Don Pendleton - Infiltration

A rap at his office door broke his concentration, and he barked, “Yes?”

The door opened enough to reveal the heavily made up face of his secretary. She was a short, blond, petite woman—midtwenties, Volkov recalled—who hailed from the same area of the Ukraine as he. On occasion she performed more than just secretarial duties for him, although she expected to be compensated for such things. Nothing in life was free.

“Mr. Volkov? It is Mr. Godunov for you. He’s on your personal line.”

“Put it through, Mira,” Volkov said, leaning forward to put his hand on the extension, and muttering curses as to what the man could possibly want now.

When Volkov answered, Godunov said, “I have our asset here with me.”

“What?” Volkov could feel his stomach knot. “You mean—”

“Yes, I mean that asset.”

“But how?”

“It seems we have a new benefactor,” Godunov said. “I’m almost sure that this man is working for one of our competitors, but there is a remote possibility he’s legit. He was looking for work, and so naturally, I sent him to you.”

Volkov wanted to laugh out loud. The one enjoyment he got from dealing with Godunov was the man’s penchant for being extremely careful in his telephone conversations. Volkov had assured him time and again that this particular connection was scrambled, and only the very best electronic communications thieves in the world could perhaps decrypt the complex algorithms utilized to mask their conversations, but Godunov insisted on keeping the talk all business.

“What are you looking for me to do with him?” Volkov asked.

“That would be entirely up to you. Although I believe you will probably need to subsidize your staff, given your recent turnover, yes?”

So the bastard wasn’t planning to let it go. Stick the knife in and turn it a few times just to make sure he kept Volkov in what was “his place.” Well, the Wolf knew how to play that game as well, and he wasn’t planning to fall into Godunov’s trap so easily. This situation would require deft handling, at best.

“Yes, I believe I could find a place for him here. Do you have the details?”

“He goes by the name Lambretta. I’m having him checked out as we speak.”

“He has other connections?”

“He indicated as much,” Godunov said. “Although I don’t believe he’s friendly with those particular contacts anymore. He was away on an extended business trip for some time and is now back in the area looking to establish a new territory with new clients. Based on what I’ve seen of his résumé, he might prove useful to you. Assuming his references check out, of course.”

Of course, Volkov thought, but he said, “I will await his call then.”

“Yes, do.”

“I assume that your other assets are intact?”

“It would seem so. I’m still inspecting them.”

“You’ll let me know, then, if something is damaged or missing.”

“Of course,” Godunov replied, but not without some acid in his voice.

“I shall wait to hear from you.”

Volkov hung up and rubbed once more at his temples. So, another riddle had presented itself for him to decipher. Volkov had to wonder if this mysterious stranger that showed up with Lutrova was the same one who’d killed his men. It didn’t seem improbable, but Volkov couldn’t risk killing the man out of hand, either. If he checked out and Godunov thought he could be of some use, Volkov wouldn’t turn it down; at this point, he’d already taken significant losses among his ranks.

The Wolf always kept his operations relatively small. At no time did he employ more than twelve individuals, and that number had just been cut by one-third. He had other resources upon which he could call at a moment’s notice, but as he only employed freelancers, none of them were bound to take any assignment he offered. It seemed almost too convenient that this new opportunity would have dropped so easily into their laps, but Volkov was willing to take a chance if Godunov vouched for it.

This way, he couldn’t be held responsible if something went wrong. It would all fall onto Godunov’s shoulders, and Volkov could walk away clean.

The regular extension, the one used for public business, buzzed, and Volkov picked it up immediately.

“I’m looking for the Wolf,” the caller said.

“You’ve got him.”

“I was referred by a mutual business acquaintance.”

Good! This one was careful, didn’t assume it was wise to use any names; at least that spoke to his experience. If he’d been sloppy right off, Volkov would have dismissed him as an amateur and hung up immediately.

“Yes, I was just told to expect your call.”

“I assume we need to meet.” It wasn’t a question.

“That would be best,” Volkov said. “I have a particular place in mind.”

“I’d prefer we do this on some neutral ground,” the man replied. “You’ll understand that I can’t be too careful. I’m a stranger to the area, and it wouldn’t be proper or respectful to impose some sort of intimacies until we get to know each other better.”

“You sound very savvy,” Volkov said. “I’ve been informed your résumé is impressive. I’ve also noted that you have quite a bit of experience, although it seems you’ve been seeking work for some time. I take it the prospects have not been good?”

“They’ve been scarce with this economy,” the man replied. “So are you willing to interview on my terms?”

“I think that can be arranged,” Volkov said.

The man immediately gave him an address for a quiet, out-of-the-way spot down on the waterfront. It was a café of some sort; though Volkov had never been there, he did know of it. The environment catered to a yuppie clientele, business class types, so meeting in that place wouldn’t seem out of the ordinary. They agreed to rendezvous in one hour.

“Come alone,” the man said, and hung up before Volkov could reply.

Oh, I most definitely will not come alone, Volkov thought.

BOLAN DIDN’T TRUST the Wolf, but his mission required he make the connection. This guy was obviously the muscle for Godunov, who was the apparent brains of the operation. Not that Bolan would make the mistake of thinking the Wolf was stupid; a soldier didn’t live long if he had a habit of underestimating his enemy. The name of the game was cunning and a healthy respect for the abilities of somebody with the Wolf’s background.

Ten minutes before the meet, Bolan reconnected with Stony Man. The information Price could offer him was scant, at best.

“I’m afraid we can’t tell you a lot about this guy,” she said. “He covers his tracks pretty well.”

“Surely he’s left some sort of trail.”

“Most of this came from an old friend I have in the NSA’s Signals Intelligence unit, and there’s not much to go on,” Price told him.

“I’ll take whatever I can get.”

“We think his real surname is Volkov, first name unknown. Possibly raised in the Ukraine, but that’s also unconfirmed. There are about three dozen men with that last name, all of whom hail from northern Russia, and about half that many the right age and type suitable for the Wolf’s kind of work. We’re pretty certain he’s operated in about a half-dozen countries and under a variety of aliases.”

Bolan sighed. “Sounds like a lot of ifs and maybes, Barb.”

“I know, Striker, and I wish I could give you more, but that’s what we’ve got. I’m not keen on the idea of you going into this situation on such weak information.”

“I’ve done a lot worse recently,” Bolan said.

Price laughed, because she heard the grin in his voice. “Yes, that you have.”

“What about this moniker, the Wolf. That jingle any bells with your sources?”