The Judas Project

The car had nothing to do with the shooter

That meant there had been a third party involved.

Bolan placed the rifle across the hood of the Ford, drew the Desert Eagle then walked around the far side of the vehicle. The ground was covered in footprints, and rivulets of dried blood ran down the door panel. As he followed the trail of drops, the deposits of blood became heavier.

The Executioner opened the trunk and peered inside. The body lay in a pool of blood, the gaping wound in the man’s throat still glistening.

Carson was dead. The unknown shooter was dead.

Somebody was playing for keeps.

Special thanks and acknowledgment to

Mike Linaker for his contribution to this work.

Life does not give itself to one who tries to keep all its advantages at once. I have often thought morality may perhaps consist solely in the courage of making a choice.

—Léon Blum

1872–1950

Where is the morality in making the wrong choice? Where is the morality in betraying your country? I’m not concerned about redemption. I’m concerned about justice.

—Mack Bolan

CONTENTS

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

EPILOGUE

PROLOGUE

Lubyanskaya Square, Moscow

From the terrace of the Loft Café overlooking Lubyanskaya Square, Mischa Krushen could see the former Lubyanka KGB headquarters, now the FSB, where he had worked alongside the other members of the Unit. Those had been busy, heady days, when the Soviet juggernaut had been in full flight. Then life had had a definite purpose. They were safeguarding the status quo, working against the enemies of the state and orchestrating policy against them. For the Unit that had meant working every conceivable angle to bring disorder and chaos against the United States of America. They had an open mandate. Nothing, nothing, was barred: blackmail, out-and-out coercion, the use of terror and even death. It was all fair game to the Unit. It was the ultimate level in state covert action against America.

With the breakup of the Soviet Union many things changed. They didn’t happen overnight, and behind-the-scenes power struggles and interdirectorate rivalries resulted in bloodless, and not-so-bloodless, coups. There were unexpected nighttime strikes, when dazed victims were hauled out of bed and driven to lonely spots. Many grievances were settled in that way. A single pistol shot to the back of the head cleared the way for new positions to be created. The culling lasted a short time, but when the smoke cleared there were new faces to be seen behind desks. Questions were posed, but seldom asked. Political maneuvering at the top seeped down through the ranks, affecting all aspects of government activity. The breaking away of Soviet satellite states simply added to the confusion. There was a hectic period when no one knew friend from enemy, and there was a great deal of closing ranks. The faithful remained together, watching one another’s backs, and there were survivors. When the tidal flow receded and a kind of sanity returned, the time was ripe for new alliances and a rekindling of old ones. On the surface the New Russia showed a fresh face, embracing its hard-won freedom from the Soviet yoke. In the background the old guard drew into the shadows, watching and waiting, shaking heads in mistrust of free enterprise and the “me” culture, seeing values shrink and greed rear its ugly head in the form of the Russian mafiya, drugs, prostitution and the loss of military power. The early years of freedom, eagerly lapped up by a population long-starved of the consumer life, overshadowed the machinations of the political and the guardians of Russia’s security.

The KGB became the Federal’naya Sluzhba Bezopasnosti, the FSB. The Federal Security Service had a fresh face that masked much of its KGB origins, and hidden within its many layers, the Unit still existed. It was employed in much the same way as it had been in previous years. There were still enemies to deal with. Conspiracies to uncover. Policies to carry out. Long-dormant projects to be dusted off and brought into the cold light of the new day.

Which brought Mischa Krushen to his vantage point, drinking a latte while he waited for his section chief to join him.

The day was chill, a searching breeze swirling across the square. It had the sharp bite that threatened snow. Krushen felt it against his face. He was well protected in a heavy overcoat and fur hat. He glanced up as he heard a chair being moved and saw General Yuri Berienko sitting down on the far side of the table.

Berienko had to have been in his late sixties now, his broad, Slavic features as severe as they had always been. Berienko seldom smiled. He viewed life and the world as serious matters, and especially the condition of his Russia since the disintegration of the union. Old guard he may have been, but his undying loyalty to the old Soviet Union was possibly even stronger than it had been when he had served it in the military. As a young commander in Afghanistan, his units held the records for the most favorable successes ever. His zeal and his ruthless attitude toward the enemy had never been bettered. He literally took no prisoners.

On his return to Moscow after the war he was to take up a command position within the KGB, where he helped to create and staff the Unit. He ran it as if it had been one of his military squads. He brought in men who had served with him in Afghanistan, men who were loyal to the state, but covertly more loyal to General Berienko. Under his control the Unit thrived. It held its mandate proudly, carried out its missions with unerring success and anyone who stood in the glare of its spotlight knew they were facing a formidable enemy.

