of his neck. Someone had struck him as he had entered the kitchen, then dragged him down to the cellar beneath the house. He saw bare brick walls and felt the boarded floor beneath his naked feet. A single bulb hung from an electric cord, throwing pale light on the stacked boxes and other household items that had been stored in the cellar and pushed against the damp walls.
He squinted his eyes and tried to ignore the pain in his skull as he attempted to understand what was happening. Who had done this to him?
And why?
Malenkov believed it could be down to Karl Federov. He would do anything to discredit Krushen’s authority.
Once the search for Black Judas had been activated, all interested parties would be alerted. Any information gained would be fair game for the others. But Malenkov was surprised at how easily his location had been discovered. The London safehouse had always been just that. Safe. It was a jumping-off point where agents could travel from London to distant points, away from Moscow. Despite the stepped-up security in the UK capital, it was still a freer place than back in Russia. A cosmopolitan city, where almost every nationality from around the globe moved back and forth, London was still one of the easier cities to maintain a safehouse. And they had always been so careful. The address and location had never been committed to any database. It had been rented through a number of anonymous aides, making sure none knew any of the others personally, nor had any more contact than via dead-drop mailings. Malenkov reconsidered that, admitting that nothing in reality was ever completely risk-free. Somewhere along the line, someone might have let something slip that had been picked up by a third party. Also, there was no discounting the possibility of betrayal by one of their own. Again that was something not unheard of.
In the final analysis it came down to the fact that the safehouse had been compromised. At this juncture of Malenkov’s life the who and the why didn’t really matter.
Especially in regard to himself.
What did matter was whether he was going to emerge alive from this situation.
He heard movement off to his right. As he turned his head, a dark shape loomed from the shadows. A figure stood over him, silhouetted against the light from the suspended bulb. There was a sudden blur of movement and he took a hard blow to the side of his face. The force twisted his head, blood welling from a gash in his cheek. The blow dazed him for long seconds, and Malenkov let his head fall forward. Blood dripped onto his naked chest. He picked up more movement and braced himself for more blows. Nothing happened.
“What the hell do you want from me?”
“It speaks,” a voice said from behind in Russian.
The sudden sound startled Malenkov, and what added more surprise was that it was a woman’s voice. Young, too, from the tone. He was reminded of his naked condition.
The voice’s owner moved to stand in front of him, easing aside so that the light from the bulb fell across her. She was young, he saw. Midtwenties and very attractive, though the expression on her face hardened her features. Black hair framed a strong, well-defined face. Her eyes were cold, devoid of any emotion. She wore dark, slim-fitting pants and a black turtleneck sweater. A long, dark topcoat completed her outfit. Malenkov saw the dark shape of a handgun tucked in her waist belt and recognized it as his own. She had to have found it in the drawer where he kept it upstairs. Now she took her time deliberately looking him over, her gaze lingering, a wry smile edging her lips. Malenkov felt an embarrassed flush color his face.
“Who are you? Dammit, woman, do you realize who you’re messing with?”
“No one very big,” she said. “Just a small scrap of lowlife.”
“A dangerous mistake,” Malenkov said. “I have no idea what this is all about, but you are playing games with the wrong kind of people.”
“Believe me, Malenkov, I am not playing games.”
Malenkov struggled against his bonds. His face darkened even more as he failed to loosen the ropes. Added to his frustration was the fact that the woman apparently had no immediate fear of anything he might say.
“Get me out of here, you bitch!” he yelled. “This will bring you more trouble than you can imagine. One word from me and I could have your family wiped out.”
He saw her stiffen, recognized the fierce look in her eyes as she fought back some deep emotion.
“But you already did that, Malenkov. You and your sick comrades. My family all died at your hands, you pig. It’s why you’re tied to that chair. So I can let you feel what my mother and father and my young brother felt before you vermin finally killed them all. It wasn’t all that long ago, so you must still recall the name. Tchenko. My father was Captain Pieter Tchenko. You do remember? Yes, I thought you would. So you see, your threats don’t worry me. There’s nothing left you can take away from me.” She reached inside her coat and took out a gleaming steel-bladed knife, holding it so light rippled along the smooth metal. “Today is your turn. I ask questions, you answer. Each time you lie, I use the knife.”
Malenkov realized from the start that she was not just trying to scare him. She made him aware of this by making a token cut across the soft flesh of his stomach. Deep enough to make him bleed and feel the pain. Not enough to incapacitate him. As the warm rivulets of his blood settled in his groin, Malenkov realized he needed to make a swift decision.
Refuse to answer the woman’s questions and suffer further living pain, or tell her what she wanted and accept the bullet through the back of his skull that would end his life far quicker. He was under no illusion. One way or another, he was going to die today. The only question was whether he gave up the names of his partners and sent this woman after them, or tried to protect them and suffered by the knife in her hand. It was not much of a trade-off either way.
In the end Malenkov found out he was not so much of a man as he had anticipated. He gave up names and locations. He told her everything he knew. But not before Natasha Tchenko made him suffer because of his early resistance. Her use of the knife was crude, and Malenkov spilled a great deal of blood on the cellar floor. Whatever his resolve, it faded quickly, his pleas for mercy falling on deaf ears. So he gave her what he could, asking for her forgiveness. He did that with no sense of shame. Only because the pain he was enduring had to stop.
It did stop.
Suddenly and without warning. He experienced a sudden powerful impact to the back of his head, and before he even had time to realize what it was, the bullet from the gun in Natasha Tchenko’s hand ripped into his skull and reduced his brain to mush.
Tchenko returned to the main part of the house and made her way into the living room where she had finished her search earlier while waiting for Malenkov. She had found the laptop he had stored in a cupboard. Now she connected it to the power and ran the modem cable to the telephone socket. Once on the Net, she opened the link and tapped in her own password to access the OCD’s central computer database and ran a check on Malenkov. She had to utilize different strings before she pinned down his file. Her first attempts at getting deeper into the files were blocked. She had to employ her not inconsiderable computer skills to get around the blocks.
Interestingly she found herself in the FSB database and managed to extract data files before she was closed down. Despite her repeated efforts, Tchenko was unable to get back into the FSB computer. She had been locked out once her intrusion had been discovered and knew that a trace would already be in operation to find out where she had been working from. It would confuse Moscow when they learned she had been hacking in from an FSB link. She picked up a flash drive from the table beside
