Extraordinary Rendition

CHAPTER FOUR

Kotlin Island

Gennady Sokolov sipped black-cherry vodka from a crystal glass, letting it linger on his tongue before he swallowed and felt the welcome heat begin to spread throughout his body. He hadn’t decided, yet, if it would be his last drink of the old day or his first of the new one.

That, he reckoned, would depend upon the news from Moscow.

Sokolov wasn’t a patient man by nature. He had learned patience as other men learned carpentry, mechanics or book-keeping—through determination and practice. Much of his time with Spetznaz had been spent waiting or getting ready for some crisis that might never come to pass. Later, when he was serving with the KGB, the typical pace had been slower still. Espionage by committee. Murder by decree, with orders handed down through bureaucratic buffer layers until the deed was executed in New York, Bangkok, Madrid or Rome.

The patience he’d acquired while serving Russia’s government had been of great value to Sokolov once he went private. Those who came to him for weapons always wanted them today—or yesterday, as the Americans were fond of saying—but negotiation of a price and terms for the delivery took time. Oddly, it seemed to Sokolov that those who wished to kill their enemies most urgently were also those who dithered over dimes.

This night he needed patience on his own account, waiting for word that would relieve him of a burden that was tainting every aspect of his life. The Americans were breathing down his neck, determined that he should be extradited in defiance of his homeland’s sacred law.

Whatever happened to their passion for democracy?

So far, they hadn’t laid a glove on Sokolov, though he resented the restrictions on his foreign travel. Documents weren’t a problem, under any name he chose, and Sokolov was self-taught in the art of personal disguise, but covert travel meant that he couldn’t enjoy the luxury to which he had become accustomed.

What, in God’s name, was the point of being filthy rich if he could only flaunt it where he lived?

How was a world-class death merchant supposed to awe new clients when he had to scurry through the shadows wearing a trench coat and an artificial beard?

He’d taught a lesson to the damned Americans when they came sniffing at his dacha, but they hadn’t learned it well enough. Now, sources told him, there was yet another plan afoot to snatch him, this time with collaboration from the FSB.

That hurt.

And when he hurt, Sokolov liked to share the pain.

The latest lesson for his enemies would start in Moscow, where a certain agent from the States was scheduled to arrive that very night. In fact, a stylish wall clock and Sokolov’s Rolex GMT Master II wristwatch agreed that the job should be finished by now. His friends in Moscow should be acquiring the information that Sokolov needed in order to—

He smiled when the telephone rang. Not his cell, but the gold-plated one on his desk, which he rubbed with a chamois after each and every use. Gold smudged with fingerprints was strictly déclassé.

“Hello?”

There was a heartbeat’s silence on the other end, before the gruff, familiar voice replied, “Gennady?”

“Who else would it be?”

“No one, of course,” said Leonid Bezmel, the boss of bosses for the Moscow Mafiya.

“What news?” Sokolov prompted him.

“It’s not good, I’m afraid.”

“Not good.”

“Unfortunately, no.”

“Tell me.”

“These incompetents Taras sent out to the airport missed their man. They’re dead, in fact, which cheats me of the pleasure I’d derive from their chastisement.”

Sokolov drained off his vodka in one swallow and commanded, “Tell me everything.”

CROSSING THE Moscow River on Mokhovaya Street, with the Kremlin complex on their right, Bolan told Pilkin, “We’re not off to the best of starts.”

“I see only three choices,” she replied. “We can give up, press on, or waste time trying to determine which side has the leak.”

“It could be both sides,” Bolan said. “I’ve got someone on my end who can try to run it down, but I won’t guarantee results.”

Pilkin hesitated, then said, “Even asking, with the FSB today, may cause some difficulty.”

Bolan heard that, loud and clear.

“Another way to do it,” he suggested, “is to cut the apron strings and carry out the mission as assigned, before it started going off the rails.”

“The kind of thing that ends careers,” she said.

“Depends on how you finish, I suppose. Or whether you were really meant to do it in the first place.”

“You suspect corruption?”

“Always. I trust the friends I’ve had forever,” Bolan said, “but I can count them on my fingers. And I still look out for number one.”

