Kitabı oku: «The Judas Project», sayfa 4

CHAPTER FIVE

Mack Bolan picked up his rental car from the agency and headed for the city. His task here was relatively simple—liaise with the Grand Rapids P.D. and take a look at the computers the police had seized as evidence. It was normal procedure for the police to check personal and business computers following unexplained homicides. Vital information could be stored on hard drives, something that could point to the reason why the victim had been murdered.

The call from Hal Brognola, explaining to the G.R.P.D. that the Justice Department needed some cooperation, had fixed the visit for Justice Department Special Agent Matt Cooper. All Bolan needed was to have access to the victims’ computers and a modem so that he could set things up for Aaron Kurtzman to download the contents of the hard drives. The operation would be completed without any outward sign and the original data would still be left intact.

Bolan had already completed the first part of his assignment by visiting the police in Spokane, where he had performed the same routine on the laptop owned by Harry Jenks—Leon Grishnov. He had also carried out the same routine on the one from the bank where Jenks had been employed. Stony Man was already analyzing that data.

Clad in a smart gray suit, white shirt and a dark blue tie, Bolan approached the desk sergeant. He showed his Justice Department credentials and asked for the cop whose name he had been given by Brognola. He was shown to the squad room and introduced to the homicide detective in charge of the double investigation.

Homicide Detective Rick Hollander was in his midthirties, fit, but looked as if he had just emerged from a war zone. The guy looked weary, a little pissed off, struggling with the myriad complications that together make up the working life of a police officer.

“What I hate the most is the paperwork. It just never stops coming. Fresh forms to fill in. New rules to follow. And I keep asking myself, why did I want to be a cop? You know what else? I can’t remember.”

Bolan grinned, sympathizing with the cop. “Paperwork? Tell me about it. It’s all I get to do most days. A field trip like this is heaven.”

Hollander led Bolan across the squad room to his office. He showed Bolan the table that held the computers that had belonged to the two victims.

“Both plugged in and connected to phone lines. Anything else you need, Agent Cooper?”

“That’s fine,” Bolan said gratefully. “Hollander, thanks for your cooperation. I know you’re busy and probably figure I’m a pain in the ass, so I appreciate your help.”

Hollander grinned. “Hey, we’re supposed to be helping each other these days. Right?” He jerked a thumb in the direction of the computers. “Knock yourself out, pal. I’ll go get you copies of the case files I was told you need.”

He left Bolan alone, closing the door behind him. There were two units on the table, a desktop computer and a laptop. Bolan set up the connection that allowed Kurtzman to access the first computer. While the download took place Bolan sat in front of the monitor, going through the motions of checking it out, jotting notations into a notepad. When the signal came through that the download was complete, Bolan made the second connection. Once the two machines had sent their data to Stony Man, Bolan used his cell to contact Kurtzman.

“We done?”

“My man, you have performed sterling work here today. Have the rest of it off.”

“As generous as always.”

Bolan switched off the computers and slipped the notepad into the pocket of his gray suit.

RICK HOLLANDER THREADED his way back across the busy squad room, a buff folder in his hand. One of his fellow officers waylaid him, discussing an ongoing case. As he listened, Hollander noticed Agent Cooper, back in the noisy squad room, watching Detective Steve Cross who was in a conversation with a striking young woman. Cooper seemed to be taking particular notice of the woman. Not that he could be blamed for that. She was, Hollander saw, a looker. Very attractive, with dark hair and a supple figure that couldn’t be hidden beneath her slacks and jacket.

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.

Less than a week later his Moscow home was broken into by hooded men. Tchenko, his wife and his son were tied to chairs and subjected to savage beatings. Worse was to come. Tchenko’s son underwent a terrible attack by one of the invaders who tortured him with a knife and finally eviscerated him. The house was ransacked as the invaders searched the place for any files of evidence Tchenko might have put together. When they found nothing, Tchenko was shot twice in the head. The same happened to his wife.

“Natasha was on an OCD investigation at the time, out of the city,” Seminov concluded. “She came back to Moscow to find her family slaughtered. Then she had to identify the bodies officially.”

“Had she been aware of what was happening?”

“Yes. She and her father were very close. They discussed work all the time. She knew about the threats. She also knew that Pieter Tchenko would never give in.”

“How did she take it?”

“That was the odd thing. She was calm. Even when we went to identify the bodies. I knew she was grieving but she refused to let it out. Not one tear showed, Cooper.”

“Valentine, are you sure the killings were connected to the investigation? Couldn’t they have been caused by a crime that went wrong?”

“We considered that but I don’t believe so. From the way the family had been beaten and tortured it was obvious the raiders were looking for something. It was all very methodical. These people knew their business. They were more than street criminals. Oh, one more thing. Two days later Tchenko’s office was found to have been searched, too. And the small dacha they owned outside the city. These people were searching for something.”

