Don Pendleton - Infiltration

“Yes, we did get that much. Volkov is actually Russian for wolf.”

Bolan chewed on that a moment before replying. “Okay, sounds like I’ll just have to go for broke on this one and hope fate deals me one more decent hand.”

“Don’t take any risks, Striker,” Price replied. “If it gets too hot you can always pull out and regroup, give us time to hit this from another angle.”

“I don’t think we have that much time, Barb, but I’ll keep it in mind.”

“Be careful.”

“Out here,” the Executioner said.

He sat in his rental and studied the harborside café and surroundings, watchful for anyone out of the ordinary. Chances were slim to none that Volkov would follow his instructions to come alone, and if he did have additional men, Bolan knew they’d be professional enough to make themselves conspicuous. The soldier figured if he played his cards right he’d walk away from the meet. He’d picked the place at random out of a phone book, after checking with a local shop owner for a decent public venue to conduct an impromptu business meeting. The shop owner had taken one look at Bolan with an expression that implied he wasn’t buying the whole business meeting story. Obviously, this area was used more to conduct meetings between unsavory characters than Bolan had first surmised. Still, the shop owner’s recommendation had seemed acceptable.

Bolan kept one eye on the storefront and checked his watch. Ten minutes until the meet was supposed to go down, and so far he hadn’t seen anything to alert him that trouble brewed in the near future. But again, he couldn’t rely on that alone. The Wolf hadn’t survived this long without being careful, and he would most certainly bring backup, even if he bought Bolan’s cover and story as a down-on-his-luck enforcer looking for work.

The entire thing was thin at best, but Bolan knew he didn’t have any other options. Without this charade he stood almost no chance of getting inside Godunov’s operations. Even this move wouldn’t necessarily put him in the center of things unless he could convince Godunov that some “outside force” threatened the operation. That would be the crux of his story to the Wolf, and maybe, just maybe, Bolan could pull it off.

He scanned the crowd in front of the café again, and this time he spotted the mark. The man was tall and muscular, his conditioning visible through the tan slacks and black T-shirt he wore. It wasn’t so much how he looked as how he moved that allowed the Executioner to pick him out of a crowd. Trained and experienced combatants carried themselves in very specific ways, and while those telltale signs weren’t obvious to the untrained observer, they spoke volumes to a professional like Bolan. This was definitely the Wolf.

The soldier got out of his sedan, locked it and proceeded straight toward him. He reached the café just as the mercenary stepped inside and began to scan the crowded tables.

Bolan came up behind him and quietly said, “Looking for me?”

The Wolf, aka Volkov, turned and glanced at him in surprise. They were about the same height, although the Russian might have had an inch or two on Bolan. His blond hair and cool blue eyes reminded Bolan of Carl “Ironman” Lyons, Able Team’s fearless leader, but that’s where the similarities ended. Where Lyons possessed a humoring demeanor just beneath the cynical surface he wore, there was nothing even remotely gregarious about Volkov. Bolan guessed there was only hard, cold granite in the muscular chest of this guy, and a psychopathic nature born from a love for killing—and it was obvious Volkov had done a lot of it.

“Not a good start, sneaking up on a potential employer,” Volkov said with a sneer.

“Funny, I didn’t think I was ‘sneaking’ up on you,” Bolan replied with an equal amount of acid in his voice. He had to be conciliatory, but he also needed to maintain the aura of a hardened Mob enforcer. It was important in his role that he show Volkov he wouldn’t just flip over and show his belly to anybody; such a move would cause him to lose any and all credibility in the Russian’s eyes, and more than likely lead to trouble.

Bolan glanced outside, and although he didn’t spot anybody, he said, “I see you didn’t come alone like I told you.”

“You seem to have forgotten your place here, Frankie,” Volkov replied. “You’re here asking me for something, not the other way around. I do whatever the fuck I want to do. You get me?”

Bolan made a show of looking uncertain, letting Volkov think he’d taken him off his guard, and then he smiled. “Yeah, sure… I get you, pal. No need to get your shorts in a bunch. I was just feeling you out, is all. I’m pretty careful when it comes to choosing the people I work for. I don’t want to end up getting my throat cut because the crew I’m with or its leader has 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.