“I understand this. Here, it is the same. Before the change, we always knew the party leaders placed themselves above the people, but at least they feared exposure and the discipline to follow. Now, when there is so much money to be had, and no one left to draw the line…it’s hard to know the rules, sometimes.”

“When I run into that, I make my own,” Bolan replied.

“We have a handicap,” she said. “You were expected, at the airport. So your name, at least, is known in Moscow. If they also know your face—”

“That isn’t likely,” Bolan interrupted. “And the guys we met tonight aren’t handing out descriptions.”

“You must not use any credit cards, in that case. Or a driver’s license. No cell phone that can be traced.”

“I’ve got cash,” Bolan said. “If we run short, I’ll pick up more. My phone’s secure as it can be.”

His Inmarsat satellite phone had a built-in scrambler coded to coordinate with gear at Stony Man and on Brognola’s desk in Washington. If necessary, it could store a message for transmission as a high-speed data squirt, in lieu of real-time conversation. In the time the FSB would need to crack the code, assuming that his calls were intercepted in the first place, Bolan hoped to have his mission finished and be back in the States.

“You have assistance waiting, if we are successful?”

“When we are successful, transportation’s covered,” Bolan said. “But first, I need to soften up the other side a little.”

“Soften up?” Pilkin frowned.

“Shake up their world and start them finger-pointing,” he explained. “Put a few cracks in their united front.”

“They’ll be surprised already, with tonight’s failure,” she said. “Whoever they are.”

“It’s a start,” Bolan said. “And it doesn’t matter much who sent the welcoming committee. As I see it, there are only two or three real possibilities.”

“And they are…?”

“Sokolov himself, for starters,” Bolan answered, ticking off the options on his fingers. “Second, someone from the Mafiya who’s working with him. Third, somebody in authority.”

“Those men were not militia or FSB,” Pilkin said.

“But maybe working under contract.”

“Yes,” she said reluctantly. “It’s possible.”

“We’ll find out more when I start rattling cages,” Bolan told her. “Are you up for it?”

“You’re asking me?”

“Seems only fair. If you don’t want to ride the tiger, now’s the time to bail.”

“I have a job to do,” she said. “My orders don’t include surrender.”

“Right, then,” Bolan said. “Our first stop needs to be an all-night hardware store.”

MAKSIM CHALIAPIN HATED late-night phone calls. None had ever brought him good news, and they typically required him to take action that posed some risk to his standing and career, if not his life.

Such risk and aggravation came with service to the FSB, in which Chaliapin held the rank of First Assistant to the Director of the Economic Security Service. Chaliapin’s duties included supervising campaigns against organized crime of all kinds within Moscow Oblast—the city proper and its surrounding federal district—as well as liaison with Interpol and other foreign law enforcement or security agencies.

As Chaliapin left his bed and lumbered toward the shrilling telephone, he knew that he was lucky to have any job in government, much less a post with so much personal authority. At fifty-eight, he was a thirty-four-year veteran of what passed in Russia for a civil service. Chaliapin had joined the KGB as a fledgling strong-arm man in 1976 and worked his way up through the ranks to major with a combination of fancy footwork and apparent slavish obedience to his superiors of the moment. When President Boris Yeltsin dissolved the KGB in August 1991, Chaliapin had pulled every string within reach to secure a post with the new Federal Counterintelligence Service, or FSK, which, in turn, was magically transformed into the FSB in April 1995.

He was, if nothing else, a survivor.

Lifting the telephone receiver as if it weighed fifty pounds, Chaliapin spoke into the night.

“Hello?”

“It’s me.”

Of course it was. Chaliapin grimaced at the sound of Gennady Sokolov’s voice. Double-edged steel sheathed in moldy velvet.

“Good evening,” he said, careful not to use names. “How may I help you?”

“I assume you’ve heard about the difficulty at the airport?”

“No.” Lying was second nature to a lifelong member of the KGB.

“Nothing?”

“Is this about—?”

“It is.”

“And what went wrong, exactly?”

“You were not informed?”

“I’ve told you—”

“Then, by all means let me break the news. Our package went astray tonight. Four of my men attempted to retrieve it.”

