straight, you do. At one time, Sokolov had carte blanche from the Company and State to arm our so-called friends abroad. His cargo planes flew out of Florida, for Christ’s sake. Diplomatic cover, when he needed it. Of course, times change. Some of the mopes we armed ten years ago are enemies today. We’re taking hits from our own hardware, and it’s setting off alarms.”
“I’m not surprised,” said Bolan.
“Did you know that Sokolov did business with the UN for a while? And NATO? This is after his indictment, mind you. Even on the run, he’s still got friends he can tap for contracts in Iraq, Afghanistan and Sudan. Can you imagine that? Son of a bitch sells weapons to our private contractors, for hunting insurgents he’s armed to kill them. Talk about the candle burning at both ends.”
“Is he that hard to find?” Bolan asked.
“Just the opposite. Not hard at all. He lives in Russia, safe and sound. Their constitution bans extradition of any Russian citizen charged with acts that are legal in Russia itself.”
“Which includes selling arms under legal contracts.”
“Absolutely. They’ve done it for decades. So have we, the Brits, the French, Chinese—you name it. Hell, we’ve sponsored some of Sokolov’s transactions. In the Russian view, we’re just pissed off today because some of yesterday’s allies have jumped ship.”
“It doesn’t end there,” Bolan said.
“You got that right. Call it principle, machismo, whatever you like. The folks I report to aren’t letting it go. They’ve already tried once to extract Sokolov.”
“And missed him?” Bolan guessed.
“I wish that’s all it was. They lost eight guys from HRT. It damn near took an act of Congress just to get their bodies back.”
“So, he’s got tight security.”
“The best,” the big Fed said. “If that’s all it was.”
“You think someone on this side burned them?”
“I’m not pointing any fingers,” Brognola replied. “But any time the Bureau goes off campus, there’s a protocol for giving heads-up to the nearest chief of station for the Company. It helps with technical assistance and avoids stepping on any tender toes.”
“The whole new era of cooperation.”
“Don’t you love it? All the stupid backstabbing that came down from the Hoover-Langley feud supposedly got swept away with 9/11. The Company got back into domestic surveillance—assuming they ever got out—and Congress told everyone to play nice. Share the intel both ways, no more hoarding or disinformation between so-called allies.”
“Let me guess,” Bolan replied. “It isn’t working.”
“That depends on what you mean by working. After all the fretting and reshuffling, look at the twenty-two agencies lumped together in Homeland Security. You’ve got the Secret Service, Customs, Immigration, the Coast Guard, FEMA, the Border Patrol—even the Plant and Animal Inspection Service, for God’s sake. But who’s left out?”
“The Bureau and the Company?”
“Bingo! A minor oversight, okay? Leaving our two primary intelligence agencies on the outside, looking in. And if you think the falling towers made them start to love each other, guess again.”
“Business as usual,” Bolan observed.
“Or worse. Who doesn’t want a ton of money to fight terrorism? Spend it any way you like. Just get the job done.”
“Well…”
They’d drifted into an exhibit labeled “Spies Among Us,” laying out the history of espionage preceding World War II—or, at least, one version of it. Bolan saw no mention of the meeting at FBI Headquarters in November 1941, where J. Edgar Hoover had rejected warnings of an impending attack on Pearl Harbor and threw the informant out of his office.
“The problem arises,” Brognola said, “from conflict of interest. Let’s imagine Langley has an asset helping arm its clients in the field, while Bureau agents try to lock him up for arming terrorists. One side indicts, the other intervenes. It could get nasty.”
“Sokolov’s still dealing with the Company?”
“A rumor,” Brognola replied. “These things are written on the wind, you know. If there’s a document to prove it, I’d be very damned surprised.”
Bolan had never given any major thought to how his own missions were logged at Stony Man. He had assumed some record had to exist, suitably sanitized in the best interest of all concerned.
“And if the Bureau thinks the Company’s responsible for eight men down…”
“We’re talking cloak-and-dagger civil war,” Brognola said. “Aside from which, their boy’s still out there, dealing any damned thing he can get his hands on. Which, I’m told, included enough loose nukes to light up all our lives.”
“You want him taken out of circulation.”
“Not just taken out. Returned alive for trial.”
“That could turn out to be embarrassing,” Bolan suggested. “Airing all that dirty laundry in a courtroom won’t do much for either side’s prestige.”
“We’re the mechanics on this job,” Brognola said. “Or, rather, you are. Bring him back alive.”
“Or?”
“There’s no or on this one. We could always find a way to smoke him. Drop a smart bomb down his chimney Christmas Eve and claim that Santa farted on the fire. Whatever. Trial is deemed essential, PR-wise.”
“Terrific.”
“Should you meet our boy’s suppliers and customers, however, then the gloves are off. For them, not him. No one will think twice if they go down for the count.”
“You mean, no one in Wonderland.”
“That’s understood. Of course, their friends and family may take offense.”
“At least my hands aren’t tied.”
“Look at it this way,” Brognola suggested. “It’s an all-you-can-eat buffet, except for one small item in a doggie bag.”
“That makes it so much easier.”
“I’ve got the background information that you’ll need, and intel on your contact.”
“Someone from the Company?” Bolan asked.
“Better. From the FSB.”
“Outstanding. All I need now is a Cheshire cat.”
“Maybe you’ll find one as you go along.”
Brognola pulled a CD in its jewel case from an outer pocket of his coat and
