Infiltration. Don Pendleton

no jewels. Know what I’m saying?”

      Volkov nodded. “So what is it you want?”

      “Well, since you know my name, then I assume our, uh, mutual friend contacted you and told you I was looking for a new crew.”

      “I saw some tables out there,” Volkov said. “Let’s sit outside.”

      Bolan nodded and the two men made their way to a table on the fringes of the patio. The rest of the harborside dock was busy, as lunchtime had finally arrived. Longshoremen and suits from nearby businesses had started to flood the area, cramming like sardines into every coffee shop, deli and grill they could find along the harbor. The sun streamed down onto the dock and took much from the bite of the slight breezes off the water. It actually turned out to be a pretty nice day for mid-February in New York.

      When they were seated, Bolan got straight to business. “So I understand you may be looking for some additional hands.”

      Volkov nodded and waited for him to continue.

      “Hey,” Bolan said, “those guys that your boss sent after me in his office… I hope they weren’t your guys. Because I was just defending myself. Guy’s got a right to do that, huh?”

      “I don’t provide private security for Mr. Godunov,” Volkov said. “I operate, shall we say…independently. And yes, I’m in the market for new talents. But I’m not sure you’re going to work out.”

      “Why not?” Bolan splayed his hands in true Italian fashion and said, “What’s the beef you got with me? We barely know each other and you’re already backing down.”

      “I’m not backing down,” Volkov said, his gaze roving among the crowd. “I’m just saying that I don’t know if your type of skills and training would fit into the outfit I run. You’re used to doing things a certain way, and anybody I bring on board would have to adjust to doing things my way. Your résumé says you’re a little on the wild side, taken to doing things your own way, and I cannot afford that kind of risk. It’s a liability to me and to the people I work for.”

      “Hey, listen, pal, I get results.”

      “That may be,” Volkov replied, now meeting Bolan’s gaze directly for the first time. “But I don’t want results at the cost of compromising my position. I want loyalty. I want obedience. I expect you to do things my way and only my way. Do you think you can do that?”

      Bolan appeared to think about it for a while, and then said, “Yeah, I suppose I could give it a try.”

      Volkov stood. “Oh, you’ll have to give it more than a try, Frankie.” He slid a card across the table. “Be at that address tomorrow morning, 0600 sharp.”

      “Oh-six what?”

      “That’s six o’clock in the morning.”

      “Uh, kind of early.”

      Volkov raised a finger. “Remember our agreement. My way.”

      “Yeah, yeah… Your way.”

      So just like that, Bolan was in. Although there was one small problem: it had been a little too easy.

      And the Executioner knew he was about to find out why.

       CHAPTER SIX

      Eduardo Capistrano had made his fortunes on the philosophy there was a sucker born every minute.

      He didn’t see how this made him any different than the hundreds of other traders and foreign investors. After all, dealing with companies in other countries—particularly those in the E.U.—had always been more lucrative. There weren’t the regulations to deal with that he faced in the U.S., and he didn’t have the IRS crawling up his ass every tax season. No 1099 interest statements or foreign income investment slips; nobody from the Securities Exchange Commission sniffing around, crapping on his lawn and the like.

      No, all Capistrano had to do was sit back and watch the cash roll in.

      Sure, every once in a while he’d have to field a complaint from some yuppie calling from his mansion up in the Cape, take the occasional panicked call from a rich bitch sunbathing her sculpted body courtesy of modern medical science. But a kickback here or a few grand in interest dividends usually kept them at bay.

      After all, they didn’t need to know Capistrano was pulling down over a mil-and-a-quarter a month. He’d given up his personal integrity and kept his mouth shut, and it had definitely paid off.

      And it wasn’t just the cash. There were the other perks to think of, like the young, dark-haired Hispanic woman squirming her head deeper into his lap as she stretched her sensuous, athletic body on the sofa. His sixty-inch plasma televisions with the wireless internet and the high definition picture-in-picture. The vacations to exotic locales like Cancun, Rio de Janeiro and Greece, or the “business trips” twice a year to Paris. Ah yes, and how he could he forget Italy? Eduardo Capistrano had never thought such a lifestyle could be his, but it was there for the taking if one was willing to take a few risks.

      Despite the fact the activities weren’t exactly on the legit side, Capistrano had never worried about repercussions. The people with whom he did business—rumors flew around circles that it was the Russian mob, but nobody really had any proof—weren’t willing to show their faces in public. They couldn’t afford that kind of scrutiny, so it didn’t much matter what he said or did. He could go where he wanted and when he wanted, and the people who took his money had nothing to say about it.

      Capistrano enjoyed the very best life had to offer. He worked from home, kept his nose clean and attended all the latest social events. He had two kids in a posh Catholic school. He went to the best parties, wore the best clothes and rubbed elbows with others as rich as him—although they were typically a bit more famous. And he never allowed himself to be in the limelight.

      There were two men he paid who were responsible for making sure he stayed that way. They accompanied him just about everywhere he went, made sure his path was clear and that nobody was putting his nose in Capistrano’s business. His men were more than just bodyguards; they ran his errands, maintained round-the-clock security on his home and prevented anyone from getting too close when he was in public.

      Capistrano never allowed anyone to photograph him and he didn’t do interviews. Hell, even the half-dozen companies he owned were managed by boot-lickers who got their jollies from driving their BMWs to work and throwing wild poolside parties with others of their species. As long as they did what they were told and signed the papers they were ordered to sign, Capistrano didn’t give a shit what they did.

      But all of that lent to his surprise when a tall, distinguished looking type showed up at his front door asking to speak to him. Capistrano’s security chief told the man to go away, but that didn’t seem to make any difference. He wasn’t an overly big man, tall but lean, and not very dangerous looking, so Capistrano thought about telling his man to throw the guy out on his ear. Still, discretion was the better part of valor, and so he let Nick show the guy into the parlor, Capistrano still lived in a part of the world where houses had parlors, near the Hudson River.

      “What can I do for you, Mr….”

      “My name’s Godunov, Yuri Godunov,” the man said.

      Capistrano could feel his blood run cold at his extremities, and he had the sensation of a marble being lodged in his throat. He had only a moment to decide how to react, and he decided not to react at all. But the very name alone told Capistrano just about everything he needed to know. He hadn’t really believed the rumors about the Russian Mob, but this guy, his accent and his name and just every damn thing about him, screamed of Russian until it practically dripped from his pores.

      “And what can I do for you, Mr. Godunov?”

      “You know what you can do for me,” Godunov replied, his smile chilling Capistrano more.

      “I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

      “I