Don Pendleton - Road Of Bones

When Bolan spied the address he was seeking, he immediately checked for lookouts on the street and snipers on the rooftops. Finding none, he sketched the outline of a plan and drove once more around the block to verify his first impression of the target.

All that now remained was for the Executioner to act.

He would postpone consideration of the future until he had Anuchin safely in his hands.

CHAPTER THREE

Yakutsk

Bolan drove aimlessly, letting the woman calm down. She was hurting, of course. He’d seen the marks of torture on her flesh before she dressed, and while they all looked superficial, he knew he couldn’t judge her pain threshold or personal resilience on such short acquaintance.

“You’re safe now,” he told her.

“Safe?” She made a little hissing sound that could have been sarcastic laughter filtered through exhaustion. “What is safe?”

“We’re getting out of here,” he said.

“You think so?”

“That’s the plan.”

After a silent interval, she said, “I told them nothing. It was close, though. If the dry ice had arrived…”

Bolan recalled the first goon he had met, the plastic cooler leaking smoky vapor as he dropped.

“You showed them how strong you are,” Bolan said.

“Then why do I feel weak?”

“You’re losing the adrenaline rush.”

In fact, it didn’t matter if she’d cracked or not, as long as she survived and followed through on testifying when the time came. The opposition had to have a fair idea of what Anuchin and her partner had uncovered, and the use to which it would be put. The torture was to verify her knowledge, prior to silencing the final witness and securing—as they hoped—a free pass on impending charges.

“I am cold, as well.”

“That’s shock,” he said. “You need to rest. Stay warm. I wish we had a place where you could shower, maybe get some better clothes.”

“There is a place,” she told him, sounding groggy. “Keep on this way, then turn north on Ordzhonikidze Street.”

“You’ll stay awake and help me spot the sign?” he asked, not teasing her.

“I’ll try. If not, you’ll see a large Pervaya Pomosch pharmacy located on the northwest corner of the intersection. Let it be your guide.”

“And after that?”

“I’ll be awake, don’t worry. I have too much pain for sleep.”

He let that pass, knowing from personal experience that a commiserative stranger couldn’t help. Instead, he asked, “Is this a safehouse that we’re going to?”

“I hope so,” she replied, forcing the vestige of a smile.

“It isn’t FSB?” he asked.

“Private,” she informed him. “Rented with Sergey so we could meet, collect our evidence, discuss what we had learned without an ear in every corner.”

Bolan wondered if there had been more between the partners than idealism and a scheme for cleaning up the agency they served. Maybe the safehouse doubled as a love nest when they felt the need.

And if it had, so what?

If Anuchin and the late Dollezhal were hoping for a long-term cleanup of the FSB—much less the Russian Federation—Bolan pegged them as naive. Assuming they could bring down the top men, clean house beyond the normal game of hanging scapegoats out to dry, what then? Had either one of them imagined that they would be welcomed back as heroes to resume their duties for a grateful state?

Fat chance.

Still, they had tried. And Anuchin might succeed to some extent, if he could get her out of Russia in one piece and safely back to the United States.

Huge if.

He saw the pharmacy, turned north and drove another quarter mile before the woman had him turn again, and yet again, running parallel to Ordzhonikidze Street through a residential neighborhood. Six houses down, she had him pull in on the left.

“I have a key to the garage, unless they took it,” Anuchin told him, rummaging around inside her bag. “No, here it is.”

Bolan accepted it, unlocked the small attached garage and raised its door. No gunmen waited in the glare of headlights. He walked back to the GAZ and nosed it inside. Anuchin got out, found a light switch and stood by waiting until he had closed the door, then turned it on.

“In case someone is watching,” she explained unnecessarily.

“I think they would have jumped us,” Bolan said.

“You’ll think I’m paranoid,” she suggested.

“After tonight? Not even close,” he promised.

Nodding almost thankfully, she turned and led the way into the house.

Moscow

“WHAT DO YOU mean, ‘all dead’?” Eugene Marshak demanded.

“Just what I say, sir,” Stephan Levshin replied. “All dead. Our men, that is.”

Marshak might have slapped Levshin if they hadn’t been separated by three thousand miles and six time zones. As it was, he clenched his teeth and said, “Major, if you cannot express yourself more clearly, I will find another officer who can. Now, would you care to try again?”

“Yes, sir,” Levshin said stiffly. Wounded pride be damned. The man was growing arrogant. “Our escorts for the package have been killed, Colonel. Along with the examiner.”

“Better,” Marshak allowed, although the news was bad—nearly the worst it could have been. “And what about the package?”

“Gone, sir.”

So it was the very worst scenario.

“Can you explain this?” he asked.

“The mechanics of it only, sir,” his second in command replied. “At least one individual surprised them. The casings tell us he was armed with a Kalashnikov, one of the 5.45 millimeter models. Two of the escorts returned fire, with no apparent effect.”

“You think one man?” Marshak pressed him.

“Yes, sir. From the appearance of the scene.”

“I’ll have to tell our friend,” Marshak said.

“Yes, sir.”

No names, although the line was meant to be secure. Who really knew these days?

“I don’t suppose there’s any way to find out what they learned, if anything?”

“No, sir. Without the package…” Levshin left the obvious unspoken.

“No.” Marshak released a weary breath. “You must retrieve it, Major. At all costs. I will arrange for reinforcements as required.”

“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir. I don’t believe the package has left the area. There’s been little time, and it may have been damaged.”

“Ah.”

Some hope, at least, if the interrogator’s ministrations made it difficult for Tatyana Anuchin to travel. Still, she’d managed to escape, aided by whom? At least one killer and a wild card in the game, unknown to Marshak. If the man—or men—were good enough to sneak up on the capture team and take them down, could he—or they—smuggle the woman out of Yakutsk?

Out of Russia?

That was unacceptable. Unthinkable.

“You understand how bad it is for all of us, unless we put it right,” Marshak reminded Levshin.

“Absolutely, sir. Our friend’s men failed you. I will not.”

“See that you don’t,” Marshak replied, and cut the link.

Six dead in Yakutsk now, counting the traitor Dollezhal. Digging so many graves in permafrost was tiresome, but there had to be room enough for half a dozen bodies in the Lena, surely. Failing that, Stephan could drop them down a mine shaft.

Out of sight, and who would give a damn?

Grigory Rybakov, of course. Four of the dead were his men, out on loan to help the FSB and cover his own ass at the same time. To plug the leak before it drowned them all.

And how bad would it be if Sergeant Anuchin escaped?

Russia’s constitution banned extradition of citizens to stand trial abroad, but in rare cases trial on foreign charges might proceed in Russian courts, with “necessary foreign experts” participating in the prosecution. That wouldn’t save Rybakov’s men in the States or in Europe, of course, but Marshak cared little for them.