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.
No, thank you very much.
Better to die than be deflated to the status of a peasant, groveling before the powers that be.
Sokolov took a vodka bottle and a shot glass from the wet bar in his office and retreated to his massive teakwood desk. He pressed a button on the desktop intercom but didn’t speak. Only one person in the household would answer that summons.
Less than a minute passed before Sokolov heard the rapping on his office door.
“Come!”
Sergei Efros entered, closed the door behind him and crossed the room to stand at attention before Sokolov’s desk. He didn’t move again until Sokolov ordered him to sit.
Sokolov spent a moment staring at his chief of security, framing his thoughts before speaking. Efros had spent eleven years with Spetznaz, in the “Alfa” unit, whose main duty was suppressing terrorism. He’d done time in Chechnya and was among the troops who’d stormed the House of Culture in Moscow’s Dubrovka district, during the theater siege of October 2002. As one of those cashiered to satisfy public outrage, he had left the service embittered and never thought twice about serving the Merchant of Death in return for a general’s salary.
“Still no word from Moscow,” Sokolov told him at last.
“I don’t trust the militia or FSB,” Efros replied. “Let me go there myself, sir. I’ll get the information you require within a day.”
“It’s tempting,” Sokolov admitted. “But you may be needed here.”
“As you require, sir.”
