Don Pendleton: Uncut Terror

As he continued toward the structure he caught a glimpse of a face watching him through the window of the plane.

Grodovich.

It was a mistake to show weakness in front of this unctuous gangster, and Stieglitz hoped his truncated steps would not betray his anxiety.

Perhaps he will assume I am a nervous flier, he thought.

2

Somewhere over Germany 33,000 Feet

BOLAN HAD MANAGED to sleep in fits and starts over the course of the flight from New York. A few times he feigned sleep to escape Grimaldi’s comments about how he could have flown the plane more efficiently. Finally, once his partner had drifted into a deep slumber, accompanied by some heavy snoring, Bolan straightened his seat and turned on the dome light. The flight attendant, a cheerful brunette, came by and asked if she could get him anything. Her English was tinctured with a heavy German accent. Bolan ordered a coffee.

He and Grimaldi were scheduled to arrive in Moscow at 0345, Tuesday morning. They’d left New York on Monday, so they’d lost a day to transit. Once they landed the plan was to get through customs as quickly as possible. Bolan fully expected their equipment would be scrutinized by the officials.

Lawrence Burns, a former employee of the NSA, had defected to Russia from his post in Manheim, Germany, citing a “crisis of conscience” with US policies toward the rest of the world. Burns had worked in the intelligence division and had been privy to a lot of top-secret messages and computer files. The extent of his betrayal was still being assessed, even after almost a year and a half. This probably explained why the Agency had requested “outside” help bringing the traitor back. Many agents, sources and assets had not doubt been compromised by the defection. Thus, the president’s overture to Hal Brognola for some special assistance now that Burns wished to return to the country he’d once betrayed.

Bolan had little use for traitors, but he understood the government’s eagerness to get Burns back in the United States. Without knowing exactly how much he’d told the Russians in exchange for his asylum, the real damage could only be speculated. A full accounting was indeed in order. And the instructions to get both Burns and his lover, Kropotkan, safely out of Russia meant that the G planned on using the latter’s immigration status as an interrogation tool.

Cold, but effective.

The flight attendant brought him a cup full of steaming liquid. He smiled as he accepted it and thanked her.

“How much longer before we land, miss?” he asked, lowering his tray table.

“It should be only another two hours, sir,” she said.

“Two hours,” Grimaldi said, rousing from his slumber. “Heck, if I was flying this crate we’d be touching down by now.”

The flight attendant looked startled by his snarl.

“Yeah,” Bolan said, sampling the coffee. “But we’d probably be landing in Kiev instead.”

Grimaldi snorted and readjusted his pillow. “The jokers flying this thing shoulda stuck to piper cups. They must’ve hit every bit of air turbulence over the damn Atlantic.”

“Can I get you anything, sir?” the flight attendant asked. “Something to settle your stomach, perhaps?”

“Hey, babe,” Grimaldi said, giving her the eye. “I left my stomach back over Hamburg, but I wouldn’t mind taking you out for a drink when we land.”

The flight attendant’s cheeks reddened as she flashed a nervous smile and walked away.

“Aww, whatever,” Grimaldi said, fluffing his pillow again. He resumed his recumbent position.

Good old Jack, Bolan thought as he drank more of the bitter coffee. Able to fly anything with wings or rotors and completely adept at being internationally disconcerting.

Moscow, Russia

THE MAN LOOKED lean but extremely powerful as he stood in the center of the large apartment. The building had once housed a factory but was converted to residential dwellings after the fall of the Soviet Union, when people began moving back into this section of the city. This particular dwelling could easily house two or three families. It was certainly much larger and more sumptuous than his own home. But then again, Stieglitz had no need of the extensive gymnasium equipment this one held.

He stood patiently as Boris Rovalev, also known in certain secret government corners as the Black Wolf, continued his assault of punches and kicks against a large, suspended canvas bag. The bag was the type boxers used but much longer. Its tail end hung only a few inches above the floor. Rovalev was shirtless and his body glistened with sweat. The hair on his back and shoulders made his nickname seem more appropriate, as did his lupine facial features—long nose, brownish-yellow eyes, swept-back dark hair and a thick but well-trimmed beard.

The bag continued to dance and jerk with each series of blows.

Stieglitz was in awe of the man’s speed and power and silently wondered how he would fare if pitted against Mikhal. But whereas the giant’s body was literally covered with tattoos the Black Wolf’s skin was devoid of any such illustrations, a result of his having been selected for intelligence work by the FSB fifteen years ago. Rovalev had barely been out of high school when he was one of the finalists for the Russian Olympic boxing team. A sharp-eyed government agent realized the young man’s talents could be put to better use after Rovalev methodically beat an older, more experienced opponent to the canvas after the man had floored him with a supposedly unintentional foul.

The Black Wolf delivered a series of punches to the heavy bag, stepped back and executed a spinning kick. As his foot smacked against the canvas the bag jerked from the power behind the blow.

Rovalev might just be able to beat the giant, Stieglitz thought, although it had undoubtedly been Mikhal who had decimated the three Chechens at Krasnoyarsk.

Stieglitz looked at his watch. Rovalev had insisted on completing his workout before discussing his assignment. Had his lack of deference been a deliberate sign of disrespect? Stieglitz wondered as he watched the Black Wolf deliver several more blows to the bag before stopping to strip off his gloves.

Finally, thought Stieglitz, but Rovalev was not yet ready to begin. Instead he ran past Stieglitz toward a pair of thick ropes that were suspended from the high ceiling next to a winding staircase. The Black Wolf grabbed the rope and went hand-over-hand up to the top, his legs held at a ninety-degree angle from his body. When he got to the top he paused and then did a quick descent. Again, Stieglitz glanced at his watch, more obviously this time. Didn’t this low-level government FSB agent know to whom Stieglitz reported?

He cleared his throat as Rovalev dropped to the floor, his feet bare and covered with thick calluses. They looked like they could split a brick wall with ease.

“We have much to discuss,” Stieglitz said. “And I am a bit pressed for time.”

Rovalev stared back at him, silent and motionless.

Stieglitz suddenly felt an unsettling twinge in his gut and wished he’d brought his security detail with him, but that was impossible. His orders were clear: the secrecy of the plan was imperative. It was indeed like looking into the eyes of a feral wolf.

Finally, Rovalev broke their locked gaze as he turned and reached for a nearby towel. He wiped his face and upper torso.

“So what are your instructions?” Rovalev asked.

Stieglitz let out a slow breath and frowned.

The other man tossed the moist towel to the floor and it landed on top of Stieglitz’s shoes.

“Do you know who I am?” he asked. “To whom I report? I could have you severely punished for your disrespect.”