Don Pendleton - Extraordinary Rendition

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On the streets of a democratic Russia, espionage, civil war and Mafiya control dominate a new kind of battlefield. Bolan's mission: locate, extract and deliver a ruthless Russian arms dealer to a transport team ready to take him back to the United States to stand trial.But the Russian made friends in high places–CIA, FBI, KGB–during his career as both a player and a pawn. With compromising leaks high up in counterintelligence circles, and a hard force of specialized handlers keeping him alive and doing deals with rogue nations, the arms merchant is a hard man to get to, much less take alive. Bolan doesn't get hung up on odds, risk or the roll of the dice. He's focused on a mission gone sour in hostile territory–and his personal commitment to finishing by any means necessary.

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But it wasn’t the USSR anymore. Now, it was the Russian Federation, totally divorced from all the cold-war crimes of communism, prosperous and overflowing with democracy for all.

Sure thing.

And if you bought that, there were time-share contracts on the Brooklyn Bridge that ought to make your eyes light up, big-time.

This wasn’t Bolan’s first visit to Russia, but familiarity didn’t relieve the tightening he felt inside, as if someone had found the winding stem to his internal clock and given it a sudden twist. Nerves wouldn’t show on Bolan’s face or in his mannerisms, but they registered their agitation in his gut and in his head.

Russia had always been the big, bad Bear when he was growing up, serving his country as a Green Beret, and moving on from there to wage a one-man war against the Mafia. Moscow, the Kremlin and the KGB—under its varied names—had lurked behind a number of the plots Bolan had privately unraveled, and had spawned a fair percentage of the threats he’d faced after his government created Stony Man Farm and its off-the-books response to terrorism.

Then, as if by magic, virtually overnight, that “evil empire” had been neutralized. Governments fell, the Berlin Wall came down and the Soviet Union shattered like crockery dropped on concrete.

Threat neutralized?

Hardly.

In some ways, from the global export of its vicious Mafiya to home-grown civil wars, continued spying and subversion, and free-floating swarms of ex-government agents peddling the tools of Armageddon, Mother Russia was more dangerous than ever.

And Bolan was going in to face the Bear unarmed.

Well, not the whole Bear, if his mission briefing had been accurate. More like a litter of rabid cubs, protecting a rogue wolverine.

Bolan broke that train. His enemies this time—like every other time—were men, not animals.

No other animal on Earth would kill thousands for profit. Or for pleasure.

The pilot’s disembodied voice informed him that their flight was cleared for landing. Finally.

Domodedovo was one of three airports serving Moscow, the others being Sheremetyevo International and Vnukovo International. Among them, the three handled forty-odd-million passengers per year. It should be relatively easy, in that crush, for one pseudo-Canadian to pass unnoticed on his way.

Should be.

Bolan had flown from Montreal to London with a Canadian passport in the name of Matthew Cooper. He was carrying sufficient ID to support that cover, including an Ontario driver’s license, Social Insurance card and functional platinum plastic. He also came prepared with Canadian currency.

So far, so good.

But Bolan wasn’t on the ground yet, hadn’t met his contact from the Federal Protective Service—FSB—Russia’s equivalent of the FBI.

So, what had changed?

Russian relations with America, perhaps. Depending on the day and hour when you turned on CNN to find out which world leaders were at odds with whom, and why. This week, it seemed, the Russians needed help and weren’t afraid to say so.

More or less.

But as for what Bolan would find waiting in Moscow, he would simply have to wait and see.

And not much longer now.

With an ungainly thump and snarl, the Airbus A330-200 touched down.

The Executioner was on the ground in Moscow, one more time.

YURI BAZHOV DISLIKED airports. He didn’t care for travel, generally, and he hated flying, but the main reason for his dislike of airports was their fetish for security. They teemed with uniforms and guns that he could see, while other police were undoubtedly lurking in plainclothes or hiding in back rooms and watching the concourse with closed-circuit cameras.

Bazhov stopped short of spitting on the floor, which would have drawn attention to himself. The last thing he needed, standing with a GSh-18 automatic pistol tucked under his belt at the small of his back, was for some cop or militiaman to stop and frisk him on vague suspicion.

The job had to be important, he supposed, although it didn’t sound like much. Taras Morozov didn’t send a six-man team out to the airport every day, with orders to collect a stranger flying in from Canada.

Not greet him, mind you. Just collect him.

Bazhov had to smile at that, though cautiously. Smiling for no good reason could draw notice, just the same as spitting on the floor. Most anything out of the ordinary could spell trouble, if you thought about it long enough.

Collect the stranger, he’d been told. Taras had given him a name and flight number, then placed him in charge of the collection team. Which was an honor in itself.

Collect could mean a hundred different things, but Taras had added one crucial proviso. Bazhov had to deliver the stranger alive. Not necessarily undamaged, but breathing and able to speak.

More specifically, to answer questions.

Bazhov wondered if he would be privileged to witness that interrogation. Certainly, he wouldn’t be in charge of it. The family had specialists for such occasions, legendary in their way. Kokorinov was probably the best—or worst—a cold man with no concept of remorse or mercy. Bashkirtseva favored power tools, but could be flexible. Nikulin was a savage, plain and simple.

Any one of them could teach Bazhov a thing or two, perhaps speed his advancement up through the ranks. Though, come to think of it, his choice to head up the collection team was quite a vote of confidence.

He needed to be certain that he didn’t fuck it up.

Bazhov squinted at the monitor, watching its list of flight arrivals and departures scroll across the screen. He suspected that he would need glasses soon, a damned embarrassment and scandal at his tender age of thirty-five, but he would put off the indignity as long as possible. The first person who made fun of him was dead.

According to the monitor, the flight from Montreal had landed more or less on time, a minor miracle for Domodedovo International. Bazhov couldn’t approach the gate where passengers deplaned—another security precaution—and he didn’t know whether his target had checked luggage in the belly of the plane. To cover every possibility, he had two men on standby at the baggage carousels, two more positioned where he could observe them from his present station, and his driver, on call, driving incessant loops around the terminal.

If anything went wrong with the collection, it wouldn’t be Yuri Bazhov’s fault.

But he would pay the price, regardless.

Such was life.

Bazhov saw passengers emerging from the corridor that served the various arrival gates, plodding along with the enthusiasm of dumb cattle entering an abattoir. A few cracked smiles on recognizing relatives or lovers who had come to greet them. Most kept their faces deadpan, as if it would cost them extra to reveal a trace of human feeling.

Bazhov felt his pulse kick up a notch when he picked out his target. He hadn’t been shown a photograph, but the description fit, albeit vaguely. More than anything, it was the target’s bearing that betrayed him.

Yuri Bazhov recognized a killer when he saw one.

After all, he owned a mirror, didn’t he?

SPOTTING A TAIL on foreign turf, particularly in a crowded public place that welcomed strangers by the thousand every hour, could be difficult, to say the least. In airports, where small hordes of people gathered, scanning faces of the new arrivals to pick out their loved ones, partners, rivals, even people they have never met but have been paid to greet, curious staring was routine. The rule, not the exception.

Bolan was on alert before he cleared the jetway fastened to the bulkhead of the Aeroflot Airbus. He had a likeness of his contact memorized, but there was always a chance of some last-minute substitution. People got sick or got dead. They got sidetracked and shuffled around on some bureaucrat’s whim. Whole operations got scuttled without any warning to agents at risk on the ground.

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