Extraordinary Rendition. Don Pendleton

in a pinch, she could draw her Yarygin PYa pistol and make them die.

      Lieutenant Pilkin hoped it wouldn’t come to that. Her mission was covert, and her superiors would frown on gunplay at the airport. It was something they expected from Chicago, New York City—anywhere but Moscow, in the midst of a top-secret operation. Public killing that involved police would spoil the play.

      And it would do no good for her career.

      She watched the procession pass by, concealed behind a tourist information kiosk, shifting her position to prevent herself from being seen. It was impossible to say if the American now traveling as Matthew Cooper had discovered he was being followed. And while Pilkin hoped so—hoped that he wasn’t oblivious to such an obvious approach—she also dreaded what might happen if he tried to ditch the trackers on his own.

      Pilkin visualized a free-for-all, fists flying, maybe weapons drawn, and what would happen next? When the militia came, what could she do?

      Follow her contact to his holding cell, perhaps, and try to talk him out of custody? She might be able to pull rank on the militia, but to what end? Exposure of the man would automatically abort their mission, and she knew that her superiors likely wouldn’t permit a second effort.

      So, whatever she attempted, it would have to be unauthorized and hidden from the brass at FSB headquarters.

      She was on her own.

      Pilkin watched the tall American bypass the sign directing him to the baggage claim and head off toward the bank of kiosks that dispensed hired cars. She knew he was expecting her to pick him up, which meant that his diversion was precisely that: a stall, either to locate her, throw off his enemies, or both.

      Before the man she knew as Cooper cleared another thirty yards, Pilkin counted five men trailing him. They might have passed unnoticed in the flow of passengers, airport employees and assorted idlers, if she hadn’t been well trained and they had been more skillful.

      Enemies came in all shapes, sizes and colors. Some were natural chameleons, while others stood out for their bearing, brutish looks, or quirks that give away their secrets. These five shared a common arrogance most often seen in the associates of the Russian Mafiya—and all of them were talking to themselves in turn, revealing to an educated watcher that they kept in touch by means of tiny two-way radios.

      And they were armed. The bulges visible beneath some of their jackets told Pilkin that, and she assumed the ones whose weapons weren’t evident had simply dressed themselves more carefully. They passed a few militia officers along the way, but were ignored.

      So much for tight airport security.

      Anzhela Pilkin had a choice to make.

      She could keep following her contact and his shadows, wait until they made a move and try to intervene, or she could leave the terminal and fetch her car. Be ready when he needed her.

      The second course of action took some faith.

      She had to trust that the mobsters were smart enough to bide their time and seek a place with fewer witnesses before they made a move. And she had to trust her contact to remain alive for several minutes on his own, away from Pilkin’s observant eyes.

      She made her choice, broke off pursuit and started walking swiftly—nearly running—to the closest exit from the airport terminal.

      WITH NO SIGN of his contact, Bolan had a choice to make. His basic options were to wait inside the airport terminal or leave it, but both choices had their built-in risks.

      Waiting meant somehow dealing with the watchers who were trailing him. He’d counted three, but couldn’t tip his hand by dawdling along and sneaking peeks for any others who had joined them. Three was bad enough, with Bolan presently unarmed. A confrontation in the terminal would draw police, and that would be the end of his mission, whether he survived or not.

      Leaving the terminal posed different risks. He could obtain a rental car with no great difficulty, but his shadows would most likely make their move when he went to collect it in some nearby parking lot or garage. Bolan assumed that some of them, at least, were armed. Whether their orders were to kill him on the spot or bring him out alive, when he resisted, one or more of them might snap.

      And if he managed to survive that showdown, even take their weapons for himself, then what? He’d be adrift in Moscow, with its thirteen million people and no way of reaching his contact.

      Who might or might not even be alive.

      Bolan couldn’t approach the U.S. Embassy, since he was traveling as a Canadian. It wouldn’t help to reach the CIA’s station chief, since the Company had been frozen out of his mission. He had contacts, but only for potential “cleanup” jobs. Forget the Canadian consulate, too. Even if they agreed to send him “home,” his mission would have failed.

      On the flip side, he couldn’t drop by FSB headquarters in Lubyanka Square and spill his story to a desk sergeant, either. The Russian side was worried about leaks of their own, keeping a tight lid on the operation. It was strictly need-to-know, or so he’d been informed, although the men now stalking him were living evidence that someone had to have spilled the beans.

      The good news was that if he managed to clear the airport alive, he knew enough about his target to reach the man’s last known address. Bolan supposed that he could arm himself in Moscow, with an estimated 170,000 illegal guns in circulation, but what of it?

      His mission didn’t call for an assassination. He’d been sent to find, extract and deliver one man to a team that would put him on ice and presumably ship him off somewhere for trial.

      That end of it was not Bolan’s concern. But he’d been told, with heavy emphasis, that Washington required this guy alive. His showcase trial, apparently, was more important than the man himself or any of his crimes.

      A message to the predators: no matter where you hide, you are within our reach.

      As if they’d care and somehow magically reform.

      Unless Bolan could bag his man and summon the extraction unit, none of that was happening.

      He made his choice, passed by the car-rental kiosks and kept going, toward the nearest exit from the terminal. He would choose his ground, confront his enemies and see what happened next.

      Outside, the sun was going down. The late afternoon was warm and humid, making Bolan’s shirt stick to his skin. Across six lanes of airport traffic, opposite his exit door, stood a tall parking garage. Hired cars were picked up and returned on the ground floor. The rest, Bolan supposed, was rented by the space to travelers or those on hand to meet them.

      It would be as good a battleground as any.

      He had one foot off the curb when a little gray sportster squealed to a stop in front of him, its right-front fender nearly grazing his shoe.

      Behind the wheel, the face he had been watching for since his arrival snapped at him, “Get in, will you, while you still can!”

      CHAPTER TWO

      Washington, D.C., two days earlier

      The International Spy Museum was located at 800 F Street Northwest, one block east of Ford’s Theater and one block north of FBI Headquarters, directly opposite the Smithsonian American Art Museum and the National Portrait Gallery. It occupied five buildings, renovated at a cost of forty million dollars, and had earned its keep with interest since it opened in July 2002.

      The museum had no parking lot of its own, so Bolan left his rental in a commercial garage two blocks over and walked back, still early, enjoying the sunshine. Spring was being kind to Washington, so far.

      He doubted that it would be kind to him.

      Only a few museums in Washington charged entrance fees. The Spy Museum was one of them, collecting twenty dollars from adults and shaving off a buck for active-duty members of the military. Entry through a “controlled” checkpoint included receipt of cover profiles for