Looking across the table at his commander, Krushen admitted to a degree of trepidation. As it should have been, he had always regarded Berienko with reverence and not a little fear. Krushen understood that was the way it had to be. He cleared his throat.

“General. Unusual to see you out of the office.”

Berienko barely nodded. Like Krushen he was wearing a thick overcoat, the collar turned up. On his head he wore a black, wide-brimmed fedora. The thought crossed Krushen’s mind that this was one of the few times he had seen the man out of uniform. It had been a well-kept joke within the Unit that Berienko most likely slept in his uniform and probably at attention.

“You know why I asked to meet you?” Berienko asked.

“Only that it had something to do with the Unit.”

“Specifically Black Judas.”

Berienko unbuttoned his coat, reaching inside to take out a thick cigar. The Cuban cigars were probably the only vice Berienko allowed himself. He lit the cigar with a battered old lighter he had carried around with him for years. When he was satisfied the cigar was well lit he turned his attention back to Krushen.

“Someone is trying to infiltrate Black Judas. I want you to find out who and put a stop to it. The last thing we need is some outside party attempting to access the project.”

“Do you know who is behind it?”

Berienko studied the end of his cigar. “I have my suspicions.”

“I would place Federov at the head of any list I had,” Krushen said. “There is more to him than just a watchdog. We know how ambitious he is. He makes no secret of his desire to become even more powerful than he already is.”

“Discretion is required here, Mischa. The Unit might still exist but I have people watching every move I make. You understand the situation as well as I do, Mischa. If Federov could gather enough evidence, he would have us removed. The man is just waiting for his chance.”

Krushen understood that. Karl Federov was in charge of an oversight directorate, charged to monitor sections of the FSB. He was fanatically ambitious, a man who viewed everyone around him as a potential threat to himself and what he wanted. Krushen had run-ins with the man on a regular basis. He found it difficult to hide his contempt for Federov.

“Doesn’t he realize the Unit is still an important asset? That the work we do is for the good of the country?” Krushen shook his head. “I begin to wonder whether Federov is as loyal as he makes out.”

“His loyalty is to himself. Mischa, you must look beyond your mistrust of Federov. The man works for Alekzander Mishkin. Both of us know that Mishkin also has ambitions that go far beyond his present position. He is a minister in the Security Directorate, but he wants more. He has his eye on becoming president one day. Mishkin placed Federov to oversee the FSB so he had eyes and ears there. And the ploy is paying off.

“Look how many have died. The department is culling itself by weeding out those who even hint at any disloyalty toward Mishkin and his cronies. Assassinations. Accidents. Mysterious poisonings. There are times, Mischa, when I wish I was back in Afghanistan fighting those tribesmen. At least that was good, clean combat. You knew who the enemy was then. Now it is like battling in the dark with my hands tied behind my back. I trust no one inside that building,” Berienko said, staring across the square at the monolithic yellow structure, “except you and the Unit. Mischa, we must do what we can to protect Black Judas. I want you to gather your people and look into this. Do whatever it takes. There is no place for being squeamish. Understand what is at stake here. Go where you need to, even America, which may be necessary to protect Black Judas. We need to secure our people there. I will try to find out who is betraying us here in Russia. And who, between Federov and Mishkin, is the greater threat to us.”

“You can rely on me, General.”

“Nothing on paper, Mischa. That is why I suggested this meeting. You can use any of the hidden accounts to fund your operation. Cash money is no problem. I’ll wager that fact hasn’t escaped Federov. That we have secret accounts available. It is well known Federov likes money. So beware. And make deals with only those you can really trust.”

“Contact?”

“Nothing official. My own cell number only. I will call only on your cell. Let us hope no one has discovered those. Keep calls to the minimum. If I discover anything that might assist, I will inform you.” Berienko toyed with his cigar, deep in thought. “The committee is meeting later today. We need to satisfy them we have everything under control. Be there, Mischa, but keep this meeting between ourselves.”

Krushen picked up his cup of coffee. It had started to cool. As he drank, he found himself staring out across the square to Lubyanka. A slight shiver ran through him. He was sure it was only the cold, but for a fleeting moment he felt as if the building was watching him.

He lingered over his coffee, trying to put off the time when he would have to return to his department office and take up his work. His concerns had not been eased by Berienko’s remarks, but there was little he could do about that.

KARL FEDEROV AND his companion were driving alongside the Moscow River, the Ivan the Great Bell Tower and the Kremlin beyond the red brick wall on their left. The river had that gray, choppy look to it that mirrored Federov’s mood. He had picked up Chenin at the last intersection. The man was hunched in the corner of the rear seat as if he were trying to make himself invisible.

“No one can see in through these tinted windows, Yan.”

“So you say.” Chenin stared at the back of the BMW’s driver. “Can he hear what we are saying?”