“And…?”

“You’ll get an invitation to their funerals.”

“All four?”

Now Chaliapin was surprised. He had supplied a name to Sokolov, a flight number, and then had washed his hands of it. He’d wanted to know nothing more about the problem unless Sokolov discovered something that affected Chaliapin personally. He had regarded that as an unlikely circumstance.

But now…

“All four,” Sokolov said, confirming it.

That meant more paperwork for Chaliapin, poring over field reports of four deaths presumed to be Mafiya-bound in some way. It would be busywork, at best.

Chaliapin could play stupid with the best of them.

But he was curious. “How did this happen?” he inquired.

“Another person claimed the package,” Sokolov replied. “Ran off with it, in fact. My men…protested. They were unsuccessful in asserting ownership.”

“Apparently. This other person—”

“Was a woman.”

“That is most unusual,” he granted.

“It’s unheard of,” Sokolov corrected him. “Unless she was official.”

“What? You can’t mean—”

“Do you not have female agents?” Sokolov demanded. “Certainly. But—”

“And it’s possible that some other department might be operating at cross-purposes to yours?”

It was entirely possible. Within the FSB, he constantly competed with the Military Counterintelligence Directorate and the Service for Protection of the Constitutional System and the Fight against Terrorism. Beyond that lay competing agencies—the Federal Protective Service and the militia. Both employed women as agents.

“I will look into it,” Chaliapin said.

“I know you will, Maksim. And find the bitch that I need to kill.”

THE “HARDWARE STORE” that Bolan needed didn’t carry saws, hammers or nails. It wouldn’t keep the hours of a normal Moscow shop, and definitely wouldn’t advertise in print, or through the broadcast media. Its reputation—its existence—would be carried on the whisper stream that underlaid so-called police society in every nation of the world.

The hardware store he sought carried the tools of death.

“In Moscow,” Pilkin informed him, “there are several outlets for the merchandise you seek.”

“There always are,” Bolan replied. “Take me to one that offers quality as well as quantity. I don’t want rusty junk from Chechnya, much less Afghanistan.”

“Perhaps Iraq would suit you better?” she replied.

“Nothing immediately traceable,” he added, carefully ignoring her remark.

“Such dealers are…how do you say it in America? Connected? They won’t hesitate to sell you out if anyone with influence comes knocking.”

“Sell who out?” he countered. “The only introduction I’m supplying is a roll of cash. Unless the guy you have in mind knows you.…”

“No,” Pilkin replied. “We’ve never met.”

“Sounds good, then,” Bolan said, and settled back to wait.

They found the dealer’s shop west of downtown, a block north of Povarskaya Street. A stylish jewelry store filled the ground floor, with living quarters upstairs.

A wise man kept an eye on his investments.

Lights were on in the apartment windows when Pilkin rang the bell downstairs. A voice responded on the scratchy intercom, bantering back and forth with the woman for something like a minute, then switched off.

“He’s coming down,” she told Bolan.

“No problems?”

“None so far.”

The man who finally arrived to let them in was forty-something, stocky, with slicked-down hair and bushy eyebrows that resembled Leonid Brezhnev’s. Unlike Brezhnev, he smiled—albeit cautiously—for paying customers he’d never met and likely wouldn’t see again.

When they were safely locked inside the shop, its owner introduced himself as Fedor Tsereteli. He spoke fluent English without asking why it was required, and Bolan saw him file that fact away for future reference.

So be it.

“You have need of special merchandise,” he said.

“That’s right,” Bolan replied.

“Please follow me.”

He led them from the main showroom into an office, where a bank of filing cabinets stood against one wall. At Tsereteli’s touch, two of them swung aside, revealing a smallish door secured by a locking keypad. Tsereteli blocked their view with his bulk while he punched in the code, then opened the door. Beyond it, stairs descended to a darkened cellar.

Tsereteli found a light switch, and fluorescent fixtures came alive downstairs. Bolan ducked his head, going through the doorway, and made his way down to the gun vault.

The place had something for everyone: assault rifles and submachine guns, light machine guns and squad automatic weapons, shotguns and pistols, RPGs and rockets, crates of ammunition and grenades. Bolan browsed, taking his time.

