for another full minute, then he loosened his grip and let one end of the tie drop. He watched the corpse sag to the floor like a man curling up to sleep except that Petrovsky's face had a bright purple hue and his tongue stuck out of his mouth like a rotting sausage. And then the body emitted a wet, flatulent sound of escaping gas.

  Strakhov stared down at his handiwork for several seconds, the tie dangling forgotten from one hand. He was out of breath, his heart pounding.

  I've been behind a desk for too long, he realized. He had forgotten the sensation of taking a human life, of ending another's existence slowly so the victim knew what was happening, that their world was ending and there was nothing to save them...

  He reminded himself that this was but the overture, the prelude of the trap about to be sprung precisely as he had envisioned it from the very start.

  He glanced at his watch.

  0750.

  Good. He would be several minutes late for the Group Nord meeting.

  That would give Bolan something to think about.

  There would be time enough for the sensations Strakhov felt stirring within himself now — strange, exciting, forbidden sensations when he remembered the death struggle of the man he had just slain.

  He had been a stranger to sensation for too long, he decided, with only the cold hatred for Bolan ruling his life. He had been governing his private empire within the KGB almost as if by rote, but sensation was returning now, and after Bolan there would be time, yes, to spend the money, to disappear, a new identity, a life of riches and forbidden sensation.

  He felt more alive than he had in years.

  He pocketed his watch and stepped around Petrovsky's corpse to the phone, dialing as he stood regarding the dead body of the man the CIA thought they could plant without the head of the Thirteenth Section finding out about it.

  "Come to my office," Strakhov ordered curtly when a connection was made. "I will not be here. There is garbage on the floor. See that it is removed."

  He did not wait for a reply. He hung up the telephone and left his office, heading for the car Petrovsky had arranged to take them to Balashika.

  The moment of truth was at hand.

  14

  Bolan slowed, steering the Volvo off the stretch of blacktop that led into dense forest alongside the highway before curving out of sight.

  "We are almost there," Tanya said quietly. Ominously, he thought.

  He drove at a reduced speed along blacktop wet from snow that melted beneath a bright sun climbing into a clear sky of cobalt blue. It would be another warm spring day. Traces of the snowstorm would be gone by noon or before.

  He wondered if he would be alive to see that.

  Spring had always been his favorite time,
even as a kid back home in Massachusetts. Spring, a time of birth, rebirth and hope.

  Bare trees overhead hemmed in either side of the blacktop for half a kilometer before a clearing of about 250 square meters spread out before them.

  A sentry wearing the khaki uniform of the militia stood just before a chain link fence gate on which a sign read: Scientific Research Center. The militiaman pointed an AK-47 directly at the Volvo, finger on the trigger, holding his left arm up and out in a stern halt gesture.

  A guard shack stood inside and to the right of the entrance to the research center. It was the only entrance, Bolan discerned with a quick eyeball of the perimeter.

  He braked the Volvo to a stop.

  He saw at least a dozen militiamen posted around the outside and inside of the closed gate, and not one of these sentries looked the least bit relaxed or slack in their duties; every eye, every gun barrel was aimed at the car and its two occupants.

  The sentry before the gate strode to Bolan's side of the vehicle, not removing his finger from the AK's trigger.

  "These are KGB dressed as militia," Tanya whispered to Bolan without moving her lips. "They will miss nothing."

  The sentry stopped next to Bolan's open window.

  "Identification!" the guard barked.

  Tanya reached into her purse and handed across what Bolan knew to be her special pass, required by anyone hoping to gain entrance into this most highly classified of all KGB bases. She gave the sentry a buff-colored plastic card with her photo and a perforated code designating the areas in which Agent Yesilov had authorization to enter. The sentry studied the photo, looked back at the blonde beside Bolan and handed the card back.

  Bolan showed the sentry his id, the one furnished by Niktov.

  This got a reaction.

  The sentry blinked a couple of times and all of a sudden appeared very eager to hand the card back to "Sergei Fedorin." He stepped back from the car and ordered the men inside to open the gate and let the vehicle pass.

  There was one exception to gaining entrance into the Balashika Base without the special pass, and Bolan had it.