Extraordinary Rendition. Don Pendleton

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.”

      Compliance normally pleased Sokolov. This night, it irritated him. “There’s something on your mind, Sergei,” he said. “Out with it.”

      “Sir, it isn’t only the police and FSB that I distrust. The Solntsevskaya Brotherhood are scum.”

      “But useful scum,” Sokolov said. “Most profitable scum, as you’ll no doubt agree.”

      “And then, there’s General Kozlov.”

      “Ah. A personal acquaintance, is he not?”

      “We never met, sir, but I had the misfortune of serving in his command, as you know.”

      “The Nord-Ost siege.”

      “Which he coordinated with the FSB, attempting to impress his own superiors and thus advance himself.”

      “It’s the way of the world, Sergei.”

      “Yes, sir. But when his plan failed—disastrously—a real man would have claimed responsibility, instead of sacrificing those who simply carried out his foolish orders.”

      “You believe the Colonel General may betray us?”

      “It’s a nasty habit of his,” Efros said.

      “Perhaps you should go down to Moscow, after all. To keep an eye on friends and enemies alike.”

      “Yes, sir.”

      “Providing that you leave me in good hands, of course.”

      “Of course, sir. Ivan has my every confidence. I will instruct him personally, prior to leaving.”

      Ivan Fet was second in command to Efros, concerning Sokolov’s home security. He had dealt with one of the FBI snipers himself when the kidnappers came.

      “In which case,” the Merchant of Death told Efros, “make me proud.”

      Moscow

      NO ONE AT Lubyanka Square was pleased when Maksim Chaliapin worked a night shift. His presence after normal quitting time for officers in charge meant tension, aggravation and a risk of collateral damage.

      The Lubyanka was erected in 1898, as headquarters for the All-Russia Insurance Company. Following the Bolshevik Revolution, it was claimed by the Communist Party as headquarters for the new secret police—the Chrezvychaynaya Komissiya, or Extraordinary Commission, shortened to Cheka. That agency had changed names many times over the next seven decades, eventually becoming the home of the FSB.

      A prison on the Lubyanka’s ground floor had witnessed the detention, torture and death of thousands. Some of its celebrated inmates included British spy Sidney Reilly, Swedish humanitarian Raoul Wallenberg, Czechoslovakian Count János Esterházy, Polish Jesuit Father Walter Ciszek, and Nobel Prize-winning author Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn.

      They were among the survivors.

      When Maksim Chaliapin found out who had spoiled his evening, he vowed that the persons or persons responsible would not be so lucky.

      The FSB no longer had a government license to torture and kill on a whim, but there were exceptions to every rule. Its primary raison d’être was maintenance of national security, and that was clearly at risk when foreigners appeared in Moscow and involved themselves in gunplay as if they had time-traveled from the American Wild West.

      Moscow suffered far too much mayhem already from home-grown thugs and mercenaries. Importation of more gunmen to make matters worse was unthinkable. Intolerable.

      And it could prove costly to Chaliapin.

      While his rank brought him a measure of respect—and fear—from fellow Muscovites, a civil servant’s salary in Russia allowed for few luxuries. Maksim Chaliapin, like nearly all of those around him in the present government, supplemented his normal income with gratuities from affluent citizens whom he had helped in one way or another. He resolved their problems, shifted obstacles out of their path, and they were naturally grateful.

      What was wrong with that?

      None of his private clients was more grateful—or more generous—than Gennady Sokolov. Of course, that gratitude and generosity depended on his satisfaction. Payment for services rendered, not for excuses delivered with failure.

      Loss of such a friend, and his money, would gravely affect Chaliapin’s lifestyle. Worse yet, if Sokolov was extradited and tried, the proceedings might reveal his ties to Chaliapin. Which, in turn, could force Chaliapin’s superiors to protect themselves by sacrificing him.

      This night, Chaliapin was doubly worried, fearing that the problem that vexed him might have originated under his own roof, at the Lubyanka. Like any other intelligence agency or large police department, the FSB was split into sections: Counterintelligence, Economic Security, Operational Information and International Relations, Control, Investigation, Science and Engineering, International Relations, and Chaliapin’s own Service for Protection of the Constitutional System and the Fight against Terrorism. Within such a system—even within a specific department—there were times when the left hand didn’t know what the right hand was doing.

      There could be rogues at work under his very nose, following orders Chaliapin hadn’t issued and of which he had no knowledge. Orders which, for all he knew, might include his destruction.

      But he would soon find out if that was true. And he would put a stop to it, oh, yes.

      No matter who fell by the wayside in the process.

      “EVERY TARGET on the list is dangerous,” Anzhela Pilkin said as they drove past Gorky Park, southwest of downtown.

      “Targets always are,” Bolan replied.

      “Before we start,” Pilkin said, “you need to understand that crime and politics are not distinct and separate in Russia.”

      “That’s been my experience around the world,” Bolan observed.

      “But it is not the same. In your country, a mafioso bribes the politicians secretly. To pass a law or to ignore one, grant some favor, close the eyes to this or that transaction. Yes?”

      “That’s right.”

      “And when those dealings are exposed, you have a scandal.”

      “True,” said Bolan. “But it seldom changes anything, in the long term.”