“And Natasha?”

“She told me that on the day of the funeral she was followed to her apartment. Being Natasha she turned the tables and waylaid him in the basement parking garage. He went for her so she defended herself and broke an arm and gave him a good thrashing. We brought him in and questioned him for some time. He refused to talk until I threatened him. He broke down soon after and admitted he had been hired to follow Natasha and get her alone in her apartment. It seemed he was looking for data her father might have left with her.”

“Who was he?”

“An ex-soldier. Hired by a voice on the telephone. That is how he described it to us. Even threats from Natasha couldn’t get any more from him. We arrested him but by the next morning I had instructions from above to release him. I suspected OCD had been put under pressure from Lubyanskaya Square. My superiors told me not to make any protests and to let it go. Two days later that ex-soldier was pulled out of the Moscow River. His throat had been cut. Explain that if you will. I have a theory that when he attacked Natasha at her apartment she got something out of him. She never gave me any indication she had, but I think this is what she must be following up.”

“Silencing that suspect could have been his employers covering their tracks. Making sure he couldn’t be picked up again.”

Seminov grunted.

“There is something going on here that is driving me crazy, Cooper. It has me by the throat and won’t go away until I find out what is happening. This has the oily hand of the FSB involved. A shady deal.”

“You watch your back, Valentine.”

“I wish you were here to do that for me, Cooper.”

“Was any data retrieved from Tchenko’s investigation?”

“Nothing yet,” Seminov said.

“Let’s talk about Natasha Tchenko some more,” Bolan said.

“I saw how restless she was so I insisted she take an extended leave. It was as much for her own state of mind as to get her out of the way for a while. Maybe I should have become suspicious when she accepted my suggestion so readily. I reminded her that she was not authorized to look into the case of her father’s death. I should have known better. A day after she left I telephoned to see how she was and there was no reply, just a message saying she was taking a break, going to stay with family in London and she’d be in touch when she got back. Now you have told me where she has gone, Cooper, I can’t prove why she went to the United States. But my guess is it has something to do with what happened to her family. As I said, I believe she learned something from that thug who attacked her.”

“When I meet her I’ll ask.”

“You can tell her I’m mad at her, too.” Seminov paused, clearing his throat. “But don’t tell her I was worried. I like that young woman. She is a good cop. Intelligent. Capable of becoming a high-ranking officer. I would hate for anything bad to happen to her. Cooper, one more thing. I think you should hear about it. I did receive an e-mail from Natasha some days after she left Moscow. There were names she had learned about that only increased my curiosity. Enough to keep me looking. But I have to stay low key. You understand? In the e-mail she mentions a name. Mischa Krushen. He is FSB, and from what Natasha e-mailed he has some covert connection to a man in Moscow called Leopold Bulanin. Bulanin is a racketeer. His greasy hands are in everything illegal. The e-mail got me thinking. And I am still mad at being told to drop my investigation into Pieter Tchenko’s death. I do not enjoy being made to back off.”

“The more people make a fuss over something usually means they have a reason not to have it dragged into the open.”

“We think alike, my friend.”

“Valentine, I’ll be in touch once I have some answers.”

“Good. If I turn anything up here I will pass it along. You be careful, too. If there is a connection to the FSB, and maybe former KGB thugs—we need to be cautious. There is nothing nice about them. These are bad people.”

“Hell, Valentine, if there weren’t any bad people, you and I would be out of a job.”

“That is very true. If I find anything I will let you know.”

“I owe you, Valentine.”

“Again? One day, Cooper, I will collect.” Seminov’s booming laugh echoed down the line. “Take care, Cooper. I have a feeling these people have something to hide and will do anything to keep their secrets.”

“Remember that when you start poking around again.”

“Of course. I am always careful.”

“I remember that, Valentine. Goodbye, my friend.”

Bolan ended the call, started the car and headed across the city in the direction of the hotel where Natasha Tchenko was staying. His conversation with Seminov had alerted him to the fact the young woman could be pitting herself against extremely dangerous opponents. It crossed his mind that they might be watching her and could decide to take some kind of offensive action.

CHAPTER SIX

He parked outside the hotel and went inside. At the desk he asked for Natasha Tchenko’s room. The clerk was unhelpful until Bolan flashed his Justice Department badge. After that the clerk was only too eager to help. Bolan took the elevator to the third floor and made his way to the Russian agent’s room.

