Infiltration. Don Pendleton

guards patrolled the grounds day and night. A large wall of thick mortar ten feet high and topped with wrought-iron spires surrounded the estate. The grounds were fully wired, according to Godunov, with electronic motion and sonic monitoring by day and infrared by night. The place was a veritable fortress, and despite his elegant surroundings, Lutrova could not help but feel he was in more of a prison than an estate.

      His mind screamed at him to open his mouth and confess his indiscretions, to beg for his life and promise never to be weak again. But his flesh could not bring himself to do it, and he simply looked at Godunov, with a masked expression he hoped would be unreadable.

      “How are the operations coming?” Godunov asked as he set his props on a leather couch.

      That was just like the bastard—only concerned with business. “The information is being downloaded as we speak. It shouldn’t be more than a few hours before we have everything we need.”

      Godunov sat on the sofa, crossed his legs and withdrew a silver cigarette case and matching lighter from his suit coat pocket. He sighed as he chose a slender brown cigarette and lit it. Through a cloud of smoke he said, “You are certain we cannot do this remotely. We must be on-site?”

      “There is no way to actually transfer the funds unless we are on-site and able to physically plug into a terminal. The program can only retrieve the information we need, such as the account numbers and balances. We must still be on-site to plug into a terminal, so that the actual transfers can take place. The bank computers will not permit movement of funds of this size without that confirmation. It’s part of the security features.”

      “And the time we will have to be inside,” Godunov said. “It will not take more than five minutes?”

      “I’ve already explained that three times to you, Yuri. Why do you keep asking me?”

      “Because we are running a tremendous risk here,” Godunov said. “We have planned this down to the last detail, and we are relying on you to make good on the numbers you give us. Not to mention that we cannot be expected to hold our position any longer than that. As soon as the transfers start, federal authorities will be alerted and agents will be sent to the New York First Financial Bank immediately. If they catch us while we’re still inside, we will be required to fight our way out.”

      “If you already have the money by then, what difference will it make?”

      Godunov chuckled, inhaled smoke from his cigarette and shook his head. “Oh, my dear Bogdan, you really have no idea. It is not merely about having the money. Having it does our people little good if we aren’t there to make sure the wealth is distributed. Only you know the locations where the money is going and only you have access to them. If we are forced to do battle with the police, there is little chance that you will survive, since nobody will be able to protect you.”

      “I will do my part, Yuri,” Lutrova said, “just as I’ve promised.”

      “But of course you will. I never doubted that. Why are you acting so furtive, my friend? You have been as nervous as a cat since you arrived.”

      “It is nothing,” Lutrova replied, his mind racing furiously. “My time with that American gangster shook me up a bit more than I thought.”

      “You have been around such men before.”

      “Yes, men on our side. But there was something about him I did not trust.”

      “Well, his references checked out, and he does appear to have some unique talents that I feel we can exploit. However, if it turns out he is not who he says he is, then I can assure you that he will be dealt with accordingly. You no longer have to worry about him.”

      “Good.”

      “I am a bit curious, though, what transpired while you were in custody of the U.S. Customs.”

      “What do you mean?”

      “You did not talk to them?”

      Lutrova cocked his head. “Talk to them about what? What exactly are you trying to imply, Yuri? Do you think that I would betray you?”

      “Did you?”

      “Absolutely not!”

      Godunov’s eyes flashed as he stared at Lutrova, although he smoked calmly. After a time, he said, “Okay, my friend, okay. I believe you.”

      But something in Lutrova’s gut told him that Yuri Godunov knew.

       CHAPTER SEVEN

      The morning sun was peeking over the horizon by the time Mack Bolan arrived at the address Volkov had given him.

      The rallying point turned out to be a dumpy house in the heart of the Bronx. The soldier had hoped the placed was isolated enough that he could do recon, but his luck didn’t hold out on that count. The houses were close together. What frustrated him most was that he knew what Lutrova planned to do and he had some idea of when; he just didn’t know how Godunov would put it together. He also had to keep one eye on the Wolf through this; the guy wasn’t trustworthy and Bolan didn’t think he’d yet bought into the Frankie Lambretta cover.

      One thing Bolan had become convinced of: neither Volkov nor Godunov ultimately called the shots here. The entire operation was being led by someone much higher up—someone with both financial and political clout that far surpassed the wildest imagination. That was the head Bolan would have to chop off the Hydra before he could make a dent in the RBN, and it was an operation he surmised would take him straight into the flames of perdition before it was over.

      Bolan swung the nose of his vehicle into the drive and eased to a stop behind a silver SUV. The soldier quickly withdrew his Beretta, checked the action and then holstered the weapon. Volkov had instructed him to dress in business attire, so Bolan had opted for a conservative gray suit with silver pinstripes, light blue shirt and light gray silk tie. He had no idea what awaited him beyond the doors of this shack of a house with peeling paint and weathered shingles. For all he knew, he could be walking straight into an ambush, one for which he had physically and mentally prepared himself during his drive.

      Bolan climbed out of the sedan, walked to the door and pressed the buzzer. He stood there a minute and realized he hadn’t heard the buzzer from inside, so after waiting a minute he knocked. Soon he heard footsteps and then the door opened to reveal an unfamiliar face. Bolan searched his mental files, but didn’t recognize the guy. Probably another freelancer who had managed to stay under the radar of law enforcement; it appeared Volkov remained consistent in his hiring practices.

      The guy had sandy-brown hair and blue eyes a few shades darker than Bolan’s. He looked at him through the ratty screen a moment—sizing him up, as most professional guns-for-hire would—before opening the door and gesturing for him to enter. As Bolan crossed the threshold, the guy stuck out his hand.

      Bolan noted the Southern accent as he said, “You Frankie?”

      “Yeah,” he replied with a nod as he shook the man’s hand.

      “Come on in, the boss is waiting.”

      The man led him through a cramped hallway with a worn hardwood floor that appeared dusty with disuse. They continued to a back room that opened onto an equally cramped kitchen. Two other men dressed in business suits sat there. They looked up as the two entered, and Bolan’s escort gestured at them.

      “That’s Igor, that’s Keck.”

      Bolan appraised each man in a moment. Igor had a short and wiry build; he wore his blond hair in a high-and-tight cut, and his hazel eyes flashed with intensity in the light of the bare bulb dangling from the ceiling. Keck looked almost East Indian or Pakistani. A thin, faint scar ran down the left side of his face near to his ear, and Bolan gauged it as a knife wound of some kind, perhaps from straight razor. He also wore his dark hair short, and his expression seemed unreadable.

      Each offered his hand in turn, and Bolan shook them briefly. The speaker then said, “I’m Billy, but everybody just calls me Southpaw. We