His final selections included a Steyr AUG assault rifle, a familiar Beretta 93-R selective-fire pistol with sound suppressor, a Mikor MGL 40 mm grenade launcher, plus spare magazines, ammunition and a selection of hand grenades from Tsereteli’s stockpile. Accessories included a shoulder rig for the Beretta, a tactical vest and a Cold Steel Recon Tanto dagger with a black epoxy finish on its seven-inch blade.

“All this?” Pilkin asked him, surveying his selections with a raised eyebrow.

“You’re traveling a little light yourself,” Bolan replied. “Want something for the road, on me?”

Or, rather, on the two Colombians he had relieved of half a million dollars when he punched their tickets outside Baltimore, two days before his meeting with Brognola in D.C.

With visible reluctance, Pilkin checked Tsereteli’s wares and chose a Vityaz submachine gun, model PP-19-01. It resembled an AKS-74U compact assault rifle, but the Vityaz was chambered in 9 mm Parabellum, fed from 30-round box magazines, with a cyclic rate of 750 rounds per minute. Its stock folded against the gun’s left side when not in use, and special clips held a spare mag in place beside the one in use.

“That’s it?” Bolan asked.

“Everything my heart desires,” Pilkin told him, frowning.

“Then,” he said, “we’re good to go.”

LEONID BEZMEL wasn’t woken by the purring telephone. A nocturnal creature by disposition and necessity, he rarely went to bed before sunrise, and then didn’t wake until noon, unless some dire emergency compelled it.

“Hello,” he said without enthusiasm.

“Have you found out any more yet?” Gennady Sokolov asked.

“Nothing beyond what we discussed,” Bezmel said.

“How can that be possible?” Sokolov asked.

“Nothing from the police beyond the basics,” Bezmel said. “When they know something more, I’ll pass it on to you, of course.”

“And in the meantime, he’s still out there. With this woman. Doing who knows what.”

“Perhaps they’re having sex,” Bezmel suggested.

“I don’t find that amusing,” Sokolov replied.

“You’re asking me to read this stranger’s mind and tell you where he’s gone with yet another stranger. I can’t do that. I’m investigating, but I will not feed you bullshit just to pacify you. Okay?”

“Four of your men are dead.”

“While helping you,” Bezmel reminded Sokolov. “And still I do not understand how this applies to me.”

“Permit me to enlighten you,” Sokolov said. “If the Americans take me, they will be taking those associated with me—or, at least, delivering their evidence to prosecutors here. Director Bortnikov would love to mount your head in his Lubyanka trophy room. So would General Nurgaliyev, at the Ministry of Internal Affairs. Perhaps they’ll fight over the scraps.”

“Is that supposed to frighten me, Gennady?”

“I make no threats,” Sokolov replied.

“That’s very wise. Because you know I’ve seen policemen come and go. Some are dismissed, others retired in luxury. A few…have accidents.”

“Now you would threaten me?”

“By no means. We are friends, Gennady. Better yet, we’re partners. I would hate to see that ruined by a moment’s panic over nothing.”

“Nothing? With your men dead and this man running loose?”

“I’ll find him. Don’t you worry. No one hides from me in Moscow. He’ll be gone before you know it.”

“I already know it, Leonid.”

“Then, by all means, endeavor to forget him. He’s the next best thing to dead.”

“Make him the best thing, eh? And then we’ll celebrate.”

“Concerning that,” Bezmel digressed, “is everything prepared?”

“It will be, when you’ve solved our problem.”

“IT SEEMS we are about to start a war,” Anzhela Pilkin said when they were on the road again.

“A small one, if we’re lucky,” Bolan said. “But I’ll be ready, either way it goes.”

“I thought this was supposed to be a simple thing. Extract one man. Deal with his guards if necessary and move on.”

“Eight men already tried the ‘simple’ route,” Bolan replied. “They’re dead. I don’t intend to join them if it isn’t absolutely necessary.”

“You would die to catch Gennady Sokolov?”

“It isn’t on my list of things to do,” Bolan said, “but the risk is there on any mission. Same with you, I’d guess.”