He stood at the door, about to knock, when he noticed scuff marks in the pile of the carpet. Bolan crouched. The pile had been disturbed by twin trails of deep indentations. The pile had not had time to return to its normal position, so the marks were fresh. They could easily have been made by the shoe heels of someone being dragged away from the room. Bolan was about to move when he picked up sound from inside the room. He rose to his feet, opening his jacket and taking out the Beretta 93-R. He checked the selector switch and set it to single shot.

He tapped on the door.

“Room service, miss. Your coffee and sandwiches.”

Bolan heard movement as someone approached the door. He heard the interior lock being released and the door was pulled ajar. A lean male face peered at him, scanning Bolan’s clothing.

“You are not room service.”

The accent was Russian. Bolan drove his full weight at the door, pushing the guy backward. He stepped inside, heeling the door shut behind him, then followed through as the surprised guy went for the handgun tucked behind his belt.

Bolan back-fisted the guy across the side of the jaw, following with a solid kick that slammed into his opponent’s exposed stomach. The man grunted, still trying to pull his handgun free. The Executioner caught a handful of his shirtfront and hauled the guy close, then slammed the Beretta across the side of his skull. The Russian stumbled to his knees, his handgun slipping from his grasp. Bolan kicked it out of sight under the bed, then planted a foot against the guy’s rear, shoving hard. The Russian skidded across the carpet, burning the side of his face on the pile. Bolan knelt astride him, one knee hard in the guy’s spine. He caught a handful of the thick black hair and hauled the man’s head up and back. The cold muzzle of the 9 mm pistol ground into the Russian’s flesh, just behind his right eye.

The Russian cursed in his own tongue.

“You’re in America, talk English.”

“Who the fuck are you?”

“I see you have a good grasp of the language,” Bolan said. “See how good you are answering questions?”

The man stiffened as Bolan pushed down harder with his knee.

“What?”

“The woman. Where did they take her?”

“I do not know.” The guy twisted his head around to speak. Bolan saw blood running down his face where the Beretta had landed.

“Start to remember. I’m not going to spend too much time on this.”

The Russian bucked violently, dislodging Bolan, and they rolled across the carpet, each trying for the advantage. The Russian seemed oblivious to the gun in Bolan’s hand as he twisted and squirmed in his attempt to break clear. He managed to get clear, but instead of making a break he threw himself back at Bolan, arching above him, reaching out with both hands. His move was badly mistimed, giving Bolan the opportunity to draw up both legs, then slam his feet against the guy’s lower body. The big American put his full strength into shoving the man away. The force of the move lifted the Russian off his feet and launched him backward across the room. The outer wall brought him to a bone-crunching stop. The Russian’s breath exploded from his lips as the back of his skull impacted against the wall.

Bolan gained his feet and bent over the Russian. The man was barely conscious, breath gusting roughly from his lungs.

He searched the Russian’s pockets and found nothing of great interest until he came across a folded piece of paper that looked as if it had been torn from a pad. On it was a telephone number and some writing in Russian.

Bolan took out his cell phone and speed-dialed Aaron Kurtzman’s direct line. After a series of relay cutouts, Kurtzman picked up.

“Bear, I want a telephone number trace fast. I think it’s a Grand Rapids local number.” He read off the number. “I’ll stay on the line.”

While he waited Bolan crossed to the bed and retrieved the gun the Russian had dropped. It was a Glock. He checked the mag and found it full. He tucked the pistol in his belt.

“Got your location,” Kurtzman announced.

“Go ahead.”

“It’s an old office building in downtown Grand Rapids.” Kurtzman gave him the address. “Hey, do you have a navigation system in your rental?”

“Yes.”

“Write down these coordinates. Feed them into the unit and it should guide you direct to the address.”

Bolan wrote the numbers on a pad he found on the bedside cabinet.

“Thanks, Bear. Tell Hal I’ll update him when I get the time.”

Bolan cut the connection, then punched in the number for Rick Hollander. When the detective came on the line, Bolan didn’t give him time to ask questions.

“Natasha Tchenko’s hotel. Her room. You’ll find a guy there. I suggest you call an ambulance. Make sure he stays under guard.”

He cut off instantly, left the room and made his way down to the hotel lobby. Outside he climbed into the rental, tapped in the reference numbers Kurtzman had supplied and watched as the navigation system adjusted its display. The map showed where he was and the route he needed to take to locate the address.

“God bless technology,” Bolan muttered as he pulled into the flow of traffic.

RUNDOWN AND DESOLATE. Broken windows. The frontage littered and graffiti covered. The building exuded despair. Even the For Rent sign had quit trying, sagging loosely from the wall.

Bolan parked a couple of hundred yards down the street from the entrance to the basement parking garage. He eased out of the vehicle and made his way across to the down ramp. There was no time for an extended recon of the place. If the men who had taken Natasha Tchenko were anything like the one back at the hotel, finesse would not be a job requirement. From what he had already learned about these people they had little regard for human life.

