Extraordinary Rendition. Don Pendleton

pavilion offered simulations that included detection and disarming of a nuclear device.

      Bolan went through the motions and moved on, idling past some of the museum’s six hundred exhibits depicting the evolution of espionage from ancient Greece and Rome to the twenty-first century. At any other time, it would have piqued his interest, but he had a real-life mission of his own.

      Or would have, very shortly.

      Keeping an eye on the time, Bolan drifted toward the museum’s Spy City Café, a snack shop for guests whose budgets wouldn’t cover dining at the adjacent, upscale Zola Restaurant. He wasn’t hungry, but he planned on meeting someone there.

      And his contact, as always, was punctual.

      “The fish is red,” Hal Brognola said as he sidled up to Bolan.

      “Guess I’ll have the chicken, then,” Bolan replied.

      Brognola frowned and said, “That’s not the counter-sign.”

      “Sorry. I must’ve missed the memo.”

      “Jeez. You kids today.”

      “If I’m a kid, that makes you—what? A yuppie?”

      “God forbid. Let’s take a walk.”

      They walked.

      “I thought this place would suit us,” the big Fed remarked. “With everybody hyped on spies and role-playing, we ought to fit right in.”

      “But are we being shadowed?” Bolan asked, half-teasing.

      “Hell, who isn’t in this crazy town?”

      Bolan resisted the impulse to look around for lurking watchers. Paranoia in a spy museum was no way to begin a mission.

      “So, what’s up?” he asked.

      Brognola led him to a room labeled The Secret History of History. A black-garbed ninja figure stood beside the door, arms poised as if to strike, defending upright panels filled with Japanese calligraphy. Beyond the threshold lay exhibits dedicated to some well-known spies, and others who had flown beneath the radar in their day.

      Pausing before an exhibit devoted to Harriet Tubman and the Underground Railroad, Brognola asked, “Are you familiar with Gennady Sokolov?”

      “By reputation,” Bolan said. “Papers call him the Merchant of Death.”

      “And it fits,” said Brognola. “He’s ex-KGB, if there is such a thing. Retired as a major when the Soviet Union collapsed and went into private practice, selling anything and everything one group can use to kill another. Absolutely apolitical these days. He’s peddled arms, aircraft and military vehicles to everyone from Congo warlords to al Qaeda and the Taliban.”

      “An equal-opportunity destroyer.”

      “Anyone who pays can play,” Brognola said. “He’s supplied both government forces and rebels in fifteen African states that we’re sure of, plus others in Afghanistan and Pakistan, Colombia, the Philippines. He gets around.”

      “And no one’s thought to rein him in?”

      “Oh, sure. He’s got indictments coming out the old wazoo from Justice, Interpol, the Brits and Belgium, where he used to have a clearing house. You know the story, though. Filing a charge is one thing. Making an arrest and bringing him to trial is a whole other ball game.”

      “I detect a note of bitterness.”

      “Damn straight, you do. At one time, Sokolov had carte blanche from the Company and State to arm our so-called friends abroad. His cargo planes flew out of Florida, for Christ’s sake. Diplomatic cover, when he needed it. Of course, times change. Some of the mopes we armed ten years ago are enemies today. We’re taking hits from our own hardware, and it’s setting off alarms.”

      “I’m not surprised,” said Bolan.

      “Did you know that Sokolov did business with the UN for a while? And NATO? This is after his indictment, mind you. Even on the run, he’s still got friends he can tap for contracts in Iraq, Afghanistan and Sudan. Can you imagine that? Son of a bitch sells weapons to our private contractors, for hunting insurgents he’s armed to kill them. Talk about the candle burning at both ends.”

      “Is he that hard to find?” Bolan asked.

      “Just the opposite. Not hard at all. He lives in Russia, safe and sound. Their constitution bans extradition of any Russian citizen charged with acts that are legal in Russia itself.”

      “Which includes selling arms under legal contracts.”

      “Absolutely. They’ve done it for decades. So have we, the Brits, the French, Chinese—you name it. Hell, we’ve sponsored some of Sokolov’s transactions. In the Russian view, we’re just pissed off today because some of yesterday’s allies have jumped ship.”

      “It doesn’t end there,” Bolan said.

      “You got that right. Call it principle, machismo, whatever you like. The folks I report to aren’t letting it go. They’ve already tried once to extract Sokolov.”

      “And missed him?” Bolan guessed.

      “I wish that’s all it was. They lost eight guys from HRT. It damn near took an act of Congress just to get their bodies back.”

      “So, he’s got tight security.”

      “The best,” the big Fed said. “If that’s all it was.”

      “You think someone on this side burned them?”

      “I’m not pointing any fingers,” Brognola replied. “But any time the Bureau goes off campus, there’s a protocol for giving heads-up to the nearest chief of station for the Company. It helps with technical assistance and avoids stepping on any tender toes.”

      “The whole new era of cooperation.”

      “Don’t you love it? All the stupid backstabbing that came down from the Hoover-Langley feud supposedly got swept away with 9/11. The Company got back into domestic surveillance—assuming they ever got out—and Congress told everyone to play nice. Share the intel both ways, no more hoarding or disinformation between so-called allies.”

      “Let me guess,” Bolan replied. “It isn’t working.”

      “That depends on what you mean by working. After all the fretting and reshuffling, look at the twenty-two agencies lumped together in Homeland Security. You’ve got the Secret Service, Customs, Immigration, the Coast Guard, FEMA, the Border Patrol—even the Plant and Animal Inspection Service, for God’s sake. But who’s left out?”

      “The Bureau and the Company?”

      “Bingo! A minor oversight, okay? Leaving our two primary intelligence agencies on the outside, looking in. And if you think the falling towers made them start to love each other, guess again.”

      “Business as usual,” Bolan observed.

      “Or worse. Who doesn’t want a ton of money to fight terrorism? Spend it any way you like. Just get the job done.”

      “Well…”

      They’d drifted into an exhibit labeled “Spies Among Us,” laying out the history of espionage preceding World War II—or, at least, one version of it. Bolan saw no mention of the meeting at FBI Headquarters in November 1941, where J. Edgar Hoover had rejected warnings of an impending attack on Pearl Harbor and threw the informant out of his office.

      “The problem arises,” Brognola said, “from conflict of interest. Let’s imagine Langley has an asset helping arm its clients in the field, while Bureau agents try to lock him up for arming terrorists. One side indicts, the other intervenes. It could get nasty.”

      “Sokolov’s still dealing with the Company?”

      “A rumor,” Brognola replied. “These things