Extraordinary Rendition. Don Pendleton

they’re having sex,” Bezmel suggested.

      “I don’t find that amusing,” Sokolov replied.

      “You’re asking me to read this stranger’s mind and tell you where he’s gone with yet another stranger. I can’t do that. I’m investigating, but I will not feed you bullshit just to pacify you. Okay?”

      “Four of your men are dead.”

      “While helping you,” Bezmel reminded Sokolov. “And still I do not understand how this applies to me.”

      “Permit me to enlighten you,” Sokolov said. “If the Americans take me, they will be taking those associated with me—or, at least, delivering their evidence to prosecutors here. Director Bortnikov would love to mount your head in his Lubyanka trophy room. So would General Nurgaliyev, at the Ministry of Internal Affairs. Perhaps they’ll fight over the scraps.”

      “Is that supposed to frighten me, Gennady?”

      “I make no threats,” Sokolov replied.

      “That’s very wise. Because you know I’ve seen policemen come and go. Some are dismissed, others retired in luxury. A few…have accidents.”

      “Now you would threaten me?”

      “By no means. We are friends, Gennady. Better yet, we’re partners. I would hate to see that ruined by a moment’s panic over nothing.”

      “Nothing? With your men dead and this man running loose?”

      “I’ll find him. Don’t you worry. No one hides from me in Moscow. He’ll be gone before you know it.”

      “I already know it, Leonid.”

      “Then, by all means, endeavor to forget him. He’s the next best thing to dead.”

      “Make him the best thing, eh? And then we’ll celebrate.”

      “Concerning that,” Bezmel digressed, “is everything prepared?”

      “It will be, when you’ve solved our problem.”

      “IT SEEMS we are about to start a war,” Anzhela Pilkin said when they were on the road again.

      “A small one, if we’re lucky,” Bolan said. “But I’ll be ready, either way it goes.”

      “I thought this was supposed to be a simple thing. Extract one man. Deal with his guards if necessary and move on.”

      “Eight men already tried the ‘simple’ route,” Bolan replied. “They’re dead. I don’t intend to join them if it isn’t absolutely necessary.”

      “You 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