“Sometimes,” she granted. “But I do more paperwork than shooting. This night is unusual.”

“It’s bound to get worse,” Bolan said. “You can still pull the plug.”

“Pull the…?”

“Hit the silk. Call it off.”

“I have orders,” she said.

“To meet me and serve as my guide, am I right? Some translation? I’m betting that no one told you to go out and get killed.”

“I’m not planning on it.”

“No one plans it, except suicides,” Bolan said. “Here’s the deal. I intend to flush Sokolov out of his hole, whatever it takes. I’ll be starting with those who support him, his partners and friends. They’ll be loyal to a point, but beyond that, self-preservation kicks in. When he’s flushed out of cover, I’ll grab him and pass him along to the transporters.”

“You make it sound easy.”

“That’s just my point,” Bolan replied. “It isn’t. It gets harder, bloodier, with every step we take from this point onward. You don’t have to make that trip. I do.”

“I won’t go back to headquarters and say you’ve talked me out of my assignment. That is unacceptable.”

“If you go, there’ll be a point where you can’t change your mind,” said Bolan.

“Is this chivalry?” Pilkin asked. “Or are you looking out for number one again?”

“What difference does it make?”

“I’m curious.”

Red Square was passing on their left. Somewhere inside its walls, Vladimir Lenin lay entombed, preserved since 1924 with semiannual baths in potassium acetate, alcohol, glycerol, distilled water and, as a disinfectant, quinine. Others were almost equally revered but buried more conventionally, barred from public viewing—Mikhail Kalinin, titular head of the Supreme Soviet from 1919 to 1946. Felix Dzerzhinksy, founder of the Soviet secret police and Gulag. Konstantin Chernenko, known as “Brezhnev’s Shadow,” who engineered Russia’s boycott of the 1984 Olympic games.

“I have no wish to see you killed or maimed,” Bolan replied at last. “If that’s what you call chivalry, I guess I’m guilty. On the other hand, self-preservation means I won’t have time to coddle you if you go forward.”

“You believe that is what happened tonight?” she challenged, sparking anger.

“Not at all. You jumped right in and pulled your weight, no doubt about it.”

“Well, then—”

“It gets worse,” Bolan repeated. “If you come along for this ride, be prepared to go through hell. Beyond the point of no return, it’s do or die.”

“I’m ready.”

“Be damned sure.”

“I am,” Pilkin said, “damned sure.”

“Okay, then. I understand that Sokolov works closely with a General Kozlov?”

“Colonel General,” Pilkin corrected him. “One of his arms suppliers, we believe. Untouchable, politically. He’s not the only leak in Russia’s arsenal, but probably the single largest.”

“And at some point, there’s a linkup with the Mafiya?”

“Of course. Sokolov deals extensively with Leonid Bezmel. He is what you might call the ‘godfather’ of the Solntsevskaya Brotherhood, Moscow’s most powerful crime Family. His leading competition is the Obshina, the Chechen group led by Aldo Shishani. They hate each other bitterly, and so Shishani hates Gennady Sokolov.”

“Sounds like a place to start,” Bolan replied.

CHAPTER FIVE

Kotlin Island

Some nights, when sleep deserted him, Gennady Sokolov amused himself by trying to surprise his sentries, catch them napping, as it were, although he’d never actually found one sleeping on the job. Such an infraction would have earned a penalty far worse than mere dismissal, and his soldiers knew it.

Sokolov wasn’t a man to trifle with.

He’d made that point with each of those he had disturbed that night, reminding all of them in no uncertain terms that they relied upon him for some measure of their affluence, and that their fates were linked to his. That was a risky game, since any one of them, if pushed too far, might turn against him.

But Sokolov knew people. He could read them—almost read their minds, it seemed—and use his knowledge to control them. How else had he survived four years in Russia’s army, seven in the Kremlin’s secret service, and nearly two decades of personal dealings with volatile dictators, warlords and rebels? If Sokolov wasn’t the best at what he did, he would be rotting in a jungle grave or desert trench by now.

Or worse yet, he’d just be ordinary, some pathetic drone punching a time clock, slaving for his daily borscht.