Don Pendleton - The Judas Project

What Hollander was not aware of was the reason Bolan had taken an interest in the dark-haired beauty. She and the police detective were close enough for Bolan to have picked up on their conversation.

Bolan heard the words Commander Seminov.

And OCD.

He had turned his attention on the woman, just as Hollander appeared in front of him, holding up the file.

“Hot off the copier,” he said.

“Good,” Bolan said, neatly sidestepping the cop.

“I thought you said this was urgent.”

“Thanks. It is. Keep hold of it for me.”

In that moment the squad room erupted in a burst of shouting and general mayhem as a group of suspects decided they had taken enough time and decided to cause trouble. Fists flew and bodies were shoved back and forth. Desks were pushed across the floor, chairs thrown. Bolan was caught in the human swell, and the last glimpse of the dark-haired woman was of her being hustled out the door and into the corridor. By the time he shoved his way through the melee she was gone and so was the cop who had been talking to her. Bolan stood, glancing up and down the corridor, wondering who she was and why she had been at the precinct.

It was at least a good ten minutes later before the squad room was restored to what was considered normal. Bolan spotted Hollander, still clutching the file and nursing a bruised cheek, leaning against a desk. He made his way over to the detective.

“You okay, Hollander?”

“All in a day’s work.” He held up the file again and Bolan took it. “I thought you’d run out on me.”

Bolan grinned. “Sorry. That woman talking to one of your detectives. You know who she is?”

“No, but we can find out. What’s the interest? You figure on dating her?”

“Nothing as easy as that. I think she might be connected to an ongoing investigation.”

“How so?”

“Something I overheard her say. It meant something.”

“Oh? You sure it wasn’t ‘Hey, I’m available and I have an inheritance’?”

“For a cop you have one hell of an imagination.”

“Yeah? Cooper, I’m not sure whether to take that as a compliment or a put-down.”

“Believe me, it was a compliment.”

“I made copies of everything we have on our two vics. Right now you’re as up-to-date as we are.”

“I’ll leave my cell-phone number,” Bolan said. “If anything else crops up, I’d appreciate a call.”

Hollander turned and beckoned to the cop who had been talking to the young woman. When he came over Hollander introduced him to Bolan as Steve Cross, explaining that Bolan was a Justice Department agent. Bolan shook the young man’s hand.

“Some kind of Fed, huh?”

“Something like that.”

“Steve, Agent Cooper would like to get a line on that young woman you were talking to.”

Cross rubbed a hand across the back of his neck, a grin forming. “Who wouldn’t? You know her, Cooper?”

“Not personally, but I recognized a couple of things she said—OCD and Commander Seminov.”

“Still think she’s part of your investigation?” Hollander asked.

“I’m going to check that angle,” Bolan said.

“Turns out she’s a Moscow cop,” Cross explained. “Showed me her ID and said if I needed confirmation all I needed to do was to call this guy in Moscow. He’s her boss. By the way, her name is Natasha Tchenko.”

“What was her reason for calling here?”

“She saw a TV report about a drug-related homicide we’re dealing with. Said she might know the guy from Russia. Said she’d be grateful for any information we could give her. Said it was in-line with an investigation she was working on and she would give us feedback.”

Bolan found the information interesting, wondering what an attractive female Russian cop was doing in the U.S. with a connection to a murdered man.

“How did you leave it?”

“I told her we’d need to check out her credentials before we could pass along anything. Said I’d get back to her.”

“Did she leave you a contact?”

“Cell phone and the hotel she was staying at.”

“Can you let me have that information?”

“Sure.” Cross wrote the details on a sheet and handed it to Bolan. “Hey, Agent Cooper, if you see her, tell her I said hello.”

Bolan patted the young cop on the shoulder. “I’ll do that, Cross. In the meantime try to stay cool. And thanks for the assist. Both of you.”

“No problem,” Hollander said. He handed Bolan a business card. “That’s my cell number. Anything you need, you call.”

BOLAN SAT IN HIS CAR outside the Grand Rapids P.D., ready to talk to Commander Valentine Seminov of the Moscow Organized Crime Department. He had contacted Kurtzman on his cell and a solid connection had been made via Stony Man, then routed to Bolan’s cell.

“So how are you, my friend?” Valentine Seminov asked.

“Surviving. Have you brought down the crime figures in Moscow yet?”

“Ha. I see your sense of humor is as weird as ever. So, Matt Cooper, how can OCD help you this time?”

“A cynical attitude, Valentine. Maybe I’m just calling out of the goodness of my heart.”

Seminov’s throaty laughter rattled the telephone in Bolan’s hand. “How remiss of me not to realize that.”

“Natasha Tchenko.”

The line appeared to go dead for a long few seconds before Seminov spoke again. When he did, all traces of humor had vanished.

“Is she safe?”

“As far as I know right now.”

“You have spoken to her?”

“No. Only seen her once from a distance. She disappeared before I could get to her. She was in a police station asking questions. Identified herself as a cop working out of OCD in Moscow. Gave your name as a reference.”

“Damn. I told her not to…”

“Valentine, I need to know why she’s here and what it is she’s after.”

“Is it involved in something you’re investigating?”

“Right at this minute all I can say is it could be.”

“Are you sitting down?”

“Why?”

“Because this may take a little time.”

“Go ahead.”

“Tchenko is one of my officers. A very qualified member of the OCD. Determined. Single-minded. Resourceful. And stubborn. Like someone else I know.”

Seminov detailed Tchenko’s background. She came from a family with a long history of law enforcement. It seemed to be in the family genes. Her father had been a captain in the civil police, stationed in Moscow. “Had been” were the operative words. Tchenko’s family—father, mother and her teenage brother—had all been murdered a couple of months back. Her father, Captain Pieter Tchenko, had been handling a case that had delved deep into matters that had moved far beyond his normal investigations. He had, it seemed, stumbled onto a deeply covert operation involving the FSB and former associates of the old KGB. When his inquiries started exposing names, Tchenko was asked to back off. When he continued his investigation, he was officially ordered by his superiors to let the matter drop. The case had been referred to internal FSB jurisdiction. Word came through that Tchenko was putting his life at risk if he did not back off. It had been the wrong thing to say to Pieter Tchenko. While he considered his options, something happened that forced his hand. His wife received a telephone call promising extreme violence if he did not walk away. The same evening Tchenko himself was tailed as he drove home and someone fired on his car with an automatic weapon. A second phone call, just after he got home, told him that next time the bullets would not miss. The physical and verbal threats simply increased Tchenko’s determination. He upped his pressure on his contacts and concentrated his searches into the background of his investigation.