The Judas Project. Don Pendleton

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      The car had nothing to do with the shooter

      That meant there had been a third party involved.

      Bolan placed the rifle across the hood of the Ford, drew the Desert Eagle then walked around the far side of the vehicle. The ground was covered in footprints, and rivulets of dried blood ran down the door panel. As he followed the trail of drops, the deposits of blood became heavier.

      The Executioner opened the trunk and peered inside. The body lay in a pool of blood, the gaping wound in the man’s throat still glistening.

      Carson was dead. The unknown shooter was dead.

      Somebody was playing for keeps.

      The Judas Project

      Mack Bolan_®

      Don Pendleton

       www.mirabooks.co.uk

      Special thanks and acknowledgment to

       Mike Linaker for his contribution to this work.

      Life does not give itself to one who tries to keep all its advantages at once. I have often thought morality may perhaps consist solely in the courage of making a choice.

      —Léon Blum

       1872–1950

      Where is the morality in making the wrong choice? Where is the morality in betraying your country? I’m not concerned about redemption. I’m concerned about justice.

      —Mack Bolan

      CONTENTS

      PROLOGUE

      CHAPTER ONE

      CHAPTER TWO

      CHAPTER THREE

      CHAPTER FOUR

      CHAPTER FIVE

      CHAPTER SIX

      CHAPTER SEVEN

      CHAPTER EIGHT

      CHAPTER NINE

      CHAPTER TEN

      CHAPTER ELEVEN

      CHAPTER TWELVE

      CHAPTER THIRTEEN

      CHAPTER FOURTEEN

      CHAPTER FIFTEEN

      CHAPTER SIXTEEN

      CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

      CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

      CHAPTER NINETEEN

      CHAPTER TWENTY

      CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

      CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

      CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

      CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

      CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

      CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

      CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

      CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

      EPILOGUE

      PROLOGUE

      Lubyanskaya Square, Moscow

      From the terrace of the Loft Café overlooking Lubyanskaya Square, Mischa Krushen could see the former Lubyanka KGB headquarters, now the FSB, where he had worked alongside the other members of the Unit. Those had been busy, heady days, when the Soviet juggernaut had been in full flight. Then life had had a definite purpose. They were safeguarding the status quo, working against the enemies of the state and orchestrating policy against them. For the Unit that had meant working every conceivable angle to bring disorder and chaos against the United States of America. They had an open mandate. Nothing, nothing, was barred: blackmail, out-and-out coercion, the use of terror and even death. It was all fair game to the Unit. It was the ultimate level in state covert action against America.

      With the breakup of the Soviet Union many things changed. They didn’t happen overnight, and behind-the-scenes power struggles and interdirectorate rivalries resulted in bloodless, and not-so-bloodless, coups. There were unexpected nighttime strikes, when dazed victims were hauled out of bed and driven to lonely spots. Many grievances were settled in that way. A single pistol shot to the back of the head cleared the way for new positions to be created. The culling lasted a short time, but when the smoke cleared there were new faces to be seen behind desks. Questions were posed, but seldom asked. Political maneuvering at the top seeped down through the ranks, affecting all aspects of government activity. The breaking away of Soviet satellite states simply added to the confusion. There was a hectic period when no one knew friend from enemy, and there was a great deal of closing ranks. The faithful remained together, watching one another’s backs, and there were survivors. When the tidal flow receded and a kind of sanity returned, the time was ripe for new alliances and a rekindling of old ones. On the surface the New Russia showed a fresh face, embracing its hard-won freedom from the Soviet yoke. In the background the old guard drew into the shadows, watching and waiting, shaking heads in mistrust of free enterprise and the “me” culture, seeing values shrink and greed rear its ugly head in the form of the Russian mafiya, drugs, prostitution and the loss of military power. The early years of freedom, eagerly lapped up by a population long-starved of the consumer life, overshadowed the machinations of the political and the guardians of Russia’s security.

      The KGB became the Federal’naya Sluzhba Bezopasnosti, the FSB. The Federal Security Service had a fresh face that masked much of its KGB origins, and hidden within its many layers, the Unit still existed. It was employed in much the same way as it had been in previous years. There were still enemies to deal with. Conspiracies to uncover. Policies to carry out. Long-dormant projects to be dusted off and brought into the cold light of the new day.

      Which brought Mischa Krushen to his vantage point, drinking a latte while he waited for his section chief to join him.

      The day was chill, a searching breeze swirling across the square. It had the sharp bite that threatened snow. Krushen felt it against his face. He was well protected in a heavy overcoat and fur hat. He glanced up as he heard a chair being moved and saw General Yuri Berienko sitting down on the far side of the table.

      Berienko had to have been in his late sixties now, his broad, Slavic features as severe as they had always been. Berienko seldom smiled. He viewed life and the world as serious matters, and especially the condition of his Russia since the disintegration of the union. Old guard he may have been, but his undying loyalty to the old Soviet Union was possibly even stronger than it had been when he had served it in the military. As a young commander in Afghanistan, his units held the records for the most favorable successes ever. His zeal and his ruthless attitude toward the enemy had never been bettered. He literally took no prisoners.

      On his return to Moscow after the war he was to take up a command position within the KGB, where he helped to create and staff the Unit. He ran it as if it had been one of his military squads. He brought in men who had served with him in Afghanistan, men who were loyal to the state, but covertly more loyal to General Berienko. Under his control the Unit thrived. It held its mandate proudly, carried out its missions with unerring success and anyone who stood in the glare of its spotlight knew they were facing a formidable enemy.

      Looking across the table at his commander, Krushen admitted to a degree of trepidation. As it should have been, he had always regarded Berienko with reverence and not a little fear. Krushen understood that was the way it had to be. He cleared his throat.

      “General. Unusual to see you out of the office.”

      Berienko barely nodded. Like Krushen he was wearing a thick overcoat, the collar turned up. On his head he wore a black, wide-brimmed fedora. The thought