The Executioner walked slowly down the ramp, spotting a couple of cars parked close to the access doors. The garage was shadowed, the air musty and damp. Water dripped somewhere, and the concrete under his feet was dusty. Sound echoed. He pushed through the doors and into the building proper. He made for the stairs next to the bank of elevators, noticing the scuff marks in the accumulated dust. As he catfooted to the next landing, Bolan eased the Beretta from its shoulder holster and moved the fire selector to 3-round-burst mode. He pushed open the door and stepped into the corridor beyond.

A number of doors lined the corridor, and his attention was drawn to scuff marks in the dust leading to one. Bolan pressed against the wall to one side and reached for the doorknob. He turned it slowly, keeping the bulk of his body away from the flimsy wood panels. The second he felt the door free itself from the latch he paused, lowering into a crouch. He slowly began to push the door open from floor level.

The crackle of autofire confirmed he had chosen the right room. The upper panel of the door was torn to shreds by the volley of 9 mm slugs passing through it. The angle of the shots told Bolan the shooter inside the room was standing directly in-line with the door. When the firing stopped, he hit the door with his left shoulder, driving it back against the inner wall. The shooter stood in front of him. Bolan’s arm was stretched forward and he hit his adversary with a 9 mm trio, chest high, the slugs coring in to puncture the heart. The guy stepped back, his expression revealing shock before he toppled to the floor.

The Executioner sensed someone at the far side of the room, partially concealed in shadow. The gunner swung his weapon toward Bolan, who turned on his heels, dropping to a crouch. The move put him below his opponent’s muzzle. As the man attempted to correct his aim, Bolan hit him with a triburst. The guy grunted under the impact, stumbling back, striking the wall and losing all coordination. Bolan, still crouching, angled the Beretta’s muzzle up and laid a second burst that slammed the guy’s head back against the wall, leaving a red smear when the target dropped.

The room, once a large office, appeared empty until Bolan saw the dark-haired figure slumped in a chair, hands bound to the frame behind her. He double-checked the room, making sure there were no other entrances or exits, then crossed to stand over the captive, slipping the Beretta back in its holster. He recognized Natasha Tchenko immediately. Her clothing was crumpled and dusty, her hair untidy and she had a raw bruise around the left side of her mouth. As Bolan appeared in front of her she looked up, her eyes locking on his. “You were at the police station,” she said. “Looking for me?”

“Not then, Miss Tchenko. But I have been since.”

“Are you a policeman?”

Bolan stepped to the rear of the chair and crouched to loosen the electrical cord that held her immobile. As it fell away he saw the red marks it had made in her flesh.

“You didn’t answer my question,” she said, and pushed to her feet. She would have keeled over if Bolan hadn’t noticed her sway and grabbed her. “Hey, let go.”

Bolan ignored her demand and maintained his firm grip. “You want to fall down? Or are we going to start off right?”

Tchenko let herself lean against him for a moment, her breath warm against his cheek. Then he felt her body firm up and she gently eased out of his grip, reaching up to run her hands through her hair. “I must look a mess.”

Bolan smiled. “No, you don’t.”

“Who are you?”

“A friend. On the same trail as you are.”

“You are looking for Krushen?”

Bolan nodded. “And the others working with him. Plus a few unknowns. The problem is, they know you’re here searching for them. These people have good intel.”

Tchenko impatiently brushed at the dust on her clothing. Cop or not, she was still a woman and couldn’t avoid concern over her appearance. “Shouldn’t we get away from here? They told me others would come to question me.”

“I have a car outside.” Bolan turned and crossed to the first dead guy. He bent over and searched him, finding a SIG-Sauer P-226 pistol inside the guy’s jacket. He took it and the extra clip from one of the pockets. “You might feel better with this,” he said, handing the weapon to the woman.

She took the pistol, checked it, then tucked it behind her belt, beneath her jacket. “You obviously know my name. What do I call you?”

“Cooper. Matt to my friends.”

He led the way back down to the parking garage, walking with Tchenko across the dirty concrete. She stared at him assessingly.

Bolan led her out onto the street, to where his rental was parked. He fired up the engine and moved off.

“Where are we going?” Tchenko asked.

“Somewhere we can talk and give you time to take stock. There’s no point going back to your hotel if they know where you’re staying. By now it’s likely to be crawling with cops, as well.”

“Are you sure you’re not a cop? You act like one.”

“According to Commander Seminov, you’re a good one. He sends his regards by the way.”

“You have spoken to him?”

Bolan nodded. “He told me all about you.”

“I wish I could have heard that conversation.”

“He’s good and mad at you. But he says you’re good at your job, and Valentine doesn’t lie.”