“I am unlikely to employ a driver who is deaf, dumb and blind, Yan. Of course, he can hear. Now let’s get this done.”

“Krushen met General Berienko this morning at the Loft Café. They spoke for about twenty minutes before Berienko left. They looked as if they were deep in conversation. And Berienko out of uniform is enough to create suspicion. I’m sure this all has to do with them working toward activating their Black Judas project.”

Federov managed a thin smile at that information. “I knew that pair was up to something. Good. Maintain a watch on Krushen. I can keep the general under observation once he is inside the building. Be careful. If Krushen even suspects you are watching him, I’ll be arranging a section funeral for you.”

Chenin’s eyes widened with alarm. “Not exactly the most comforting thing to be telling me.”

“Think of it as your sacrifice for the good of Russia.”

“What about Mishkin?”

“I know his game, Yan. Mishkin has his eye on the premiership. He believes I am obeying his orders to the letter, and so I am. But only part of the truth reaches him. I tell him enough to make it seem he has the upper hand. Do whatever you need to gather information from Krushen.”

They drove to the next intersection and Chenin got out. The moment the door closed, the black BMW glided away.

“Well, Kyril, what do you think our comrade will be doing after that conversation?”

Federov’s driver found it difficult to keep the humor out of his reply. “Hurrying home to change his undershorts I should imagine, Colonel.”

“I believe you may be right, Kyril.”

“Where to now?”

“A slow drive back to Lubyanka. Take your time, Kyril. I’m in no hurry to return to that damn mausoleum. In fact you can drive to Kirov’s apartment. I need to bring him up-to-date.”

LEOPOLD BULANIN REPLACED the receiver, smiling to himself at the conversation he had just had with Mischa Krushen. He reached out and ran a hand across the smooth surface of the digital recorder that monitored every call he received. Bulanin had always believed in insurance, in one form or another. And the digital kind was the most lucrative of all. Of course it might never need to be used, but just in case matters got out of hand, it paid to be prepared.

He had recently accepted a contract from Krushen that required him to provide extra men to keep a check on some people who might pose a threat to the status quo.

Captain Pieter Tchenko was an investigative Moscow cop who had been running an investigation that was getting too close to Krushen and the FSB. Krushen wanted the cop out of the picture in case he started making waves, and he was not overly concerned how the task was done. He also wanted to know if Tchenko had any data that might point fingers at Krushen and his department. Despite the FSB’s reputation when it came to stamping out such interference, Krushen wanted the matter resolved by an outside source. Mainly because he didn’t entirely trust all those who worked with and around him. It was not the first time he had used outside help.

Yan Chenin, who worked for Krushen, was showing signs of becoming a little nervous, and the man needed watching. Bulanin was constantly amused at the complexity of business that came out of Lubyanka. The building had always been host to rampant paranoia. Even now, since the demise of the KGB, the place reeked of subterfuge. Bulanin suspected that everyone who worked in Lubyanka had to have a permanently stiff neck from constantly looking over their shoulders.

Thankfully he was a plain and simple businessman. His police file, because he had read a copy provided by a friendly cop, had him down as a criminal. A racketeer. A member of the Russian mafiya. Bulanin didn’t care what they called him. He was successful, extremely wealthy and his association with people like Mischa Krushen meant solid, important connections.

He glanced again at his digital recorder.

And he always had his insurance to maintain those connections.

Bulanin reached for his cell phone, deciding that the first on his to-do list was the local cop, Tchenko. He would be the easiest to deal with, and anyway, Bulanin did not like cops. They were bad for business.

CHAPTER ONE

General Berienko spoke at some length, his commanding presence dominating the shadowed conference room and the men gathered around the large table. Seated next to the general, Mischa Krushen absorbed everything the man had to say, aware of a degree of unease coming from the group. They were all individuals with varying degrees of influence and power, each one committed to the older values of what had been the Soviet Union and distrustful of the way things were going in the New Russia. Each had a deep-rooted suspicion concerning America, watching the imperialistic moves the U.S. was making across the globe, and fearful that if it was allowed to continue, even Russia might be swept aside by the American monolith. Thoughts of armed confrontation with America was not to be considered within the near future. The downgrading of the once mighty Soviet war machine had removed its sting. It no longer had the mass of machines and men. The fracturing of the Soviet Empire had weakened its threat. It would take some considerable time to build up military superiority to its earlier strength.

When Berienko finished, he indicated that it was Krushen’s turn. A rumble of agitation rose from the group as it assessed what Berienko had said and Krushen allowed the moment to pass. He considered his options before he spoke, knowing that the men seated around the table were as committed as he was to Black Judas, but were still nervous as to the outcome if the project was brought into play.

“America has grown fat and greedy since the fall of the Soviet Union. It has reached out and used our demise to swell its wealth and influence. It has done it under the guise of helping Russia reconstruct. Admirable on the surface but by no means a selfless act. The Americans do nothing for nothing. Somewhere there is always the catch. There are those who do it by stealth. They employ others, often Russians themselves, to broker their deals for them. It allows them to infiltrate under a smoke screen. They manipulate or they buy or they bribe. They offer us their gifts like they did to the Indian tribes in their own country. Blankets and beads, trinkets to bedazzle while they stole land and slaughtered the buffalo. Now they do it with fast-food franchises. Burgers, and coffee in paper cups. And the people clamor for more, because they are blind to the larger picture. And all the while the deals go on behind closed doors. For Russian money and oil. Anything the Americans can add to their treasure chest. Nothing is done to halt this greed. Our so-called leaders do little except pretend concern, so we need to make things happen, and soon.”

“Mischa, as much as we love the sound of your voice, is there a point to all this?”

The speaker was a stoop-shouldered man with a shock of white hair framing his lined, old face. He was Georgi Bella, a Georgian with a fearsome reputation. He was old-guard KGB, and still a force to be reckoned with.

“With respect, Georgi, I am coming to the point. America wants to dominate. It is as simple as that. Look at the way they made war on Iraq. To get rid of Hussein? His demise was a bonus, something to add to the main prize. First they destroy the country and then return with their people and get money to rebuild. Again this was just a ploy to detract from the main prize. The oil. America would like nothing better than to get its hands on our oil, and they will try every trick in the book to achieve that. They want Middle Eastern oil, as well. To control it. To feed their greedy population and to maintain their war machine. In quiet rooms negotiations go on. Contracts are signed and deals are negotiated. All done behind the scenes by means of manipulation and coercion. The Americans are very good at this kind of thing. They have a sure ingredient that gets them what they want.”

“What is that? Fried chicken in a box and bottles of cola?” someone said.

A ripple of laughter followed. Krushen allowed it to flow, easing the mood for a moment.

“Money,” he said as the laughter settled down. “America lives and breathes on its fabulous wealth. It is what keeps the country alive. They have so much, yet they crave even more, and what it brings them. Power. Influence. If they can’t get what they want by flexing their military muscle, they use money. It makes them believe nothing is impossible for them. But I think it is also what makes them vulnerable. America exists on a knife edge of uncertainty. If Wall Street draws breath, the country panics. At even the hint of a financial problem, shares tumble. The interest rate fluctuates. Millions can be lost in an instant.”

“All very well, but how does it help us?” Bella asked.

“By understanding America’s vulnerability, we have something to attack. Not with missiles. But by going for the financial heart. By destroying the U.S.A.’s financial power base.”

“Black Judas?” Bella asked.

Krushen smiled and tapped the file resting on the table in front of him.

“Exactly. By using this,” he said. He picked up the file and let the assembly see it. “We activate Black Judas and put it into operation. It is the right time. America is vulnerable at this moment. The dollar is weak. Hit the U.S. financial base now and we can throw the economy into recession. Use the skills of the Black Judas team to bring America to her knees, then take advantage of that weakness to gain control of the financial markets.”

“You make it sound too easy,” Bella said.

“It won’t be easy, but the rewards could be incredible.”

Bella nodded. “That is the part I am interested in. If it works.”

“The team we put in place will make sure it works. The day the project goes into operation, the knowledge these men will have gained becomes vital.”

“You are talking about individuals who have been in place for almost seven years,” Bella said. “How do we know they have stayed loyal? Or were matters like this not included in your master plan?”

“All those things and more were considered, Georgi. An operation such as Black Judas required much planning. Fail-safes were built in. Six men. Three teams of two. We spread them across the American continent. Each team carried codes that would allow it to access Black Judas and bring it online. In reality all we needed were two men to survive. Each one carrying one half of the access code. Their codes will be combined and Black Judas brought online.”

Bella nodded. “And have you had these men watched? Are they all still alive?”

“Yes. We have a man in place, a handler responsible for an American turncoat. He also oversees the Black Judas people from a discreet distance. Since they became model U.S. citizens, they have kept up with technology advances and are highly proficient with all forms of computer skills. Probably to such a degree they could walk into any IT environment and make the staff look like kindergarten underachievers.”

“And once this project is activated,” Bella persisted, “what do we achieve?”

“Hopefully great things as far as we are concerned—crippling and widespread breakdowns within the U.S. financial world, meltdown of their administrative databases. For example, their welfare program would crash. Cash benefits that are paid to applicants would vanish. Bank accounts would disappear from computer systems. Even federal accounts would be affected. On Wall Street a virus would engage and spread throughout the entire system, wiping out transactions and losing monies and stock details.